A/N: So, is it just me, or does the document manager crash regularly for everyone else here? Seriously, about 1/3rd of the time when I want to update my fics, the document manager hates me. It makes me sad. :(

Also, beware the angst in this one. It's mild, and not anything that Rodney fans didn't already suspect, but still, this bit is a lot less light hearted than the others.

oOo

To say the meeting with Dr. Weir was unpleasant may have been the understatement of the millennium. If I say I would rather have been stuck naked on a hive ship being chased by voracious Wraith than sitting in her office, sandwiched between my commanding officer and my boyfriend, then you're getting a clearer picture of the personal hell I was enduring. She was staring me down with a look that distinctly reminded me of the time I had to face my mom after drunkenly accepting a dare to spraypaint "SUCKS" under the "Westville" water tower.

To be fair, I actually hadn't said much. Carson and Sheppard, bless their hearts, were taking the brunt of the harsh questioning. Dr. Weir was understandably ticked about not being kept in the loop, and the boys took turns apologizing profusely (Carson) and spinning yarns about wanting to protect her from Caldwell's military fascism through plausible deniability (Sheppard). When I could tell she had almost had enough, I finally managed to pluck up enough courage to rescue them from her wrath. "Ma'am, it was my fault," I spoke up. "I asked them to keep it a secret, partly because I was afraid of how people would treat me, but also because I wanted some time by myself to adjust to the idea. They were only doing what they felt was right."

And there was that look, the same one my mom had given me years ago, right after ripping me a new one for a) being drunk, b) being manipulated by peer pressure, and c) misspelling "SUCKS" as "SUKCS." It was the look that said, "Yes, you've screwed up, but it's fixable, preferably through many hours of manual labor." I think I still have orange spraypaint stuck underneath my fingernails from hours of scrubbing.

Leaning over her desk, Dr. Weir spoke in her maternal tone, the one I'd normally heard her use on Sheppard and McKay after their occasional bouts of idiocy. "Lieutenant, I understand that this has been a daunting experience for you, and I'm not blaming you for your actions. What I'm trying to understand is why you felt you couldn't come to me about this."

I furrowed my brow and stared at my hands, picking at imaginary orange paint while I formulated my answer. "I…I suppose I was afraid you'd send me back to Earth. Say something like, 'The Pegusus Galaxy is no place to raise a child,' and send me packing. And you'd be right to do it, but I want this baby to be raised in a loving home, and I can't think of a better place to do that than here, in Atlantis. I know I haven't been here very long, but it…it feels like home to me."

Dr. Weir's face softened, and she let out a breath as the tension eased in her shoulders. "Lieutenant…Laura, I'm not sending you back to Earth. I'm not going to pretend I'm happy about the thought of raising a baby in Atlantis, but from what I understand, this isn't exactly a normal pregnancy. I think for the time being, you should be kept here, near Rodney, and under Carson's very skilled care. However," she directed the next part at Sheppard, "the time may come that I need to re-evaluate that decision. But for now, I agree with Colonel Sheppard's appointment of light duties only, and regular check ups with Dr. Beckett."

"Thank you, Ma'am," I nodded, and the three of us stood to leave. Unfortunately, Sheppard didn't get off as easy as the rest of us. She called him back and the last thing I heard before the door closed was Sheppard saying I was "technically" under his command, so he really didn't have to tell her anything if it didn't threaten the city. Judging by her thunderous expression, I was glad I wasn't around to hear the rest of that conversation.

After the meeting, Carson and I walked to the infirmary to check on Rodney. As Carson inspected instruments and tubing, occasionally making notes on his chart, I plopped into the chair next to Rodney's bed and easily snatched the book out of his hands, ignoring his very vocal objection. I glanced down at the page he had marked and saw a name highlighted, circled emphatically, and with 5 stars next to it, McKay's highest rating. Rolling my eyes, I tossed the book back on his lap with a snicker. "For the last time, McKay, we're not naming our baby Samantha."

"Why not?" he replied defensively.

"We've been through this already, I'm not naming my baby after your old girlfriend!"

"She was never my girlfriend," he stated morosely, then lifted his chin haughtily. "The passion was there, but with the two of us traveling so much, we just never seemed to make it work."

"Sheppard told me you pissed her off and she sent you to Siberia," I said casually, flipping through a 5 month old magazine. Ugh, don't celebrities have personal style consultants that can keep them from inflicting unnecessary ruffles on an innocent public? Cute shoes, though…

Carson interrupted McKay's spluttering protests. "Rodney, relax. Your blood pressure is climbing," he scolded.

