Between Sundays / SGA
Title: Between Sundays
Rating: PG
Fandom: SGA
Prompt: It was Sunday, the time it happened.
Summary: A Wraith lives on Atlantis for one year.
This prompt screams Carson, but to be honest, there's nothing I can write that hasn't already been written by someone else. I'm pretty fond of this one, actually! ^___^ (AN: "Basil" is pronounced with an "ah", like "bat".)
Week one:
It’s Sunday when they capture their fourth Wraith.
Stackhouse finds it (him?) occupying the unexplored levels of the city, and calls John, Rodney, and Elizabeth (in that order) after stunning the alien with extreme prejudice. Oddly, the Wraith hadn’t tried to attack, though evidence suggests he’s been in Atlantis for months now. Every worse case scenario runs through Rodney’s head as he hurries towards where the others are waiting: the Wraith has been stealing information, doing surveillance, and/or booby-trapping the city.
But… no. None of the sensors had picked up any hackers, and Atlantis never reported any problems. It was like he was hiding from both Lanteans and his own kind, happy-albeit hungry-living on his own.
Week two:
“What’s your name?” Elizabeth asks. The Wraith hisses from his place inside the containment chamber; of course, this has been his answer to everything since last Sunday, so nothing new there.
“We’ll just give you one anyway,” John lazily says. “How does Dopey sound? Sleepy? Happy? I have four more where that came from.”
Rodney can see this is going nowhere, so he spends his concentration on study instead. The Wraith is undoubtedly a scientist, not a soldier. He holds himself with grace, his head inclined, his clothes somewhat smooth, but he’s starving-anyone can see that-and though it clearly violates treaty to withhold food from a prisoner, feeding him isn’t an option.
“We can help you,” Elizabeth tries again, but the Wraith gives her an ugly look.
“You are mistaken,” he replies, and those are the only words that leave his mouth for days and days.
Week three:
Sunday morning, Elizabeth calls for an emergency meeting. She’s between a rock and a hard place, because they can’t just send the Wraith back on its merry way, but they can’t kill him, either. John and Ronon want to know why not; it’s not like anything good has ever come from keeping the enemy alive, and besides, all sorts of things could go FUBAR if their new friend escapes. Rodney’s not a barbarian like those two, but he agrees with their logic.
Carson’s quietly skittish from across the table, which means he has an idea he’s hesitant to propose. Rodney leans back into his seat, crosses his arms, and gives his friend a look, silently demanding the man speak. Carson shakes his head. Rodney kicks him from beneath the tabletop. Carson winces. Rodney kicks again. Carson shifts. Rodney uses both feet. Carson retaliates with a kick of his own, and it’s not until a moment later (after initiating a violent battle of footsie, each kicking until Rodney’s sure he’ll be limping towards the lab) that Elizabeth clears her throat impatiently and John’s hiding laughter behind his hand.
“Is there something either of you would like to add?” she grits out. Carson sheepishly ducks his head.
“I might have an idea,” he admits, which is brave coming from a man who single-handedly wrote The Highly Unsuccessful Life Stories of Ellia and Michael.
“Carson,” Rodney snaps, “Just spit it out already! But so help me god, if the word ‘retrovirus’ is even uttered-”
“No,” Carson hurriedly replies. “No, I-look, it’s just a theory, but as I understand it, Wraith eat both regular food and… well, I’m not quite sure how to phrase it-”
“Human souls?” Rodney helpfully cuts in. Carson grimaces, but nods and continues.
“I’ve developed a strain of the retrovirus that will both eliminate his hunger for humans as well as his ability to feed with his hand. Everything else about him will remain the same. As it is, we have no choice but to integrate him into our own society or keep him in the containment chamber for the rest of his life.”
“Or,” Ronon mutters, “we can kill him.”
Elizabeth pointedly ignores the suggestion in favor of Carson’s more humane approach. “I don’t doubt your abilities, but after our incidents with the retrovirus, I’m not sure we can take another chance with it.”
“Yes, but this is the most simplistic strain developed. The Wraith will remain the same in appearance, behavior, and mindset. The only difference will be his need to eat.”
Neither Ronon nor John are convinced, but Teyla is smiling, clearly approving the plan. Elizabeth is hesitant but grateful they finally have an idea of what to do with the prisoner, and Rodney, despite his bluster and very real hatred of Wraith, is relieved.
He prepares the antidote that afternoon, and they stun the Wraith into unconsciousness. A needle is slid into pale, fishy skin; Carson nods, and they can only wait.
Week four:
They name him Basil. Not like the herb, but like the Sherlock Holmes actor, because it’s more dignified than “Bob” or “Steve”, and it kind of matches the gothic style Wraith seem to favor.
Week five:
Basil remains in the containment chamber, but he’s given three meals a day, special ordered from the mess. He ignores the trays of food the first few times, but eventually gives into his hunger and angrily inhales everything offered.
Carson’s retrovirus has finally worked.
Week six:
Rodney lobbies hard for his right to be Basil’s guardian of sorts. Why? Because 1) he’s a scientist and needs to study their enemy, 2) he has more off-world experience than all the other scientists combined, and 3) seriously, hello, genius. If Atlantis has any hope of winning the war, Rodney needs to know what sort of science the Wraith possess, and what he can do to learn about it.
After presenting this argument to Elizabeth four times in one morning, Teyla follows him from the briefing room and says (with a raised eyebrow that always makes Rodney feel like a child again), “You’re volunteering to spend time with a Wraith? That is not something I ever imagined you would do.”
“It’s in the name of science and progress,” Rodney proudly replies. “First thing he’s doing is visiting the lab. I need to know what it is they can do that we can’t. Oh! Oh, do you think they have a variation of the gene? God knows everything in Pegasus is connected somehow. Oh my God, what if-”
Teyla stops listening, because Rodney seems to know what he’s doing.
Week seven:
“We gave Basil the strain weeks ago,” Carson sighs. “Elizabeth, I think it’s time we start mixing him in with the rest of the population. He at least needs some exercise.”
“And someone to show him around,” Rodney quickly adds. “By the way, have you received my e-mails? I’ve made some very good arguments as to why I should be the one to-”
“Yes,” Elizabeth replies, rubbing her temples with elegant fingers. “I’ve received all thirty-nine messages, Rodney.”
Has he really sent that many? Wow. That’s overkill, even for him.
Week eight:
“Okay, look,” John says, making sure Rodney knows he means business, “we’re releasing Basil to your care for five hours every day. Elizabeth and I’ve talked it over, and it seems like the right thing to do. However-” And here, he emphasizes the word however, since Rodney’s already opened his mouth to interrupt. “There will be a full supply of marines with you at all times, even in your precious labs.”
“Are you kidding?” Rodney demands, scandalized by the mere thought. “You think I can afford to have mindless grunts traipsing all over the place with those stupid boots and big guns? Do you know what they could destroy in a five minute period of time?”
John’s unimpressed. “It’s that or nothing, Rodney.”
It takes more pride than he’s willing to give, but Rodney finally concedes defeat.
“Five hours,” he accepts. “But if one of your living Ken dolls break anything, there’s going to be hell to pay!”
Week nine:
It takes another week of Carson double and triple-checking Basil’s health and stability (and Rodney triple and quadruple-locking any pertinent Earth-related information that he doesn’t want Basil to find) before the Wraith is allowed, for the first time in several months, outside the containment chamber.
Rodney is waiting for him.
“Doctor McKay,” Basil says, barely nodding his head in recognition, and why are Wraith scientists always so damn cocky? “The Colonel has informed me of your plans.”
“I hope he’s also informed you that these guys-’’ Rodney gestures to the dozen marines armed to their noses “-will be following us everywhere, so don’t try anything stupid. Understand?”
The Wraith doesn’t reply, but Rodney rolls right on. “You’re a scientist, right?”
Again, no reply, and Rodney grows impatient. “Look, we can always stick you right back in the cell, so if you want a chance to stretch your limbs, you’ll answer my questions. Are you or are you not a scientist?”
Basil stiffens and his eyes are colder than usual. “I am one of the best,” he replies. Rodney brightens at that.
“So am I,” he says, and gestures for Basil and the marines to follow him. “Look, I’ll show you around, and then we can get started.”
Rodney’s a ball of energy as he shows off the city, revealing what he thinks Basil should know and nothing else. He tries to map out a few corridors and it eventually leads them to the mess. “It’s one of the most important locations in Atlantis,” Rodney says (grabbing a sandwich as they pass by). “There’s food and coffee at all hours of the day and night. Six A.M. starts breakfast, lunch begins at noon, and the cooks manage to get dinner out by five. If you get hungry during the periods in between, there’s a self-serve table with sandwiches, fruit, and if you’re lucky, Jello. The blue kind’s best, but red isn’t bad in a pinch.”
