Title: Cave

Drama/Angst/HC

SGA/SG1 crossover

Rated M for Mature

Author's Notes - Spoiler for SG1 "Threads", small one forSGA "Defiant One"

I'm severely P.O.d at TPTB for killing Jacob and Selmac, so consider this AU. I haven't seen that episode in Canada, so I'm pretending it didn't happen…so there…pfffttt. And I've avoided SG1 spoilers, to some extent. Like I said – AU.

This is unabashed smarm and angst, written as an exercise in description, started several months ago. I used it as a test-bed for new ways of describing things; so don't be surprised if it's a tad wordy. I'm borrowing Supergeek - it's so descriptive! Credit to Koschka.

Don't own them, not making money off them, but feedback is very welcome. As always, blame the grammar blips on me being Canadian or being intentional, not on my wonderful beta reader Talberts.

Persistence

Chapter 1

He'd read about it.

All his battlefield aid training programs mentioned that a belly wound was one of the ones most to be feared.

There had been the stories told in the officers mess by the veterans; some old as his father would be were he alive, some younger; all hardened soldiers who'd seen combat while he'd still been in college. The stories of limbs blown off by mines from forgotten wars, shrapnel injuries, bullet wounds that ripped open arteries, muscles, lives. The level of testosterone at these gatherings was always high. Macho men talking of heroic deeds their friends, or they, performed under unimaginable conditions.

Then, inevitably, someone would mention the wound that - it seemed - no one walked away from. And someone would drag out that hoary old urban myth, of the man who killed his gut-shot friend rather than condemning him to the slow, agonizing death it inevitably caused.

It was a story, he'd been assured too firmly, just a rumour of a tale of something that may or may not have happened. But it had caught his emotions, it had stuck in his mind, and sometimes - in the dark, among the myriad other thoughts and worries that haunted his nights - he had wondered about it. Tried to imagine the possible circumstance, tried to think if he'd have the mental or emotional strength to release a friend from torment. Tried to imagine caring for anyone that much.

He didn't make close friends, not back then, so long ago; and thus it remained an intellectual exercise. Times were easier, he was so much younger, and he'd not yet learned what it was to trust completely in someone, to feel pride that the trust was returned. It was before he'd learned - through bitter experience - what it was to lose someone that level of trust had been built with. How much worse to lose two. How much he didn't want to lose anyone else.

The roof of the cave was low. He'd banged his head on it, dragging McKay in, but the cave opening had appeared just as his strength had given out, and it was a gift he wasn't going to question. The floor was uneven, almost corrugated, but he'd found a fairly flat spot and dropped down, wounded hip high, pulling McKay to him. The rain had been steady, cold, and they were both soaked through. Moving had been bad, but stopping was worse, in a way. Moving had required concentration. Stopping left nothing to think about but their injuries.

Exhausted from their flight, he'd blacked out for a few moments, waking with McKay writhing in his arms. The pain of the stomach wound had begun in earnest. He'd held the man close, one arm pillowing McKay's head, his friend grasping his free hand with both of his icy ones, and they'd ridden the waves of suffering together. Sheppard had talked, almost constantly - about Atlantis, flying, stories of adventures he'd had, flying, growing up in California, flying. He'd described in loving detail his first flight in a crop duster. The feeling of control, the way he seemed to have an innate ability, recognized and nurtured by his granddad. Control was the key, it defined his life in the air, he told McKay. It was why he flew.

He kept to himself, though, a new definition he'd discovered. The simplest definition of being without control was a friend's pain.

He couldn't track the hours. His watch had cracked, and McKay's' was gone. His new measure of time was, at first, the spaces the between the spikes of pain; the moments McKay would be able to respond to him. Then it became the time before - when McKay could still grip his hand - and after - when pain and accumulating blood loss had weakened him too far.

He shifted slightly, easing the burning of the wound in his hip, hearing the ragged breathing catch as the movement triggered another spasm in the wounded body he cradled. He reached across carefully, touching the clammy face, running gentle fingers over the temple and down the cheek, whispering a quiet apology.

He felt a tiny nod, and it triggered a surge of relief, tempered with guilt. Each time McKay escaped into the peace of unconsciousness, Sheppard wondered if he'd wake - every time he woke to the torment, Sheppard had more than once found his mind turning to that urban myth, now no longer an intellectual exercise.

His natural conviction, though now sorely tested, was that it would work out all right in the end. That there was more they had to do, the two of them, more arguments to have, more puzzles to solve. That was part of what kept him from accepting the solution the myth offered.

The other part of the reason was simple. He had discovered he wasn't that strong. The reality was worse than anything he'd imagined, and it was Rodney, not some faceless comrade-in-arms, not a ghost image in his nightmare. As much as his emotions were wrought by the knowledge of what the man was enduring, he couldn't take that step. Not yet.

Was it hope that stopped him? Was it weakness, after all? He let his hand rest lightly on McKay's opposite shoulder, at the base of his neck, and he rubbed it gently, easing the tension in the muscles. The rain pounded the ground outside, lightning flashed sporadically, and the flash of light at the cave's mouth dazzled him each time, to the point he tried to avoid looking that way. But most of the cave was in darkness, and he could feel the deterioration of the man's condition.

Without true light, his sense of touch became his eyes - not just his fingers, but the whole of his body. Against his chest he felt the shudders as McKay gasped against the burning contraction of torn muscles; his hips were jostled when the man sought ease fruitlessly by pulling up first one leg, then the other. And then the unnatural stillness when the combination of shock and pain and blood loss rendered him senseless, ribcage shifting only slightly against his as the physicist breathed shallowly, guardedly, even insensible; the cooling weight of unmoving limbs resting against him. It all told him the same tale.

More often, though, unconsciousness had granted surcease of the ceaseless pain. The irritating genius who had become his dearest friend had borne the agony knowing they were hunted, managing to swallow what had to have been screams to moans, keeping moans to a quiet keening that tore at him, causing more pain than even the wound in his hip. The storm outside raged, heedless of the quiet storm within.

"The rain must have cleared away our scent," he whispered. "Haven't heard the hunter dogs," he used the term for lack of any other "for ages."

"...so much..."a shallow breath "...for diplomacy..."

"We're nice people. Why don't people like us?"

He felt McKay sip air, ready to respond, and curled his arms more tightly around the shivering form. "It was a rhetorical question," he advised gently. "Shut up. Save your strength."

The words were firm, though his voice cracked slightly, and McKay turned his face towards him, letting that be the response and touch together. Gently, Sheppard pulled him closer.

"People'll talk." he heard, and shrugged slightly.

"They do already," he said against the damp hair.

McKay snorted disbelief.

"Seriously," he stated. "Rumour is we've been lovers for months."

He felt the grin against his neck.

"...not...my type..."

Sheppard chuckled a bit. "My loss, huh?"

"...too skinny..."

"Slender. No, wiry. I like that - wiry."

Another half-smile tickled against his collarbone. Then slowly, slowly the tense muscles relaxed, and McKay's head felt heavy on his shoulder. It was more than panic that had him holding his breath a moment, a year, until he could confirm the shallow, staggered respirations continued. He let his eyes slide closed in relief.

It had been darkening twilight when they'd found the cave. It was pitch inside now, the lightning had ended and there was the steady beat of rain outside. Closing his eyes merely meant another set of muscles relaxed, the transition simply from black to black. He let his head drop down, resting his cheek against the top of McKay's head, and drowsed.