Chapter Six
He was running and his head was throbbing in time with his footsteps but damned if he was going to stop now with a potential food source so close. He didn't care if it turned out to be an alien version of a crocodile, or a giant land dwelling maggot. He was going to kill it and roast it because if he got some decent food maybe his headache would quit.
He was a soldier and he knew they could continue to survive for another month or two on the subsistence diet and they could force themselves to keep working until the end, but with the Daedalus not turning up, it seemed prudent to try and find some other sources of food. Nibbling on half a power bar once a week wasn't making an impact nutritionally.
Being able to catch and kill one animal would boost their life expectancy.
Luckily the roaring was continual and the life signs detector was lighting up like a Christmas tree. There wasn't just one animal out there. There were lots of animals. He stopped and showed the screen to Rodney.
"Check this out."
Rodney looked at the screen, bewildered but also formulating his own theory as to the sudden influx of life. "Maybe they're all migratory? That would explain why they've turned up."
"Yeah, maybe the rains were a trigger."
It was as good as theory as any but theories took a backseat to the immediate task at hand. Food.
Sheppard slowed down as the dots on the screen got closer and checked for cover. A strange plant that looked like grass had sprung up over night from the edge of the sand dunes back into the forest. It was tall, the tops flecked with purple. He gestured for Rodney to get down lower so they wouldn't be spotted just as several dozen large herbivores broke from the cover of the trees and into the newly created field.
They looked like a cross between bison and moose. Barrel-chested, short strong legs, shaggy coat, large horns being held aloft on thick skulls. They had elongated snouts that reminded him of camels. They were definitely glad to see the grass and they didn't pay any attention to the two humans standing next to them.
"They don't see us as a threat," said Rodney.
"That's not going to last long," said Sheppard aiming his P90 and trying to figure out a good place to hit one of the bison creatures. He wanted to drop it instantly, not to have to chase it down while it bled out. The head looked heavily armored from the horns and the thickness of the bone around the eye ridge. He could try for a shot but the P90 was about breadth rather than finesse. The chest and neck also looked large, and he'd have to hope that the bullets penetrated to the heart or the jugular vein. The only solution he could come up with was to fire enough bullets and make sure that any running away was temporary and short.
Having picked a plan of action, he practiced his movements with the P90 for a few seconds, aiming through the sight, sweeping across the bison's body from the neck, down to the chest, across the legs and back.
The herd suddenly and collectively tensed, as if they sensed what was coming.
"Rodney, I don't know what they'll do when I start shooting, so get out of the way."
Sheppard didn't bother to check if Rodney had done what he was told. His headache had throttled up a notch and every time his heart beat, there was a corresponding answering throbbing pulse of pain in his right temple and behind his right eye.
He ignored it, tried to ignore the fact that his vision was blurring and concentrated on his target. He breathed out, held his finger on the trigger and when he was certain of his hit, began his attack on the bison closest to him.
The gunfire shattered the forest's peace, nearly shattered his own head. He dropped the weapon, letting it swing from the clip, fighting the urge to throw up.
The bison creature had a brief moment to lift its own head, let out a bellow, try to run, and drop to the ground in a heap thirty seconds later. The rest of the herd, confused, responding to their own instincts, simultaneously crowded together into a swirling mass and turned as one to face their attacker.
That would be Sheppard.
Sheppard didn't move. If he ran, he figured they would pursue him. Besides, he didn't know if he was in any condition to out distance a bunch of pissed off alien ruminants.
He stood and stared. They stood and stared. The one in front, the one with the bigger horns and an attitude that just screamed testosterone, pawed one hoof on the ground.
Where the hell was Rodney?
A hand took him by the upper arm.
"Colonel, this would be a great time to back away slooowwwllly," whispered a voice. At least one of them was having a bout of common sense.
Sheppard did as he was told and put one foot behind him and slowly inched backwards. The lead male of the herd lowered his head. It was going to charge and Sheppard didn't want to run.
Then they all heard another sound. A yowl, the kind cats made when they were fighting in the backyard.
