Stargate: Atlantis Fan Fiction ❯ Aftermath ❯ Aftermath ( Chapter 1 )

Stargate: Atlantis

Aftermath

 

Disclaimer: MGM owns Stargate Atlantis; I do not.

 

Rating: T (for language, violence, and sexual situations)

 

Genre: Action / Romance

 

Time Frame: After "Missing" (Season 4 Episode 7);

 

Canonicity: AU diverging after The Return (Season 3 Episodes 10 and 11)

 

Major Spoilers: 1x06 Childhood's End; 3x10, 11 The Return; 4x07 Missing

 

Minor Spoilers: 2x01 The Siege Part 3

 

Characters: Rodney McKay, John Sheppard, Ronon Dex, Jennifer Keller, Samantha Carter

 

Pairings: McKeller

 

* * *

 

Facing death is easier when your mind is occupied. You're on a hive ship venting atmosphere? Hack into the control systems and seal off the leak. Replicators are invading your city? Figure out a way to shield your vital systems and trigger an EMP. Primitive villagers are firing at you in the dark? Duck and cover. Return fire to scare them off. And then...

 

Then you wait.

 

Because, while computer hacking and electromagnetic pulse triggering take time and require brain power, huddling behind a mud bank in the dead of night during a rainstorm with an irate colonel and an injured corporal your only company leaves you with plenty of time to reflect on your impending demise.

 

And on how you really, really don't want to die because, for the first time in your life, you have someone else to live for and - fool that you are - you promised to be there when she returned.

 

* * *

 

Rodney growled his frustration as bullets thudded into the mud bank he and Sheppard crouched behind.

 

"Shut up," Sheppard hissed. "You'll give away our position."

 

"They're shooting at our position."

 

"Which is why we're not shooting back and why Ronon is a hundred yards down the line drawing their fire." As if to reinforce Sheppard's words, two quick pulses from Ronon's energy weapon lit up like beacons in the dark. Gunfire answered, all of it directed down the line.

 

Sheppard continued. "They're firing blind, trying to spook us into revealing ourselves." He lifted Corporal Watkins' shirt to check the hastily applied bandage and cursed. Teyla had discovered her pregnancy only days before, and Colonel Carter recommended Watkins as her temporary replacement. Sheppard's agreement was not without reluctance. The boy looked so much like Aiden Ford it was scary. Now it looked as if they might lose him too.

 

"Rodney, you're always hanging out with Keller. Haven't you picked up anything useful?"

 

Jennifer Keller was the person Rodney least wanted to think about at the moment. He could almost picture Atlantis' head of medicine safe at home in the bed she slept in as a little girl. Her leave in Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin would end in another day. If it hadn't already. With all that had happened last week, replacing the watch he broke on New Athos hadn't been a priority for Rodney.

 

For all he knew, Jennifer's dad might be driving her back to the airport even then, or she was already in the air, wide-eyed and jumping at every bump and eddy. Her confession the night before she left that she was a nervous flier inspired Rodney to make a promise: that he'd be in the control room, waiting for her, when she stepped through the gate. It was a simple gesture, but he'd be damned if he disappointed her.

 

"We don't talk about medicine when we're together, Sheppard."

 

The colonel raised a brow.

 

Rodney blushed. "No, I haven't picked up anything useful."

 

Gunfire continued intermittently over the next few hours, and Rodney's thoughts drifted. To the research paper he was revising. To the video of his niece's ballet recital unviewed on his laptop. To the past, but never to the future.

 

Sometimes Rodney wondered what life would be like if Katie Brown had returned to Atlantis. Might he have sent away for a ring by now, or she a wristwatch? Radek still wore the watch his ex-wife presented when she asked for his hand. Katie's wistful look the day Radek told the story over lunch had Rodney working late nights for weeks and dreading scheduled mail drops. Looking back, he realized Katie must have noticed.

 

Quantum theorists speculate that any event that can happen does in one of the nigh infinite number of sub-universes or parallel realities that collectively make up existence. In some, perhaps many of those realities he and Katie had remained in contact when the Atlantis expedition abruptly ended and all personnel transferred back to Earth.

 

When the expedition resumed just as abruptly six weeks later, had she - unlike his Katie - resigned her post at the US National Arboretum to return with him? Had they married? Did they share quarters? It was not impossible or even unlikely. Four married couples already lived on base, and Rodney knew at least two of his scientists were cohabiting.

 

He could not begrudge his doppelgängers their choices. Katie provided comfort and companionship when he needed it most, and he could easily imagine living a lifetime as her husband without regret. Until he met Jennifer, that is. He pitied the Rodney McKays who had jumped the gun, perhaps in desperation, perhaps in romantic fervor, and trapped themselves in marriages that left them unable to hope for even one night with the woman of their dreams.

 

Jennifer.

 

Her presence in his life was one of those things that made Rodney want to believe in God just so he could say thank you.

 

Damn it, McKay. He turned his face toward the rain, hoping to lose the tears stinging his eyes amid the downpour. If Sheppard should notice and confront him, Rodney could not trust his voice to be steady.

 

He heard boots tromping in the mud and brought his P90 to bear. He lowered it a moment later when Ronon emerged into view. Mud caked his face and the backs of his hands, making him nearly invisible in the dark. Disgust curled Ronon's lip when they made eye contact, and Rodney suppressed the urge to wipe his eyes. It would only make them redder. Great, Chewbacca the Wookie is convinced I'm even more of a wimp.

 

"Allergies?" Ronon sneered.

 

"Lots of pollen in the air," Rodney snapped, voice barely cracking.

 

Ronon snorted, then turned his attention toward Watkins. "Can we move him?"

 

"Do we need to?" Sheppard said.

 

"Yeah."

 

"Rodney, get under his right shoulder. On three, we lift and head for the gate. Ronon?"

