Another day, which means more time for John and Rodney to get to know each other. I hope you enjoy the snarking, sniping, smirking and sniggering!

Chapter 6

Radek called a conference and the four companions met beneath one of the consoles on the control level. In the darkness, his candlelight glinted on Woolsey's round, glass face, Teyla's curving spout and the gold on the rim of Ford's saucer.

"And so Rodney went in? And he didn't come out? And John was definitely still in there?" Shadows danced as his flames quivered with interest.

"That's what I said." Ford had been stationed outside Rodney's room all night, hiding behind Dr Alison Porter, who was currently a very large vase or possibly a receptacle for umbrellas.

"This is very promising!" Radek rubbed his candles together in satisfaction.

"I don't see how," commented Woolsey, his hands precisely aligned at six o'clock sharp. "We all saw them come out of the transporter. That young man wasn't capable of anything."

"It is enough that they are in the same room," said Teyla. "None of us wanted John to be hurt, but it has happened and Rodney must be caring for him. That is a good thing."

"Caring?" Ford's handle added to his air of hand-on-hip disbelief. "This is McKay we're talking about here, right?"

Ford had a point. Plenty of Rodney's staff, male and female, had been reduced to tears by his tyranny, and their distress had never affected him, other than to irritate him even more.

"He will have no choice," said Teyla. "If forced into the role, he will do what needs to be done. And he will learn from the experience."

"Learn what? That he needs servants who won't hide when there's work to be done?"

"We are not servants, Aiden."

"He treats us like servants."

"I think Teyla is right," said Radek. "Rodney is not a bad man. And perhaps having someone dependent on him will awaken his…"

"Cutting sarcasm?" suggest Ford.

"I was going to say compassionate instincts," said Radek. "The fact that he used the transporter is, I think, significant. He wouldn't expend the power needed for just anyone."

"I would imagine he didn't want to have to carry John all that way," said Woolsey. "But, yes, they are at least in the same room. We have to hope something will come of it."

"I have faith that it will," said Teyla. "Rodney will learn the rewards of caring for someone beside himself. And from that, other things will grow."

"They'd better grow soon." Woolsey's hands drooped to half past six. "I, er… I've been losing time."

Ford hopped on his saucer. "Want me to wind you up, Mr Woolsey?"

The clock ticked hollowly. Radek curved his flames soothingly toward his old friend. "I do not believe that is what he meant, Aiden."

"No," said Teyla. "I too have noticed this. The light moves across a window and I have no memory of the day."

"We're losing ourselves," said Woolsey. "Turning back into objects."

"So…" Ford rattled doubtfully. "What do we do?"

"We do nothing," said Teyla.

Radek waggled his candles in agreement. "We have done what we can. Now, we make ourselves scarce," he said. "Then they will have to rely on each other."

oOo

When John's eyes next opened, the light had changed. The lamp on the nightstand still glowed yellow, but from the window thin early-morning greyness made contrasting shadow shapes on the wall; shadows cast by a clutter of familiar objects - cups, plates, a bottle or two - as well as a scattering of unfamiliar things. There were more of the flat, book-sized rectangles and another of the large, hinged ones. The hinge was fully open, but the top half was blank above the rows of keys. If it was a typewriter like the one in the Mayor's office, where did you put the paper in?

The lamp hissed into the silence, flickered a few times and then went out. It had burned all night and would need refilling, probably with paraffin. John recalled having a long conversation with it during the night, in which he had talked about wolves, and the lamp had had a lot of good advice on the subject. It didn't seem to have anything to say for itself now, though. He'd call it Steve, nevertheless, on the off-chance that it was actually a person.

The water glass was empty. John was thirsty. And he needed the bathroom for other reasons besides. The night had been full of strange, nightmare images, confusion and pain, but now he didn't feel too bad. He hadn't felt too bad that morning he'd fallen in the water trough, though, and that hadn't ended well. But he'd have to give it a go. Matters were becoming urgent.