The herd reacted instantly by taking off at a run, doing an abrupt about face and turning back into the shelter of the forest.
The sound of very big kitty cats continued and Sheppard had yet to do anything with their kill.
"Son of a bitch!" Sheppard yelled in frustration and then regretted it. He winced, put a hand to his head - an action not unnoticed by the ever vigilant Rodney.
"You're definitely not okay."
"Actually I feel like crap but I don't think this is the time to worry about it."
On the edge of the tree line they caught a glimpse of a creature that slunk low to the ground, tawny fur, yellow glinting eyes and big, big teeth.
Sheppard took off the backpack and unsheathed his knife. "I didn't go through all of this so that some free loading scavenger could get the reward." He gestured to Rodney. "You might want to get your Glock out and cover me."
Rodney unholstered his weapon, aimed it at nothing in particular. His aiming technique could only be described as 1970s TV show aiming.
"You're not in Charlie's Angels Rodney. Point it towards the ground and away from me."
They crossed the short distance to the carcass, every step telling Sheppard that if he kept going, his head would explode. Kneeling beside the body, he noted the pool of blood seeping into the ground, the way the hooves were tangled with each other as the creature had skidded into the dirt.
He took his knife and considered where to start. They wanted food, and the hide could prove useful. The bones were a strong, shapeable material and might be handy but they could collect them after any scavengers had picked them clean. He spared a glance in the direction of the forest. Two or three of the cat creatures, bearing a scary resemblance to saber tooth tigers, hung out on the edge of the tree line sniffing cautiously. They weren't ready to come over yet, but they'd gather their courage sooner rather than later.
Plunging his knife into the carcass he started at the belly, slicing as efficiently as he could in an attempt to get one half of the hide removed. He curved around the rump, over the spine, back to the neck, cut around the legs. Then he used the knife to loosen the hide from the rump while he pulled and ripped.
Rodney stumbled back and looked like he was going to puke.
"This is not the time to wimp out on me," growled Sheppard.
"I'm not wimping, I'm just… ugh."
Rodney stopped speaking as the hide peeled off, revealing an anatomical lesson of fat and muscle tissue. Sheppard hastily rolled up the bloody pelt and put it to one side.
"Keep your eyes on those lions or whatever they are. I don't want to be their entrée."
"Don't worry, neither do I," replied Rodney, keeping his Glock and eyes pointed in the direction of the big cats. Clearly anything was better than observing the butchering process taking place in front of him.
Sheppard flashed back to survival training. They needed protein but the more valuable component of the kill at this point in time was the fat. Fat was more versatile as it had multiple uses and it added a lot more calories to the diet. Thankfully the beast had a good layer of fat on it, almost like blubber, presumably from wherever it had been grazing before.
He sliced off as much as he could, stuffing the bottom of the pack, then started cutting out large chunks of muscle from the rump and stuffing that on top of the yellow fat. He wished he had time to get to the internal organs but he'd just have to make do with what was in easy reach.
"Uh, I think they might be wanting to come over here."
Sheppard looked up from his task, saw the cats starting to saunter over, and hurried himself along. He sliced out another large chunk, the size of a roast, managed to get it into the pack and for good measure, sliced off the last of the flank and held it out to Rodney.
"What do you want me to do with that?" Rodney couldn't have looked any more appalled.
"Carry it. The pack's full and I don't think there's going to be anything left by the time our friends get through. Grab the pelt while you're at it."
Rodney grimly took possession of the bloodied prize, looked at a loss for what he was going to do with a slab of meat and then gave up and slung it over his arm. He did as he was told and grabbed the rolled up hide. Sheppard stood up, regretted it. He had to braced himself as the world seemed to spin for a few short seconds. He didn't have to lean down for the backpack. Rodney picked it up.
"You want me to carry this?" Rodney offered a way for Sheppard to get some relief but Sheppard felt he should refuse. For a start he was sure the pack was going to leak and so far Rodney was only minimally covered in blood. Unlike Sheppard.
He took the offered pack, slung it over his shoulder, felt the pulpy bulk resting against his shoulder blades.
