Too Much To Pretend
by Mirwalker
DAY NINETEEN (cont.)
"Please, Teyla; not for me, for Michael. What is his terrible secret?" While the irony of asking for something he'd fight against revealing wasn't lost on Max, this revelation could help him protect himself and his own, and help Michael too.
She smiled nervously at him, not sure why that expression sprung up as she struggled with whether and what to share. As guilty and doubtful as she had grown about the lies that she and the others were perpetrating, not just to Michael, but also to Max, perhaps he was her opportunity to confess and find some comfort in someone who shared her growing reservations. In his short time in her galaxy, this new stranger from Earth had shown himself to be friendly, curious, sincere and respectful; and beyond the regular visits to Major Lorne in the Infirmary, had he not just sought her out, driven by his own concern for Michael? He knew nothing of the other man, except that he needed a friend; for no reason other than compassion, he felt compelled to stand up for him, to support and help this stranger solve the mystery, to find the truth. Did that not speak to his character and honor? Should she not reflect that strength, with her own honesty?
And yet, she had agreed to uphold the illusion of Michael, for Michael. Maintaining the game for the former Wraith meant attempting to continue it for Max as well, hoping he could help make the experiment a success. Because a successful, permanent transformation meant her people—all the people of the Pegasus Galaxy and even beyond, might soon be free from the culling threat they had always known. Was that not worth a few half-truths or careful evasions this morning? Was that goal not what Max himself, and all the Expedition members, had undertaken—a defense against and defeat of the Wraith? And so, what words could she share with this master of languages to calm his concern, at least enough to have him play his part a bit longer?
"Teyla? I'm sorry to have broached this subject so bluntly; I apologize if I have offended you in speaking so plainly so soon." Max was trying to maintain his respectful approach, while still pressing her for some response. "Please also forgive me when I say that, honestly, your hesitation now does not much reassure me that there isn't something significant going on. Please?" He maintained direct, plaintive eye contact with her.
She smiled, looking about in not overly exaggerated embarrassment at not knowing what to say or saying it sooner. "There is no need to apologize, Max; I am pleased to see your fierce commitment to your new friend, and am honored that you feel you can speak to me about it. It is I who am sorry for not responding more quickly." More than honestly, she paused and looked around their shared space. "I am trying to determine what more I can say, while still respecting Michael's… privacy."
"Of course," Max acknowledged, calmer and sitting back at the apparent confirmation of her concern for Michael and her intent to share with him.
Both wondering in their own way what disclosure would be forthcoming, they both started when the next speaker in their conversation was an announcement over the city-wide PA system, "Doctor Royce, Doctorr Max Royce, please report to the Infirmary immediately."
With Teyla close behind him, Royce literally skidded around the corner as he barreled through the Infirmary toward Lorne's bed, the destination he assumed behind the summons. His elevated speed and face dropped quickly when he encountered the rest of Sheppard's team, Weir and Beckett crowded around the drowsy-eyed patient.
McKay tapped his wristwatch and whispered, "I win," to a smirking Sheppard who was pretending to ignore him.
"Max?" whispered Lorne hoarsely.
"I'm here, Vee," Royce called out with loud relief. He added the warning, "We're all here."
And on hearing Evan speak, confirming he was in fact returned to the land of living—again, Max was also overcome by the desire to bound to the bed or burst into song… something to express his relief and to allay his need to feel a recovered response directly from Evan. But this was not the audience for that honesty or affection. So instead, and not entirely without bodily basis, he simply doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees with slightly exaggerated heavy breathing from his run from Teyla's quarters.
"Doctor Royce?" asked Beckett, moving toward him, instinctively true to his profession.
Royce held his hand up, explaining, "I sprinted the last bit; I just need a sec…" He masked wiping his wet eyes by pressing the heel of his hands against them, applying pressure to an honestly aching head.
"Are you sure you're OK, son?"
Standing up and locking watery eyes with those peering at him from the bed, Royce smiled honestly, "Couldn't be better." A grimace broke in on his face; and he burned a little more anxious energy by running his hands firmly through his hair. "But I could use an aspirin."
"We took a transporter," explained Teyla, who had placed a concerned hand on his back.
Royce nodded and took a deep breath, acknowledging that urgency had outweighed his apparent tech allergy.
"At some point soon, we really should talk about these headaches…," scowled the Head of Medicine, offering him two tablets.
Popping the pills, Royce nodded agreeably, clearly not wanting to be distracted from the reason he had this particular pain.
Also turning back to the interrupted discussion about Lorne's prognosis, Sheppard pointed out with a big grin on his face, "So Doc, the Major's got a mountain of paperwork piling up on his desk…"
Not doubting the likely permission, but aware that there was a packed gallery for the consultation, Beckett looked to and received the go-ahead nod from the patient. "Despite his obvious zeal to return to the world of military bureaucracy, Major Lorne will be with us for at least another day or two, to run a full set of neuro exams, and to regain his strength. It'll likely be some light physical therapy too, as he's been supine for nearly two weeks. For now, he needs to rest; so, please give him your best and let him get back to recuperating."
