oOo

He flexed his fingers, because that was all he dared to do; they were cold... cold and sticky.

Something hooted. Startled, he jerked, and a painful wave ran through his body. The tree wedged behind him was cold and unyielding... it hurt his back. After his fall he had landed here, on the edge of this level and grassy clearing. A memory of voices calling... anxious voices, and of tumbling over and over, came back to him.

He fell down... fell through spindly trees and branches that couldn't quite slow him. He fell down, but they... they would have to go around. Exactly how far 'around' was, he had no idea.

He strained his ears; everything was so still, and he wondered at how long he'd lain there. The dampness was settling on him, soaking his clothes, making him shiver. He felt like a corpse, warmth bleeding out of him along with the blood. Around him the forest crackled and dripped, cobwebs hung from high branches. Maybe it was raining... it was difficult to tell. Perhaps he already looked like a cobweb himself, bedewed and sparkling.

He turned his wrist carefully and blinked at the watch strapped there. He could make nothing of it, the face muddy and scratched... probably beyond repair.

Beyond repair like he was; branches had pulled at him - searching, ripping... and some had found him, made rags of his best jacket, and left him battered and bleeding. That was why he lay there motionless - helpless - and could only wait for his team to find him.

Closing his eyes he imagined them coming... they would come trudging, out from the gloom of the trees... his team. First, Teyla, because she would be worried about him and that always made her edgy and fast... yes, she would be first.

Only... Ronon had the longest stride; he wouldn't even realise that he was in the lead. He'd appear like a ship cresting the horizon, with that hard and unreadable look of his, and it would be the Satedan that he would see first.

But then there was Sheppard; team leader, hard-assed soldier... unlikely friend. Would it be Sheppard, stalking out of the undergrowth with his hair darkly wet and dripping? After all, who always put himself in pole position just so that every bit of bad luck in the galaxy would happen to him and noone else? Yes, it would be him.

Time crawled, and the forest dripped on towards late afternoon, although it was hard to tell with the clouds so low and heavy.

Through wet lashes he watched a deer - and it really was a deer - step warily with hardly a rustle, into the clearing...

His breathing stopped, just for a heart beat or so... because it was beautiful; its face was so beautiful, that he had to swallow past a hard lump in his throat and his eyes blurred. In perfect little darts of movement, its head tipped and turned, dark eyes winking, scanning the open space. It's tiny, rapid breaths left puffs of mist in the damp air; they hung suspended for a second, and then quickly vanished.

He was ten years old again, with Tommy Keating and Tommy Keating's dad. On a crisp, bright fall afternoon, he was being introduced to the manly sport of hunting. His father had said it would be good for him. They had spent almost three hours tracking this poor creature, his heart threatened to leap from his mouth every time Tommy's dad halted and drew the rifle stock up towards his stubbly chin. Now, as the shadows were beginning to creep, Tommy's dad had a camera out and was asking him if he wanted a picture... just him and the carcass - as a memento. He'd shook his head dumbly, and stared at the dead animal.

He swore two things that day, there and then; never to listen to his father again, and never to kill anything unless he really had to.

He came back to the present, as velvet ears twitched; first one, then both together. It was young, this deer, he thought, not marked by age or illness. It gazed his way, but strangely, though, it's coal black eyes looked deep and old; as old maybe, as the trees around him. Did those eyes see the dark shape crumpled against the tree? Did it wonder at this strange animal... an alien, unsuited to its environment, waiting for rescue that was so long in coming...

He had a moment of thankfulness that Ronon was not there; maybe he'd want to shoot it, bring it home, thread it on a spit and feast upon it in the mess hall. He had an image then, in his mind's eye, of Ronon holding court in a medieval hall... Teyla in a tall hat on one side, with Sheppard in shining armour on the other. He bubbled up a laugh from somewhere...

Then, without any warning, and so fast, that he gasped in alarm, the deer was gone in a scuffle of dainty hoofs.

Disturbed by the animal's flight, the branches released a brief loud patter of drops, as the dew fell like rain.

His heart was pounding; something had spooked the creature... something that he didn't particularly want to meet.

Then he heard it. Obviously, distance had dulled the sound, made it quieter, less distinct; but it was no less alarming.

Something was coming.

Unease fluttered beneath his ribs. For the first time he lifted his right hand, and then he grabbed with dark and sticky fingers at his thigh holster. Trying not to notice the bright blood still welling up, he forced his left hand with the wad of bandages, more firmly against his side. He pressed as hard as he could bear into the deep puncture wound that he'd sustained in his descent. The pain and nausea this caused, focussed him sufficiently to realise that the flapping hand bumping against his leg had found only an empty holster.

