Chapter 4
Was this all some crazy fever-dream? Was John really lying in his bed back at the farm, totally out of it, the General hovering anxiously nearby? That was a strong possibility, he decided. The dark, echoingly empty corridor stretched and receded ahead of him, nauseatingly ebbing and flowing like waves on a beach, and the constant skitter and chatter of his little guides was the tumbling of pebbles in the water. Maybe he'd caught something nasty from that creep, Mitchell.
John had lost track of the ups and downs, twists and turns of this weird place. He couldn't have found his way out if he'd had the energy to try; he didn't think he'd even be able to find his room again. Although finding a bathroom might become an urgent need if all that coffee decided to look for a new home.
"Come, come, Mr Sheppard, follow, follow," urged the candelabra.
"Just call me John," he said, stopping to lean against another friendly wall. "How much further do we have to go?"
"No further," chirped the teacup. "We're here!"
They walked (or scuttled) through a large hall set with dust-covered tables and chairs and then behind a long servery and through a set of swing doors. John found himself in a maze of shining steel work surfaces and hanging pots and pans. He barely registered his surroundings, however, because of the tantalising scents, both savoury and sweet, which filled the air. His stomach gurgled unpleasantly.
One corner of the kitchen was shrouded in steam and strewn with equipment and ingredients, and a small figure danced about between work surface and hob, stirring and chopping, tasting and seasoning.
"Ah, at last! A little help here, please!" The clock, Woolsey, snatched up a cloth and, swinging open his glass front, cleared it of steam, back and front. He closed it and it immediately began steaming up again.
The candelabra and the coffee pot scurried forward and climbed up the rungs of a high stool and then onto the work surface.
"Dr Zelenka, please stir that sauce," directed Woolsey. "Teyla, if you would be so kind, I'd appreciate your help with the tiramisu."
"Of course, Richard."
"Uh, can I do anything?" John's head was buzzing with caffeine and he was feeling more than a little queasy.
"Sit down," said Woolsey, indicating the stool. "Be our guest!"
"Thanks." He sat and watched the teacup rattle toward a stray pea and roll it around like a ball. "Um… Is this all for me?"
"But of course!" said Zelenka, turning out the heat on the sauce. "We cannot eat any of it!"
"Uh, yeah. The thing is, I'm not sure all that coffee was the best thing on an empty stomach, so…"
"Looking a bit green there, Mr Sheppard," commented Ford, helpfully.
Teyla was pouring out yet more coffee onto a layer of sponge cake. "Oh, I am so sorry! It is such a long time since we could eat, I did not think!"
"And Dr McKay drinks coffee like it's water," added Zelenka.
"Here." The clock slid a plate in front of him, containing a single, unbuttered slice of bread. "Eat this. It'll soak up the coffee and you'll soon have an appetite for our culinary efforts."
John picked up the bread and nibbled one corner. The little people resumed their activities and he ate and watched and slowly his nausea subsided and his hunger grew.
"Ford, you're flicking that everywhere!" Woolsey wiped a smear of cream off his face, irritably.
"Sorry, Mr Woolsey. The whisk keeps getting away from me."
"I am ready for the next layer now, Aiden."
"Coming up!" The teacup tipped his bowl and Teyla spread the creamy mixture over her coffee-soaked sponge layer.
There were pans on the hob, something baking in the oven below and Woolsey was checking the contents of a walk-in freezer. "Where d'you get all this stuff?" John asked. "Has it all been frozen for, like, years and years?"
"Oh, no," said Woolsey. "We grow it. That is, Dr McKay grows it and we help."
"He grows it?"
"Yes, yes," said Zelenka. "He has set up a hydroponics lab where some is grown, and the rest is in the gardens."
John thought about the wilderness he'd ridden through and the creepers climbing up the towers. "I didn't see any garden."
"You cannot see it the way you came," said Teyla. "But it is there. It is very beautiful."
John couldn't imagine that angry, hooded figure creating anything of beauty and said so.
"Truly," assured Teyla. "Rodney has many good qualities. And he is a genius besides. No one else could have revived us from mere inanimate objects."
"So he says," said John.
