Author's Notes:
Vegas is my favourite SGA episode of all time and I couldn't let it pass by without writing something by way of a tribute. And that ending... well, it was just crying out for an explanation. So here's mine... and it's different...
'Guess Things Happen That Way' is from another Johnny Cash song. The title's apt – the words and tone less so! But 'Solitary Man' was already taken.
Rated 'T' for swearing.
Disclaimer: No, I don't own SGA. And I am humbly grateful always, to be permitted to write SGA stories without any thought of remuneration.
Guess Things Happen That Way - Part One
Heavy beats steady through the air. Thumping at the ground that wakes him. Dust grits, stings his face. Whipped up by down-draughts as the chopper circles low and fast. Stench. Heat of burning, flaming debris. Fires that rise and flutter hard.
He doesn't open his eyes. He knows the Sikorsky Pave Hawk. Even in the haze that passing for thought he knows its height, speed, direction.
The desert again.
Last time hands pulled him free. Pulled others free too and then draped their bodies in tarpaulin. Life can go full circle… except he's alone now… was then… but didn't know it…
Hands nudge, encourage him he is human again and he has to breathe again and know the hurt and the agony again…
He holds a winning hand but can never win when the other player holds all the chips…
Life's sucks…
And the Wraith beckons with black fingers and drools his snarl and says it is his destiny to die in the desert.
Leave me. Leave me here to die. You don't get second chances. Ever. And who wants the pain all over…
Last time… a lifetime… her hand slips from his… she smiles… waves… and he dies every day trying to forget…
-oAo-
"Crap!"
And notes were whipped away out of sight, the table returned from its odd thirty degree angle, beans back on their plates, cutlery back in a military left and right and no one knew the race had ever begun…
Except Woolsey did.
It had been that obvious. Even with Rodney still angelically stuffing his face right in the centre of the action as if nothing had happened… though as far as Rodney was concerned, it never had… money was never going to leave his palms that easily… he'd much rather give the lecture on why the baked bean was ergonomically retarded and therefore could not, theoretically, literally, be considered to roll even if slapped vigorously on the backside by the flat of an eating knife…
Woolsey coughed uncomfortably and Sheppard stared down at his boots, shoving guilty hands deep into his pockets, having had scant time to get himself seated again and make some attempt to look like he had actually come to the dining hall, to… well, dine.
And where the hell was their lookout, a certain Ronon Dex? Payback time, huh, for the popcorn fiasco?… Nothing like a Satedan scorned… and Sheppard imagined him grinning in some darkened corridor… it'd have to be darkened because he'd need lay low from Sheppard for a while yet after this… days, weeks, months…
"Well," and Woolsey coughed again, "it's good to see you all getting in some well-earned rest," and only just succeeded in keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. Lieut. Muldoon nodded, and he and his co-conspirators of six marines stood and dutifully filed off to dispose of their trays.
"Colonel?"
Sheppard breathed out now. Yeah, he could still do nonchalant. Nothing had happened here. He could still do denial.
"Woolsey."
"We've just received a communiqué from SGC. A request. Though you're free to decline." Hell, the man could have radioed that, couldn't he?
"A communiqué? Request? Decline?" Sheppard was still thinking about his lost winnings.
"Communique! Request! Decline! Yes, congratulations, you did get that right, Sheppard! Blow on the head didn't affect your hearing then," said an irritable Rodney, demolishing his blue dessert savagely with a spoon, now he had a level surface to eat off. Sheppard scowled down at him. Perhaps the scientist should have had double portions…
With a nod of his head, Woolsey invited Sheppard to make for the exit. An expression that was grim and deadly serious. This needed to be a private conversation then. And Sheppard dutifully followed. Limping painfully.
Heck, they were in trouble for a little mess hall fun? But this was twice in one week. The first time it'd been Slinky racing down the north west tower stairwell, (who brought Slinkies to Atlantis in their personal stuff?) and Sheppard, in the excitement, dodged round Lieut. Muldoon, tripped, knocked himself out cold, waking up in the infirmary with concussion, bruises, a gashed cheek and a badly sprained ankle. Officially, they said he'd been out running but Woolsey had doubted that… a lot… you could just tell from his face he didn't buy it.