Taking pity on Rodney, and also fearing another of Carson's "talks" about riling up patients whose natural state is perpetual borderline hypertension, I said, "Fine, if it's a girl, we can name her Samantha." Still flipping through my magazine, I added, "But if it's a boy, we name him Angus."

Rodney's smile aborted halfway, shifting into a look of contempt. "Angus? You can't be serious."

"Why not? It's a nice, strong Scottish name, McKay. Aren't you proud of your heritage?"

"I think you're confusing me with Beckett. I have never sheared a sheep in my life," he said in a tone of ultimate condescension.

I shrugged, still not looking up from my magazine. "We could always go with Argyle."

I cast a surreptitious glance at Rodney and had to artfully stifle a laugh as his eyes widened in horror. Carson didn't bother to hide his chuckle. "Did you put her up to this?" he accused. Carson held up his hands in a "Who, me?" gesture, then excused himself to let the two of us battle it out, promising to return to check on Rodney later. After a few moments of silent fuming, McKay conceded. "Fine. No Samantha," he said, angrily putting an X through the name in his book. "Angus," he muttered to himself. "Where do you come up with these names?"

Smiling triumphantly, I put down the magazine. "Angus was MacGyver's first name."

Rodney just rolled his eyes and flipped another page in his book. After a few seconds of silence, he asked me The Question, the one I knew he'd get around to asking sooner or later. "So, what did Elizabeth say?"

I smiled, "Well, the good news is that I'm not getting kicked off Atlantis."

Some of the tension seemed to bleed from Rodney's frame, and he nodded his approval. "And the bad news?"

"She gave me the Mom Look," I groaned. McKay's expression couldn't have said, "You are clearly psychotic, and I have no clue what you're talking about," any clearer if he had written it across his forehead in black marker. I squinted at him in disbelief. "You know, the MOM LOOK! The look that your mom gave you when you were little that made you sit down, shut up, and possibly run away screaming with your hands over your butt so you wouldn't get spanked. Don't you remember that look?"

Rodney just stared at his hands and said quietly, "Yeah, I know that look."

I had heard the whispers about his family, of course, but I never paid it much attention…until now. Staring into those sad blue eyes that were a million miles away, I suddenly realized how appallingly little I actually knew about Rodney McKay. I knew all about Carson's mom, he talked about her all the time, and I do mean all the time, but I didn't even know the names of Rodney's parents, let alone how they treated him as a kid, I didn't even know his favorite flavor of ice cream! I remembered him mentioning something about his sister, but that's all I'd ever heard of her. Never one to back down from a challenge, or rather, to keep my mouth shut when I knew better, I wasn't about to start now. Trying for casual, I asked, "So, McKay, tell me about your family."

He looked up at me like he'd forgotten that I was there. "What?" he asked. Okay, so maybe he was still a little delirious from being cooped up at the bottom of the ocean for hours on end. That didn't mean I had to go easy on him.

"Did you get water in your ears while you were down there? I asked you to tell me about your family," I teased, hoping he would snark back. He always seemed the most comfortable when he was able to trade barbs.

Unfortunately, he didn't take the bait. Looking mildly uncomfortable, he asked, "Why?"

Well, this certainly wasn't going to be as easy as I thought. "I don't know, just curious I guess." Fumbling for something that would draw the information out of him, I asked the first question that came to my head. "What's your sister's name?"

Rodney nodded, looking slightly more comfortable. "Jeanie. Jeanie McKay. She's younger, by 3 years. She's divorced, two kids, and lives in Texas now."

"There, now, was that so hard?" I asked, smiling warmly.

I was rewarded with McKay's withering glare. "I realize that basking in my glowing presence is a rare treat for you, but seriously, why the sudden interest in my family life?"

Oops, busted. Time to change tactics. Honesty it is, then. "Well, considering the McKay family line is going to be growing by one, I figured it might be a good idea to learn a little about your side of the family. I'm sure your parents are going to want to meet their grandchild when it's born, so it would be nice to know something about them before meeting them."

Rodney looked positively sick at the thought. "They're never going to see my baby."

I felt my stomach drop at his words. I'd never heard him use that tone before, like anger, fear, and resolve all mingled together, and in truth it scared me a little. Scooting my chair closer to his bed, I took his hand in mine and he looked at me, that small gesture seeming much larger somehow. In a small, quiet voice, I asked, "What did they do to you, Rodney?"