"Let's go," he said and started walking. Rodney covered him, making sure the cats weren't in pursuit.
It turned out the felines were only interested in the remains and once they had cleared the area, the cats bounded in and greedily began ripping the dead alien bison apart.
((--))
The walk back to camp was dire. Sheppard was sweating so much that his t-shirt was soaked and although it was warm, and the backpack was full, Rodney wasn't sure he should be sweating as much as he was. The sweating and the dark circles under Sheppard's eyes were offset by the blood and gore covering his hands, arms, and his clothing.
As an added bonus Rodney had noticed that about fifteen minutes ago, blood was seeping out of the bottom of the pack and running down the back of Sheppard's pants.
It was horrifically gross; he could smell the coppery tinge filling the air, mixing with body odor and rank sweat. However, the entire exercise was all in the aid of a decent meal, so Rodney took to biting the inside of his lip. Anything to distract him from his overwhelming urge to start talking. His usual response to anxiety.
The lip biting worked because the minor pain focused him.
He tried again to take the pack and give the Colonel a break from his duties as mule but he was shrugged away. Short of punching the man and taking it by force there was little he could do.
They continued to slog towards the jumper and the trip seemed to take forever and when Rodney saw the familiar shape, he wanted to yell with joy but stopped himself, worried at what his yelling and screaming would do to Sheppard.
As they walked the last few meters, Sheppard seemed to grind to a halt, like a wind up toy. He staggered to their still smoldering fire, let the pack fall and collapsed in a heap on the sand.
Rodney did not like collapsing. Especially not from the guy who was the only other company on the planet and the only thing keeping him from losing it completely.
He went to his knees, got a hand on the huddled figure, and rolled him onto his back.
"Colonel! Colonel Sheppard! John!"
Two unfocused eyes stared back at him. "Don't shout, McKay. It hurts my head."
"What's wrong?"
"Bison's cousins are tap dancing all over my skull and you look weird." Sheppard closed his eyes.
Rodney didn't know what to do with that statement. Carson would have known. He would have been able to diagnose anything from that statement. Instead, Rodney patted Sheppard on the shoulder, and rushed back to the jumper. He dug through the med kit, found they were down to their last foil package of ibuprofen. He popped two out, grabbed a water bottle, the survival blanket and came back to where Sheppard still remained on the sand.
Two white tablets didn't seem to be much of a cure at this point, but they were probably better than nothing. He offered them to Sheppard but Sheppard ignored him.
"No. Save them for later when I'm really sick. "
Rodney snorted in disgust. "You have got to be kidding me." He felt sick himself. Sick at the constant displays of blustering machismo that Sheppard seemed to think proved that he cared about Rodney and Atlantis.
Without waiting for any further argument, Rodney hauled Sheppard into a sitting position and then hauled him backwards so that he leaned against the log. Then he unscrewed the water bottle, and shoved the pills into Sheppard's mouth.
"So help me, if you spit those out I'll just jam them back in - even if they're covered in sand."
Thankfully, no ibuprofen made a reappearance and Sheppard took the offered water, gulping a few mouthfuls to wash the pills down before closing his eyes.
Rodney sat back on his heels, trying to assess the situation. The situation was this: Sheppard looked like he was half dead and they had a backpack full of raw meat, a stinking pelt and the slab he'd dropped on a rock by the fire when they'd arrived. Just another wonderful day in their lives as castaways on a planet that hadn't even interested the Ancients.
First things first he supposed. Get Sheppard cleaned up, into a sleeping bag and hope like hell whatever was making him sick went away. Then he'd cook some of the meat. And that, he figured, would take him through to nightfall.
Leaving Sheppard propped up, he filled up the ever handy stainless steel bucket and set it down into the hot ash and low flame. Then he went back into the jumper for the pair of socks they'd been using as de-facto wash cloths, tossed them into the bucket as he waited for the water to warm up. At the same time he pitched some wood into the fire to keep it going and to start raising the temperature so that he could cook.
