Two Birds, Two Stones

Chapter 5

Cold Shoulders

The hallway they walk down—at his slow pace despite everyone else's swift military speed—looks exactly like all the other hallways, white and metallic with random pipes running through it like they're in a submarine, and tight as hell because if this doctor guy bumps shoulders with him again, he's gonna let Aeryn have a free swing.

Finally, they reach a roundabout of a dead end, a circular room with two doors at what must be the bottom of the mountain and if that's true it should be a lot cooler. His clothes are starting to stick into all his unmentionable nooks and crannies.

The doctor stops right in the middle of the circle, forcing everyone to file in around him, and he takes the opportunity to shimmy up next to his wife, analyzing her sweat glowing face and trying to discern what stage of heat delirium she's at and how much time they have before she make him promise to kill her again. At this point it probably should've just been in their wedding vows.

But that damn doctor clears his throat and gestures towards two doors across the hall from each other. When he speaks, his voice is still nasally, but he's downgraded to only a single tissue sticking out of his nose, slopping up the blood. "The General's delegated these two rooms for you—"

"Hear that, Honey?" He grins through her daggers, trying to be more of a spectacle, to draw any lingering eyes away from Aeryn so they don't see the way she sways slightly on her feet—and because he's caught the guard to his left staring at her ass more than once—and although that's her ass, the wedding vows should've said he's the one who gets to look. "Even though you've beat the shit out of the military's top classicist—"

"Egyptologist, and she only hit me once."

The grin shatters from his face and with a serious grumble he reminds, "that's because it only took one."

Then he nudges her shoulder—because this is kind of a vacation, a vacation under a mountain that might actually be a volcano barring how hot it is, and under the intense watch of other dimension Earth military, and with the threat of her being boiled into a permanent vegetative state, but there's no screaming baby and midnight feedings—which he really never did anyway—and no teeny bed to balance on. "We don't need two rooms."

"Of course you don't." The doctor doesn't make eye contact with her, his head watching the tiled floor as he unlocks a room and gestures through the open doors again. "It's protocol, even for SGC members, no fraternizing."

Okay, so not much of a vacation anymore.

"No sleepovers?" He gets a stiff nod in return—which is the only thing stiff he's going to be getting while on this Earth—he holds his hand up flashing the wedding band they had custom made for him from the melted down metal of an old module part. "We're married."

"As proud as you are of that, it doesn't matter to us." The good Doc gives him a shit-eating grin and stands, nosebleed-stained hands behind his back by the electronic door panel. "John, you'll be in this room and uh—your wife will be across the hall—"

"Her name is Aeryn."

"—and eight armed guards will be stationed outside your rooms in case you get any thoughts."

Neither of them moves and the Doc just sort of stares, like they should know what to do. She arches an eyebrow at him, and he watches a big fat drop of sweat bead from under her chin and slip down her neck in between her breasts.

"Hey!" The Doc shouts to get their attention back, "you do understand that you need to get in the rooms, right?"

"Jeez Dr. Happy, can you give me and the wife a second to say goodnight?"

When he doesn't immediately oblige them, Aeryn speaks up, her voice wavering because he can tell her concentration is on her stance. "Our son is without us, having a moment to negotiate our distraught emotions would be appreciated."

With reluctance, kind of like he doesn't want to see the embrace, the good Doc nods and she throws her arms around him, her body weight into him, and Goddamn it, she's on fire. His shirt pastes to her skin, and she twitches against him from his heat added to hers.

But one of her hands sneaks into his palm, the fingers flat, then suddenly her thumb and pinkie depress throwing him a three.

Three hours until breakout.

The rooms aren't as bad as he thought they'd be—not as much like a prison as most of the other jailcells he's lived in. There's a bed—a big bed—bigger than the one on—man, he's going to have to let that go.

His finger plucks at the collar of his stained and now sweat drenched shirt as he fans the fabric, then just yanks it off over his head. He's got three hours to kill, and they've been kind enough to leave some basic clothing—military issued of course—on the gigantic bed.

There's an area with a desk, a lamp, and a notepad—even a touchtone phone that's been unplugged and left in the room for decoration. It's dark, not only from being buried however many storeys underground, but the room is constructed with different types of metal and concrete making him miss the dark but warm-hued palette on Moya.

They even gifted him with the smallest bathroom he's ever seen, a toilet, sink and shower in a space so small he couldn't lay down if he wanted to. Naturally, he turns the shower to cold, letting it run and leaving the door open so it cools down the room as he picks out a pair of thin gray sweats and a new plain black shirt.

