Chapter Three

Rodney woke up and the cabin of the jumper was bathed in early morning sun and it occurred to him that he'd been asleep for a long time. It also occurred to him that he was supposed to be doing something else. Something like, oh, standing watch.

"God damn it!"

Panic immediately filled Rodney's idling brain and he tumbled off the bench still encased in his sleeping bag, inundated in visions of Sheppard being dragged off by vicious wildlife in the middle of the night, or being captured by Wraith and any other number of slightly impossible and vaguely illogical scenarios.

He rolled over on the floor, struggled to get himself out of his sleeping bag, forgot to put on his shoes and staggered out of the open hatch onto the sand, desperately looking for signs of his companion. If he'd died overnight, Rodney would kill him.

"Morning, Rodney!"

Sheppard was walking back towards him with a load of driftwood. He crossed over to a fire and dumped the wood beside it. Rodney wondered why he hadn't noticed the roaring fire until now.

"You were supposed to wake me!"

"Yeah, I know. Sorry about that. I figured you could do with the sleep and there wasn't much to watch out for in the end so I decided to keep myself busy."

Sheppard gestured around.

Rodney was impressed and slightly horrified. The over active LTC had obviously been working through the night. Hard.

A pile of wood was stacked carefully by one end of the jumper. The fire was large and sitting in a pit surrounded by rocks. Two logs had somehow been found, dragged across the sand and were beside the fire, ready to be used as seating. He looked around, noted a sizeable amount of digging had taken place further down the beach by some trees. A spare tarpaulin was anchored for some sort of cover from the branches. If it was hiding a latrine he was going to pitch a fit. He didn't care if he got chewed up by a T-Rex, or a seven foot version of a Naked Vole Rat, he was not using a hole in the ground. A man had his pride. If it came down to a battle between his self control and the call of nature, the call of nature was just going to have to lose.

To top off the freakish activity the pilot had even found time to start collecting branches, weaving them together into the barrier he'd been talking about.

McKay's gaze then settled on two medium sized, neatly gutted fish lying on a plastic bag. Clearly an uncontaminated and highly processed breakfast of Chili and Macaroni MRE, made in the sanitized conditions of a food processing plant, was not to be.

"You have got to be kidding me," said Rodney. He was appalled at the camp site taking place without any aid from himself and appalled that he'd slept through it all. Or more to the point he'd been allowed to sleep through it all. Presumably Sheppard felt he was either too incompetent or too precious to do any of the hard work.

"Nope. I never kid in times like these," replied Sheppard with a smile.

"At precisely what insane early hours of the morning did you decide it would be a good time to fish?"

"About five, when I found some nylon wire on a reel in our stuff. The hook was a problem but I raided the medical kit and used one of the needles for stitching up wounds. Shone a torch and a bunch of fish seemed to be attracted to it."

"And the bait?"

"I took a small piece of power bar with me."

"That's our limited supply that you wouldn't let me touch!"

"It was from the second one I didn't touch."

Rodney wasn't in the mood to admit that Sheppard was right. "Oh. Sorry. I forgot that starvation is a really great survival strategy."

He noticed that his friend didn't bother to reply. It was around that time, as he was building up to a tirade that he'd probably regret, he decided that standing around in his socks wasn't such a good idea. He went back to the jumper, laced himself into his stinking and crusted boots, put his jacket back on, ran his fingers through his hair, stowed his sleeping bag and went and turned off the heat. The day was marginally warmer and he could survive until nightfall. He headed outside, having had a chance to calm down.

When he came back out, Sheppard was - yet again - proving his resourcefulness. With a field shovel he carefully poked around in the edge of the blazing fire to haul back a flattish rock. He then placed a metal plate – the only one in their mess kit - on the rock and slipped on the fish. He pushed it back, closer to the flames. Rodney let himself ponder the intelligence of whatever dim witted human being had packed the jumper. The emergency mess kit consisted of one plate, one cup, one knife and a spoon, and yet they had four 9-millimetres, the P90, enough clips of ammo to start a private army, a case of C4 and a box of grenades.

Satisfied that the fish had started cooking, Sheppard turned his attentions to other matters. "We've got a long day. Gotta get some water back here and I wanted to make sure we have the barrier rigged up for tonight. Keep the heat in."

"And keep out any creatures that want to eat us?"

"Yes, and keep out any creatures that want to eat us. Although somehow, I'll think we'll be the ones doing the eating."

