Archive of Our Own

CHAPTER ONE

John felt it before he saw it—the quiet scrutiny, the weight of the Satedan’s stare from his doorway. He grabbed what he’d left behind, his reason for telling Ronon to hold up before they went to meet the others in the gateroom.

“What?” he asked, keeping his voice casual as he stashed the power bar into the pocket of his brown leather pants - his new clothes looked very similar to those of Ronon's favorite pair. Ronon nodded toward John’s pocket. “You eat that crap?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

“No,” he scoffed and motioned for Ronon to step out of the doorway so he could leave his quarters. Once his room was locked up and they were walking down the hall, he continued: “you had one of these before?”

“Unfortunately. McKay left one sitting on his desk, I took it, tried it, threw the rest away. He claimed them to be ‘the best thing since the creation of coffee’.” They turned down the next corridor, golden light of dawn spilling through stained glass, and Ronon smirked at him. “If you don’t eat them, why are you bringing it? Why do you have a whole stash in your room?”

John narrowed his eyes, gnawed his lip, and shrugged one shoulder. “Just in case.”

“In case what?”

“Just…” he huffed as they came out into the gateroom, where Rodney and Teyla were already waiting, talking quietly. His gaze lingered on Rodney, who seemed to sense it; the conversation fell away as he and Ronon approached. “In case.”

Ronon shifted his eyes between the two of them, his smirk widening as he said, “Right.”

John ignored him, but he could feel his ears heat as he motioned for Chuck to dial the gate.

The mission itself wasn’t supposed to be complicated. Intelligence had picked up whispers of a mole—someone in the Pegasus trade networks leaking Atlantis tech to the black market. Nothing confirmed, but enough to justify an undercover trip to a neutral trading hub called V’Ceer’s Crossing.

The plan: split into two teams. John and McKay would pose as buyers; Teyla and Ronon would cover the exit routes. No protective gear, no obvious weapons. Just their wits, earwigs, and minimal sidearms hidden under civilian clothes. He and Rodney got a hold of some of the traditional Pegasus garb, similar to the other two on their team, blending in as much as possible. If he were a complainer, he would talk about the looseness of the pants. Cargo pants were not exactly form fitting but they felt more secure than the equivalent of pajama bottoms.

Already he missed having the advantage of a tac vest between himself and a weapon. It hadn’t done him much good in the Pegasus galaxy, mostly dealing with energy blasts from a wraith or replicator stunner, at worst a Genii pistol. Still, he preferred the security of it, the weight and fitness of his usual clothes grounded him. Blending in mattered more, in this case.

They walked around for hours through a market the size of a small village, and didn't see anything out of the ordinary: handcrafted jewelry, baskets, reams of cloth, food, the occasional blacksmith catching John’s attention. Rodney had muttered about pavlovian responses but his gaze was soft and he always followed John to the stall to look at the weaponry or watch the blacksmith at work, pounding steel with mallets the size of his thigh.

He was used to it by now, the way Rodney’s attention shifted between whatever they were supposed to be doing and John himself. John pretended not to notice, but he always did. It was a habit they both kept. Rodney, watching him; John, watching Rodney when he got lost in a problem, speaking just a little slower than his mind could run - his body limited to human capabilities less evolved than his own, brilliant brain.

Eventually they'd move on and continue walking and scanning the crowd for something out of place, their shoulders brushing every now and then. Rodney filled the silence, typically preferring not to let quietness prevail unless he needed to focus on a problem, and John let the familiar cadence ground him against the cacophony of sounds in a bustling, galaxy wide trade hub.

He relished the steady gait in rhythm with his own. The warmth of Rodney's body so close to his.

Since they'd returned to Pegasus, Atlantis finding a home closer to that of their original plan in moving to escape the replicators, a planet with far less moons than the last - John had found it near impossible to take his team for granted. He never took their safety lightly, of course, but in five and a half years of knowing them, caring for them as one does family, the constant danger had become the norm and so had the threat to all their lives. Pegasus had made danger feel like weather; constant, shifting, survivable. Until it wasn’t.

Ronon had died, only still with them because of one wraith's need for information. Teyla had been separated from her child and life partner for months, unable to communicate with them until they returned. And Rodney…

Rodney was talking about his latest conversation with Zelenka, John's head tilted back as he looked at the roofs of the buildings they walked between, making sure no one was lining up an angle to take shots, when he tuned back in.

“And he's talking about his biggest regrets. So, I told him about the time we hooked up and-”

“Rodney.”

“What?”

“You're telling people that we hooked up?”

John expected the usual defensive bluster, the rapid-fire backpedal. Instead, Rodney froze, caught in his own words and something in John’s chest twisted, sharp and warning.

“Also, wait.” He put his hand on Rodney's elbow, stopping them in front of a rest area with a food stall, the sound of food in a skillet and idle chatter of those dining, kept their conversation relatively private but their energy must have gave something away because the nearest table stopped eating to stare as inconspicuously as possible. “You're talking about us 'hooking up' and it comes up during a conversation of greatest regrets? Regardless of any use of the word, I'm offended. ”

Lips parting and eyes wide, Rodney froze as they stood in front of each other. “uhm…”

John smirked and was about to let Rodney off the hook when he caught sight of a man with a plain rucksack, eyeing him too closely to be interested in gossip. “I think we got him,” he said, staring back.

As Rodney turned around, John saw his shoulders tighten with anxiety. “It's alright,” he said absently and then tapped his radio. “Ronon, Teyla, we've got something. east side market.”

“On our way,” Teyla replied and John rested his hand on Rodney's arm to indicate his command: ‘follow’.

Their target ducked between vendors selling scrap metal and alien fruit. The man was human, thin, with darting eyes and the kind of nervous energy John associated with people who’d spent too much time making bad deals. People who have nothing to lose but their own lives, which they value over anything and everything. People who couldn't be trusted under any circumstances.

“Stay behind me,” he ordered Rodney.

John practiced an experienced tail, not too close but not so far as to lose sight. The likely mole had already seen them, however, John's only goal was to shepherd him out towards the east exit, straight into the waiting presence of Teyla and Ronon. Within a minute of beginning to follow the target, the man took one last glance over his shoulder before he took off sprinting through a crowd attending an auction.

Towards the north exit.

“Damn.” He called it in to the others, on the run, Rodney right behind him. Their pace still in rhythm.

The pursuit lasted through the remaining stalls he and Rodney had yet to see. He shouldered past many a group to keep close to the target, who still carried his satchel - of clearly stolen, if not Atlantian - goods.

“You said no drama, a grab and go!” Rodney shouted, his voice bouncing as he ran.

“Clearly it's the go part, McKay! What did you expect?!” he called back, keeping his gaze forward and on the shrinking form of their target.

They got to the gate of the enclosed market, the grey, stone walls crumbling with sheets of cloth covering holes like curtains over a window, and burst through to the outside where trees of the surrounding forest towered over them.

“By the way, when I said ‘hooked up'-” Rodney panted.

The mole broke left - catching John’s attention - and headed towards a transport dock where vendors brought their goods in for inspection. “Rodney!” John shouted and pointed to his right, demanding a flank attempt.

“What—” Rodney stumbled for a second but kept running; veering slightly. “Right? Oh, of course, because clearly I’m the one–”

“McKay,!”

“I'm going!”

No longer inside the market, John pulled out his sidearm and watched Rodney follow his lead before he broke to the right to try to catch the man on the other side. Attempting to close the distance between himself and the mole, John picked up the pace but lost sight of him as he ducked behind a ship, not unsimilar to the ones they saw on Olesia. Slowing down again, so as not to run face first into a trap, John pointed his side arm at the ground and controlled his breathing.

His stride slower, he caught the eye of two dock workers, who stared at him in horror, and he pointed at them and then behind himself; away from danger. They were happy to oblige and when they were out of sight, he pinned his back against the hull of the slate grey ship, and peeked around the corner only to immediately slide back the other way, just barely avoiding having his face sliced off by the machete swinging down at him.

The mole's element of surprise blown, he rounded the ship and made for a second attack. John took a couple steps back, raising his sidearm. “Stop! We can talk about this!”

Unable or unwilling to be deterred, the other man swung his machete and caught the back of John's right hand. The gun dropped and he grappled his assailant to stop the next attack. “Damnit!”

John twisted the man's arm and swung him to the side, under physical threat of shoulder dislocation, until his back collided with the ship. He slammed his arm into the corner until he was finally able to disarm him, the machete clattering on dirt and gravel at their feet. A few well placed punches and the target was down.

He kicked the blade further away and reclaimed his gun, tucking it into his hidden holster, under his jacket. Without his damned tac vest he had no field supplies, including gauze. He inspected his hand wound, wondering - with a roll of the eyes - why it always had to be the dominant hand that suffered in combat. The laceration was shallow but the bleeding was steady.

With a put upon sigh he looked down at himself, turned to grab the machete off the ground, sliced an inch slit into the bottom of his shirt and then tossed the machete even further than he'd kicked it earlier. It clanged where it landed and he checked to make sure the - granted, alleged - mole didn't wake at the sound.

Satisfied he was out cold, John tapped his earwig. “McKay, I got him. Where are you?”

He tore his shirt at the one inch mark, all the way around, until it came free as a clean strip of cloth.

Certain the man was no longer a threat, while wrapping his palm with the makeshift bandage, John finally turned the corner to check the other side for the, currently missing, pack that had set off the warning bell in his head. He saw it, laying at the base of the ship's hull, and knelt next to it. As he started to open it he tapped his earwig again. “McKay?” He opened the bag and was about to peer inside when there was a startling silence on the other end of his radio. That was wrong. Rodney always talked, even under fire. Especially under fire.

He looked up, his brows pinched as dread curled in his stomach. “McKay!” he shouted, and tried not to let the silence suffocate him.

No response.

“Rodney!”

Open air.

Bad. So very, very bad. “Ronon, Teyla, come in?”

“There was a– ”

“Sheppard!” Rodney's cry for help came from a slight distance away, not from the radio in his ear. His heart kicked like it wanted out of his chest and a chill ran up his spine. He dropped the bag, having not seen its contents, and broke into a sprint in the direction he'd heard him, his sidearm already drawn and safety off.

He came out of the docking area and into the woods where Rodney was struggling against two others, a third opening the door to what could be called a truck if one was so liberal with words in the Pegasus galaxy. It looked like the exploration rovers he had seen in Antartica; box-like and with treads instead of wheels but it had an open bed instead of an enclosed cab at the back.

There was no second guessing, wondering if these were alleged attackers or the wrong people at the wrong time, Rodney had a bloody nose and a frantic look in wide, blue eyes. He was being abducted and John had nearly lost Rodney too many times to risk any opportunities of them getting away with his scientist. His best friend.

He took the first shot and got the man in the side of the head, releasing Rodney's right arm.

The third wasted no time in pulling out his own gun and returning fire while the remaining abductor, holding Rodney's left arm, continued his attempts of shoving Rodney into their getaway car. “McKay!”

“Sheppard!”

The third man's first shot went wide, the second didn’t and John felt the rip of the bullet through the flesh of his left shoulder like he'd felt time and again before. The ice and fire conflict within his body was familiar but staggering all the same. John returned fire, dropping behind relative cover behind a tree. He ducked in time to avoid the bullet that blasted bark across the woods at the same height as his head.

The guns used against him were not unlike those of the Genii but they very clearly were of their own advancement, similar to those from Earth if not a more flat, simple design.

“You have no idea what you've started,” Rodney reprimanded and struggled against the second man.

His voice gripped John like a fist, yanking him into action.

When he popped back into the fight, he pressed his right shoulder firmly against the tree both for combat presence and balance in the face of blood loss, it was to take the second man out of the equation: freeing Rodney.

“Rodney, get out of here!” he shouted as he laid down cover fire against the last remaining attacker.

Rodney did not run. Instead, he ducked behind the tree just as the third man was turning his attention to Rodney, his last chance of survival if he was able to take him hostage. Fumbling for his own weapon, Rodney took shots of his own, his shoulders hunched and eyes blinking rapidly. He caught the third man in the shoulder. The attacker stumbled from behind cover of the rover and John took the final shot.

“Look out!”

