Spoilers: Because of some similarities, this may contain spoilers up to and including Season 4, Vengeance.
Rating: T for some mild language.
Disclaimer: I do not own Stargate Atlantis or any of the characters associated with it.
Chapter Two
Sheppard watched as Teyla and Michael stood, transfixed. "Michael, step away from her... now. I mean it. You enticed us here for a reason, and I'm willing to listen, but you have to step back and let her go."
Michael shifted his feet to the left, exposing himself to Sheppard's crosshairs.
Sheppard flexed his finger around the P90 trigger, preparing to squeeze, and scrutinized Michael's expression. "Teyla, move!" When she did not comply, he spared a quick glance at Ronon. "What's the deal?"
Ronon sniffed the air with a disdainful glower at Michael. "Wraith control. If I kill him, we can get her out of there."
"No, don't kill him; stun him. I want some answers about this little ambush he 'invited' us to attend."
Ronon fired before Sheppard finished his statement, the crimson flash from his gun lit the room, hitting Michael in the center of his chest. The Wrath dropped; Teyla dropped with him.
Waves of tingling aftershocks racked Rodney's nerve endings as he forced his limbs to move. He groaned when he pushed upright and leaned against the wall, fighting a bout of vertigo. His head throbbed. He swayed, threw out an arm, and grabbed the wall. He'd meant to do something--oh, yeah, save the team from the Wraith--easy, no problem. He dragged open his eyes.
Okay, maybe one little problem. He squinted and shook his head, trying to reconcile the image of Teyla standing toe-to-toe with a Wraith. He blinked twice and rubbed his eyes with his fists. The Wraith, who looked an awful lot like Michael, stood so close to Teyla that if he moved an inch, she would have grounds for a sexual harassment complaint. Teyla stared up at Michael, their eyes locked, while Michael's hands hovered on either side of her face, just shy of contact. Why were they just standing there like that?
McKay glanced around the dusky room, searching for his Beretta. He thought the darker shadow near Michael's boot might be Teyla's P90, but he needed to get closer to recover it. As he shoved away from the wall, the door imploded, sending wooden splinters into the room. He staggered backwards, tripped, and ended up on his ass again in a cloud of filth as Sheppard and Ronon dived into the cabin. Huh, he hadn't realized the big guy could tuck and roll like that.
His ears rang, and the minute amount of air he managed to draw felt thick, coating his throat with the bitter taste of decay. His energy flagged, he reclined against the wall, watching, helpless, as Sheppard tried to reason with the Wraith, but that didn't make sense. Reasoning with a Wraith signified a classic oxymoron. The sound of Ronon's pistol as it expelled energy reverberated in his aching head. Temporarily blinded by the flash of weapons fire, McKay attempted to rise, wanted to check on his teammates, but the brutal throbbing in his head made movement impossible. With a muffled cry, he slid back down to the floor, watching the ensuing saga with slumped shoulders.
When Teyla fell, Sheppard dived forward in an attempt to catch her, but missed by seconds. He watched her hit the floor; the impact riled a cloud of dust substantial enough to distort visibility. He slid to the floor next to her, ignored the ache in his ribs when his upper body connected with the ground, and shoved himself into a squat. He grabbed her arms, giving a little shake. "Teyla!" When she didn't so much as blink, he glared at Ronon. "Why'd you shoot her?"
"I didn't shoot her. I shot him." Ronon kicked the Wraith stunner away from Michael's unmoving hand then crouched next to Teyla, checking her neck with two burly fingers. "Her pulse is strong." He glanced at Sheppard. "I had a clean shot."
"Damn it!" Sheppard unsnapped Teyla's tactical vest and eased it open, checking for any obvious injuries. Happy to see no signs of bleeding or trauma, he released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. A soft groan pulled his attention to the dim corner. With a quick nudge to Ronon's knee, he said, "Stay with her, and radio the jumper. Tell Lorne we need a ride home. I'm going to check on Rodney." He closed the gap to the downed scientist, favoring his left side as he moved.
"S'okay... I'm okay." McKay groaned as he tried to sit up.
Sheppard reached out, pressing against McKay's shoulders. "Hold still. You may have broken something, maybe cracked open your head. We don't need you leaking genius brain matter all over this dung-ridden hovel." When McKay moaned and relaxed against the wall, Sheppard ran quick hands over his friend's body, feeling for anything more twisted than normal. Everything checked out, until he reached the back of McKay's head. McKay's yelp startled a grunt out of him. "Easy, it's just a bump. No blood. Looks like you get to spend the night at Carson's camp for chronic head-whumpers."
