Shot Eight
John was no longer having fun. As soon as the moonshine hit the back of his throat, John had to fight not to throw it right back up. He hoped that the other guy hadn't noticed the inadvertent gagging, but that probably wasn't very likely. John had a feeling that it had been fairly obvious.
But John was not about to lose this contest. He wasn't going to let his team - and Atlantis - down. He swallowed a few more times, and when he was sure the shot was going to stay down, he nodded shakily to the officials gathered around the table and walked away.
He'd only made it a few steps before realizing that the room was swaying alarmingly, and a few more before he realized that he was the one who was swaying. John looked around, hoping to find somewhere that he could sit down, and the movement overbalanced him. He began tipping to his left, and he was trying to catch himself, but he wasn't at all sure that it was going to be possible.
John's fall was interrupted by...by a person, John thought. He'd just fallen into someone's chest. Great, he'd probably just offended someone important, and they wouldn't get a good agreement and that would be all his fault.
"Sheppard?" That was Ronon's voice.
"Hey," John mumbled, not bothering to push himself off Ronon's chest. He wasn't sure that he'd be able to stay upright.
"Sheppard, are you alright?" That was Rodney. Rodney sounded worried, really panicked now. What was Rodney worrying about?
"Thass right," John mumbled. "Me."
"What? That doesn't even make sense, he's clearly not processing anymore-"
"Am," John responded petulantly, pushing himself away from Ronon and immediately staggering backwards into Rodney. Rodney caught him, keeping a hand under his arm and a tentative hand at his back. John let him stay. At this point, it was pretty clear that it was necessary.
"John, are you alright?" Teyla was here now, and her voice was worried and urgent but her eyes were soft.
"I...I am not havin' fun anymore," John answered, and let himself slump further onto Rodney. Rodney yelped slightly, then wrapped an arm across his back. That was better, it gave John less things to think about.
He heard Teyla's voice, "Get him some water," and he tucked his head into his shoulder, trying to block out the world. He just...he needed everything to stop spinning for a moment. His chest ached, the alcohol burning like a glowing ember against his heart. His mouth tasted like rancid coffee and felt like sandpaper. His legs started to give way, threatening to buckle completely, and Rodney hoisted him more securely upright.
About a week ago, John had come down with a stupid stomach bug that he'd caught from an offworld mission. He was, somehow, the only member of his team to get sick. He'd woken up in the middle of his first night back, stomach churning and whole body trembling like he was fit to fly apart. He'd barely made it to the bathroom before getting sick. He'd spent the next twelve hours curled around the toilet, until he'd gotten "dehydrated" and Carson had stuck him in the infirmary. It had taken a good three days before he'd been able to hold down much more than water. The first time he'd tried to eat something more substantial than rice, when he was sure his stomach had settled enough that it would be fine, he had thrown it up after only about ten minutes.
That was how he felt now. Not like he had that terrible first night in the bathroom, when he'd wondered if maybe he'd feel better if he just went ahead and died. Not how he had the first few days in the infirmary, when his stomach had spasmed so much it had given way to painful dry-heaves. But how he had felt the fourth day, when he had tried to eat. Almost fine, but distinctly not fine. And then things had gotten less and less fine, until he'd found himself leaning over the bed to vomit up everything in his stomach.
He really didn't want to throw up again. He had already experienced a year's worth of puking in the span of a few days. He was not going to let this happen.
His stomach gave a small but uncomfortable lurch, and he hiccuped into Rodney's shoulder. Immediately, Rodney was shoving him away, bracing him upright with one hand.
"Ew, Sheppard, you are not going to throw up on me," he said, voice high and breathless. "I...I forbid it. If you...if you think you're going to throw up you have to tell me, because I will absolutely put you somewhere else…."
"'M not gonna throw up," John said, pitching forward into Rodney again. "I'm fine. I'm just chilling."
Rodney didn't respond. John spent a moment thinking.
"I am actually still goin' to win this contest," John informed Rodney. "Mmm yeah. Imma take...one million more shots. No throwin' up for me."
"You're going to die," Rodney practically yelled in his ear, and John winced away from him.
"Maybe not a million more shots," John conceded, burying his head in Rodney's shoulder again.
"How bout...two?" Ronon's hand was on John's shoulder again. It felt good. "You can do two, right, Sheppard?"
John snorted. "I can do more'n two."
"Or, ya know, just two," Ronon said, sounding hopeful. He wasn't making any sense. John closed his eyes and waited for the spinning to stop.
Ronon was feeling pretty good about his chances. Sheppard was starting to look wobbly and sick, and Ronon was fairly sure that in two more shots, he'd be unable to keep going. He'd throw up, Ronon would win money, and as an added bonus, John would be out of the contest before he did himself too much damage. They maybe wouldn't get the best trade deal, but Ronon didn't understand trade deals very well anyways.
"I have some water. John, can you drink?" Teyla sounded worried, and laid a gentle hand on John's back. She was overreacting, in Ronon's opinion. Sheppard was just a little too drunk, but after he got over the wicked hangover, he'd be perfectly fine. Still, he wasn't about to tell Teyla that.
"Mmmnf," John moaned into the crook of Rodney's shoulder. Rodney looked distressed.
"Was that a no? John?"
"If I drink that I'll...throw up," John mumbled. "Don' wanna."
