Finally – the concluding chapter.. bringing us right up to the final scene of the episode. Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing – hope you enjoy the conclusion.
I hate the infirmary.
Sheppard, and I'm sure many others, would probably point out that, for someone who hates the place, I sure seem to spend a lot of time here but that argument is easily rebuffed by simply pointing out that it's usually Sheppard's fault that I'm here – either because one of our gate missions has, once again, met with danger and disaster and caused me some life-threatening injury (and yes, I reserve the right to hold Sheppard responsible for all the bad things that happen to me off-world – he's team leader isn't he? With great power comes great responsibility and all that..) or because I'm hanging around here waiting for Sheppard to recover from some likewise life-threatening condition.
True, I have been known to visit the infirmary now and then on other occasions but you can never be too careful with your health and far better to be on the safe side and get these things checked out before they become a problem. Carson may have scoffed at me complaining about a splinter but seriously, have you ever seen an infected splinter?
Anyway, I hate the infirmary. It's full of sick people, any of whom could, for all I know, be highly contagious. And it's boring. I'm sick of sitting here staring at these walls and watching Sheppard sleep. He still does a lot of that. Carson says the genetic treatment is very taxing on the body or some such. Well, actually, I complained about Carson's voodoo treatment turning Sheppard into a zombie and got treated to a half hour lecture on genetic manipulation, the nature of stem cell therapy and the potential side-effects of various medications; all a lot of mumbo-jumbo to explain why Sheppard doesn't seem to have any energy and has a tendency to doze off in the middle of conversations; sometimes in the middle of a sentence.
Sleepy Sheppard is boring and I hate being bored. From the amount of huffing and puffing and long-suffering glances, I would say that Carson hates me being bored too and is starting to regret appointing me Sheppard's unofficial caretaker. I've tried suggesting some improvements to make the infirmary a bit more entertaining for the inmates, both healthy and not, but all I got in return was a tight-lipped expression that spoke of fraying patience and one of those annoyingly comprehensive looks that manage to seem threatening in a way that shouldn't really be possible for non-verbal communication. I'm pretty sure he was thinking some distinctly un-doctorish thoughts. I'm thinking about emailing him a copy of the Hippocratic Oath, particularly that first bit about doing no harm. Just in case it slips his mind…
So, in the absence of other distractions, I'm left here with my laptop and a comatose Colonel. The seat beside Sheppard's bed is uncomfortable, I'm having to try and type with the laptop balanced awkwardly on my knees and the last time I asked Carson how much longer it was gonna be before Sheppard's cured – or at least well enough to get out of this place – his response was less than charitable. Honestly. I thought doctors were supposed to be all kind and caring and stuff?
Besides, he should be grateful to me; if it wasn't for my impatience Sheppard would still be taking out his miserable mood on all of the infirmary staff. Oh, he's still not happy about being in the infirmary, don't get me wrong, but then Sheppard never is. As soon as he's no longer actively at death's door, as it were, the Colonel starts chafing at the bit to get out of here. Can't say I blame him, really. Like I said, the infirmary is boring. The food's quite good though and if you play on the nurses' sympathies, they can usually be persuaded to bring you seconds. Needless to say, Sheppard has the nurses wrapped round his little finger without even trying. Disgusting. And so unfair – they don't run over to the mess hall and pick me up my favourite foods without me even asking when I'm sick. No, I have to complain to get anything done around here.
The only thing Sheppard is complaining about these days is being stuck in the infirmary. Which is good. It's.. well… normal. In as much as anything about Colonel Sheppard is normal. Everything about the events of the last two weeks has been so… crazy.. so very far from normal, that it's something of a relief to finally feel like things are starting to get back to the way they were. Oh, don't get me wrong, Sheppard's still kinda freaked by everything that happened – whether he admits to it or not – but he's dealing with it. In his usual Sheppard way. So, yeah, not talking about it. We're good at that, Sheppard and me; the whole not talking thing.