It’s clear Basil has no idea what Rodney’s talking about, so Rodney stops (thus halting the twelve marines all at once, which is kind of fun) and picks up a Jello cup and plastic spoon.
“Try some,” he says. “Just peel off the foil.”
Basil glances at the two items with a look anyone else would consider doubtful. “It is not a natural substance.”
“Of course not. It’s Jello.”
Basil hisses, a sign he’s clearly unhappy, so Rodney sighs, sets the Jello back down, and says, “We’ll deal with your Jello phobia another time. Next, and most importantly, are the labs, which are located…”
His voice trails off as they move away, while the rest of the mess looks on in both shock and surprise. Kavanagh, who was in the midst of eating something that looked and tasted like spaghetti, has had his fork halfway to his mouth for the past two minutes.
Basil is very unhelpful the first day, and the second. He’s cocky and insulting (it reminds Rodney of someone, but he can’t quite place who), but mostly, he couldn’t help even if he wanted to (which he doesn’t). There isn’t room to move.
Of course, the private labs aren’t meant for fourteen people.
Week ten:
“This is Radek Zelenka,” Rodney introduces, gesturing towards a short man with funny hair and skewed glasses. The man in question turns, sets his eyes on Basil, and screams like a small girl. He clutches at his chest before glaring at Rodney.
“Warn a man!” he yells, but his voice is… different. Funny. The pronunciation is wrong. “You think I can afford heart problems right now? You bring Wraith in here without telling me and expect me to be cool?”
“Like John Travolta and Uma Thurman,” Rodney agrees. Basil doesn’t know who this John Travolta or Uma Thurman is; perhaps they’re human gods?
“Funny,” Radek snaps. “You know what else is not cool? Paperwork! You have left me with all the year-end evaluations! You think I would just let you get away with this?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
Radek says something else, only it’s in a language Basil doesn’t recognize. He waves his arms around, spitting out indiscernible words, and then stomps off, but not before shoving his finger against Rodney’s chest.
“I am taking early lunch. You show new guy around, but he is not allowed near my computer. I am running very important simulation that has taken all night to establish, and if it is interrupted, I will poison your coffee with orange-flavored Spic-n-Span!”
Basil knows he’s a prisoner. He knows he will never return home, but to be honest, there isn’t much of a home anymore.
However, the Lanteans are… amusing. Diverse from each other in behavior and speech. For some reason, though, they treat each other the same, and this is not a concept Basil is used to.
Week eleven:
Basil meets several scientists. One is named David, and one is named Katie, and one is named Miko. The first two are in the “soft sciences”.
They do not seem to appreciate this term.
Week twelve:
The days pass relatively quickly, and both Basil and Rodney adjust to having a platoon of armed men watching their every move. Carson continually makes sure that Basil is really and truly sterile when it comes to native feeding, and on “Wednesday,” Miko trips over the leg of Basil’s chair and hurts her ankle.
Strangely, Rodney hurries over.
Basil tilts his head to watch the man help Miko to her feet. In Basil’s culture, they don’t care what happens to members of the hive unless it affects them as a whole.
The woman scientist’s ankle is of no physical concern to Rodney, and yet he seems so worried.
Week thirteen:
“Look,” Rodney says, exasperated, “you have to love science to be a scientist, right? And while I’m sure you find great joy in watching us work five hours a day, don’t you have any desire to help?”
Basil does. He bleeds science, and breathes it, and lives for it, but he only hisses in response to the question. Just because he’s being forced to live among humans doesn’t mean he’s going to help them progress any further than they already have.
Week fourteen:
Only ten marines accompany them.
Week fifteen:
He’s allowed to be out for seven hours instead of five.
Week sixteen:
Basil continues to actively not-help the scientists.
Week seventeen:
Something goes wrong with Katie’s experiment, and the flower she’s excitedly showing Miko suddenly explodes with a yellow, waxy substance. It goes everywhere, landing on Katie, Miko, and Basil (Radek, Rodney, and the ten marines are on the other side of the room).
Miko and Katie scream, but not because they’re scared. It’s the wax: it burns fiercely, and though it doesn’t penetrate Basil’s clothing, it does scorch the naked skin of his face.
He’s ashamed when he screams, too, jumping from his seat and letting out a pained loud roar. Rodney and Radek are on it; Radek quickly dunks his bottled water on some cloths and rushes over to wipe the substance from his two female counterparts. Rodney takes one of the wet cloths and hurries to where Basil is still shaking the walls with his voice.
“Calm down!” Rodney yells, reaching for him. “Jesus Christ, calm down or I can’t help you!”
Basil takes one of the computers and slams it on the floor, and he’s so angry, because he’s being kept here against his will and has no hope of ever leaving and hates being constantly locked up. He grabs glass bottles and hurdles them in random directions, each shattering into small, clear splinters when they hit a solid surface.
The marines immediately aim their P90s, but Rodney shakes his head. “No!” he bellows, barely heard over the noise and commotion, “Put those down! I said put them away, damn it!” He turns back to Basil, who’s trying to smear off the yellow liquid, only managing to get it on his hands, and that hurts even worse. It’s excruciating.
And for one moment, while Basil isn’t looking, Rodney manages to shove him into the wall, forcefully rubbing the cloth against the sickish face. It’s… a relief when the wax is met with water, so Basil stills. Rodney hurriedly moves to his hands, and then Radek comes over with more water; they're able to remove anything Rodney missed before.
One of the marines calls for a med team, but Basil is suddenly tired.
He thinks that if this had happened on his own world, no one would have been concerned.
Week eighteen:
There are twelve marines again, but Rodney raises such hell that Sheppard finally negotiates with five.
Week nineteen:
Miko trips on the chair leg again. Radek quickly helps her up.
Basil has adjusted to witnessing random acts of kindness.
Week twenty:
He’s allowed to be out for twelve hours every day.
Week twenty-one:
“Look, maybe I was a little optimistic about how much you wanted something to do with your old job,” Rodney admits. “And to be honest, the way you sit but refuse to talk is creeping out my minions.”
Basil sneers, and Rodney rolls his eyes.
“Yes, very intimidating. Do you want to hear my plan or not?” When Basil doesn’t reply, Rodney takes it as an affirmative. “We’re taking a day off from science to do a little something the Colonel calls ‘training’ and I call ‘torture’. How do you feel about fighting?”
Basil doesn’t answer, just tilts his head a bit higher. It means “yes”.
The marines follow them towards the “training room”, where a woman named Teyla is supposed to be one of the Lantean’s best warriors. Basil’s filled with energy; he hasn’t been allowed much high-impact exercise in months. When the doors slide open and they enter, Basil recognizes Teyla as one of his captors.
“Athosian,” he hisses. Her expression is blank, but she hands him two long sticks.
“I am going to train you in the ways of our fighting. You may either accept this form of battle or you can return to the labs, but understand that Doctor McKay is putting much on the line to have you here.”
Basil flicks his glance towards Rodney, who’s settling himself against the wall with a laptop balanced on his knees.
“We begin with the typical greeting,” she announces. “Bend your head forwards.”
“I have seen your greeting,” Basil snaps, “and I will do no such thing.”
“Then you will go back, and you do not want that.”
Basil’s lips are pressed into a thin line, but he stiffly bends his neck, and feels the warmth of Teyla when her forehead presses against his. They separate.
“And now,” she says, holding up her sticks, “we begin.”
Week twenty-two:
Basil learns quickly. He doesn’t quite match Teyla, but he’s a worthy opponent.
Week twenty-three:
When Ronon learns of Basil’s training sessions, he’s infuriated. This time, the marines have to point their P90s towards someone other than a Wraith.
Week twenty-four:
It dwindles down to three marines.
Week twenty-five:
When Miko trips over the chair leg, Basil reaches out and effortlessly catches her with one hand. He doesn’t even have to move.
Week twenty-six:
Basil is allowed in and out of the containment chamber whenever he wishes, but either Rodney or two marines must be with him at all times. It’s not a bad thing, actually, since Rodney’s usually awake no matter the hour.
Week twenty-seven:
Thanks to Carson’s retrovirus, Basil can only eat vegetables, fruit, and meat, which means he must, at least once every two days, visit the mess and get a meal. He usually visits during the latest hours, when only one or two scientists are falling asleep over their cups of coffee. He can sneak in, grab whatever’s on the buffet, and leave, all without the stares and room-wide drop of conversation.
