Camouflage
Brown.
A deep, velvety shade. Rich. Intoxicating. A shade a man could easily lose himself in, could fall into the chocolate depths, and happily. Would succumb to any and all demands. Amber sparks glinted. Carson Beckett smiled at his thoughts as he shone the light into Moira Sheppard's eyes. Knowing full well that John Sheppard had fallen into those deep, expressive depths and never intended to leave.
"Well?" John asked, impatient. Worried. He watched Carson examine his wife. Allow her eyes to close once more as she lay on the bed in the infirmary. Check her pulse. Feel her forehead, her rosy cheek.
"The fever is nearly gone now. I'm giving her some antibiotics and I am going to check her blood work. If I didn't know any better I'd say this was a virus...but it could just be the enzyme..." He looked at John. "You say she threw up, then collapsed?"
"Yeah. Threw up a lot, although she hasn't eaten that much since we got back. And she felt hot. We were talking and she just passed out." John did not divulge the conversation as it filled his mind.
"Moira? Are you pregnant?" John asks, as she staggers out of the bathroom. Flushed. Hand on her stomach. Shaky from the vomiting.
Moira stares. Slaps him. Gasps. Touches his stinging cheek. "Sorry! I don't know why I reacted like that! No. No, I'm not pregnant, John!" She lurches to the bed. Sits. Arms folded across her stomach now, hunching over in pain.
"And you said her behavior had become erratic?" Carson asked. "John?"
John was rubbing his cheek, recalling the slap. "Huh? Oh, yes. For a few days now. Like I told you this morning. All over the place. Her moods." He shifted his stance, uncomfortable. Wondering if he was somehow to blame. He glanced at her in the bed. Remembering.
John rubs his stinging cheek, moving to her. "Are you sure? I mean...with all of the sex we've been having, and I–"
"I'm on the pill, John!" she flares, eying him. "So no. I'm not–"
"These things happen, Moira. And I've only occasionally used condoms since we're exclusive and you are on the pill and you've never said anything about–"
"No, John! Okay! I am not pregnant! I'm sick!"
"And how are you feeling? Do you feel sick?" Carson asked.
"No," John replied, shaking off the memory. "I've never felt better, actually." He shrugged. "What do you think it is, Carson?"
"I've no bloody idea, yet, but I will. Don't worry, John," he placed a hand on the other man's arm. "She'll be fine. The fever's abated."
"Okay." John stood close to the bed, gazing down at his wife. Remembering.
"Are you sure, Moira? You...you were with the colonel those three days...and not on the pill when he...when you..." The thought of her being pregnant with his alternate, darker self makes him tense, glower at her. A flood of jealousy causing his hands to form into fists at his sides.
Moira stares at him, straightening in shock. Pain forgotten. "What? No! No...I'm not! John, I am not..." But the possibility flashes in her brown eyes. A look of stunned horror. She rises to her feet, shakes her head. "No, no, it' s not possible! I mean...I wouldn't be exhibiting any symptoms if...it would be too soon. No! I'm sick! It's just the enzyme or..." She doubles over as pain clenches her stomach.
"Moira!" John rushes to catch her before she falls. Anger gone as concern floods him now. He touches her cheek. "You're burning up! Moira? Moira!" She slumps in his arms.
John touched her arm. Fingers gently stroking her bare skin. "Moira," he whispered. Emotion rising to the surface but he pushed it down, pushed it away. Deciding he turned to Carson. The doctor was at a microscope, peering into the lens at a slide. "Carson...I...I think she might be pregnant," he said. A tumult of emotion in that one word.
"I'm not pregnant."
John turned, startled. "Moira?" He sat on the edge of the bed, taking her hand.
Moira blinked, sitting up. She touched her cheek. Stared round a moment, disorientated. "John? What...what happened?"
"You passed out, honey. Don't you remember?" he asked. "How do you feel?"
"Sore. Oh no! I threw up, didn't I? I remember that! I was so hot...so sick..." She drew her hand from his, suddenly remembering everything. She frowned.
John sheepishly shrugged. "Sorry. About that...I...look, it doesn't matter, I mean, if–"
"It's not! I mean I'm not. I..." She felt tears. "Carson?"
Carson joined them. "How do you feel, love? Tell me everything."
Moira relaxed as his blue gaze swept over her. Eyes so kind, so reassuring. Smile gentle. Understanding. As if she could do no wrong. "I...sore. My stomach's sore, probably from the throwing up. I've been feeling sick on and off for a few days now...have only a little appetite. The cramps started this morning...and I've been hot and cold on and off too...I couldn't tell if it was just me, or a virus, or the..." She halted, glanced at John. Recalling the repeated sex they had been having. Over and over.
"All right," Carson smoothed over the awkward pause. "I'm sure it is nothing, and you seem much better now. I'm running a full blood panel as we speak so we will get to the bottom of this. Don't worry. Let me just check you out here, all right?" At her nod he glanced at John. "Could you move back a bit, colonel?"
"Huh? Oh." John stood, stepped away from the bed. Gaze locked on Moira as Carson stepped closer. He lifted her shirt, gently felt her stomach, her abdomen. "Does this hurt?"
"No."
"This?" He pressed near the fading bruise on her side.
"No."
"This?"
"No, ow! Yes...it's just sore," she explained.
"All right. Let me do a scan just to be sure. More than likely it was something you ate. With the enzyme. Three days on that will set you off-balance," he assured, moving to grab an Ancient scanner from a table.
"That wouldn't explain her mood swings," John dourly noted. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. Tense. Agitated.
