John had a sneaking suspicion that things were going very, very badly. This was only their...fifth mission, approximately, depending on what, precisely, counted as a mission. John would be the first to admit that every mission before this one hadn't gone great. They'd offended several cultures. They'd destroyed a few pieces of important tech. They'd been run out of town, drugged with a toxic gas, and shot at with a variety of different weapons. But even John had to admit that this mission was their worst so far. He wasn't even sure that it was salvageable. They were locked in some medeival torture dungeon, and John was injured, and no one knew exactly where they were.
John was supposed to be the leader of the most important off-world team on Atlantis, and he had done this. Dr. Weir was going to be so disappointed in him.
"Sheppard," Rodney said suddenly, voice high and scared. He had retreated to the corner of the cell, where there was a thin straw mattress shoved against the wall. "Sheppard, you have some...plan to get us out of here, right? When...whenever you want to start, you know, starting that, that would be really good."
"I'm not trapped here because I want to be, Mckay," John said. He didn't mean it to come across angry, but he thought that it did. He understood why the scientist was nervous. John was nervous too. But that didn't make Rodney's anxiety any easier to deal with. Didn't he understand that John needed to think, and not spend the whole time they were trapped trying to keep Rodney from spiraling out of control?
"But...you...you must…." Rodney's breathing was getting faster. John sat back on his heels so he could get a better look at him, ignoring the way the world swooped dizzily around him. Rodney was looking pale and shaky. For a split second, John was afraid that he had been injured somehow, and had chosen to hide it up until now. But then he realized that of course that wasn't what happened. Rodney wasn't that type of person. If he had been injured, John certainly already would have known about it.
"I mean, you're going to get us out of here somehow, right?" There was an edge in Rodney's voice, and John heard the accusation buried beneath the surface. You're going to get us out of here, because it's your fault we're here anyway.
John felt himself stiffen, and his arm ached as the muscles around the wound tried to tense. His good hand went to the crappy bandage Rodney had grudgingly tied off, and he snapped back at the scientist.
"I'm doing my best, alright?" He willed McKay to drop the subject, to just be quiet and keep his panic to himself and let John think for a second. Sheppard could feel his temper building, and he didn't exactly want to scream at one of his team members, but if Rodney kept talking, it was going to happen whether he wanted it to or not.
"God, this is your best? I knew I should never have done this, I'm going to die in prison, and I've never even broken a law! Well, not one of the major ones, or not on purpose anyway, oh god, I don't want to die…."
"We're not going to die," John shouted, and managed to actually startle Rodney into silence. McKay gulped and stared at him, looking almost scared, and John felt a small twinge of guilt. He cleared his throat, lowered his voice, and tried again. "We're not going to die."
Rodney whimpered softly, but didn't say anything else. He retreated a little further back into his corner, looking at John with some kind of expectation in his eyes.
John didn't know what the hell he wanted, and he didn't bother asking. Rodney seemed to think that John's one function was to provide comfort for the skittish physicist, despite whatever might be going on with John. He was plenty scared, and he was managing to hide it just fine, on top of being wounded. He wasn't asking Rodney to comfort him, and he wouldn't have accepted it if McKay had tried. But he was still scared and in pain, and it would be a lot easier to manage it if Rodney could keep his feelings to himself for one fucking second.
Besides, it was Rodney's fault that they were in this stupid situation anyway. Rodney was the one who couldn't run, Rodney was the one who had surrendered instead of trying to fight. John turned the idea around in his head, trying it out to see if it made him feel better.
It didn't. Even if one of his team members was a useless idiot, it was still John's job to account for that. John closed his eyes and drew his knees up to his chest, once again feeling so far out of his depth that it was almost funny.
When he'd first arrived on Atlantis, the feeling had been almost constant. He'd gone from flying choppers in Antarctica to flying spaceships in another galaxy in a matter of months. Before he'd had time to do more than drop his bag in a room (an alien room), he'd somehow ended up as the military commander of the entire expedition. Luckily, John performed best when he had absolutely no idea what he was doing, especially when there was something to shoot at. Still, every so often, he'd remember that he was shooting at life-sucking aliens, on another planet. He was so far away from Earth that he had to think not only in terms of distance, but time, and the vastness of space was both dizzying and terrifying.