"He does say it." Zelenka hopped down onto the floor, opened the oven and took out a tray of crispy potatoes. "Dr McKay declares his own genius with great frequency and regularity. But that does not mean it is not true." He passed the tray up to Woolsey and then scrambled back up the stool and onto the work surface. "And me, I understand. I am a scientist too, although you would not know it to look at me now."
"Well, maybe the guy's a genius. But I'm pretty sure he's an evil one." John picked up breadcrumbs with a damp fingertip and ate them. The bread had helped, but now his stomach churned with a growling need to be filled.
"Oh no!" The coffee pot shook cocoa powder on top of her dessert. "He is not evil. Not at heart. You will come to know him as we do, and then perhaps… perhaps you will love him?"
"Love him? Love him? Ha! Yeah, right then." All four of the little faces were suddenly fixed on him and John squirmed, embarrassed. "Sorry, if you like the guy. And I suppose I get that, if he, er, kind of made you better. A bit. What's that all about, anyway? How'd you get like this?"
"Well, there was this woman and -"
"Aiden!" The coffee pot's tone was sharp. And, yeah, she was a coffee pot, but that didn't mean John would ever want to be on the receiving end of that particular tone. The teacup shrank. "It was an unfortunate accident," said Teyla, her usual calmness resumed. "A situation that we hope will one day be rectified."
"Okay." They were hiding something. What that something might be, John didn't know. Maybe he'd do a bit of snooping when he got the chance. The little creatures began laying out a place setting in front of him and surrounding him with serving dishes of tempting items. The teacup washed himself out and then set himself in John's place, next to a water jug. "Why're you a teacup?" John asked. "Shouldn't you be a coffee cup?"
"Teacups are wider," replied Ford. "So the coffee cools quicker. So you can gulp it down as fast as possible and then have more."
"Which is a priority for McKay."
"That is so," said Woolsey, lifting the lid off a serving bowl of cauliflower cheese. "And now, everything is finished and assembled! We present to our guest, a grand feast!"
Maybe it was a crazy dream, but the least John could do was applaud. And then he got down to the very serious business of piling his plate with as much food as possible: a pile of those crisply rustling roast potatoes, an oozing heap of the creamy cauliflower cheese, a tumble of golden, buttery carrots, a barrage of peas and something that looked like it was pretending to be meat, but definitely wasn't.
"What's this?"
"It is made of a specially grown protein, mixed with ground seeds, herbs and spices. An invention of -"
"Dr McKay's?"
"Yeah, the Doc invented it," said Ford. "Is it good?"
John cut off a chunk and ate it. "Mmm. Very."
The little creatures smiled and clattered happily and they continued smiling, each in their own particular painted or moulded way, as he tucked into as much as he could of the food they had cooked. It was all very good and soon his poor, abused stomach was feeling much more normal.
"Save room for dessert," advised the teacup.
"Sure, yeah, tiramisu," said John.
The candelabra doled him out a large portion. He ate it slowly, not sure whether more coffee was entirely a good idea.
"So," John licked his spoon, thoughtfully. "All this feels pretty real." He looked at the clock, the candelabra, the coffee pot and the teacup. "You're really, actually, you know, alive. And talking and, uh, cooking and stuff."
"We are." The clock drew himself up proudly, his hands at precisely midnight. Or midday.
"Okay, then."
"Did you think that you were in a dream, Mr Sheppard?" asked the coffee pot.
"For a while there, yeah. And drop the mister. I told you, just call me John. Er, Teyla."
The curling gilt decoration curved upward into a smile. "John," she said. "You are very welcome to our city, John."
"Thanks, I think." He put down the spoon, his dessert unfinished. "I guess I'll get used to it here. Eventually."
The lights flickered and an unhappy shuddering came from the walk-in freezer.
"What's that?"
Zelenka's candles twitched uneasily. "A power fluctuation. We should leave."
"Yeah, Dr M'll be down on us like a tonne of bricks," said Ford.
"Our feast may have involved a rather conspicuous power consumption." The clock waddled along the work surface, catching John's sleeve and pulling him toward the door.
"You said there isn't enough power to run this place," said John. "Where does the power come from? I'm guessing there isn't a furnace being stoked somewhere."
