A/N - in case you're wondering why fetal alcohol syndrome, a very distant relative of mine who didn't know where babies come from found herself very pregnant and very out of wedlock - yes, many, many moons ago. Surely, women in Western society aren't that naïve these days - and did what she could to get rid of the baby. I believe it might have included jumping off tables, but it certainly included consuming copious amounts of alcohol. I'm both relieved and pleased to inform you that this was not a blood relative, but related by marriage only. Said baby is now in his late 50s, and resembles the baby Lucius 'saved' in Irresistible. 'Nuff said.
Ah, catharsis...
oooOOOooo
Three days! They'd been left alone for three whole days! Must've been some hootenanny. Halleluyah.
Rodney had heard the squeals of twosomes, threesomes and moresomes in flagrante delicto right outside their prison. He stuck his finger in one ear only, the other ear feeding his greedy imagination. The sound effects were decidedly better than his downloaded internet porn, and Rodney found himself enjoying the interlude. However, he could have done without the post-binge retching noises, and the inordinately screechy music, thank you so very, very much.
When he first heard the music start up, he suspected the villagers might be cat torturers as well as - No, not going there. Let's just enjoy the respite, John. Rodney scuttled over to Sheppard, dripped some water into his half-open mouth, then gently dabbed his injuries with a damp rag. He willed him to wake up, to not leave him all alone, yet at the same time he was grateful for healing sleep. This isn't the infirmary, but I hope I'm doing some good, he thought, as he worked his way around Sheppard's abused body once more as part of the morning's ablutions. As for a semblance of food, it and water were being brought sporadically by Gary the Deliverance Kid, so all in all, life wasn't that bad.
Rodney soon realized quite how low his standards had dropped in the course of a week. Hm. No, he was grateful for small mercies. Usually he scoffed at the little things in life, and even took luxuries for granted. Like bathing. Rodney knew he would kill for a scented, candlelit bubble bath with his laptop to hand, and would even settle for a dunking in a pig trough or even a hosing down. He had spent the last three days keeping Sheppard clean, and apart from washing his hands had completely forgotten about his own hygiene. Go figure.
Meanwhile, they had finally been able to warm up. In fact, if they'd kept their tee shirts, they would have stripped them off themselves by now. Or rather, he would have stripped his own off and helped Sheppard off with his. What was left of it, that is. Sheppard's tee was little more than a rag.
And yet -
The sun was blazing through the myriad gaps in the stonework. Birds were on the wing, tweeting away merrily and doing whatever it is birds on the wing do while they tweet away merrily - and yea, there was much bleating and mooing and neighing and quacking and clucking to be had by all. Rodney didn't feel the need to pen his poetic urges, but he did imagine a delightful pastoral scene just beyond his field of vision to match the delectable barnyard aroma and the general din. Rodney sat a while in a welcome patch of sunlight, and felt oddly grateful for his mud and grime sunscreen.
oooOOOooo
Later that morning, a miracle happened. Sheppard opened his eyes, mumbled for Rodney, and smiled. It was one of his sleepy 'I'm good' smiles, and his eyes were mere slits, but it was better than nothing. Sheppard yawned, and stretched albeit with a grunt and a grimace, and slowly, painstakingly, hauled himself upright. He shook out any stiffness in his arms, stretched those long legs of his, and rolled his shoulders tentatively to test motion in his back.
After a quick swig of water and a bite or two of an appley something or other and some mystery meat jerky, Sheppard snapped back into soldier mode, pacing their prison, checking for a means of escape. His gait, Rodney noticed with a wince, was stiff. The welts on his back had calmed down considerably, looking more puce than livid. Rodney watched in awe as his tough friend systematically kneed and elbowed and shouldered the stone wall, but it refused to budge. Sheppard tried scaling the stones, but couldn't get any hand- or footholds. Sheppard winced once or twice himself, but Rodney didn't hear a single complaint from him.
Three whole days, he thought. After four days of hell for Sheppard. Yet, they were both still alive. Even if Ronon and Teyla hadn't made it back to Atlantis, they would at least be missed by now. Woolsey would be wondering what had happened to them all. Rescue was surely at hand!
oooOOOooo
"We must assemble a team immediately, Mr Woolsey. These people - they are - depraved."
Richard Woolsey studied Teyla as she padded silently around his office, her eyes desperately scanning the room as if seeking a respite from an unknown source that would never be forthcoming. He was keenly aware that this was most uncharacteristic of the normally stoical Athosian. The set of her body was tense, her muscles taut even as she intermittently attempted to assume a benign stance.
Dick watched Ronon Dex pace and growl like a zoo animal yearning to be free, occasionally stopping to rock on the balls of his feet. For a big man, Dex was undeniably graceful, like a prowling lion beside the cheetah that was Teyla. That would make John Sheppard a black panther, he mused, and Rodney McKay - more of a beached whale. Out of his element. That was fairly obvious to everyone but John Sheppard.
Dick knew that he was excellent at reading people; he was a veteran if not inveterate people watcher. He was amenable, empathic and intuitive - it just didn't always come across as he hoped. Still, his intuition afforded him this position, whether or not the IOA and the SGC and TPTB really understood the whys and wherefores of how he had become and had remained the permanent commander of the Atlantis expedition. He knew why. And wherefore. He cared. He understood. And that alone blazed like a mighty glowing beacon with accompanying curlicue neon letters through all the red tape and brown-nosing and bull all the way up to the President himself. If he were the only one who cared and understood, then so be it; it was lonely at the top. Ah, well. Back to being the Boss Guy with a stick up his behind.
"That was vehement, coming from you, Miss Emmagan." There is more to your story, he thought. "Your take on the situation, Mr Dex?"
