Woo! Finally an update! So sorry for the long wait. One more chapter and this puppy should be wrapped up. I struggled again with this chapter - trying to find the voices and make the characters actions - and reactions - believable. I hope I've succeeded.
All thoughts and feedback welcome.
I miss arguing.
Isn't that ridiculous? Sheppard has got to be the most infuriating person I have ever met; he has an innate ability to wind me up like no-one else I've ever known and it drives me crazy.. and I miss it.
The Sheppard I know is a smart mouth – sometimes too darn smart for his own good. He answers back, he teases people, he makes light of things – even in the most inappropriate of circumstances. It gets him – and us – into trouble all the time. The Sheppard lying listlessly in the infirmary doesn't do any of that. This Sheppard is sullen and moody and withdrawn. He doesn't answer back, in fact he barely talks at all. He just sulks. It's getting really old, really fast.
He still sleeps a lot and I'm starting to worry that it's not because of his medication or because of his continuing, gradual physical recovery or even because he feels tired. He's escaping. Avoiding. Sleeping is preferable to being awake, to having to deal with people and their demands, their expectations, however well-meaning. I know from the looks Carson's been shooting me during his regular checks on the Colonel that he shares my concern. And that worries me even more. Sheppard is depressed and, after everything we've been through, all the close shaves we've had, I've never seen him like this. He usually bounces right back from near death and disaster – it's just what he does. I've come to rely on it. And I've no idea what to do about the fact that he isn't just bouncing back. I can disassemble and repair a naquadah generator blindfolded and with one hand behind my back but I've no idea how to fix this.
I've spent a lot of time over the past few days sitting here beside Sheppard's bed. He pretty much ignores me most of the time but I am a man of many talents and I can certainly out-stubborn one depressed, effectively immobile, Air Force pilot. That said, my patience for this pity party is rapidly running out. I'm really not good at the whole sympathetic, supportive part of the whole friendship thing – besides, that's just not what Sheppard and I do. It's not how this friendship works. Here's how it works: he bugs me and I belittle him. He makes me laugh and I tell him he's an imbecile. He surprises me and I make him grin. If I believed in any of that eastern mysticism mumbo-jumbo that's so en vogue these days, I'd say it was a whole yin-yang kind of thing we have going. Had going. Dammit. This sucks.
Physically, he's doing well. The skin discolouration is still slowly fading and even his right hand, from the brief glimpses I've managed to get of it – usually when Carson downright forces Sheppard to bring it out of hiding so he can check on it – is improving, looking gradually less ridged and scaled and blue. He's still weak but I'm guessing that the slow recovery, the baseline genetic changes induced by Carson's treatment, are pretty taxing on the constitution.. and he's not helping himself either. He's yet to regain the weight he lost during his transformation and his appetite is practically non-existent. There have been days where Carson has had to resort to dire threats to get him to eat at all.
In a week and a half, Carson's gene treatment has almost completely reversed the physical damage done by the retrovirus. By now Sheppard should be frothing at the mouth to get out of the infirmary; he should be bugging the nurses, aggravating Carson and distracting me from my work with requests to bring him his iPod or his PDA or embroiling me in some wild and crazy scheme for a prison break. Instead, he lies in that infirmary bed, unmoving for hours at a time, rarely responding when spoken to, sleeping for half of the day and waking shuddering from nightmares in the middle of the night. Oh yeah, did I not mention the nightmares? According to Carson, they've become a regular occurrence since Sheppard's been off chemical sedation. I can't say it's exactly surprising – I've had more than a few retrovirus nightmares myself of late and I'm not the one that got turned into a bug. But Sheppard won't talk about his nightmares, he won't acknowledge them or anything else that's bothering him and all of this is just eating him up inside. Everyone can see it – and no-one can do a damn thing about it.
Elizabeth visits every day. She sits and talks to Sheppard, updates him on mission reports, tries to provoke a spark of interest by telling him how Caldwell's running things in his absence, pointedly mentioning the Colonel's criticisms of Sheppard's regime, the changes he is already putting in place. Sheppard's not interested, his response monosyllabic at best.
Teyla is racking up the frequent flyer miles in the infirmary too – her tactic seems to be based on silent support. She doesn't bother the Colonel with trivialities, doesn't push him for a response, she just sits with him, sometimes talking seriously in a murmur too low for me to hear but mostly just leaving Sheppard to his thoughts. Sometimes she holds his hand; if he'll let her, if he doesn't pull away from her touch.
Ronon has even less patience than me and his visits are short and to the point. He never sits, just hovers around the bed, his gaze appraising. Sometimes he'll speak to Sheppard, asking him when he's planning on getting out of here. Most times he'll just ask me, "He still sulking?" and be gone again within a couple of minutes. Ronon's not a great one for dwelling on things passed and done with; pick yourself up and move on, that's his motto.