As he stoked the fire and poked around in the ashes, an idea flitted through his mind. It had been awhile since that had happened as up until now the facts stuffed into his head hadn't been of much use in keeping them alive. This was one though. A basic chemistry experiment his father had helped him with when he was ten. His brain cast around for the word he had learned. Saponification. Fatty acid meets alkali and that meant soap making. Ashes plus fat, plus boiling equaled soap. It wouldn't be like modern soap but it would lather and it would clean. Okay, the process wasn't that simple, but with a bit of luck he was sure he could come up with something.
For the first time in weeks he felt enthusiasm and he felt himself focusing. Looking at the muck covered Sheppard it was a pity that he couldn't make it now, but in a couple of days - yeah, morale just might get an enormous boost.
He brought his mind back to the more immediate problems to hand and dipped a finger into the bucket. It felt warm to the touch, so he carefully removed it and set it beside Sheppard. Then he began unlacing Sheppard's boots.
The foot he was holding reflectively pulled away.
"Whatcherdoing..." It was a mumble, barely audible. Sheppard was either half asleep or half unconscious, Rodney wasn't sure which.
"I'm getting you cleaned up and putting you to bed."
The man attempted to laugh but then stopped because it clearly hurt. "You gotta stop taking my clothes off. People will talk."
"Don't worry, you'll be unzipping yourself and your underwear stays on. I'm not going anywhere near that region."
There was no reply. Sheppard was slumped tiredly against the log, eyes closed, a frown on his forehead and lips gone to a thin line of pain.
Rodney shrugged, finished unlacing the boot, pulled it off and set it to one side. Pulled of a sock and put it into the boot. Did the same for the other foot. It indicated just how sick Sheppard was that he wasn't up to protesting when Rodney started in earnest.
He pulled the t-shirt up, felt that it was sodden and heavy with blood. Sheppard managed some feeble help by lifting his arms. The t-shirt left a trail of dark red as Rodney pulled it off and threw it to one side. As a courtesy and to stop the Colonel getting chilled, he wrapped the foil lined sheet around Sheppard's shoulders in a repeat of the leech incident.
Yet again, Sheppard looked like a truck had run over him, then backed up and run over him again.
Out of habit, Rodney looked at his watch.
Where the hell was the Daedalus?
((--))
Zelenka looked back at the pilot's console in the jumper and felt incredibly pleased with himself. He'd done it, he was sure he'd done it and in record time due to the lack of a certain scientist calling him names. Names like Fumbles McStupid. Fumbles McStupid was a stupid name in itself – it sounded like the name of a toy someone would get in a Happy Meal.
Curse the man. He missed McKay and yet he didn't miss him. He liked him, absence definitely making the heart grow fonder, but he dreaded getting him back. Without McKay he'd wound up as the temporary lead and the entire team had been able to wind back a notch under the more relaxed attitude of Zelenka. Even Kavanaugh had stopped his insistent whining.
He was still admiring his handiwork when Weir, Lorne and Beckett joined him.
Zelenka gestured to the console with an expansive sweep of his hand. If nothing else this proved he was a genius. Maybe even a bigger genius than McKay.
"Here is what will be happening. Dr. Beckett will activate the console because he has the A.T.A gene and then that primes the remote control. Then I will be putting in coordinates and onboard computer take over and kaboom jumper begins jumping. Three months later Sheppard and Mckay are 'být v sedmém nebi'."
Three faces looked blankly at him.
"Oh. How you say…? To be in seventh heaven?"
Elizabeth didn't seem to be smiling at his brilliance.
"How do we know this is going to work?"
"Ultimately we do not. But I am confident that it will arrive at its destination. I have programmed it so that it scans for human life and lands as close as it can. From there I hope that Colonel Sheppard is able to pilot the jumper back."
Lorne filled her in on the rest of the plan. "We're loading it with as many supplies as we can manage for the return trip, modifying the jumper to include a living space. It's going to be lean in the last two weeks but they should be okay."
"Jumper's water and heating systems means they won't be too uncomfortable," Zelenka continued.