So, it was Sam who'd been sent to try and track down Larrin and her people, to negotiate a deal for a new Control Chair for the defence of Earth, with the plan that Atlantis could then be released back to Pegasus… and it was Lorne who'd ferried Teyla back to the Athosians to see TJ, and to further test whether Radek's new wormhole travel could be applied to Jumpers. And it was Sheppard, left behind, to twiddle his thumbs with the Marines.
Once in the corridor, he tried pleading their case. "Look, the men… they're bored…" Stuck on Atlantis, with no leave. No missions.
"I know," said Woolsey curtly, stopping, facing him, but not meeting his eye, shaking his head in semi-disbelief, "after those events of last week…" when a signal beacon went up from the surface of Earth acting like one enormous Eat for Free neon sign to every Wraith in the Pegasus Galaxy and suddenly, the fight for survival for Earth became Atlantis' fight too. "We were so caught up in those events… quite rightly so… now everything seems something of... an anticlimax." So Woolsey wasn't going to read him the riot act. There was something else troubling him. Then it had to be this… request…
And he handed Sheppard the file he'd been carrying.
Suddenly that knot in his stomach. That awful sense of foreboding… like the time Sam took him to one side and broke the news that his father had passed away… Sheppard accepted the file, not asking why he had to read it. Thinking it though. Showing it. He flicked it open and began scanning the first pages. Boring stuff at first. Names of those who'd compiled the file. Signatures. Qualifications. All entered on differing days. First, the Vegas Metropolitan Police Department. Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada. Then, SGC. IOA. It'd gotten serious then…
"Man power couldn't be spared," explained Woolsey. "A 'B' team was sent to the location. We were still reeling from the loss of Area 51. Counting our losses. Repairs… So there was a delay in putting two and two together… a delay in passing the file over to us…"
A scientific summary followed. And Sheppard paused on the page. "Rodney was right… the beacon came through a time rift?... You told him yet?"
"No. He'll find his own copy waiting for him in his lab."
"Some other bast… sorry… someone else dumped their problem on us?"
"It was probably an accident… totally unintentional… read on… no one was concerned with the 'why' or 'how' at the time… we just had to deal with the consequences… and still do, so this was totally overlooked…" Woolsey was eagerly waiting for Sheppard to get to the punch line, watching him flip over another page.
"Right," and Sheppard nodded solemnly as he reached the relevant part, the part that obviously concerned him, and him alone.
'One white male: airlifted to MOCFH, Nellis, AFB, Nevada. A date. Of a week ago. Condition: critical. Two bullet wounds to upper body. Upper left lung. Kidney through to abdomen. (See enclosed surgeon's notes.)
Further description: About 40. Six foot. 160 Pounds. Medium to slim build. Dark brown hair. Brown eyes.
Clothing: civilian.
Name: John Patrick Sheppard. Verification required. Carries unidentifiable papers. Possibly a driver's licence (?) Footnote: contrary to first premise, evidence of old scar tissue to lower body, dental records, fingerprints, biometric iris recognition, indicate that this is not Lt. Col. John P. Sheppard, currently attached to Cheyenne Mountain.'
A bad photo, paper-clipped to the corner of the page. It could have been a mug shot. Or taken at a morgue. The eyes closed… John Sheppard all the same. Himself...
"He…" and Sheppard swallowed and coughed. "He came through the rift?" His voice hoarse and low.
"Yes, apparently. At the same time as the transmitted beacon."
"A civilian?"
"Or undercover? Off duty?"
"Some day off…"
He read on...
'Wreckage: One silver bullet trailer. Contents: Remnants of transmitter device (?) Difficult to ascertain due to damage. Various notes. Diagrams… Requires further scientific investigation. Suggest contacting Dr. M. R. McKay at Cheyenne Mountain.
One pick-up truck – unidentifiable make.