John let his legs lead the way. They slithered off the bed easily enough, and the floor wasn't as cold as he expected. He eased himself up and perched on the edge, his eyes closed, his head too heavy for his neck, the cold air goose-pimpling his skin. He opened his eyes. There was something pink on the floor. He wiggled his toes and blinked; pink socks. He had fluffy pink socks on. Rodney must have put them on him. Rodney.

John rotated his body, carefully, without twisting his back, which wasn't feeling too happy with the whole getting up idea. Rodney was still there. He was lying at the far side of the bed, but with one arm stretched out, the fingers just touching the depression in the sheets where John had lain. John's right hand rubbed his unshaven jaw, then he curled it around his left bicep. He'd imagined a lot of things during the night. Maybe some of them had actually happened.

Rodney's face was in shadow now that the lamp had gone out, so that John couldn't see the strange, uneven, shifting features. He wore a t-shirt that had once been white but was now a sad, stretched grey, and the bedding was tangled around his legs so that John could see his blue shorts, which were decorated with yellow, curvy fruit. He'd seen fruit like that once, being unloaded from a ship that had come from the tropics. You didn't get things like that round here, or at least John didn't. Maybe the Mayor did. Rodney hadn't struck John as the kind of man that wore underwear decorated with tropical fruit, but he obviously was. What else was lurking under that snarky, snipey exterior?

But John had a mission to complete; a sortie into unknown territory - the bathroom. He stood, wobbled and felt like sitting down again, but toughed it out and made the few staggering steps he was capable of to cross the room. The bathroom was shiny and white and like nothing he'd ever seen before. They didn't have an indoor bathroom at the farmhouse. They had a tin bath which usually hung on the kitchen wall, and an outhouse which was freezing in winter and unpleasantly warm in the summer.

John used the facilities and washed his hands. He puzzled over the little cubicle in the corner, then noticed the shower head and worked it out. His t-shirt was sticking to his skin. Going in there would be like when it rained in a really hot summer and the rain was warm. But his legs trembled and his breathing felt wrong; as if there was too much air or too little. Time to sit down.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Rodney stood in the doorway. His face, in the harsh grey light, was a thing of bulging deformed features and impossible angles, but his voice, particularly when raised, had become a sound of easy familiarity. He'd yelled those exact same words at John the day before. He seemed to like yelling. John wouldn't run this time, though.

"What do you think I'm doing?"

"Undoing all the hard work I've put in toward making you relatively whole and healthy, that's what! Why are you out of bed?"

"I needed to uh…" John waved at the bathroom.

"Fine," snapped Rodney. "You're finished, I presume?"

"Yeah."

"Get back in bed, then!"

"Are you sure you don't want me in the brig?"

"No. Why?"

John shrugged and winced as the skin pulled tight on his back. "I dunno. You seem pretty pissed this morning. Sorry about taking your bed."

"Yes, well, I dragged you onto it, so I suppose I'll have to take responsibility for that. And speaking of which, why aren't you back in it?"

John had developed a close relationship with the nearest wall, though he was trying to pass it off as a casual lean.

There was a roll of blue amid the contorted features. John couldn't help smiling.

"What? What are you standing there for, grinning like an ape? And don't think I hadn't noticed that that wall is the only thing between you and gravity. Here." He put an arm around John's back, avoiding the dressings. "Lean on me."

John put his arm over Rodney's broad shoulders. The guy seemed pretty strong - quite well-muscled in fact, and despite his constant complaining the previous night, had borne most of John's weight all the way back from the forest. John was glad to collapse onto the bed, but Rodney wouldn't let him lie down.

"I suppose I'll have to do all this again," he said.

"What?"

"These dressings. You've er… seeped through them in places."

"Ew."

"My thoughts precisely. The human body really is repulsive at times."

"Oh."

