Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Notes: What Rodney endured. (Prequel to Home.) There's mentions of beatings, no graphic bits of torture though they were mentioned in Home. I chose to leave those out of this and only depict the beginning and end of his captivity.
Fic in a barrel prompts: socks, anger, music, cornfield.

Music notes.

As Rodney came too he was vaguely aware of music notes, not in any order he knew nor any style he recognized, drifting to him. It was hot too and his eyes felt like they were sewn closed. Rodney panicked a bit then, fearful that he'd been blinded in the blast. But after he'd rubbed both eyes to remove the light crust that'd appeared there, the lids popped open quickly.

It was night. And Rodney McKay was alone in the middle of a thick cornfield.

He leapt to his feet; the music had stopped and only a tad hysterical, Rodney ran through the tall yellow stalks until he managed to get a grip on himself. If he continued running, then his team wasn't going to find him.

Then again, they'd been running full speed back to the gate; John and Stackhouse had been jumping through the puddle and the last thing he remembered, was Teyla's back as she yelled, "Come on!" Her voice had been strong and thick even as she sped toward her destination.

The blast had come at that moment; Teyla's words drown out by the noise. Dirt and debris had clouded around him and his world had turned to black.

They'd left him behind. John had promised to never leave anyone behind and yet Rodney was alone. He closed his eyes as he bent his head, and after a moment, he ran for the 'gate. If he could connect to Atlantis, maybe they'd understand that he was alive – he had no IDC. That was Stackhouse's job since Ford was no longer on the team.

Only he never made it to the Stargate, where the MALP was sitting. He never heard John yelling his name through the speaker, because someone had grabbed him from behind. Rodney struggled against his attacker and earned himself a crack to the back of the head. It hurt and threw him off balance, causing his step to falter.

A person spoke but he couldn't determine gender nor familiarity. They bent closer to his face and Rodney spat on the blurry figure.

He was kicked hard for that, something snapping in his side but he absolutely refused to scream with the pain. Rodney knew he was a prisoner now, a POW in a war he'd had no part of; he prepared in that instant to resist them. Even if it meant death was his fate, Rodney knew he had to protect Atlantis.

Another kick, in the same spot, and fuck. Something was broken. There was the sound of metal on metal and he saw the blade of the knife as it was put to his skin.

When had his jacket come off? One of the two people, both of whom where much more defined now that his vision had cleared, asked him where John had gone in thickly accented, broken English.

He sealed his lips and steeled himself for the first cut. It wasn't as painful as he'd expected but it stung as the knife was removed from his skin. His own blood dripped into the dirt, forming a small puddle beneath his forearm.

They asked again. The second cut hurt more but Rodney was resolute.

It was several months later that he realized they'd not really cared where John had gone. The men had been more concerned where they could get the weapons the team had. They wanted the P90s and the bullets.

As he lifted rocks and dirt from the quarry, he wish they'd killed him that day in the cornfield. It would have saved him from the existence he had been left with.

Each day Rodney was released from his cell to perform work for his captors. Sometimes it was hard labor mining with others for a metal only found yards below the surface and others, he was brought into a chamber and ordered to create weapons. He'd only once tried to tell them he couldn't make an assault rifle or a semi-automatic anything.

In between, he was beaten and starved and slept on the cold floor of the cell. The cot they'd given him was a draw for spiders, bees, and other insects that came in through his barred window. It was no more safe on the floor but he told himself that it was, even as he suffered through an illness brought on by the poor conditions and the rain that came through the window some nights.

He glanced over at the young boy beside him, a kid they'd nabbed from some other world just a month before and shoved into the cell beside Rodney's. His name was anyone's guess – the child was mute, but he could draw and his cell walls were covered in pictures of family. Two girls, a boy, a set of parents. Himself. A sky and clouds, a lush valley with a healthy river. Pictures of a homeland he'd likely never see again.

Sometimes they denied the kid food while Rodney would receive something. Those in charge evidently understood that he needed to eat or he would become quite ill and he each night he'd get a bowl of gruel or thin soup. On the nights the boy got nothing, Rodney would eat two bites of his and through the bars, he'd feed the rest to the boy. The night before had been one of those nights and Rodney could feel that he should have, perhaps, had a bit more than he had.

"You need a name." He mumbled when he looked back to his work. John would have complained about naming people who already had names; he would have found a way to understand the kid.