 

"Ready with cover fire." His gun whined, overworked but ready for more action.

 

Sheppard nodded. "One, two, thr—"

 

A gunshot rang out, and Ronon crumpled. Villagers surrounded them, carrying a mix of repeating rifles and single shot muzzle loaders. The repeaters had concerned Sheppard more at long range, but this close the muzzle loaders were just as deadly.

 

One of the men with a repeater slung across his back stepped forward. Rodney took this man, who reminded him of a malnourished Edward James Olmos, to be the leader.

 

"Hands up and drop those weapons." Spit flew from Olmos' lips as he cursed them.

 

"Shit," Sheppard said.

 

"Way ahead of you," Rodney joked.

 

* * *

 

His tongue passed over his split lip, and Rodney tasted blood. He dabbed at it with the sleeve of his tee shirt, wishing for the tissues sealed in a waterproof baggie Jennifer insisted he carry in his tac vest. It, along with his leather jacket, had been confiscated before the villagers tossed him in the cell. Olmos now wore the jacket but had left Rodney with some nice bruises as compensation.

 

Dabbing at the lip hurt, and Rodney wondered if it had hurt Jennifer this much when, similarly injured, she kissed him. His memory traveled backwards to that night, their first night together. It had not been their first kiss, fortunately; he'd never want to associate that memory with the taste of blood. No, they'd kissed awkwardly and sweetly on several occasions in the year or so they'd known one another. Something, though, always kept them from taking it any further.

 

Until that night...

 

Her kisses were urgent and needy. Whenever she whimpered from the pain, Rodney would pull back, only to have Jennifer press her lips harder against his. After a while, he relented, welcoming the coppery tang of her blood commingling with the salt of her tears. She did not sob, only murmured, "I wasn't raped" over and over.

 

He was glad for that and gave silent thanks to whatever deity might be listening. If she had been, Rodney would have commandeered a jumper and killed every goddamned Bola Kai on New Athos. The way she said it broke his heart, as if she thought her violation could have changed the way he felt about her.

 

He took charge, and their lovemaking became sweet and slow. She recited his name like a prayer and at her peak said those magic words that turn men into fools. Rodney repeated them, but not right away.

 

Now, days later, in a dank prison cell, he recognized the seed of doubt he'd let fester, saw the signs for what they were: her strange quiet the next morning, her coldness as he saw her off, her unenthusiastic acceptance of his promise to be there when she returned. He had thought she regretted what they'd done. If he was honest, he'd almost expected her to. This was worse.

 

"Oh, God," he whispered, "she thinks I lied to her. I'm going to die, and she thinks I don't..."

 

He slid down the wall and buried his face in his hands as the tears that threatened to spill earlier returned with a ferocious intensity.

 

* * *

 

The cell door creaked on its hinges, and two men tossed Colonel Sheppard's limp body inside. Sniffing - he dare not think of it as sniffling - Rodney rolled Sheppard onto his back. A split lip and blackened eye suggested the villagers didn't vary their interrogation technique from victim to victim. Rodney blinked his own swollen eyes. He'd taken a punch to his left, but didn't think that's what caused the swelling.

 

"John? John?" He grasped Sheppard's shoulders and shook. "Come on, I've got an idea, but I need your help."

 

The colonel slapped his hand away.

 

"You're awake?" Rodney whispered.

 

"I let 'em think they hurt me worse than they did. They're, uh, not too bright."

 

Rodney helped Sheppard sit up. "Good, that can only help my plan."

 

"Later." Sheppard waved off further aid. "How's Watkins?"

 

Rodney turned to find the young man's condition unchanged. "High fever, blood loss. I doubt a society this primitive has advanced smelting techniques, so there's a pretty good chance of infection from the bullet. We need to get him back to Atlantis."

 

Sheppard grinned. "It seems Keller taught you more than you realize, McKay. So what's this plan of yours?"

 

"Okay. The soldiers who brought you in, did you notice their rifles?"

 

"Single shot, but they also had knives." Sheppard shook his head. "I couldn't chance fighting them."

 

"Single shot is right. All the grunts have them, while Olmos and his lieutenants—"

 

"Who?

 

Rodney sighed. "The gray haired guy with the pitted face looks like Edward James Olmos. Focus, will you? He and his top guys have repeaters. So, if we go with the theory that the guys with the most powerful weapons run the show—"

 

Realization dawned on Sheppard. "Then we can play them against one another, convince the guys low on the totem pole it's time to snatch our guns and stage a revolt."

 

"Right. We get them to attack each other, slip out in the confusion, and head back to the gate. But, look, we've got to make sure to get our hands on our IDC's or at least our radios. Otherwise, Atlantis won't lower the shield."

 

It was a good plan; the only way it could have been better is if it had actually worked.

 

* * *

 

"How were we supposed to know the guard was Olmos' son?"

 

Ronon growled, and Rodney shrank back. He and Sheppard had put their plan into action as soon as the guards marched Ronon into the cell. They seemed to be going for it too. The younger guard left with a promise of retrieving the guns and one tac vest. ("It has my allergy pills," Rodney lied.) Instead, the guard brought back his pit-faced father. They took Sheppard then. That was some time ago.

 

Rodney turned his attention to Watkins. The corporal's fever had spiked, and Rodney tried in vain to recall how Jennifer cared for him during his various illnesses. Unfortunately, those memories focused more on her gentle touch than her medical technique, and he doubted playing with the hair on the back of the corporal's neck would lower his body temperature. More likely, the resultant embarrassment would raise Rodney's own.

 

Mopping the forehead with a wet cloth might be the way to go. Once during a strep throat outbreak, his mother spent an entire night at his bedside with a cloth and a bowl of cool water. He awoke every few hours to find her hovering over him with actual concern in her eyes. Resentment replaced concern the next morning, but it was still one of his fondest childhood memories.