"Oh, not yours in particular. I mean, obviously yours is a fine example of manly manhood, not that I've been looking or anything, but obviously we shared a bed and I couldn't help noticing, so that when I said 'repulsive' I didn't mean that I find your body personally repulsive; it's just fine, one might even call it aesthetically pleasing, in a purely abstract way of course, not in any lustful, sexual way because that would just be really awkward. Um… I'll just get on with changing these dressing then. Shall I?"

"Please." A hot, prickling wave swept over John's chest and face. His temperature must be on the rise again.

"So, uh… Better take this off, then."

"'Kay." John lifted the hem of his t-shirt, but his arms didn't seem to want to cooperate. An impatient 'chuh,' which was now just as familiar as Rodney's various huffs, preceded deft hands taking control and pulling the shirt off over his head.

"Does your hair always do that?"

"Do what?"

"That… sticking up thing?"

"Oh. Yeah. In the army, we used to wear these heavy iron helmets and even after a whole day in the trenches, it'd still just spring back up as soon as I took it off."

"You were in the army? What army?"

"The King's army, of course. I made it to Captain, then they discharged most of us when the treaty was signed."

"So, not a lifetime farmhand, then." The bed bounced and sagged as Rodney shuffled behind him.

"No." A wave of soft warmth covered John's back and the pain disappeared. He glanced over his shoulder. Rodney was using the curvy pink thing. "Thanks."

"See? I can learn. Pain relief comes before any messing about."

There were various tugging and pulling sensations as Rodney took the dressings off. "Ew. Is it supposed to look like that?"

"What? Supposed to look like what?"

Rodney grabbed his shoulder. "Keep still. How am I supposed to access your back if half of it's twisted around to the front. Anyway, it looks worse if you twist. Things… open. Maybe I should have used more of those sticky strips."

"Maybe you should stitch the deeper bits."

"Stitch? You've got to be kidding! I'm not stitching skin!"

"Okay, don't then. It was just a thought. Whatever you do, can you make it quick, though? I'm kinda dizzy."

There was a huff - an impatient one, but it didn't sound like angry impatience, more like friendly impatience, if there was such a thing. John had never been particularly great at putting names to emotions, or interpreting them - his own or others' - but this sounded almost like the huff of one friend to another.

"You need to eat. You lost quite a lot of blood. I know, because I had to clean it up."

"Sorry."

"Humph."

Oh, this was a new one. Huffs and chuhs were a thing - John hadn't known about the humph. He wasn't sure how to interpret it. Maybe it meant 'apology accepted', but in the most grudging kind of way? John smirked and sniggered.

"What? What are you laughing about?"

"Nothing."

"It can't be nothing, unless you're not just a rustic bumpkin but the actual village idiot. I'm finished - you can lie down now, if you want."

"Rustic bumpkin?" John felt his smirk stretch into a grin. "Village idiot? Hey, thanks, McKay, you really know how to talk a guy up." He shuffled further onto the bed and lay down, on his left side this time, because his right had been squashed all night.

"Well, people don't laugh at nothing, so there's obviously something going on beneath all that hair."

John closed his eyes. "I was just thinking about you."

"Me? Why?"

"Well, there was the whole evil bastard thing to begin with; locking up the General - who would never steal from you, by the way - and then locking me up. And then all the ranting and shooting and crazy stuff. But then there's the other you."

"What other me? What are you talking about?"

John searched for words, which were elusive things at the best of times. "Y'see, you're like a chicken."

"Oh, thank you very much! Who was it who came out into the storm last night and rescued you from wolves, hey? Was that a miserable, quivering coward?"

John opened his eyes and raised himself up on one elbow. "No! Not that kind of chicken. I'm not calling you a coward, McKay." His companion's face was more than usually turbulent and there wasn't a speck of blue to be seen. "I didn't mean that."

"What did you mean, then?" This was amusingly sulky, but John kept his face straight.

He collapsed back onto the pillow again. "Just that you're like one of my chickens. They make all kinds of grumbling, clucking, worried noises and they flap about and make a great big fuss if they don't like the look of you, but basically they're okay. You know - good guys… gals."

"Oh." There was a long pause. "So…"

"So I think you're probably a good guy, McKay. Underneath it all."