One red two door car – similarity to Chrysler Camaro. Contents: one hold-all on passenger seat, containing unidentifiable notes, possibly American dollar equivalent. Cell phone on dash. Card of Dr. M. R. McKay in foot well. Car fitted with satellite locator inside engine compartment.'
"Satellite locator? Someone was tracking him?"
'Also on site: Power cable leading to power lines. Suggested possible source of energy.
Shells of A10 Thunderbolts (?)'
"Military got off some shots then. Tried blowing up this device?"
"Looks that way."
"And that caused the rift somehow?"
"We'll get Dr. McKay to look into that."
"No sign of a Wraith? It wasn't this guy sending up the signal?" Just because this was another Sheppard didn't mean he was on the side of the good guys.
"If you look further down. Forensic say there is evidence that a Wraith was on site." Woolsey pulled a face. Even the thought of the remains of a Wraith could turn anyone's stomach. "Though how a Wraith came to be there in the first place is a question that needs answering."
'Also on site: Two high velocity rifles. Unidentifiable make. Trace Wraith DNA and absence of J. Sheppard DNA suggests these were fired exclusively by the Wraith. Twenty dozen rounds spent shells. Same calibre as those extracted from John Sheppard. Same calibre as those fired into the car.
Silver pistol. Unidentifiable make. J. Sheppard DNA and fingerprints. Two empty cartridge clips. Forensic evidence suggests all ammo fired at site.'
This Sheppard armed with only a handgun, went up against a Wraith with two rifles? And people said he had a death wish…
Several photos showing markers on the ground. One indicating the spot where this other Sheppard was found. Blood in the dirt. Twenty feet from the car. The car riddled with bullets. Surrounded by scattered metal and burnt debris of trailer.
"Christ! How did he get out of there?" whispered Sheppard low.
He turned the file round 180 degrees. The man had obviously been heading for the road. And there was just something about this whole scenario that reminded him of the time he went up against the Superwraith… The desert… out of ammo… Jumper… trailer… pile of rocks… the car… same distances…
The guy just hadn't been lucky… and had been working alone…
"So…" Sheppard summed up, "he tried stopping the Wraith before the planes turned up." A regular hero… "Could never have done more than delayed the Wraith… Might have saved the asses of their world and they probably don't even know it."
"Hmm…Possibly true. Anyway, you've been asked to attend the Mike O'Callaghan Federal Hospital and pay him a visit. Like I said, you can decline. No one would think badly of you… But… you're available..." and Woolsey couldn't hide that look of disapproval glancing down at Sheppard's foot. "And we're not going anywhere anytime soon. It was just felt you should have first offer. It's not your normal call of duty… more a humanitarian mission… though the… man does need to be interrogated-" Sheppard eyed him archly back over the top of file. "Sorry, I mean de-briefed… he's said very little as yet on account of his injuries. Even now, after a week, it's doubtful whether he'll survive. Though as you can see, from the blood tests, it's important to us that he does make it-"
"-He's a human being," defended Sheppard. So they were asking him to be a vulture. Get what they could out of the man before he died. And if he lived, if he had potential, though, hey, he had guts, there was no question of that, encourage him to join the Programme. A natural ATA gene holder was always a bonus. But this other thing…
"Yes. Yes. I know that." Woolsey was failing miserably at this. "Look, we're not ogres here," trying to regain ground. "The medical staff say it's a good idea… for him to have… a friendly ear to talk to… as it were…"
And yes, Sheppard was probably the nearest thing that he had to that.
"I'll go." There was never any question that he wouldn't. And he returned the closed file back to Woolsey.
"There's a Gate activation scheduled for you in an hour to take you to SGC. Petersen will take you on to Nellis Air Field Base." And Sheppard nodded and turned to leave.
"Oh, and… congratulations by the way," added Woolsey.
"Huh?"
"Another citation for bravery?" reminded Woolsey.
"Yeah… thanks." He'd forgotten and… hell, he was starting to lose count…
"And… though I'm probably not at liberty to divulge this at the present… but there's talk on the grapevine of promotion… appreciation for your input last week."