 

Rodney had neither cloth nor canteen at hand. He checked the corporal for loose clothing. Finding none, he settled for his own dry shirtsleeve. Let none ever accuse Rodney McKay of not being a team player.

 

He offered to check Ronon's wound as well. For what he did not know unless some long buried memory of his mother treating a bullet wound suddenly resurfaced... No? The Satedan rebuffed the offer anyway, telling Rodney that the villagers had "dug out" the bullet. Eww. Rodney thought it a good sign until Ronon disabused him of the opinion. "They're keeping us alive to make us slaves."

 

* * *

 

"How were we supposed to know the guard was Olmos' son?"

 

Ronon growled, and Rodney shrank back. He and Sheppard had put their plan into action as soon as the guards marched Ronon into the cell. They seemed to be going for it too. The younger guard left with a promise of retrieving the guns and one tac vest. ("It has my allergy pills," Rodney lied.) Instead, the guard brought back his pit-faced father. They took Sheppard then. That was some time ago.

 

Rodney turned his attention to Watkins. The corporal's fever had spiked, and Rodney tried in vain to recall how Jennifer cared for him during his various illnesses. Unfortunately, those memories focused more on her gentle touch than her medical technique, and he doubted playing with the hair on the back of the corporal's neck would lower his body temperature. More likely, the resultant embarrassment would raise Rodney's own.

 

Mopping the forehead with a wet cloth might be the way to go. Once during a strep throat outbreak, his mother spent an entire night at his bedside with a cloth and a bowl of cool water. He awoke every few hours to find her hovering over him with actual concern in her eyes. Resentment replaced concern the next morning, but it was still one of his fondest childhood memories.

 

Rodney had neither cloth nor canteen at hand. He checked the corporal for loose clothing. Finding none, he settled for his own dry shirtsleeve. Let none ever accuse Rodney McKay of not being a team player.

 

He offered to check Ronon's wound as well. For what, he did not know, unless some long buried memory of his mother treating a bullet wound suddenly resurfaced... No? The Satedan rebuffed the offer anyway, telling Rodney that the villagers had dug out the bullet. Eww. Rodney thought it a good sign until Ronon disabused him of the opinion.

 

"They're keeping us alive to make us slaves."

 

* * *

 

Hours had passed since his last meal, and his captors had not fed him. Rodney knew he should conserve his strength, but he ended up wasting precious calories pacing. It helped him think, and he had to think or he'd scream.

 

In desperation, his mind cycled through all the escape movies he'd seen: The Great Escape, The Wooden Horse, The Shawshank Redemption, and for good measure five or six episodes of the Prison Break television series. Lack of time and equipment would prevent him from putting Andy Dufresne's or Michael Scofield's plans into action. He needed something simpler.

 

Though it was not strictly an escape movie, his mind kept returning to the Sergio Leone western For A Few Dollars More. Its one actual escape involved well armed bandits rescuing their incarcerated leader. Rodney supposed his brain might be telling him to sit tight and wait for Colonel Carter to send a rescue party. She would if his team missed more than one scheduled check-in.

 

That was the safest course, but his brain should know better than to suggest inaction. He'd never go for it. Dr. Rodney McKay might hesitate to walk directly into danger, he might even freeze when danger walked in on him, but he could not stand idleness.

 

So what was his brain trying to tell him?

 

Another scene from For A Few Dollars More came to mind. In it, Clint Eastwood and Lee Van Cleef break into a shack housing the proceeds from a robbery. Eastwood wants the money; Van Cleef wants revenge on the bandit who murdered his daughter. The shack is heavily guarded, so the door is a no-go. Instead, they come in through the roof.

 

Could he? The ceiling was too high. Could they? Quickly, Rodney reviewed what he knew about the building. It was a single story structure with a gabled roof, windows apparent on at least three sides, and a single door facing away from the trail so that the villagers had to march them around most of the perimeter before they could enter.

 

"Ronon, wake up." He nudged the Satedan with his foot. "Come on, up and at 'em, big guy. I need a boost."

 

* * *

 

To his relief, Rodney found the ceiling was not solid but tiled, and the tiles were of a manageable weight. Once among the rafters, he had the run of the building. He had hoped for a clear shot to an exit, maybe through a removable air vent, but the air holes were cut directly into the wood. Plan B, then.

 

Testing each step to avoid creaking the rafters, he advanced until directly above the outer door. The multi-room structure had a central hallway leading to the double doors of what he assumed was a master suite. Rooms, including the cell, were located to either side of the hall. Prying up a tile in the hall would be too risky. A room, then, preferably one of the two nearest the exit.

 

Problem: those were the rooms most likely to be occupied if the villagers were thinking logically. Were they? Escaping the cell had been exceptionally easy, and Rodney was ashamed it had taken him so long to figure out how. Maybe Sheppard was right, and the villagers weren't too bright. Or maybe they never had cause to hold more than one prisoner at a time. With no furniture in the room, not even a pallet for a bed, the ten foot walls could not be scaled without a team effort.

 

One prisoner at a time. The thought chilled him. Because he knew of no one, not even a peaceable trader, who would willingly travel the gate network alone. What do they do with the other prisoners?

 

Rodney decided to risk one of the closest rooms. Prying a tile from above proved more difficult that pushing from below, and he longed for a flathead screwdriver to wedge beneath. When he managed to lift the tile a few inches, it slipped from his grasp and clattered back into place. He stopped breathing and strained his hearing. He shut his eyes too, a conditioned reflex when death was imminent.

 

Thirty seconds passed with no muffled shouts of "Intruder!" or "He's right above us, boys!" reaching his ears. More importantly, no bullets punctured the ceiling, though phantom sounds convinced him he'd heard gunshots. Even when reasonably certain he was safe, Rodney hesitated.