"I've been supervising with the modifications and ensuring there's a good medical supply on board. Hopefully if anything's wrong antibiotics and whatever else I can load up is going to help. Rodney and Sheppard have both gone through basic first aid courses so…" Beckett stopped and looked at Elizabeth. She didn't seem happy.
He tried to cheer her up. "You know, it's a long shot but it might just work."
"True. But I'm not sure I want to see what they're going to be like after more than six months away from Atlantis or after being cooped up together in a jumper."
Beckett sighed. He knew exactly what she meant. "Sheppard's mentally tough and he'll make sure Rodney gets through. I'm not going to gloss over the implications but it's better than not having them back at all."
She gave him a small smile, acknowledging that much at least.
"Okay gentlemen, I'll leave you to your work. Let me know when you're ready to launch."
((--))
Someone was shaking his shoulder and it was pissing him off. Especially since it wasn't helping the splitting headache and the nausea.
He moaned as he tried to open his eyes and the light assaulted him. He didn't like daylight, really didn't. It made his head throb again. He disliked the smell even more. It smelt like something was cooking and not a good something either.
A face fuzzily swam into view and he tried to focus but didn't have any luck. So he closed his eyes again.
"Are you awake?" The voice that asked him the question was too loud.
"Leave me alone."
"I'll leave you alone when you take some more ibuprofen and drink some water."
Sheppard didn't want to open his eyes. It would hurt. He asked a question instead. "How long?"
"Yesterday, last night, most of today. You've been in and out."
"Great."
He slung an arm over his eyes, blocking out any vestiges of daylight, winced because moving his arm hurt. Everything hurt. He felt like he'd pulled all the muscles in his shoulders.
"I know you're photosensitive but I need you to take these."
He cracked open his eyelids as little as possible, got another fuzzy and indistinct look at a blob that was probably McKay.
He felt the tablets being pressed into his hand and Rodney hauling him into a half sitting position. He didn't hesitate to take the pills, as well as the proffered bottle, drank half the contents. He hadn't realized he was so thirsty.
Those two actions wore him out and he slumped back. The fuzzy blob known as Rodney McKay draped something across his eyes. It instantly blocked out most of the light.
"Those had better not be my socks," he mumbled.
"No, I cobbled together something out of the supplies. It's an empty MRE packet from the last ever binge session. I cut it to shape and edged it with duct tape. It doesn't sit too well but it's better than nothing."
He would have laughed if he'd had the strength and it didn't hurt. Rodney had taken his frequent lectures on 'waste not, want not' to heart.
Rodney stuck the thermometer in his ear to get a reading. He squirmed back.
"Stop moving around."
He didn't have much choice. He was on his usual berth in the jumper and pulling back had just pushed him into the hull.
There was a 'hmmmm' as the thermometer was taken out again.
"You sound like Carson."
"You still have a temperature. It's forty degrees."
"That had better be Celsius."
"One-hundred and four for the only non metric country left on Earth."
"That explains why I feel terrible."
"Yeah, well… Do you need a bathroom break?"
Sheppard recalled that thankfully he'd managed that task by himself. Barely. While doubled over with an aching back and double vision and the right side of his head due to fall off, but he'd managed it. For this he was thankful because although McKay was being extremely helpful, there was only so much help he was ever going to cope with.
"No," he said, insulted.
"You should probably go back to sleep then."
He would have except someone was now fondling his armpits causing him more pain.
"McKay, please leave me the fuck alone."
"Sorry. I, uh, noticed it when I was getting you into the sleeping bag earlier. The lymph nodes in your arms are swollen."
It didn't bode well because the last thing he remembered about symptoms involving swollen armpits was its association with plague.
"I've got plague," he said sounding as delirious as he felt.
"You haven't got plague. If it was plague you'd be dead. So shut up and go back to sleep."
Wasn't he the one usually telling McKay to shut up? Their roles seemed to have swapped when he wasn't paying attention. He would have fretted about this strange turn of events some more but he hadn't wanted to wake up in the first place. Sleep sounded like a far better idea. Now if he could just get rid of the smell that kept wafting into the jumper.