Royce hung back as Lorne's other friends and colleagues wished him well—patting, playfully punching and promising him overdue meals and workouts. Lorne vaguely registered the details, thankful for their encouragement to be sure, but eager to renew a different relationship.
For his part, Max was also pleased to see the more-than-professional connection Evan had formed with these co-workers; it was very clear beyond the statements Weir and others had made, that Evan was in fact part of a community here. But Max was also impatient for them to leave him to an eager commune of his own.
He was so eager that he did not notice a worried-looking Teyla pull Sheppard and Weir aside as they headed toward the Infirmary doors.
Redrawing the curtain and stepping bedside, Max ran a hand tenderly across the cheek nearly as pale as his own, and threaded his fingers into Evan's. He relished the returned pressure, even if not as strong as he remembered or would like.
They just took each other in for a moment, until Max glanced up to confirm the re-drawn curtain and then settled on the edge of the bed, pulling Evan's hand up to his chest. "Welcome back," he whispered with more catch in his voice than he'd intended.
Evan gently stroked his shirt, and whispered hoarsely, "I saw you…"
"You see me now."
"No, in the Gateroom, down the hall as we were staging… You saw me off to Meerux."
Royce blushed a little at being caught a fortnight earlier, but wasn't sorry that the sendoff had happened. "Knowing what had just happened on the planet, I couldn't not… I hoped you wouldn't notice."
"You know, you can't get into the habit of visiting the Gateroom every time I go off-world. First, you'll run out of pretenses to get you there…"
"I've had nearly two decades to get really creative at connecting and communicating with you without calling attention to me or us," Max reminded with a twang of doubt over more recent days. "Give me a little credit."
"I could get used to seeing you there," smiled the soldier.
"I don't want to get used to seeing you here," countered the sociolinguist, indicating the Infirmary with a glance.
"Dr Royce!" called Beckett gently but firmly from beyond the screens, causing them to each to pull away quickly.
"I'll be back as soon as I can; rest now," said the summoned. He leaned in quickly and gave Evan a lingering kiss and final brush of the cheek. "I love you."
Evan squeezed his hand, and added his "Verily" as Max grudgingly backed out of the screened bedspace…
A few minutes earlier, Dr Beckett had shooed everyone else out of the Infirmary, happy to reward the best friend's persistent vigilance with a few private moments, and relishing this medical victory himself. As he logged the painkiller into Royce's record and made a note to follow up on the headaches as threatened, another voice and potential success arrived.
"Dr Beckett is just through there."
The sincere "thanks" was followed around the corner by Michael, while his escorts' shadowed him at a respectful but ready distance. "Hi, Doctor Beckett," he said with a smiling but sheepish reserve.
Tapping the laptop to toggle away from Royce's photo and medical history, Beckett ratcheted his own energy level up for its understated but demonstrable therapeutic effect. "Lieutenant! What brings you into my shop this fine day?"
"I had another set of nightmares," the patient at-large volunteered. "I was just with Dr Heightmeyer; and she suggested I see you about something to help me sleep tonight." Kenmore's voice dropped slightly as he spoke, as if he was—or was learning to be—slightly embarrassed by the confession and/or affliction.
Not really surprised by the referral or request given the team consult meetings, Beckett didn't flinch as he reassured, "I'm sorry to hear that, Michael; but it's understandable in your situation."
He narrated them toward a medical cabinet, reaching in for a large bottle he'd pre-selected for just this occasion. "I'll give you a few of these basic sleep aids to try tonight. Hopefully they'll be enough to help you relax and sleep solidly through the night."
He handed Michael a smaller bottle into which he'd transferred a few pills of what was, in truth, a mid-strength sedative. "Take just one of these with some water as you get into bed. It can act quickly; so you don't want to be out and about, or in the middle of anything when it kicks in. If you're not asleep, you can take a second one no sooner than two hours later. But don't do more than that; we'll need to talk before trying any more or anything stronger."
"I understand. Thanks," nodded Kenmore, looking hopefully at the encapsulated escape. He glanced up at Beckett and started to speak before stopping, and then restarting. "By the way, Doctor, it might not be appropriate for me to say this, but…"
"Yes?"
"Well, you don't look like you're getting much sleep either. Maybe you should try a couple of these yourself?" The thought was sincere, even if the smile was faux pas-wary.
Beckett smiled despite himself, his shoulders dropping. "You've a sharp eye, you; and a good heart." He clasped Kenmore on the shoulder, tipped his head toward the private bed, promising, "With Major Lorne awake, and you taking care of yourself, I just might get that good rest tonight."
Kenmore looked over at the screened area, "Lorne. That's Max's friend, right?"
