Icelus 3/5

"Get out of here, Rodney, please. Take a shower, grab something to eat and sleep."

"Like that's gonna --"

Beckett crossed his arms in front of him, inclining his head. "It wasn't a suggestion."

Rodney's eyes narrowed, disbelief bubbling up. "Are you threatening me?"

"Do I have to?"

This whole argument would be so much easier if Beckett didn't look so damn tired and weary.

Reason. The other man would have to see reason. "Look, Carson, when he wakes up, I need to be here, there'll be questions, and I --."

"If."

The word was too big and hung gloomily in the infirmary. The following silence was oppressive. Rodney felt a thus far dormant headache launch into a piercing pain.

"You said --."

All of a sudden, frantic motion broke out in the ICU. Machines wailed, a high, alien sound in the lofty room, monitors burst into overdrive, graphs racing. The nurses scrambled close, gestures hurried and faces drawn with concern.

"Dr. Beckett!"

Beckett whirled around, moving faster than Rodney would have thought possible. Beckett was a live-wire suddenly, brimming with energy where moments ago he had appeared too exhausted to even have an argument. That change alone was more worrisome than anything Rodney could have imagined.

The nurse's words sounded clipped. "Intracranial complications."

He picked up a stream of medical terms that made no sense to him.

Reaching for Beckett blindly just as the man was about to sprint into the ICU, Rodney held his arm in a death-grip. "Complications? Wh -- what does that mean? Carson?"

Beckett's hand on his was trying to break Rodney's grip. He seemed reluctant, however, almost as if he was handling something fragile. "Rodney, get out of here."

"Not before you tell me what's happening in there. What the hell is happening to him?"

"I don't have time for this now. Let go. I need to get in there."

"Just answer my question, Carson, what's happening in there?" His hold grew stronger, bruising and not caring about it.

"You're a smart man, Rodney, you know what an intracranial haematoma can do. I know that you care about the Major, but if I don't get in there and do my job right now ..." He didn't need to finish the sentence.

Beckett freed his arm and hurried off toward the wash-basin, grabbing a coat and a mask on the way, shouting orders to the nurses, calling for anaesthesia. It left Rodney standing between two beds, feeling more helpless than ever before. "Carson?" The two syllables cracked, sounding too small.

Beckett turned to him one final time, hair now hidden under a surgical cap and mask, only the eyes visible.

"Sergeant Stackhouse, please bring Dr. McKay to his quarters. See that he gets a meal and make sure that he doesn't leave them for the next twelve hours unless he has Dr. Weir's express permission."

Stackhouse stepped in without transition, his presence quietly threatening, but pointed in the wrong direction. "No can do, doc. He has a right to be here."

Beckett's eyes flashed over the rim of the surgical mask while he scrubbed his hands furiously. "I know that he has, Sergeant. But Dr. McKay is dead on his feet and a hindrance in this infirmary. He needs to wash off the dirt if he ever wants to visit the Major in the ICU, he needs to eat to avoid a hypoglycaemic reaction and most of all he needs to sleep to not scare the Major to death when he comes around again and sees him." He dried his hands with ruthless efficiency.

"Doc, we all want information --"

"Every minute I stand here and dispute with you could cost the major his life, do you understand that, son?"

Turning to Rodney, he continued: "I'll let you know as soon as something changes for better or worse. But please get the hell out of here now, I have brain surgery to perform."

The water from the shower was pleasant, scalding. It hurt just as much as it soothed.

Feet and calves and knees, slick with water and foam. Hands and arms, useless, robbed of energy.

The shower-gel stung in the cuts and open blisters on his feet. Foam drifted down his body, slipping slowly, bringing a long lost feeling of clean with it that he hadn't had since the siege.

Back in his quarters. In his shower. In his city.

He slid slowly into a sitting position, taking the weight off his maltreated feet.

The shower-spray was like an echo of the night's rain and he slid back into the memory easily, too easily. With the memory came realisation and guilt. If he'd been a little less stubborn, a bit more open, he'd have analysed those dreams earlier. He'd have known straight away that it was Sheppard on that clearing and he'd have gotten help immediately instead of leaving him - injured, dehydrated and alone - for half a day, making Sheppard's recovery even less likely.

Believed to be dead. Declared dead. Found again and now probably dying for real because the great Rodney McKay had been too slow to understand.

Laughter bubbled up. What a travesty. What a fucking travesty.

Once the first sound was out, he couldn't stop the laughter anymore, felt it shaking his whole body, rushing out of him until he couldn't breathe anymore.