The warning, though unable to be any faster, was too late. John only had time to turn and catch the blur of motion as it came at him, tackling him to the ground. His gun flew from his already injured hand and skittered across the dry leaves and sticks of the forest floor. The man from the dock had recovered, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth still, and pinned him to the ground, reaching for his throat.

They struggled but John managed to bring his knee up and the man wheezed as his elbows collapsed, what pressure and leverage he had was extinguished and John knocked him off. The mole - the rat bastard - staggered for what seemed a fraction of a second before a spot of red formed in the center of his chest. The sound of a gunshot ringing through the trees delayed to John's register.

As the man dropped to his knees, John scrambled to sit up, his heels digging into loose dirt while he favored his left arm. In seconds blood soaked the front of the dying man's shirt and spilled between parted lips, he was dead before he fell forward.

John looked back at Rodney, who still held the gun in both hands, arms fully extended but angled at the ground between them. “You okay?” he asked breathlessly, and John nodded.

“Nice shot.”

Four more people came from the same direction as the mole had and John had yet to get on his feet. His gun was lost and buried under brush somewhere to his right. Before he could radio Ronon and Teyla for status or to tell them where they'd ended up - several yards deep and to the west of their last known location - before he could order Rodney to toss him his firearm, they were surrounded.

“Listen…” John started, and received the barrel of a rifle pointed at his eye in response.

“Which one of you is Doctor Rodney McKay.” Another man said, standing somewhere between John's back and Rodney, out of sight.

“I am,” John said, glaring at the rifle holder from his semi-reclined position on the cold ground.

“He's lying,” another voice said.

The sound of crunching leaves under heavy boots came closer and closer until a burly man with a scar over his left, milky eye knelt beside him. He breathed through chapped lips, his breath rancid against John's face as he peered closer at the bullet wound still pulsing blood between John's fingers - the bandage on his hand working double time to soak additional blood from an outside source.

“I hate liars,” the man, the leader, growled.

John side eyed him.

With a deadpan expression, and without breaking John's eye contact, he motioned at someone beyond John's peripheral. “Take him.”

“Wait…” Rodney managed and John lurched towards the leader, with nothing but the intent of stopping the abduction. Of taking the wretched fear out of Rodney's voice.

“No! You touch him and-” his sentence choked out as the leader pressed down on his shoulder wound, through the back of John's, also wounded, hand. It pushed John back onto the ground; he barely caught himself on his elbow.

“You'll what, John Sheppard? Hunt me down to the edges of the galaxy? It's a tired threat, one not even the wraith have been able to make good on.” The leader stood, looked down on him with a smirk, and, after a final regard to his wound, scoffed and turned away.

“Okay,” John grunted, sneering a bit. “You clearly know who I am. So, you know what I’m capable of. And you know I'm not just going to let you take him!” John barked.

“Leave him,” the leader demanded. “We got what we need.”

“John?” Rodney shouted, and John turned to get to his hands and knees, to follow where called. To help. Save.

A boot connected with the small of his back and he went sprawling onto his chest. He barely got a glimpse of Rodney's boots. “I'll kill you,” he grumbled, not entirely sure his voice carried.

“John!”

He lifted his head and tried to get up. A heavy footfall to his left and he looked to his side, up at the man who'd held a gun to his face, and watched as the butt of that gun came slamming towards his head. When the world snapped back, he was still on the ground, his ears ringing.

Rodney was gone.

For a second, panic burned through him. Then he heard movement— two figures dragging someone between them. While the others looked on, there was an extra body on the ground and Rodney's gun was now being inspected by the half-blind leader.

He'd fought back. Took the chance of hurting them. Bought them time. There was no understanding as to where their own backup was but the mole's associates seemed to know no end.

“Good boy,” John breathed.

He gathered enough strength to carry his weight on his forearms, pain radiating from his shoulder, and military-crawled to where he last saw his gun; trying to keep a low profile. He was useless to Rodney if he got caught and put out again. He fished for it, swiping his hand under leaves and twigs until his fingertips brushed cool metal. He could hear Rodney talking - muffled, furious, alive.

Alive.

The sound, pitched but steady in its fury, cut through the ringing in his ears like a flare in the dark: “Like I told the last group, you idiots really have no idea who you’re dealing with–”

Rodney, hands tied behind his back, twisted against their grip, wild-eyed and defiant. The sight hit John harder than the bullet in his shoulder. That was his scientist, terrified and still mouthing off to the galaxy.

They weren't far off, standing by the transport while they searched the other bodies for the keys.

John didn’t think, he moved.

Three shots, clean and fast, emptied his magazine. The first man fell instantly; the second turned, startled, before John tackled him. The fight was messy - grappling, mud, adrenaline - but John had the upper hand of surprise until a wild punch caught him in the side and knocked the wind out of him.

Still, he finished it, pulling the man’s weapon and firing before the pain could slow him.

When it was over, he was panting, the forest spinning slightly. He blinked hard, vision swimming as he looked up.

“No, stop!” The panic in Rodney's voice was ice, adrenaline, in his veins.

Clarity seeped in enough to catch the leader coming at him, barely in view and certainly blurry to John's eyes. The larger man lunged at him, the knife flashing silver as he aimed low; fast and brutal, no flourish. John twisted sideways, narrowly dodging the first strike, the blade grazing his shirt as he countered with a shove that hardly moved the sturdier frame. They circled, feet scuffing against the ground, tension coiling tight. The burly man feinted left, then slammed forward, shoulder to chest, driving his weight through John like a bulldozer and pinning him against the rover.

The knife came up again, too close this time. John grabbed the wrist, muscles straining, shoulder pain flaring to the point his vision nearly whited out completely, the metal edge trembling inches from his ribs until the burly man jerked hard and drove the blade into his side. A sharp gasp tore from him, the pain white-hot, but his grip didn’t break.

Tunnel vision blocked out the surrounding area, the trees, the bodies littered around the forest floor, even the transport behind him. All he could see was the knife in his abdomen then the cold glare of an enraged leader who had lost his team to two men still waiting on backup. All he could hear was the rushing of his heart in his ears and his own stuttered breathing.

He twisted with the momentum, using the force of the larger man’s push to pivot out and wrench the knife hand downward. The other man tried to recover, but John ducked under his arm, slammed his forearm across the man’s throat, and kicked his knee out from under him. They went down in a tangle: one grunting, the other choking back the pain in his gut. With a desperate surge, John grabbed the knife, slick with blood, and yanked it out of his own body, flipped it within the palm of his hand, and slammed the blade into the middle of his enemy's chest.

Finally still underneath John, his seeing eye now as blind as the milky one; his final gaze set upon the sky between the trees, the leader died with a slow exhale and John lifted off his legs to stand on his own, wobbly ones. He staggered back, clutching his right side, his breath coming in sharp and uneven bursts.

He couldn't hear anything, the noise of the forest was gone along with the sound of Rodney's voice, his only real evidence that he was fighting for the safety of his friend. Looking around in a daze he found Rodney getting to his feet and rushing to stand in front of him.

His lips moved but John didn't hear the words, didn’t understand.

What he did know, Rodney was still bound. Helpless.

Still gripping his side, John crouched over his felled opponent, grabbed the now familiar hilt of the blade, and pulled it out of its place in the leader's chest. He stood back up with minimal swaying and looked at Rodney again, the edges of his vision were closing in. Rodney was speaking.

He didn't understand.

The panic in Rodney's gaze, he understood that. The urgency in which he was speaking even without the use of, usually, expressive arms. He recognized that. The blood that was still fresh but no longer gushing from his nose, injury and pain was unacceptable but comprehensible.

“Are you okay? Turn around,” John said, yelled, perhaps. He couldn't tell.

Rodney hesitated, sky blue eyes studying and rapidly darting across his face. Finally, he turned and John, with one hand, cut him free.

Rodney immediately spun to face him and gripped his head between his hands. The effect was bracing. Rodney was alive, standing and grounded. John managed to hold his gaze and, this time, when Rodney moved his lips, he heard him.

“John! Look at me!”

The pain didn’t fade, but it narrowed, sharpened, became something survivable.

“I'm lookin’.”

“I think you're in shock–”

John shook his head against quivering hands. “No.”

“Yes,” Rodney insisted. “We need to get back.”

“Ronon and Teyla…”

“Can we go back the way we came?” Rodney looked down, at John's shoulder then his stomach, which John was still trying to hold in with his bandaged, right hand. John brought his other hand up to grip Rodney's wrist, feeling the racing pulse underneath his fingers. “On second thought,” Rodney croaked, “maybe we shouldn’t be walking anywhere.”

“This way!” An unfamiliar, gruff voice shouted from within the treeline.

Both he and Rodney looked to the side, in the direction of the callout and already John felt an exhaustion overtake him. Still, he used his grip on Rodney's arm to pull him to his left side, away from the danger.

Rodney's hands dropped from his face but immediately gripped the fabric of his jacket sleeve, holding on as if expecting John to send him away.

“I think I see something–” another voice chimed in. Just as John heard the snap of a stick from the direction of the loading dock.

“We don’t have a choice,” John said. “The others will be looking for us. We just need to stay ahead of the backup until then.”

He pushed Rodney behind him, further into the forest, then stooped to grab one of the rifles off the ground before he followed.

CHAPTER TWO

They kept moving through the trees. The forest was dense and damp, every sound amplified. From his place at John's side, Rodney could smell the blood soaking through his shirt and jacket. He tried not to think about it. He tried to take comfort in the fact John was still moving, still a step ahead, as they trudged through the forest.

Rodney talked, partly to fill the silence, partly to keep John fully aware; conscious. Anything to keep John grounded, though he avoided complaining. He wasn't the one shot and stabbed, barely holding his own guts in with a twitching hand. John was patient and tolerated his moods better than anyone in his life, he was certain there was a limit, but he didn’t want to test it while his best friend bled out in the woods on his behalf.

“We have to stop,” he said after they had covered decent ground; giving them space from their pursuers.

“No time.”

“Make time or you'll be stopping against your will.”

John looked over at him with a befuddled expression. “You're threatening me?”

“No, idiot, warning you. You've lost a lot of blood. I should look at it and–”

“We don't have supplies. There's nothing to be done.”

“Can’t I be the judge of that, Rambo?” John ignored him and kept forcing his way through between the trees, bracing his free hand against every other one to keep himself up. “Sheppard."

“Just keep walking, Rodney.”

“If you die, I'm pretty sure Ronon will blame me!”

“Rodney!” John, in order to fully look at him, actually turned and stopped moving for the first time since they left the transport vehicle behind, his exclamation in the exasperated tone he was so familiar with; the one where it was nearly a harsh whisper, his head jutted forward and tilted slightly. “I'm fine. Neither of us is going to die. We just need to gain enough ground to be able to circle back to the hub and have Ronon and Teyla pick us up? Got it?”

Rodney pressed his lips together in a firm line.

“Can you reach them?” John asked and jerked his head up.

Rodney tapped his radio but only got static in his attempt to make contact with the rest of their team. “No.”

He nodded a little, cringing when his pivot pulled at his side wound, and kept walking.

The stubbornness of Colonel John Sheppard knew no bounds. Typically it was something he found comfort in, knowing he never stopped trying. Right now, as John pushed his body to limits no mere human could withstand, it was infuriating. Terrifying.

Rodney only lasted another five minutes before he was urging John to rest again.

“I'm not going around with you on this again,” John snapped back, hoisting the rifle strap higher on his right shoulder.

“Fine, you want the truth? I'm asking because I need to stop,” he lied and John immediately came to a stop. “Yeah,” he barreled on: “my nose is all clogged up, it's definitely broken, and I can hardly breathe. And… my wrists are all chafed from that rope they used– did I mention my feet are sore from all the running?"

John looked between his eyes for an extra second before he nodded solemnly. “Okay. We'll stop for a bit,” John acquiesced and nearly tipped over as he clumsily leaned against the closest tree.

“Thank you,” Rodney all but whispered and sidled up to John. “You should sit.”

John flashed him a rueful, half-smile. “Can't,” he said softly. “Won't be able to get back up.”