"No."

"No?"

"No. I'm not a good guy, John. I'm just not. Really. Look, I'm going to get something to eat. I mean, get you something to eat."

He was gone. And John felt like running after him, to insist and argue and find out what the hell this guy's deal was and all that kind of thing. But his heavy eyes had other ideas. They closed and he drifted away.

oOo

A good guy. Was that what John thought? Seriously?

Rodney cut slices off the loaf with more than usual force, which meant having a good old hack, because this bread tended to fight back. It was made from a tough variety of wheat grain, the only one that he'd managed to grow, but he was used to it.

"A good guy," he sneered. "Good guys don't get everyone turned into furniture. Good guys don't get themselves turned into hideous monsters. Good guys are kind and generous and selfless and all the things I'm not."

He slapped some McKay's Meatless Meat onto two slices of bread, followed it up with a couple of pickled sprouts and put the bread lids on, smashing them down hard in an attempt to make the lumpy ingredients work together. Then he sawed the sandwiches in half, with vigorous back and forth movements of the bread knife. He paused, spun John's sandwich ninety degrees clockwise and cut it again, because these sandwiches were unlikely to maintain structural integrity once half-consumed, and quarters might be easier from an invalid's point of view.

"A good guy," he grumbled again. "I've never been a good guy. Even before all this. Never fitted in. Never wanted to. Got a lot more done because of that." He punctuated this speech with roughly severing blows dealt to innocent fruit and then dumped the results into two bowls. Then he poured two glasses of bean-not-animal milk.

Rodney muttered and grumbled all the way back to his quarters and when he got there John was asleep, which was just typical. He put the tray down on his desk, refilled John's water glass from the bathroom and then sat down and took a large bite of his sandwich. Mmm. The pickled sprouts went really well with the meat-stuff. Really well. Rodney wiped his chin and took another bite - larger, if anything, than the last. Bliss.

"Are you enjoying that?"

"Hm? Fort yoo seep." Rodney chewed very rapidly, swallowed and repeated, "I thought you were asleep."

"I was. But there was this weird moaning going on - do you always sound like that when you eat?"

"I do if it's this good." There was a loud gurgling sound. "Do you always sound like that when you're hungry?"

John hauled himself up in the bed. "I do if I'm this hungry." He leant back slowly against the headboard, the muscles standing out on his arms, then jerked forward. "Ow. No. Maybe not."

"Wait, I'll sort something out." Rodney put down his half-eaten sandwich and pulled out a bundle of bedding from his cupboard. "I have lots of spares," he said, "because I get really cold." He made a large wad and slid it in behind John. "Try that."

John leant back. He relaxed. "That's pretty good. Thanks."

Something ached in Rodney's throat. Or maybe it was high up in his chest. He'd put it down to allergies, only they didn't usually affect him in the winter. Although there could have been dust in the bedding.

"Oh. Sandwich." He thrust the plate at John and set the glass of bean-milk on the nightstand. Then he returned to his own important needs, soon polishing off all of his food. "Come to think of it, that wasn't very breakfasty, was it? I've got out of the habit of following meal conventions. I just eat what's to hand."

"Doesn't worry me," said John. "In the army we had to scavenge - food was pretty scarce."

"Didn't you have field kitchens and rations?"

John shook his head, chewed and swallowed. "Supply lines got cut all the time. We ate what we could find."

"Is that why you're so skinny?"

"I'm not skinny. I'm… I don't know. I'm just this shape, I guess." Half of John's face was covered with floppy hair, the other half buried in his sandwich. But Rodney could still see the patches of red on his cheeks.

Rodney had seen quite a bit of John's shape over the past day or two. His embarrassment didn't show on his face, though. Nothing did. But another sandwich would've been nice and then he could've joined John, burying his feelings in food.

"Can you read?"

That got John's attention. He took a large gulp of his bean-milk, giving himself a fine moustache and regarded Rodney crossly, his black brows as expressive as his wildly springing hair. "Look, just because I don't have a string of letters after my name doesn't mean I'm dumb."