He drew a breath he couldn't hold, oxygen searing his lungs like chlorine gas. Expelled it, his chest contracting, letting out the breath in a wail that would have scared him on any other day, would have made him question if he was losing his mind. Clutching on to his shins, he felt his skull vibrate under the pressure. Laughter turned into gulping for air turned into sobs. Sobs wracking his body, ugly and despairing and primal. It was surging out now, a chain-reaction, unstoppable, inevitable. When the tears came, they were no relief.

Ancient showers didn't drip. Not after they were turned off. The droplets of water on his skin were chilling, draining what little warmth his body still had to offer. He knew that sleep would help but knew all the same that it wouldn't come.

And it was too much, eventually. The shower walls moved in on him. His heart started to race.

Head on his knees, he rode the panic attack, shivering, hands clawing into his calves. Knowing, knowing for sure that he would die, that his furiously beating heart would stop in only a few moments and there was so much left unsaid and he'd never be around to see if Sheppard would recover. His heart beat too hard and he was breathing too fast, hyperventilating, too much oxygen making him dizzy. Oh God, this was it. He wasn't going to make it. Was going to die right here and right now. Walls moving in on him, no more air to breathe, his heart too fast, too fast, his body couldn't cope and - -

"Rodney?"

A hand on his shoulder.

Rustling of clothes, steps.

He pressed his forehead harder against his knees, still on a shaky, painful adrenaline high, heart slamming against his ribcage.

A towel, draped around his shoulders. Hands carefully brushing the chilled drops of water away, drying his hair, finger-combing it, smoothing it with deliberate care and gentleness.

The touch felt familiar. Long, strong female hands. He knew the perfume well.

"Come to sedate me again for old times sake?"

The hands fell away and he heard a sharp intake of breath. It took him a while longer to fight the trembling in his limbs than it did to steel his voice.

When he raised his head finally, Elizabeth was still standing in the bathroom, arms crossed in front of her, radiating self-protection and hurt much more than strength. He stood slowly, wrapping the towel around his waist, deliberately not asking her to step out of the room for modesty's sake. He didn't care if she was uncomfortable. He hadn't asked her to come.

"You really do have a knack for finding me in my most vulnerable moments, don't you? What is this, a spectator sport? Helper syndrome?"

She didn't answer and he refused to acknowledge how tired and pale she looked. Walked up to her and stretched out his arm, underside up. "If you have the injector with you, do it now."

"Stop it, Rodney." She sounded tired. He didn't care.

"But why? We're having such a nice moment here."

"I was trying to help you. You were running yourself into the ground and you needed sleep, just like you do now. It was the only way to stop you from destroying yourself."

"No, it wasn't. You were just too busy being the good little leader to see the other way."

"Which way might that have been?" If her voice sounded small and almost apologetic, he ignored it. Didn't want to hear it.

"You're the one with the soft-science degree. Figure it out by yourself. And get out of here while you do."

"You needed help!"

Something in him snapped, almost audibly. "Yes, I did. But I didn't need drugs. I didn't need exile. I needed a friend. With a little help, I may even have found the Major earlier. Maybe he wouldn't be teetering between life and death if someone had just taken the time."

She swayed imperceptibly, the dark shadows under her eyes becoming more pronounced in the dim light of the bathroom. "I'm--"

"No, you're not."

She extended her hand, rested it carefully against his arm. It was cold. "Rodney, listen, I --"

He glared at the offending hand and she took it away. "Why? Why should I? It's over, isn't it? Not important anymore. What matters now is the Major." He turned away from her and walked into his room, not wanting to see the conflicting emotions on her face. Not wanting to second guess his anger at her. She had given up on Sheppard. She didn't deserve better.

"Carson said the operation went well." Her voice was professional again.

Rodney's hand stilled on the shirt he'd been about to take out of the wardrobe. Feeling a 180 degree turn of his feelings, he wanted nothing but to sweep her up in a hug. Blood rushed in his ears as utter relief settled in. He remained still however, closing his eyes and taking his time, allowing tension to drain from his limbs. "How long until he wakes up?"

There was no answer. He pulled the shirt over his head quickly and turned, finding the room empty apart from him. Blinked.

On his desk was a tray with food, carefully picked from his favourite dishes. A mug of Athosian tea next to it, the only tea he actually drank. It was lazily exuding steam. The scent of cloves filled the room.

He glanced at the closed door.

He didn't feel remorse.

Didn't.