McKay's snort turned into a ragged cough before he caught his breath. "And who holds the most mileage in the corner bed, hmm? Or do you have the hots for nurse what's-her-name?" His glazed eyes darted behind Sheppard. "Is that Michael? 'Cause it looked like him. He used his Wraith 'mind meld' technique on Teyla again."
"Mind meld? You may need to see Dr. Heightmeyer about this Star Trek obsession of yours, Rodney." Sheppard forced a light note into his voice as he studied his friends pale face, not liking the sweat beading McKay's skin. He squeezed his fingertips against McKay's clammy wrist and frowned at the erratic pulse beating just below the surface.
"I'm not the one...reenacting the Kirk scripts, Colonel." McKay's chest heaved, and his voice roughened. "I was trying to...help her when you and...Babe, the blue ox busted in the...door." McKay's breathing wheezed. "Damn dust...can't get...air."
"Yeah, I know. Hang in there; Major Lorne is en route in jumper four. Just breathe slowly, in and out. That's it, keep it up." Sheppard patted McKay's knee. "Be a good little scientist; don't move." Sheppard's boot heel rotated on the greasy floor as he peered over his shoulder toward where Ronon sat with Teyla's head cushioned on his thigh. "Any change?"
"Nope. Can I kill him now?" Ronon notched his head in Michael's direction.
"Nope." Headset static, followed by Lorne's tinny voice announcing jumper four's arrival above their position, pulled a sigh from Sheppard. "Our ride is here. Let's load them up and go home."
Sheppard paced. He stopped every few passes and peeked through the gap between the curtains, not sure what he hoped to see. No, that was a lie. He knew he wanted Teyla or McKay to exit the curtained area and explain to him what in the hell had just happened back there. It should have been a simple recon mission to answer a distress call, but, as usual, should have had turned into oh crap, and the mission went belly-up. Now, Teyla remained unconscious, Rodney suffered a lumpy head, and Atlantis housed a stunned wraith-human hybrid in a reinforced holding cell.
Michael... wasn't that a fine surprise. He'd believed Michael dead, blown to bits by McKay during his team's last encounter with the Wraith-human. When he had burst into the cabin and spotted Michael looming over Teyla, he'd come within seconds of turning his belief into reality. Only Teyla's calm interjection had saved Michael from certain death. If he didn't get answers soon, he might pay Michael a little visit and end this farce of a friendship for good—if Ronon didn't beat him to it.
He glanced toward the chairs where Ronon sat, hunched over, fists pressed against his forehead, elbows resting on his knees. Every minute or so, the Satedan spared a quick glance toward the curtains, his lips peeled back, baring sharp, white teeth, much like a wolf's--feral, fuming, unforgiving. On his next curtain check, Ronon's amber eyes met his and held for three long seconds. Sheppard read anger, resentment, and fear couched in icy-calm control before Ronon's gaze returned to the curtain, then sharpened.
Sheppard's head snapped around just as Beckett emerged from the depths of the treatment area. Ronon leapt to his feet, but Sheppard beat him to Beckett's side.
"Doc, how are they?"
"I can't find a thing wrong with Teyla. She is unconscious, but her vitals are steady, and all my scans came back normal. For now, I'm inclined to let her rest and see if she comes around on her own."
"Michael did something to her. Let me interrogate him. I'll get answers." Ronon pounded his right fist into his left palm and tossed his dreadlocks out of his face.
"I'm afraid it won't do you a bit of good, lad. Michael is unconscious as well, thanks to your super stunner."
Sheppard shot Ronon a quelling look then crossed his arms as he studied Beckett's face. "What about Rodney? He breathed a ton of dust before we got him out of there. Hell, we all did."
"Yes, and he is suffering from allergy induced asthma. That old building contained enough dust and mold to cause bronchospasm--ah, that is the tightening of the muscles surrounding his airway. I administered oral prednisone and started him on a nebulizer treatment to ease his breathing. The combined approach is working beautifully. He should be back to his verbose self in no time."
"How's his head?" Sheppard asked.
"There's something to be said for hard-headedness." Beckett chuckled as he rocked on his heels. "He has a mild concussion. If he tolerates treatment well, I may release him to quarters sometime in the next day or two."
"I want to see them." Ronon strode toward the closed curtains, pulling up short when Beckett thrust a hand against his chest. He glanced down at the doctor, his eyes narrowing at the contact.
