Icelus
2/5
Back at the village, he forced himself to lie
down. During his frantic scramble from the forest, the only
thing he had been able to think about was that Beckett had been
right when he talked about the long-term effects of sleep deprivation.
And while medicine still was mostly nothing but soft-science
voodoo to him, the prospect of doing permanent damage to his
brain was terrifying.
He could deal with the nightmares. He could
eventually come to terms with Sheppard’s death. He couldn’t,
however, deal with spending the rest of his life as an addle-brained
idiot, unable to do what he was meant to do.
The Athosian mattress was a little too soft
for his taste. There were stones under it, poking his back.
The rain outside lashed against the tent-skin, steady, soothing,
strong.
Hundreds, thousands of drop-drop-drops, forming
a song that was hypnotising and lulling. Equations running through
his mind, probability. How long did the sound take to reach
his ears from the moment this raindrop touched the tent? The
equation was ridiculously easy, as much as it was soothing to
go through.
His eyelids fluttered a few more times, his
rational mind fighting down the irrational fear of new nightmares.
Drop-drop-drop. Thrum. Gentle.
Probability.
Speed.
Sound.
He slept.
Twigs and rain and despair. Wet leaves,
moulding against his body. Loss of blood making him dizzy. Pain
on the backburner, and he wasn’t sure that was such a
good sign.
Trees close together, forming a natural
wall around the small area where the rain lashed down unhindered.
Fallen leaves, brown and no longer dry. Broken twigs hanging
limply where he had cut through them and stumbled to the ground,
the leaves already wilted. The wind picked up, breeze turning
into a more pronounced gust. No more thunder, just rain, soaking
him, biting at his wounds. High trees, roots protruding, insects
bustling between them. Darkness between the tree trunks. The
light almost gone now, leaving the forest to unleash its horrors.
Dark hair soaked, drops of rain slipped
into his eyes, over cracked and dry lips, reminding him of how
thirsty he was. He tried to sit up but used the wrong arm to
push himself up, broken bones scraping, shooting white-hot pain
through him where there had been a pleasant numbness before.
He closed his eyes and let out a howl of frustration.
The universe was a fucking bitch. A fucking,
vindictive, sadistic bitch. He knew he should have died before.
But he was alive now, and couldn’t the powers that be
please just fucking accept that he wanted it to stay that way?
But fate laughed. The universe laughed.
He was alone. After having been so close.
Damn it, McKay.
Rodney woke with a start.
From a neighbouring tent, he could hear Halling
speaking to someone, muttering a quiet: “Yes, he is sleeping
now, Doctor. -- No, we do not worry. -- Grief takes time. --
Do not expect miracles. -- He has to go through the grieving
process in his own time and his own way. -- I do believe he
is slowly coming to terms with it.”
Rodney forced down a harsh laugh. Come to terms
with it? With what, exactly? And what grief?
Damn it, McKay.
Just those three words had jarred him out of
the first real sleep he’d gotten in weeks. Maybe the brain
damage was already permanent. Maybe he couldn’t sleep
more than three hours at a time anymore.
Outside the tent, night was setting in, hushing
the village’s sounds. He could still hear the rain, could
hear Charan telling a good-night story to several of the children.
Damn it, McKay.
Trying to recall his latest dream with a slightly
fatalistic grimness, he wondered why it was the first time he’d
heard himself speak. And why his voice hadn’t sounded
like his own at all. And why the scenery appeared so damn familiar.
The clearing, the leaves, the roots, the alignment
of the trees … He shook his head, dismissing the thought.
Nonsense. His mind was clearly still too exhausted to be working
properly when he considered giving those dreams more consideration
than he should.
Damn it, McKay.
It had looked suspiciously like the clearing
he’d been on when he’d had the hallucination of
Sheppard.
But that was just his brain coping with the
day’s events. Wasn’t it?
The leaves of the broken branches had been completely
wilted in the dream.
Completely wilted.
He was alive now and wanted it to stay that
way.
Completely wilted.
There’d been blood on the dry leaves this
morning. Not spots of red. Blood.
Fucking, vindictive, sadistic bitch.
He remembered green eyes.
Hallucinations couldn’t possibly be that
lucid, could they?
Damn it, McKay.
This was insane. Insane. And yet …
“Oh, god.”
Rodney bolted out of the bed, foregoing shoes
and jacket, only grabbing a flashlight.
His hands shook. His brain went into meltdown,
and damn him if he cared.
Night welcomed him as he tore into the forest.
The concerned voices of Halling and Charan faded
under the sound of his heart hammering in his ears.
The light in front of him flitted over the forest
floor .
Erratic.
Shaky.
If he ever got back to earth, he thought irrationally while
he moved through the dark forest, he’d have to thank his
father’s best friend for taking him on those wilderness
trips to “get that boy out in the open at least twice
a year”. He had hated them with a passion when he was
a child but now found himself being grateful for being taught
what he thought he’d never need in a lab.
His bare feet hurt by the time he reached the
clearing he’d been on this morning, cuts and bruises and
gashes visible among the dirt when he held the flashlight down
for a moment and yes, that’d be a healthy infection and
was Tetanus likely here?
He tried to breathe normally but found that
it was impossible - from exertion, but much more from panic.
Panic that - now he was here - threatened to overwhelm him.
Maybe he was insane. Maybe he’d just been hallucinating
again. Maybe he’d made the wrong assumption and it had
really just been a dream and … The flashlight’s
beam moved over the clearing, still quivering. Once. Twice.
Too quick to see. His unsteady hands didn’t help.
He did it again. More slowly this time. Eyes
flickering over the clearing, taking in dark tree-trunks, the
eyes of an animal in the distance. Wet leaves, broken twigs,
fallen branches, dead wood on the floor.
No person. Nothing.
If there really had been blood, it had been
washed away by the rain.
And he felt stupid, all of a sudden. He’d
chased here on nothing but the stupid assumption that his dream
had been … what, prophetic? He felt the urge
to break into hysteric laughter. Excess adrenaline leaving his
system, he also realised that it was cold in his soaked clothes
and the still falling rain.
The light meandered over the clearing one final
time, moving broader, with less purpose and more fatigue.
Branches, wet leaves, rain dripping from the
shrubbery, tree-trunks, roots, a hand.
Rodney stopped moving. Stopped breathing. Stopped
thinking.
Slowly, the small sliver of light wandered from
the hand to an arm. To a body. To a face.
A face barely recognisable under the bruises.
But just barely.
“Oh god.”
The next few moments where a flurry he wouldn’t
be able to piece together fully afterwards. Legs moving, knees
falling to the ground, hands shaking, touching the much too
still body of John Sheppard - real, real, not a hallucination,
warm and flesh and bone and real - then noticing the injuries
and Rodney was talking, talking, talking as if Sheppard’s
life depended on it.
“Stupid bastard. You stupid, reckless,
hero-complex-ridden, irresponsible, immature, out-of-your-mind
bastard.”
Injuries, so many injuries - broken arm, cuts,
bruises, burns, skin ripped from his arms - the smell of blood
and sweat and fear and burned skin - he’s alive!
- Rodney tried to swallow against the nausea that was mounting
when he noticed that he’d seen those injuries occur and
- it doesn’t matter now, he’s alive make sure
he stays that way! - that they were now in front of him
and stealing his breath with their enormity - He’s
bleeding, oh god, he’s bleeding and there’s too
much --
His whole mind went utterly quiet when John
Sheppard cracked open a swollen eye and whispered something
that almost drowned in the sound of Rodney’s breathing
and the still falling rain.
“What took you so damn long, genius?”
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