The admission twisted something in Rodney’s gut. John was supposed to be unbreakable; he’d built that image in Rodney’s mind over years of impossible escapes and narrow survivals. Objectively, Rodney knew stronger people: Ronon, Teyla, even Teal’c, warriors carved from battles and belief, but none who carried the weight quite like John. None who had John’s kind of strength, the quiet, relentless sort that came from refusing to stop fighting even after the galaxy had taken everything from him and doing it with a wry grin and a joke. It wasn’t physical. It never had been. It was something far more dangerous, something Rodney admired and feared in equal measure.

If John was breaking now, acknowledging weakness, it could only mean the very worst.

“I'll help you,” he insisted, gripping John's arm. “Please.”

They held one another's gaze and eventually John nodded and Rodney helped him slide down the tree. If he was going to accomplish his goal, he had to work fast. Rodney looked up and sighed internally, their light was fading to twilight. He needed to see if he was going to dress John's wounds.

As if sensing his train of thought, John also looked around at the encroaching darkness. “This is good, we can use the cover of night…” Of course, while he was glass half-empty, afraid of not being able to see just how how grim John's condition was, John was always half-full: we can elude the enemy better.

“It's going to get colder,” Rodney added, just to win the game of who was more right.

John made a scoffing sound and rolled his eyes.

“Hold still,” Rodney said, voice thin and shaking around the edges.

“Wasn’t planning on dancing,” John muttered.

“Don’t be funny right now,” Rodney snapped, though it broke halfway through. “You’re– god, you’re freezing.”

John forced a grin, lips too pale for it to land. “You worry too much.”

“You give me reason to.” The breath Rodney let out was sharp, misting faintly in the chilled air. He hated how it sounded, like panic he couldn’t afford.

He reached for John’s rifle, fingers brushing against the fabric of his sleeve.

“I’ve got it,” Rodney murmured, easing the strap from John’s shoulder. John flinched as the weight shifted and he was forced to remove his hand from staunching the blood flow from his abdominal wound. A hiss of pain cut through clenched teeth and Rodney couldn't help but mimic the expression in return.

“Sorry,” Rodney whispered instantly, clutching the weapon awkwardly in both hands, like it might burn him. He set it down within reach, close enough that John could see it, because taking it away felt like taking away the last bit of control John had left.

“Jacket,” Rodney said, already tugging at the opening. John’s protests were more grunt than word. Getting it off was hell: a muffled curse, a sharp intake when fabric brushed against torn skin.

When it finally came free, John sagged back against the tree, breath hitching. “Now I’m gonna be cold,” he said faintly.

“Stop whining,” he said, trying for levity that fell far short of the mark.

John’s hands hovered near his stomach, blood-slick and convulsing, the fingers curling in on themselves like claws. He was shuddering - not from pain, or not just from pain - and Rodney’s chest tightened. Shock. He believed he had seen it earlier, when John hadn't seemed to hear him after the final fight. When he'd seen that blank, glassy gaze that never seemed to actually see until Rodney had gripped him and forced him to.

He couldn’t let that shock settle. If he did, he might actually lose John. The strength, both physical and mental, that had carried John through everything was literally bleeding out of him now, at an alarming rate. Watching it fade terrified Rodney, because that Sheppard-brand resilience he’d cherished for years apparently couldn’t last forever.

He folded the jacket in on itself, pressing the thick fabric against John’s right side, just below the ribs where blood had soaked through the shirt to his skin.

“Lift your arm– just– yeah, like that.”

John did, barely. The sound that escaped him was small and ugly.

“I know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Just hang on.”

Rodney worked fast, knotting the sleeves together tight around his waist, using what leverage he had to pull the fabric snug. He could feel the warmth seeping through to his hands.

“Okay,” he said, mostly to himself. “That’ll hold. That’s– that has to hold.”

The shoulder wound was harder to dress and it was deep, bleeding slow but steady. He pulled the shoulder of John's shirt down to get a proper look at the site, the skin around it mottled and wet. Bigger than he expected. There was no exit wound; the bullet was still in there, and they both knew it.

“We can’t dig it out here,” Rodney said, his voice brittle but certain. “We shouldn't. We don't need you bleeding more.”

He nodded stiffly, staring at the wound with a fierce look of betrayal, as if his body betrayed him. As if it wasn't the fault of the man who shot him that put him in this pain.

“Glad you agree.” Rodney grabbed the knife from John's pants’ waistband. “There's that Mensa quality…”

John huffed a laugh, weak and breathy, and dropped his head back against the tree.

He shrugged out of his own jacket, wincing at the cold air biting his arms. John had thought ahead and worn long sleeves under his jacket, Rodney had insisted on a t-shirt under his. He brandished the knife and sawed through one sleeve seam, then another, until he had two long strips of fabric. The he sliced the back in half and folded it into a thick, square pad.

“This is going to hurt,” he warned.

John nodded against the tree, bark catching in his hair, and set his jaw in preparation. His breathing came in short, shallow bursts - audible and uneven - but he gave another tight little nod anyway when Rodney seemed to hesitate, promising permission.

When Rodney was certain he was braced for inevitable, terrible pain, he pressed the makeshift gauze pad over the wound. John hissed between his teeth, a sound that ended in a low groan, and his fingers twitched once before clenching into the dirt. Rodney followed quickly with the first strip, winding it under John’s armpit; every pull drew a shudder, but John stayed upright, his eyes wide and staring at the canopy of red and orange leaves above.

When it was tight and stable in one direction, Rodney wrapped the second strip around his shoulder and under his arm, keeping it from sliding. It was crude, but it slowed the bleeding. He tied it off high across John’s chest, the knot uneven, his hands slick.

As satisfied as he could be given the circumstances, Rodney leaned back on his heels. John’s eyes were half-lidded, now, his lips pressed thin, and when Rodney reached again for what remained of his jacket, he caught the faint tremor that ran through him. He sliced another strip from the back, folded it, and shoved it beneath the jacket knot at John’s stomach; another layer of pressure, another barrier between John and constant blood flow.

“There,” he said, voice rough with effort. “It’s not pretty, but… neither are you.”

John gave the smallest snort of a laugh before cringing and jerking his head where it rested. “Don't make me laugh.”

“Sorry.” Rodney stayed crouched beside him, one hand pressed against the bandage as if he could hold everything together through sheer force of will, keeping John's blood inside where it belonged.

For a moment, neither of them spoke, the forest around them filled with soft, indifferent sounds: dripping water, wind brushing through creaking tree branches, the distant call of something alive and unbothered by the mess they’d made of surviving. How could the world not care that their greatest guardian was fading to nothing before them? How was everything still moving while they were stuck in place?

John broke the silence first, barely looking at him under heavy eyes. “How much time d’you think we have before we’ve gotta start moving again?”

Rodney’s head jerked up. His heart stuttered because they didn’t have any time. John had said so. He himself had known it when he'd forced John to stop with a lie. Every second they sat here, the distance between them and whoever was tracking them shrank. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the trees for movement, and forced his voice steady.

“A few minutes,” he lied again, and started to rub under his nose at the drying blood above his lip.

John nodded, as his eyes slid shut. “M’kay…” he murmured.

Rodney’s chest clenched. “Sheppard?” he prompted, but John’s head had already tipped forward, his body sagging with the slow, heavy exhale of someone surrendering to exhaustion.

For a heartbeat, Rodney froze. Then his hands were on him again; checking pulse, breath, the too-pale skin. Still alive. Barely.

He exhaled shakily, the air catching in his throat. “You couldn’t just– just stay conscious?” he whispered, the words trembling between fury and fear. “Please don't leave me…” He adjusted the bandage one last time, tightened the knot, and pressed his palm flat over John’s sternum to feel the faint, stubborn beat still thudding there.

“Okay,” Rodney murmured, softer now. “You rest. I’ll– I'll watch.”

CHAPTER THREE

Warm light pressed against his eyelids. When he opened them, it was to golden shimmer behind vibrant green leaves. A smile on his face as he listened to Rodney talk not far away from where he was sat on the ground.

“No, no, you relax. Take a load off. I'll do all the work,” Rodney snapped from inside the little hut housing a ZPM, not unlike that of M7G-677.

They'd only been back to Pegasus for a week but everything seemed brighter than before. It was their third off-world venture since the return and it was their second time to this planet. Rodney was sure he could take this ZPM if he could only figure out the release mechanism.

It was an unpopulated planet, no stargate, no nearby villages relying on it for protection from the wraith. It was perfect.

Most importantly, it was peaceful.

The first time they'd been here it had been with the full team, not only himself, Rodney, Teyla, and Ronon but Keller too. Only there was nothing to see but Rodney's favorite thing in two galaxies. Power source. So, when Rodney insisted on coming back, he let the others stay back while he followed Rodney back to the hub.

However, with no impending doom while they did this, John was bored.

“You’re doing great, McKay!” he called, threading blades of grass between his fingers, eyes tracing the scatter of wildflowers in the green.

Rodney snapped back about how he was overworked but couldn't trust the other scientists not to blow the whole thing up and John listened placatingly as he started to pick the flowers. His P-90 strapped to his chest and legs crossed beneath him, he started twisting and knotting flower stems together.

He was halfway through with his project when Rodney stomped out of the hut and stood there with his arms crossed. “Maybe we should just go back, I'm starving!”

John dropped the flowers into his lap, looked up at Rodney with one eye winked shut against the sun shining behind his scientist, and opened one pouch of his tac vest. He produced a protein bar that only one of them liked to eat and flourished it at Rodney, whose eyes lit up like stars in a night sky. Smirking, John tossed it, underhanded, at Rodney.

“Still wanna head home?” John asked and picked up the flower rope he had begun.

Rodney had already opened and taken two bites out of the bar, his mouth full as he replied. “Nope, I'm good.”

He smiled and returned to braiding the flowers together.

When he woke, it was dark and he was freezing. Rodney had a hand on his face, his voice tight with panic. “John, please!”

“W’ss wrong?” he asked and tried to sit up straight but agony erupted all over his body and he slumped back and groaned instead.

“John? John, hey. Thank god! You were– you lost consciousness.”

“Thought we agreed to call it fainting,” he reminded, quirking an eyebrow.

“Stop trying to be funny!”

John pressed his lips together. “Rodney…”

“Don't. Just… no more passing out. Okay?”

He blinked, trying to focus. “I'm still here, McKay.”

“Barely,” Rodney said. “You scared me.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” John mumbled.

Rodney let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah. And yet, here I am, stupid enough to still care.”

John smiled faintly. “Lucky me.”

Before he could retort, a snap of a twig underfoot had both of them straightening and looking for the direction it came from. Shadows looming between the trees and brush lurked closer and John instinctively reached for Rodney, grabbing his forearm at the same time Rodney put his hand out to touch John, his palm resting on his thigh.

“Damn,” John whispered and grabbed the rifle. “We gotta move…”

“Maybe they won't see us if-”

“Rodney,” he snapped under his breath, still trying to get his legs under him.

“Okay, alright.” Rodney stood and carefully got John under his armpits to help him stand.

He suppressed the moan of pain as the movement pulled at barely clotted injuries and forced Rodney in front of him, keeping himself between him and their hunters. They hobbled their way a few paces but John didn't lead as he had before, he could barely keep up with Rodney, who was practically walking sideways just to keep an eye on him.

There was an uprooted tree to their left and John all but collapsed against its roots, bracing his arm against one to hold himself up.

“This isn't working. We have to split up.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Rodney hissed, glaring at him from under heavy set eyebrows. “I'm not going to run off without you.”

“You have to. We lost the chance to circle back without getting caught. I can hold them off here,” he patted the rifle dangling from his left arm. “And you can double back and get Teyla and Ronon… If they're still-”

“They are. We just lost radio contact that doesn't mean–”

“Rodney. Go.”

He lifted his chin, his lips firm as he crossed his arms. “No.”

“Rodney-!” A bullet zipped past his ear and embedded itself into the root system, interrupting what could have been an epic dressing down about defying orders in the field. He shoved Rodney behind the fallen tree and rotated so he too was behind cover and able to return fire.

“No more time to debate, go, Rodney, now!” he would ride this adrenaline until his body collapsed on itself and hoped it would be enough to give Rodney the headstart he needed.