Yes, I know I am not exactly the shy and retiring type when it comes to voicing my opinions – well, honestly, somebody's gotta be the voice of reason around here – but I'm not saying we don't – I don't – talk. We just don't talk about… stuff. That's the funny thing about this friendship. We bitch and we moan and we argue.. about the little stuff. Trivialities. Minor annoyances. The big stuff? We never talk about it.. or at least, not in any way that anyone else would ever understand. It's there though, in a smile that doesn't quite reach the eyes, in a casual comment, a vague reference that no-one else would get. Yeah, we don't talk about it. Not in words anyhow. I still don't understand how this friendship works; I just know that it does.
"Hey.." The bed sheets rustle as Sheppard stirs, blinking drowsily as he turns his head to find me, as ever, ensconced in the chair beside his bed.
"Oh, sleeping beauty deigns to grace us with his presence, I see." I gripe just a little ungraciously; wouldn't do to let Sheppard know how pleased I am he's awake again. Did I mention how boring the infirmary is? Sheppard grins lazily.
"You still here, McKay? Dontcha have anything better to do?" His voice is rough, still thick with sleep. Despite all the sleep he's getting, he still looks tired and he's still pale, still too thin. He's eating better now but it's gonna take a while for him to regain the weight he's lost over these past coupla weeks. I hate this.
"Actually, I have plenty of better things to do, thank you very much." I can feel myself flushing a little, aware that Sheppard has caught me in a moment of weakness, and I start to babble, hiding my concern with a well-deserved lecture about the lack of consideration of certain Lt. Colonels. "But someone's gotta keep an eye on you and make sure you don't get yourself into some kind of trouble. Last time you decided to go walkabout without permission, Carson dragged me into helping him lift your sorry ass off the floor and back into bed and you're a damn sight heavier than you look, you know that? I'm sure I pulled something, not that Carson cares. He wouldn't even look at it. You know, just because I am conscious about my health, doesn't mean I make this stuff up. He…"
I falter in my tirade as I realise that Sheppard's grin has been growing wider by the minute. Damn it. He's laughing at me. I determinedly ignore the flush of warmth that spreads through me at that sight, the exhilarating mix of relief and hope at seeing a genuine smile on his face, and favour Sheppard with a scowl.
"By the way, it's incredibly impolite to fall asleep in the middle of a conversation. You missed a brilliant repost that entirely negated your argument," I tell him smugly.
He pauses in his attempt to extricate his arms from the tangle of bed sheets and regards me with an expression of sceptical disbelief. "Mm-hmm, I'm sure." He plants his hands on the mattress and pushes, sliding himself up the bed into a more comfortable, half-upright position. He leans back against the partially raised head of the infirmary bed and gives me a look of lofty unconcern.
"You can come up with all the rational arguments in the world, McKay. Nothing is gonna convince me that Catwoman couldn't kick Wonder Woman's butt."
"What? Come on! Catwoman has no superpowers! Wonder Woman is an Amazonian priestess.."
"Ah, Colonel Sheppard. Rodney's keeping you awake again, I see. How are you feeling?"
Our highly intellectual debate is abruptly interrupted when Carson shows up to do more of his interminable checks – most of which seem to consist of poking and prodding and shining of lights whilst asking pointless questions – during which Sheppard amuses himself by smirking at me when Carson's not looking. As I said, we're very good at the whole not talking thing.
"So how'm I doing, doc?"
"Yeah, when can he get out of here already? I mean, he looks fine.. he's not even blue anymore.."
Carson sighs heavily at my interruption, his mouth twisting with exasperation. "Rodney.."
"Seriously, doc. I feel fine." This time it's Sheppard who interrupts and Carson's glare expands to encompass the both of us.
"You'll be discharged when I'm good and ready to discharge you, Colonel, and not before!"
"But.." Carson gets a distinctly dangerous gleam in his eye and I suddenly remember that I like my arms just the way they are, without needle-holes, and I wisely stop talking. Hey, genius here, okay?
