If I Die

Chapter Seventeen - Sheppard. John Sheppard.

Rodney opened his eyes.

They'd been on an alien planet once, some godforsaken hole of an ice continent in the middle of a blizzard. The locals had kindly put them up for the night in an igloo, the men in one, Teyla housed nearby with some of the younger women. Himself, Sheppard and Ford, sat huddled under native furs, whilst their fingers and toes froze.

He'd complained of frostbite, another grasp at hypochondria. Sheppard had poked him in the side, and told him that if it hurt, it was a good sign – it was when you couldn't feel anything that you had to worry.

And now it was the understatement of the century, and Rodney had to remind himself of the igloo, and his frostbite, and if it hurt, then that was a good thing.

It hurt.

Trying to concentrate on something other than finding a way to breathe that didn't involve his chest rising, McKay sought out his teammates from beneath the gloom.

If it really is that gloomy. Or is that just me? Night closing in... or something... what was the line?

A tickle of something warm and liquid at the back of his throat caused a cough, and another strangled gurgle of pain.

Focus, McKay. First, where are we?

A cave, he decided. There was a roof above his head, and hard stone beneath, pressing up through the material of his jacket.

Right. Good. A cave. On the alien planet, P2-whatever. Stupid designations. It would make more sense to name the damn things. Let them all have a go. Like hurricanes. Except ban Ford from taking part. Lessee... start with A, then go male to female to male... except you couldn't call a planet Steve, could you? Well, no, Sheppard had already claimed that name...

McKay, wake up!

Right. Right. Sorry.

He couldn't see Sheppard or Ford. Could just see Teyla's shadow on the wall across from him, then realized that the warmth beneath his head was probably her thighs.

Better hers than Fords, he reminded himself. Or, god help me, Sheppard's.

But they're fine. The team are fine. Stuck in a cave on an alien planet but they're fine.

Right. Because it's the scientist geek that always gets it in the neck. Or, in this case, stomach.

Not the soldier, or the hunter, or, the, uh, other soldier. The scientist. More importantly, me.

First getting zapped by that big, black, energy creature thing. Oh, sure, he'd waded into that situation through free will, but it had still landed him in the infirmary for a day, all in the name of heroics. And then getting a knife in the arm from Koyla's goon. Less than subtle, abrupt, but still torture.

But this took the biscuit.

I'm a scientist, for gods sake! A civilian one at that! I should be in a nice, safe lab surrounded by nice, safe scientists, working towards that Nobel prize. Not lying with my guts open on the floor of a cave on an alien planet whose name I don't even freakin' know!

"McKay?"

He blinked against hot, frustrated tears, and a face came into view. Sheppard, looking concerned through dirt and exhaustion.

"You okay?"

He giggled at the question, regretted it a second later when the movement set his ribs alight and sucked air from his lungs.

"McKay?"

Caught his breath, and sobered up. "Better than ever."

"You were talking to yourself."

"Thinking aloud." Talking to myself? Oh great, that's just great. Way to go, Rodney.

"About anything in particular?"

"Oh, you know." The giggle rose again. "Life, the universe, everything."

Sheppard's face was blank.

Heathen, McKay thought. I guess you didn't spend your senior year reading fantasy into the late hour, memorizing all the one liners and scribbling them on your science books.

No, you were probably out with girls. Lots of girls. Right, John? Bond girls on every arm.

He had a sudden, insane image of Sheppard wearing a tuxedo and posing Charlie's Angels-style, finger cocked, with two beautiful blondes hanging off either arm. Somewhere, a particularly shiny General Hammond stroked a white cat.

"McKay?"

He blinked. "Whnf?"

"Thought we'd lost you for a second."

"Oh, no." He tried to wave his arm casually, but couldn't find the energy to lift the dead weight. "I'm fine. Super-fine."

"Rii-ight." Sheppard frowned. "Just stay with us, okay. Doctor Weir would kill me if I lost Atlantis' best scientist."

"Best?" he tried for, but Sheppard's face was gone, and he was left with the ceiling again.

The voices of his companions washed over him, their words disjointed, distant, almost alien. He gave up trying to concentrate – it made his head ache – and started trying to count the mosaic tiles in the ceiling. It was something he'd become practiced at, having spent many long nights in university halls trying not to listen to the giggles and moans from nearby rooms. Counting the holes in the ceiling tiles. Calculating the average of each tile, then estimating the surface area of the room.

This time he lost track at around thirty, grew frustrated.

Guess that's what having a dirty great hole in your side does for you.

"Thirteen thousand, four hundred and ninety eight. Not including the cracked ones."

A hand on his cheek and he turned his head, saw her kneeling beside him. She caught him looking and flushed, drew a hand to twiddle at a loose strand of hair. Embarrassed: "Hey."

"Hey." His words slurred again, and he drew his tongue around the inside of his mouth, but his throat was dry and scratchy. "Come here often?"

She rolled her eyes, a habit she'd picked up off him. "Hah hah." Tilted her head to one side, looked down at him sadly. "Gotta say, you're not looking so good."

"There's a surprise," he managed, coughed, his chest clenching down at the movement, shoulders knocking back against the hard floor. Carefully she slid into the space between him and the wall, slipped her body alongside his and draped her arm, carefully, across his rib cage. With one finger she made a small, circular movement against his skin, the touch calming, releasing the tension from his chest, pushing the pain back down into his abdomen.

"Ssh." She nestled her head in his armpit, so he could feel her murmurs against his skin. "You shouldn't talk."

He stayed obediently silent for a few moments, enjoying the touch of her finger against his chest, losing himself in the sound of her breath and the warmth of her body against his.

Just like old times. Almost.

"Hey," he said softly, voice a rasp.

"Mm?"

"I think I might be dying."

He heard her breath hitch, and then the rustle of her clothes as she moved, propped herself up on one elbow to look him in the eyes. "Why would you say that?"

"Because I'm hallucinating. You're not real."

"Right. So you're imaging me."

He tried not to giggle. "Um, yes. It seems that way. Because, you see, you can't be here."

Her voice against his ear. "Why not?"

"Because you left me."