A/N: Who loves ya! Early posting, because I'm almost nearing the end, and all your reviews have motivated me. Actually I'm upping things to three chapters now since I feel far enough ahead to do so. Enjoy!
Ch. 5
Of Scriveners
John was the model patient, and it made Carson wonder what it took to freeze a place like hell. Reactions to having the stethoscope placed to his chest and back, prodding of his protruding ribs and spine, blood drawn from his arm, and X-rays were limited to flinches and the occasional cringe.
John was a mute the entire time, and dazed to the point that he could have been mistaken for an open-eyed coma patient – even with him sitting up – or an honest to goodness zombie. He was white enough, and officially bony enough, to pass as one. But the poor man was clinging to his last thread of reality, and Carson was forced more than once to catch the Colonel before he toppled from the bed.
John was shivering bad.
" You cold, lad?" Carson asked, wiping away the dirt and grime with a cloth from John's arms and chest to asses the cuts and bruises. John nodded his head on his limp neck.
" We'll have you wearin' warm scrubs soon enough, just as soon as we finish here. I'd really liked to have you cleaned before we bind those ribs. I can't tell bruise from dirt..."
John pitched forward, and Carson caught him. He eased the Colonel into a prone position on the bed, then lifted his legs to join with the rest of his body. The Colonel was out, officially and inexorably. With him out, it was easier to finish cleaning him off, especially with two more nurses joining the effort. Earlier attempts at getting the nurses to assist had John nearly slipping from the bed trying to get away from so many hands.
After an hour, days worth of filth was gone, and bruises stood out blindingly brilliant against the colorless skin. They wrapped his chest and swabbed disinfecting ointments on the smaller cuts. Carson placed a sheet over John's waist before removing the filthy boxers. Not that he didn't trust the nurses to have some consideration for the malnourished man. The final act of bringing John into complete nudity felt like an affront to the Colonel, and deplorable to Carson. John had been on display long enough, and dignity needed to be scrounged for him seeing as how he wasn't in a right fit state to do it himself.
" I swear," Carson growled, holding John's upper body up as the nurse – Kaylee – slipped a scrub shirt over his head. " If I hear one bloody joke about John wearin' boxers or briefs and what color they are I'm issuin' an early mandatory vaccination and givin' 'em the big needles. Turn your head lass."
Kaylee did so while Carson handled placing on the pants. He then pulled the blankets up to John's chest.
" Or I'll let Ronon do the administerin'."
Kaylee slid the I.V. needle into John's hand and taped it. " Anyone who thinks this is funny is sick." She slipped the wires of the monitor through the collar of the shirt.
Carson liked that about Kaylee. The woman was blunt, forward. A woman all business when on duty, and at the top of Carson's list in who to trust not to 'peek' at comatose patients. At only twenty-eight, she had the maturity of a woman of sixty straight out of the nineteenth century.
" Aye, but the sick ones do exist. It took a twisted mind to do this to John. Vicious, twisted mind. Could you go check on the blood work lass, see if any foreign bodies are present?"
Kaylee nodded and left.
There wasn't much left to do. John was clean, comfortable, and monitored, so anything else Carson did would be busy work and an excuse to stick around. Not that he wouldn't be going far to tend to other matters, but he was hesitant. John wasn't exactly sedated, just out by his own power – or lack thereof – and Carson didn't want to go far should John's waking include some sort of night-terror born fit.
Carson placed his hand on John's shoulder and felt the bones. It never took much – or long – for John to go emaciated.
Least favorite physical state for John. He's gonna be a mite furious when he awakes. But just as quickly as he went rag doll of bone and stretched skin, John reestablished his former frame within weeks, sometimes days, through extra meals and exercise.
Carson wasn't worried. John would be all right. The man fought infirmity like it was a wraith trying to suck him dry.
Carson moved his hand to John's forehead; one more casual test of temperature before pulling himself away from the bedside.