Usually, things were better when he was off-world. When he was off on a mission, he could forget about things like leading an entire expedition, and just focus on taking care of his team and doing his job. Ford was a godsend, since he had spent the past year and a half going off-world with SG-11 back on Earth. Even if he didn't know any more about Wraith than John, he more than made up for it by knowing more about pretty much everything else. His knowledge and experience had already gotten them out of several tight scrapes.
Teyla was...well, to be completely honest, she scared him a little, but she was also the single best fighter that John had ever met. Two months ago, she'd never even laid hands on a projectile weapon, and now she was outshooting many of John's Marines. And when he'd found out she could fight with sticks...initially, John had been unimpressed. But once he had actually seen it, it had taken about seven seconds for him to change his mind. She was absolutely deadly with those things, and if she had her rods on her, he would have been nervous to go up against her even with a gun.
And he liked Teyla. She was knowledgeable and kind and trustworthy, and he felt safer knowing that she had his back.
Rodney was...a different story. Dr. Weir had allowed John to choose each member of his flagship SG team, and he had selected Rodney after Rodney had shut down the Stargate using his personal shield, nearly dying in the process. He had seen something in Rodney then, something he wasn't sure Rodney even saw in himself. It had taken about a week and a half of constant coaxing to get Rodney to agree to even go on one mission with John, but after that first mission, it hadn't taken long to convince Rodney to become a permanent member of the team.
There were times where it was easy for John to remember why he'd wanted Rodney in the first place. When Rodney got them through a locked door, or fixed a malfunctioning Jumper, or hacked into some Ancient library. Sometimes, Rodney wasn't even being useful, and it was still easy for John to see why he'd chosen him. When Rodney's eyes lit up the first time he'd touched the Jumper's controls, when he laughed at one of John's dumb airplane jokes, when he helped John explain Earth things like college or restaurants to Teyla.
But there were other times, times like this, that John worried he had made a grave mistake. Rodney was as often a liability on missions as he was a help. There was a definitive chance that he would end up messing up missions, and worse, John was desperately worried about getting him hurt or killed. And now, here they were, stuck in a cell, and it was only a random chance that meant John had been shot instead of Rodney. He wasn't sure that he could handle that, not now, not when he was still figuring all this out himself. He'd let himself ignore the worst case scenarios, but now there was a hole in his arm and he might have doomed himself and McKay to a nasty death behind bars because Rodney wasn't field-tested. If they got out of this, John was going to have to reexamine his priorities. And right now, that was looking like an awfully big "if."
Rodney didn't speak again, not for a while, and John closed his eyes and let himself use the silence. His mind ran through every aspect of their situation, searching desperately for a way out. He wasn't sure if he was actually trying to come up with a plan, or just trying to distract himself from the pain in his arm.
After what felt like forever, but was probably only an hour or so, there was the sound of approaching footsteps from outside his cell. John shot upright, swaying on his feet as the blood loss once again made itself known. He steadied himself against the wall of the cell, then watched the hallway for the newcomers. In the opposite corner, Rodney slowly shook away whatever fog he was lost in as the two guards who'd put them in the cell came within view. A little behind them walked another, unfamiliar man. He was dressed in some sort of clothing that John vaguely recognized from Renaissance paintings and movies about post-medieval eras, and he looked a lot better-dressed and a lot more important than the guards.
"Hi," John said as the three of them stopped outside the bars. He was careful to keep as much of the edge as possible from his voice, aiming to sound like they were all just having a polite conversation. As long as they stayed outside the cell, there was nothing he could do, so it was better if they thought he was unaffected by the situation. "Here to apologize for the misunderstanding, maybe let us go? No hard feelings. Promise."
McKay goggled at John, a look in his eyes telling Sheppard just how insane he found this approach. John ignored him. He didn't want to see whatever strategy Rodney would have for dealing with their captors, especially considering that the guards would be a lot less tolerant of Rodney's whining than John was. The guards didn't react, apart from a vicious glare that John shrugged off.