"No, nothing is being stoked, nothing is being replaced," said Zelenka, catching at John's other sleeve. "It is broken and cannot be fixed."
"But what is it? And where?"
"It is deep down underground, John, and you must not try to find it!" The coffee pot added her urging to her friends' and John found himself hustled out of the kitchen.
"No," agreed Zelenka. "Dr McKay would be very angry if he found you down there."
"What, I'd end up back in the cell?"
"At the very least!"
oOo
"No, I'll be fine. I've got everything I need. You folks just go'n do... whatever folks like you do. Thanks. Yeah, I'm sure. Thanks again. Goodnight!"
John waved his hand over the controls and the doors slid shut. He put his ear to the join and listened. Then he slid down and listened nearer to the ground. There was some low-voiced murmuring and then a retreating clatter of wood, china and metal. John flicked at the control panel and a crack opened. There was a small, painted eye watching him.
"Off you go, Ford. I don't need a guard."
The eye narrowed.
"Go on."
The cup and saucer scuttled away and John waited until the chink of china on china had faded to nothing. Then he waited a bit more. Then he opened the door just a little and slid out through the gap and shut it behind him. Time to do some snooping.
John wasn't sure why he didn't just head for the nearest exit and make a break for it; other than the fact that, as the General would have ridden home on Ronon, he had no transport. Perhaps it was because the little 'people' had seemed so pleased to have a guest, and so stoic about doing the best they could despite their limitations. Perhaps, though the city was a faded, melancholy place, he was beginning to see that it had been beautiful once and maybe could be again. He probably couldn't do anything about it, of course. After all, what could an ex-soldier-turned-farmhand do that the great and powerful (not to mention tyrannical) Dr McKay hadn't been able to do?
John crept stealthily along the corridor and down the stairs. Of course, there were many, many towers and buildings in this place, so that he probably didn't stand a chance of actually finding where the failing power source was. But Teyla had said 'deep underground', so he'd start by heading down and see what happened. There was a fair amount of dust and debris in the less used passageways, so if he avoided those, maybe he'd come across McKay's usual route.
John's senses were on full alert, as if he were on a sortie into enemy territory, a lone scout, checking out the lie of the land before battle was joined, assessing the opposing forces. He'd been in that position a fair few times during his career. And had fairly often had to take out enemy sentries, swiftly and silently.
There were no sentries here, however, and no sign of any semi-animate guards. John descended and traversed and descended some more and, although he deliberately avoided the more abandoned-looking ways, he found himself peculiarly drawn to some choices; this way, rather than that, this narrow passage, rather than that wide hall. There was a little tingle, a faint whisper in his mind that intrigued and unnerved him in equal measure, but drew him on and down into the darkness.
And at last he came to a dimly-lit octagonal room, with a raised platform and pedestal in the centre. To one side was a rumpled heap of blankets surrounded by an assortment of dirty cups and a large, metallic flask with coffee stains down the side. Clearly Teyla's contents sometimes weren't enough. There was a bucket, from which came the odour of rotting fruit, and surrounding it, peelings and cores that hadn't made it as far as the bucket. Resting on the platform that surrounded the central pedestal were objects John didn't recognise - flat and smooth and each about the size of a large book. And another, larger, hinged and half open. John tentatively pushed up the lid and a bright rectangle flickered to life. On the lower half was a keyboard, laid out a bit like the typewriting machine he'd glimpsed once in the Mayor's office. But that was a solid piece of machinery, heavy and elaborate, whereas this was a flat, delicate device. It was fascinating, but didn't draw him in like the pedestal, which spoke to that tiny itch in his mind in soft, unintelligible words and a whisper of a caress.
John straightened up to run his hands over the moulded surface. It was triangular and there were three holes, or ports, he guessed, for whatever strange power source this city ran on. Two of the holes were dark and empty, but the third was full, its contents flush with the top of the pedestal - a weakly-glowing circle, marked with a spiderweb of black lines. His hands crept toward it. What would it look like if he drew it out? Could he? There was no handle evident. It glowed like a dying ember. Would it burn him if he touched it? Gently, John laid a hand on the dark red, flickering circle. It was warm to the touch and a faint, fizzing tingle travelled from John's hand, up his arm and -
"What the hell are you doing?"