Rodney appraised Sheppard, checked out the dark circles under his eyes. He looked tired and so he should be considering he seemed to have gone without sleep for twenty-four hours. Rodney resented it. He resented that Sheppard didn't feel he was capable of just standing around for four hours or so, he resented that Sheppard had done all of this work without him and he damn well resented that Sheppard had done it without the need to close his eyes for an hour or two.

"Are you sure you don't need a nap?"

The man cooking fish and appearing to have settled in to his new lifestyle without any type of emotional crisis drawled out, "Naw, I'm good."

Rodney looked at the fire and the cooking fish and Sheppard busying himself with tending said fire and felt like he'd just fallen down the rabbit hole. He was back in high school being forced to attend a class camping trip in an effort to make him a 'more rounded' human being. He'd never been able to convince his parents or his teachers that there was absolutely no necessity to be well rounded when he was planning to spend life hunched over a computer terminal. But they'd forced him to go anyway, saying he'd enjoy it and he hadn't. Camping was terrible because that's where he'd met Todd Mills and Sheppard reminded him of Todd. A kid on the camp who attracted the girls, was completely capable of living the outdoor lifestyle, who was funny, smart and – what really irked Rodney – kind. Kind to Rodney. Todd watched out for him when Rodney was all gangly limbs and two left feet, told the other kids to quit laughing at him, was interested in what he had to say. It had driven Rodney crazy. He was used to being the brunt of jokes, of being picked on for being smart, and beaten up by the jocks. To be confronted with Todd Mills, an aberration in the high school clique phenomenon, had thrown off his well established sense of order. He was used to being alone. He wasn't used to having friends.

Yes. It was The Camping Trip all over again.

"Is there anything I can do?" He hoped Sheppard would send him on some routine chore. Anything to be able to escape the feeling of being completely and utter out of his depth.

"Not right now. We'll have breakfast first because I don't need you keeling over from a lack of food."

"Right. Protein. Yes, good choice." He strolled over to the log and sat down thinking that it was better than standing around looking as useless as he felt.

Sheppard tested the fish, made sure they weren't turning into charcoal and settled himself beside Rodney.

"I scouted around last night. I'm concerned that it's so damn quiet."

This was the sort of paranoia that Rodney usually indulged in but it seemed Sheppard was as spooked at he was, just hiding it better.

"Quiet? I thought quiet was good."

"Quiet as in, I didn't see a whole lot of wildlife around."

"So? You frightened them and they ran off."

Sheppard shrugged, checked the fish again. They were doing nicely, and Rodney was becoming increasing distracted by the smell of edible food.

"You're probably right."

"Of course I'm right. I'm always right." It was a joke. A small one but it was better than telling Sheppard to stop being paranoid.

They sat staring at the fire for a full minute, a full minute of silence and to Rodney it was awful because he could never stand those awkward pauses in conversation that represented a person's withdrawal, their disapproval, their dislike. Even though he feigned not caring, that he was arrogant and didn't really worry for other people's opinions it was covering up his desperate need to approval. Approval meant that people would talk to you, engage you in conversation, make you feel included and you could feel that yes, you weren't so bad after all.

Rodney forced himself to sit and keep looking at the fish and the fire and not start waffling for the sake of hearing a voice. Ultimately it was Sheppard who started the conversation again.

"Pity I didn't bring War and Peace with me. I could have finished it."

"What page are you on anyway?"

"Twenty-two."

"Okay, so by my estimates that means you're reading around one page a month. I don't want to alarm you but you'll be retired long before you finish."

Sheppard scuffed the sand around with his left foot, making a non descript pattern. "Tell me about it. I looked at the limited space for personal items, panicked and tried to get the most bang for my buck. I didn't exactly have a lot of stuff in Antarctica but it wasn't like I couldn't get something if I wanted it. Going to another galaxy really screwed up the whole 'I'll just order it from Amazon and wait for the summer supply run' concept. So I went for a really big book, a football DVD, an i-Pod and my entire music collection rammed onto four CDs as backup."

"I wouldn't feel bad. I couldn't make the decision even if my life depended on it. I went to a Costco and bought a box of Reece's peanut butter cups and a box of Snickers. They were gone within three months. I ate them all. In between crises."

"I figured the next time we get to bring in items on the Daedalus, I'm getting seasons one through three of 24."

"Why am I not surprised that you like 24?"

"Why am I not surprised that you would bring a bulk box of Snickers with you as a reminder of Earth?"