 

"Stay put," fear's siren song demanded. Ronon would get out and save them all. Carter would send help soon, probably already had. Those phantom shots weren't phantom at all. Marines were even now swarming the village, demanding his safe return. Right? No sense getting himself killed when help was only minutes away.

 

"Goddamn it."

 

A deep steadying breath, and Rodney told his cowardice where to go. Hands shaking, he began working on the tile again, grumbling all the while that a scientist shouldn't have to put up with this kind of shi—

 

Got it. Tile out of the way, he could see the room was empty. A single candle banished enough darkness to reveal not sleeping quarters as he'd expected, or a storage closet as he'd hoped, but what appeared to be a shrine. Benches lined every inch of the wall, and in the center stood a kneeling altar. Rodney grinned. That was no religious icon on display atop it; that was a tac vest.

 

He dropped into the room, trying to fall into a crouch but ending up on his butt. At least the carpet absorbed the sound of his fall. He snatched the vest and tried it on. Too small. It wasn't his, meaning there'd be no life signs detector. But there might be...yes, a power bar. Half of one anyway. Making a face, he ate around the teeth marks, then tossed the crumbs and the wrapper behind the altar. He adjusted the straps and zipped up the vest.

 

He turned, intending to give the room a final once over before trying for the exit but stopped dead when his eyes settled on the altar. The vest's placement had obscured a gruesome mural. Robed revelers, their rifles raised in exultation, surrounded a man tied to a stone slab. Looming above him was a feral, gray-haired man, knife poised for a killing blow. The scene was set indoors, but the stargate was distantly visible through a window over the feral man's shoulder.

 

It clicked. That's why the entrance was behind the building - so the picture window in the main suite would have a view of the stargate. Rodney's team weren't in a prison. They were in a church.

 

And they weren't spared to be slaves, but sacrifices.

 

Sheppard!

 

Rodney was turning the doorknob before he stopped himself. The villagers could be right outside, and getting himself captured again would do his teammates no good. He checked the mural. Assuming it was accurate, this cult observed its sacrifices at sunrise. No sunlight had shown through the building's ventilation when he'd been up there. He might still have time.

 

In a perfectly ordered universe, he'd find a robe hanging nearby to use as a disguise. No such luck. Maybe he shouldn't have said "goddamn" earlier. He cracked the door a smidgen to survey the hall, then eased it shut. A half dozen men in robes milled about. All were armed.

 

Standing atop one of the benches, Rodney could just about touch the ceiling. Fortunately, the benches weren't bolted down, so he arranged the lot of them in a stairstep fashion than enabled him to reach the rafters and cross to the room opposite.

 

He'd noticed an icon on the altar that looked like a shield. The villagers might well have mistaken the tac vest for armor. There was no mistaking the P90s though. They were most definitely weapons. It stood to reason that, if they enshrined armor under a shield icon, they might enshrine a gun under a weapon icon.

 

Two extra clips were attached to his vest. If he could get his hands on a gun, he could mount a rescue mission. When he lifted a tile over the second shrine, however, the P90 wasn't there. And the room wasn't empty.

 

* * *

 

Ten seconds felt like ten minutes as Rodney lowered the ceiling tile and eased himself away. Fitting an ammo clip into place between the tile and its groove created a half-inch gap he could see through while waiting for the man kneeling at the altar to finish praying and leave. Syllables rolled off the worshiper's tongue; amid the babble, Rodney discerned variations of the Ancient words for blood, death, and...pastry? The rest was filler, pleasant enough sounds with no real meaning.

 

Habit soon had Rodney checking his wrist for the time piece that should have been there. A braver man would take advantage of an obviously distracted bad guy with his back turned. Ronon would drop into the room silent as a cat, knock the guy out, and snatch his robe. Rodney wasn't sure exactly how to go about knocking someone out. He knew the mechanics of rendering a person unconscious - pressure points and all that - and had successfully done so in the past. But those successes he attributed more to luck than to skill.

 

He considered abandoning his perch and checking a room down the hall, but he'd already invested so much time here. Besides, how much longer could the guy be? Sunrise was coming, and the victim wasn't going to slaughter himself. Rodney fantasized about calling down from above, "Enough already, my child. Go in peace," or, better yet, "I command you to set your captives free." Instead, he mentally ticked off another minute on his imaginary wristwatch.

 

Below, the hood of the worshiper's robe fell away, revealing a head of bushy hair Rodney would have sworn was Sheppard's. He had the presence of mind not to call out. Good thing too. Before the scientist could process the stupidity of his conclusion, the faux-Sheppard threw back his head. Bushy might describe the hair in the back; up front, nonexistent would be more apt. Rodney ran sympathetic fingers across his own widow's peak.

 

At last, the worshiper stood. Rodney expected him to turn and immediately exit the shrine. Quashing that expectation, the bald son of a bitch reached for the gun laying on the altar. Not a P90, not a 9mm, but Ronon's energy weapon.

 

Rodney could see fingers wrapping around the grip, a hand raising the gun, and a crimson-tinged energy bolt streaking toward his hiding place.

 

Opening his eyes revealed the gun unmoved, still on the altar, the worshiper caressing rather than holding it. Like rubbing the Buddha's belly for luck, Rodney thought. Jennifer had rubbed his belly after they made love. Putting that thought out of his head took some work, and before it was over, he had to shift positions to alleviate pressure forming just south of his belly.

 

When the worshiper shut the door behind him, Rodney dropped into the shrine. This time he landed on his feet. It was almost graceful, and he wished someone had been there to see.