John inhaled a deep breath as far as the chest bandage would allow. His hand moved methodically like a limb through water, and gripped Carson's wrist flaccidly.
" Doc?" John's voice was low, barely above a whisper, and hoarse.
Carson smiled. " Happy to see ya still in the land of the livin', son. How ya feelin'?"
John swallowed. Chances were, he was thirsty, since dehydration was another little attribute John had suffered through. Carson made to move to the table to grab a cup and straw. John's grip tightened, shaking with the strain of it.
" Doc?" The urgency behind that word sounded almost painful. Carson crouched to hear better, wiping the smile from his own face.
" Yeah, lad. I'm hear. What ya be needin'?"
John let his grip loosen enough to stop the shaking. " What..." he cleared his throat, " what happened to them?"
Carson squinted. " Huh? To who, John?"
John winced on rolling himself onto his uninjured side. " Teyla, Rodney, Ronon. What... How did they... What happened to them?"
Carson heard the whispered rush of the infirmary doors and looked up to see Weir enter with purpose, but slow her approach on seeing Carson's position. Carson looked back at John.
The hard, unwavering, penetrable stare could have knocked Carson flat on his butt. Weak in body but never weak in mind, John was not going to settle for anything less than the truth.
But John wasn't going to like the truth.
" Your captors," Carson said, albeit reluctantly. " Need I say more?"
John's face pinched with confusion. " T-they said they'd be waiting. M-Menk said... they'd be waiting..." he then chuckled, quietly and caustically. " Never said how though. When they get back?"
" About a week before you. You've been gone two. Their state wasn't quite up to yours, but they were in a bad way. Rodney especially with his hyperglycemia. He was barely conscious. They were beaten... for the most... then, they were escorted back to the gate and forced through. They were threatened... If they came back, they'd be shot. We were hard pressed to keep 'em from goin' back for ya, and it ain't a party keepin' Ronon on a leash."
John grimaced, and pain flitted over his features. Carson placed his hand on his arm.
" John?"
John shook his head. " Bad choice of words, doc. That's all." He rolled onto his back. He released Carson to rub his face one-handed. " They released them." John made it sound ironic. He dropped his hand to his side, and his head lolled. Carson shook his arm.
" Come on, lad, stay with me. We need to know what happened to ya."
John blinked several times, then squinted. " Who else on Stackhouse's team... came back?"
Carson stiffened, looking up at Weir. Wide-eyed, she shook her head in alarm.
" How'd you know about...?"
" Who else!"
" Three went missin'," Carson blurted, shifting uneasily. He'd talked thinking it would keep John from becoming agitated.
So much for good intentions.
" Two came back with your team in not too pleasant condition," he finished. " How'd you know about Stackhouse's team?"
John didn't answer. He stared up at the ceiling, his throat working down a tight swallow, and the muscles of his jaw twitching. John could have blinked his eye-balls out of existence, it didn't stop the shimmer of water pooling on the edge of his eyelids.
Elizabeth closed the distance between her and John's bed with slow steps. She placed her hand on his shoulder and gently rubbed.
" What's happened John?"
John slid his eyes closed. " I had a chance to save him..." he choked out a cough, " and I couldn't."
" Him who John?" Weir pressed. It was pointless, John was asleep.
SGASGASGASGA
John became aware of someone saying his name, and opened his bleary eyes to a fuzzed face hovering over him. Blinking, the fuzz congealed into the bruise-mottled visage of Rodney.
" Sleeping Beauty you're not, Colonel, so wake up already. It's breakfast time." Rodney pulled a tray in close to the bed and picked up a mug with a straw. " Here, drink up. It's this or a feeding tube. Beckett's promise, and you know how wicked his promises can be."
John looked at the mug with steam snaking from it. It smelled – indescribably awesome. Broth, nothing more than beef broth by the scent, and it made John's mouth flood with saliva. He reached for the mug with a hand that quaked hard enough to snap his own wrist. Rodney snatched the mug back.