"Rodney, you're a lousy cook…"
"Oh. That. Hey, you're going to love it when you get better."
Sheppard didn't reply because the desire to sleep, and escape the hurt pervading his body over whelmed the desire to throw up from the smell.
((--))
It seemed that Atlantis was currently suffering under some curse. How it had originated nobody knew but everyone was in agreement. It was a curse.
They'd been so proud of themselves for figuring out how to get a jumper to fly remotely. They stood in the control room and watched Zelenka begin the procedure. Teyla had smiled, confessing that it felt good that they were executing a rescue plan at long last. Ronon seemed bemused by the concept but even he had leant forward with an air of expectation as the last chevron had been encoded and the wormhole had roared into life.
Zelenka began one of his greatest moments. He activated the remote. They watched as the craft descended from the hanger bay, hovered as it lined up with the stargate and then, in another second, it was through the horizon and gone.
They left the wormhole open to monitor telemetry. The jumper popped out the other side. Safe and sound. Right up until it flew into the rogue asteroid that any human pilot would have seen and avoided.
Everyone turned and looked at Zelenka.
"What! I am pretty definitely certain I programmed a collision avoidance routine."
Ronon didn't move but he did fix Zelenka in his sights. Or the Stare of Death as the scientists liked to call it.
"I swear to you we ran hundreds of simulations. Hundreds."
The Satedan stepped closer, Zelenka stepped back. Ronon seemed to be considering whether to deck Zelenka before changing his mind and stalking out of the room.
"I am sure that you made every effort Dr. Zelenka," said Teyla. She too was hiding her bitter disappointment at such an astoundingly bad failure.
There was nothing more to be said really. They left to go back to their duties.
Dr. Radek Zelenka stood in the control room for a long time, hunched over a laptop muttering to himself.
He never did find the collision avoidance routine even though he remembered writing it. That was when the curse rumors started.
((--))
Rodney was trying to figure out the specific gravity of lye. He'd managed through trial and error and a lot of hard work to use the tough reeds from the sand dunes as a filter. He'd collected branches, rigged them across the hole Sheppard had dug to collect rain water, then spread the reeds across the branches. Then he'd heaped ash and charcoal over the grass and slowly poured water over them. He'd had to repeat the process for hours on end before transferring the brown colored liquid back to the stainless steel bucket to concentrate it. He had vague recollections about floating an object in the lye to judge if it was the right concentration but didn't know what he was going to use. He was just going to have to hope for the best.
His hard work had resulted in filling up half of an empty water container.
After that he'd set about rendering down the fat, including the grease he'd collected from cooking the bison meat. He also wanted to try drying the meat as it would last longer but wasn't sure his method of preservation would be successful. He'd worked off wafer thin slices with Sheppard's knife and placed them on the warm rocks next to the fire. With any luck it would slowly dehydrate them rather than cook them.
The smell that was making Sheppard feel sick came from the process of rendering. Fat was boiling in the ever handy stainless steel bucket and Rodney concentrated on skimming off anything bubbling around that shouldn't be included in soap, such as bits of skin, hair or flesh. He wasn't in love with the skimming process because ever time he scooped, he had to gag.
Finally, the fat seemed to be as pure as he could manage and he'd set the bucket back to cool off. The fat would congeal, float to the top and anything left in the water he could throw away. After he'd managed that step, it just left combining the two ingredients. That would be the tricky part because he had no way of knowing whether he had the mix right.
He shooed away a fly before picking up a piece of cooled meat and chewing on it. Barbecued bison creature had turned out to be tasty and he had turned out to be less fussy as the stranding wore on. For example, he'd just brushed off a fly and was still eating.
He picked up another chunk, cut it down into smaller pieces and placed it in their battered tin cup and went inside the jumper in the hopes of feeding some to Sheppard. The man hadn't eaten anything in three days. Neither of them could afford not to eat. He wished he could give him something else, but they were down to the last two power bars, and the MREs had gone. Two measly power bars didn't seem like much of a backup but they stubbornly clung to the mutual delusion that in an emergency situation the power bars would give them some leeway.