His plan’s foolproof for four days, until he realizes Rodney McKay doesn’t sleep. He works during the day, and then forces himself to stay up during the night. He’s often hunched over a laptop when Basil arrives, typing furiously with one hand while stuffing a sandwich in his mouth with the other. Coffee cups litter the space around him.
When Basil grabs his food, he looks over at the scientist. A marine raises his eyebrows.
“You wanna eat with McKay?” he asks, and Basil’s tired of having no one to talk to, so he just gives them an ugly look but walks over to where Rodney is sitting. He steps next to the chair opposite of Rodney, though doesn’t wish to join him uninvited.
Rodney looks up. “What?” he asks. “What is it? Is everything-’’ But when he sees the food in Basil’s abnormal hands, he quickly nods. “Sit down,” he says, swallowing his mouthful of coffee. “Does it look like I’m one for formalities?”
So Basil does, and they eat in a strangely companionable silence until Rodney suddenly blurts, “Have lunch with us tomorrow.”
“No. I do not enjoy being mocked and gossiped over.”
“No one does,” Rodney replies. “But in order for the expedition to adjust, they’ll have to see you more often. You can’t keep stealing in here at all hours like Batman.”
Week twenty-eight:
After seven days of consideration, Basil follows Rodney to the mess hall on Sunday. It takes a few seconds to figure out he’s being followed, but when Rodney realizes he’s not the only one in the corridor, he spins around.
“Stalking won’t earn you points,” he says, and then a look of surprise washes over his face. “Wait, do you want-are you going to lunch? Now?”
“Everyone must adjust,” Basil says, and waits for the human to lead them on. When they arrive, the room is suddenly reminiscent of a crypt, and Rodney crosses his arms and snaps, “What, you’ve never seen two hungry scientists before? Get back to whatever worthless conversation you were having.”
Basil holds his head high and walks behind Rodney and towards the lunch line. Discussion resumes, but he can feel the stares as he echoes Rodney’s actions: take a tray, a spoon, a fork, and wait. When they get to two Sergeants dishing out ladles full of… well, something presumably edible, Rodney glances at the foods offered before looking at the two muscled men in aprons.
“What’s good?” he asks. One Sergeant grins.
“Everything, doc. You in the mood for Italian or American? This here’s alfredo-” He points to a white, lumpy substance. “-and this is momma’s classic steak ‘n gravy.” The second substance is also lumpy, but brown in color.
“No citrus?”
“Nope.”
Rodney makes a face, but hands the man his plate. “Give me the Italian.”
“You got it. And what’ll your-uh-friend have?”
Rodney looks at Basil expectantly. Basil returns the stare.
“Well?” Rodney finally asks, and suddenly, Basil is terrified. He’s not used to talking to anyone besides Rodney, the scientists (for what few words pass between he and the others), and Teyla, when they train. “You have to tell the man what you want.”
Basil remains silent, and notices the people waiting behind him are at least five feet away. They’re scared.
“Basil,” Rodney says again, his voice quieter, “You have to talk.”
His hands clench around his plate, but he gives the dish over to the Sergeant. He notices how different their hands are, and how his is so white, slick, and angular compared to the soft features of humans.
“I will have what the doctor has,” he says, though the words feel forced from his throat. Rodney grins, nods, and hums happily as they reach the end of the line, where he makes himself a cup of coffee.
“Have you had any soda before? We have Coke, Sprite, and Doctor Pepper.”
“No,” Basil answers. “I have not had anything except water.”
“Then I think, in the name of science, you should try the Doctor Pepper first,” so he places a red can on Basil’s tray, and leads him to where the Colonel, Teyla, and Ronon are gathered around a table. They make room for Rodney, and when they realize another is waiting, Teyla is the first to drag up a fifth chair.
“Please join us,” she says, smiling. Basil hesitates, but places his tray onto the table and stiffly sits. Ronon’s expression is deadly.
“So how are things?” the Colonel asks, appearing overly bright, and Rodney launches into a long-winded explanation of recent laboratory events. Basil studies the soda can, unsure of how to drink from it. There’s no opening.
Suddenly, Rodney picks it up and pulls at a tab. A hole is formed at the top. Rodney sets it down and continues to rant about the latest “Cracker Jack scientists” and the mistakes they’ve made, which, admittedly, are many.
Week twenty-nine:
Basil eats during normal hours, now. No one stares.
Humans are a highly adaptive species. It is a strength.
Week thirty:
He’s no longer followed by marines. Rodney is utterly grateful.
Week thirty-one:
“Look, I’m not sure what kind of hygiene program you guys have,” Rodney says, “but here on Atlantis, we bathe whenever possible.” Fidget. “So.” Awkward pause. “Your clothes. Do you want them washed?”
Basil accepts the offer by stripping from his coat, but when he reaches for the garments underneath, Rodney stops him by shoving an expedition uniform into his arms.
“Whoa, wait, change into these first, then give me your clothes.”
Rodney makes the marines (two continuously guard the cell) turn around, then the good doctor does the same. Basil doesn’t understand. He presumes it’s because they think he’s ugly, but he resolutely refuses to care about this.
He isn’t uncomfortable while he waits for his original clothes, because the uniform fits surprisingly well.
Week thirty-two:
“You’ve progressed much faster than I ever imagined,” Teyla huffs, and this time, Basil lowers his head and she smiles, touching hers to his. Their sweat mingles, formed from a “stupidly hard” (Rodney’s words) training session.
They are equal now.
They are brothers in arms.
Week thirty-three:
“So what do you want for your birthday?” Katie asks, smiling as Miko laughs at the question.
“A day off,” the small woman says, “and a spa treatment.”
Basil watches the interaction. He recognizes Katie’s scientific specialty, and marvels at the fact that two members of opposite groups can socialize so easily.
Of course, he doesn’t understand what a “birthday” is. Rodney shoots him a sidelong glance.
“It’s the yearly celebration of someone’s birth,” he quietly explains, allowing the two women to talk shop. “Humans usually celebrate it with a cake or special food, and gifts.”
“It is a ritual?” Basil asks, and Rodney shakes his head.
“Well, it’s not required, but it’s something we enjoy doing.”
Week thirty-four:
When Basil enters the lab, there are strange objects tied to the backs of chairs. There is also a banner hanging from the ceiling.
Radek, Katie, and David are clearing off a table, and through Rodney looks annoyed, he isn’t protesting.
“Just hurry it up,” he grumbles. “She’ll be here any minute.”
When Miko walks in, nose buried in a report, she nearly jumps out of her skin when everyone yells “Surprise!” She appears flustered, then pleased, then overjoyed at the sight of a large, iced cake. Boxes are wrapped in colorful paper.
“You didn’t have to,” she says, but unwraps her gifts, then cuts the cake. Basil occupies his usual spot with a stoic expression. He isn’t fond in the change of routine.
“Here,” Miko says, smiling as she hands him a paper plate with a piece of the cake. “Have you ever had any? It’s vanilla.”
“Chocolate’s better,” Rodney argues, though his mouth is full with his own portion of the sweet.
“You’ll like it,” she promises, and when Basil coolly accepts the offering, he takes a bite.
It’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.
Week thirty-five:
Basil knows he’ll never leave Atlantis (the Satedan makes sure of that), but he misses science like nothing else. When Radek begins cursing in his foreign tongue over a simulation that just won’t work, Basil takes the laptop, inputs a different equation, and the problem is solved.
Week thirty-six:
“You know what you’ve never done before?” Rodney asks, placing his hand on Basil’s elbow and steering him towards the “lounge”. “You’ve never watched a movie. That’s blasphemy.”
“The team” has already found seats, and though Basil isn’t sure what a movie is, he refuses to shy away. His back his straight when he sits, but then Rodney flops next to him, going on about a man named George Lucas, and by the time the first Star Wars film ends, Basil is relaxed.
“Are these the stories of your kind?” he inquiries. Teyla answers before Rodney can.
“That is what I thought as well, but these are fictional tales. They come from the imaginations of the people who write them,” and it’s a concept he’s unfamiliar with: the idea of imagination.
Week thirty-seven:
Basil joins them for movie night every time. Like Ronon and Teyla, he doesn’t understand the cultural references, but the aspect of the movies are engaging.
Week thirty-eight:
He tries blue Jello.
It isn’t bad.
Week thirty-nine:
Radek joins them for lunch. He slams his tray down and glares at Rodney.
“You left me with more paperwork,” he accuses, and Rodney rolls his eyes.
“What’s a few more forms-”
“Few? Try two hundred and eighty-nine!”