He hops into the shower, getting shocked by the cold and adjusting the temperature to a relaxing almost lukewarm and praying that Aeryn is doing the same across the hall and not passed out on the ground—tries to tear his mind away from his wife because their son is almost five weeks old, but it's been six weeks—and he's gone six weeks before—but never with someone looking so goddamn hot—not in a literal sense usually—laying less than an arm's length away with her cold skin tickling his fingertips during their blessed ninety minutes of co-sleeping. Her hair soft with oils she still has from Zhaan and her face so peaceful in the lowlight that once he—on purpose—shook her awake to live out the fantasy—but Deke woke too and then that was a whole thing he had to deny.

The water starts to flow warmer than he'd like—or maybe it's just his increase in blood pressure—among other things—and he steps out not even really bothering to towel off because in roughly two and a half hours, he'll be breaking out.

Plans to just air dry on the bed, the big bed he can starfish on happily and maybe catch up on alternate Earth news and it sounds like a movie length dream. His ass actually hits the bed, his eyes closing before he realizes—

How the hell is he going to break out of this room?

Once the door opens, she's already mid-fray, tossing guys around like sacks of potatoes, disarming guards, guns and men are clattering to the floor left and right. One guy goes to run at her, and he sort of redirects him, punching him in the face, while simultaneously tripping another—guesses the answer to the earlier question is six.

She can take out six armed guards without his help.

"What—took you—so long." She's full out panting now, her hair—that was in a ponytail—is falling free around her shoulders. She's got a different gray tank top on, and what must be military workout shorts that offer her about the same coverage.

"Sorry Baby." He stoops, collecting a concealable weapon for each of them, then plucks her hair tie off the ground, wiggling it into her palm as she leans against the wall. "I had to figure out how to get out of the room. How'd you get out so quick?"

"I—stole a—cardkey from—from the guards as we were—we were—" Raises her hands to collect her hair, but she's sloppy, starting to lose fine motor functions, so he steps up, collects her hair from between her cragged fingers that fall slack, and ties it up as she rests her shoulder against the wall. "You?"

"Me?" Wraps the straggling hairs around the bun he's constructed and it's not going to win him stylist of the year, but it will keep her cooler.

"How did you get out?"

"That. Whatever the card thing you said was."

It's a lie.

He used the pen—left with his desk and notepad—to jimmy the electrical panel open and mess around with the wires until the door hissed open.

"Come on." Tries to retrace their steps, but all the damn hallways look the same and of course on a secret alien military base there's not going to be any 'you are here' signs. To be honest he doesn't even know what they're looking for. He'll start with a way out.

"Where are we going?"

"We just have to make it outside."

"Then what?"

"Then we steal a car or something."

"And go where?"

"Jesus Honey—"

Pauses because she's about half a hallway away still leaning into the wall, breathing just as hard and her knees are starting to knock. He backtracks, wary because if she remembers she's angry at him, he's likely to get one of those knockout punches to the face again and her cognition so far appears to be pretty good. She doesn't even move, just presses the bare skin on her shoulder tighter to the metal in the wall, trying to cool herself and keeps her eyes closed. "I thought you wanted to get out of here."

Her eye sneaks open and she curves an eyebrow at him. "And I thought you trusted these humans."

"Yeah." He fans her shirt a bit, allowing her a few seconds of relief. They must have made it up at least one floor, and it must be late at night because so far, he hasn't seen another soldier except for the pile they left behind. "That was before they started separating and trying to conquer us like a game of risk."

They weave through more of the same hallways, and after a few minutes, he slips his hand into hers because she's trailing too far behind, her footsteps are starting to fall staggered and uneven—tripping her up—and she's gotten too quiet.

When she stumbles into the back of him, he stops allowing her to catch as much of her breath as possible, fighting to not comfort her because that's what she so harshly demanded.

Thankfully a sign—the first he's seen—offers him some hope.

A stairwell sits at the end of the hallway.

As he's deciding if she can make it up however many flights of stairs—or if he can carry her the remaining storeys she can't—she huffs in exhaustion, "where are we going?"

Shit.

Lifts her teetering head, and she still has enough oomph to slap his hand away. They're near the stairwell, there's always elevators by the stairs—it sucks because it'll be enclosed and hotter and easier to snag them, but she needs out of the heat. "Okay we gotta boogey."