"You may see them in the morning. None of that bluster and blather, either. Go on now. The best thing you can do for your friends is to take care of yourself. Eat a hot meal. Catch up on your sleep. I'll radio if their conditions change." Beckett made shooing motions and nudged Ronon toward the door. "Ach, be a good lad or I'll have to call Elizabeth. You don't want that now, do you?"
Ronon grunted and, with a glance at Sheppard, strode through the doorway. Sheppard grinned and turned to follow. A hand in the crook of his arm halted his escape.
"And just where do you think you're going, Colonel, without your post-mission check?" Beckett asked.
"What about Ronon's post-mission check?"
"Dr. Bresson saw to it while you were arguing with me about waiting in chairs." Beckett grinned. "Any other excuses?"
"Ah, your staff looked busy. I thought I'd come back later, you know, when you guys had more time on your hands." Sheppard tried his best aw shucks grin.
"I always have time for you. What is wrong with your ribs?" Beckett led Sheppard through the infirmary to an empty exam bed and patted the mattress. "Up you go, then."
"Ribs?" Sheppard cringed at the squeaky quality of his reply. He'd have to watch that. He sounded a little like McKay. He hopped up onto the bed, biting his lip in an effort not to groan in front of Beckett. Damn pain anyway.
"Yes, ribs. I'm not daft, you know. I saw your face when you helped unload McKay from the jumper. Oh, and hugging your left arm over them presented another clue." Beckett called over one of his nurses and murmured some instructions Sheppard couldn't interpret. She nodded and, with a shy smile in Sheppard's direction, dashed off.
"Aw, Doc, give me a break. My mind focused on my injured team--"
"Of course you didn't think to include yourself in that description, lad," Beckett said, his eyes lit with humor.
The nurse returned pushing a cart covered with a white cloth.
"Thank you, Emily." Carson smiled and patted her arm. "That will be all. I think I can handle Colonel Sheppard by myself." After the blushing nurse departed, Beckett folded back the cloth, revealing scissors, bandage wraps, tape, and the Ancient hand-held scanner. "Lie back so I can get a proper scan of your injuries." Beckett held Sheppard's elbow, placed a hand behind the injured man's back, and helped ease him to a supine position. He took the scissors and cut the black t-shirt from Sheppard's body, peeling it away from his injured side and dropping the remnants in a metal pan on the treatment cart. He shook his head at the patch of scrapes and abrasions covering Sheppard's left side.
"Hey! That is one of my new shirts, fresh off the Daedalus last month. I could have taken it off, you know." Sheppard pinned the doctor with narrowed eyes. Sometimes he suspected Beckett cut up his new shirts as payback for his less than honest post-mission, self-injury assessments.
Beckett held Sheppard's peeved look and replied, "Your shirt is smelly, filthy, and in shreds, Colonel. It is beyond repair. I'm sure Daedalus will bring a new supply when they next arrive."
Sheppard pressed his lips together and bit back a smart-ass reply. This was Beckett, not McKay. Sheppard appreciated Beckett's concern, even though it rankled to admit he felt pain. He nodded at his friend and received a grin in return.
Beckett picked up the Ancient medical scanner and activated the devise with a quick thought. It hummed. Not everyone realized that, but Sheppard and Beckett, both having the Ancient gene, heard the steady thrum of energy the device emitted. Beckett ran the scanner over Sheppard's left side and shot the Colonel an irritated look.
"You've a deep bruise to your ribs. I'm sure you're more than a little achy." He ran the scanner over the rest of Sheppard's body, deactivating it once satisfied he'd found Sheppard's only injury. He made quick work of cleansing the scrapes, ignoring Sheppard's sharp hiss when the alcohol wipe brushed over abraded flesh. "Your ribs are not broken, but, after you shower, I'll wrap them for support while they heal and give you some pain medication, which you will take, without complaint." Beckett helped Sheppard sit up.
Sheppard nodded, his face a mask of innocence.
"Go one with you then, pick up your medicine. Go clean up and eat, then get yourself back here so I can apply the wrap. You're restricted to light duty until I clear you. I expect to see you in three days for a check-up, understood?" Beckett asked.
"Aye Aye, Doc." Sheppard waggled his eyebrows at Beckett and grinned when the doctor harrumphed and shook his head.
TBCA/N: I am not a medical expert, therefore, please forgive any errors in those areas. Chalk it up to poetic licence...