"Input?" So that was admin speak for risking your damn neck nowadays.
"Yes, er, that was quite… courageous-"
"-We all were."
-oAo-
"Weird!"
He'd been called a great many things, though, despite what Rodney claimed to the contrary about his pulling skills, by too few women… but never weird. Ok. Maybe… Larrin might have called him that once… twice…
He pulled a face.
"Sorry…" and she cast him another look up and down, as if to make sure she'd got the degree of weirdness just about right in her head, "but you have to admit… it's weird!"
"Yeah… weird…"
"Hmm," she said, realising she'd just blown it, and swung round on her swivel stool, back to her bench, "I'll be with you directly… just finish here," and concentrated on the work before her.
"Fine. Take your time." Seemed like the polite thing to say. To say he didn't mind waiting. Though he'd much rather have left and come back later…
Hospitals gave him the creeps.
A shrink might say there was a childhood link in there, somewhere, that associated hospitals with death, dying, never with healing, getting well. And as much as Sheppard hated the psychology profession, he would have been the last person to disagree with that analysis. Added to that, he'd just about had his fill of horrors in Atlantis' infirmary…
He dug his hands in his pockets and did a small circle of the cupboard-sized laboratory, trying to conceal his limp (he didn't want to go into that right now… she might think he was… weird), pretending to be mildly interested in medical supplies neatly stacked and catalogued on metal shelves, throwing half-glances back in the Doctor's direction. There really was nothing else to look at…
He watched as the medic worked with a test-tube… a sample bottle… whatever… of god knows what… though Sheppard could made a pretty accurate guess… held between forefinger and thumb… swilling its yellowish contents around… holding it up against a bright fluorescent ceiling light of the small lab… examining it closely at eye level… so not bothered that he was observing her… in a… well… bothered sort of way. Insides… squirming with embarrassment so he turned away. Why had every medical doctor he'd ever met always been so pragmatic about these things?
"You know, we had been warned…" she said, at last, "they made us all sign yet another non-disclosure form you see, but still… I hadn't expected, you know... such a close resemblance?"
She placed the test tube with others in a rack on her bench before her, threw her latex gloves into the bin and neatly jumped down from her stool.
"I guess you're used to it?" She asked a little too brightly. Now glove free, she offered her hand. "Dr. Bianca, by the way."
"No. Not really," he said, shaking hands not even close to her level of enthusiasm, remembering the Daedalus, and the sight of himself and three Team members lying dead together in some forgotten corner…
"I'll show you the way now if you like… it's not far," and opened the door for him, following him through.
They walked side by side down a deserted corridor, a cleaner busy shining an already shimmering mirrored floor to a military spick and span. The smells of polish, disinfectant strong in the air.
"He should have been taken to Cheyenne Mountain… all that "Top Secret" stuff, huh?" and she made the inverted commas sign with raised fingers. "But we were told things were a bit hectic there last week and I don't think he could have made the distance. Though we were a bit snowed under ourselves… had to take in fifteen survivors from Area 51. Plus treat twenty one walking wounded."
The Doctor came to a standstill suddenly, stopping Sheppard by taking his arm, and then snatched it away, quickly realizing that she was perhaps being over-familiar. Her expression different. Serious. "Look, Col. Sheppard, this might be a mistake… though you seem nice enough… I don't agree with this. I know you guys have your job to do… but he's no where near ready. This went over my head. He's not out of the woods yet. It could still go either way. I don't know how much they told you in our message… he didn't receive the immediate emergency medical aid he should have… it was dark before a sweep of the area was made and a full twenty minutes before any one realised there was a man down… no one was looking or expecting… lost a lot of blood… two bullets… a collapsed lung and way too much surgery on his kidney and abdomen… and then there's low grade radiation poisoning… on top of that there's now a chest infection we can't get on top of…"
She began to walk again, and he followed after, skirting round the cleaner before he reached her side again.