" Whoa, easy, slow down, you'll get it all over and, frankly, I've got better things to do than let Beckett treat me for burns."
" Rodney!" John's voice rasped out an amount of desperation that momentarily floored even himself, but he never took his eyes from that mug – his cup of steaming salvation.
He was beyond hungry if there was such a thing as beyond hungry, and it hurt. He just wanted it to stop.
None of this was lost on Rodney, who was struck speechless for a whole minute.
" Ah, oh, crap, sorry. I'll – uh – I'll just help you hold it and..."
When the mug was near enough, John lunged, grabbing it with both hands, and it slopped all the same onto the blanket. Rodney kept hold of the handle as John, disregarding the straw, inhaled the scalding soup that burned his tongue and seared his throat. He loved it. He reveled in the heat radiating from his esophagus to go raging like a wild fire through his chest. He savored the pain of being burned, and the way it shoved exhaustion aside like the big bad dog baring down on the yappy little mutt.
The pinnacle was the heat hitting his stomach, filling the cold pit of starvation that had rendered the organ a shriveled sack of useless tissue. He swore the stomach acid was leaping in delight. He drank without taking a breath.
" Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey! Slow down, Carson said not all at once. Hey!" Rodney was tugging the mug from John's hand. John clung to it like a life preserver. He was done when the last drop was sliding down his parched, seared throat.
When John finally relinquished the mug, Rodney looked into it with a scowl, then tipped it upside down for effect.
" Great. Now Carson's going to murder us both."
John was far beyond even remotely caring. He dropped back against the pillows, panting and wiping broth from his mouth. He couldn't feel parts of his tongue, and it felt great. Every nerve, every bone, felt soaked with warmth, and his hand wasn't shaking so bad.
Rodney set the mug back on the tray. " For someone as scrawny as you, you're unnervingly strong when you want to be."
" You mean to tell me you weren't licking up every scrap of food the moment you got back to Atlantis?" John breathed.
Rodney shrugged, feigning innocence. " I may have..." he cleared his throat, " made off with a few extra muffins when people weren't looking. Cut in line, got myself an early ticket out of the infirmary with one too many meal requests. But you of all people can not get after me for it. You had the swill. You know that stuff couldn't keep a fly alive." He snorted a short laugh. " I bet they use it to ward off insects when they're not torturing people."
John studied McKay's bruises, the dominant of the collection being around his eye, the second on his jaw.
" You okay, McKay?"
Rodney stared at John incredulously for two seconds, then rolled his eyes. " And here it is. The million dollar question. You are as predictable as the tides, you know that Colonel? Well, not the Atlantis tide since we haven't been studying them all that much... But who cares. You're like loaded dice, landing in the same state of mind, going for the same questions. Of course I'm all right. What's a little torture between enemies, huh? Wouldn't expect anything less, would you?"
John let out a shuddering breath. " I didn't know what to expect."
Rodney arched his head back. " What! Oh come on. It was all torture no matter how it was dished out. They bent my nose, broke my arm, starved you, broke your ribs... They were pissy little juveniles whining over finders keepers. They beat us up and ran off. Even a five year old could have figured out they were venting some rage. So what was there extra that kept your expectations out of the loop, huh?"
John recalled the screams, the blood, and stated softly, " They're dangerous McKay."
" Dangerous! Sheppard, they're bullies. I mean they sent you through the gate in your underwear. That is like so... eigth grade, minus someone taking a picture..."
John met Rodney's gaze and held it. " They're worse than the Genii."
Rodney balked at that, as though John had just spewed out a string of the worst offenses imaginable. " What! No way! The Cyladrans are no where near Genii level..." Rodney stuttered to a stop, and wrinkled his brow. Something had finally clicked into place in that ever active brain, and it manifested as a metamorphoses in Rodney's expression. A Rodney epiphany could never be contained. Not even his emotions were so blatantly revealed. John's words, which had held a sincerity as strong as his desperation for the broth, or the fear in John's eyes – they'd said enough. More than likely the fear, because John refused to hide any of it.