A finger came to his hand and letters were traced out. Ancient letters and he whispered, "Jairus? You're name is Jairus?" One more sideways glance to see the kid nod.

They both returned to their work; Rodney had spoken his name enough times that the kid... No, Jairus had to know what his name was. He sighed and thought about John, wishing he could show his lover that he could get along with kids. John would probably point out that Jairus wasn't really a kid. After all, he looked to be about sixteen years old.

A bell was rung behind them and the two turned from the wall and wiped the sweat from their brows. The sun was particularly hot today and Rodney would have given his left arm for some sunscreen.

Food was passed out by angry looking men, women ladling whatever it was into the bowls they handed to the men.

It was a stew. This was something they hadn't had before. A thick stew with vegetables and nuts with a bit of meat here and there. Rodney and Jairus watched others eat as they were handed their own and each dove in with gusto. It was a wonderful texture and it reminded Rodney of Atlantis.

These were foods from his home, it struck him. God, what had happened? He set the bowl down on the ground and stared at it, stopping himself from throwing it away. No matter what happened, he had to eat and he forced himself to take a spoonful of the stew.

Closing his eyes, he tasted home in his mouth. Memories replaced the vegetables and he swore he was eating a meatloaf MRE. He remembered John making it for him the night before they were attacked. Stackhouse and Teyla had gone to bed and alone, the two men had indulged themselves a little. There had been nothing more than kisses then but it ended in their tent, Rodney's head on John's shoulder as they slept.

He stopped his thoughts. Tears were gathering and he couldn't let them. He was going to get home whether or not Atlantis wanted him back. He wanted his bed and Rodney wanted John to hold on to him, call him stupid nicknames. He wanted to bring Jairus with him, too.

Finishing off the bowl, reality struck Rodney and he realized that no, none of what he'd eaten had been from Atlantis and he let the wooden spoon slap against the sides of the bowl.

It was time to return to work.

That night as he tore a bit of fabric from his dirty clothing to sop up the blood coming from his fingers, Jairus tapped on the bars. He pointed to a small drawing, new, near the door. It was drawn in white from a paste the kid made out of water and crushed rock and it was clear who was depicted. Jairus had drawn himself beside a thin male figure. It was different from the picture of Jairus' father and Rodney knew it was of him.

Rodney smiled weakly. A loud noise began down the hall and Rodney figured the guards were deciding who they were going to beat in the middle of the cells, a demonstration of their power. As if they really ever made a choice – Rodney was their favorite because he did not cry, he did not scream, nor did he even act as if he were being beaten. Rodney had taught himself to quell the anger in his bones and simply lay still. And many of the others were doing the same.

Passive resistance was a powerful thing and Rodney hoped he wasn't leading them all to slaughter.

When the banging stopped outside the kid's cell though, Rodney thought his heart had stopped. He flew at the bars, making a ruckus as they dragged Jairus away and he screamed and shouted for the men to take him instead. He prayed to gods he didn't believe in and thought of John as he always did – John would do the same. He had to be strong.

Grinning like the mad men they were, the guards threw Jairus back into his cell and for the first time, Rodney let out a few meek yells as he was hit with fists; he was kicked and a stick came from somewhere though Rodney wasn't sure where.

He was dragged back to his cell when they were done and murmurs went from cell to cell. Rodney caught some words, 'broken', 'tired'. And when the coldness of the stone floor hit him he choked in air. His chest hurt, his wrist felt broken, and there was blood seeping from bruised cuts all over his body.

Turning his head, Rodney looked at Jairus, who was looking dully through the bars at him, "We have to get out of here, kid." Closing his eyes against the pain and clutching his stomach, Rodney began to formulate a plan in his head. That morning had marked the end of his sixth month there.

He refused to go six more.

There had to be a way out of the complex. They were lead through the darkened passage ways to be brought to the quarry, blindfolded, but Rodney knew he could figure it out. Still, who knew what their captors could have planned to keep an insurgency down. A better idea would be to have an uprising in the quarry. There was no where to go but up in the open air; ladders were all over. There were no guns used to keep them working, only knives and swords.

He didn't sleep even when the cells were pitched into darkness with the night. Rodney contemplated his problem, his nature for solving puzzles coming out after months being kept quiet. Oh, he'd had these ideas before but they'd been hurried and brought out by fear. Now, knowing what each day would likely bring, he could think of things without worrying that he' d be dead before his plan could would. He could factor in all variables and think of it from all the angles.

