Disclaimer: I don't not own Stargate Atlantis or any of it's characters. Do you THINK I would be here If I did?! So I do not in any way shape or form own any of the plot or the characters. They belong to whoever owns 'em. I just took the general idea for a test jaunt. So, don't sue me...not that it would be beneficial, as I am a poor university student, yadda yadda yadda.

Warnings: This is a Mckay and Sheppard slash story (Eventually). Thus, eventually the rating will more then likely change from Teen to Mature. It's ansty, and seems like a death fic at the moment. Believe me people, it is not, so just bare with me here. Blame the rabid plot bunnies. Spoilers are considered fair game up to the end of the Season Three, and while this story doesn't really have a set place in the storyline, just consider it occurring at a time when Elizabeth was still on Atlantis, and Carson either didn't die, or this is his clone. (I usually just repress the thought that he died anyway! Heh!)

*Also I hold myself totally not at fault for any fan death by sqwee in regards to Orange Fleece! :D

Authors Note: Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism.

Those Were Not His Hands

Chapter One - Don't tell me It's over, it had barely begun

Unshed tears blurred his vision, turning Atlantis' elegant metallic walls into a murky jumble, blending the colors together until all he could see was a wandering streak of light-blue instead of the intricate designs that glowed boldly from the walls as he strode past. He didn't stop, he couldn't, speeding up until he was almost running, needing to get away, to get anywhere but away from that gurney, away from that still figure still half-wrapped in the white linen shroud, away from the wet, crumpled faces, the silent streams of tears, away from the smell. Anywhere. Just away!

It didn't take long for the voices to catch up with him, but he ripped his ear piece viciously from his ear, ignoring Carson's concerned Scottish brogue, his accent heavy with grief…barely keeping it together. Ignoring Elizabeth's tentative questions, the catch in her voice unmistakably, but he refused to hear her out. Knowing he couldn't bear to hear her soothing, placating tones, knowing he would fall to pieces. He just needed to get away.

He almost fell into the transporter, stumbling over his own feet as the door swished closed. He hardly even glanced at the console, simply stabbing at the nearest button and willing Atlantis to take him away. Away. He was out and moving again before the doors had even fully opened, angrily wiping at a single traitorous tear that had slipped unbidden from his brimming eyes. 'No...Not you Rodney. Not you.'

His mud and ash-caked boots took him through the seemingly endless corridors, down halls lined with living quarters, with each door exactly the same as the next. Any other day the uniformity of it all would have been comfortingly familiar, but now, today, it seemed bleak...impersonal. But even as the thought played out in his mind, stored away in some gloomy and depressed corner of his brain, his steps stuttered, slowing slightly as the lights around him flickered mournfully, shrouding the corridor in a dim blue light for a few moments before returning to normal with a low hum.

For a few moments he wondered if Atlantis knew, if she could somehow sense that one of her most dedicated children had fallen and was in mourning. But the thought only served to worsen his mood as he couldn't help but automatically picture Rodney's expression. His all too expressive eyes would have widened incredulously, his lips curling into his patented half-sneer, hands already flying as he readied himself to launch into another of his infamous tirades about John giving human mannerisms to inanimate technology.

He loved riling the Canadian man up, enjoying the mans tenacious, and spit-fire personality, unable to resist occasionally baiting him just to watch the fire blaze in his eyes, to watch his characteristic hand movements get progressively wilder and more flamboyant as the argument progressed. But now, now that would never happen again. Never.

That's why he had to get away, to escape the sight of those limp hands on the gurney, they were too still. Too wrong. It wasn't him. It couldn't be him. Even when one hand had slipped loose from the cloth, sliding off his blackened chest to hang limply in the empty air, he hadn't been able to bring himself to touch it. He couldn't! He only stared, watching as those long fingers swayed, the joints and muscles already stiffening so that his fingers had half curled into his large, dirty palm. He had watched that hand, denial coursing through him, it just couldn't be McKay.

He had watched, hypnotized until Beckett had cleared his throat, his cheeks glistening with quiet tears as he had gathered the stray hand in his own, and had gently slipped it back into the shroud just as Teyla and Ronon had run in, their eyes wide with worry and panic, only to crumple in grief, and disbelief as they took in the still figure, his face and chest uncovered unwrapped from the linens as the room slowly filled with the scent of burnt hair and singed flesh.

It had almost been worse to see Telya, their strong unmoveable Telya nearly crumple in her grief, her legs wobbling as she turned into Ronon's chest, shaking with silent sobs as he gathered her up in a one-armed embrace, chin resting on her hair, his face stony as his dark eyes remained fixed on the gurney, like everyone else, he was unable to look away.

He passed too many people, feeling smothered by them even as they walked on the other side of the hall. But he didn't stop, hurrying past them, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste, ignoring their panicked questions, ignoring the shouted exclamation that chased him down in mocking echoes no matter how fast he ran.

He didn't even know where he was going, nor even were he was until Atlantis opened the next door on his left, and without a thought he hurtled through it, willing the door closed behind him. Nearly falling to the wall he felt strangely winded as he leaned against the cool metallic surface, his eyes tightly shut as he struggled to breath against the malevolent ball of grief that tightened in his throat threatening to choke him as he pulled in harsh gasps of air.

And for a few agelessly long moments he could only breathe, concentrating, 'inhale, pause, exhale, and again...Focus Sheppard... Pull yourself together... Focus.'