Carson thinks the answer to everything can be found in a test tube or a syringe. He monitors the Colonel's condition, takes blood samples, prescribes anti-depressants along with painkillers and god knows what else. Once or twice he's pushed the suggestion that Sheppard talk to Kate Heightmeyer; if he gets a response at all, it's a muttered refusal or a rude, snappish request to leave him alone. I've suggested to Carson that he shove a few more anti-depressants into Sheppard's IV but the look I got in response held promises of retribution, possibly involving sharp needles, if I didn't keep my clever suggestions to myself. I was quite impressed actually at how complex a concept Carson could convey with nothing more than a glare. Maybe that's how he keeps his staff in line. Realistically I know that anti-depressants don't work overnight and Sheppard's only been on them for a few days and it's gonna take time for us to see an improvement and yadda yadda yadda but I've had enough of waiting and I just want him fixed already. I don't like this new, moody Sheppard; I want my Sheppard back.
I can't imagine what he went through, what it was like for him; how it felt to have your humanity slowly slipping away from you, to feel your body betraying you, slowly changing, turning you into a monster. I can see how that's got to be hard to deal with but the plain truth of the matter is that I'm fed up of waiting for him to get over this. I want things back the way they were; I want to argue and fight, I want the sarcasm and dumb jokes. I just want the old Sheppard back. Yeah, well, I'm selfish that way.
I finally lose patience with all the sulking when Sheppard has a nightmare in the middle of the day. Hearing Carson say that Sheppard is having nightmares is one thing, seeing it in action is another entirely. I've been at Sheppard's bedside for about two hours or so, doing my usual "I'm more stubborn than you" routine, which today consists of sitting with my feet up on the bed, running some figures on my laptop and expounding to an unresponsive Sheppard on my latest theory about zero point energy and the concept of alternative universes. Sheppard is huddled in the bed, the blankets pulled up over his hunched shoulders, his body turned away from me, and I'm not really sure if he's actually sleeping or just deliberately ignoring me. When his breathing hitches suddenly it surprises me enough that I look up from my screen, thinking perhaps I've finally bored him into submission and he is going to say something, even if just "Shut up, McKay".
He shift restlessly in the bed and I sit up straight, lowering my feet to the floor with a frown.
"Sheppard?"
He mutters something indistinct and I can't tell if that was a reply aimed at me or… I stand up, setting the laptop aside, and lean over the bed to peer at his face. His eyes are closed, his face pinched and drawn, frowning. Even as I watch he tosses his head on the pillow, shuddering, gasping sharply for air, and the blanket jerks and falls from his shoulder as his hands twitch restlessly. Dammit. He's not ignoring me. He's dreaming.
For a moment I hover indecisively beside the infirmary bed, not sure what to do for the best; go and get Carson or try and wake Sheppard. He mutters and moans, his movements increasingly restless, and from the jumble of seemingly random syllables I can make out only one distinct word; "No."
I decide to stay.
"Sheppard!"
If he hears me, he gives no sign of it.
"Wake up, Colonel! You're dreaming!"
He twists and jerks, the blankets pulling and tangling around him. His breathing is rapid, panicked. His face is twisted into an expression I had never thought to see on Sheppard's face. Fear. My stomach clenches as I watch him struggle with the demons that plague him. I hate feeling so helpless. I have watched impotently as my best friend succumbed to a frighteningly rapid disease that threatened to strip him of everything that makes him who he is. I have waited with baited breath as he lay still and silent in the infirmary bed, hoping for a sign that he would recover, that we weren't too late. And now I stand here and watch him continue to suffer and there is nothing I can do to help.
"Sheppard!" I'm yelling now, not caring who might hear. Sheppard doesn't hear me. He's beginning to thrash, his legs tangled in the blankets, his arms flailing about as though trying to fight off some invisible attacker. It's getting violent and I'm scared he's going to hurt himself. I lean over the bed and try to hold him still, try to somehow calm him down, get him to snap out of this nightmare. I put my hand on his chest and he shrieks, a wordless howl of terror, his eyes snapping open and his body jerking upright.
The sound startles me and the sudden motion throws me backward, making me stumble and trip over my own feet. I grab hold of the railing on the bed in self-defence and just about manage to hang on and avoid landing on my butt on the infirmary floor.
"Jeez Sheppard, what are you trying to do, kill me?" I can't help my automatic, complaining response and Sheppard's head snaps around, looking at me – almost through me – as though only just registering my presence. He's as white as a sheet and I could swear he's trembling, his chest heaving as he gasps for air.
I frown and wave a hand in front of those slightly glassy eyes. "Hey. You okay?"
Sheppard flinches, still spooked, and glares at me.