Rodney smiled, shrugged, was pleased when Sheppard deemed it was time to eat and dragged the rock back towards them. The plate was too hot to touch. The fish sat there sizzling, basting away in their own juices. He could feel himself drooling.

The man in charge of their two man forced expedition used the spoon and the knife to slice off the flesh from one fish, squished it into their one cup and handed everything to Rodney.

He looked at it. "What are you going to eat with?"

"I'll use it after you," said Sheppard.

"Oh for pity's sake, that's just so gross I can't even begin to tell you how gross it is."

"I was planning to rinse it off in the sea so keep your panties on."

"Not even close to being hygienic."

"Have you got some cootie thing going you never told me about?"

"No, I do not have cooties. Saliva transmits meningitis for a start and God knows what else."

"You're telling me Beckett cleared you for duty while you had meningitis…"

Rodney felt himself getting flustered even though there was nothing to feel flustered about.

"I'm healthy thank-you-very-much."

"And I should be safe since I haven't kissed any alien chicks lately."

Sheppard was baiting him. That much was painfully obvious. Was this what their enforced camping trip was going to consist of? Sheppard teasing him at every opportunity? Rodney flashed back to puberty again and snarled. "Oh my GOD. Do you do this deliberately!"

His tormentor flashed him a grin. "Just eat your breakfast and then we can go for a hike."

Rodney didn't reply but hooked a piece of fish out of the cup with his fingers. Not because he didn't want to use the perfectly clean spoon but more because he knew that Sheppard would be using it and therein after, without the aid of some detergent and hot water and vigorous scrubbing of the spoon, he was never going to use another eating utensil until he made it back to Atlantis.

((--))

Colonel Caldwell was not a happy man. He had never been thrilled with his current job and he was even less thrilled when he couldn't even complete said job. After all, he wasn't exactly bragging to anyone that he was essentially the commander of a glorified supply ship, and he was completely silent on the fact that his supply ship was now out of commission.

It had started off routinely. Doing what they always did. Drop off supplies at Atlantis and helping out with any of their current problems. The problems tended towards being many and varied - such as their military commander turning into a giant bug, or one of their scientists blowing up five-sixths of a solar system. Then it was time to grab the data discs, the technical reports, the personnel logs, the AARs, the personal effects of expedition members who had died, the supply sheets for those comforting Class-1 essentials such as food, toilet paper, soap and shampoo, the Class-8 medical supply sheet from Dr. Beckett, and the many, many Class-6 requests for personal items before heading back to Earth. Back at SGC, he handed them over, and some lowly grunt in the Quartermaster Corps spent his day trying to locate DVDs for the early Dr Who episodes ('William Hartnell, Patrick Troughton not John Pertwee or Tom Baker!" the note had demanded) Sea Monkey kits, footballs, a dozen Ding Dongs, a Lord of the Rings chess set, and any other number of items someone had been spending six weeks dreaming about back on Atlantis. With only one personal item allowed per person, per supply run, Caldwell had initially wondered why they didn't choose more carefully. What happened to wanting a good book, or some music? It occurred to him that as the people stuck on Atlantis had realized the arrival of the Daedalus was a more or less guaranteed event, the novelty had worn off. It had taken on the air of a trip to the supermarket. A very long trip, but nothing out of the ordinary any more.

It was enough to make a hardened military man cry. Especially one who was a lifer.

The Daedalus had reloaded as usual, they had begun the journey out into deep space without any signs of trouble, and all seemed normal right up until they cleared the solar system and the hyperdrive engines shut down.

Hermiod had spent the three hour journey back to Earth on sublight engines muttering to himself in Asgard. Caldwell had been none too happy either. A broken ship meant unloading the cargo again and shifting the food supplies back into the refrigerator and freezer units. The quartermaster and ordinance crews would be bitching for weeks.

A day after their limping arrival General Landry had called him into a meeting to discuss the situation. The news wasn't good. The hyperdrive engines were going to take at least two weeks to fix and then another week to test.

Caldwell didn't like the news any more than Landry did. He might not have liked his job but he was military and he completed his mission and he did not like feeling that he was an REMF – otherwise known as a Rear-Echelon Mother Fucker.

"Sir, is there anyway to inform Atlantis not to expect the Daedalus? They're going to wonder what's happened and if I know some of the Atlantis personnel they're going to think the worst…"

Landry nodded, took a swig of half cold coffee while signing off on the swath of forms Harrigan had carted into the office. Fixing hyperdrive engines, it seemed, required lots of requests and signatures.