Rodney hesitated, eyes darting from John’s pale face to the rifle in his quaking hands. “You’ll never hold them off! There’s too many–”

“Rodney,” John said, low and sharp, the kind of tone that brooked no argument. “I won't tell you again!” Bullets hailed against the side of the tree. “I will pop up, provide cover fire. You just have to stay low, out of sight, and you'll get away–!”

One bullet caught the edge of the trunk and sprayed decaying wood over them. They both ducked lower, their foreheads nearly touching.

“You'll be okay,” he added, and Rodney shook his head. “Go!”

For one heartbeat, Rodney didn’t move. His throat worked like he wanted to argue more but then something in John’s eyes, some flicker of command or maybe finality, made him swallow the words instead. He gave a small, broken nod.

“I’ll bring them back,” he promised hoarsely.

John almost smiled. “I'll be here.”

Rodney’s hand squeezed his elbow once - careful, desperate - and then he was gone, crashing through the underbrush in the opposite direction. John turned his head, following the motion, and forced himself to keep listening until the sound of Rodney’s retreat finally faded into the brewing battle.

Then he turned back toward the dark line of trees ahead. They were many and closing fast, moving from cover to cover. He braced his rifle against the root and drew a slow breath that burned in his ribs.

The first shadow appeared between the trees. He didn’t hesitate. One shot, then another. The recoil bit into his shoulder, but he gritted his teeth and kept firing. The second man dropped; the third dove behind a tree but John caught him in his side before he was safe. John shifted his angle, exhaled, fired again. Four.

By the fifth, he had to pause to wipe the sweat from his eyes. The forest echoed with gunfire: his, theirs, impossible to tell apart anymore. When the rifle clicked empty, the sudden silence was louder than any shot.

He dropped to the ground, crunching dead leaves beneath him as he sat, slumped, against the fallen tree, and ejected the useless magazine. His body trembled violently now, both from pain and the creeping chill of blood loss. Twelve men total, maybe more. He’d stopped five. The rest were circling, voices murmuring in a familiar language but it bled together until it sounded like gibberish.

John tried to raise the rifle like it still mattered. Then the world narrowed to boots in the dirt and the metallic click of another gun. He let it fall and showed his empty, blood-stained hands.

“Where's the doctor?” a gruff voice demanded to know, boots coming to a stop so close toes were nearly tucked under his leg where he'd fully extended his lower limbs in front of him.

“He's dead. First group of you punctured his lung manhandling him and he died from it. Had to leave his body a few miles back,” he replied, glaring up at the man from his seated position. His chest heaving and vision swimming for what he expected to be the last time.

“You're lying,” the man said and crouched beside him.

“Let me guess…” John tried to lean away, and grimaced. “You hate liars.”

The man smiled, showing off broken teeth. “You met my brother.”

“Bad oral hygiene must run in the family.”

His vision exploded in impossible colors as the punch landed square at his temple.

“Where is the doctor?”

John widened his eyes and blinked dazedly. “I told you. I couldn't save him…” he hoped that was a lie, too.

Another solid swing connected with his jaw and he spit the blood clot out to his left before returning his gaze to the right. Before he could come up with another way to say he would never give them Rodney, the man shoved his hand on the knot pressing into his knife-wound.

The startling, agonizing sensation was too abrupt for him to hold back the scream that he had trapped since first hearing Rodney's panicked voice at the dock.

The world broke apart around the sound—trees tilting, shadows collapsing inward. He thought, dimly, that he’d buy Rodney a few more minutes, maybe even enough.

CHAPTER FOUR

Branches clawed at Rodney's bare arms as he sprinted through the forest, every ten paces he would try his radio to get Ronon or Teyla. Behind him, the forest burned with the un-natural light and sound of gunfire.

Then silence.

“John?” he whispered, stumbling to a stop. Unwilling to believe the fight was already over, John overrun. Unable to consider the possibility that they'd–

A scream tore through the forest like something primal, echoing through both the trees and his bones. Rodney froze mid-step, breath seizing in his throat. He knew that sound. He’d heard it only once before, when an iratus bug had sunk its claws deeper into John’s neck. He had hoped he’d never hear it again.

“Sheppard!” he shouted and turned to go back. Do something other than run away.

A voice answered from not so far away. “McKay!”

He froze and watched as Ronon burst through some brush with Teyla right behind.

Relief crashed through him. “Over here!”

Ronon and Teyla stopped in front of him, weapons out. “Where is John?” Teyla asked.

“He– he stayed behind,” Rodney said, breathless. “He’s hurt—”

Ronon was already moving. “Which way?”

They found John minutes later, pale and bleeding against the same uprooted, decaying log. Six enemies stood in a semi circle around him, a seventh was at his side, putting pressure on his wound. Not to help, not to keep him alive, but to cause pain. To force something out of him.

The gasp torn from his lips felt breathless as he instinctively tried to go to him, to stop the pain. Teyla grabbed his arm and pulled him back down where all three of them had hidden behind some bushes.

“We are outnumbered, we must be careful,” she said, though her pinched brow and worried lips betrayed her calm. “If we do this wrong, they could hold him hostage instead. Use him against us.”

Ronon, however, had a sneer prepared and was lining up the shot. “I can take him from here.”

John's screaming ceased and Rodney sat up higher on his knees to get a look, to confirm it hadn’t been the end while they sat safely behind the enemy's register. John was still panting, his head back against the fallen tree.

“Just do it,” Rodney snapped at Ronon.

“John may not–” Teyla started but Ronon took the shot and the signature sound of his pistol firing preambled the death of the interrogator only by a half second.

After that, the two warriors made quick work of those that remained. The sound of Teyla's glock as well as Ronon's energy weapon were muted against the rush of blood in Rodney's ears.

The last of the group had yet to fall before Rodney was already wrapping around and making his way to John.

He entered the clearing as the last body fell and within moments, he was at John's left side and gripping his head between his hands.

“Hey,” John rasped. “Told you to run.”

“Told you I'd get Ronon and Teyla to bail your ass out, didn't I?”

John managed a wry smirk, breathing heavily. “Yeah.”

Teyla joined him on John's right side, dark eyes looking him over critically before she swung her head to one side in dismay. He hated her in that moment, how dare she look so defeated; she only just got here. They didn't know how far John had already pushed, how much further he could push all because he was John fucking Sheppard.

“You're okay,” Rodney said before he had even found John's gaze again, startled when he realized John was already staring at him.

Ronon checked the perimeter. “They’ll be back.”

Teyla nodded slowly. “We have already contacted Atlantis, Major Lorne and his team are nearby.”

“If we can get out of the trees, they can pick us up,” Ronon said.

Rodney pressed a hand to John’s chest, feeling the faint rise and fall. “Stay with me.”

“Damnit, why aren't the radios working?” Rodney snapped as he hurried ahead of Ronon, who was half carrying John, and Teyla, who was bringing up the rear.

“We were hoping you knew,” Ronon said bluntly, adjusting his grip on John's right wrist, the wounded Colonel's arm slung over his broad shoulders.

“I’ve been a little busy,” Rodney retorted and looked over his shoulder at them.

John was dragging his legs in a pale imitation of walking, his left hand pressed against the knot tied around his abdomen. He was ashen, his gaze dull as he tried to keep up and his head from falling to his chest.

“Still no signal through to the jumper,” Teyla said, frustration seeping through each word. “Perhaps it is the trees.”

Ronon cursed softly and paused to give John a bit of a break. He looked down at him with a patient, imploring expression. “If I carried you…”

“You w’dn't be able to defend if we got– if we got amb’shed again,” John finished for him, his speech breathless and more slurred than ever before. “I can do it.”

Rodney turned around and hovered beside John, who looked worse by the second. “You can’t keep going like this.” He looked up at Ronon. “He can't.”

“'He' can,” John said, breath shaky. “We have to.”

Rodney glared.

“Rodney,” Teyla warned. “We cannot stay. Lorne and his team don't know where we are.”

“The life signs in the jumper–”

“We do not have radios and there are likely dozens of enemies searching these woods, they cannot know which ones we are if the scanner is working,” Teyla interrupted. “If we want to get John help, we must get out of these woods.”

“He's dying,” Rodney muttered and looked at John, who had since checked out of the conversation and unconsciously given Ronon all his weight.

“Alright, buddy, here we go…” Ronon said and stooped to get low and behind John, scooping him up: one arm beneath John’s shoulders and the other under his knees.

Rodney watched him closely, walking beside Ronon where he could see John's face as he rested his head against Ronon's arm. Bleary eyes seemingly unseeing despite consciousness. Teyla took the lead and they rushed to get into the clear.

They didn’t get far.

“Tracks,” Ronon murmured. “Six, maybe more. They came this way once, they'll circle back.”

“Y'should just leave me here and come back l'ter…” John mumbled and Rodney watched Ronon and Teyla exchange a look.

“We’ll draw them off,” Teyla said while Ronon set John on his feet. Rodney was quick to put himself at John's side, wrapping his arm around his shoulders as Ronon had initially. “You two keep going.”

“What?” Rodney snapped but stammered when Teyla pressed the familiar feel of a sidearm into his free hand.

It was already decided. A moment later, they were gone, and all he could hear was John's ragged breathing.

John tried to walk. He really did, and Rodney knew it, but he kept stumbling, tripping on exposed roots or over nothing at all. Each step seemed to pull white-hot pain from his side that John tried to hide until his knees buckled.

The treeline was just ahead, in sight, but so damn far in their state. “That’s it,” Rodney said. “We’re stopping.”

“Can’t.”

“Can. And we’re doing it now.”

He eased John down against another tree. He didn't know if he should hate them for representing John's increasing number of weak moments, marking a too soon end, or love them for providing him with so much relief between jaunts. John’s head fell back, breath shallow.

“You’ve gotta go,” John whispered.

“Not this again.”

“I’m slowing you down. ‘Sides… s'you they want, not me. Y'gotta get out–” his breath hitched, “outta here.”

“Shut up.” Rodney’s voice cracked.

John’s gaze softened. “I’ve gotten out of worse– by m’self.”

“Don’t start listing them,” Rodney said. “I know the score.”

“‘Member that time– ”

“I said shut up,” Rodney bit out, the words teetering on the edge of anger and fear. Then, quieter: “Please.”

“Rodney…”

Needing to stop the plea, unable to listen to John beg him to leave him behind again, Rodney leaned forward until their foreheads touched. “Please.”

He needed more time, just to think, to plan. But he couldn't. They were out of time, there was only this: their breathing. The sounds of the forest around them.

Then John’s eyes sharpened. “Move.”

“What–?”

Bullets ripped through the trees.

Rodney pulled out the gun and returned fire automatically. He covered John's body with his, one foot between John's outstretched legs and the other even with his hip. He peeked from cover and took three shots, catching one of the attackers in the arm. There were only two. He could do this. He could protect John.

John, who was barely conscious. Barely breathing. “Stay with me, John!” he shouted before popping back out to fire at the second assailant, landing two shots center mass.

The tagged man fired back, still eager to do his job, and Rodney finished the attack by emptying the clip into him. Once he dropped the shooter, so did he to his knees at John's side.

With an empty gaze, John offered what little energy he had left in the form of a smile. “Nice job,” he managed as his eyes rolled back with a flutter of his lashes.

“No, no! Come on!” Rodney, giving no more heed to known injuries, pulled at John's shoulders to bring him into his lap. The lack of reaction from John rent a horrible sound from Rodney's throat, something deep and painful. “John, wake up! Damn you, come on!”

He shook John once, hard enough to jolt but not to hurt, holding him close against his chest. One arm braced under John’s neck, cradling his head in the crook of his elbow; his hand gripped John’s shoulder to keep him steady. The other hand found his face - cool, slack, frighteningly still.

He had to deliberately and desperately ignore just how pungent the smell of iron was in the air. So much blood. Too much.

“John, open your eyes. Look at me. John!” Rodney gave him another sharp shake to punctuate his final appeal.

His eyes cracked open, a sliver of hazel catching the edge of consciousness.

“That’s it, good,” Rodney breathed. “John, look at me.” He slid his palm to the back of John’s head, thumb along his jaw, gently tilting his face upward until their eyes met. “There you are… John.”

“R'dney?”