 

Wasting no time, he transferred the gun from its place of honor to a place of utility - his own right hand. He flicked on the power, and the hum of the active power cell filled his ears. The cell strength indicator showed a one quarter charge. Disappointing, but not surprising after the workout Ronon had given the gun that night. An inventory of the tac vest turned up no spare power cells.

 

Rodney frowned. Was there some undocumented scientific law that last minute rescues must be this difficult? Ha. Maybe that would be his next research project, proving the McKay Need Fulfillment Ratio: In any rescue attempt undertaken by Dr. Rodney McKay, needs are inversely proportional to their satisfaction.

 

He eased the door open onto an empty hall. Or rather an emptying one. The double doors of the main suite - chapel, he corrected himself - were rapidly closing as the last robed villager filed through. Sunrise! Sheppard! Shit!

 

Sprinting down the hall, Rodney tried the cell door. Locked, and no key in sight. Well, that wasn't strictly true. He stepped back and fired a stun bolt at the lock. No effect. He tried the kill setting, conscious of the drain on power. That did it.

 

"Ronon, it's McKay. Don't ambush me or hit me or..." Through the doorway he could see Corporal Watkins sitting up against the wall. Sweat poured down his face, but he was awake.

 

"M-morning, Doc." Watkins spoke shakily as if struggling to breathe. "Hear you p-played nursemaid while I napped. Obliged."

 

It surprised Rodney how much the corporal's west Texas accent offset his physical resemblance to Aiden Ford. He'd forgotten about it when the boy was asleep.

 

"Later," Rodney said. "Where's Ronon?"

 

"Followed you up there." Watkins pointed at the ceiling. "Took everything I had to lift him. Slumped down here and haven't been able to get up since."

 

Rodney cursed. If Ronon was well enough to be in the rafters, he was well enough to be...standing right beside him.

 

"Saw you drop down. Followed you." Ronon held out a hand for his gun.

 

Decision time. Rodney could insist on playing the hero and rescue Sheppard himself, a feat he had just worked up the courage to attempt. Or he could put Sheppard's fate in the hands of an experienced soldier. "You sure you're—?"

 

"Bleeding's stopped. I'm fine."

 

Wounded or no, the Satedan was the right choice. Rodney handed over the gun. "Through those doors. They're going to kill Sheppard, sacrifice him like some animal."

 

"I saw the pictures," Ronon said. "Stay with Watkins."

 

"The hell I am. I'm going to search these other rooms. Maybe find something useful."

 

Ronon shrugged then jogged off to save the day.

 

By the time Rodney made a move for the room across the hall, the shooting had started. The screaming started a moment later when he flung open the door and found himself staring into a pair of feral eyes he remembered all too well.

 

* * *

 

Thumbs sank into Rodney's windpipe. The pulse thrumming in his ears deafened him to the spit-laced invectives Olmos was pummeling him with. His eyelids fluttered. No! If they closed, they'd never open again. Never see her again. Her soft blond hair and warm brown eyes. Brown like aged scotch. No, she's a beer girl. Eyes like pale ale.

 

How could she think he didn't care? Believe me, you have to. "I love you."

 

"What?" Disgusted, Olmos pushed Rodney an arm's length away, loosening his grip in the process. "What did you say?"

 

Rodney could breathe again, think again...sort of. His addled brain took in the pitted face before him and substituted for it another face just as pitted. Short, gray hair lengthened, darkened. A leather jerkin and fur replaced the ceremonial robe. He'd seen the Bola Kai for mere seconds on New Athos, but the image of that animal would be burned into Rodney's memory until his dying day.

 

"Bastard," Rodney hissed. He lashed out with a foot, driving his boot's heavy steel toe into the Bola Kai's shin. Kicking harder at the same spot, Rodney felt give and heard bone snap.

 

With a roar, the animal tossed him aside. One step on the injured leg, and the Bola Kai collapsed. The knife he drew reminded Rodney of something he'd seen in a mural. He didn't care.

 

"I'll kill you for touching her."

 

"Doc, he's got a knife." The shout came from behind him, but Rodney ignored it. Only one voice could stop him now, and she was safe in the jumper, guarded by Ronon and Sheppard. While he cleaned up the trash. You're the one she loves, one or the other of them had said. This is your responsibility. He shouldered it gladly.

 

For a Bola Kai, the knife play was clumsy, limited to wild slashes and desperate, lunging thrusts whenever his opponent came into range. He was on the defensive, and he knew it.

 

Enough of this. Rodney seized an ammo clip from his tac vest and hurled it at the animal's head. The impact disoriented him and loosened his grip on the knife. Before he could regain his bearings, Rodney's foot connected solidly with his chin. His head snapped back and smacked the floor.

 

Rodney lowered himself over the Bola Kai, pressing a knee into his solar plexus to expel the air from his lungs and pitch his upper body forward. Rodney struck him once, twice, three times until his fists were bloody. Then he shoved the animal's knife under his nose.

 

"Thank whatever god you worship that you didn't defile her. If you had, I'd shove this somewhere very unpleasant." He drew the blade down the Bola Kai's lip, splitting it as the bastard's hand had split Jennifer's.

 

"But first," Rodney continued, "I'd shave off that filthy mustache of yours." He stared. The Bola Kai had no mustache. Gone too were the long hair and furs.

 

"Olmos?" Rodney let the knife slip. Olmos grabbed for it.

 

"Don't even think about it, old man!" Corporal Watkins crouched in the doorway opposite the cell, the business end of a P90 aimed at Olmos. "Doc, the knife."

 

Rodney secured the blade just as the chapel doors swung open and Ronon emerged supporting a half-conscious John Sheppard. The Satedan stopped dead in his tracks at the image of Rodney McKay holding a knife on the battered leader. Ronon glanced at Watkins. "You?"

 

"It was all Dr. McKay. Impressive as hell if you ask me. Thought I was going to have to pull him off the old fellow."