For three days, that's exactly what Rodney did, taking only a few minutes from his plans when they decided that it was time to shove him in a room and demand weapons like his team had had. He made a big show of making something, really he was just strip off bits of the metal and the minute the guards were satisfied that he was doing what he'd been told, Rodney slid the shards into a pocket he'd made by picking at a loose thread on the inside of his shirt. The space between the two pieces of fabric made a good place to hide things.

He easily shoved thirty or so shards there and shred up more before the guards returned. He'd done nothing but waste the metal in their eyes and was beaten summarily for it, but they never discovered his prize.

The next day when the night had descended and the guards were gone until daylight, Rodney took his own shard and hid it in his pillow. He told Jairus to do the same and then his shirt was weaved through the bars of cells, handed around stone walls to reach others and when it was returned to him, it was empty of metal.

Things were muttered, questions asked, and Rodney told them they had to wait just a bit longer.

But the guards weren't as stupid as they looked and they knew something was up. Someone was suddenly there during the night, making it difficult for Rodney to inform the others of his final plan.

He managed it though. On bits of cloth, he wrote in his own blood. Rodney made Jairus look away as he pricked numb and infected fingers to get the blood he needed. He used a thin straw as a pen, his writing tired yet legible. He thought of John as he did so; thinking of what John would do to soothe the pain in his fingers when he got home.

Passing the notes carefully, everyone was informed of the plan and if possible, assigned one of the younger prisoners. He wasn't going to leave anyone behind, not like he'd been.

A few more days to make it seem like the increased beatings and the reduction in food had broken them all again, and Rodney was standing in the work yard. The old quarry had been shut down after the leaders realized there was no more metal to be found.

It was a move in their favor since they no longer had to worry about getting out of the pit. The prisoners had a clear run to the woods. Rodney had determined that using the metal shards for defensive purposes, they could storm the gate and get everyone off the planet. A certain world had been picked from the pool of the prisoners' homes and everyone would be going there.

Including Rodney.

After much thought and consideration, Rodney knew there had to be a way to make Atlantis' computer systems stop from putting up the shield from outside the city. He hoped that once he was away from the violent world, he could look at another DHD and figure it out. It would take awhile, surely, but he'd not have to worry about beatings and food or about Jairus since it was Jairus' home world they'd chosen.

For a few hours they worked, appearing as they normally did. Then the meal bell came and the prisoners were on the move. Screams and fighting and it was much more chaotic than Rodney had expected. Several guards and prisoners laid dead behind them and though he wanted to bring the bodies with them, Rodney knew they had to be left.

It stole his breath to do so, but Jairus was pulling on Rodney's arm and holding his bloody shard in the other hand tightly. Together the two made their way to the front of the running crowd, making it through the cornfield to the 'gate without much trouble. The guards hadn't gotten there yet but Rodney knew it was a matter of time.

His sock-clad feet slapped the dirt as Rodney scrambled to the DHD, slapping chevrons when he heard the battle begin at his back. More chaos and the wormhole blossomed as someone slammed into him. Rodney felt moisture on his back and he hurriedly shifted until he could see who was hurt.

Jairus was bleeding heavily. When Rodney had time later to ask, he would be told that Jairus had taken out the guard who'd injured him. At the moment, however, Rodney lifted his newest friend onto his back and ran. Everyone followed.

The people of Jairus' village were waiting, surprised to see the boy returned and after some fast talking, they helped cut down the few guards who'd followed the surviving prisoners into the puddle. He'd followed Jairus' limp form as far as he could before people jumped in front of him to keep him from continuing into their healers home.

"He'll be taken care of." A teary woman told him in thick Ancient and he knew as he looked at her that she was the boy's mother, "They will do what they can."

Rodney didn't see Jairus again. No one told him if the boy had lived or died, but after three continuous nights and days examining the DHD, he'd figured it out. He was going home and all his energy was focused on that goal. He had no time to think of the boy and it was only as he slipped off his torn and blackened socks that he thought about the villagers.

He promised himself that he would return. Soon he would return and hopefully they could become allies.

Choking on his breath, he pressed the chevrons in order; he felt the tear track down his cheek as he thought of his home. He thought of John again and the smile he'd missed for seven months.

Pressing the blue crystal and another chevron at the same time, the puddle appeared. It glowed and shimmied.

He licked his lips, closed his eyes, and Rodney didn't look back with but one thought on his mind.

Home.