“-between friends? And besides, I’ve been integrating species."
Radek mutters angrily and turns to Basil. “Don’t become too chummy with him,” he warns. “He’ll use you to do his dirty work. If he approaches you with datapad-”
“Please,” Rodney snorts. “He isn’t even authorized.”
Week forty:
The Daedalus stops in to drop off supplies, but Basil has adjusted to the point where he can finally meet Colonel Caldwell without hesitation borne from imprisonment.
Caldwell is suspicious of Basil, glancing from the Wraith to Rodney and back again.
“I’m getting too old for this job,” he mutters, and stalks away.
Week forty-one:
A group of marines teach Basil how to play poker, and he ends up winning a new set of Star Trek DVDs. Rodney practically salivates, so Basil simply gives them to him, without expecting anything in return.
Week forty-two:
In the beginning, Basil hadn’t been allowed in the control room, but Elizabeth is much more friendly towards the idea these days. She seems pleased that Basil wants to see the team off.
“Well,” Rodney says, locking the last of his tac-vest in place. “We’ll be back in a day or two, probably sooner, since these things never go as planned.”
Basil doesn’t answer, only nods, but he’s not particularly fond of Rodney’s missions, especially when they “come in hot”. Rodney smiles, his lips oddly crooked, and the last thing he says is, “Don’t let the minions blow anything up while I’m gone.”
Week forty-three:
John shows him how to play Tetris, and looks ill when Basil beats his high-score in under three hours.
Week forty-four:
“I’ve sewn you some new clothes,” Teyla confesses, offering a stack of pants and shirts with a humble voice. “You seemed to fit very well in the uniform before, so these should fit as well. If you will have them.”
She seems conscientious of Athosian style as opposed to Wraith, and made them look as familiar as possible. They’re mostly black with strings and buttons typical of his culture; she doesn’t expect a thanks, but when he accepts her gift, it’s thanks enough.
Week forty-five:
He’s in the breakfast line, listening as the Sergeant explains the lumpy yellow stuff are omelets, and the lumpy white/brown stuff are biscuits and gravy, when an announcement's blared over the loudspeaker. It’s Radek from the control room, calling Doctor Weir in a frantic message of explosion and Doctor McKay’s lab and medic team. Basil leaves his tray and the line altogether, hurrying towards Rodney’s lab, where the stench of smoke and burnt flesh becomes more potent as time goes on.
When he arrives, there’s already a crowd. Carson’s voice can be heard over everything else as he shouts out instructions, but Basil knows something is seriously wrong-the medic team won’t be enough. It’s a cakewalk for him to make his way to the front, though what he finally sees makes him go cold inside.
Rodney has a huge shard of glass piercing his chest. It sticks out in a sickening way, and blood’s going everywhere; Carson’s desperately trying to stop the bleeding while being careful not to irritate the shard, but it’s not working.
Their techniques are useless here.
Basil rushes forward, shoving the medics aside, and crouches down, hissing as Carson protests. He grabs the glass, unable to feel its sharp, painful points, and yanks it from Rodney’s chest, and just as Carson’s yelling some marines, Basil slams down his other hand to cover the wound.
He doesn’t feel a heartbeat, but here, now, he knows Carson removed his ability to take life.
He just hopes he can still give it back.
It always hurts to return souls, but on rare occasions, it’s worth the pain. He can feel the energy leaving his body and entering Rodney’s, and he's sure it’s working when Rodney’s body jerks and his eyes fly open. There’s only silence in the room as the moments stretch out into eternity, but Basil’s lived an eternity, or close enough.
Rodney hasn’t. He deserves the opportunity.
Week forty-six:
John Sheppard gives Basil quarters of his own.
The containment chamber’s a thing of the past.
Week forty-seven:
Basil likes the red Jello better, so he gives Rodney his blue kind, and Rodney lights up.
Week forty-eight:
There are no movies or lunches today, and Basil seeks out someone from the team, preferably his fellow scientist. He finds Rodney frowning at a sensor report; he’s not even drinking coffee, which makes the situation worse.
“There is something wrong,” he says, grim as Rodney glances up. The man closes his sky-blue eyes before nodding.
“Hiveship,” he whispers, swallowing hard. “Two weeks out. They’re heading straight towards us, and unless they change their course, we’re in serious trouble.” He pauses. “You didn’t… you didn’t call them here, did you? Maybe a few months back?”
Rodney’s hands shake, and Basil remembers the warning Colonel Sheppard had given him weeks ago. He has to eat or he’ll get sick, understand? So if he ever starts shaking, you call one of us.
Basil heads to Radek’s desk, pulls open the top drawer, and takes one of the powerbars stored there. He walks over again and places it beside the report, silently encouraging the other man to eat. Rodney rips open the wrapper and shoves half of it into his mouth.
“No,” Basil quietly answers. “I did not. I do not think it is even my ship.”
“Didn’t think so,” comes the tired answer, so Rodney taps his earpiece and says, “Elizabeth, call a meeting ASAP. We’ve got trouble,” and he leads Basil towards the briefing room, where they sit next to each other. The Colonel enters next, then Elizabeth, then Ronon, Teyla, Radek-they’re frowning, aware this is more than just a social call.
“Hiveship,” Rodney says. Their faces go ashen.
Ronon glances at Basil, suspicious, but Rodney cuts it off at the source.
“It’s not even his hive, big guy,” he explains. “And besides, there’s no sense for him to return. They’ll know he’s unclean, like Michael.”
This is what it is like to be hunted, Basil realizes, listening as they throw plans back and forth.
Week forty-nine:
Basil presents Rodney with a plan that could, quite possibly, work. At first Rodney’s adamant (“No, no, hell no. We leave no man behind. In all your time living here, haven’t you ever heard us say that?”), but Basil is equally as stubborn, so he goes to the Colonel instead. John’s expressive eyebrows rise and nearly touch his hairline, and he, too, refuses.
Basil’s baffled by this loyalty.
“It is not complicated,” he snaps to Elizabeth. “It is the only way this city will get by.”
“We don’t sacrifice our team to-”
“I am not part of your team!” he argues, fierce and vicious. “Do you want your expedition to survive? Then this will work. You have no choice but to accept.”
The plan is this: gate to a nearby star, send out a distress beacon, be captured, plant some explosives, and get rid of the ship.
The problem is this: it’s suicide.
But the thought of these people dying-Rodney especially-isn’t an option, and Elizabeth must realize that. She already does, but her beliefs and convictions obscure the importance of the whole instead of the individual.
“All right,” she whispers. “Okay.”
Without telling anyone, she allows him gate access. He chooses an address, takes the weapons necessary, and just as he’s about to step through, Rodney bolts in.
“Don’t you dare!” he yells. “We’ll think of something else! You stupid-”
The wormhole obscures all other noise.
Week fifty:
Basil’s plan works incredibly well, except for one small hitch: instead of keeping him on that particular ship, they send him to his original hive an hour after he’s onboard. It isn’t too far out.
The hive threatening Atlantis is in smithereens, but now he’s been captured by his own kind, and they aren’t as humane as the Lanteans. His entire body aches from what they’ve done to him, and it’s been four days since he last ate. The hunger isn’t as bad as the shocks and cuts and beatings, but he wishes for death.
It’s hard to believe he ever lived here.
There’s movement outside his cell-his torturers are early today, but his door doesn’t open immediately. He waits. There’s a curse, and the sound of a knife, and then the team’s standing on the other side with Rodney muttering, “I can’t believe I’m rescuing a Wraith off a hiveship-I swear my life is one big paradox-Basil!”
Basil doesn’t speak, but he does try to walk. He realizes he can’t; his legs were the first things to be ruthlessly abused, and he knows they’ll have to go back and leave him. But Ronon does the unimaginable: he picks up Basil’s body and hurries towards the ‘jumper; Rodney’s fast on his heels, with Teyla and John behind him, and they shoot and pilot their way off the ship.
Week fifty-one:
Teyla and Rodney leave flowers by Basil’s bedstand. Carson says he’ll be “right as rain” in a day or two, and when he wakes up, they want him to know he won’t be alone anymore.
On Sunday, Basil opens his eyes to see the infirmary ceiling, then flowers, then dozens of small gifts from grateful Atlantis citizens.
Week fifty-two:
Rodney has the idea, Elizabeth donates the jacket, Teyla sews on the patch, and John hands it over. It’s a Lantean uniform jacket with Earth’s Atlantis symbol on the arm, just like everyone else's, and Basil doesn’t know what to say, so (as usual) he says nothing at all.