Carson fiddles with the Colonel's IV, his expression serious as he looks Sheppard in the eye. "Your test results show the treatment has been completely successful, Colonel. No further evidence of the retrovirus in your system and all the damage to your DNA has been reversed. Nonetheless, your body has been through incredible trauma; you need to give it time to recover."
I can see Sheppard's expression darken as Carson's words forcibly remind him of things he's quite happily doing a good job of not thinking about. Damn Beckett for not understanding the rules – in Sheppard's world, if you don't talk about the elephant in the corner, eventually it'll just get up and leave.
I risk life and limb – and a needle-free future - to intervene.
"Well, he should be plenty recovered by now, all he's done for 2 weeks is sleep. I've never seen anyone sleep so much in my whole life. My cat has less naps than he does."
"He needs the rest, Rodney." Carson's voice is as pointed as the look he throws me.
"If all I need is rest, can't I do that in my own quarters?"
Sheppard tries his best to look calm and reasonable but he can't quite hide the hopeful expression on his face. If I were him, I'd be desperate to get out of here too. Not only cos the infirmary's boring but because if there's one thing worse than having a nightmare, it's having a nightmare and waking up to people fussing over you. Sheppard is better than he was – he's stopped with the moodiness and the sulking, almost seems back to his old self – but his laid-back cheerfulness is kinda forced, almost like he's determined to act as if nothing happened, nothing's bothering him, and the air of nonchalance is stretched tight and thin over whatever's going on in that head of his. It's like he's wallpapered over the cracks enough to make it look pretty to the casual observer but those of us who know him can see the pretence.. and can see the mask of unconcern at times stretch so thin as to be almost transparent.
The fact that he's still having nightmares shows just how much this is still bothering him. I can't say I blame him. If his nightmares are anything like mine, I'd be bothered too. I know Carson sees it too but he doesn't seem to understand what Sheppard needs – time. Time to deal with this on his own, alone, without people fussing over him and pushing him to talk about it. I think we've already established that Sheppard doesn't do talking.
Carson's expression is dubious but I can see Sheppard is gaining ground in the argument.
"If he's gonna spend most of his time asleep anyway, he can do that just as well in his own bed," I point out.
"He still needs regular check-ups.." That's a desperate rear-guard action, if ever I saw one. Carson's losing this fight and he knows it.
"Rodney can check up on me."
"Yeah, I… hey, what? I'm not your nursemaid!" It takes a moment for me to process what Sheppard's just signed me up for.
"Well, no. They're a lot prettier than you." Sheppard's grin is deliberately aggravating and I can see a smile tugging at Carson's lips too.
"Oh, that's great," I huff, feeling rightly offended. "Let's all pick on McKay. Two weeks of sitting around this infirmary, watching you un-mutate, and this is the thanks I get!"
Carson is grinning just as broadly as Sheppard now. "Yes, it's been a trying couple of weeks for all of us, Rodney." His pointed glance in my direction leaves me in no doubt that it's not the Colonel's condition that he's referring to. "If I let you leave the infirmary will you promise that you'll take him with you?" Carson sounds almost pleading as he turns back to Sheppard.
"Hey!" This is so unfair.. but Sheppard is nodding sincerely and Carson, with a reluctant sigh, is cutting off the flow on the IV and preparing to remove the port from Sheppard's arm and I realise belatedly that we've won; we're – Sheppard's – getting out of here.
"Hey, Rodney."
"What?" I'm a little preoccupied with the fact that I seem to have been volunteered to be Nurse McKay for the foreseeable future. I don't have time to baby-sit Sheppard; I've got work to do!
"Can you do me a favour?" Sheppard's face is hopeful, almost pleading as he gestures at his white infirmary scrubs. "Grab me some clothes from my quarters?"