On the positive side, Sheppard seemed healthier. His temperature had dropped to a slightly less toasty thirty-nine degrees, he didn't seem to hate daylight so much. In a world with only basic first aid and no access to Carson Beckett, that seemed like a radical improvement.
He'd tucked a full water bottle beside Sheppard's head so that he could drink as required. That seemed to have worked as it was nearly empty.
"Colonel?"
He waited to see if he got a response and tried not to show his delight at the fact that Sheppard actually opened his eyes.
The first thing out of Sheppard's mouth was a blunt statement. "I feel like crap."
"Define 'crap'. Does the term crap means it's better or worse than yesterday?"
Sheppard closed his eyes again, and slowly rolled over in what looked like an attempt to ease the pain in his back but resulted in a position that resembled the bison creature he'd killed.
"Better than yesterday but not by much. The headache has eased off a little. I don't feel sick any more. Everything else is kind of the same."
"Do you want some ibuprofen?"
"No. I don't want to keep using up the supplies."
McKay was secretly pleased at his refusal. He'd gone through most of the packet trying to ease Sheppard's discomfort and he didn't want to admit that they were down to only two white tablets. He was pretty sure that he'd been wrong to swallow them like candy when he was suffering through his caffeine withdrawal but he didn't want to have to admit that because right at this moment his innocent self involvement in his own mild pain was having a major impact on a friend who needed them more. Just another innocent social miscalculation for McKay to add to his big list of miscalculations. Why the rules of behavior had to be so hard he would never understand.
"If you won't take the analgesic, would you at least try and eat?"
Sheppard seemed to be waking up, his eyes focusing more on McKay and less on some undefined spot on the jumper's hull.
"Depends what it is."
"Barbecued bison. And when I say barbecue I mean lightly coated in charcoal as opposed to coated in a tangy mouth watering sauce."
The mention of food seemed to grip Sheppard's attention. A hand came out from beneath the sleeping bag.
Sheppard looked like he was going to drool. "Thanks for mentioning the sauce Mckay. Now I'm imagining spare ribs when I just know I'm going to be disappointed."
Rodney tried not to laugh and handed Sheppard a chunk of meat. Sheppard tentatively took the bite size piece and stuck it in his mouth. Attempted to chew and then stopped. Looked simultaneously amazed and annoyed.
"I can't believe it hurts to chew."
"I can get a power bar if you want. It might be easier."
He shook his heads, gnawing on the meat with the grim determination of a seagull trying to stuff an oversized fish down its throat.
"No, this is fine."
He managed to chew some more, swallowed, washed it down with a slug of water from the bottle. The entire process seemed to have worn him out. McKay looked at the pathetically sick, dirt encrusted, greasy haired, scraggly bearded man before him and decided that it would be a good time to spring the news about the soap. He had wanted to keep the soap a surprise but he was no good at keeping secrets or surprises and he thought the news might cheer Sheppard up. He'd always been the type of kid who, unable to contain his excitement, would proceed to blab about the plans for an Aunt's surprise fortieth party, or the baby shower, or whatever social occasion was due to be celebrated.
"I'm making soap!" He blurted it out and Sheppard, not privy to the thought processes that Rodney had taken to get to the statement, could only look at him with a puzzled expression.
"I'm really pleased for you," said Sheppard with a tone reserved for crazy people.
"It's true. I've been working on it for days. I'm brewing up the final concoction in another couple of hours. Tomorrow, with any luck, you, me and all of our clothing will be sparkling clean."
That managed to get a smile. "That would be the best news we've had in a long time. I suppose you're insufferably pleased with yourself?"
Rodney nodded with enthusiasm. "Absolutely. Totally insufferable."
Sheppard didn't stop smiling but he did close his eyes again. "My underwear thanks you, McKay," he mumbled. Then he dropped back to sleep.
Rodney observed the still form for a moment, making sure the Colonel was asleep and not dead and then turned on his heel, almost skipping back to the fire.
It was the first time he'd felt even a remote bit of happiness since landing on the planet. Come to think of it, it was the first time he'd been happy in a while.
((--))