Ronon shuffled uncomfortably. "They stink."
"Literally or figuratively?" Ah, that was uncalled for.
Ronon Dex leaned over to look him in the eye.
"Both."
"Right. Fill me in, if you would. Both of you. Mr Dex?"
Ronon shifted again. Dick wondered if the man shouldn't have been in possession of four legs rather than two, or at least loping arms longer than his already overly long legs, then conceded that he was being decidedly ungenerous.
"They wanted to trade weapons for booze. Sheppard wouldn't. We ran. Sheppard's orders. They couldn't catch up with us or even shoot straight. Too fucking drunk. We doubled back. Saw what they were doing to Sheppard. There were too many of them for us to attempt a rescue."
"Miss Emmagan?"
"That is precisely what happened."
"Would you care to elaborate?"
"As much as I would wish to provide greater detail of what transpired on PX4-779, I believe we must leave immediately. I fear we might already be too late. It took us the full allotted seven days of our mission just to get back to Atlantis in an extremely roundabout manner, with very many pursuers to shake off." She glanced at her severely grazed forearms, and at the livid bruise gracing the length of her remaining team-mate's right cheekbone and jawline. Teyla tenderly touched her own cheek, and winced. Dick winced, too.
"Colonel Sheppard had a plan, but I do not think it worked in his favor. We waited, but he and Dr McKay failed to join us. We doubled back, and saw - Please, Mr Woolsey!"
"That was all I needed to hear. I look forward to your more detailed reports later." Dick shot Ronon a knowing look, then clicked on his earpiece.
"Major Lorne, please assemble several teams. This will be a rescue or recovery mission." He nodded ineffectually.
One tinny response later, and 'Operation Rescue Sheppard and/or McKay or At Least Bring Home Their Cold Dead Bodies' was a go.
Teyla placed her hand gently on his upper arm, her eyes blazing.
"Please include Dr Beckett, myself and Ronon," she said softly.
"It goes without saying, Miss Emmagan. Teyla, if I may be so bold. You are cleared to leave with the major, despite your injuries, which appear to be minor." Dick chuckled. Then frowned. And cleared his throat. "Yes. Quite. Our good doctor can patch you both up on the way. I have surmised that you both sustained little more than field-treatable flesh wounds."
Teyla bowed her head. Was that an affirmative nod or a contrite nod? He wondered.
"Miss Emmagan, is there something else you wish to tell me?"
"It is my fault that it came to this. It was I who made initial contact with these people."
"I see. And yet Colonel Sheppard clearly trusted your judgment, as would I have done. Do not berate yourself."
He stepped forward. "Mr Dex?"
"Yup?"
"In future, please refrain from the use of colorful language in front of your superiors."
Dick watched as ex-Specialist Ronon Dex's eyes became dark and unfathomable as he took his leave. Way to go, Dicky, he thought to himself. This is a good man. A loyal man. An honest man. There are no sides to him. Memo to self: self - take Dale Carnegie refresher classes asap. Refrain from alienating the aliens.
He permitted himself one more self-indulgent chuckle at his own ready wit.
oooOOOooo
Gary came later that day. This time, he wasn't alone. Like some mass infestation, each gap suddenly crawled with an eerily identical rugrat.
"Oh, god! It's the Midwich Cuckoos," Rodney muttered grimly. "Go! Shoo! Scoot! Scram! Too many of you. You'll draw attention to us! We need a break!" No, Sheppard needs a longer break…
"Beat it! Skedaddle! Amscray?"
The Midwich Cuckoos twittered. Rodney suspected that Gary, however, wasn't entirely happy. The boy seemed agitated, but as he wasn't overly verbal, Rodney didn't bother to ask him why. Rodney was surprised at himself, as he usually could rarely read adults let alone rugrats. He doubted his insight into rugrattery would be sustainable. However, he'd settle for choppy right now. Why would Gary be this upset? Unless he and Sheppard were pets he didn't care to share. A project. Or maybe the little guy even actually cared.
Snickering, the rugrats began to post various items through the gap, most of it useless. Odd bits of clothing, a spoon or two, broken wooden toys, more canteens of water thankfully, and even one of rotgut. He saw one kid take a swig. Backwash. That was just so wrong on so many levels. Thoughts of disfiguring diseases popped into his head, with symptoms too hideous to contemplate and names too long to remember. Then, Sheppard limped over to a gap, only to have a beanpole of a boy spit in his face.
"My pappy says you won't make the contraption work for us." Beanpole looked slightly alarmed at his own bravado, and took a step backwards.
Sheppard wiped his cheek with the heel of his hand, then scrubbed his wet hand on his ragged boxers, wiping the spittle away. Rodney decided right then and there that humans should spontaneously generate as adults, thus bypassing the larval stage.
Alarm bells rang. So, it had come down to the gene thing. No wonder they were still beating on Sheppard. It was no longer about weapons. When had that happened? Why hadn't he grilled Sheppard about what was really going on? Oh, that's right. Sheppard was already being grilled, and he didn't want to add to his misery. He was Sheppard's refuge. That, and the fact that he really didn't want to know too much in case… but - Sheppard wouldn't make some contraption work? What was with that?
"Ohgodohgodohgodohgod - I have the gene, too!"
"Keep your mouth shut, McKay." Sheppard said through gritted teeth. "So help me, I'll - " He bunched up a fist and slammed it into a wall. "Ghaah, where's the rotgut," he muttered as he walked away flexing his fingers, and shaking out the pain. As he passed a contrite Rodney, he frowned and growled out, "He. Heard. You."
The Midwich Cuckoos had flitted away, except one. Gary. And he began to sob.
oooOOOooo