A sudden, forceful shove sent John tripping over the edge of the platform to sprawl on the ground.
"You are not allowed down here! Not allowed, you hear? Get out! Get out!"
John rolled over. The looming silhouette of Rodney McKay stood over him, the faint red light gleaming in two points within the shadow of his hood.
"I was just -"
"Get out!" There was a bright blue flash and something ricocheted off the floor right next to John's head.
He sprang to his feet and backed away toward the door. This guy was crazy - totally crazy. Then McKay rushed toward him, waving the weapon and the hood slipped and revealed his face for the first time.
John recoiled in horror. Where the man's face should be, instead there was a wavering, rippling distortion. He couldn't make anything out but swirling shifting surges that one moment might have been flesh and then the next were ugly bulges of seething, molten form that couldn't possibly be part of a living, breathing person. And yet they were. And as he stared in frozen shock, the swirls resolved themselves into two eyes, burning with fury but, beneath that, burning also with something that might have been shame.
"Have a good, long look, why don't you? Stare and point and scream at the monster! Go on!"
John shook his head. "I -"
"You what?" McKay interrupted. "You didn't know anyone could look so hideous? So repulsive? You need to go away and throw up? What?"
"I'm sorry," said John.
"Don't be! Don't you be sorry for me! Just go!" The heavy coat twitched as the weapon rose again and John didn't wait. He ran. "Get out and leave me alone!"
Blue flame flickered past John as he hurtled for the stairs. A whine passed close to his ear and then his right arm burned with cold and went numb, flapping around as he ran. He made it to the stairs and up out of the line of fire and then he kept going, because no matter how sorry he felt for Zelenka and Woolsey and Teyla and Ford and even for the clearly mad Dr McKay, there was no way he was staying here a minute longer.
He didn't remember the way, but it seemed like his feet did, because John just kept going and going, running and running, his left hand holding his numb arm close to his side. And then a blast of cold hit him and he kept running, out into the night and the snow.
oOo
Rodney fired once more, even though whatever-his-name-was had gone - disappeared up the stairs like his tail was on fire. Thinking about it, his tail was more likely to be numb from a stunner blast, although if Rodney had hit him in the ass he probably wouldn't have been able to take to his heels like he had. Rodney didn't care anyway. The fool wouldn't get far. If he found his way out of the city, there was the snow to put him off trying to escape and if that didn't faze him, the wolves howling at the edge of the forest would.
Rodney circled the platform, his hands twitching, jealously checking off the presence of his datapads, his laptop, the other items that he'd left strewn around the room which shouldn't, under any circumstances, be moved or even touched by anyone, not ever, because they were his and he'd left them exactly how he wanted them. He didn't even like Zelenka encroaching on his lair, not really, let alone any of the others, and certainly not some uneducated hick from whatever backwater passed for civilization around here.
Everything seemed to be in its place, the ZPM still faintly glowing. It had developed a flicker over the last few weeks; a prelude, no doubt, to its giving up the ghost entirely. Rodney bent over the pedestal and rested his cheek on the warm red circle. What would he do when it had gone out? When he truly was alone in the dark? He'd have Mr Hick Bumpkin for company, which he wasn't altogether pleased about, even though someone had to pay for the attempted thievery, not to mention the criminal damage. Perhaps he'd just lock the man in the brig again.
There was a hollowness in the pit of Rodney's stomach and it wasn't entirely down to dread of the future. He stood up and patted down his numerous pockets, finding them all empty. He swore comprehensively at the thought of all the stairs between him and food. Then he pulled his hood up over his head and set off.
He'd make a sandwich, he thought, as he climbed the stairs. A really big one. Slices of McKay's Meatless Meat, alternating with those pickled Brussels sprouts, which had seemed like a really bad idea at the time, but had come out a bit like sauerkraut. Not lettuce, no. He wasn't in a leafy mood.
"Dr M!"
He nearly tripped over the teacup, which skidded out from a side passage and spun to a rattling halt in front of him.