I bristle, starting to feel hard done by. This is the thanks I get for all the worrying I've been doing? "Hey, don't give me that look," I snap, glaring right back, "if I hadn't woken you up you'd still be enjoying whatever fun nightmare was going on in that head of yours. By the way, I think you woke up the Athosians on the mainland with that yelling.."
I'm rambling now and I can see Sheppard retreating once again, physically and mentally, flopping back against the pillows with a shaky sigh, his eyes distant, no doubt still seeing whatever it was that had gotten him so freaked out in his dream. I grimace. Dammit, I'm no good at this stuff. I look around a little helplessly, feeling utterly useless, and find my gaze catching that of Carson. He's hovering in his office door, no doubt responding to Sheppard's yell – well, it may not have bothered the Athosians but it certainly woke up most of the infirmary – but he doesn't come any closer. He gives me another one of those significant looks and I heave a sigh. If I'd known friendship entailed this much icky emotional support stuff I might have thought twice about signing up; it's really not my forte.
"Hey." Great opener, McKay. Well done.
Sheppard ignores me. His breathing is calming now and his eyes are closed but I know he's not sleeping. His muscles are tense, his body rigid against the soft mattress. And besides.. you don't just drop back off to sleep after a nightmare that has you screaming your throat out and practically falling out of bed.
"Um… you wanna talk about it?"
Sheppard doesn't bother to open his eyes but, surprisingly, he does answer.
"I'm fine, McKay." His voice is throaty, raw from disuse, and he sounds tired, dispirited.
I huff out a breath, feeling my annoyance grow. Fine. Everything's fine. Sheppard's always fine. I'm struggling to hold back my irritation and then, in a blinding moment of clarity, I wonder why the hell I am even trying? I don't normally bother hiding it when I'm annoyed – because I'm usually annoyed for a damn good reason.. like someone acting like a complete idiot. And right now that's precisely what Sheppard is doing. Being an idiot. To hell with this supportive, sympathetic crap.
"You're an idiot, you know that?"
Sheppard actually opens his eyes at that but I don't care because I've been sitting on this powder keg of fear and concern and annoyance and frustration for about a week and a half now and that last "I'm fine" was a metaphorical lit match.
"You are not fine. You are anything but fine! You nearly died, Sheppard! You turned blue and you went crazy and you attacked Elizabeth – for god's sake! – and took down a whole security detail before Ronon shot you!"
I can see his eyes narrowing, anger beginning to flush his too-pale features, but I'm on a roll now, days worth of paralysing fear flooding out of me in a rush of relief that is almost exhilarating.
"You scared the living daylights out of us! You were this close to dying and we thought – I thought – we'd lost you for good! D'you have any idea what that was like for everyone? Elizabeth came and told us to say a last goodbye to you, for god's sake!"
"McKay.."
"Shut up!"
After days of wishing Sheppard would open that smart mouth of his and talk to me, I have no intention right now of letting him speak until I'm done.
"Have you any idea how relieved we were when Carson told us you were gonna make it? That he could fix you? D'you have even the slightest idea of how long he went without sleep to find a cure for you? Of how many people came by to visit you while you were sleeping through his voodoo cure? Elizabeth made a city-wide announcement that you were gonna be ok! Radek hugged Kavanaugh, for crying out loud!"
I can't be sure but I think I see his lips twitch a little at that and somehow, the thought that he is smirking, that he finds this funny, just winds me up even more. Did I mention how Sheppard has a knack for irritating me?
"You've been in a coma for the better part of a week, bits of you are still blue," I see his eyes darken at that, "and you're having nightmares – in the middle of the day!"
"You are not fine!" I yell.
I find myself flushed and breathing heavily, a little surprised at myself for the ferocity of my outburst, and I slowly become aware of the fact that the room has fallen utterly, utterly silent. I cringe and looked down at Sheppard. He's staring up at me with the oddest look on his face, a mixture of frustration, sadness and guilt.. with just a hint of his usual quirky grin trying to push its way through.
I can feel the eyes boring into my back. I sigh. "Everyone's staring at me, aren't they?"
He nods wordlessly and the grin grows a little wider. It's a shaky grin, just a little sick looking, but it's there. I sigh, feeling suddenly exhausted, and pick up my laptop to flop heavily into the chair, dragging a hand across my face. I look up to find Sheppard watching me closely, his head turned on the pillow.
"Hey." His voice is quiet, even a little unsure. "You okay?"
Okay? No, not really. Not even close. "I'm fine," I mutter, just a little pointedly.
That hint of a smile tugs at his lips again and it belatedly occurs to me that this is the first time I've seen him even try to smile in days. I can't hold back the tired grin that spreads across my face in return.
"How are you feeling?" I ask him, not really expecting much of a straight answer.
The tiny smile falters and slips from his face and for a moment my heart sinks but his eyes stay locked on mine and his voice is low, tired and utterly honest as he answers, "Crappy."
TBC..