"Aye. He's in there right now, and couldn't be happier."
Michael nodded as his face flashed with happiness, resignation and perhaps more. He glanced back at Beckett, agreeing, "I'm happy for him. But I have another journaling assignment from Dr Heightmeyer, physical therapy and then I may give these a try…" He rattled the pill bottle as he backed away hurriedly.
"Pleasant dreams," wished Beckett after him, instantly glad that Kenmore was too eager to leave to hear the potentially counterproductive reminder.
And anxious to resolve the stay-a-while-longer negotiation that would inevitably follow next, he called toward Lorne's bed, "Dr Royce!"
Michael hurried out of the Infirmary and stopped around the corner, both to examine the bottle and surreptitiously to see if Max would exit as well. As he waited, he considered how he was genuinely happy that his friend's friend was awake, that his friend would be happy. He also took some comfort that this explained why Max had not been available earlier in the morning. Having calmed down from the night before, he'd actually been irritated when he didn't find Max in his quarters or at breakfast as before. As much as the previous evening's event had confused and upset him, with the dreams and secrets and soreness and absent memories and fatigue, he still found being with and talking to Max comforting.
Knowing that this certain "medicine" was just a few steps away, attending to someone else in his moment of need, also raised a new feeling in Michael: he was a little jealous of this Major Lorne. Beyond the novelty of the feeling in itself, he pondered whether or not it was a positive sign for him—to feel a connection sufficiently to be bothered by even the slightest competition to it. What would Dr Heightmeyer make of this emotional development? What would Max? Or was this another exasperating nuance of normalcy he wasn't supposed to talk or be told about?
No, for now he would let his friend focus on other priorities; he chose to be happy for him. Max would not be going anywhere, and had expressed a desire to introduce—to reintroduce him and the Major; so he only needed to be patient. Besides, he wasn't going anywhere either, except eventually to try the chemically-assisted slumber. He hoped the little bottle would bring him that rest, and with it answers and clarity.
In the meanwhile, perhaps even at lunch, he would work on his other relationships—with Teyla, Carson, Rodney, even Ronon, in the hopes that his growth and remembering would similarly be encouraged by those connections.
So resolved, he headed off from the Infirmary. Not far along his trip to his quarters, in fact, Colonel Sheppard and Ronon appeared in the corridor; and he saw a chance to be proactive with his colleagues…
The sun had long since gone down; and the Infirmary was again largely quiet, except for a soft a cappella tune that wound through the winding suite as it wound down.
A few moments after it faded away, a hushed voice broke the silence at a work station toward the back of the rooms. "Dr Beckett?"
The physician started from his drowsy daze, more than a little panicked that there was something wrong, that he was needed.
"It's OK," assured Royce as he came around the side of the desk where Beckett had been staring at the computer screen. "No emergency."
"Oh," relaxed the Scotsman, almost immediately trying to stifle a yawn. "That's good."
"I just wanted to say 'thanks'," chuckled the visitor.
"Aw, I really don't mind ya hanging about, as long as you're letting him rest…"
Royce grinned before explaining in all seriousness, "Not just for extending my visiting hours, Carson, but for everything. More important than your hospitality, you and your team are incredible healers too. Thank you."
Beckett blushed at the praise and reminded the midnight tenor, "Most of our work was nearly two weeks ago; you've been the attending musician since then. He didn't come back for us."
Blushing humbly at the turned table, Royce nodded acceptance of the mutual appreciation. "He's drifted off again; so I'm going to get some shut eye myself. You look like you could do with a little yourself…"
"Aye; so I keep being told," stretched Beckett. "Just keeping an eye on… an experiment in progress. Touchy stuff, cellular genetics."
"Well in the hopes you won't stay too much longer with a nearly empty and recovering house, I will pass the 'king of late night' title on to you. Keller better not tell me you were still at that desk when she comes on shortly," he smiled and threatened. Patting the lab-coated back, Royce headed toward the doors.
"Fair enough," laughed the swiveling doctor. "Oh, I'd forgotten to mention it earlier, but Michael Kenmore came in not long after Lorne woke up this morning. He was happy to hear that the Major was better."
Royce smiled and seemed relieved. "Good; I didn't realize I hadn't seen him for being here all day. I'll look him up first thing in the morning. Thanks for the heads up." Waving another 'good night,' he resumed his exit.
Beckett watched him slip in one last peek through the curtain for a final check on Lorne, before finally heading out. The doctor smiled after the continued vigilance until his laptop beeped for his attention, having completed its most recent analysis. Covering another yawn, he turned, looked up at his "Scenic Scotland" calendar to see what day it almost was, and then set about reviewing the completed report and beginning the progress projections that would wrap up yet another long day on assessing the status and prognosis of patient #4364.
Later that night, his alarmed voice spoke to a groggy Weir and Sheppard, as he jogged down the corridor with Marines in tow. "Come as quick as you can. He has his video records…"