Caldwell wasn't a man prone to questioning his superiors, or their decisions but he had sometimes speculated just how they were billed for work on the Daedalus and how SGC paid for it.

Landry kept signing and replied, "Unfortunately I'm sure that's exactly what will happen. But until we get the engines fixed, there's nothing to be done. We're all just going to need some patience."

There wasn't much to say to that because Landry was right. Yelling at people wouldn't make the repairs happen any faster, especially in the case of Hermiod. He just had to sit tight and wait.

"Yes sir," said Caldwell.

He left the office, wondering if he wasn't now dwelling in that special hell of boredom and dissatisfaction reserved for the long ago captains of tramp freighters. Endlessly sailing the sea in squalor, hating the squalor, then finding themselves stranded and hating the stranding even more.

((--))

Sheppard had located three empty plastic jerry cans under the seats of the right bench. They were standard US military issue five-gallon containers in their usual standard color range of Forest Drab. Three empty plastic jerry cans meant fifteen gallons of water. More than enough to mean they would only have to make the journey to the river on a weekly basis – if they only used it for drinking. And Sheppard was more than happy with that. The less time they spent wandering around in unknown territory, the less time they would spend getting into trouble.

He was carrying two of the cans, Rodney was walking beside him, still harping on about the standard of the fish breakfast while carrying the other spare can. The fish had been tainted with a mud like taste and they had been bland, although Sheppard put the blandness down to the lack of a convenient salt shaker. After complaining about the breakfast he moved onto complaining about the fact that they didn't make Band-Aids like they used to because his had fallen off.

"We could have been killed," Rodney concluded by turning the conversation back towards the fish.

The scientist had become convinced that they should be more careful about eating any of the food on the planet because it might poison them.

"I mean look at fugu shushi. Seems perfectly fine but then wham you're hit by tetrodotoxin and four hours later you're dead."

Sheppard tried to ignore the vague ache in his temples that signaled a headache. A headache bought on by lack of sleep, no wake up cup of coffee and a companion who just wouldn't shut up. He was also tense from the lack of life signs. He kept checking the detector but there was nothing except for the two blips of himself and Rodney and so about fifteen minutes into the trip he gave up and put it back into his vest pocket.

"Rodney, as far as I know fugu is made from the puffer fish. You know, that fish that puffs up and is covered in spikes. Spikes would be a really obvious signal from nature that trying to eat him is a bad idea."

"You're a biologist now?"

"No, but I used to talk to the biologists down in Antarctica."

"The point being…?"

"That apparently nature, nine times out of ten, likes to play fair with the poisoning and danger angle. Most poisonous animals advertise their toxicity."

"Except for the ones that like to camouflage themselves because they're using the venom to capture prey rather than avoid being prey."

"The fish we ate didn't look like they were doing either."

"Oh great, a man who talked to a biologist once is going to figure out whether something is safe to eat."

Sheppard felt his shoulders starting to sag. He kept telling himself that Rodney would adjust in a couple of days, that he didn't have the military training, that they'd been through similar situations on numerous occasions and in the end Rodney would come through.

He liked McKay. He really did. Just not when the scientist in question was whining like a business man at a Hilton who'd discovered he'd only been left one complimentary bottle of shampoo by the maid.

Luckily trudging their way through sand and then moving across the wet marshland was tough. It temporarily slowed Rodney down but then he just shifted the conversation to complaints about the river being so far away, blah blah blah.

Sheppard shut him out so that all his brain had to cope was constant and vague chatter, like only half listening to a radio station.

The ground got boggier, and soon they were sloshing their way through ankle deep mud, over root tendrils sticking up out of the ground, and long strings of lichen hanging from gnarled trees until they hit solid ground, followed by the edge of smooth flowing water.

Once again Sheppard noted that the area around them seemed unnaturally quiet. It was beginning to spook him because on a planet that had a breathable atmosphere, water and plant life, surely some type of animal life would have taken hold.

He held up his hand to signal Rodney to stop and then cautiously checked out their surroundings. It would be tough to flee any danger in this sort of terrain.

Rodney cleared his throat. "If you tell me we're turning around and heading back to the jumper, I'm going to kill you."

Sheppard lowered his hand, satisfied the coast was clear. "Seriously, if you tried to kill me I don't think it would take me too much effort to make you regret the move."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you shouldn't threaten to kill me."

