Bitter Harvest

By Dragon's Daughter 1980

Disclaimer: Other than being a fan, I have absolutely nothing to do with Stargate: Atlantis in any way, shape or form.

Author's Note: Unfortunately, I've only been able to occasionally watch SGA, so I am not completely sure about canon. I should probably also mention that most of my information comes from reading posted transcripts at Gateworld (and I haven't read all of them…yet.) So please excuse any of my errors (drop me a note via review). Thank you! I would also like to add a special 'Thank You' to my Big Sister, Katie, who helped me figure out a few things and let me ramble to get there.

Spoiler Warning: The Seed


He was getting a glass of water from his bathroom, he thinks.

Maybe.

He's not too certain on that point.

It would be more worrisome if he could just remember why he should be worried.

Anyway, the last thing he remembers clearly is his confined world doing a sideways tilt.

That doesn't explain why he wakes up in the infirmary feeling like he's been trampled by something large and heavy. Maybe several of them. Or why there are nurses releasing him from soft restraints in a brisk, practical manner. Or why Beckett sounds so relieved when he says, "You're going to be fine, Major" moments before warmth slithers through—

His stomach does a nauseating flip. Something's wrong. He draws in a breath— and slips away into sleep.


Evan Lorne wakes up to the cheerful chirping of a heart monitor, happily informing the world in general that he is alive. He would appreciate that fact (does appreciate it, just not fully at the moment) if he wasn't so sore. He smothers a groan because his neck is killing him and the rest of his body feels like he's been on a ten mile run for his life—full out sprint, with a full pack, in rough terrain, being chased by Wraith, Asurans or both.

Someone touches his wrist and he jerks in surprise, which sets off a whole cascade of protesting muscles. He gasps at the flaming aches that run through his body. He didn't think it would be possible to be this sore. He blinks until the world resolves into its proper shapes and sizes.

"Sorry, Major," the nurse apologizes quickly. She's familiar to him. It takes him a disturbingly long moment to match her face to her name: Marie. (Or should he be more disturbed that he knows her that quickly?) She smiles down at him, "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," he croaks. She remedies that by helping him sit up and lean back against a comfortable nest of pillows before she pours a glass of water for him. She cradles his trembling hands with a gentle touch that is just firm enough to make sure the glass doesn't slip and that the water goes nowhere but his mouth. The few sips she allows him are heaven to his parched throat. His next words sound almost normal to his ears, if a little rough, "What happened?"

If it isn't for her small hands steadying his grip, he probably wouldn't have noticed the sudden tension in her petite frame. But he does, and he slides her a Look, which she blithely ignores. Or maybe she doesn't, because her eyes dart to something over his shoulder, and relief flutters over her features.

"Hello Major Lorne," greets an achingly familiar brogue a heartbeat later, "how are you feeling?" Beckett wanders over, saving Marie (who hastily retreats) from having to come up with an explanation, and spends the next few minutes running him through a routine examination, complete with poking and questions. Basically, he's physically healthy and his brain's intact because he knows his name, his birthday, what day of the week it is and who's the current leader of Atlantis. Then comes the kicker question that the other man is trying so hard to casually ask, but even in his possibly drugged and definitely aching state, Evan knows is vitally important to whether or not he'll be getting out of the infirmary any time soon and back to work, "Do you remember what happened?"

The problem is, once the question is asked, he's not entirely sure of his answer.

He remembers feeling tired in his quarters, but deciding against a nap—for some reason (Why would he be in his quarters in the middle of the day? Why would he be so tired? Why wouldn't he nap, if there wasn't anything urgent to attend to (which there always was)? Which meant there was something urgent, so why wasn't he dealing with it? Not to even consider, he couldn't seem to remember what was urgent). There was the weight of a glass in his hand and the running faucet in his bathroom. He clearly remembers thinking how paints would never be able to capture the brilliant diamonds of glittering color as the sunlight hits the water, no matter how skilled the painter.