"Sit," one of them said, leveling a crossbow at John. "Away from the bars. No sudden moves."
For a moment, John considered staying upright, until the guards came in and made him sit. But the other guard was holding a crossbow on McKay, and the chance to talk to someone who wasn't carrying a weapon was the best one they'd had so far to get out of here.
Slowly, trying to make it look like it had all been his own idea, John sat, scooting backwards and away from the bars. The important-looking man nodded dismissively to the guards, who took up positions covering opposite corners of the cells. Still too close for John to do anything more than listen.
"Greetings. I am Roland de Centero, a Duke of Alaria. I deeply regret that we have been forced to act in such a way, and I regret that we cannot offer better...accommodations."
John grimaced, feeling his shoulders tense and draw up around his ears. They were talking to a politician. John hated politicians.
"Using the Ancestral Ring, I have already managed to contact your...Doctor Weir." He stumbled over the unfamiliar word, and John grimaced. If John's shoulder did end up getting worse, he could probably kiss any shot he had at getting some real medical attention goodbye. "I have requested that she deliver to me enough of your weapons to arm thirty of my men. At that point, I will gladly return the two of you to her."
"She's never going to give you those weapons," John said. That, at least, he knew was true. Dr. Weir cared for him, but she would never risk Earth tech falling into the wrong hands. This was not a trade she would ever be willing to make.
Centero frowned. "Yes, that...is what she told me. Luckily, I have given her a week to initiate the trade. I believe that will be more than enough time for her to realize there's really only one choice she can make, and I fully expect that two of you to walk free long before that."
"So...what?" John practically spat. "You're gonna...torture us until Dr. Weir has no choice but to give you the weapons?"
Rodney made a small, squeaking sound behind John. John had a sickening image of Dr. Weir receiving some of Mckay's fingers and teeth in a box. There was nothing at all stopping them from doing that, or something else equally as horrible. If they made it out of this in one piece, John was going to put Rodney on such a strict exercise program that he'd be lucky to even have the energy to make it off-world in the first place.
But Centero looked both pale and vaguely offended. "I would never torture you," he said. "I understand you're quite essential to Dr. Weir's operations, yes? So simply holding you should be more than enough incentive. And that aside, you have already been harmed quite enough in your capture. Incidental injuries, now, those aren't quite the same, hmm?"
John blinked. He still didn't have a clear idea of whether or not they were going to be tortured.
"Why are you telling me this?" he finally asked.
"You haven't done anything to wrong me," Centero said. "And I thought that you would appreciate having a greater overall idea of your situation. You know, Alaria could still be your ally."
"I don't think so."
John turned his back to the guards and Centero. The conversation was at an end, even if the Duke hadn't intended that yet. He half-expected the cell door to slide back, and a guard haul him over to learn in no uncertain terms who was really in charge, but Centero had apparently said all he needed to say. John heard footsteps receding in the distance, and then he and McKay were left alone.
"Well, that's good, isn't it?" Rodney said hopefully. "We, umm, we aren't going to be tortured, at least."
John could hear the fear behind his voice, the same sick certainty that was in John's stomach. They might not be getting tortured now, but in a week's time, when Weir refused to trade John and Rodney for the weapons, that could change. It was, at best, a temporary respite. Worse, almost, because it was a week away. A week trapped in a tiny stone box, where he couldn't feel the breeze, or see the sky. John had never been claustrophobic, you couldn't be as a pilot snug in a plane's cockpit, but he suddenly understood what that might feel like.
"Yeah, it's good," John mumbled, suddenly remembering that Rodney had spoken. They didn't have to address the elephant in the room, not yet. Better for McKay to cling to an ultimately false hope than to spiral off into another panic.
Over the next few hours, John proceeded to ignore his own internal advice and became steadily more agitated. He'd never been in a situation quite like this before. Even on his worst missions in Special Forces, he'd been stranded behind enemy lines, being shot at, shot down even, but he'd never been captured. He'd never been a prisoner of war, never been trapped like this. As it turned out, he hated it. All he wanted to do was fly away, or saving that, fight his way out, but no matter how much he paced the little room, nothing changed. He even tried kicking at the bars, hoping to loosen them from their settings, but he stopped when Rodney stared at him with something verging on concern. They weren't moving anyway, and the motion was hurting his shoulder.