"Fine. I promise not to threaten to kill you, even in jest."

They stood on the bank and Sheppard put one of the containers down on the ground, along with the P90. He gave the life signs detector to Rodney and pointed at the weapon.

"What's the rule about deadly fire power?"

"Don't touch the big bad gun without permission or unless a Wraith is fondling my chest," said Rodney with a distinctly surly tone.

Sheppard had more than few issues with Rodney handling the P90. Rodney was an average shooter but with the P90 able to fire 900 rounds a minute, he stood a chance of scoring direct hits just from the sheer volume of shots being fired. The problem was that while spraying everything with a light coating of bullets he would probably hit friendlies. Like Sheppard.

"You stay here. I'm going to fill this."

Rodney opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it and closed it again. Instead he concentrated on pointing the detector at the water.

Sheppard checked that he had his knife tucked into its holder, the gun on his holster ready to pull if he needed it and then cautiously waded into the river.

Shit, the water was ice cold but at least it shook him out of his fatigue.

He walked further, slowly and cautiously, making sure he didn't miss his footing on the rocks strewn along the bottom. He figured that when he was up to his knees, it would be easier to dunk the container into the water and let it fill. Unfortunately the river was not gently sloped but suddenly dropped and he was immediately up to his waist. It was only due to quick reflexes that he hadn't gone under completely. He called out to Rodney even before Rodney had a chance to panic. "I'm okay!"

"Are you sure?" Rodney looked like he was about to race into the freezing waters for a rescue attempt.

"Sure I'm sure but I might need some help getting back. Just wait there until I get this thing filled."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Now just stay there until I tell you otherwise."

That didn't seem to mollify his companion but at least he was obeying orders and not risking both of their lives.

He went back to his task at hand and pushed the buoyant container into the water, watching it fill as the air bubbles rushed out. He was interrupted about two-minutes later by a panicked shout from Rodney.

"Colonel!"

"What?"

"I think you need to get out of there."

He looked up, back to the shore and saw Rodney wearing an alarmed look on his face as he peered at the detector's screen. "There's a whole bunch of… uh… dots. Heading in your direction. Lots of dots."

Crap.

"From where?"

Rodney pointed at the spot where Sheppard stood in the water.

Sheppard got a good grip on the container and started trying to run himself back up the incline. He was getting zero traction and the water resistance made it twice as hard to move. It was at that point he felt something brush against his leg.

Double crap.

Instinctively he froze but the instinct was soon overcome with the uncomfortable and disconcerting sensation of more somethings trying to crawl their way up the legs of his pants.

"Shit!"

He redoubled his efforts but his grip on the water container was turning his escape into hard work. At the same time Rodney's desire to help overrode the command to stay put. He tucked the detector into a vest pocket and splashed into the river.

Sheppard watched Rodney run into the water to save him, and tried to fight down his growing panic. Panic was not a good thing. Panic would get you killed. But panic was the only emotion he felt as he flashed back to his encounter with the iratus bug. Especially since the things crawling around on his legs were also biting him. It hurt.

His determined plan to get out of the water was turning into a wild uncoordinated thrashing that wasn't getting him anywhere.

Rodney arrived just in time, reaching down and grabbing handfuls of vest. The fact that another person was within reach to help abruptly calmed him down. He watched Rodney brace himself in the knee deep water on the other side of the drop-off point.

"Let go of the container," shouted Rodney.

He shook his head. No way. It had their water in it. He may have been panicked before but common sense told him that they needed to zealously guard every item they had. Losing an item that allowed them to double how much water they carried was wrong. The pain in his legs was bad but his survival attitude asserted himself.

"No. We need it."

"It's too heavy. Let go and we can try and pick it up later."

"Rodney, the container's important."

"So are you. Now let go!"

Sheppard stubbornly clung to the handle. Rodney sized him up, pursed his lips. Then he bent down and rapped Sheppard across the knuckles. Hard.

"Mackay, what the hell are you doing!"

"Making you let go you stupid idiot."

Rodney whacked him again.

"Stop it!"

"Let go!"

He was hit again, and then the pain in his legs got worse and he realized he was possibly sacrificing his own life on the pretext of needing an item to possibly save his own life in the future. Okay, that had to be an example of irony. With a lot of reluctance he did as he'd been instructed. The container, full of water, bobbed in the river, sunk halfway down and seemed to stay put.

Rodney sighed with relief. "On my count, you start pushing up and I'll pull."