"Wait—" Her brow coarsens in confusion, her eyes squinting through the sweat resting around the bags she's collected in the last five weeks. "What?"

Briefly holds her chin in his hand, and greedily plants a kiss on her forehead to judge her temperature—as if he even needed to. His teeth clack off each other, his jaw tenses because this just went from a farcical escape plan to a medical emergency. "We just need to find the elevator."

Drags her along by the wrist now, ducking his head down every hallway, serpentining through this damn mountain. Her feet slap the ground harder at his pace.

"We need to find an elephant?"

"Elevator." That's strike two. He stops, pivoting on his heels. The tank top she has on is too big for her, the strap tumbles over her shoulder and he tugs it back up. "How you doing?"

She yanks her arm away, stumbling back and steadying herself against the wall. He tries to find relief in her bad attitude, the grudge she can—and might—take to the grave, but at this point it's exhausting him. "You do not need to constantly placate me like I'm some—" For a second he believes her, until her hands travel down to the back of her army green shorts and she tugs out the gun he gave to her from the waistband. "Why do I have this?"

"Oh no, no, no, no." Yanks her along now, spinning down each hallway opening, no longer looking for surface level.

"Crichton, what—"

"We gotta get you cooler now." What level would a cafeteria be on? Or a doctor's office. Or just anywhere that isn't on fire, and they knew—they must have known—acting all calm and pseudo friendly before tazing their asses—what if they have Deke? What if this is some elaborate brainfuck done by the Peace Keepers or the Scarrens or anyone because they can't get off his ass long enough to hold up to their end of the—

"Crichton." Manages to wrench her arm away with some reserved force, almost collapsing from using up her energy to snub him. He holds her up as two soldiers stroll by, giving him the side-eye and he just grins and nods until they pass.

"You have heat delirium, Baby." Words against her ear. Her hot ear. Every part of her is on fire as she slumps forward, resting her head against his shoulder. His voice is almost hidden, as his lips brush against her temple. "Escape plan's cancelled."

In a harsh whisper she reminds, "You cannot let them know about this. They will use it to exploit us."

His hand cups the side of her face, thumbing over the shiny layer of sweat on her cheek. "To exploit me, Aeryn."

She seizes him with her eyes, even barely open they won't stray from his. Before he reassures her that this isn't her fault, that her one biological flaw doesn't make her weak—although, it's a pretty shitty weakness to have and their enemies exploit it left and right—someone bellows from down the hallway.

"Colonel Mitchell. Vala Mal Doran."

There's a guy, a big guy, hanging his head out of an elevator waving at them. He doesn't remember the names of their doppelgangers, or ranks, or anything because he was too worried about getting his wife back to listen to half of the words falling out of General Rygel's mouth.

"Is that us?" asks from the side of his mouth, lips barely moving.

She doesn't answer.

So he wraps a hand around her waist, walking her almost unconscious body towards what could very well be this Earth's version of the Terminator. The guy takes a single step—the length of the elevator—back as he shifts Aeryn in, praying she can make the few steps without collapsing.

She does, collecting herself in the corner, peeling the sweaty shirt away from where his hand plastered it to her back.

"How's it going—" Buddy? Big Bear? Tall Boy? "Big Guy?"

Luckily the guy doesn't send a glance his way, instead taking a step closer to Aeryn. "Vala Mal Doran you are sweating profusely. Are you suffering from heat stroke?"

When she doesn't answer in the appropriate beat, he gives her a nudge with his bare foot, and she snaps into action. "What?" Stands straighter for a split second before sliding back down, her cheek pillowing against his shoulder. "I'm—just—tired."

"No, no sleeping yet," he mutters into the hair clumping on the top of her head, his hand jostles her arm, rousing her from resting.

Without turning his attention away from the elevator doors, Big Guy asks, "Is there any update on Daniel Jackson's conference?"

"No, but I'd say he has a bad headache from prepping."

"Why would you say that?"

"No reason, you know, Daniel Jackson."

"Indeed. Are you heading off base to meet with Amy?"

"No, she, uh, cancelled."

"Then where is your destination?"

"We're actually on our way to the cafeteria because Vala left something in there. Isn't that right, Vala?" Elbows Aeryn in the side because she's going to have to say a word or two to make this conversation believable, but her body sort of limp noodles beside him. He flashes a tight grin at the gigantic man he realizes he's stuck in an elevator with, and his ass kicking wife is out of commission. "Isn't. That. Right?"