It's starting already. Never mind nursemaid, I have been officially appointed Sheppard's dogsbody. I open my mouth to object and, as if he knows what's coming, he gives me a crestfallen look that makes me feel about 5 inches tall. Dammit. He looks like a kicked puppy – and I'm the one who just kicked him. Colonel Sheppard is giving me puppy dog eyes – and it's working. I give a long-suffering sigh of frustration, just to make the point that I am doing this under protest, and run and fetch like a good little dog.
I grab the first two items of clothing I find in Sheppard's room – a shirt and pants tossed carelessly across a chair – and, feeling extremely uncomfortable, grit my teeth and pull open a couple of drawers in search of clean underwear. Remind me again why I ever thought having friends was a good thing? I practically run back to the infirmary, hoping against hope that no-one sees me clutching Colonel Sheppard's boxer shorts.
By the time I get back, Sheppard is IV-free and is sitting on the edge of the mattress, his legs swinging, nodding impatiently as Carson reels off a list of instructions as long as your arm.
"Plenty of rest, Colonel, and absolutely no physical exertion until I clear you for it, d'you understand? If I find out you've been stick fighting with Teyla or running with Ronon…"
"I got it, doc." Sheppard practically snatches the clothes out of my hands, impatience written in every line of his body, and Carson resignedly draws the privacy curtain, raising his voice slightly to continue his lecture through the flimsy barrier.
"I'm going to give the mess hall instructions on your diet – Rodney can collect your food and bring it to you in your room.."
"What am I, his manservant now?" Carson barely breaks his stride as he gives me another one of those looks.
"Lots of fluids and if you feel at all unwell, you're to call me immediately, okay?"
The screen slides back and Sheppard gives Carson a wide smile. "Sure thing, doc."
He looks happy, relaxed, full of relief at being able to get out of the infirmary at last. He's rolled up the sleeves of his crumpled shirt and Carson's face turns sombre as his gaze falls on the last remaining evidence of Sheppard's latest brush with death – the slightly raised, bluish patch of skin on his right arm. Sheppard picks up on the moment of tension and looks down, following Carson's gaze. For a moment we all three of us regard the fading scar in silence.
"It should disappear completely with time," Carson murmurs.
Sheppard nods wordlessly and he suddenly looks less happy, more tired, and more desperate than ever to get out of here.
"Come on. Let's get out of here before Carson changes his mind." I speak and the moment of melancholy is broken. Sheppard grins again and heads for the door, clapping Carson gently on the shoulder as he passes, murmuring, "Thanks, Carson".
"Straight back to your quarters now, Colonel!" He calls his last instructions after us, a mother hen reluctantly letting one of her chicks flee the nest – I wisely decide to keep that little analogy to myself – and Sheppard waves in acknowledgement, not pausing to look back.
Of course, we get to the end of the corridor and Sheppard turns left instead of right.
"Hey! Where do you think you're going?"
"Got something I need to do." Sheppard's reply is light, casual, but I can read the focused determination in his posture.
"But, Beckett said…"
"I'll be five minutes tops – then you can watch me sleep to your heart's content." He gives me that annoying grin again and I have to frown to stop an answering smile from tugging at my lips. I have missed this. However, there's a little thing I'm very fond of called self-preservation. Beckett appointed me Sheppard's keeper and if he wanders off and something happens to him then guess who's gonna get the blame?
I take a chance and break the unspoken rule. "Are you gonna be okay?"
Sheppard's face is serious; we both know I'm not just talking about whatever this little side-trip might be.
He looks at me for a long time and then nods slowly. "Yeah. I will be."
"Okay." That's good enough for me. He grins and sets off down the corridor, leaving me somewhat at a loss for what to do with myself. The last two weeks have consisted pretty much of the infirmary and it feels… strangely odd.. to not be in the infirmary and to have no reason to go back there.
I chew my lip for a moment and decide I might as well go and see what chaos my underlings have made of my lab without my constant and close supervision.
"Hey, McKay!"
I turn back to find Sheppard has paused at the end of the corridor, a hint of a smile on his face that belies the seriousness in his voice.
"Thanks."
Fin.