They understand.
FIN.
Rating: PG
Fandom: SGA
Prompt: It was Sunday, the time it happened.
Summary: A Wraith lives on Atlantis for one year.
This prompt screams Carson, but to be honest, there's nothing I can write that hasn't already been written by someone else. I'm pretty fond of this one, actually! ^___^ (AN: "Basil" is pronounced with an "ah", like "bat".)
Week one:
It’s Sunday when they capture their fourth Wraith.
Stackhouse finds it (him?) occupying the unexplored levels of the city, and calls John, Rodney, and Elizabeth (in that order) after stunning the alien with extreme prejudice. Oddly, the Wraith hadn’t tried to attack, though evidence suggests he’s been in Atlantis for months now. Every worse case scenario runs through Rodney’s head as he hurries towards where the others are waiting: the Wraith has been stealing information, doing surveillance, and/or booby-trapping the city.
But… no. None of the sensors had picked up any hackers, and Atlantis never reported any problems. It was like he was hiding from both Lanteans and his own kind, happy-albeit hungry-living on his own.
Week two:
“What’s your name?” Elizabeth asks. The Wraith hisses from his place inside the containment chamber; of course, this has been his answer to everything since last Sunday, so nothing new there.
“We’ll just give you one anyway,” John lazily says. “How does Dopey sound? Sleepy? Happy? I have four more where that came from.”
Rodney can see this is going nowhere, so he spends his concentration on study instead. The Wraith is undoubtedly a scientist, not a soldier. He holds himself with grace, his head inclined, his clothes somewhat smooth, but he’s starving-anyone can see that-and though it clearly violates treaty to withhold food from a prisoner, feeding him isn’t an option.
“We can help you,” Elizabeth tries again, but the Wraith gives her an ugly look.
“You are mistaken,” he replies, and those are the only words that leave his mouth for days and days.
Week three:
Sunday morning, Elizabeth calls for an emergency meeting. She’s between a rock and a hard place, because they can’t just send the Wraith back on its merry way, but they can’t kill him, either. John and Ronon want to know why not; it’s not like anything good has ever come from keeping the enemy alive, and besides, all sorts of things could go FUBAR if their new friend escapes. Rodney’s not a barbarian like those two, but he agrees with their logic.
Carson’s quietly skittish from across the table, which means he has an idea he’s hesitant to propose. Rodney leans back into his seat, crosses his arms, and gives his friend a look, silently demanding the man speak. Carson shakes his head. Rodney kicks him from beneath the tabletop. Carson winces. Rodney kicks again. Carson shifts. Rodney uses both feet. Carson retaliates with a kick of his own, and it’s not until a moment later (after initiating a violent battle of footsie, each kicking until Rodney’s sure he’ll be limping towards the lab) that Elizabeth clears her throat impatiently and John’s hiding laughter behind his hand.
“Is there something either of you would like to add?” she grits out. Carson sheepishly ducks his head.
“I might have an idea,” he admits, which is brave coming from a man who single-handedly wrote The Highly Unsuccessful Life Stories of Ellia and Michael.
“Carson,” Rodney snaps, “Just spit it out already! But so help me god, if the word ‘retrovirus’ is even uttered-”
“No,” Carson hurriedly replies. “No, I-look, it’s just a theory, but as I understand it, Wraith eat both regular food and… well, I’m not quite sure how to phrase it-”
“Human souls?” Rodney helpfully cuts in. Carson grimaces, but nods and continues.
“I’ve developed a strain of the retrovirus that will both eliminate his hunger for humans as well as his ability to feed with his hand. Everything else about him will remain the same. As it is, we have no choice but to integrate him into our own society or keep him in the containment chamber for the rest of his life.”
“Or,” Ronon mutters, “we can kill him.”
Elizabeth pointedly ignores the suggestion in favor of Carson’s more humane approach. “I don’t doubt your abilities, but after our incidents with the retrovirus, I’m not sure we can take another chance with it.”
“Yes, but this is the most simplistic strain developed. The Wraith will remain the same in appearance, behavior, and mindset. The only difference will be his need to eat.”
Neither Ronon nor John are convinced, but Teyla is smiling, clearly approving the plan. Elizabeth is hesitant but grateful they finally have an idea of what to do with the prisoner, and Rodney, despite his bluster and very real hatred of Wraith, is relieved.
He prepares the antidote that afternoon, and they stun the Wraith into unconsciousness. A needle is slid into pale, fishy skin; Carson nods, and they can only wait.
Week four:
They name him Basil. Not like the herb, but like the Sherlock Holmes actor, because it’s more dignified than “Bob” or “Steve”, and it kind of matches the gothic style Wraith seem to favor.
Week five:
Basil remains in the containment chamber, but he’s given three meals a day, special ordered from the mess. He ignores the trays of food the first few times, but eventually gives into his hunger and angrily inhales everything offered.
Carson’s retrovirus has finally worked.
Week six:
Rodney lobbies hard for his right to be Basil’s guardian of sorts. Why? Because 1) he’s a scientist and needs to study their enemy, 2) he has more off-world experience than all the other scientists combined, and 3) seriously, hello, genius. If Atlantis has any hope of winning the war, Rodney needs to know what sort of science the Wraith possess, and what he can do to learn about it.
After presenting this argument to Elizabeth four times in one morning, Teyla follows him from the briefing room and says (with a raised eyebrow that always makes Rodney feel like a child again), “You’re volunteering to spend time with a Wraith? That is not something I ever imagined you would do.”
“It’s in the name of science and progress,” Rodney proudly replies. “First thing he’s doing is visiting the lab. I need to know what it is they can do that we can’t. Oh! Oh, do you think they have a variation of the gene? God knows everything in Pegasus is connected somehow. Oh my God, what if-”
Teyla stops listening, because Rodney seems to know what he’s doing.
Week seven:
“We gave Basil the strain weeks ago,” Carson sighs. “Elizabeth, I think it’s time we start mixing him in with the rest of the population. He at least needs some exercise.”
“And someone to show him around,” Rodney quickly adds. “By the way, have you received my e-mails? I’ve made some very good arguments as to why I should be the one to-”
“Yes,” Elizabeth replies, rubbing her temples with elegant fingers. “I’ve received all thirty-nine messages, Rodney.”
Has he really sent that many? Wow. That’s overkill, even for him.
Week eight:
“Okay, look,” John says, making sure Rodney knows he means business, “we’re releasing Basil to your care for five hours every day. Elizabeth and I’ve talked it over, and it seems like the right thing to do. However-” And here, he emphasizes the word however, since Rodney’s already opened his mouth to interrupt. “There will be a full supply of marines with you at all times, even in your precious labs.”
“Are you kidding?” Rodney demands, scandalized by the mere thought. “You think I can afford to have mindless grunts traipsing all over the place with those stupid boots and big guns? Do you know what they could destroy in a five minute period of time?”
John’s unimpressed. “It’s that or nothing, Rodney.”
It takes more pride than he’s willing to give, but Rodney finally concedes defeat.
“Five hours,” he accepts. “But if one of your living Ken dolls break anything, there’s going to be hell to pay!”
Week nine:
It takes another week of Carson double and triple-checking Basil’s health and stability (and Rodney triple and quadruple-locking any pertinent Earth-related information that he doesn’t want Basil to find) before the Wraith is allowed, for the first time in several months, outside the containment chamber.
Rodney is waiting for him.
“Doctor McKay,” Basil says, barely nodding his head in recognition, and why are Wraith scientists always so damn cocky? “The Colonel has informed me of your plans.”
“I hope he’s also informed you that these guys-’’ Rodney gestures to the dozen marines armed to their noses “-will be following us everywhere, so don’t try anything stupid. Understand?”
The Wraith doesn’t reply, but Rodney rolls right on. “You’re a scientist, right?”
Again, no reply, and Rodney grows impatient. “Look, we can always stick you right back in the cell, so if you want a chance to stretch your limbs, you’ll answer my questions. Are you or are you not a scientist?”
Basil stiffens and his eyes are colder than usual. “I am one of the best,” he replies. Rodney brightens at that.
“So am I,” he says, and gestures for Basil and the marines to follow him. “Look, I’ll show you around, and then we can get started.”
Rodney’s a ball of energy as he shows off the city, revealing what he thinks Basil should know and nothing else. He tries to map out a few corridors and it eventually leads them to the mess. “It’s one of the most important locations in Atlantis,” Rodney says (grabbing a sandwich as they pass by). “There’s food and coffee at all hours of the day and night. Six A.M. starts breakfast, lunch begins at noon, and the cooks manage to get dinner out by five. If you get hungry during the periods in between, there’s a self-serve table with sandwiches, fruit, and if you’re lucky, Jello. The blue kind’s best, but red isn’t bad in a pinch.”