“It's me, I'm here. See?"

His eyes opened a fraction more, Rodney's gaze swimming with welling tears.

“Yes, stay with me…” he crooned, brushing the backs of his fingers along John's cheek.

Recognition flickered in his eyes, then relief, though his expression never shifted. Still, John turned further into his touch. “Rodney,” he said again, certain this time.

“I see you, I got you. Hang on.”

John kicked restlessly, breath catching. “I can’t–”

“I've got you. Just breathe, John. That's all you have to do, okay? I'll take care of everything else.”

John gasped for air, fingers curling weakly into the front of Rodney’s stained shirt, dragging him closer. So Rodney held him tighter, pulling him against his chest until John’s head rested against his collarbone.

“You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you,” he murmured, the words more prayer than comfort.

He fumbled for John’s hand, guiding it to rest over his heart, hoping some part of John’s body would sync to his. “Breathe with me,” he ordered softly.

John’s fingers spasmed beneath his, curling as if seeking the warmth through his shirt.

“All you have to do is breathe…”

Clarity returned to John’s gaze, the wild panic ebbing into weary calm. Time stopped. It was just them, breathing and holding onto one another. John's adams apple bobbed as he searched his gaze and Rodney felt the bottom drop out of his stomach because he knew that look. The quiet lucidity before the end.

Terror gripped his heart in a vice and, when he shook his head, the tears finally broke loose; landing on John's face. “Don’t.”

“Thank you,” John whispered.

“No.”

He swallowed. “I’m… I’m sorry, Rodney.” His eyes drifted away as his weight collapsed heavier in Rodney’s arms.

“No!” Rodney dropped John’s hand, cradling his head against his chest. “No, John!”

Static crackled in his comm—then Lorne’s voice: “McKay, we’re inbound! Hold position!”

A shaky laugh broke from Rodney; half a sob, half a plea. He clutched John tighter, pressing his face against sweat-matted hair. “Please,” he whispered. “Just– hang on, please.”

CHAPTER FIVE

John sat in the grass - sunlight bright on his face, the grass warm beneath his palms - watching Rodney emerge from the ruins.

“Didn’t blow up,” Rodney announced proudly, lifting the grey ZPM case like a trophy.

“Genius,” John said, getting to his feet, the flower crown held delicately between his fingers. “You deserve a reward.”

He lifted the headpiece he’d been weaving while he waited. Rodney gave him a look - half suspicion, half amusement - but didn’t move as John settled it gently on his head. For a heartbeat, Rodney’s bright eyes met his, open and unguarded, sunlight catching on blue like it meant to stay there.

“There,” John said quietly after he finished balancing it.

“I look ridiculous.”

“Not even a little.” He smiled. “Come on, let’s go home.”

They started toward the jumper, but Rodney veered off suddenly toward the treeline.

“McKay, where’re you going?”

“Just hang on!”

He came back with a single golden flower, taller than his hand. Without a word, he tucked it behind John’s ear, the soft petals brushing his temple.

“Now we match,” he said softly.

John wanted to answer, but the light broke apart, shattering into metal and shadow as the jumper’s hatch sealed behind them.

The hum brought him back first. Then the cold. The pain.

Rodney’s shivering hand was gripping his, tight enough to ground him. Teyla’s face hovered above him, her lap beneath his head. Ronon’s voice - low, steady, but urgent as he talked to someone very far away - was somewhere near his side where pressure burned like fire.

“Hey,” Rodney said, hoarse and shaking. “Stay with us.”

John blinked, trying to make sense of the blur; Rodney’s face streaked with dirt and blood, the same stubborn tilt to his chin. The world swam, and something about that sight - the blood, the dirt, the matching - cut through the haze.

“We match,” John murmured, lips barely moving.

Rodney’s breath hitched.

Ronon glanced up, confused, as a console alarm began to beep from the cockpit.

Everything was warm again.

CHAPTER SIX

The infirmary on Atlantis was never still for long, but the hour before dawn came close. The crowds for check-ups or general complaints had filtered out, lights stayed low, machines murmured their steady conversation, and the air smelled faintly of antiseptic and sea salt. It was calm, even if just for a little while. Rodney had claimed a chair at the edge of John Sheppard’s bed years ago, that very first time he thought the Colonel might still be in danger after near-death had come and gone.

Back when Kolya came to Atlantis and declared John his mortal enemy.

He’d told himself once, a long time ago, that it was just the aftermath of a crisis. Checking in to make sure the threat was really over.

That was when he barely knew John.

But it became a habit, to keep vigil over John while he recovered from whatever tried to kill him that month. John was quick to return the favor and they never stopped doing it. Now, especially as of late, he was tired of the routine, not because he didn't want to keep John safe in a vulnerable state, but because he needed the galaxy to stop trying to take the best thing that ever happened to him. His favorite person.

John looked wrong against the white. He was still pallid, his hair flattened and combed to one side instead of that impossible mess it always seemed to defy gravity with, and the lines of tape and tubing turned him into something fragile. The monitors said he was stable. Rodney kept watching him anyway, because monitors could lie, and John never did.

He started to pinch the bridge of his nose before the softest of touches reminded him he couldn't for at least six weeks. Instead, he shoved the heels of his palms into his eyes and sighed heavily. When he dropped his hands he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

“I, uh, I could really use some good news here, John. So, if you could, you know… Wake up? That'd be great,” he said, his voice hoarse. A sound scraped raw from too-many one sided conversations in the last four days.

Nothing. Just the same soft hiss of the oxygen being fed through John's nose cannula and the faint beep-beep that had become the rhythm of his days.

Rodney studied John's face like he often did his own equations, looking for something more. He leaned closer and took John's hand in his, squeezing just enough to let him know he wasn't alone.

“You’d hate this hair situation,” he muttered. “I don't think I've ever seen it with so little volume when it wasn't wet.” Trying to ploy John with something to look forward to other than a hard recovery and yet another round of physical therapy to get back to himself hadn't worked yet. Insulting his hair was all he had left, as if John would hear it and sit up and demand gel and a comb just to rectify it.

Atlantis hummed around him, the ocean pressing faintly against her walls. He’d never noticed before how the city sounded when John wasn’t walking her corridors. Maybe a long time ago, when he'd been missing a week and a half, but he'd had the distraction of trying to find him plus the added stress of trying to find Teyla before Michael got what he wanted from her.

Now there was only this, waiting. No amount of science or math could convince John's body it was safe to wake up and be heard again. A few minutes passed before he realized he was still holding John’s hand, thumb moving in slow, unconscious circles over too pale skin.

Rodney’s head had started to dip forward when the change came: a tiny catch in the rhythm of the monitors, a fractional difference in the sound of John’s breathing. At first, he thought he’d imagined it. Then John’s fingers twitched under his own.

Rodney sat bolt upright, heart thudding. “John?”

For too long there was nothing, then another twitch - stronger this time - and a low, rough sound that scraped its way out of John’s throat. His eyelids fluttered, lashes trembling against pale skin. Rodney was half-out of the chair before he realized he was moving.

“Hey, hey, easy,” he said, leaning close. “You’re safe, you’re home, you– you’re awake.”

John blinked, unfocused. The color in his eyes looked washed out under the infirmary lights. When he finally found Rodney’s face, his lips parted, and what came out was barely more than air. “R’dney…?”

Rodney made a helpless noise, something between a laugh and a sob. “Yeah, it’s me. You– don’t try to talk yet, all right? You’ve been out for a bit.”

John frowned faintly, as if trying to piece together the words. His gaze slipped to the side, toward the machines, then back. “’tay…” he managed. The sound was broken, almost inaudible, but Rodney knew what he meant. Stay.

He did; he squeezed John’s hand, felt the faint tremor of life there, the miracle of it. Rodney brought the back of John's hand to his face, resting his cheek against his knuckles briefly. Everything in him wanted to stay right where he was.

But the part of his brain that lived on logic spoke up, loud and insistent: Keller needed to know, right now.

“I will. I will, I promise,” he said quickly. “Just– just hold on, okay? I’m getting Keller. She needs to check you over. You’ve been through a lot, and we need to make sure– John. Look at me. I need you to stay awake. Okay?”

John’s fingers twitched again, a small acknowledgment, maybe a protest, but - either way - his strength was already ebbing.

“I’ll be right back,” Rodney said, voice cracking as he forced himself to pull free of John's weak grasp. “Seconds, I swear.”

He turned, nearly stumbling on the legs of the chair as he hurried for the door. The soft hiss of the ventilator followed him out into the brighter corridor, and every step away from that bed felt like a betrayal.

By the time he returned with Keller, breathless and babbling explanations, John was still again. His head had turned slightly to the side, eyes closed.

Rodney froze at the threshold. “He was– he woke up,” he said, voice small. “He– he asked me to stay.”

Keller was already moving, calm and efficient. “Okay,” she said, slipping past him. “Let’s make sure he’s still stable.” She began checking the monitors, adjusting settings, her movements precise enough to make Rodney’s own feel clumsy.

He hovered at the foot of the bed, useless. Keller spoke as she acted, calm and certain, words flowing past him in a language he almost knew - vitals, pulse, oxygen - but all he could see was the rise and fall of John’s chest. Steady, normal. Normal meant okay.

John was okay.

“Everything looks good,” she repeated after a moment, peering at him carefully when he had yet to respond to all she had said. “You did the right thing getting me.”

Rodney’s hands twisted together. “He was awake.”

“I believe you.” Keller’s voice softened and she blinked slowly. “It happens sometimes after a coma; the patient stirs for a few minutes, then slips back under. The body’s still healing. This is a good sign, Rodney.”

He sank back into the chair, stiff and rod straight; while she made a few notes on her tablet, he couldn't stop staring at John's peaceful expression as he slept. “He asked me to stay,” he said again, quietly.

Keller looked up. “And you got me. Which was the correct call.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure he’d be thrilled to know I’m the model of correctness,” Rodney muttered. His voice was wobbling. “He looked at me like– like he didn’t know if I was real. I could have stayed one more minute.”

She stepped closer, gentle but firm. “Rodney, if something had gone wrong and you hadn’t called me, you’d never forgive yourself. He’s stable. He’s improving. You did the right thing.”

He pressed his thumb against the edge of the chair’s armrest until it hurt. The ache felt grounding, a reminder that this wasn’t one of those nightmares he couldn’t solve with math. “Right,” he said, unable to look at her. “Sure.”

She put the tablet down at the foot of the bed, by John's ankle, and crouched by his chair. Her hands covered his forearm in a touch from her he hadn't experienced since they broke it off shortly after Atlantis had gone to Earth.

“Rodney? Look at me,” she demanded, her tone as dulcet as the soft expression he saw when he finally followed her voice. “He's alive. He'll be okay.”

“I just… I need to see him,” he said, knowing how foolish he sounded when he was right there. But she understood. It wasn't his body, breathing and warm as it was, it was John he needed to see. The winning smile, the confident gait, the brilliant light in mostly green eyes.

He needed to see John looking back.

“You will,” she promised and stood as she squeezed his arm one more time, leaving him with a gentle, knowing smile. The door slid shut behind her and Rodney felt like a puppet with its strings cut. His shoulders collapsed as he hunched forward and released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

The silence that followed wasn’t like before. Before, it had been full of the steady hum of life-support and the unspoken promise that John was still there somewhere. Now it was crowded with everything Rodney hadn’t said when he had the chance.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again. John looked exactly as he had an hour ago: pale, still, too still. The flat hair made him look younger, defenseless. “You always pick the most dramatic ways to get attention,” Rodney murmured, voice rough.

His laugh came out brittle. He rubbed at his bruised eyes and let the room settle back around him: the beeping, the hum of Atlantis, the steady rise and fall of John’s chest.

After a while, he reached out and wrapped his fingers around John’s hand. He let his thumb trace slow circles against the skin, the same motion as before, a quiet promise. “Next time,” he said softly, “I’ll stay.”

It might have been an hour. Maybe two. The infirmary had that strange Atlantis timelessness, the kind that made minutes stretch and fold back on themselves. Rodney must have drifted in and out of a shallow doze, head resting against the back of the chair facing John. His legs were crossed at the ankles and his arm was still outstretched so he could hold onto John's hand.