 

Ronon set his jaw firmly, caught Rodney's eye, and nodded once. Rodney nodded back, then broke out a grin. He raised the knife to his lips and blew imaginary smoke away from a pretend barrel. At Ronon's quizzical expression, Rodney said, "Clint Eastwood."

 

Ronon smiled. He never missed Movie Night if a western was playing.

 

Sheppard stirred. "Why are we not moving?"

 

"John?" Rodney stood.

 

"We took out seven in there—"

 

"We?" Ronon said.

 

"Rodney took out one in here," Sheppard continued. "Impressed by the way. But twelve villagers captured us last night. And a village this size is bound to have even more."

 

"Which means we have to move now," Rodney concluded.

 

A search revealed that, besides the cell and the chapel, all the rooms were shrines. Rodney recovered a P90, which he clipped to his tac vest, a 9mm, which he tucked into his waistband, and another tac vest - his own. He almost kissed the life signs detector he found in one of the pockets, but that wouldn't have turned it on. He pressed the activation button.

 

Damn. They had to hurry.

 

* * *

 

Rodney was not sure whether the ceremonial robes made them more or less conspicuous, but at least the hoods hid their faces. Four men exiting the village in daylight could not fail to garner attention, particularly when two of those men could not walk by themselves and had to lean heavily against the ambulatory for support.

 

"Are they following?" Sheppard hissed.

 

Rodney was tempted to demand quiet lest Sheppard draw attention to their position. "Not yet, but the life signs detector shows at least five people between us and the gate. So be ready."

 

It was a straight shot to the stargate since the village religion demanded the gate be visible during the sacrifices. Maybe they thought of it as the eyeball of god. Too Lord of the Rings for Rodney's taste.

 

"We're coming up on the first. To the left, ten feet off the trail."

 

Ronon flicked off the safety on the 9mm. The power cell on his gun had died in the middle of Sheppard's rescue, forcing the Satedan to "improvise." Rodney decided not to ask what that meant, though the bloodstains on their disguises gave him a pretty good idea. He had offered the Satedan one of the weapons he recovered, and Ronon picked the handgun.

 

They passed the first sentry without incident, and the second. Rodney began to hope, but the serious looks on the faces of the soldiers dashed that quickly.

 

The third, the fourth. A gunshot rang out, and Rodney swore he could feel the bullet's impact. But the shot had been in the distance. Another shot, this one very close. The fifth sentry lay dead on the ground, blood spilling out of a hole in his chest.

 

Smoke swirled around Ronon's 9mm. "Run," he demanded.

 

Rodney checked the life signs detector. More than thirty blips rapidly closing in. But none between them and the gate.

 

There, he leaned Watkins against the DHD and began dialing. The corporal ripped his robe down the center so he could access the P90 clipped to his vest. God bless the US Marine Corps, Rodney thought, divesting himself of his own robe as soon as the gate had a lock.

 

He searched the tac vest pockets. No, no, no. Home was on the other side of the wormhole, but so was an impenetrable force shield that would prevent his team's rematerialization. "Watkins, do you have an IDC? A radio? Anyone?"

 

The villagers were close enough Rodney could hear them. "We are so screwed."

 

* * *

 

"Come on, come on, come on, come on, come on!"

 

The longest thirty seconds of his life, Rodney spent crouched behind the DHD, railing at the stargate like it was Radek Zelenka. A bug, a bullet, or a burst of wind might delay the wormhole's collapse long enough for that crucial universe-splitting moment when one Rodney McKay goes home and another lies dead in the dirt. He opened fire when the villagers entered range, and his shell casings tinkled over the DHD buttons like tiny mallets striking the keys of a toy xylophone. For one of the McKays, it would make for a strange funeral dirge.

 

For the other...

 

The wormhole collapsed. His first temptation was to pound the symbols in rapid succession, but he made himself take the time to press each deliberately. Cover fire by his teammates scattered the villagers, but Rodney doubted he'd get more than one chance to dial before someone wised up and targeted the guy operating the DHD.

 

The corporal's condition meant he could barely hold his P90 steady, much less aim with any great accuracy. As long as he kept it pointed in the general direction of the enemy, though, and limited his fire to short, staccato outbursts, the automatic weapon did its job. Ronon with his handgun and Sheppard with a repeater swiped from the church handled the marksmanship.

 

When the gate established a lock, Rodney yanked Watkins to his feet and retreated backwards, continuing to fire until he passed the event horizon. Dusk was nearing on the new world, and Rodney's eyes took their time adjusting to the change in light.

 

He shuttled Watkins far to the side of the gate before lowering him onto the grass. Enough light remained to make the dark spot on the boy's tac vest evident. Unzipping it, Rodney found the shirt beneath soaked. Back in the church, dried blood had stiffened the tee so that it hung at an odd angle off Watkins' frame when he stood. Now, it stuck to his stomach and made a slurping sound when Rodney lifted it.

 

Rodney searched the vest for bandages, tore one open and...

 

What the hell do I do? He needed water to clean the wound, right? He was about to call for Sheppard when Ronon knelt beside him. The Satedan really was silent as a cat.

 

Ronon took the bandage. "Sheppard wants to talk to you."

 

"You're going to..." Rodney indicated the corporal.

 

"Field medical training. Required in the Satedan military."

 

Ronon went to work on Watkins, who was mumbling about how nice the grass felt against the back of his head, and Rodney went to Sheppard. The colonel was leaning against the DHD counting cartridges.

 

"You won't need those," Rodney said. "The villagers won't follow. Even if someone managed to memorize which six symbols I used, the odds of entering the correct sequence at random are—"

 

"One in 720, I know." Sheppard pointed at himself. "Math Major, remember?"

 

"Right."