"What," he said, flatly. This little pipsqueak had better not come between him and his sandwich.
"He's gone, Dr M! We couldn't stop him!"
"Huh?"
A slower rattle and clatter announced Teyla's arrival, followed by a metallic scramble and wheezing, wooden hollowness, which heralded Zelenka and Woolsey.
"John has left the city," said Teyla. "What have you done?"
"What have I done? Why should I have done anything?"
"Because he said he'd rather take his chance with the snow and the wolves than stay here a minute longer," said Radek, his candles waving.
"And, he appeared to have been hurt."
Rodney had been glared at by those delicately-painted eyes before and it was never a pleasant experience. "Oh, well, I may have caught him with a stunner blast or two."
"Rodney!" Teyla's spout quivered with anger. "You must go after him."
"What? Why should I? It's not as if he's going to get far." He waved an airy hand and side-stepped the little group. "He'll come creeping back soon enough."
The clattering group intercepted him.
"Rodney, he might be killed! You must go!" Teyla insisted.
Woolsey chimed in, "Yes, Dr McKay, I really think that is the best course of action."
"Rodney, please!" The candelabra danced from side to side with urgency.
"Come on, Doc! Get your ass into gear!"
He'd step on that irritating teacup one day. "Alright! Alright! I'm going!" He spun on his heel and marched with quick, angry strides toward the nearest exit. "Although if the wolves get him, it serves him right. He must be as thick as two short planks to even try it. Hardly someone who's going to provide me with stimulating conversation. Maybe I should have kept the old man instead."
"John was angry and distressed," said Teyla. "And you do not know anything about him. Not even his name." She skittered at his heels, irritatingly.
"His name's John - you just said it." Probably John Smith or John Farmer or something equally bucolic.
"You would not have remembered if I had not."
Rodney stopped suddenly and his escort clattered into each other. "What does it matter if I know his name or I don't?"
"Because you are supposed to be trying to break the Ancient's curse, Rodney, by getting John to fall in love with you," said the candelabra. "And shooting at him and letting him freeze or get eaten by wolves is not the best way of going about it!"
"Oh, whatever!" Rodney flicked a dismissive hand. "That's never going to work anyway."
His small companions clattered uneasily.
"Try, Rodney." Teyla's painted eyes were now pleading. "If not for yourself, then for us."
Why should he try? Why shouldn't he just turn around and go back to working on the failing ZPM in peace and quiet, which was how he liked it anyway? Didn't he? He was far more likely to get that thing recharged, even though he'd already spent years failing to, than to get this John person to love him. He should have stuck with the old man. He would have been easier to handle. The scene sprung up in his mind's eye: the old man behind bars, his young friend or relative or whatever standing in front of Rodney, offering himself instead - freely, selflessly.
"Rodney, please." Radek's flames flickered toward him.
"Alright! I'm going!"
"Hurry!"
"I said I'm going, didn't I?"
Rodney grumbled and muttered to himself as he swept through the city and then grumbled and muttered even more as he stomped out into the snow, until the flakes began to get into his mouth and he clamped his lips tight shut. He pulled his hood down even further and took out a flashlight and his weapon, pointing both into the swirling blizzard.
It was more sheltered beneath the trees and he could see further ahead, but there was no sign of his quarry. There were tracks, though, faint and windblown, and he followed them, grumbling once more.
"What kind of an idiot comes out in this? A dumb-ass, lame brain, thick as sh-"
An eerie, yelping howl interrupted him.
"Probably got himself eaten already." Rodney quickened his pace, unsure why he even bothered. The idiot had chosen to come out here, hadn't he? It was his own fault. He recalled the scene in the brig again. The younger man had walked calmly into the cell, and then smiled through the bars, even though, for all he knew, he'd never get out again. His smile had been lopsided and his hair was ridiculous.
From up ahead there was the snarling and snapping of hungry animals and Rodney heard a few human shouts mixed in. He began to run, leaping through the deep snow, and he was sure he hadn't run for years and it really wasn't going to do him any good. He'd probably get pneumonia from all this freezing cold air he was pulling into his lungs.
