Icelus
5/5
“Dr. McKay, you can’t go in there!”
A nurse - the one with the French braids whose
name he’d never taken the time to learn - was blocking
the way to the ICU.
“No?” He was breathing heavily from
the jog he had taken to get down to the infirmary. His gaze
settled on the nurse in her bright-red scrubs and he could see
her trying to steel herself when his eyes narrowed. She had
freckles. Rodney knew that Sheppard liked her. “Watch
me.”
He tried to move past her but she stood her
ground, admirable strength in the slim body. “Dr. Beckett
hasn’t cleared Major Sheppard for visitors yet.”
“I don’t care what Beckett says.”
“Well, I do. He’s responsible for
his patients and unlike you, he’s the one with an MD around
here --”
“No one is with the Major right now as
far as I can tell. I don’t see the very responsible Dr.
Beckett anywhere around here. Do you?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Dr. Beckett has been
in the infirmary for almost 48 hours without so much as a catnap
before you found the Major. He’s resting while Major Sheppard
does the same. There is nothing we can do but wait for him to
wake up, and it’s absolutely not necessary for Dr. Beckett
to be present the entire time.” She propped her hands
up on her hips. “I know that you think you can go without
sleep for weeks, but Dr. Beckett does belong to the human race
and needs sleep.”
Rodney wondered briefly if - judging from the
tense face and the flaming defense - the nurse had a thing for
Beckett.
“Someone should be with the Major when
he wakes up,” he declared, stubbornly.
The nurse’s features softened. “We’re
checking in on him every twenty minutes, Doctor. He’s
going to be fine.”
“I’m sure that’s what you
tell everybody.”
She smiled. “Only when it’s true.”
He’d been agitated when he came here and
now he felt himself deflating, anger on the backburner because
he couldn’t be mad at her, no matter how hard he tried.
He shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the
other and winced when the pain hit in a fresh wave.
The nurse reached for his arm, led him to a
chair. “Why don’t you sit down and I see if I can
get you something for the pain?”
He nodded and sat down. “Thank you.”
She smiled again and ran her hand up and down
his arm in a comforting gesture. “I’ll be right
back.”
He smiled back, lopsided. She winked. Sheppard
would have been so proud of him.
Sheppard. From his chair, he could see the ICU
in part, but not fully. Could see that ridiculous mop of Sheppard’s
hair, half-hidden by bandages. Tubes, IV’s. Medical equipment.
Thought once again how none of this would have
happened if Sheppard hadn’t re-enacted the kamikaze act.
Anger welled up, fresh and raw.
Rodney looked to where the nurse had vanished
and, seeing that she was busy with another patient who had just
entered the infirmary, he pushed himself out of the chair.
Walked to the ICU. Looked over his shoulder
one final time, saw that the nurse was still busy, and stepped
in.
The infirmary responded to his mental command
immediately, sealed the door behind him. He was welcomed by
the city. Welcomed by the infirmary. On Sheppard’s behalf.
The city’s compliance and its will to
please Sheppard was almost sickening. Rodney tried to breathe
against the sharp worry that rose when he saw the major up close,
saw the utter fragility of the limp body. Remembered how each
and every one of those injuries had occurred. Atlantis had shown
him. Had connected him to Sheppard in more ways than he was
strictly comfortable with. All without asking his consent first.
To help Sheppard after his idiotic suicide-run.
Next to the major’s bed, he finally caved.
In the smell of antiseptic and in the dry, warm air of the ICU,
Rodney McKay exploded. “I’m sick of this. Do you
hear me? Utterly, completely, mind-blowingly sick.” Sheppard
didn’t move, didn’t react. All it did was make Rodney
more angry. Angry at the lack of movement. Angry at Sheppard
for not waking up and trading a barb in return.
“There’s millions of addlebrained
brushcuts out there. But you had to be the one with the damn
gene. Why did you have to be the only one to access this technology
with ease? Why did you have to show off in front of Jackson
and O’Neill and Elizabeth? Why did you have to come to
Atlantis?”
He tried to picture life in Pegasus without
Sheppard and failed, but his mouth moved anyway, unstoppable.
“We didn’t need you. Beckett would have given me
the gene therapy sooner or later and we’d have done fine
without you. I would’ve done fine. I could’ve done
my work, not bothering with military personnel trying to bond.
I would’ve been all right with Sumner. Of course, after
a while, he’d have fed me to the Wraith personally, but
at least I would have known what to expect. But not you. You
had to care. You and your fucking sense of nobility. Damn.