"Well… I haven't exactly come here to kill the guy…"
"I just thought I'd make some ground rules clear…" and she stopped, turning to face him again. "He's sedated to help with sleep so I'll hold off with the next dose so you can talk, unless he really needs it or something for the pain. It won't hurt for him to try and clear those lungs anyhow. But… when I say leave… you damn well leave! Unless you can promise me you'll do that, I'm not letting you near…" and she walked off once more.
Hell, she was difficult to carry on a conversation with. He practically jogged to catch up. And then his ankle clicked painfully and he had to hobble anyway.
"This was always intended to be low key… that's why I'm here and not the guys in suits," he winced out.
She carried on, setting a fast pace, oblivious to his limp. "He needs a visitor though, I'm not denying that. He's tough… though there's signs he hasn't exactly taken good care of himself recently… you know, nutrition, exercise, so he's not military, I'm certain of that… so what he would have been like if he had…" and she paused, waiting for the lagging Sheppard to catch up. Looking him up and down. Finding her answer. And Sheppard was damn uncomfortable being undressed like that...
She carried on down the corridor. "But he's not… fighting… not exactly… just… sort of… quietly persistent, I guess… There's no will, no spark. At first, he was with us all the way. It's instinct I guess. Throw a man in a deep lake, he'll learn to swim pretty damn quick or drown. I'm astonished he actually made it through the first couple of days… But now… he's nearly given in… He's not been told anything. It was generally felt that would be too upsetting in his present condition. He became conscious only two days ago and has slept most of the time since. I'm not sure how cognitive he's been, but I sense… he knows, you see… just how... alone he is…" She came to a halt again, indicating that this was their stop. A door with a frosted panel marked C2. A window adjacent. Blinds closed.
Sheppard nodded gravely. "Hey, we're on the same page." Though he hardly felt qualified for the task ahead. This sort of thing had always been Teyla's domain.
"A friend. And you're not just after information?" Her hand was on the door handle but no way was she going to open it until she received that assurance she needed.
"It's what I'm here for," he repeated.
But he was realistic to know that the guy through that door was going to be a total stranger after all.
"Feel free to sit in here and wait. Or there's a staff rest room two doors down. With coffee, snacks when you need anything. You'll find me or the duty nurse next door along. We have a monitor in there so we're keeping a twenty four observation, but I'd appreciate if you didn't proceed until I'm present. We wouldn't want him taking one look at you and dying of a heart attack."
He was allowed in.
To a dimly lit room.
And it took a few moments for his eyes to adjust after the brightness of the corridor outside.
The blinds at the outer window were also closed shut. One desk lamp affair, sitting on a bedside locker, the only light, was tilted, angled at the ceiling, a searchlight beam pointing upwards, leaving the area around the bed coloured a dull yellow and its patient, an indefinable huddle, in a dark sleeping shadow.
A fan close to the light worked, whirred hard, sending cool air over the bed, the draught of which reached Sheppard where he stood, slightly ruffling his hair. The thermostat clicking made one of the few slight noises in the room. Tubes, wires draped away from the bed, coiling their way to the medical equipment at the side, humming and beeping almost soundlessly with all the normal efficiency of life saving, life monitoring equipment. The only intrusive sound seemed to be the patient's own laboured breathing.
Dr Bianca flicked on a switch nearby throwing a blue white glow into her area, taking the opportunity to check data from the equipment now she was here.
She clicked her tongue and shook her head.
And then… her attention was diverted suddenly, her glance switching from Sheppard, back to her patient, back to Sheppard. Who was staring hard at the man's face.
Ok. He shouldn't be. It's not as if he hadn't been warned. He turned away.
"Told you," she whispered, "weird…"
"He's…" And he passed a hand over his face, words failing.
The sickly grey pallor. Sunken closed eyes. Perspiration that made his black hair cling to his temples. Head lolled to one side, heavy in the pillows. A stillness. Especially the hands, limbs. A stillness. Even with the struggle for breath. That rattled lungs. That wheezed through the cannula tubing.