Sheppard nodded.

"One… Two… Three!"

Sheppard scrabbled his feet again, Rodney leaned back, pulling with all his might and between the two of them Sheppard cleared the incline, falling forward into the shallower water. Rodney went with him, falling onto his butt.

It was Rodney who recovered first, fumbling his way back to his feet, using Sheppard's vest to start yanking Sheppard into a sitting position then extending an arm to get Sheppard back on his feet before hauling him back to the edge of the river bank.

Sheppard doubled over, panting from the effort, shaking from the cold. On a more positive note, the pain in his legs was fading.

"Are you okay?"

He squinted up at the concerned face of Rodney.

"To be honest, I don't really know."

Nor did he want to. He had no desire to look at whatever had decided to attach themselves to his body.

Rodney didn't seem to know where to begin. He stared a few seconds at Sheppard's soaked trousers, making sure his eyes were focused down at the ankle level, and seemed to make a decision.

"Colonel, this is going to sound really inappropriate but I think you need to drop your pants."

"I'm not that sort of guy," said Sheppard trying for a feeble joke that might relieve some of the tension. Because really, he wasn't that sort of guy and guys just didn't stare at any other bits on any other guy unless they were drunk.

"Seriously, you're soaking wet and have God knows what feeding on you."

It was a poor choice of words because Sheppard's mind instantly latched onto the usual guilt ridden image of Sumner on his knees, the life being sucked out of him by the female Wraith caretaker, and Sumner's cloudy eyes pleading with Sheppard to help him out right before Sheppard delivered the kill shot to the ten-ring.

He was a soldier so he wasn't shy about losing his clothing if needed but denial was playing a bigger role than he cared to admit. Hesitantly he undid the belt, undid the button, unzipped and slid his pants down to his knees and forced himself to look at the alien creatures that had attached themselves to his legs.

Rodney was also looking in disgusted awe. "They look like some type of leech."

Leeches that had six little legs like grappling hooks, anchoring onto their new food source by digging into his flesh. As if their rotating scissor mouth parts weren't enough to keep them locked on.

"There are…well, there are, um, thirty of them. But that's just an estimate," continued Rodney.

At that point, Sheppard just thanked God for the invention of the boxer brief in the '90s. The cotton/lycra band around the legs had stopped the bastards from getting any higher.

"You know, this would be funny in difference circumstances," he said for something to say. Anything to distract him from the sight of brown squishy things attached to both of his legs, right the way up to mid-thigh.

Rodney just raised an eyebrow. "I don't see how this would be funny, ever."

"Well you know, standing out in the open, pants down around my ankles. That kind of funny."

"Must be soldier humor that I'm not familiar with so look at how I'm not laughing."

Rodney crouched down to peer intently at one of the leeches on Sheppard's right calf.

"Are you sure you're not in any pain?"

"Nope. Nothing."

"They must be injecting some sort of local anesthetic. It would stop whatever they're feeding on from trying to pull them off."

"I don't have any such problems."

Rodney nodded, delicately grasped the leech between forefinger and thumb, screwed up his face at the sensation of its slimy body and slowly began pulling. The body stretched like it was made of silly putty, the legs stayed put and it just didn't want to come off. In vengeance it dug its legs in harder.

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No, just pull the damn thing off if you can."

"I'm not sure if this is such a good idea." Rodney continued to keep his grip on the blood sucking creature.

"Just pull it off." Sheppard didn't like the way it was grossly stretched out, clinging to him with determination. If they could get it off, at least he would know that unlike the iratus bug, he wasn't permanently bonded until death.

Rodney tugged some more before the little creature gave up. It promptly unhooked its mouth, shed its legs and Rodney was left with an ugly sack of jelly oozing Sheppard's blood over his right hand.

Sheppard looked down at his calf. Blood flowed freely and liberally from the neatly incised, rounded wound site. The six legs of the creature stuck out from his skin like black filaments of wire.

Rodney threw the leech to the ground, stood on it for good measure. The leech seemed to take being stomped on with aplomb. It took several attempts before the leech died. Having taken care of the leech, Rodney assessed the situation.

"Can you walk?"

"Yeah I think so…"

"We need to get back to the jumper. It's going to take forever to pull these damn things off and we should at least do it where it's warm."

Sheppard heartily agreed with that call. He hauled his soaking pants back up – it was never a pleasant experience to have to get back into wet clothing – and they began walking very slowly back to their camp site.

((--))