He had every reason to be afraid.
Rodney swallowed, his throat bobbing like a sinker being tugged by a fish. " What did they do?"
John looked away, down at the hem of the blanket twisting in his writhing hands.
Rodney moaned. " Oh don't even go Bartleby the Scrivener on me."
John shot his gaze up to give Rodney a questioning look. " Huh?"
" Bartleby the Scrivener? By Herman Melville? About a guy who hires this scrivener that wouldn't do a lick of work because of depression or some crap? But the guy never fires him because he feels sorry for him. Even ends up relocating his office just to get away from the freak. Then the freak ends up dying of starvation because he never eats, never giving a single reason why he refused to do what he was asked to do. A scrivener is a scribe..."
" I know what a scrivener is," John interceded. " And I'm no scrivener."
" You're MENSA material," Rodney retaliated.
" But I'm not starving myself," John shot back.
" You're clamming up, falling into the muck and mire of self pity..."
That last comment was like a knife to the gut, and John stiffened in rage. " I am not pitying myself! I – I just can't talk about it, not yet."
Rodney sat on the edge of John's bed, features softening and everything. " That bad?"
" Let's put it this way," John said with a shiver and conviction, " I just ate."
Rodney actually paled at that. " That bad?"
" Seriously, McKay, not yet. I mean, I need to tell, because you need to know..." the rest of John's words drifted from him.
The Cys were worse than the Genii. At least the Genii had a motive.
What had been the Cyladrans' motivation? Petty revenge? Men had killed for less. But to kill for the purpose of humiliation... John couldn't fathom it. Reasons were not excuses, but they did shed light on the whys. Had it been the Genii using John and Mathers as ransom, killing Mathers to cause pain to Sheppard for the Genii killed by the shield, it would have made sense. It was no justification, just something more tangible, more personal. Even the wraith had motive – reason – and that was to feed.
The Cyladran's anger stemmed from rumor and an ageless old memorandum that had probably been rewritten so many times it was all screwed up. To kill a kid over a city they couldn't even find was an act dredged out of hell itself. Senseless, pointless, sub-zero cruelty... Hell, they probably did it out of pleasure! To the darkest pits with reason, Mathers' death had been for kicks. Nothing juvenile about that.
They frightened John. He wouldn't say so outright to McKay – but not out of pride which was seriously lacking anyways. A happy scientist was a content scientist, and a scared military commander generated the opposite effect.
" Just... Think of them in terms of the Genii, the wraith," John finished, rather lamely in his opinion. " Don't underestimate them."
Both fell into that uncomfortable, dragged-out silence forced on them by rattled nerves. No companionable silences here, both were too freaked for any comfort.
John searched for a change of subject. His stomach was starting to churn, urged on by a combination of unease and blood-stained memories of a dying soldier. Gulping, he allowed one more shudder, and pounced on the nearest subject at hand.
" Never took you for a literary buff, McKay."
McKay, staring with the distant gaze of one lost in thought, but graced with the skill of mental multitasking, shrugged. " High school and college credits. Can't become a scientist without suffering through a few lit courses."
John rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. " Ever allow yourself to realize how much life really does imitate art?"
" Even the weird, impossible stuff?"
" Especially the weird, impossible stuff."
SGASGASGASGA
A/N: All mentioned books do not have to be pre-read to enjoy this story, although I do highly recommend them if your looking for a few classic shorts to try out. And though it is not mentioned in the story - A Rose for Emily is a must!
If you have any beef with 'hyperglycemia' – in terms of spelling – blame the spell checker. Two words were offered and I pulled an eeny-meeny-miny-mo that had me picking the word you see now. Also, I know Beckett's talk interchanges a lot with the you and ya, but I find accents seem to be pesky that way in real life too.