Aeryn darts awake, almost parkouring off him, kicking him against the button panel and standing, wavering, in the opposite corner. "He wants asylum. If you cannot promise me that right now, I will leave this ship."

"Colonel Mitchell, I suspect deception concerning your intentions with Vala Mal Doran."

Aeryn's fit, her crazy out of context words—at least for the monumental guy taking up half the elevator—don't seem to phase him and either this dude's seen a lot of weird shit in his life, or this Vala chick is batshit crazy too.

The guy crunches at his hips, his hands clasped behind his back, and slowly lowers his head until they have the same eyelevel. His eyes narrow and with a whisper that still sounds like a clap of thunder, he questions, "does this have to do with what you disclosed to me confidentially while inebriated?"

"What? No." Tries to return to his wife—his very leaky, slightly crazy, almost motor function deficient wife— "She's just a little hot and we want to go to the—"

When he tries to slip an arm around her, her hand launches up from her side clamping around his wrist, holding it in place, and her eyes are wild, jumping, dangerous, scared. "Crichton, promise me."

He's not going to let her die.

She's not going to die because this is the third time something like this has happened and all it takes is a nice cool place to take the edge off. Touches his free hand to her cheek, staring into her delirious eyes, and knows he's got to be the Bonnie again.

For her sake.

"Look, I'm not Colonel Mitchell, she's not Vala." The Big Guy opens his mouth, but he shakes his head. "I don't have time to get into it right now, but she really needs to get somewhere cold. Just help her and I promise we'll cooperate."

The Bug Guy presses a button on the elevator and arches an eyebrow at him. "Indeed."

They spent the next three hours staring at the long-range communication device trying to figure out where the stones went. He poked the indented grooves, Vala bounced the baby on her hip, and Chiana explained to him several times how the machine was purchased at a second-hand hut at a trading post. He rested his chin in his hand, staring—then glaring—at the device until Chiana bumped the table and it tottered while the baby blew up again.

The baby was restless. They were restless and decided to turn in.

If he only knew what that fully meant.

"This is it." His chin juts out while he stares at a tiny bed and a tinier cradle.

"That's it." Chiana happily grins, maneuvering on the pads of her feet around the room to Vala who is lowering the baby into the bassinet. "They put him there sometimes, but that usually doesn't keep him quiet."

Vala tucks a ratty old blanket up around the kid, who is already starting to go weepy-eyed again. "Where does he sleep then."

"With them usually."

His stance doesn't change, but he breaks his glare to witness a snapshot of Vala tickling at the baby's toes and pulling a bright grin at the kid. He turns back before she notices, playing off his own grin as a smirk. "I'm still not sure I understand where they sleep."

"Right there."

"That's a bed."

"Yes."

Vala pops up beside him, fixing the loose collar of her shirt. It immediately slides back down. Her eyebrows knit with worry as she examines the bed for the first time. "Is it possible to add another bed to this room?"

Chiana stops filing through what he can only assume are personal items and steps down from a chair. "that is two beds."

"Oh." Vala pouts. And he might notice her lips for the first time. Shining in the low light until her head cranes back, addressing Chiana, who is now tossing clothing into piles on the floor. "Is it possible to add a third?"

"Before they shared this room, did Crichton and Officer Sun—"

"It's Sun," They both correct him while Vala gravitates to the clothing pile in the middle of the room.

"Whatever." Stretches his neck and finds the baby actually asleep, so he lowers his voice. "Did they have separate rooms before?"

"Yep." Chiana nods and hands Vala a white shirt and some other unidentifiable black clothing. "On different levels too."

Vala holds the clothing against her front and nods, then turns to him for approval, that big, wide grin plastered to her face. She's adorable. They're both adorable in an innocent but mischievous kind of way. He doesn't think he's ever seen her mesh this well with anyone but Jackson. So instead of picking out all the reasons why clothing isn't the biggest priority right now, he says nothing but gives her a thumbs up and a nod.

She practically vibrates with excitement and he doesn't think his opinion ever mattered this much to anyone before.

"Alright." Drops his thumb and points an index finger at both. "Chiana, can you take Vala to Officer Sun's—"

"Sun." Both cut him off again.

"Take her to her old room."

"Fine." Chiana leans forward, her body almost snapped in half, and smacks Vala's scuffed boot. "I'll show you where the refresher is too."

"Brilliant. Perhaps you could also show me where the facilities are—"

He steps in before they can get too carried away with what might be the equivalent of an intergalactic sleepover. "Just make sure you come back for the baby."

