AN: It's late again, as I'm just back from a party. Needless to say, I'm not in perfect shape right now. I apologize for the remaining mistakes and the relative shortness of this update. Thanks for the reviews, they keep me going on (even late at night)...


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10

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It was peaceful and quiet in the gently rolling glens of his homeland.

He walked along the old familiar path to his favourite spot in the middle of the meadow, below the majestic ancient oak tree.

A tiny river meandered its way down the hill side, a silver thread between grey rocks and lush green grass. Some white dots moved lazily in the distant green. Little fluffy earthbound clouds on feet.

He sat down in the tree's shade, enjoying the song of a lark overhead.

But gradually, the lark's song started to sound ever more shrill, mutating into a human voice.

A loud voice that permeated the cocoon of pleasant fuzziness he was wrapped in. A loud, whiny and very familiar voice.

Sleep threatened to drag him off again, but stubborn curiosity won the battle.

He opened bleary eyes, surprised to find his surroundings equally hazy as his thoughts. Blinking a couple of times helped marginally, but also served to aggravate an upcoming head-ache, which was helped along nicely by the near-yelling to his right.

"How many times do I have to tell you voodoo practitioners in order to get it through your thick skulls? Those little symbols in my chart, they are called letters, and they spell out that I'm deadly allergic to anything citrus-related!"

Rodney McKay in full-irritation mode.

The answering voice belonged to Betty Kent, the recent but very promising addition to his nursing staff "But, doctor McKay, yellow Jell-O doesn't contain anything even remotely related to citrus!"

She had no sense of self-preservation at all. Or, more likely, hadn't gotten enough hands-on experience with a certain whiny convalescing astrophysicist yet.

"Does the term 'psychosomatic' even appear in those voodoo text books? I am finding myself repeating this over and over again, but does anyone ever pay heed to a single word I say. Unless, of course, when it concerns those all too frequent life-or-death situations when they suddenly need my genius to save their sorry hides?" Rodney seemed somewhat miffed, and a lot bored.

Which in Carson's experience was terrific news, seeing that whenever the stubborn scientist felt himself fit enough to rant, he was nicely on the mend.

A low moan had him re-evaluating Rodney's physical well-being.

Betty admonished softly. "Easy now, dr. McKay. That arm is still healing and you won't be able to use it properly for quite some time. So, unless you plan on having your stitches redone, I suggest you refrain from waving it around. Now, if you would please inform me as to what you would prefer for dessert, I'll see to it and we will both be happy."

Rodney grumbled something Carson didn't quite catch. He was pretty sure what Betty disappeared to go in search for, though.

A small smile played over Carson's lips as he recalled a similar conversation.

"Nice to see you're enjoying yourself, Carson." The annoyed voice sounded quite nearby now, and slowly his eyes focussed on the blurry form of one extremely pissed off astrophysicist shuffling slowly towards his bed.

"R'ney." Carson slurred, and then tried to ask how his friend was doing, but managed to produce only a vague string of mostly consonants. The effort was rewarded by a painful bout of coughing that left him gasping and drooling helplessly.

"Is that Gaelic, Carson, or has your area of Broca finally been fried during your latest fever attack?" Rodney tried to sound peeved, but the worry was clearly written in his expressive face. With surprising gentleness, he wiped the drool of Carson's face, and Carson noticed detachedly that the tissue was stained red when Rodney quickly tossed it away.

Then, his brain switched into a higher gear as he saw similarly coloured splotches on the once-white bandage around Rodney's immobilised arm.

"You 'kay?" He tried to articulate carefully and this time Rodney caught on.

"I'm fine, Carson, you on the other hand are an absolute certified mess!" He huffed with all of his usual tact, meanwhile casually offering his friend some ice chips. "You caught the same bug you spend 4 days curing me of. Honestly, man, do you voodoo practitioners not even have enough common sense to take care of yourselves? Does 'Cura te ipsum' ring a bell?"

Carson admired the scientist's impressive eye-roll as the ice soothed his aching throat and washed away the metallic flavour of blood.

The more worried Rodney was, the more he tried to cover it up with snarkiness, and the more easy he became for Carson to read.

"Pot callin' the kettle black." The physician grinned, finding his tongue and throat now much more cooperative.

A pair of raised eyebrows answered that statement, and a small smile played on Rodney's lips. Confused, Carson felt he was missing some inside joke, but he elaborated nonetheless: "You were quite elusive when that arm needed rebandaging…"

Rodney gave him a disdainful superior look. "I can't cure myself, now, can I, Carson? I am not the witch doctor rattling his blood pressure cuff, drumming on his stethoscope and sticking needles into dolls and humans alike!"

"Besides," he added while proudly puffing up his chest, "I was busy working a miracle!"

Carson stared back uncomprehendingly.

The glazed look in his eyes must have sparked Rodney's worry into overdrive again. "Carson, are you okay? Just how hard did you hit your head?"

"Hit my head?" Carson frowned, not remembering hitting anything.

Rodney glanced around the empty infirmary, sighed, dragged up a chair, grabbed a blanket and settled himself comfortably next to Carson's bed.

"Let's recapitulate for a moment here. I'm sure I can spark a memory…"


AN:

Broca's area is an area in the frontal cortex of the human brain that is crucially involved in producing speech.

'Cura te ipsum' (Latin) means 'Heal yourself', also known in the extended version as 'Medice, cura te ipsum' ('Physician, heal thyself')