John didn't want to die like this. Hell, he didn't want to die at all, but being shot down in a dogfight was different than a slow death in a prison cell. He had to do something, had to get them out. He began pacing the cell again, resolving to watch for any possible opening, take action as soon as there was any chance at all of escape. He wouldn't die here.
Rodney sat in his corner, wishing Sheppard would stop circling the cell like a caged animal. It was unnerving, and every so often John would wobble on his feet, like he was about to fall. He always caught himself, but seeing it reminded Rodney that he was hurt, and that reminded Rodney just how bad this situation was.
There were footsteps from the end of the hallway, and the same two guards appeared. One of them was carrying two bowls that smelled like something that at least approached food, and Rodney's stomach growled.
"Back away from the door," the guard said harshly. Rodney backed up so fast his back slammed against the stone. He hated being told what to do by anyone. But he needed food much more than he hated orders. He was starving.
John obediently backed up as well, although his posture remained coiled and tight. The guard unlocked the door, took a single step inside, and started to lower the food.
John lunged. He knocked the guard to the ground, and Rodney saw him groping for the ring of keys. He landed a solid blow to the guard's face, even though he was only fighting with one arm.
And then, the second guard appeared out of nowhere. He hauled John up by his shoulder, and Rodney saw the moment John's legs began to give out thanks to the pressure on his wound. The second guard slammed John into the wall, and Rodney didn't think John would have been able to keep his footing if there hadn't been anything behind him.
The guard punched John, twice in the stomach and once in the face, and John crumpled forward. He caught himself with his good hand before he could face-plant into the ground. But he looked dazed, and didn't make any move to get up.
The second guard kicked him in the chest, knocking John to the side. The breath went out of him in a painful-looking wheeze.
Then, just as Rodney was getting worried the guards might do something really bad, they left, shutting the door tightly behind them with a metallic clang.
Slowly, laboriously, John pushed himself into a shaky sort of sitting position.
"I thought…thought…." His voice was breathless and weak. He had to pause, swallow hard, try again. "I thought that might work."
"Are you alright?" Rodney said, his limbs finally unfreezing. He crossed to John and stood over him, watching as he tried to get his breath back. "God, John, that was really stupid…."
"I'll be okay," John wheezed. His good arm was cradled around his ribs, and his cheek was already starting to swell. He looked a lot more wobbly than he had before. "Sorry, I...I thought that might work…."
"You can't do things like that," Rodney informed him. "You're injured, and you can't take on two guards yourself. You're going to get yourself killed."
John swallowed again, clearly still having trouble breathing. His arm wrapped a little tighter around his ribs, and he sagged back against the wall.
"God, you're bleeding again," Rodney said, accidentally raising his voice. He knelt beside Sheppard, remembering a little late that that was the sort of thing one did.
"That was stupid, you know that, right? What were you thinking? Does something that dumb usually work in a situation like this?"
John looked down at his newly bloodied bandage and shrugged with one arm. "How should I know?"
"What do you mean?" Rodney said blankly. John's arm didn't look like it was bleeding too badly, so he turned his attention back to Sheppard.
"Well, it's not like I've ever really been in this situation before," John answered a little snappily, his words still punctuated with the occasional wheeze.
"You...haven't?" Rodney was unsure if he'd understood this correctly. Sheppard seemed unaffected by everything from life-sucking Aliens to flying spaceships to insanely risky shootouts. He must have seen something like this before, he certainly seemed to have seen everything else.
John shook his head, his good hand rubbing at his swollen cheek. For a moment, Rodney wondered if the darkness in his eyes was fear, not anger or even pain, but then he discarded the idea. That was Rodney's territory. John always seemed to have a plan, even if it was a stupid one. He was probably just projecting his own insecurities, hoping to find some of his own weaknesses in the Major. Rodney felt a little twinge of annoyance, whether at himself or at John, he wasn't sure. It would be better if John wasn't scared, he knew that, but a part of him thought that he might prefer it if he knew the pilot was worried too.