 

"I'm more concerned about the locals." Sheppard slid a cartridge into the chamber.

 

"Why? Don't you know where we are?"

 

"That's what I wanted to ask you about - where we are and why we're here."

 

Rodney laughed. "You really don't recognize it? Of course not. You haven't been here in two years, and you never came through the gate on foot. We're on M7G-677."

 

"The kids' planet? But you hate this place."

 

"It's my own personal hell, yes. But hell gets good reception since we gave them a radio." Rodney surveyed the lake and the nearby forest. "I had hoped they'd post a sentry or something. Keras always sends someone to meet us when they call for assistance."

 

"That's what we get for showing up unannounced." Sheppard slung the rifle over his shoulder. "All right, let's go."

 

"Us? You could barely walk back on the trail."

 

"I was drugged, probably a muscle relaxant, but it's wearing off." Sheppard cupped his hands in front of his mouth. "Ronon! We're going for a jog. You see any kids, even if they're armed, don't shoot 'em. Tell 'em you're from Atlantis and that Uncle Rodney is here."

 

"And promise them chocolate," Rodney added. "Lots and lots of chocolate."

 

* * *

 

"Ares is as much of a prick as ever, isn't he?"

 

Rodney watched him scurry up the rope ladder that led to the village elders' treehouse. Because of the scientist's intervention two years ago, the electromagnetic dampening field protecting the villages of this planet had expanded, allowing the population to grow. Keras had reportedly been taking advantage of the situation with a rather attractive redhead when Rodney and Sheppard showed up. Ares had gone to fetch him.

 

Cleo tugged on Rodney's sleeve. "What's a prick?"

 

Rodney exhaled loudly and massaged the area between his eyes. He'd almost rather face Olmos again than an inquisitive twelve-year-old girl he'd apparently just taught to curse.

 

Sheppard answered for him. "A very unpleasant person."

 

"Then Rodney's a prick." That was Casta. Puberty's onset had convinced him that Ares had the right attitude about full-growns.

 

"I like Rodney," Cleo insisted.

 

"You would."

 

Keras descended, hair disheveled and grinning. "Here is the radio."

 

Rodney snatched it. "Oh, thank God."

 

Cleo said, "Who's God?"

 

Rodney groaned.

 

* * *

 

Dusk had come and gone by the time they returned, and Rodney figured they'd missed at least two check-ins. If Carter had sent out a rescue team, he hoped they went heavily armed.

 

He entered the address by torchlight, sighing in relief when the comforting glow of the wormhole washed over him.

 

"Atlantis, this is Sheppard. Hope you haven't given up on us."

 

Carter's voice answered over the radio's speaker. "Good to hear from you, Colonel. You had us worried."

 

"Sorry about that, Colonel Carter. We ran into trouble."

 

"Have you rendezvoused with Major Lorne's team?"

 

"We're not on M4S-392 anymore, and I'd suggest you get Lorne out of there ASAP. The locals are pretty vicious."

 

"That's what Lorne reported."

 

They could hear Carter give the order to lower the shield.

 

Sheppard said, "I'll need you to send a medical team here. We've got casualties."

 

"How many?"

 

"Four."

 

In the background, someone said, "Isn't that the entire team?"

 

"Watkins is shot," Sheppard went on. "I'd rather not move him again unless it's on a stretcher. Ronon's shot too, but he's walking it off. McKay and I are just banged up. I'll send McKay through. He'll brief you on what we need."

 

* * *

 

The wormhole died without Rodney noticing. Vaguely, he was aware of Colonel Carter descending the stairs from the control room and heading his way, but what held his attention was the brown wheeled suitcase seemingly abandoned to the side of the gate platform. Days ago, he wheeled that suitcase in here and watched someone else disappear with it through the stargate.

 

He answered Carter's questions on autopilot, his eyes straining to see past her as far as possible down the hall to the infirmary. In moments, his suspicion was confirmed. He'd broken his promise.

 

Jennifer Keller helped push a gurney into the gate room. One hand rested on the medical bag thrust atop the rolling bed; the other clutched its rail with a grip so tight it blanched her knuckles.

 

Look up, he silently begged.

 

She complied, and, for the second time in a week, he saw tears she was too stubborn to vocalize slide down her cheeks.

 

Carter also noticed the medical team's arrival and turned to give the order to dial M7G-677. Rodney estimated he had thirty seconds, forty-five at the most, before the technician finished dialing and the medical team would be expected to begin their transit. He moved past Carter and went to Jennifer.

 

When she opened her mouth to speak, Rodney claimed her lips, crushing her against the P90 clipped to his chest. Kissing with a split lip hurt as much as he predicted; still he didn't stop until he heard the whoosh of the wormhole forming behind him. As much as she needed his touch after New Athos, he needed hers now.

 

"I meant it," Rodney said, "every word." His eyes bored into hers, willing her to believe.

 

She nodded absently, the blush caused by his kiss fading to a pallid white as she scrutinized his appearance. Her fingers caressed his bruised face and throat, deft hands and sharp eyes searching out his injuries. "What happened to you?"

 

"This? It's nothing. Couldn't let you hog all the sympathy."

 

She almost smiled at that but sobered quickly. "Lorne found your jacket and all that blood in the chapel. I thought..."

 

"It's okay." He wiped away fresh tears with the pad of his thumb. "I'm okay, and I'll be here when you get back."

 

"Promise?"

 

He nodded. "This time, I'll even keep it."

 

* * *

 

Twas the kiss seen round the city, or so it seemed.

 

Word of Rodney and Jennifer's very public display of affection streaked through Atlantis' gossip network faster than news of Teyla's pregnancy. The way some told the tale, Jennifer slugged him and demanded an immediate transfer back to Earth. Others swore they began undressing each other on the spot, and Carter had to call security to separate them. Most agreed that he picked up her suitcase. The point of contention was whether he pitched it off the balcony or took it to his quarters where she'd secretly been living for months. He did take her luggage. That much was true, but he stowed it in her office, not his quarters or hers - which were separate. And it stayed put until she returned. So did he, like he promised.