When John moved again, it startled him like a slap.

The monitors hadn’t changed much, but the subtle, instinctive alert that had developed in him over the past few days recognized the difference immediately. John’s breathing shifted, a low, unsteady sound breaking through the steady mechanical rhythm.

Rodney jerked upright. “John?”

This time, when John’s eyes opened, they were clearer. Not by much, but enough. He blinked slowly, then looked at Rodney with a dazed focus that gave him more hope than he'd felt in a week.

“Hey,” Rodney said quickly, leaning forward. “Hey, you’re– okay, you’re back again. Don’t try to move yet, Keller said it’s normal to drift, so just take it easy, alright?”

John’s throat worked; he swallowed, grimacing. When he spoke, his voice was still slurred but more distinct. “Still here?”

Rodney’s laugh caught between relief and disbelief. “You think I have anything better to do?”

The corners of John’s mouth twitched. It wasn’t quite a smile, more a ghost of one, but it reached his eyes. That small, familiar spark - wry, amused, John - flickered there.

Rodney felt something in his chest unclench. “There you are,” he said, then grabbed at the plastic cup on the bedside table. He turned the rubber straw and bent it towards John. “Here.” Carefully, he held the cup and straw steady while John closed his lips around the end and dragged water to, what Rodney could only assume was, a parched mouth.

When John got his fill, Rodney returned it to its place on the table and John leaned back heavily against the pillows.

“Thanks,” John rasped and Rodney sat back down in his chair but dragged it closer until his knees hit the bedframe.

“You scared the hell out of everyone,” he said, words tumbling out. “You– god, do you remember what you've been through?”

John studied Rodney's face with the intensity of learning new ship controls.

“Ronon’s been pacing like a caged animal, Teyla’s, well, she’s Teyla; she’s composed, but I can tell she’s worried. And I’ve been sitting here making sure your heart doesn’t decide to take a vacation.”

Though delayed by a few seconds, John's blank expression transformed into one of mild amusement and he made a small noise that might have been a laugh. It rasped and faded into a cough, and Rodney immediately leaned closer. “Easy, easy. I'm sorry. Don’t– you don’t have to talk, alright? Just–” he let out a slow breath then inhaled deeply. “keep looking at me. That’s– yeah. Just like that.”

John’s eyelids fluttered, heavy. He blinked up at Rodney again, and this time the weak smile stayed a little longer.

“You,” he murmured, barely audible.

Rodney frowned. “Me what?”

“Stayed,” John said. The word came halting, raw.

Rodney swallowed the lump in his throat but the pain there only became sharper. “Yeah, well, I missed you. Had to see you.”

John’s lips curved again, a soft, drowsy ghost of a smile. His gaze stayed on Rodney for another breath, maybe two, before his eyes slipped closed again.

Rodney sat there a long time after, holding that hand, staring at the rise and fall of John’s chest. The tension in his shoulders eased by degrees, replaced by something quieter, more peaceful.

When Keller finally cleared John, no longer in danger of collapsing internally - a term not medically sound but Rodney claimed all the same when asked - Rodney was still in the same chair.

John was now mostly inclined in the hospital bed, the cannula was gone, he had a rosiness to his cheeks that had been absent longer than Rodney wanted to think about. He smiled easily again, the sharp intelligence back in his eyes, and he spoke with a grace Rodney hadn’t realized he’d missed until it had been swallowed by blood loss.

He didn’t notice Keller leave; the hum of the infirmary had faded into background noise as it should be.

Rodney was leaning forward before he could think. “If you’re not careful, you're going to pull something.”

“I'm not going to fall apart. I can move.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be. Jen, is he even allowed to—” He glanced around, blinked. “Where did she go?”

John shrugged one shoulder as he opened his DS and started up a game. “Left a while ago.” Then, with a shrewd look that was anything but subtle, John lifted his chin and asked, “when is the last time you slept?”

Rodney huffed and leaned back in his chair. He crossed his ankles and rested his heels on the edge of John's bed, by his hip. “Few hours ago.”

“In your own bed.”

Rodney clenched his jaw and stared at John, who closed his DS again and looked at him with a steadiness Rodney had yet to feel since before their last mission. “What?” he snapped, feeling defensive.

“McKay, you look awful. You went through something, too. You need rest.”

He resisted the urge to cover his face and hide the bruising under his eyes. His broken nose only accentuated bags developed from lack of sleep and extended anxieties. He dropped his feet from the bed and sat up straighter in his chair, contemplating turning away if only to escape some of the scrutiny.

“That’s gratitude for you,” he said, instead, trying for levity. “I spend days - near a week, really - making sure you don’t stop breathing and you critique my appearance?”

“Rodney…”

“I’ve been practicing my bedside manner, here, and the first full conversation we have entails you mocking me. You should appreciate the effort.”

“I'm appreciating!” He swallowed, winced, and Rodney was up in an instant, reaching for the water. He perched on the edge of the mattress and steadied the cup for John, the motion practiced by now, he’d done it a dozen times since John had first managed to stay conscious longer than a few breaths. When John’s throat eased, Rodney finally exhaled, tension leaking out of his shoulders.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

The words hit harder than they should have. Rodney felt his throat tighten. “Don’t– don’t thank me. I just…”

“I worry about you, too, McKay. S'why I want to make sure you're getting actual sleep.”

Rodney exhaled through his nose. “Yeah, well, that chair is comfier than it looks.”

That coaxed a faint smile. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable this time. It had weight, but the kind that settles instead of crushes.

After a moment, Rodney’s gaze drifted to John’s hair, flattened and completely off his forehead except for one stray lock. It looked wrong. John’s hair was supposed to stick up like he’d flown through a wind tunnel and decided to keep the look for fun.

Without thinking, Rodney reached out, brushing his fingers through it — soft, too clean, refusing to stand the way it should. John’s eyes flicked up to meet his, questioning but not pulling away.

“Sorry,” Rodney muttered, drawing his hand back halfway before letting it rest lightly against John’s temple instead. “It’s just different. You look different.”

John blinked slowly. “In a bad way?”

“No,” Rodney said, surprising himself with the steadiness of his voice. “Just… human. You've always looked like you belong to Atlantis, like the city built you exactly as the universe would need you. Right now you look like–” He stopped, words catching on something too big for the room.

John’s expression softened; even through exhaustion, there was that familiar glint of humor.

He expected a witty retort, maybe a gentle nudge for further praise because it was so rare Rodney handed out compliments for free. Except this wasn't free. John had earned it over years of sweat, blood, and stubborn survival; sometimes all at once. Certainly he was overdue to be seen as something breakable. Precious.

Instead, John only tilted his head, pressing his face into Rodney’s palm.

Rodney’s thumb moved automatically, stroking into John's hairline.

“Get some rest,” he said, low. “Atlantis can wait a bit longer for her favorite flyboy.”

John’s eyes were already half-closed, but the faintest grin lingered. “And you?”

“I what?”

“Rest?”

Rodney hesitated only a second. “Yeah,” he said softly and moved his hand from John's face for a final pass through unfamiliar hair. “Right there, in that super comfy, underrated chair.”

“Rodney…” he admonished, gently.

“Just a little longer,” he whispered. “Please.”

John sighed but nodded as he watched Rodney back up to sit in the chair. Once settled, John closed his eyes and Rodney watched as John drifted off again, the lines of his face easing.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Days blurred.

Eventually, Rodney allowed himself to be convinced to leave his bedside, returning to sleep in his own quarters. He returned to work but his definition of “work” evolved to include a visit every couple hours; sometimes alone, sometimes alongside others.

Ronon and Teyla, though having been through before, visited more often now that Rodney wasn't constantly brooding in the plastic chair like a hawk ready to peck the eyes out of anyone who lingered too long or touched too often.

Between the personal visits, the slow healing, and stretches of restless sleep, Woolsey came in for the official mission debrief.

The satchel John failed to secure before chasing after Rodney had in fact been what they were looking for. Too caught up in their hunt for the Atlantians and later evading capture when the tables were turned, the former mole and his remaining ‘associates’ had abandoned the bag. It was later picked up by Lorne and his team.

Mission a success, mortal danger aside.

They didn't know why the group wanted Rodney, they didn't even know who the group was, but they knew there was a new enemy out in the galaxy. John just hoped they weren't as dangerous or crafty as the Genii or sadistic as the Olesians.

By the time Keller discharged him - three more days of bedrest and his first truly good day of consciousness behind him - John was climbing the walls. He’d been still too long, wrapped in antiseptic air and artificial light, and it had been nearly five hours since he’d seen Rodney.

Keller’s rundown of aftercare felt endless: wound dressings, medication schedules, physical limits. John tried to listen, he really did, but his mind kept drifting to the corridor outside. Finally, she wished him well, he thanked her for - yet again - saving his life, and he was halfway to the door before she’d finished her sentence.

Just outside, leaning against the wall across from the exit, was Rodney. “I told her to talk extra slow and to over explain everything,” Rodney said, smirking. “Anxious to get out?”

John couldn't even be mad. “So, you're the one stuck with babying me until I make it to my quarters in one piece?”

“I volunteered,” Rodney said. “If Ronon took you, he'd goad you into ‘light sparring’. Teyla would convince you to mediate.”

He cringed. He didn't feel up for so much as a playful smack let alone any form of physical activity, but he'd been stagnant too long and meditation seemed just as tedious.“I, however, had a different idea. Low energy but invigorating. A proper way to celebrate you still being alive.”

John raised an eyebrow, curious, but Rodney only tilted his head toward the next hallway. They started walking together, John’s hands slipping into his pockets, his steps still cautious but steadier than he expected given how long he was cooped up.

“Nice to know you care.”

Rodney’s voice was quieter. “More than you realize.”

They turned the next corner, and John stopped short. Against the far wall sat two RC cars, their controllers neatly waiting beside them.

“I am going to dust you,” John said, and Rodney’s grin broke wide across his face.

“Big talk from a man who just got medically un-grounded,” he said, passing him a remote.

John took it, smirk returning, and for the first time since waking up, the air around them felt light again.

He had just woke from a nap when he heard the door trill. “Come in,” he called, not bothering to get up. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed and his side was aching and itchy, he wasn't ready to move.

The door opened and Ronon stepped through, his shoulders drawn up.

“Hey, you okay?” John asked, straightening as much as he could; alert to the defensiveness of Ronon's posture.

Ronon nodded once, jaw clenched. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then back again, until he was facing John squarely. Still, he didn’t speak.

“Look, if this is about Rodney teasing about how you and I…”

“No, it's not that,” he said, his voice rougher than usual.

John lifted his chin in a half nod. “Okay.”

“I thought you were gonna die.”

John took a breath through his nose and looked away. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

“You know you're my brother, don't you?”

That made him look up. Ronon’s face was open, the usual wall of control cracked just enough to show what lived underneath — fear, maybe, or just the memory of it. Slowly, John nodded.

“It's good to hear it said out loud, though,” he said quietly. “You know you're mine, too?”

“Good to hear it out loud.”

John smiled - small, unguarded - and it widened when he saw it reflected back at him.

“Right. Well. Don't do it again.”

“Almost die?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll try.”

Ronon stood there, nodding, his hands on his hips. Then he jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Okay, I'm gonna go.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose. “Yeah, see ya.” Ronon got as far as opening the door before John called him back. “Hey–”

“Hm?”

John hesitated, his gaze locked on the floor between them before he sighed and held out a hand. “Could you help me up? My whole chest is tight and–”

Ronon was already crossing the room, one hand gripping John’s and the other sliding under his elbow. “Ready?”

He nodded.

With a gentleness that always surprised him, Ronon eased him upright, steadying him with a hand at his back. “Good?”

John tested his balance and nodded. “Yeah, thanks.”

Ronon didn’t let go right away. He tapped his closed fist twice against John’s torso - light, just above the heart and avoiding the gunshot wound - and then pressed that same fist to his own.

John remembered what Ronon had told him post sparring match, long ago: to Satedans, the chest is the seat of strength and will; the core that endures. The act is both recognition and reassurance: you live, therefore, so do I. It wasn't ceremonial like Athosian greetings, but rather, pragmatic and grounding; often exchanged without words after danger had passed.