It’s clear Basil has no idea what Rodney’s talking about, so Rodney stops (thus halting the twelve marines all at once, which is kind of fun) and picks up a Jello cup and plastic spoon.
“Try some,” he says. “Just peel off the foil.”
Basil glances at the two items with a look anyone else would consider doubtful. “It is not a natural substance.”
“Of course not. It’s Jello.”
Basil hisses, a sign he’s clearly unhappy, so Rodney sighs, sets the Jello back down, and says, “We’ll deal with your Jello phobia another time. Next, and most importantly, are the labs, which are located…”
His voice trails off as they move away, while the rest of the mess looks on in both shock and surprise. Kavanagh, who was in the midst of eating something that looked and tasted like spaghetti, has had his fork halfway to his mouth for the past two minutes.
Basil is very unhelpful the first day, and the second. He’s cocky and insulting (it reminds Rodney of someone, but he can’t quite place who), but mostly, he couldn’t help even if he wanted to (which he doesn’t). There isn’t room to move.
Of course, the private labs aren’t meant for fourteen people.
Week ten:
“This is Radek Zelenka,” Rodney introduces, gesturing towards a short man with funny hair and skewed glasses. The man in question turns, sets his eyes on Basil, and screams like a small girl. He clutches at his chest before glaring at Rodney.
“Warn a man!” he yells, but his voice is… different. Funny. The pronunciation is wrong. “You think I can afford heart problems right now? You bring Wraith in here without telling me and expect me to be cool?”
“Like John Travolta and Uma Thurman,” Rodney agrees. Basil doesn’t know who this John Travolta or Uma Thurman is; perhaps they’re human gods?
“Funny,” Radek snaps. “You know what else is not cool? Paperwork! You have left me with all the year-end evaluations! You think I would just let you get away with this?”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
Radek says something else, only it’s in a language Basil doesn’t recognize. He waves his arms around, spitting out indiscernible words, and then stomps off, but not before shoving his finger against Rodney’s chest.
“I am taking early lunch. You show new guy around, but he is not allowed near my computer. I am running very important simulation that has taken all night to establish, and if it is interrupted, I will poison your coffee with orange-flavored Spic-n-Span!”
Basil knows he’s a prisoner. He knows he will never return home, but to be honest, there isn’t much of a home anymore.
However, the Lanteans are… amusing. Diverse from each other in behavior and speech. For some reason, though, they treat each other the same, and this is not a concept Basil is used to.
Week eleven:
Basil meets several scientists. One is named David, and one is named Katie, and one is named Miko. The first two are in the “soft sciences”.
They do not seem to appreciate this term.
Week twelve:
The days pass relatively quickly, and both Basil and Rodney adjust to having a platoon of armed men watching their every move. Carson continually makes sure that Basil is really and truly sterile when it comes to native feeding, and on “Wednesday,” Miko trips over the leg of Basil’s chair and hurts her ankle.
Strangely, Rodney hurries over.
Basil tilts his head to watch the man help Miko to her feet. In Basil’s culture, they don’t care what happens to members of the hive unless it affects them as a whole.
The woman scientist’s ankle is of no physical concern to Rodney, and yet he seems so worried.
Week thirteen:
“Look,” Rodney says, exasperated, “you have to love science to be a scientist, right? And while I’m sure you find great joy in watching us work five hours a day, don’t you have any desire to help?”
Basil does. He bleeds science, and breathes it, and lives for it, but he only hisses in response to the question. Just because he’s being forced to live among humans doesn’t mean he’s going to help them progress any further than they already have.
Week fourteen:
Only ten marines accompany them.
Week fifteen:
He’s allowed to be out for seven hours instead of five.
Week sixteen:
Basil continues to actively not-help the scientists.
Week seventeen:
Something goes wrong with Katie’s experiment, and the flower she’s excitedly showing Miko suddenly explodes with a yellow, waxy substance. It goes everywhere, landing on Katie, Miko, and Basil (Radek, Rodney, and the ten marines are on the other side of the room).
Miko and Katie scream, but not because they’re scared. It’s the wax: it burns fiercely, and though it doesn’t penetrate Basil’s clothing, it does scorch the naked skin of his face.
He’s ashamed when he screams, too, jumping from his seat and letting out a pained loud roar. Rodney and Radek are on it; Radek quickly dunks his bottled water on some cloths and rushes over to wipe the substance from his two female counterparts. Rodney takes one of the wet cloths and hurries to where Basil is still shaking the walls with his voice.
“Calm down!” Rodney yells, reaching for him. “Jesus Christ, calm down or I can’t help you!”
Basil takes one of the computers and slams it on the floor, and he’s so angry, because he’s being kept here against his will and has no hope of ever leaving and hates being constantly locked up. He grabs glass bottles and hurdles them in random directions, each shattering into small, clear splinters when they hit a solid surface.
The marines immediately aim their P90s, but Rodney shakes his head. “No!” he bellows, barely heard over the noise and commotion, “Put those down! I said put them away, damn it!” He turns back to Basil, who’s trying to smear off the yellow liquid, only managing to get it on his hands, and that hurts even worse. It’s excruciating.
And for one moment, while Basil isn’t looking, Rodney manages to shove him into the wall, forcefully rubbing the cloth against the sickish face. It’s… a relief when the wax is met with water, so Basil stills. Rodney hurriedly moves to his hands, and then Radek comes over with more water; they're able to remove anything Rodney missed before.
One of the marines calls for a med team, but Basil is suddenly tired.
He thinks that if this had happened on his own world, no one would have been concerned.
Week eighteen:
There are twelve marines again, but Rodney raises such hell that Sheppard finally negotiates with five.
Week nineteen:
Miko trips on the chair leg again. Radek quickly helps her up.
Basil has adjusted to witnessing random acts of kindness.
Week twenty:
He’s allowed to be out for twelve hours every day.
Week twenty-one:
“Look, maybe I was a little optimistic about how much you wanted something to do with your old job,” Rodney admits. “And to be honest, the way you sit but refuse to talk is creeping out my minions.”
Basil sneers, and Rodney rolls his eyes.
“Yes, very intimidating. Do you want to hear my plan or not?” When Basil doesn’t reply, Rodney takes it as an affirmative. “We’re taking a day off from science to do a little something the Colonel calls ‘training’ and I call ‘torture’. How do you feel about fighting?”
Basil doesn’t answer, just tilts his head a bit higher. It means “yes”.
The marines follow them towards the “training room”, where a woman named Teyla is supposed to be one of the Lantean’s best warriors. Basil’s filled with energy; he hasn’t been allowed much high-impact exercise in months. When the doors slide open and they enter, Basil recognizes Teyla as one of his captors.
“Athosian,” he hisses. Her expression is blank, but she hands him two long sticks.
“I am going to train you in the ways of our fighting. You may either accept this form of battle or you can return to the labs, but understand that Doctor McKay is putting much on the line to have you here.”
Basil flicks his glance towards Rodney, who’s settling himself against the wall with a laptop balanced on his knees.
“We begin with the typical greeting,” she announces. “Bend your head forwards.”
“I have seen your greeting,” Basil snaps, “and I will do no such thing.”
“Then you will go back, and you do not want that.”
Basil’s lips are pressed into a thin line, but he stiffly bends his neck, and feels the warmth of Teyla when her forehead presses against his. They separate.
“And now,” she says, holding up her sticks, “we begin.”
Week twenty-two:
Basil learns quickly. He doesn’t quite match Teyla, but he’s a worthy opponent.
Week twenty-three:
When Ronon learns of Basil’s training sessions, he’s infuriated. This time, the marines have to point their P90s towards someone other than a Wraith.
Week twenty-four:
It dwindles down to three marines.
Week twenty-five:
When Miko trips over the chair leg, Basil reaches out and effortlessly catches her with one hand. He doesn’t even have to move.
Week twenty-six:
Basil is allowed in and out of the containment chamber whenever he wishes, but either Rodney or two marines must be with him at all times. It’s not a bad thing, actually, since Rodney’s usually awake no matter the hour.
Week twenty-seven:
Thanks to Carson’s retrovirus, Basil can only eat vegetables, fruit, and meat, which means he must, at least once every two days, visit the mess and get a meal. He usually visits during the latest hours, when only one or two scientists are falling asleep over their cups of coffee. He can sneak in, grab whatever’s on the buffet, and leave, all without the stares and room-wide drop of conversation.