 

Gossip was going to be a problem for the two of them. Being seen locked in a passionate embrace with a beautiful woman did more for his ego than anything in recent memory, but his ego wasn't worth her discomfort. They hadn't discussed the public aspects of their relationship. Before their night together, he hadn't been certain they were in a relationship. Come to think of it, he still wasn't sure.

 

If she wanted to keep things professional in public, he would understand. Both of them were acutely aware of her status as the only department head on Atlantis under thirty. Add to that the fact that she was a woman and had to work twice as hard for half the respect. The possibility that anyone might attribute her success to her sleeping with him made him angrier than he could have imagined.

 

Those were thoughts for another day. He took a deep, cleansing breath and rounded the corner into the infirmary. A doctor had checked him out earlier and sent him away with an armful of analgesic cream, ice packs, and acetaminophen. Jennifer had been in surgery with Watkins at the time, and Rodney surprised himself by not being too jealous. It helped that he found he was developing genuine affection for the boy. After all, Watkins had been present for Rodney's incident on M4S-392, and that kind of stuff bonds people even if you're half out of your mind when it happens.

 

Watkins was still in post-op recovery, but Rodney put in face time with Ronon and Sheppard. Fortunately, Teyla was there and handled most of the conversation, allowing Rodney to bow out when he caught sight of Jennifer.

 

The lovely doctor crooked a finger, and he followed her into her office. "Jenni—"

 

"Wait." She held up a hand and lowered her fingers one at a time. "...Three, two, one. There, I am officially off duty." Leaning forward, she kissed him, a quick peck on the lips.

 

He took it as a good sign.

 

"I got you something. On Earth. Well, obviously. Where else have I been lately, right?" Her hand dived into her suitcase. "You didn't snoop around in here, did you?"

 

"Scout's honor."

 

Jennifer raised a brow.

 

"Cross my heart. Hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye. If I'd known about a present though..."

 

Laughter like music flowed from her lips. "Okay, I believe you. Now, sit down and close your eyes."

 

When she said he could look, she was holding open a blue hinged-box. Inside, mounted on a tiny pillow, was an expensive wristwatch. The way Jennifer held it made Rodney think she should have been on one knee.

 

"It's shock resistant to ISO standards, waterproof to 200 meters, and it even has an electronic compass if you get lost offworld. Since you broke your last one rescuing me, and I was planning to get you something anyway, I figured..." She indicated his wrist. "May I?"

 

He nodded, and she unclipped it from its little pillow and slid it over his wrist, making him shiver at the contact. She fastened it just right, not so tight it would leave a mark, not too loose it would shift position. His second-in-command's engagement wristwatch came to mind. "Have you been talking to Radek?"

 

Jennifer shook her head. "No more than usual. Why?"

 

"No reason." Rodney found he was a little disappointed at that. While he was examining his new toy and thinking it was much too nice to wear offworld, Jennifer surreptitiously closed the blinds.

 

Privacy assured, she said, "Thank you, Rodney."

 

Confusion crinkled his brow. "Aren't I the one who should be saying that? This watch must have cost you a fortune. It's much nicer than the one I broke."

 

She explained: "I appreciate what you said to me i-in bed the other night. I know it was a lot for me to spring on you, and I'm sorry. But I don't want you to think you have to keep saying it."

 

"Jennifer—"

 

"No, it's okay you don't feel the same. I can take it as long as we're honest with each other."

 

Rodney shook his head. He thought they'd cleared this up. "Is this because I hesitated?"

 

"You looked like you were going to be sick."

 

"I was scared."

 

"Well, I'm letting you off the hook. We can go back to how things were before." Her voice dropped. "We can even keep sleeping together. I just don't want us to end because I was vulnerable and said something stupid."

 

"Jennifer, I was scared you didn't mean it."

 

"You doubted me?"

 

"I doubted me. Do you not know how amazing—?" His voice hitched. Unable to speak, he drew her to him and hugged her waist. She steadied herself against his shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck. God, he loved it when she did that. Finally, he managed to squeak out, "You deserve so much better than me."

 

"There is no one better, Rodney. You—" It was her turn to be choked up. "You're the one I want. You're perfect."

 

He snorted. "We both know that's not true."

 

"You're perfect for me. Why did you doubt?"

 

"Honey, you'd just been through some pretty messed up stuff." There was no need to specify. The best cosmetics couldn't render the rapidly healing cut on and below her lip invisible at this distance. "And you said it at a very...strategic time."

 

"Strategic?"

 

"Right after you, uh, reached your happy place."

 

"My happy...oh."

 

"I've heard it's a very emotional time for a woman."

 

"And you think it was my...what, hormones talking?"

 

"Thought," he corrected. "For like two seconds."

 

"What turned you around?"

 

"I decided it didn't matter. Whether you loved me or not, it didn't change how I feel about you." He took her hands, gazed deeply into her eyes. "Jennifer Annabelle Keller, I love you more than I have ever loved anyone, more than I thought myself capable of loving anyone. And I will tell you so every time I see you and as often as it takes until you believe me."

 

"Rodney, my middle name is not Annabelle."

 

"Well, you never told me your middle name, and it seemed like a middle name moment."

 

She laughed. "Suppose I tell you that I believe you. How often will you say it then?"

 

"Every time still. I love you, Jennifer."

 

"In that case, Meredith Rodney McKay..." Each name she punctuated with a kiss, the last one taking on a life of its own and ending with both of them breathless and clinging to one another for support. "In that case, I love you, too."

 

THE END