Sateda was gone, the gesture's use rare, yet lived on through Ronon, who valued the gesture differently now. It was less about survival and more about the connection itself. A way of saying what was not often said aloud: you're family.

“You're still here.”

John nodded once, confirmation and reassurance at once. “I am.”

Ronon nodded in return and left without another word.

The rest of the day and the next passed quietly. Uneventful other than Rodney's check ins and some calls from others to give him official ‘welcome back’ messages.

They’d had dinner together - the four of them - and for the first time since the mission, it had felt normal. Rodney had spent most of it lamenting the state of his lab, apparently untouched in his absence.

“Don't get me wrong, I don't regret the time off but no one could do some follow-ups while I was gone?”

“Rodney, if they touched your stuff and messed something up, you would never let them live with it. I'm sure they left well enough alone for the good of humanity,” John said, pushing his food around with his fork.

Ronon snorted as he shoved some fries in his smiling mouth. “I could help you catch up on some work, McKay,” he said, after swallowing his food with a gulp of water. “It would involve me deleting most of the backlog, but–”

“No, thanks, Conan the Barbarian, I think I got it under control.”

Ronon smirked and popped some more fries in.

Teyla had only smiled, that serene, knowing smile that said she was simply glad they were all still here to argue. Then she shifted her gaze to John's plate and raised a brow as she tilted her head. He shrugged with his good shoulder. An imploring look and he cut off a piece of chicken and ate it for her sake. As they went their separate ways, Ronon patted his back but Rodney hung back to confirm their movie night plans.

He promised popcorn and beer and Rodney took off to finish tidying up the lab.

Now, hours later, the city was hushed again. He still had some time before he was to meet Rodney and John stood on a balcony overlooking the sea, the faint light from the towers reflecting off the water in shifting ribbons. His side still ached when he breathed too deep, but the pain was manageable, almost welcome. Proof he was still awake. Alive.

He’d barely registered the soft footsteps behind him before Teyla spoke. “I thought I might find you here.”

John didn’t turn right away. “Guess I’m getting predictable.”

“Consistent,” she corrected gently. He heard the faint smile in her voice.

She joined him at the railing, close enough that their shoulders nearly brushed. For a moment, they simply stood there in the sound of the ocean and the hum of Atlantis beneath their feet.

“Torren asleep already?” He asked, bumping her arm with his.

She nodded deeply. “Both him and his father, peacefully. I did not wish to disturb them by moving around too much.”

John hummed and felt himself relax further.

“I did not wish to disturb you too much, before you were ready,” she said at last. “I thought you could use the time to rest. To think.”

“Appreciate it,” he murmured.

She studied him in profile and he knew what she was looking at; how the light caught the healing bruise along his jaw, the faint squint in his eyes from keeping his face neutral despite lingering pains.

“You have been through much,” she said softly. “We all have. But you–” she hesitated, as if weighing whether to push. “You carry it differently.”

John huffed a breath, not quite a laugh. “Comes with the job.”

Teyla turned toward him fully. “Does it? Or is that what you tell yourself so you do not have to admit how heavy it truly is?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. A long silence stretched between them before he finally looked over. “Ronon came by yesterday,” he said quietly.

“I know.”

“He told you?”

“He did not need to.” Her tone was kind, not teasing. “He seemed… lighter, after he left. You both did.”

John exhaled slowly. “He’s a good man.”

“As are you,” she said simply.

He frowned slightly, unsure what to do with that.

Teyla’s voice softened. “You do not have to hide the fear, John. Not from us. Not from me. You nearly lost your life. Again. That would shake anyone.”

He stared out over the water. “It’s not the dying that gets me,” he admitted after a moment. “It’s… the idea that they’d have to watch it happen.”

“Rodney.”

The name landed between them like a truth long waiting to be spoken.

John didn’t answer, but she saw it in the set of his jaw, the quiet ache that flickered through his eyes.

“You have always protected him,” Teyla said. “But I think, perhaps, this time reminded you that he protects you just as fiercely.”

That drew a small, rueful smile from him. “Yeah. He does.”

“He has not left your side in days. Even now, he checks on you through his tablet every hour, looking for your life sign.’” Her eyes warmed. “He is not subtle.”

John chuckled, then winced when it tugged at his side. “No, he’s really not.”

Teyla’s gaze softened further. “He cares for you deeply. And you for him. There is no shame in that.”

He didn’t respond right away. When he finally did, his voice was quiet, rough-edged. “Sometimes it feels like… if I admit it, I’ll break something we can’t fix.”

Teyla nodded slowly. “And if you never admit it, you risk breaking yourself instead.”

The words settled deep, finding the space behind his ribs where fear had been living too long.

John sighed, eyes fixed on the horizon. The ocean seemed endless. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

“Not always,” she said. “But I know you, John. And I know when you need to be reminded that you are not alone.”

She turned to face him fully and he started to follow her lead when she put her hands on his biceps and bowed her head. He touched his forehead to hers and they both breathed; exhaling what breath remained first then in a deep, practiced inhale and out again. Once their breathing was in sync, she spoke.

“You are here, John Sheppard, and you are loved.”

John swallowed hard, finding it difficult against the sudden tightness in his throat. They pulled apart and John found her gaze and held it. “Thank you,” he said, voice low.

She smiled and inclined her head. “Rest, John. Atlantis will still be here when you wake. And so will we, always.”

She turned to leave but paused and John held her gaze when she turned back. “I know you fear what might happen if you let him know what he already sees in you. You earn our trust every day; his trust. Trust in him.”

When she left, the silence she carried with her was peaceful, not empty.

John stayed where he was, watching the lights shimmer on the ocean and thought about how easily she’d said it, how certain she’d been that he and Rodney had already chosen each other, long before either of them said it out loud. Maybe she was right.

Maybe that’s what scared him.

He’d been measuring his recovery in bruises fading, wounds knitting, but maybe it wasn’t just his body that was healing. Maybe it was time to stop pretending that needing Rodney made him weak. Maybe the strength he’d been chasing all this time wasn’t about endurance, but about letting someone stay.

In light of all these realizations, consumed with a clarity he'd long been denied, he breathed without bracing for the next blow. He wasn’t sure what came next, but for once, he wasn't afraid to find out.

CHAPTER EIGHT
two weeks later…

A week passed before John realized he’d stopped counting the hours between check-ins. Now, at two weeks, his side still ached, but the kind of ache that meant healing instead of warning. John could almost pretend things were completely normal again. Almost.

He was still banned from the gym, Keller still gave him that “don’t test me” look every time he tried too much too fast, and Rodney had downgraded his hovering from constant to merely frequent. Progress.

Being benched from work was the worst part. It had been three weeks since the mission, since he had been offworld. There wasn’t much “desk duty” to speak of; mostly approving schedules and patrol rotations, or monitoring long-range sensors for potential threats. The sort of work that made him more restless than he already was.

So he filled the time; his long, boring days. PT. Brisk walks, because Keller wouldn’t even approve a light jog with Ronon. Watching Ronon and Teyla spar. Coffee with Rodney. Meditation with Teyla. Poking his head into Rodney’s lab just to irritate him.

The first time he’d wandered down there after being discharged, his only plan had been to sit on a stool, spin in circles, and listen to Rodney talk about something incomprehensible, just to feel anchored again. The place was a low hum of energy and half-finished projects, as familiar as his own quarters. But Rodney wasn’t there.

John called his name once, twice, then gave up with only a slight pout and drifted through the space, looking the way he always did. He had leaned over the worktable, poking at a few half-finished gadgets, killing time. He circled the desk and froze.

Hanging from the corner of one of Rodney’s monitors, fragile and faded, was the flower crown. The stems had dried to a muted gold, petals brittle, the colors long gone – but it was unmistakable.

He'd stepped closer, something tight in his chest. He hadn’t thought Rodney would keep it. Would remember that day at all. Not really. Their ridiculous, perfect day. Rodney wasn’t sentimental except, apparently, when it came to him.

He reached out but stopped short of touching it. The thing looked ready to crumble, like one more careless move could erase it completely.

Funny, how fragile things lasted longest when someone chose to protect them.

That thought stayed with him.

Weeks later, life had mostly returned to normal: briefings, patrol schedules, late-night coffee runs that bled into arguments about physics, strategies, and probability. But John couldn’t stop circling back to that moment in the lab and what Teyla had said. Maybe they had already chosen each other; maybe he’d just been too careful to admit it.

He told himself to give it time, to wait for the right moment, but time wasn’t helping. All it did was stretch the distance between what he felt and what he said.

So when he found himself outside Rodney’s lab, he knocked before he could talk himself out of it. “Rodney.”

Rodney didn’t look up immediately, still scanning whatever was on his monitor. He gave a distracted little chin lift to show he was listening.

“You hungry?”

That got his attention. He looked up, blinking once, then nodded. “Yes.”

John leaned on the doorframe, watching as Rodney shut things down, muttering about cafeteria options. It was the most ordinary thing in the world, and yet John couldn’t stop looking, like there was something fragile here too, something worth handling carefully.

Rodney must’ve felt it. He stilled halfway around the desk. “What?”

John shook his head quickly. “Nothing. Ready?”

Rodney studied him for a beat longer - searching, maybe - but whatever he saw made his shoulders ease. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Let’s go.”

It had been two weeks of cautious recovery and carefully scheduled check-ins, and somewhere in all that time, the rhythm between them had changed. Softer, maybe. More deliberate. Rodney still hadn’t quite figured out how to breathe easy again. Even when John looked steady, even when he smiled, a part of Rodney kept waiting for the next crisis to hit; like if he turned away for too long, the universe would notice and take him back.

Rodney snuck a glance at him out of the corner of his eye as they walked side by side through the dim corridors, the city’s hum low and steady beneath their feet.

He talked because silence still made him nervous - something about the way it left too much room to think - but John just listened, a faint smile ghosting across his face like it was exactly what he wanted Rodney to do.

By the time they reached the balcony with their drinks, Rodney with his food, the air had cooled, sharp with salt but comforting. The lights of Atlantis shimmered across the water, and John took the seat facing the door - Rodney across from him - and turned his seat, closest to the balcony railing, to face in.

While Rodney organized his tray; John in a comfortable half-recline, his feet up on the empty seat beside him, reached over to steal a tater tot. Rodney pushed the plate towards the middle without looking up. He kept talking, hoping the gesture said enough: take as much as you want. Just keep eating.

John’s appetite hadn’t been the same since…

His stomach clenched with the memory of that long, frozen moment when John’s body had gone still in his arms, and the world had narrowed to the sound of nothing. He forced himself to keep his tone light, to keep moving through words the way he had through fear: deliberately.

If the only time John could bring himself to eat was on a whim, he would sacrifice his whole dinner just to make sure he did.

He had just finished a ramble about how nobody in the lab respected proper labeling conventions when John said quietly, “You kept the crown.”

Rodney blinked, thrown. “What?”

“The flower crown. Saw it in your lab. Dried out, hanging off your monitor.”

“Oh.” Rodney’s voice softened, embarrassed. “Right. Yeah. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.

John huffed out a soft laugh, but there was something in it that caught at Rodney’s chest. John turned to look at him, his expression was unguarded in a way Rodney rarely saw, like the walls were down and the man underneath was just there. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

That shouldn’t have hit as hard as it did. Rodney cleared his throat, eyes darting to the horizon. “You didn’t think I’d keep it? It’s like a souvenir.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to,” John said. His voice had gone low. “Didn’t think it’d… matter.”

Rodney’s instinct was to deflect, to make a joke about sentimentalism being contagious, but when he turned, John was already watching him. That same steady, quiet courage. It was the same look he’d worn on too many battlefields, when a suicide run seemed the only option. When words had to mean everything.

He didn’t have anything clever left to say. “It did. You do.”

John’s gaze flickered - a small wince, a soft inhale - before he leaned forward to drop his legs off the adjacent seat, and braced both arms on the table. His cup was cradled in both hands, like a lifeline, as he stared at it.

Rodney mirrored him, shoving his tray aside, elbows against cool metal, to close the distance between them. “Are you okay?” he asked, his brow furrowed. “You’re quiet.”