After that…

After that, things get blurry and very confused— sudden dizziness, maybe a gurney-ride, distorted voices, soft restraints, medical jargon — and none of it, the memories he knows are for real and the ones he's got little question marks next to, explains why he's in the infirmary in the state that he's in. He's physically and mentally fit, which means that either everything he remembers is one massive hallucination (in which case, he's royally screwed for a variety of reasons) or something even more fucked-up happened that screwed him over so much that he can't remember the event at all.

If he was a civilian, he's pretty sure that he'd be in full-blown panic right now. If he was a regular soldier, he'd be wondering if he was going to get medically discharged (among other things). But he's SGC, Atlantis to boot, so the only feeling he has is a sickening coil of tension in his gut, because he's beginning to think that something's gone horribly wrong and that only reason Beckett and Marie aren't telling him is that they're afraid that he's going to lose it. Or something.

So the question hangs there, written invisibly in the air in bright red letters, waiting until he can come up with an answer that doesn't sound completely half-cooked.

Beckett seems a little unsettled by the silence as well, because he gently prompts, "What's the last thing you remember?"

He doesn't know why he starts running through what he recalls aloud, but he does. The other man says nothing, though he sinks tiredly into a chair. Evan wonders if Beckett feels as exhausted as he looks, and makes a mental note to get a nurse over here if the Scottish man turns any grayer with fatigue.

He was painting, he remembers that now, a view of the city from above—filling in a sketch of sorts, working from memory. He was done with his reports and if he had to review the mission briefing for M4X-639 one more time, he might scream. So with the quarantine effectively sealing him in his room (not to mention his broken leg), he had limited options to divide his free time between.

"Quarantine?" he asks himself in a quasi-mumble. The knowledge that floods him the next moment—Keller, the virus, damn Michael, oh God. He forgets to hide his panic as he puts a hand on his stomach, feeling reassuringly smooth skin underneath the thin fabric of his hospital gown. Then someone is pressing the hard plastic of an oxygen mask to his face, quietly urging him to take deep, even breaths, even as the shrill chirping of the heart monitor settles down into a steadier, slower heartbeat.

When the roaring panic eases away, he hears Beckett's soothing litany, "You're okay, Evan. You're okay," accompanied by a solid arm across his shoulders. He concentrates on steadying his breathing, which is still a little ragged. After making sure that he's not going to get any ideas (as if Evan could in his state), Beckett releases his hold on the soldier, though the glare he levels at Evan insures that the oxygen mask isn't going to be ditched… in the next few minutes, at least.

"Sheppard, McKay, Keller?" he asks. The others? My team? The other man shakes his head, and for a moment, he feels like his heart has disappeared, before slamming back into his chest. "They're fine. A little knocked about by the treatment, like you are, but they're alive. All of them."

"Even Keller?" he asks, to be doubly sure, because while she's nothing like the man standing in front of him, she's starting to get her feet under her and take charge. She is so innocent and naïve in ways that everyone else isn't, but that doesn't make her any less valuable to the city.

"Even Keller," Beckett confirms tiredly.

He watches, silent, as the doctor runs a critical eye over the array of monitors encircling him. Their eyes meet, and Beckett smiles in a heartbreakingly familiar and reassuring manner before he says, "If you can hold down breakfast, we'll discharge you to your quarters. Strict bed rest for a day, light duty in probably a week, maybe more."

"Thanks, Doc," responds Evan, his voice muffled. The other man squeezes his shoulder gently, "Get some rest Major. Your body needs it."

Instinctively obeying the suggestion (order), he closes his eyes and settles back down to sleep. The gentle warmth that floods his veins tells him that he's been drugged. Normally, he'd edge in a word or two of protest, but he's tired, it's been a bad month, and the nightmares can wait.

He closes his eyes and gets some rest because he's going to need all his energy in the weeks to come. He won't turn down the small bottle of sleeping pills that is pressed into his hand just before he leaves tomorrow. He won't completely relax until he's been discharged from the infirmary and seen for himself that his men are alive and well. He'll have some difficulties walking into his quarters for the next few weeks, but the discomfort will fade until it's barely noticeable.

Evan closes his eyes and wonders how bad the nightmares will be this time (Will they get worse? How many more will he add?) before he is swept away into slumber.