Part Two:
There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold,
And she's buying a stairway to heaven,
Ah, "Stairway to Heaven." The song made him hearken back to the good ol' days, where the group of stoners still stuck in the 1970s that lived in the college dorm next to his blasted it so many times that he'd learned almost all of the words without ever willfully listening to it. Never a Led Zeppelin fan himself in the least, but it was the longest song he could think of that would last the rest of the trek.
And when she…something or else, and I for-ge-eet the lyrics,
Hmm-hmmm da-da-da stairway to heaven,
Well, he'd learned some of the words anyways.
After a few more botched verses, he just decided to hum the piano parts to Bach's "Fugue in G Minor." Why he hadn't just settled on that in the first place was a mystery. But there was just something about singing a song to get your mind off a task that humming a song just couldn't do.
Not like the singing was helping any. Despite being in better physical shape than he had been when he'd arrived in Atlantis, he was not quite ready to run a marathon. People kept telling him about this "runner's high" thing; you feel absolutely miserable running, until you cross some sort of barrier, and then suddenly you're on top of the world. Well, that was all lies. There was no barrier for him, or if there was then he simply slammed into it instead of crossing it. Carson was always talking about how your body produces endorphins during strenuous exercise that serve as natural pain killers or something, but that was a lie as well. Endorphins could just go screw themselves. Who was going to trust all that medical voodoo anyways? No amount of facts could ever make him not feel like dying while running.
He grudgingly admitted to himself that it wasn't necessarily the running that made him feel like he was dying; it was the principle of the thing. Running away from something had a lot more merit than running in circles for entertainment. Seriously, who thinks that's fun? Running was more tolerable when it had purpose. But just because it had purpose didn't mean he was any happier with it, or any better at it. Especially when it was running in rain like this. It was that evil kind of rain that isn't heavy enough to be full-fledged pouring, but light enough so that the wind was blowing it in all sorts of crazy directions so no matter if you have a raincoat or umbrella you got positively soaked.
And dammit, that had to be the fifth puddle he'd stepped in during the last ten minutes! Now his socks were going to get wet and his boots would make that uncomfortable squishing feeling every time he took a step. He briefly considered stopping to see if he could dump any water out of his shoes, but decided against it. It would be a delay he couldn't afford, and he would just get himself more wet if he stood still in this rain. So he slogged onward.
And here the rumor mill had been saying that he loved playing the hero. Oh, they could not be more wrong. First off, they shouldn't use Kavanaugh as their gossip informant; if everything Kavanaugh said was true, he was also sleeping with Weir and half the science department (and not necessarily the female half). But secondly, and more importantly, these people seemed to have a highly glorified view of heroism; everything was all clean and confident and successful with trumpet fanfares sounding in the background or something. Well, it wasn't. This was frigging heroism right here. Muddy and wet and miserable and feeling like just passing out on the spot. People wondered why he was so cranky coming back from missions. The next person to accuse him of being melodramatic to get sympathy would be spending a rather interesting week stranded offworld with cranky locals who were convinced their team was bringing the Apocalypse with them to see how they liked it.
This was the absolute last time he was sticking his neck out like this for the others. True, he'd said that the last several times as well, but he was actually being serious now. By the time this mission was over, he would expect no less repayment than their souls. Or just a warm, dry towel. Hmph, here was more evidence proving that he was spending too much time around Sheppard: he was actually caring that his griping wasn't getting him any closer to the gate. Fortunately, this habit was easily overridden, and he continued mentally whining, which, incidentally, made the time pass faster than singing did.
When the gate finally came into sight, he let out a cheer, which actually came out sounding more like a combination between a cough and a grunt. Whatever. He was practically there now, and that's the only thing that mattered. Unfortunately, contrary to the common dramatic stereotype, this sight did not give him a second wind or make him abandon all exhaustion to go sprinting towards relief, he just continued at the same plodding jog, dragging his leaden feet. The common dramatic stereotype of the gate looking farther away with each step he took did in fact seem to apply. He ended up just staring at the soggy ground so it would seem like he was going faster than he really was. He had no idea how long it took for him to get to the gate, all concept of time had been lost long ago. But the end was finally—mercifully-- in sight.
Fate, however, seemed to have a different idea, dogging his steps and set on making this rescue as difficult as possible. Ten feet away from the DHD, his left foot slipped out from under him. He stumbled forward, attempting to regain balance, but ultimately failing and falling forward on his hands and knees in the mud.
Immediately, he made a rather uncoordinated scramble into a standing position. He stood in stunned shock for a second, staring down at his handprints in the mud, then down at his filthy pants and boots. His mind stalled until he came to the rather inevitable (and obvious) conclusion: this was hell.
Y'know what? Screw it. Screw heroics, bravery, and rescue; screw having to save the day every single time. Not even his ego would contradict him on this point. He was tired of saving the day, tired of the rain, tired of running, just plain tired. He would positively kill Sheppard the second the man got his stubborn and troublesome assout of trouble.
Nyah, Rodney, go back to the jumper! Oh, it's only a few hundred yards, you just have to make a dash for it, swoop in, and pick us up, it's a piece of cake. Just go, we'll be fine, he felt like mimicking, but realized there was really no one to mimic to. He settled on letting out a frustrated yell to the skies and whichever god was mocking him today. He then stomped over to the DHD, splashing mud everywhere in his wake.
No sooner had he pressed the first symbol when a distant twang rang out and some sort of projectile whizzed past his shoulder.
Just when he though he couldn't get in any deeper, someone threw down a shovel.
A/N: Muahaha! Don't worry everyone, I've got the next part all planned out and mostly written, so you won't have to wait too long. REVIEW!