Without you, we’d never have woken the Wraith, not so
soon at any rate, we’d have had time to prepare for their
attack and I’d have been fine. Without a friend, but fine,
not in this whole fucking emotional mess. This is all because
of you, you stupid moron. Why did you have to care? Why did
you have to insist on becoming more than just a military grunt
to me?”
Rodney paced up and down next to the bed, his
feet protesting, the cuts shooting fire up his nerves when he
put his full weight on them. “I don’t know if you
noticed, but I never asked for friendship. I was fine without
friends. Stable, sane, un-troubled and with enough sleep to
keep my brain going. But you, you just had to come and waltz
past every sign that said ‘Keep out, not welcome here’.
I never asked to care. Why did you have to make me care?”
Sheppard’s eyes seemed to move under closed
eyelids, but only briefly, as if the effort was too taxing.
Rodney tensed, felt his heart stutter to a sudden stop. Saw
that nothing further happened and explosively released the breath
he'd been holding. Ran a hand over his face, fighting disappointment.
It was as if Sheppard was baiting him.
“You incredible bastard.” Rodney
pulled up a chair, the metal legs scraping loudly over the ICU’s
floor. Sat down with a huff that managed to cover his sigh of
relief when the weight of his body was taken off his feet. “Stupid,
arrogant, selfish bastard. Did you even once think about what
you were doing before you took that jumper? But, oh, I forget.
It’s you.”
His hands were moving of their own accord, he
couldn’t stop them even if he concentrated on it. His
agitation grew with every new word. “You obviously never
think. See John Sheppard, the hero. See him quip in the face
of death. See him fly the jumper undaunted. See him heroically
finishing the mission. Heroically die. Let me tell you one thing,
Major, your false sense of StarWars-like heroism is completely
outdated. Suicide-runs became uncool even before the middle-ages.
Self-sacrifice isn’t attractive or cool or heroic. It’s
selfish. And you almost dragged Carson into it as well. You
may not think your life worth much, but there are others who
disagree strongly, so how dare you just make that choice for
me --” He stopped short, realising what he’d just
said. “Us. For us.”
The lapse and the knowledge of the admission
that had just slipped out took the wind out of his sails. He
rested an arm against the mattress of Sheppard’s bed,
trying to find support. Closed his eyes for a moment and felt
a wave of fatalism surge over him.
“What's the use?” He ran a tired
hand over his face, stubble scratching his palm. His head dipped
forward to rest on his arm, weariness pulling at his limbs.
“Like you'd listen to me. Next time you'll just do the
same thing, putting yourself on the front line without thinking
twice.”
Something brushed against his hand and his gaze
snapped up. Sheppard’s face was a meshwork of blues and
greens, of bruises, patched cuts and abrasions. The white bandage
around his head stood in stark contrast to his dark hair. Hair
that even now that it was held together by gauze and bandages
seemed intent on escaping. But none of those observations held
Rodney’s attention for long - every newly catalogued bruise
just fuelled guilt and helplessness and a fresh wave of anger.
Rodney bent forward, leaning even more on the
bed and bringing his face close to Sheppard’s, willing
him to hear even though he knew that the Major was still unconscious.
“I'm not going to let you do it,” he whispered sharply.
“Do you hear me? No more stupid heroics if I have to knock
you over the head and stick you in Steve's old cell.”
The brush against his hand came again, more
defined this time. Rodney’s gaze travelled down to his
hand just in time to see Sheppard’s hand stretching and
lifting off the bed, the movement weak enough to show the physical
exertion. Then Rodney’s brain went into lockdown.
Sheppard’s hand closed around Rodney’s,
like a baby holding the index finger of its mother; surprising
strength in the simple act.
He felt green eyes settle on him from under
lowered lashes. Dark, vulnerable eyes, watching him for seconds
only before they closed again, the attempt draining strength
from the man who appeared so remarkably fragile among the white
infirmary linens. But there had been life in that gaze, a spark
of recognition. Not the eyes of a man with brain-damage, then.
Rant forgotten while every single one of his senses fine-tuned
itself on the major, he waited anxiously, impatiently, for Sheppard
to gather up the strength to open his eyes again. Seconds seemed
to drag into hours. Nothing happened. Sheppard’s lips
moved; once, twice; trying to form words but failing. The desperate
anger welled up in Rodney one final time.
“Did you ever once think about
the people you left behind without a choice?” His voice
had lost all of its edge, was breaking, cracking. “You
stupid bastard. Did you think none of us would care?”
Just a whisper now. No more strength left. “Did you think
at all?”