"I didn't say it did."

"Rustic bumpkin? Village idiot? And probably a whole lot more stuff like that going round in your head!"

It was a good thing John couldn't tell Rodney was blushing. "Oh, well, I mean -"

"Yes, I can read!" John interrupted.

"Good."

"Why?"

"Because I thought you might want something to do."

"Oh. Well, thanks. I mean I'll be getting up soon, but thanks anyway."

"No, you won't."

"You gonna stop me?"

What did it matter to Rodney if John did get up and go and fall over somewhere and probably hurt himself again? He wasn't the man's keeper. John could do what he wanted, short of leaving. So he'd just say, 'No, be my guest.'

"Yes, I am."

"Why?"

"Because you're not well enough."

"I didn't think you cared. I distinctly remember you saying you're not the kind of person who cares. You went on about it for ages!"

"I don't care. But if I'm doing a job, I'm doing it well and I'm seeing it through to the end."

"And I'm an unfinished project."

"You are."

John's eyes narrowed. He put down his glass. He folded his arms and leant back on the piled-up bedding, an irritating, lop-sided smirk growing on his lips. "You do care. You care about me, McKay."

"No, I don't."

"Yeah." John nodded. "You do."

"No, I don't."

"Do too."

"I don't care about anyone. I'm entirely egocentric."

"No, you're not."

"Oh, and how long have you known me? Five minutes was it? And you've come to the conclusion that I'm a 'good guy' and I care about people?" Rodney snorted and packed plenty of derision into his snort so that there'd be no doubt in John's mind. "I was right when I called you a village idiot! Only you're such an idiot, you've gone citywide!" This should have reduced his victim to entertainingly spluttering indignation, or perhaps huffy silence.

Instead John's eyes slid to either side, playing to an imaginary audience. Then he choked with laughter. "You're a hoot, McKay, that's for sure." He shook his head, contorting his face into a kind of tolerantly amused grimace, which wasn't what Rodney had been aiming for at all. He called people names, they got angry and hated him; that was what he was used to. He wasn't sure where to go with this reaction.

He slammed his plate down on the desk. "I'm going to the library."

The ridiculous expression dropped to be replaced with child-like eagerness. "You have a library?"

"Yes, of course. A large part of it's digital, but there's plenty of actual old-fashioned books too. Well, thousands of them, I suppose."

"Can I come?" John said it like a little boy, begging to go to the circus.

"No. I told you, you're not getting up yet."

He drooped, from the silly hair downward, and suddenly looked small and tired and really not very well. Rodney's insides gave another of those strange twists which he'd been having a lot lately. Perhaps the pickled sprouts hadn't been such a great idea, after all.

"I'll bring you back something good. What do you want? Something about guns or military tactics or crop rotation?"

"Math. Please. And stuff about how things work - I mean how things are made, like right inside, you know?"

"Oh. Really?" Rodney had been going to suggest something with lots of pictures and large-print text just to get another of those smirks, but John's answer surprised the teasing away. "Math? And what - science?"

"Some stuff I've read called it 'natural philosophy' but it didn't seem to make that much sense."

"I'm not surprised. I'll get you basic physics and chemistry and I suppose you'd better have biology too."

"Nice," said John, sliding down the bed. "Thanks."

"You're...er… you're welcome." He really did look tired. Rodney cleared his tight throat and snapped, "Go to sleep. You look awful." He gathered up the remains of their meal, stacked it all on the tray and headed out of the room, marching efficiently to show that he was just doing his job, completing his project. He paused. "And no getting up. I mean it."

"No, Nurse Rodney. Whatever you say, Nurse Rodney."

Rodney didn't smirk at all. Because it wasn't in the slightest bit funny.