"Yes, it would, John," Moira disagreed. "The enzyme affects the adrenal glands and brain chemistry to some extent. And I haven't had mood swings!" she added curtly.
He smiled briefly. "Really? Yeah, right. You've been even more mercurial than usual, Moira, and that's saying a lot."
"I'm sure it is for you, flyboy," she taunted, causing his gaze to narrow in reprimand, "but at least I haven't been sexually insatiable like you've been!" she accused in a whisper.
John smiled. "It takes two to tango, baby, and believe me, you tangoed as much as I did."
"You arrogant son of a...results?"
"Results?" John turned to see Carson approaching with a scanner in his hands.
"Not yet, Moira. But this will determine if you have any internal injuries." He ran the device over her stomach, her abdomen. The bruise. Read the screen. Lowered her shirt into place to cover her once more. "No internal injuries. No internal bleeding. No spasms or cysts...and you are not pregnant," he concluded.
Moira glared at John. "Told you." Relief swept through her like a cool breeze.
John's face was a neutral mask. "What did you expect me to think, Moira?"
"If you two were thinking of starting a fam–"
"No! We're not starting that!" Moira declared tersely. "We're not starting anything. We're not having one."
John stared at her, surprised at both the suggestion and her stern, angry denials. "Um, Moira? You mean right now, right? We're not having one right now."
"I meant what I said!" She turned away from him as Carson discreetly walked across the room. "Carson, how long will the blood work take?"
"About an hour, love. Just relax. I'd like you to stay here until I am certain you are fine."
John stepped close to the bed. Touched Moira's hand as she clutched the blanket. "Moira, we um, we haven't even discussed this."
She met his gaze, anger and tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry, John. Can we not talk about this now? Please! I can't talk about this now!"
"All right, sweetheart." He leaned close, kissed her cheek, trying to ameliorate, apologize. But Moira ignored his attempts.
"No, it's not all right, John! My God...do you have any idea the stress I am under right now? Have been for days? Of course you don't," she answered before he could, "because you've been too busy trying to get into my pants as often as you could! You have no idea what I endured on that planet! Trying to survive being hunted by Ford, by his mutated men, by those deformed cavemen! And here! Trying to decipher the flash drive and all of that biological information on the Wraith and the enzyme and the ATA gene! Trying to understand what the colonel wants me to do with it all! Not to mention that now an ex-lover of yours is convinced you slept with her when you didn't and now she's going to pursue you! How many ex-lovers do you have here in Atlantis right now, John? How many?"
"Moira," John tried to temporize, glancing around the infirmary as her voice rose in pitch, in volume, "you are being ridiculous, now just try to–"
"Ridiculous? Am I? Of course you would say that, John, now wouldn't you? How many? How many, damn it! Tell me!" she all but shouted.
John inwardly swore. "Will you calm down! Damn it, Moira, what the hell?"
She stared at him. Sighed. "I...I....sorry, John." She looked at her hands. Twisting her fingers together on her lap. "What am I supposed to do? What if I run into one of them? What if you decide to leave me for one of them? Once you learn the, the truth about me you will leave, you will leave because they always leave they always leave they–"
"Moira!" he barked. His stern voice halting her rising panic. She stared at him. Swallowed. "I won't leave you," he assured in a calmer voice. Quiet. "Okay? Just relax, sweetheart. We can talk about all of this later once you feel better."
"I...sorry, John! I don't know what's wrong."
"We're going to find out." He kissed her brow. "It will be all right, Moira."
"You, you should go. It will be an hour before we know anything definitive. You must have work to do."
"Yes, I do. And I can do it right here. Rest." He pulled up a chair, grabbed his data pad from the floor. Sat near the bed. Began to work on it, eyes on the screen. He glanced at her, saw her staring at him. Calmer. Warmth replacing the anger in her eyes. "What?"
She smiled. "John, you don't have to stay here, really. I'll be fine. Like you said, it's probably nothing."
"No. In an hour we'll see what Carson finds, if anything. Then we can go back to our room so you can rest properly. Besides, this is a nice, quiet place to work." He resumed his gaze on the screen. "Once you are better we have a lot to discuss."
"Oh oh," she muttered. "I don't want to discuss anything. I don't want to talk. To do anything." She touched her sore stomach. "I'm so tired, John."
"Then sleep, Moira. I'll be right here."
Moira sighed. Watching him as he worked. Fingers moving on the keyboard. Handsome face cast in serious lines. Lips pursed together. Whatever he was doing it wasn't pleasant. Wasn't relaxing as his shoulders hunched. A grim resolve colored his features. She wondered. Debated if she should ask or not. Finally her curiosity got the better of her. "John?"
He made an annoyed sound, causing her to smile. "Yes, Moira?"
"What are you doing?"
"Working."
"Yes, I can see you are working, silly. On what? You, you look so, so solemn."
He met her gaze. "Letters. Now please get some rest, honey. I'm not going anywhere."
"Letters?" she asked, puzzled. Then realized. Letters of condolence to the families of the men that had been killed on the mission. To contain Ford. To save her. "Oh..oh...I'm sorry! I'm sorry, John!"
"It's not your fault, Moira," he assured, seeing the guilt. The dismay. "It's mine. Now rest."
"I...I'm sorry, John." She turned onto her side, upset. Settled and closed her eyes. Trying to block all thoughts. All guilt. She opened her eyes to see him working again. Closed them, reassured by his presence.
John sighed. Glanced at Moira to see her resting at last. He frowned. Looked back at the data pad and started on the next letter.