The rest of what he’d been meaning to
say, what had accumulated in him for so long slipped away from
him when he felt the other man’s hand curl around his
tighter. Sheppard couldn’t talk, couldn’t even keep
his eyes open. But he moved his thumb in the tiniest of reassuring
circles against Rodney’s hand in a gesture that was as
small as it was overwhelmingly large and Rodney stilled, inside
and out. Body and soul in a fragile peace for as long as Sheppard’s
hand was connected to his. It was warm against his cold one
and everything Rodney had wanted to say was irrelevant suddenly,
hollow against the depth of Sheppard’s unspoken consolation.
If there was something suspiciously feeling
like tears stinging in his eyes, Rodney ignored it. And if those
not-tears made their way down to his cheeks, that didn’t
matter either, did it? Sheppard’s hold on his hand was
feathery, the palm exuding warmth; dry, cracked skin rough against
his own. Despite the blood loss, the major’s slim hand
was still more tanned than his own. The knuckles were bandaged
shockingly white. Rodney’s fingers were slowly reciprocating
the gesture, curling around the major’s hand. He could
feel Sheppard’s pulse from where the other man’s
thumb pressed against the back of his hand. The rhythm was steady,
calming his frayed nerves, stopping racing thoughts. Something
that had been missing for this past week found its way home
again, quietly clicked into place.
Fatigue swept over him, causing him to sway
on his chair. If he just closed his eyes for a few moments,
this would pass, he was sure of it.
He knew Beckett would have his head if he found
Rodney here, especially considering their latest argument, but
Sheppard hadn’t released Rodney’s hand yet and didn’t
seem inclined to do so.
Rodney drifted. The warmth from Sheppard’s
palm seeped into his, creating an oddly peaceful sensation.
He could still feel the major’s pulse, assuring him that
the other man was indeed alive, not another hallucination. The
chair was uncomfortable, already his back was starting to protest.
But god, he was tired, much too tired to stand up.
It was when he had jerked upright in the chair
for the fifth time after almost slipping off that he felt a
hand on his shoulder, carefully urging him awake. “Rodney,
get up.”
He blinked rapidly a few times, squinted against
the light reflecting off a white lab coat. Carson Beckett.
Rodney blanched, painfully reminded of the end
of their earlier argument. Protest was immediate, didn’t
need thinking. “I can’t leave now.”
“Get up, please.” Beckett’s
voice allowed no argument.
Rodney rose reluctantly and felt Sheppard’s
hand tighten around his. Beckett regarded him with an unreadable
gaze, making Rodney immediately defensive. “Look, it’s
not as if I was staying here simply to annoy you, Carson, I
--”
“Step aside for a moment.”
Rodney glared in irritation, his eyebrows drawing
closer together. Beckett didn’t even listen to his protest
and to his explanations. He simply removed the chair, then disappeared.
Maybe Beckett was off to get security to remove him. Heaven
knows he’d have enough reasons to. Some of the things
Rodney had thrown at him had been out of line, he had realised
that later on. But Beckett gave as good as he got, didn’t
he? And he had been part of the conspiracy with Elizabeth, he
had been the one to exile Rodney from Atlantis. They were both
culpable in their own ways.
There was silence for a few uncomfortable minutes,
broken only by the gentle shush of the ICU’s air-condition
and the occasional blip of one of the medical devices. Then
the rattle of metal on metal became audible and Beckett reappeared,
pushing a gurney in front of him. He didn’t look up from
his task, simply wheeled the gurney over to Sheppard’s
bed and patted the sheet on it wordlessly.
Rodney blinked. Blinked again. And again.
The question, the ever-present why burned on
his tongue, but for once, he didn’t voice it. Met Beckett’s
gaze and found a tired sadness that twisted something tightly
in his heart. Rodney climbed on the gurney, felt Beckett pushing
it closer still to the major’s bed. He thought of saying
thank you, then decided against it. There had been enough words.
A blanket settled over him, and he felt Beckett,
no, he corrected himself, Carson, pat his head carefully, a
little clumsily, the wish for exculpation radiating from the
other man.
Rodney didn’t fight the grateful smile.
Didn’t fight the uncomfortable position
Sheppard’s grasp on his hand left him in.
Didn’t fight sleep anymore.
His eyes closed and among the quiet noises of
the infirmary, he could hear Sheppard breathing. Could feel
his pulse and the warmth of his hand and accepted how they drew
him under.
Sleep came with velvet steps.
Finis
Title reference (explanation from wikipedia.com): . The
brothers of Morpheus (the principal Greek god of dreams and
sleep) — the Oneiroi — are rulers of dreams, and
also include Icelus, Phobetor, and Phantasos.
Morpheus sends images of humans in dreams
or visions, and is responsible for shaping dreams, or giving
shape to the beings which inhabit dreams. Icelus
assisted with those aspects of dreams that reflected reality.