But he kept running. Even when he fell full length, Rodney scrambled to his feet and carried on. Even though he couldn't see and there were treacherous rocks and roots hidden beneath the soft, white covering, he carried on. The beam of his flashlight cast crazy, leering shadows as he ran and the growls and yelps of the wolves grew louder, the shouting more desperate.
Then Rodney burst into a clearing and ahead of him was a semi-circle of snarling, grey animals, lips drawn back to reveal sharp flesh-tearing teeth. The ex-prisoner's back was against a rocky outcrop and he held a large branch in one hand, which he swept in great arcs before him, clipping one wolf on the nose, bashing another on the head. But behind and above him, a dark shape shifted on the rock and then leapt.
Rodney raised his hand and fired his weapon, but the blue fire passed above the creature as it fell, a mass of claws and teeth, down onto the cornered man. They both dropped to the ground, and disappeared behind the rest of the pack. The other wolves turned and Rodney fired into their ranks, again and again. Some ran, terrified, but others were undaunted. And the rolling heap on the floor behind them was a blur of fur and fabric, flickering in and out of the beam of his flashlight.
It was no good. He couldn't do it. He'd have to run or be killed himself. So Rodney ran; but instead of making, as fast as he could, for the safety of the city, he found himself running toward the wolves, shouting and waving his arms and loosing off bolts of blue lightning. A wolf leapt at him and he fired, point-blank into the mad, wild eyes. It dropped, and a rush from his left brought his heavy flashlight swinging around, to smack into a snarling animal's skull. It fell too, and he shot it and then sent blast after blast whining and zinging into the snapping, slavering pack. Then they were gone, but still the tangled battle of man and wolf went on as the victim fought for his life, a branch jammed between his opponent's jaws, forcing it away from his face.
They rolled over and over and then, for a moment, the wolf was on top and Rodney fired once more, a bright beam that flashed true and hit its target squarely in the side of its head. The animal immediately collapsed.
Then there was nothing but the soft fall of snow and the wind blustering against his ears. His hood had fallen back and Rodney left it there. The flashlight beam surged up and down in concert with his heaving chest and thumping heart. His weapon was suddenly heavy and his arm dropped, shaking, to his side. What was he doing out here in the dangerous night? It was cold, so bitter-cold. Why hadn't he noticed that before? He had to get inside, back to the city where he belonged, where it was safe.
A groan from the darkness jolted Rodney out of his daze. He slid his weapon back into his pocket and trained the flashlight in the direction of the groan. A pair of boots stuck out from beneath the wolf's heavy body; the wolf that Rodney himself had shot. He had been a hero; he'd rescued this man from his own folly.
His pride steadying his nerves, Rodney staggered forward and tugged at one of the hairy legs. The creature was heavy, but eventually it slid off and lay, slack and sprawled on the ground. Its victim was also slack and sprawled, until he rolled over and pushed himself up into more of a sitting sprawl. His roll had revealed the back and right shoulder of his woollen waistcoat and shirt to be shredded and shining with blood. His right arm was limp at his side and his head hung, dark hair drooping forward to cover his face. But then he looked up and he smiled.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome." The words were on Rodney's lips and out before he was aware, or he would've snarled and snapped just as much as any wolf.
A frown appeared on the pale face. He'd turn away now. Even though Rodney had rescued him, the man would turn away, because Rodney was a horrifically deformed monster and had surely so far lived up to his appearance, in his prisoner's eyes. But instead, the man spoke. "You told me to go. Why did you come after me?"
"I didn't mean out of the city." Why wasn't he turning away? He was looking directly at Rodney, as if Rodney were just a normal, human-faced person.. "And it's a good thing I came after you, you idiot, or you'd be dead. Get up and come back inside. John. That's your name, isn't it?"
"Yeah. John Sheppard."
"Huh. Shepherd. I thought as much."
John didn't answer. He was shivering violently. He didn't even have a coat and his clothes were shredded.
"Can you stand?"
"M- maybe."
Rodney felt his irritation rise, which was reassuring, because his feelings seemed to have spiralled off in all kinds of unfamiliar directions, probably due to shock. Irritation was good, though. He knew how to do irritation - it was familiar, well-trodden ground.