It wasn't until an all too familiar scent wafted to his nose that it fully occurred to him just where he was. 'Mckay...' He was in Rodney's room. And for the second time in only a few short minutes he had to wonder if it had been here that he had been unconsciously heading from the very beginning, or if somehow Atlantis had sensed what he had needed and had delivered it to him in the only way she knew how. Either way he doubted the answer would truly surprise him.

He breathed in the scent greedily, feeling it calm him, bringing the world back into focus, steadying him. But he didn't lift his eyes from the crook of his arm, he couldn't. Not yet. As if somehow he could keep reality away for just a few more minutes and pretend that any moment now he would hear the mans subtle Canadian accent, his voice loud and full of that seemingly endless zest, demanding to know where he was, needing yet another guinea pig to fiddle around with the ancient technology. It had never really occurred to him until now that the man never asked for anyone else, it had always been him. Always.

Finally he forced himself to look up, wrenching himself upright and ignoring the way his body swayed before he regained his equilibrium.

He almost had to laugh as he took in the chaotic chaos that was Rodney's room. He had come to realize during the past few years, having been regularly surrounded by genius' of virtually every nationality Earth had to offer that it seemed to be a fairly common geek trait to have living quarters that tended to look more like the aftermath of a natural disaster then a room they actually slept in.

Major Lorne had once even commented that Radek's room should be labelled a safety hazard after he had swung by the scientists room one morning to collect the sleepy and somewhat disgruntled Czech for their weekly firearm practise, only to be half-buried in an avalanche of dirty socks, power tools, and various other items geeks tend to hoard when he upset a meticulously balanced pyramid on the scientists desk.

But as he remembered it, he had been laughing too hard to do much about it as his second in command had flopped morosely down at their table in the mess, clearly perturbed and sporting one hell of a black eye, an apologetic but undeniably amused Radek Zelenka at his side, the bruise making Lorne look as though Radek had soundly trounced the him during a sparring session.

But it can be said that while the Major had been the butt of many well-meant jokes that week, a few days later while stopping by to invite Radek to movie night, he had been absolutely floored to find the scientist's room virtually pristine, with not a sock, nor a abandoned power tool in sight, complete with what looked curiously like military corners on the bedspread. The wild-haired man had blushed furiously when he had teasingly commented on the state of the room, as he attempted to quickly shove a pair of BDU's and a tac vest that looked suspiciously too large for his small frame into the nearest closet and out of sight as he leaned across the door frame. It kinda made one wonder actually...

And as he knew, all too well in fact, McKay was no exception to this seemingly universal rule of geekdom. As if Radek's room might have been labelled a safety hazard, Rodney's certainly took the cake. After all, there was a very good reason why movie night was more often then not held in his quarters rather then Rodney's, even when it was just the two of them having a beer and playing 'prime-not-prime' until suddenly watching "Bad Boy's II" for the fifteenth time sounded like a good idea.... Again.

Smiling slightly he let his eyes roam the familiar surroundings. As usual every spare centimetre of shelf and desktop space was crammed with everything from ancient devices, earth electronics, old notebooks, and empty coffee cups. He even spied a teetering tower of the stainless steel mugs stacked nearly eight high, peeking out from behind a half-taken apart laptop and a tangled coil of circuitry wiring.

His bed looked more like a nest then a sleeping space, with a multi-coloured pile of mismatched blankets ranging from the dull, but serviceable military issued covers, his own special 'hypo-allergenic' ones, to the brightly weaved blankets from Telya's people. The covers were all thrown to one side, as if he had simply got up that morning and flung them off him in one smooth motion. The floor was littered with shucked-off clothing that dotted the floor in random multi-hued piles, as if the man had simply shed all his clothes where he stood.

Finally feeling as though he could move again, he pushed himself off the wall, stretching his aching muscles, and as he did so a flash of orange caught his eye. Reflectively he bent to pick it up from where it had obviously fallen, still partially folded from the top of a towering stack of clean laundry. It was Rodney's orange fleece jacket...the very same one he had been wearing that day in Antarctica, the day he had first met Doctor Rodney McKay, the same day his little world had suddenly become so much brighter, and full of wonder again. Not to mention a whole lot weirder as well...

He would remember that day for many reasons, it was the day he still believed heralded the start of his second chance, a chance for a new life, in the stars no less! It was the day when he sat down on that chair and discovered that the universe could open and that solar systems and stars could be born and die, all in his mind for someone that in the grand scheme of things was as small and as insignificant as anyone.

But one of the moments that he was sure would forever be emblazoned in his mind long after old age would rob him of the others, was that of Rodney hovering over him in that florescent orange fleece, his gaze carefully twisted into a stoically unimpressed look, as if John could have even told him the most intimate secrets of the universe from that chair, and the Canadian would have remained completely unfazed.

But for some reason, as the Ancient technology had thrummed through his mind, it's strange and starkly lonely song humming through his blood, he had looked deeper and had found it had been was his eyes that gave him away. Because the man felt so much deeper, so much more, and so very much harder then he would ever show. And in that moment, despite the mans snarky exterior, he had realized how very similar they were, and how much more he had actually wanted to know him...

And it had scared him then. Despite the fact that he had been nearly flat on his back, feeling as if he was fused to that alien chair, with the 'mind' of that ancient device cradling him, diving into his thoughts as easily as a swimmer slipped into the water. It had been that feeling, so veiled and hidden in half truths, confusion, and disbelief that had ended up scaring him the most...

A/N: So, continue? You tell me!