He'd said to Woolsey… a human being… and it was the clichéd thing to say at the time… but here was more than a printed name, a photo on a file report… here was a guy caught up in yet another… well, weird Pegasus incident… flesh and blood… and not a copy… not a mirror image… the whole three-D thing… same name, same looks but a human being in his own right… with his own story as to how he ended up here… frail, vulnerable… and…
The guy was dying.
There but for the grace of God, Rodney had said.
His gaze returned back to the bed. Took in more detail. Two days beard. Bandages swathed around his whole upper body. Even in the dim light, two white marks clearly visible where a watch and a wrist band had been.
Damn, the guy had even worn a wrist band… and he glanced numbly down at his own right hand.
They looked so alike… so alike but it was impossible they could ever be the same.
"He's a stranger…" And found he'd murmured the words out loud.
"Then… get to know him."
He nodded. Slowly.
Perhaps this was all such a bad idea, after all. He wasn't trained for this and certainly felt out of his depth. Perhaps he should have waited for Teyla's return. Hell, what sort of tough guy was he when he needed Teyla to hold his hand over this?
In his head again. Teyla. Ronon. McKay. Himself. Four dead bodies on the Daedalus. And there was the replicator carbon copies. He could blank them out. Shut them out. No consequences. Didn't have to get involved. But here, he was already committed… friend… to someone he knew absolute zero about… the assumption on the part of Woolsey… SGC… himself?... that because they looked alike… they'd be a natural affinity… or… had he really come simply out of curiosity, after all?... Too much thinking… just an assignment… just a chat… re-assure the guy that this wasn't the finish… everything ahead was just going to be…fine… different but fine… close the file… walk away… end of story… but he wasn't comfortable with the rollercoaster feel of all this… he felt sorry for the guy… who wouldn't?... but how much of that was because they looked alike? How much of that was because this could have been him, a mere blink away?
"I need somewhere to put this?"
From his jacket pocket, he pulled out, a small black recording gizmo they'd given him, holding it up for the Doctor to see.
It would be better, if the man didn't know everything was going down on tape, he'd been told. But the choice was his, whether he told him or not. And even now, he wasn't certain how he was going to play this. He knew he felt like a traitor. This felt underhand. And in view of what she'd said earlier, he knew Dr Bianca would feel the same way.
"I don't like it… but," he shrugged his excuse. "It's procedure, so… I have to." Perhaps the guy wouldn't, couldn't say much. The recording would simply get logged and lost in some computer data somewhere. Forever… Or… he could accidentally forget to press play…
She simply took the device from his hand and without a word, placed it on a small ledge next to a monitor. Judging and adjusting the lens scope to take in the patient. Concealing it.
"You've done this before?" he asked quietly surprised.
Her turn to shrug, checking the patient, keeping her voice low, so as not to wake him. "Yeah. Though I've not seen a device quite like this one before. Very high tech… But… like you said, normal procedure. We get them all in here… accidents, crashes, question marks over pilot, driver error, friendly fire incidents, released POWs, unlawful killings… you military guys never know when to stop…"
"There won't be background noise? Interference?" From the monitors. He didn't know. Rodney always saw to the gadgets.
"If there is, I'm sure they can take it out later." She handed him back the small remote, still whispering. "I don't know how much play you get with this thing. So my advice is to switch off when he's asleep. You know, it could be a long haul, grabbing your chances when you can. I'm expecting him to wake up shortly, though don't expect anything too coherent."
"Thanks." Though his gratitude was a little on the hazy side – she'd given him just one too many lectures.
"I'll leave you then…" And she switched off her light.
"Yeah…"
She was gone and he looked around for some place to sit. The choice between a stool next to the bed or a white plastic chair in a dark corner.
And sat himself down awkwardly in the semi darkness, leaning forward, elbows resting on thighs, fiddling with, turning over, again and again, the remote in his hands. Already uncomfortable, thirty seconds in.
Shuffling a little after a couple of minutes. Leaning back. Stretching his legs out to full length. Scarcely daring to make a noise. Giving up. Standing at the foot of the bed. Pushing hands into pockets. Staring back down at the other guy again. A twinge in his ankle. So he sat again. And this waiting was supposed to be the easy part…
-oAo-