His fear went up a notch as the noises grew louder; crashing and snapping could be heard now, the sounds of something large moving clumsily but rapidly through the trees, splintering wood and making its own path with it's huge body. It was coming nearer and showed no signs of stopping.

God, where the hell were they? Now would be a good time to arrive, and he wasn't too fussed about who would be first.

His eyes were drawn to the brink of the forest, maybe ten metres away, where grass gave way to trees; it was here the beast would emerge, blinking its hungry eyes at the daylight. Panic gripped him and he found, suddenly, that he had one of his boots grasped in his trembling hand. It would be better than nothing for defending himself, except he knew he probably wouldn't have the strength to throw it.

Above the thunderous beating of his heart and his breathless gasps, he heard the destructive onslaught continue, rising in volume by the second. His raised arm faltered, already exhausted by the effort; sweat stung his eyes making it hard to focus on the tree line.

Then - the screen of undergrowth, seemed to shiver... limbs and slender trunks bowed and shook, a vibration ran across in a quiver of movement, and, as the noise reached its peak...

Three faces... white, startled, but cheeks red with exertion, appeared like a chorus line pushing out from the curtain of trees. Wreathed in mist, their collective breaths sawed and gasped. One of them coughed; hard.

One held a machete - or was it a sword? He bent at the waist, using it as a prop.

Someone else scurried closer and, dropping to their knees, ripped open a pack, dragging out bottles, packages, and all manner of stuff.

He wanted to laugh... perhaps cry, he hadn't decided.

Sheppard, still coughing roughly, appeared at his shoulder and, without saying anything, slapped a great wodge of dressings against his belly, past his blood slicked left hand and continued to press so horribly hard, it put spots in front of his eyes and brought to his tongue the metallic taste of faintness. The dark and dreary world faded, he could hear the forest, hear it's heart pounding, as if it was a living thing.

He came to himself again, lying down, his head raised on something soft. There was a presence by his side... big, strangely warming. Not having spoken since his fall, he found now that his ability to communicate had gone; as if he had forgotten how to talk, through simple lack of practice. Ronon's large hand wiped his face, which was good because the rain was running into his eyes and they were stinging.

He wanted to tell the big man not to shoot his deer, that they could make do tonight with Athosian partridge, like they did every Tuesday. He had to settle instead for a meaningful screwing up of the eyes, something the Satedan seemed, miraculously, to understand, because Ronon leaned over, held his gaze, and, nodding gravely, squeezed his arm.

He wondered for a moment where Teyla was, then realised that for the longest time something had been stroking his cheek. It wasn't Ronon... and then his eyes panned up and found hers looking down at him. His head was in her lap, her fingers tracing patterns of coolness across his brow. He thought he should have been embarrassed by this, but instead he felt strangely honoured, and determined right then to make the most of it.

Something pulled at his foot - tried to eat it maybe - and even though he knew there could be no more danger now, wired as he was and already injured, he flinched, pulling back. He raised his head and squinted down; John was settling his boot carefully over his socked foot. Instead of looking at what he was doing, he watched Rodney instead.

There was a small but sad smile on the colonel's face and he wondered if he, too, had seen the deer. So he asked,

Did you see it?

There was no reply, and so he wondered if he had, in fact, made a sound at all. Then,

We should let it live.

But again there was no response from the colonel, other than turning away as if to speak to someone, and Rodney had to reluctantly conclude that he was for the moment anyway, speechless. Then, suddenly... Keller?.. Dr Keller was there... in a really nice leather jacket.

She always smelled nice - and not at all like the infirmary.

He started to hear words like, jumper, pressure and transfusion.

"Dr McKay..", she said, and it was so loud and unexpected his heart just about missed a beat. His eyes flew open and met hers.

"We're taking you home now, everything's alright", she said very gently, draping a stethoscope around her neck.

Yes, everything was alright. He felt his team around him, they had come for him - again. They'd beaten back tree and vine to get to him; had hacked their way, without rest, through a dense tangled forest; they'd smashed their way through it like a mini tornado.

And they'd done it the same way they did most things;

together.

oOo

A strange little story for a strange afternoon... hope you enjoyed it. I'd really appreciate your thoughts on this one, like I said it's a bit strange!!

Title is from a poem by Robert Frost.