His plan’s foolproof for four days, until he realizes Rodney McKay doesn’t sleep. He works during the day, and then forces himself to stay up during the night. He’s often hunched over a laptop when Basil arrives, typing furiously with one hand while stuffing a sandwich in his mouth with the other. Coffee cups litter the space around him.
When Basil grabs his food, he looks over at the scientist. A marine raises his eyebrows.
“You wanna eat with McKay?” he asks, and Basil’s tired of having no one to talk to, so he just gives them an ugly look but walks over to where Rodney is sitting. He steps next to the chair opposite of Rodney, though doesn’t wish to join him uninvited.
Rodney looks up. “What?” he asks. “What is it? Is everything-’’ But when he sees the food in Basil’s abnormal hands, he quickly nods. “Sit down,” he says, swallowing his mouthful of coffee. “Does it look like I’m one for formalities?”
So Basil does, and they eat in a strangely companionable silence until Rodney suddenly blurts, “Have lunch with us tomorrow.”
“No. I do not enjoy being mocked and gossiped over.”
“No one does,” Rodney replies. “But in order for the expedition to adjust, they’ll have to see you more often. You can’t keep stealing in here at all hours like Batman.”
Week twenty-eight:
After seven days of consideration, Basil follows Rodney to the mess hall on Sunday. It takes a few seconds to figure out he’s being followed, but when Rodney realizes he’s not the only one in the corridor, he spins around.
“Stalking won’t earn you points,” he says, and then a look of surprise washes over his face. “Wait, do you want-are you going to lunch? Now?”
“Everyone must adjust,” Basil says, and waits for the human to lead them on. When they arrive, the room is suddenly reminiscent of a crypt, and Rodney crosses his arms and snaps, “What, you’ve never seen two hungry scientists before? Get back to whatever worthless conversation you were having.”
Basil holds his head high and walks behind Rodney and towards the lunch line. Discussion resumes, but he can feel the stares as he echoes Rodney’s actions: take a tray, a spoon, a fork, and wait. When they get to two Sergeants dishing out ladles full of… well, something presumably edible, Rodney glances at the foods offered before looking at the two muscled men in aprons.
“What’s good?” he asks. One Sergeant grins.
“Everything, doc. You in the mood for Italian or American? This here’s alfredo-” He points to a white, lumpy substance. “-and this is momma’s classic steak ‘n gravy.” The second substance is also lumpy, but brown in color.
“No citrus?”
“Nope.”
Rodney makes a face, but hands the man his plate. “Give me the Italian.”
“You got it. And what’ll your-uh-friend have?”
Rodney looks at Basil expectantly. Basil returns the stare.
“Well?” Rodney finally asks, and suddenly, Basil is terrified. He’s not used to talking to anyone besides Rodney, the scientists (for what few words pass between he and the others), and Teyla, when they train. “You have to tell the man what you want.”
Basil remains silent, and notices the people waiting behind him are at least five feet away. They’re scared.
“Basil,” Rodney says again, his voice quieter, “You have to talk.”
His hands clench around his plate, but he gives the dish over to the Sergeant. He notices how different their hands are, and how his is so white, slick, and angular compared to the soft features of humans.
“I will have what the doctor has,” he says, though the words feel forced from his throat. Rodney grins, nods, and hums happily as they reach the end of the line, where he makes himself a cup of coffee.
“Have you had any soda before? We have Coke, Sprite, and Doctor Pepper.”
“No,” Basil answers. “I have not had anything except water.”
“Then I think, in the name of science, you should try the Doctor Pepper first,” so he places a red can on Basil’s tray, and leads him to where the Colonel, Teyla, and Ronon are gathered around a table. They make room for Rodney, and when they realize another is waiting, Teyla is the first to drag up a fifth chair.
“Please join us,” she says, smiling. Basil hesitates, but places his tray onto the table and stiffly sits. Ronon’s expression is deadly.
“So how are things?” the Colonel asks, appearing overly bright, and Rodney launches into a long-winded explanation of recent laboratory events. Basil studies the soda can, unsure of how to drink from it. There’s no opening.
Suddenly, Rodney picks it up and pulls at a tab. A hole is formed at the top. Rodney sets it down and continues to rant about the latest “Cracker Jack scientists” and the mistakes they’ve made, which, admittedly, are many.
Week twenty-nine:
Basil eats during normal hours, now. No one stares.
Humans are a highly adaptive species. It is a strength.
Week thirty:
He’s no longer followed by marines. Rodney is utterly grateful.
Week thirty-one:
“Look, I’m not sure what kind of hygiene program you guys have,” Rodney says, “but here on Atlantis, we bathe whenever possible.” Fidget. “So.” Awkward pause. “Your clothes. Do you want them washed?”
Basil accepts the offer by stripping from his coat, but when he reaches for the garments underneath, Rodney stops him by shoving an expedition uniform into his arms.
“Whoa, wait, change into these first, then give me your clothes.”
Rodney makes the marines (two continuously guard the cell) turn around, then the good doctor does the same. Basil doesn’t understand. He presumes it’s because they think he’s ugly, but he resolutely refuses to care about this.
He isn’t uncomfortable while he waits for his original clothes, because the uniform fits surprisingly well.
Week thirty-two:
“You’ve progressed much faster than I ever imagined,” Teyla huffs, and this time, Basil lowers his head and she smiles, touching hers to his. Their sweat mingles, formed from a “stupidly hard” (Rodney’s words) training session.
They are equal now.
They are brothers in arms.
Week thirty-three:
“So what do you want for your birthday?” Katie asks, smiling as Miko laughs at the question.
“A day off,” the small woman says, “and a spa treatment.”
Basil watches the interaction. He recognizes Katie’s scientific specialty, and marvels at the fact that two members of opposite groups can socialize so easily.
Of course, he doesn’t understand what a “birthday” is. Rodney shoots him a sidelong glance.
“It’s the yearly celebration of someone’s birth,” he quietly explains, allowing the two women to talk shop. “Humans usually celebrate it with a cake or special food, and gifts.”
“It is a ritual?” Basil asks, and Rodney shakes his head.
“Well, it’s not required, but it’s something we enjoy doing.”
Week thirty-four:
When Basil enters the lab, there are strange objects tied to the backs of chairs. There is also a banner hanging from the ceiling.
Radek, Katie, and David are clearing off a table, and through Rodney looks annoyed, he isn’t protesting.
“Just hurry it up,” he grumbles. “She’ll be here any minute.”
When Miko walks in, nose buried in a report, she nearly jumps out of her skin when everyone yells “Surprise!” She appears flustered, then pleased, then overjoyed at the sight of a large, iced cake. Boxes are wrapped in colorful paper.
“You didn’t have to,” she says, but unwraps her gifts, then cuts the cake. Basil occupies his usual spot with a stoic expression. He isn’t fond in the change of routine.
“Here,” Miko says, smiling as she hands him a paper plate with a piece of the cake. “Have you ever had any? It’s vanilla.”
“Chocolate’s better,” Rodney argues, though his mouth is full with his own portion of the sweet.
“You’ll like it,” she promises, and when Basil coolly accepts the offering, he takes a bite.
It’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.
Week thirty-five:
Basil knows he’ll never leave Atlantis (the Satedan makes sure of that), but he misses science like nothing else. When Radek begins cursing in his foreign tongue over a simulation that just won’t work, Basil takes the laptop, inputs a different equation, and the problem is solved.
Week thirty-six:
“You know what you’ve never done before?” Rodney asks, placing his hand on Basil’s elbow and steering him towards the “lounge”. “You’ve never watched a movie. That’s blasphemy.”
“The team” has already found seats, and though Basil isn’t sure what a movie is, he refuses to shy away. His back his straight when he sits, but then Rodney flops next to him, going on about a man named George Lucas, and by the time the first Star Wars film ends, Basil is relaxed.
“Are these the stories of your kind?” he inquiries. Teyla answers before Rodney can.
“That is what I thought as well, but these are fictional tales. They come from the imaginations of the people who write them,” and it’s a concept he’s unfamiliar with: the idea of imagination.
Week thirty-seven:
Basil joins them for movie night every time. Like Ronon and Teyla, he doesn’t understand the cultural references, but the aspect of the movies are engaging.
Week thirty-eight:
He tries blue Jello.
It isn’t bad.
Week thirty-nine:
Radek joins them for lunch. He slams his tray down and glares at Rodney.
“You left me with more paperwork,” he accuses, and Rodney rolls his eyes.
“What’s a few more forms-”
“Few? Try two hundred and eighty-nine!”