"What?" Vala stops just before the door, clothes spilling over one arm as the other tugs and loosens her pigtails.

"The kid." He tries not to get distracted by the way her fingers brush through her hair, jutting a thumb back to the sleeping baby that obviously plays favorites. "You got to take him."

Chiana's expression sours, "he sleeps with his parents."

"Not. You." Curls his fingers in the air because, it is too late or too early for the who's on first act again. "Vala, he needs to go with you."

"Why?" She sounds almost offended.

"Because—" it's said through terse teeth "—you're his—"

"I'm as related to him as you are."

"Yeah, but—"

"But what?"

"You know—" she shakes her head, eyebrows raised, waiting for him to elaborate and he's got a bad feeling about this "—he's a baby, you're the—"

"Oh, my dear Colonel." She's full out offended now. "Please do not tell me you're suggesting I take the infant that is not biologically related to me simply because I'm a woman."

"I—"

"I cannot believe that living on your planet has tainted your thoughts with such—"

"Dren?" Chiana chimes in.

He holds his hand against his forehead because now this all seems like a really bad fever dream and he's going to wake up in quarantine with Lam telling him to stop drinking off-world water. "I just meant you're better with him."

His compliment goes in disguise as another insult. "I am not!"

"I meant that he just likes you more."

Chiana sort of growls playfully as she takes a step forward. "The only reason the gnarl likes Aeryn more is because she actually spends time with him."

"I've been caring for him for the better part of four hours." Vala hikes up the bundle of clothing in her arms and sort of sashays to the door, Chiana following her. Before the door closes, he hears her add, "this is perfect not-father, not-son bonding time."

And before he can even understand what the hell just happened, he's standing in the middle of the room, clothing still all over the floor, with a bed his legs are going to hang off of, and a baby, that's not his, staring up at him.

Deke gurgles, a wad of spit forming at the side of his mouth, and blue eyes wide, expressive in worry.

"Yeah kid. I don't know what the hell to do with her either." He sits on the side of the bed and it feels like it's made of pure metal, and then tries to rationalize why he wanted to check out Vala's ass as she left. "But she sure looks cute when she pouts."

And that's when Deke starts crying.

It has to be hours later when he finds his way down to her room, a blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders as he wanders through dark, dank hallways. It's only by happenstance that Chiana pounces out in front of him.

"Don't you ever sleep?"

"Don't you?"

"What are you doing?"

"Chasing ghosts." She wears a coy half-grin and he can't tell if she's lying or telling him the truth. Either way it's disturbing.

"Well, as much as I would like to unpack that happy sentence, can you just tell me where Vala is so maybe we can get this kid to settle down and get some sleep?"

An entertained mewl excites her mouth, and now her smile is all cheeky. "Crichton never could stay away from her for long."

"We're not them." It's not a growl or a grumble but a deadpan statement because they don't belong on this ship, or in this galaxy, or together. It was all a matter of coincidence, and just because she has pretty hair and what he bets are soft lips, doesn't mean anything.

His grandma always said to never mistake coincidences for miracles.

"In one major way, no." She spins and starts to creep down another hallway, her cat eyes glowing in the darkness of the bulkheads. "In a lot of little ways, yes."

The room is dark, but there's a bronze undertone from the ship's walls, or skin. The idea of being in something that's alive is hard to understand, so he focuses on other things instead, like getting himself and Vala back to the SGC safely or trying to somehow quiet the screaming kid in his arms.

Neither of his nephews cried this much in the first ten years of their lives.

She's dead asleep on another one of those weird metallic beds, but half of her body is hanging off the far edge, her hair's all over the place, and the burst of white skin on her bare shoulder distracts him for a minute.

"Vala," he whispers and doesn't know why because he can't hear himself. He has no clue how she's still asleep with the baby hollering the way it is.

He takes another step forward, shifting Deke in his arms, getting glob of spit across his shoulder, and a close up of a wide, gummy mouth. Stops about a foot from her face, but her expression doesn't change. She's playing dead, has to be because she doesn't want to take care of the damn kid when she's obviously better at it—for no certain reason.

There's no twitch in either of her eyelids, or of her fingers and when he ducks closer, she still doesn't move.

Is she even breathing?

What if the teleportation had some adverse effect because this is her third galaxy and what if—he tucks the baby against his chest and shoots out an arm to her bare shoulder finding it icy and giving her a rough shake.