It was a long walk to the library without the use of transporters - much too far for John to stagger. He'd barely made it to the bathroom and back. Maybe Rodney should have locked him in. Or tied him to the bed. Maybe he hadn't cleaned John's wounds properly, especially that bite on his shoulder. And although he'd seemed better this morning, maybe it was just a momentary reprieve before he succumbed to infection, became delirious and slipped into a coma and then…

"Medical textbook," muttered Rodney, planning an intensive course of study. "Then I'll know how to look after him properly."

There had been other scars on John's body; old ones, some small, some not so small - the results of his hazardous former career, no doubt. Too many scars, and now he would have more.

Rodney's stomach and chest region felt wobbly and churny again and he decided to write the pickled sprouts off entirely, which was a shame, because he'd been thinking that adding a little dill would be a nice touch the next time he made them. He stopped and placed a hand on his stomach and another on his chest. It didn't feel like the normal kind of indigestion. Some of it was unpleasant, but there were other things in the mix - warm, soft, unfamiliar sensations. He shrugged and marched on, his boots echoing briskly down the hallways.

He set a good pace and found himself humming along in time with his steps. What was that tune? Something military? Never mind. He'd arrived.

The library faced east and, although the sky was still a cold, stark grey, the huge space was bright in the winter, snow-reflected light. The vast window curved to his left, and to his right was a large reading space, set with arcing rows of desks and ranks of computer terminals. Above those rose the sub-levels, like the tiers of a theatre, multiple levels stacking above the dress circle, all the way up to the 'Gods' beneath a distant dome, painted to look like a sky, with night dawning to a new day.

Rodney hadn't visited the library in quite a while - possibly years. He stopped on the threshold and all he could think of was how John might look as he entered this huge repository. He had seen his reluctant guest angry, in pain, stoically plastering on a smile over who-knew-what dark thoughts. He'd also seen that mischievous smirk a number of times now, and also, when John talked about books, he'd caught a glimpse of a bright-eyed, eager enthusiasm for knowledge. Rodney would give him that knowledge. He'd take him a good selection of texts today and then, when he was up to it, he'd bring John here and just watch him - watch his reaction.

Rodney smiled.

But then, instead of ransacking the shelves for the books he wanted to share with John, he pulled out one of the dusty chairs and sat down. As he had done before, he placed a hand on his stomach and another on his chest. Then he slumped over the desk and let his head fall forward onto his bent arms.

John was right. He cared. Rodney cared about John.

The twist in his gut when he thought about John being hurt was worry and self-reproach; the warm feeling in his chest was protectiveness, and that little skip of his heart when he pictured John's reaction to the library was vicarious pleasure bordering on selflessness. It all added up to caring. And liking. And maybe even… No. He wasn't going to go there.

Wow. He was really in trouble now. The plan had backfired big-time. Because yes, John thought he was a 'good guy', which Rodney would still dispute, despite the evidence that he did actually care about one person other than himself. But thinking someone was okay was a long, long way from loving them - from loving him. Why would John love him? Rodney got up and wove his way between the long benches and scattered reading stands until he stood before the window.

He looked out at the frozen, snow-covered world; the towers of the city, half outlined in white from the driving blizzard, the distant, leafless trees, black fingers reaching to the unheeding sky. Then Rodney brought his focus to the glass, directly in front of his face.

He'd never been able to work out exactly what the Ancient had done to him. He could see, breathe (obviously), speak, eat - all the things necessary for survival. And yet… He reached forward and touched the smooth, reflective surface, cold fingertips tracing the shifting outlines of his chaotic features. There was no room for love in Rodney's world, if this newly-awakened feeling was the beginning of love. Not really. It was just a mad hope, a phase which would pass away into the very few pleasant dreams which existed between his nightmares.

And John? Rodney turned away from his reflection toward the wonder of the library; and it was a wonder, along with many other things he'd taken for granted for so long.

He'd share what he had with John, and he'd accept the pain that he knew would come, in exchange for giving this man the gifts of knowledge and learning.

And then, at last, he'd let him go.

Poor, sad Rodney. He really needs a hug, doesn't he? Thank you to all my readers who are following and enjoying!