“-between friends? And besides, I’ve been integrating species."
Radek mutters angrily and turns to Basil. “Don’t become too chummy with him,” he warns. “He’ll use you to do his dirty work. If he approaches you with datapad-”
“Please,” Rodney snorts. “He isn’t even authorized.”
Week forty:
The Daedalus stops in to drop off supplies, but Basil has adjusted to the point where he can finally meet Colonel Caldwell without hesitation borne from imprisonment.
Caldwell is suspicious of Basil, glancing from the Wraith to Rodney and back again.
“I’m getting too old for this job,” he mutters, and stalks away.
Week forty-one:
A group of marines teach Basil how to play poker, and he ends up winning a new set of Star Trek DVDs. Rodney practically salivates, so Basil simply gives them to him, without expecting anything in return.
Week forty-two:
In the beginning, Basil hadn’t been allowed in the control room, but Elizabeth is much more friendly towards the idea these days. She seems pleased that Basil wants to see the team off.
“Well,” Rodney says, locking the last of his tac-vest in place. “We’ll be back in a day or two, probably sooner, since these things never go as planned.”
Basil doesn’t answer, only nods, but he’s not particularly fond of Rodney’s missions, especially when they “come in hot”. Rodney smiles, his lips oddly crooked, and the last thing he says is, “Don’t let the minions blow anything up while I’m gone.”
Week forty-three:
John shows him how to play Tetris, and looks ill when Basil beats his high-score in under three hours.
Week forty-four:
“I’ve sewn you some new clothes,” Teyla confesses, offering a stack of pants and shirts with a humble voice. “You seemed to fit very well in the uniform before, so these should fit as well. If you will have them.”
She seems conscientious of Athosian style as opposed to Wraith, and made them look as familiar as possible. They’re mostly black with strings and buttons typical of his culture; she doesn’t expect a thanks, but when he accepts her gift, it’s thanks enough.
Week forty-five:
He’s in the breakfast line, listening as the Sergeant explains the lumpy yellow stuff are omelets, and the lumpy white/brown stuff are biscuits and gravy, when an announcement's blared over the loudspeaker. It’s Radek from the control room, calling Doctor Weir in a frantic message of explosion and Doctor McKay’s lab and medic team. Basil leaves his tray and the line altogether, hurrying towards Rodney’s lab, where the stench of smoke and burnt flesh becomes more potent as time goes on.
When he arrives, there’s already a crowd. Carson’s voice can be heard over everything else as he shouts out instructions, but Basil knows something is seriously wrong-the medic team won’t be enough. It’s a cakewalk for him to make his way to the front, though what he finally sees makes him go cold inside.
Rodney has a huge shard of glass piercing his chest. It sticks out in a sickening way, and blood’s going everywhere; Carson’s desperately trying to stop the bleeding while being careful not to irritate the shard, but it’s not working.
Their techniques are useless here.
Basil rushes forward, shoving the medics aside, and crouches down, hissing as Carson protests. He grabs the glass, unable to feel its sharp, painful points, and yanks it from Rodney’s chest, and just as Carson’s yelling some marines, Basil slams down his other hand to cover the wound.
He doesn’t feel a heartbeat, but here, now, he knows Carson removed his ability to take life.
He just hopes he can still give it back.
It always hurts to return souls, but on rare occasions, it’s worth the pain. He can feel the energy leaving his body and entering Rodney’s, and he's sure it’s working when Rodney’s body jerks and his eyes fly open. There’s only silence in the room as the moments stretch out into eternity, but Basil’s lived an eternity, or close enough.
Rodney hasn’t. He deserves the opportunity.
Week forty-six:
John Sheppard gives Basil quarters of his own.
The containment chamber’s a thing of the past.
Week forty-seven:
Basil likes the red Jello better, so he gives Rodney his blue kind, and Rodney lights up.
Week forty-eight:
There are no movies or lunches today, and Basil seeks out someone from the team, preferably his fellow scientist. He finds Rodney frowning at a sensor report; he’s not even drinking coffee, which makes the situation worse.
“There is something wrong,” he says, grim as Rodney glances up. The man closes his sky-blue eyes before nodding.
“Hiveship,” he whispers, swallowing hard. “Two weeks out. They’re heading straight towards us, and unless they change their course, we’re in serious trouble.” He pauses. “You didn’t… you didn’t call them here, did you? Maybe a few months back?”
Rodney’s hands shake, and Basil remembers the warning Colonel Sheppard had given him weeks ago. He has to eat or he’ll get sick, understand? So if he ever starts shaking, you call one of us.
Basil heads to Radek’s desk, pulls open the top drawer, and takes one of the powerbars stored there. He walks over again and places it beside the report, silently encouraging the other man to eat. Rodney rips open the wrapper and shoves half of it into his mouth.
“No,” Basil quietly answers. “I did not. I do not think it is even my ship.”
“Didn’t think so,” comes the tired answer, so Rodney taps his earpiece and says, “Elizabeth, call a meeting ASAP. We’ve got trouble,” and he leads Basil towards the briefing room, where they sit next to each other. The Colonel enters next, then Elizabeth, then Ronon, Teyla, Radek-they’re frowning, aware this is more than just a social call.
“Hiveship,” Rodney says. Their faces go ashen.
Ronon glances at Basil, suspicious, but Rodney cuts it off at the source.
“It’s not even his hive, big guy,” he explains. “And besides, there’s no sense for him to return. They’ll know he’s unclean, like Michael.”
This is what it is like to be hunted, Basil realizes, listening as they throw plans back and forth.
Week forty-nine:
Basil presents Rodney with a plan that could, quite possibly, work. At first Rodney’s adamant (“No, no, hell no. We leave no man behind. In all your time living here, haven’t you ever heard us say that?”), but Basil is equally as stubborn, so he goes to the Colonel instead. John’s expressive eyebrows rise and nearly touch his hairline, and he, too, refuses.
Basil’s baffled by this loyalty.
“It is not complicated,” he snaps to Elizabeth. “It is the only way this city will get by.”
“We don’t sacrifice our team to-”
“I am not part of your team!” he argues, fierce and vicious. “Do you want your expedition to survive? Then this will work. You have no choice but to accept.”
The plan is this: gate to a nearby star, send out a distress beacon, be captured, plant some explosives, and get rid of the ship.
The problem is this: it’s suicide.
But the thought of these people dying-Rodney especially-isn’t an option, and Elizabeth must realize that. She already does, but her beliefs and convictions obscure the importance of the whole instead of the individual.
“All right,” she whispers. “Okay.”
Without telling anyone, she allows him gate access. He chooses an address, takes the weapons necessary, and just as he’s about to step through, Rodney bolts in.
“Don’t you dare!” he yells. “We’ll think of something else! You stupid-”
The wormhole obscures all other noise.
Week fifty:
Basil’s plan works incredibly well, except for one small hitch: instead of keeping him on that particular ship, they send him to his original hive an hour after he’s onboard. It isn’t too far out.
The hive threatening Atlantis is in smithereens, but now he’s been captured by his own kind, and they aren’t as humane as the Lanteans. His entire body aches from what they’ve done to him, and it’s been four days since he last ate. The hunger isn’t as bad as the shocks and cuts and beatings, but he wishes for death.
It’s hard to believe he ever lived here.
There’s movement outside his cell-his torturers are early today, but his door doesn’t open immediately. He waits. There’s a curse, and the sound of a knife, and then the team’s standing on the other side with Rodney muttering, “I can’t believe I’m rescuing a Wraith off a hiveship-I swear my life is one big paradox-Basil!”
Basil doesn’t speak, but he does try to walk. He realizes he can’t; his legs were the first things to be ruthlessly abused, and he knows they’ll have to go back and leave him. But Ronon does the unimaginable: he picks up Basil’s body and hurries towards the ‘jumper; Rodney’s fast on his heels, with Teyla and John behind him, and they shoot and pilot their way off the ship.
Week fifty-one:
Teyla and Rodney leave flowers by Basil’s bedstand. Carson says he’ll be “right as rain” in a day or two, and when he wakes up, they want him to know he won’t be alone anymore.
On Sunday, Basil opens his eyes to see the infirmary ceiling, then flowers, then dozens of small gifts from grateful Atlantis citizens.
Week fifty-two:
Rodney has the idea, Elizabeth donates the jacket, Teyla sews on the patch, and John hands it over. It’s a Lantean uniform jacket with Earth’s Atlantis symbol on the arm, just like everyone else's, and Basil doesn’t know what to say, so (as usual) he says nothing at all.
They understand.
FIN.