Her eyes fling open and she pushes him away with surprising ease, the whites of her eyes as identifiable in the warm darkness as the skin on her shoulder. She rubs where his hand was, blinking away the sleep, and strands of hair, folded over in tossing and turning, wave over her head. "Mitchell, what the hell?"

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, holding out the baby, who is worming, rallying his hands in the air and kicking his feet loose of the thin blanket. "But it's been hours and he hasn't stopped crying."

"Hours?" Her sleep heavy mind must warp her senses because she accepts Deke without argument, twisting the kid against her so he faces out again. Her eyes are barely open, and she huffs a strand of hair away from her face as she glances at something on the wall. "It's been twenty-three minutes."

Finds himself just staring at how her eyelashes fan, how the baby tucks back into her even though he's still crying, just how she's sitting on the bed, fur blanket tumbling off her. "What?"

"Chiana taught me how to use their time measuring system." Cradling the baby, she points across the room to a device. "I glanced to it just before I fell asleep. It's been twenty-three minutes."

"Well, maybe he just wanted—"

"I'm not his mother."

"And I'm not his dad, but there's no denying he feels more comfortable with you."

She cocks an eyebrow at him, settling Deke against her shoulder. When she bounces him, it only makes small intervals of gasping between his cries. "Perhaps he's not the only one who feels more comfortable with me."

"What do you mean?"

When it becomes clear that the kid isn't going to stop crying, she shifts on the bed, pulling the fur blanket away from the base of the bed. Her fingers pluck until the blanket around Deke comes loose, and she side-eyes him with a coy grin. "Darling, it took you twenty-three minutes to come seek me out."

"Yeah." Crosses his arms and raises a brow, matching her game. "Because the kid was crying, and I didn't know what—"

"Did you even bother to check to see if—" when she leans over to see if Deke still smells baby fresh, the blanket falls off her lap in a clump and her legs are bare. She has bare legs. They're bare and milky white even in the bronze undertone of the room.

"Vala." He snatches the blanket off the ground and tosses it back into her lap.

"What?"

"What do you mean 'what'?" She pauses swaddling the baby, and his chubby little legs bicycle through the air. When she doesn't even bother giving him an arched eyebrow, he feels the need to clarify, "You thought that would be appropriate attire for the first night on a strange—"

Her raspy chuckle interrupts him, her fingers guiding down one of Deke's arms, and then the other, to be pinned against his chest. "Please do not tell me you're aroused by my current position, Mitchell."

"I'm not."

He is.

Can feel the hotness of the flush creeping into his cheeks. Deke's arm escapes and she tucks it back under again, only giving him an all-knowing smirk and an almost eyeroll.

"I'm not," restates, marching closer to her, but away from the blanketed end. "I'm just thinking it might not be the best idea to be running around in your skivvies—"

"I'm wearing panties—"

"Don't—Say that word."

She chuckles again, flipping the now burritoed baby up to rest his chin on her shoulder. He's stopped crying and his eyes are starting to close. "Panties?"

"Don't."

"Panties."

"Vala—"

"Well, perhaps if you removed yours from chafing sensitive areas of your own anatomy—"

"Stop."

"—you'd have more fun."

"I don't need more fun."

"On the contrary, my dear antiquated Colonel, rules aren't fun."

"They are if you're making them." He's staring at the blanket now, at what's underneath the blanket, what he knows it there. Long, pale legs that must be cold because before he rushed to cover them, he saw goosebumps on her skin. Turns before he can give it another unhealthy thought, intent on getting back to his room and alone. "I'll drop by here in the morning to—"

"Oh no." When he doesn't stop marching to the door, she flings the blanket off her, scurrying after him. "No. No. No. Mitchell, we are in this together, and if we need to sleep and care for this child, we will be doing it together."

She's got him pinned because she's not wearing any pants and the second he gets caught checking her out, he's screwed. So his eyes stick to the ceiling. "Fine. Just—go put on pants or something."

"I'll go back under the blanket."

"Oh no you won't. If I'm staying here—"

"It's not like you'll actually fit on the bed."

Again, another great point by his pantsless teammate. So he sits on the ground beside the bed, his head leaning back into the edge, intent on staying with her until she falls asleep and then fleeing back to the safety and weird bed in his own room.

When he glances up at her, she pulls a tight, tired smile, and slides down so her head rests just a few inches behind his on a curve of the bed, nestling Deke into the curve of her chest, and wrapping an arm protectively around him. Just before his eyes fall closed listening to the hums and groans of a living ship, she drops a second blanket into his lap. "In case you'd like to take your pants off, Darling."