“Been thinking.”

“That’s usually my job.”

John huffed a laugh. “Yeah, watch out, I’m gunnin’ for head scientist.”

He waited for the follow-up joke or an elaboration, a confession to what was on his mind, but it didn’t come. The silence, though comfortable, was heavy; full of things unsaid.

Rodney turned his attention to the water, it glowed faintly with bioluminescent threads weaving in the dark, through currents unseen, brighter in some places than the lights reflected off the crests.

When John spoke, his voice was low, a rough edge under the calm. “You ever get tired of talking?”

Rodney’s answering laugh was soft. “If I say no, will that sound narcissistic?”

John shook his head. “No.” The word came with a small, real smile.

“Why? Do you want me to stop talking so much? Because--”

“Absolutely not,” he said quickly and finally looked up from the steaming liquid in a tin cup. “No, I– I love hearing you talk.”

Rodney’s pulse stuttered, heat crawling up the back of his neck. He thought of time in the infirmary: long, too quiet nights, violent storms that cloaked even midday in absolute black with blustering winds and rain pelting windows next to John’s bed. He thought of the way John’s hand would tighten around his wrist when the silence stretched too long.
Keep talking, McKay, John would beseech.

He’d thought it was fear of the dark. Maybe it wasn’t that simple.

“You tell me to shut up a lot, though.”

“When you're not being yourself.”

Rodney nodded after a beat, processing. Then: “Why do you ask?”

His gaze dropped again, his throat working. “Because I’m kind of tired of pretending.”

Rodney froze. His heart skipped and then came back unevenly, thudding against his ribs. John didn’t look away.

Speechless, Rodney regarded John carefully, trying to determine the exact meaning of his confession just within his eyes. Eyes that were so expressive, Rodney had been able to read every thought in John’s head since their first off-world mission together over five years ago. What he saw now was an open vulnerability, hope, and something anxious.

He saw the same fear Rodney had been living with for weeks, a perfect mirror. The difference was John wasn’t running from it anymore. He was meeting it head-on, like he did everything.

When John’s hand shifted, flexing tighter around his cup, the light caught on the pink ridge of his scar. It stretched across the back of his right hand, furious and puckered but healing. Keller said it would fade with time. It hadn’t yet. Maybe it never would.

Before he could stop himself, Rodney reached out. His fingers hovered for a second, then settled over the scar in a featherlight touch as he traced it like he could heal it faster or at least make it mean something more.

John didn’t pull away, his gaze unwavering as he watched him.

Guess we both kept souvenirs,” Rodney said, voice soft.

John’s breath came out slow, unsteady. “Guess we did.”

Rodney turned his hand, closing his fingers around John’s, feeling something ease in his chest he hadn’t realized was ever constricted when John squeezed back. “This one’s staying with me, too,” he murmured, more to himself than to John.

In that moment, Rodney stopped thinking about all the ways he could lose him. He sat with him, stayed, and let the quiet between them mean something other than fear.

The sea was calm, the air warm enough that the windows were left open to the sound of water against metal. John should’ve been asleep, by all accounts, he’d had a long day of physical therapy and then stayed up late with Rodney at dinner.

Dinner.

He stared at the ceiling, trying to stop replaying that conversation - to stop feeling it - but every time he closed his eyes he saw Rodney’s face, felt his fingers like a phantom touch, against the back of his hand. This one’s staying with me, too…

It shouldn’t have mattered as much as it did; it wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t even close. But it felt enormous, too big to fit in his chest.

John covered his eyes with his palms and forced himself to take deep breaths. Just breathe… That’s all you have to do… Breathe with me… John…

A knock came, soft and hesitant, and he dropped his hands to look at his alarm clock. It was past 0200.

The last time that had happened–

He was on his feet in a second, opening the door. Hallway light splashed into the room, cutting through the dark and it felt like deja vu: Rodney standing in front of him in an oversized tee and baggy sleep pants - looking harried with hair standing at odd, desperate angles, his eyes wide and panicked. He looked like he’d sprinted straight out of a nightmare.

“Sorry. I needed to see you. I just… couldn’t–” He made a vague gesture, somewhere between explanation and apology.

John stepped back to let him in. “Bad dream?”

Rodney hesitated, then nodded.

They stood in the center of the room, Rodney fidgeting his hands as he looked around. “I woke you up?”

“No,” he said immediately; he would’ve lied if he had. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Rodney looked at him, then away again, shaking his head. John felt the floor opening out from under him. He hated to see Rodney looking so lost.

“Think you could sleep? Are you tired, still?”

“Exhausted,” Rodney scoffed.

Nodding, John moved towards the bed. “C’mere.” It came out softer than he meant it to, but Rodney didn’t argue. He stood awkwardly by the bed as John got back in on the right side, his back to the far wall. Once he was settled, John lifted the blanket in silent invitation.

“You sure?” Rodney asked but then waved his arms around briefly as he headed for the door. “I should let you sleep, I feel ridiculous.”

John arched an eyebrow. “You think I’m kicking you out after you just walked across the city at–” He squinted at the clock. “–three in the morning? You can stay.”

Rodney made a face but climbed in anyway, careful not to jostle him. The bed was too narrow for two grown men, but they made it work. Chest to chest, facing each other in the dark, the space between them measured in inches and shared air. The waves whispered like a lullaby.

Neither spoke at first. Their breathing synced without effort.

“Just until you fall asleep,” Rodney muttered, settling awkwardly on his side.

“Sure,” he said lightly, amused.

“You’re warm,” he mumbled after a while, already half-asleep.

John couldn’t help but recall just how cold he had been only three weeks ago. He suppressed a shiver and replied, “Better than being chilled to the bone.”

They lapsed back into silence for John didn’t know how long, he may have dozed because when Rodney spoke next it startled him into opening eyes he hadn’t realized he’d shut. “I couldn’t save you…”

“You did,” he said firmly.

“In the nightmare. You– you couldn’t breathe and I… I just watched…”

John whispered, “You okay?”

“Define okay,” he scoffed.

John paused, trying to think of a response then hummed when he couldn’t think of an answer. Couldn’t think of a qualitative state for the lives they led.

“Yeah,” Rodney huffed, his smile audible. There truly was no definition that made sense for them. “What about you?”

So, John said, “Working on it.”

They both smiled, just barely visible in the dim light.

John’s gaze drifted down; Rodney’s hand was fisted in the sheet, the same hand that had held his at dinner. Without overthinking it, John reached out, covering it. Rodney didn’t flinch.

“Hey,” John said quietly. “You don’t have to go. I mean, once we fall asleep… you can just stay until morning”

Rodney’s throat worked, his voice coming out small. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

That earned him a look, like he'd missed the point. Like he had replied to the wrong sentiment. He studied Rodney closer, turning the words over again. When they registered he squeezed Rodney's hand carefully and wiggled even closer, adjusting his head on the pillow. "You won't," he said again. This time, Rodney looked relieved even if some anxiety remained, and they both let out a held breath. Then, softer, “John?”

“Yeah?”

Rodney’s hand turned, lacing their fingers together. “I can't do that again. Nearly losing you, I--”

John’s chest tightened. “I’ll do my best.”

“Do better than that.”

“Okay,” he promised. “I will.”

They lay there in the dark, neither moving. Eventually, John felt the weight against his arm shift, Rodney inching closer until his forehead brushed John’s. A tentative, exhausted kind of touch.

John let his eyes close, their joined hands caught between them, and Rodney made a quiet noise - half laugh, half sigh - and let himself rest; his breathing evened out, slow and deep.

He watched him a little longer, tracing the lines of exhaustion slowly softening in sleep. The faint scar across Rodney’s nose. The callouses on his hands, the same hands that had dragged him back from the edge. His gaze drifted to their joined fingers, to the scar on his own hand stark under the pale moonlight. Rodney’s thumb twitched against it in his sleep, a small, unconscious motion that felt like an anchor.

They had both already chosen each other... trust him.

Maybe she was right. Maybe this - this warmth, this quiet, this unspoken promise - was what choosing each other looked like.

John closed his eyes, returned his forehead to Rodney’s, and exhaled slowly.

EPILOGUE:

John woke to warmth. Not the sterile kind from infirmary blankets or the artificial hum of the city, but something solid, human, and stubbornly wrapped around him.

It took a second for his brain to catch up to his body. His legs were tangled with someone else’s. His arms were full. His face was buried in soft, fine hair that smelled faintly of coffee and circuit dust but mostly smelled of home.

Then came the sound. A soft snore. A very familiar snore.

John cracked an eye open. Rodney.

For one wild instant, John froze; an old reflex that had nothing to do with discomfort and everything to do with the sudden awareness of just how close they were. Every instinct screamed at him to pull back, blurt something awkward like ‘thanks for last night’, and make a quick exit. But then Rodney shifted in his sleep, murmuring something incoherent, and his fingers flexed against John’s shirt like he was making sure he was still there.

John exhaled, tension leaving him in a rush, because this was good. This was right. He let his eyes close again, the steady rhythm of Rodney’s breathing lulling him back to quiet peace.

At some point in the night, one or both of them had shifted; gravity doing what it always did best, dragged them toward each other. Now, Rodney’s head was tucked under John’s chin, one arm slung low across his waist. Their hands were still clasped, fingers loosely interlaced between them.

He felt Rodney stir a second later with a faint hitch of breath and the slow tightening of the arm around his middle. “Mm,” Rodney mumbled. “You’re breathing on my neck.”

“Sorry,” John rasped, not sorry at all.

Rodney cracked one bleary eye open and tilted his head back against their shared pillow. They stared at each other, faces inches apart, the silence stretching. Then Rodney groaned softly and buried his face in John’s shoulder again. “Too early to analyze this.”

“Yeah,” he murmured with an uncontrolled smile. “We can analyze later.”

“Much later,” Rodney agreed sleepily, words muffled against his shirt.

John smiled into his hair. “Okay.”

They both shifted, just enough to get comfortable, and that was that. No dramatics, no awkward scrambling apart. Two people who’d survived, who’d stopped pretending not to care.

Outside, morning light filtered through the window in golden bands, cutting across the bed and warming John further. Inside, he tightened his arm around Rodney’s back, felt the answering squeeze in return, and let himself drift; soft and unguarded.

When John blinked awake again, it was to the sound of someone clearing their throat.

He lifted his head - carefully, because there was still a very unconscious Rodney using his shoulder as a pillow, and slowly because he was very concerned with who was in his room and staring at him while he slept, exposed for more reasons than one - and found Ronon and Teyla standing in the threshold.

Feeling grateful the door was shut behind them, John stared at them.

Teyla’s arms were crossed, her smile small but radiant. Ronon’s grin was much less restrained.

In the quietest tone he’d ever heard from him, Ronon said, “Finally.”

“Knock much?” he whispered harshly, trying for composure as well as preserving Rodney’s sleep.

“We did,” Teyla whispered back. “Twice.”

Beside him, Rodney stirred. “What time is it?”

“It’s past noon,” Ronon said, his volume normal again. John felt Rodney stiffen briefly, awareness dawning, and then - just as quickly - relax again. Their hands were still twined together, and neither of them made any move to change that. Ronon’s grin only widened. “We hadn’t seen you all day. Thought we’d check on you guys.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly, though his embarrassment softened when he saw how genuinely pleased they both looked. There was no mockery in their expressions, just quiet satisfaction.

“So, we missed breakfast,” John said after a beat then lifted his chin. “How about lunch?”

Though it seemed Rodney was reluctant to speak up, he nodded. “I could eat.”

Teyla’s smile deepened, serene and pleased. “We’ll save you seats.”

John watched them go. Just before the door slid shut again, he caught Ronon bending toward Teyla, saying something that made her smile and smack his shoulder.

When they were gone, Rodney exhaled and dropped his head back against John’s shoulder with a groan. “Well,” he muttered, “there goes figuring this out first.”

John laughed, low and rough. “Apparently we weren’t fooling anyone anyway. At least not those two.”

“Speak for yourself,” Rodney grumbled, but there was no heat behind it.

They stayed there a little longer, the sun warm on the sheets. For the first time in a long time, John didn’t feel the weight of the city, or of command, or even of all they’d lost.

He just felt light.