"Well, now we know that plan doesn't work," Rodney finally said, keeping all but a slight edge out of his tone. "So...don't do it again."
John rolled his eyes, his cheek already starting to bruise. Aside from that, he didn't respond, just edged back painfully until he was supported by the corner.
"If they made you queasy, can I have your food?" Rodney asked, beginning to look around for the two bowls the first guard had been carrying. "Or at least a little of it, I'm hypoglycemic-"
The food wasn't there. Rodney looked around frantically, sure he must have just missed it. Maybe it was in the corner, or had been kicked away from the door in the scuffle….
The fight. That was it. The guards must have taken the food when they left, as a punishment. Sheppard's little show of disobedience had cost Rodney the food.
"Sheppard," Rodney said dangerously.
"What?" John clearly hadn't noticed yet.
"The food is gone."
"What? No, it's just…."
John trailed off in horror as he looked at the spot where the food was supposed to be. He glanced up at Rodney, apology written in his eyes.
Rodney didn't care. He was starving. Even after watching Rodney pass out when the Ancient device had kept him from eating, all of Atlantis still seemed to somehow assume that Rodney's hypoglycemia was either exaggerated or a joke. It wasn't - it was a real medical condition that he'd actually been diagnosed with. And it did affect him. It had already been...what, five or six hours since he'd last eaten? His stomach felt raw and empty, and he was starting to shake. He knew if he didn't get something to eat soon, he would start feeling lightheaded and dizzy any time he moved too fast. Eventually, he would pass out.
"I'm sorry, Rodney," John mumbled. "I didn't think they'd actually take it."
"Well, they did," Rodney snapped. John reeled backwards slightly, looking surprised, but in Rodney's mind, John should have been grateful. Rodney could have been screaming. "And now we have no food, and it's all your fault."
"I didn't know they would…."
"Shut up," Rodney said. All of a sudden, the idea of John spending even another second making excuses was making Rodney feel like he either needed to punch him or cry. "This is all your fault. You took us on this stupid mission, and then you...you didn't have a plan to escape, and you...you got all injured, and lost us the food. We're going to die in here, because Elizabeth isn't going to rescue us, and it's all your fault."
"Hey," John said angrily, and Rodney remembered a second too late that his temper was on a hair trigger. "You said this is my fault? Who's the one who was running slow, huh? If you could just keep up with the rest of us, we wouldn't have been captured in the first place."
Rodney sucked in a sharp breath. That hurt more than he thought John had intended, but he didn't want to show it. "It's not my fault I can't keep up with all you...superhumans...if you didn't want me on your team, you shouldn't have chosen me for your team!"
Rodney wasn't sure that John knew this, but being chosen for his off-world team had both been one of the biggest honors and biggest surprises of Rodney's first few weeks in Atlantis. Normally, it was absolutely not the sort of thing that Rodney would throw back in John's face. Despite everything, he wanted to be on John's team. He didn't want to get kicked off for not running fast. Of course, it wouldn't matter if they both died here, and if the best plan Sheppard had was getting beat up, then that was looking more and more likely.
Sheppard's face darkened beneath the fast forming bruise, and Rodney fought the urge to back away as his good hand clenched and unclenched.
"Maybe I shouldn't have, if all you're gonna do is complain and blame anyone but yourself," John spat, his voice beginning to edge towards a yell. That did hurt Rodney, more than it scared him. Again, he didn't think John really meant it, but it didn't matter. He'd said it.
Rodney opened his mouth, unsure what he was going to say but knowing he wanted to hurt Sheppard as much as Sheppard had hurt him, but John held up a shaking hand.
"Uh uh. Just- shut up and let me think for a fucking second!"
John was yelling now, and Rodney was suddenly reminded just how scary the pilot could be. Rodney found himself quieting, saving the insults and the blame. The anger didn't fade, however, and Rodney nursed it as he turned sullenly to the thin mattress in the corner of the cell. It would serve Sheppard right if Rodney passed out from lack of food, if he even bothered feeling guilty.