Rodney hesitated for a second, mechanically brushing his thumb across the back of my hand. "You have to understand, my parents weren't bad people, they were just…angry. They yelled a lot, not just at me, but Jeanie too, and at each other, so—"

"Rodney." At my voice he closed his eyes for a second and seemed to refocus, and I was struck with how childlike that typical McKay gesture was, like a scared little boy closing his eyes to convince himself that the monsters in the closet weren't there, it was just the shadows.

"Right, sorry," he continued. "They…They never really did anything bad, just normal things that parents did, being grounded, sent to bed without dinner, time outs…" He swallowed thickly after that, letting his voice and his thoughts trail off.

Squeezing his hand lightly, I said, "Tell me about the time outs, Rodney."

When he finally began talking again, I thought he was avoiding my question, but I decided to let him talk, figuring he would take me to the answer eventually. "At our first house, before we moved, we had this little closet downstairs. My parents used it as a coat closet. It was really only big enough for one person to stand inside. It smelled like moth balls. My…When I got time outs, my parents would lock me inside it. I…don't really know how long they kept me in there, but sometimes they would forget, and I…I wouldn't be let out until it was time to leave for school the next day."

"Oh, god," I breathed. I didn't need to hear any more, that small fact had painted a pretty clear picture of Rodney's childhood. And it went a long way to explain his claustrophobia, not to mention adding a whole new dimension to his expedition to the bottom of the sea.

Rodney had my hand clasped tightly in his, and he locked his determined eyes with mine. "I will never be like them. I promise."

I tried to say, "I know," but no words made it past my throat. Instead, I just nodded, seeing in him someone much stronger than I ever suspected, and I was overcome with pride that he had trusted me this much.

Several seconds passed before Rodney cleared his throat, the moment gone. Releasing my hand, he fidgeted a little and asked, "So, Cadman, do you want to tell me about your family, or do you just want me to tell you what I read in your file?"

Gratefully taking the bait, I replied in mock horror, "You read my file?"

"Oh, please, you're just jealous I thought of it first," he said with a self-satisfied grin. And really, I couldn't argue with the truth.

"Fine, you want my life story, settle in and prepare to be entertained." I cracked my knuckles and cleared my throat theatrically, getting the desired eye roll from McKay. "I was born in the tiny town of Westville, South Dakota, population approximately 2000, but only about 1000 if you don't count the cows and tumbleweeds. I was a tap dancing prodigy at an early age, but my plans to become the greatest thing to hit Broadway since Ginger Rogers were soon taking a back seat to an even greater love of mine: blowing things up."

"Was that before or after you turned to a life of crime?" McKay interrupted.

I smiled broadly, unfazed by the fact he had obviously read my juvenile record, too. "Pretty much simultaneously," I answered with a wink. "Words cannot describe how happy my parents were when I joined the Marines. They mistakenly thought I'd learn some discipline. I just wanted to be able to blow things up legally."

"More proof that nobody in command of the US military has a brain in their head. Anybody who would supply you with C4 has got to be the intellectual rival of garden tools." There was no bite in his tone, and my laughing grin was met by a fond smirk. After a few seconds of pleasant silence, he asked, "What were your parents like?"

I faltered for a moment, unsure if talking about this would cause Rodney more pain. As if sensing my thoughts, he held his hand out to me, palm up. Instinctively, I put my hand in his, taking it as a sign that he was okay with our discussion. Meeting his eyes, I said, "My parents were pretty typical, actually. Carpools, family BBQs, that kind of thing. My dad was the police chief, and my mom was a member of the City Council, so the Cadman household was run like a tight ship, if you can imagine. Really, my parents were…pretty great, actually."

Rodney looked at me curiously as I unconsciously allowed my other hand to come to rest over the very slight bulge on my stomach. "You say that like it's a bad thing," he said.

"No, I mean I'm happy that I had great parents, but it's just…It's a lot to live up to. I mean, I have no idea what I'm doing here Rodney. I don't know anything about raising a baby, my Mom Look is beyond pitiful if the reaction of the Athosian kids is anything to go by, I just…You know me, I'm like a big kid myself. How am I supposed to raise another person?"

Rodney looked at me for several moments, as if trying to formulate an answer, but I wasn't really expecting one. I was busy trying to figure out what I saw in those blue depths when Carson whipped back the curtain around Rodney's bed, his cheerful voice asking, "So, how's our patient?"