"Maybe? What kind of an answer is that? And what were you thinking, running out here in the dark and the cold and the… the wolfishness?"
John sniggered, which sounded really weird with chattering teeth. "Wolfishness? Is that a word?"
"It's a word if I say it is."
"Because you're always right."
"Yes. Get used to it." There was no response and the injured man seemed to be shrinking into the snow. "Right, come on. Up you get." John didn't move. Rodney huffed. It really was too much. He'd performed a dramatic rescue and now all he wanted to do was be inside curled up with a hot drink and a large sandwich. He thought about how to achieve this worthy goal as soon as possible, without actually leaving his escaped prisoner out in the snow to die, which, he supposed, would defeat the object of the aforementioned dramatic rescue.
Rodney reached down and threaded his arm beneath one of John's and behind his back. John flinched.
"Look, I don't see how else to do this," Rodney snapped. "And I really need you to do some of the work here. I'm not carrying you! My back's bad enough as it is!"
"It'd help if someone hadn't shot me," said John.
"It was only a glancing blow - it'll wear off soon." Rodney stamped on a little curl of guilt. "Come on!"
With Rodney's help, John grunted and staggered his way to his feet. His arm was heavy across Rodney's shoulders, his pained breaths loud in Rodney's ears. He was a large, very real, very human presence and Rodney had no idea how he felt about that and so refused to think about it at all. "Right. Off we go, then."
"It's not that way."
"Yes, it is! Of course it's that way. I can see the tracks."
"Oh. Yeah."
"Look, you just shut up and let me lead." Rodney steered John around, to follow their tracks through the snow. "I doubt you even know which way is up."
"I'm not that far gone, McKay." John grunted as they turned sideways to fit through a stand of trees. "Jeez. You're always so pissy."
"Oh, well, I wonder why that might be? Could it be because I'm an ugly freak that people like you can't bear to look at? Or maybe because I'm condemned to live a life alone in a dark, abandoned city?"
"Wow. You like to paint things black." John's breath came in sharp gasps. "You don't look that bad. I've seen uglier sights. And the city's great, if you just tidied up a bit."
Rodney snorted. The man was deluded.
"So, uh, can I ask what happened? To your, uh…"
"To my horrific excuse for a face? No. You can't ask."
"Oh."
They hopped onward, John's hot breath puffing against Rodney's neck.
"And why 'condemned'? If you don't like it, just clear out."
"I can't."
"Why -"
"Enough with the questions!" Rodney snapped.
He lost the trail for a moment but the wavering flashlight eventually picked it up and he pressed on, staggering and weaving under the other man's increasing weight, until they reached the edge of the forest, where thankfully only scattered flakes now fell and the wind had dropped. John was silent and his shivers had increased. Maybe Rodney should give the guy his coat? No. He didn't go around doing selfless things like that. And anyway, if they stopped moving it'd be difficult to get going again.
"John?"
"Huh?" His teeth rattled and he leant even more heavily on Rodney's shoulder, threatening to tip them both over. And if that happened, Rodney doubted he'd get the man up again.
"Come on. This way."
"Wrong way," John mumbled.
"It's not the wrong way. It's just a different way."
"Oh."
It had been a long time since he'd used this route. Rodney didn't have much call to go out to this part of the city and he hadn't realised how overgrown it was. He nearly missed the squat tower that he was after and the door controls weren't happy at all, scraping and grinding with dirt that had got trapped in the mechanism. It opened just enough for them to squeeze through.
The interior of the little tower smelled damp and moldy and it wasn't much warmer than outside. But there was a small set of double doors and they opened at Rodney's command.
"'t's a cupboard," slurred John. "Why're we goin' in a cupboard?"
"We're not," said Rodney. "It's a transporter. And, no, we can't spare the power, but I don't think we have a lot of choice."
He let the wall take some of John's weight and slapped at their destination on the map display. There was a flash of white light.
As you have just read, I've changed things a bit here. Because I thought, what's the point in Belle doing the looking after? She's not the one who needs to regain her humanity, is she? So (rubs hands together with glee), plenty more hurt/comfort coming right up with Rodney being forced to do the comforting!