Rodney snatched back his hand like he'd been burned. Carson's smile immediately fell, and the two looked at each other, apparently having a conversation without words. From what I could tell, the conversation wasn't pleasant. Finally, they seemed to reach an understanding of sorts, and McKay looked away. Turning to me, Carson spoke in his most soothing brogue, the one he usually reserved for dying patients and frightened children. It was the tone I knew he used when he was the most upset. "Laura, maybe it's best if you head home. I have a few more tests to run on Rodney, and then you both need your rest."

I was no fool. I knew exactly what had passed between the two of them in that exchange a few moments ago, but before I could protest, Rodney spoke up. "He's right, Cadman, you should head back to your quarters. You've had a hard day."

I narrowed my eyes fractionally at Rodney, but he refused to meet mine. Sighing, I gave in. "You're right," I said, standing and placing my hand on his shoulder, locking eyes with Carson as I did so, just to make my point. "We've both been through a lot today."

The unfamiliar hardness in Carson's eyes softened somewhat, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. Satisfied with at least that much, I exited the medical wing, leaving the two men alone in the stillness of the late night infirmary.

As I headed down the corridor to my quarters, I wondered what they were saying to each other after I left. I wanted to stay, to tell Carson that he didn't have any reason to be suspicious, or jealous, but I was still angry at him for interrupting the one conversation I'd had with Rodney where he'd actually let me see past the snarky exterior, and I didn't completely trust what I'd say to Carson. It wasn't like Rodney had even given any hint that he felt anything more than friendship, and all we were doing was holding hands, for crying out loud! Friends do that all the time, it didn't mean I was attracted to him! Truthfully, I did find McKay attractive, in that same soft around the edges way I found Carson attractive, and being stuck in the same body, not to mention the father of the child I carried created a special bond, but Carson had been nothing but caring and supportive up until now. If he was expecting me to be swept away by McKay's charms and run off to Bora Bora with him where we could sip pina coladas on the beach until the Wraith came to suck us all dry, then he had another thing coming.

Carson and I had our first real fight the next day. He sat down to eat breakfast with me, and I got up and left without saying anything to him. Mature, I know, but hey, hormonal pregnant woman here, some concessions must be made. It didn't help that McKay was nowhere to be found for our usual lunch in the mess. By mid-afternoon, I was sick of waiting for Carson to come fall down and apologize to me, so I sought him out. We had one of those fights where there's no yelling, just talking in low, angry voices. I accused him of being distrustful and possessive, and he flat out asked me if I had feelings for Rodney. Admittedly, my flip answer of, "He's the father of my child, what do you think?" may have been the wrong choice under the circumstances, but once I convinced Carson that my "feelings" for Rodney weren't romantic, he conceded that he may have overreacted, and we each apologized.

It took five days, however, for Rodney to start speaking to me again. I had given up on trying to corner him and make him talk, so I was pretty surprised when one day at lunch he simply set his tray down and took the seat in front of me, without so much as a, "Hey, Cadman, sorry for abandoning you like a teenage boy the morning after prom."

Shoveling a mouthful of pseudo-potatoes into his mouth in a display eerily similar to the one I witnessed a month ago, he started right into the conversation as if nothing was amiss. "Do you remember that question of yours, about whether or not you'd make a good mother?" Rendered speechless by the shock of McKay speaking to me again, only to have the first words out of his mouth question my parenting skills, made it impossible for me to formulate an answer. Luckily, Rodney didn't seem to require one, and simply barreled on assuming I knew exactly what he was speaking about. "Well, I've been thinking, do you love this baby?"

Anger and shock bubbled over as I shouted, "Yes!" with more vehemence than I thought could fit into that one tiny syllable.

McKay continued, undeterred by my tone. "Well, then that's your answer," he said as if it were the most obvious conclusion in the world. "All you have to do is love this baby, and everything else will take care of itself."

I stared at him, flabbergasted, as he shoveled more not-potato-things into his mouth. After several long, mystifying seconds, I felt the corner of my mouth twitch upwards involuntarily. "All you need is love?" I summarized.

He didn't look at me, but I saw his mouth pull into a slow smile. "Something like that," he said around a mouthful of food.

If the other soldiers heard me humming a certain Beatles song as I patrolled the corridors later that day, they never mentioned it. Of course, that might have been due to the fact that I was wearing my t-shirt with bold letters declaring, "I'm pregnant and I have C4. Any questions?" It was a gift from Rodney.

oOo

A/N: Okay, I need to stop listening to emo rock when I write, because this came out very angsty. I'll try to keep the angst to a minimum in the next chapter. :)