Rodney yelped and pushed John out to arm's length again. "Do not throw up on me. I will...I'll never forgive you."
John wobbled and lost his balance, tipping backwards. Ronon reached out and caught him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
"'Salright, Sheppard. I don't care if you throw up. In two more shots."
"Not gonna throw up," John whispered. "Long as I don't drink the water."
"Can you eat something?" Teyla asked, seemingly without much hope. John shook his head, collapsing slightly more into Ronon's side.
"I will try to find something that may help," Teyla said, and she melted into the crowd again. John groaned slightly, and Ronon patted him absently on the back.
"He's going to end up with alcohol poisoning," Rodney predicted grimly, staring at Sheppard as his head drooped. "He's going to end up with alcohol poisoning and he's going to lose."
Ronon considered. It was a little late in the game to be taking bets, to be sure, but it seemed like a long shot at this point. Ronon thought that realistically, John would throw up long before he was actually in any danger. Besides, Ronon was drunk.
"Okay. Gimme five bucks."
Rodney, clearly also drunk, looked a little confused, but he gave Ronon the money. Ronon had known he could count on Rodney - the scientist never said no to the chance to gamble.
John seemed to get his stomach back under control all on his own, so the next ten minutes were spent trying to keep him from either wandering off or introducing himself to too many people. A few times he tried to push himself off Ronon, and Ronon had to grip tightly around his shoulders to keep him from falling flat on his face. By the time they were nearing John's next drink, his hair was standing straight up on one side and pressed down flat on the other, where it had been trapped against Ronon's chest. Ronon thought it would look pretty stupid, if the dark circles under his eyes and tremors in his hands didn't provide a complete distraction from what was happening on top of his head.
A look of what could best be described as panic crossed John's face when the next alarm went off. He tried to stumble vaguely towards the table, but almost immediately started to lose his balance. Ronon wrapped his arm more securely around his friend, and guided him to his chair.
"Remember," he said encouragingly as John nervously eyed the glass, "this is your second-to-last one."
Shot Nine
Teyla watched John try to pick up the shot glass, and very nearly knock it over. His depth perception seemed to be pretty much gone, and he was clearly having a difficult time getting his body to obey even very simple commands. He finally managed to get a good grip on it, and then proceeded to stare at it like he wasn't quite sure what it was. The Kuwanese man drained his glass and then just sat looking at John. Teyla pursed her lips.
Finally, with what seemed to be quite a labor-intensive movement, John brought the glass to his lips and drained it. Teyla's heart leapt into her throat - for a second she was sure he was going to immediately pitch forward and vomit. She saw his throat work slightly, and she clenched her fists at her sides. But then John pressed his hands flat against the table and took a few deep, steadying breaths. He seemed to recover enough to open his eyes.
Teyla hadn't been sure about this from the beginning, but at this point, she had half a mind to call off the whole thing. While John's opponent was drunk, he was clearly still in much better shape than John himself. It seemed to her quite unlikely that John would win, and therefore they would not get the trade deal that they wanted. If they weren't walking away with that anyways, wasn't it better for John to preserve both his health and his dignity, and walk away before he became unable to?
If it had been anyone but the Colonel, she would have suggested it. But John was stubborn, and she knew he would never stop drinking until he was physically unable to.
About thirty seconds passed, and John had made no move to get up. He was breathing heavily, swaying where he sat. As Teyla watched, his head began to drop onto his crossed arms.
Quickly, Teyla moved to John's side, placing a hand on his shoulder. John twitched and slowly raised his head, eyes blearily struggling to focus.
"John, are you alright?"
John didn't say anything for a moment, just blinked up at her plaintively. Then, with a visible effort, he seemed to rally.
"Mm...yeah," he said, pressing the heel of his hand over his eye. "'M okay."
"Yeah. See, he's fine."
Teyla glared murderously at Ronon, refusing to grace him with a verbal reply. Rodney, however, had no such qualms.
"Fine? He is not fine, he is clearly only semiconscious."
"Ssstop," John slurred, and pushed himself fully upright. "We can't lose."
Rodney sighed, crossing his arms. "Unfortunately, you're right about that."
The ghost of a smile flitted across John's lips. "Course I am. Like...like always."
"Right, Sheppard," Rodney said, only sounding a little bit strangled. "Of course you are."
"We cannot stay here," Teyla said, dropping her voice. "People are beginning to stare. We must move away from the center of the room and find someplace for him to sit down."
"Don' wanna move," John mumbled, but he managed to lever himself part of the way upright. Rodney and Ronon each caught one of his arms as his legs buckled, and they pulled him the rest of the way up.
"Perhaps you could try to make it look less as though you are dragging him, and more as though this were a party?" Teyla suggested, after taking a step back and noticing Rodney's horrified expression. John chose this moment to moan loudly and completely relax his body, leaving Rodney struggling to support the extra weight.
"Right," Rodney snarled. "Because we're having such a great time."
"We aren't," John whispered. "Havin' a great time. Not anymore."
"I know, John. I am sorry." Teyla said sadly. John nodded and dropped his head onto Rodney's with a small thunk.
"Hey, Shep," Ronon interjected, and John opened one eye and peered up.
"Whaa?"
"We're gonna walk across the room. You gotta help us out a bit. Can you do that?"
An expression of vague determination crossed John's face, and he nodded. Gently, Ronon heaved him a bit more upright, and John straightened his head and managed to get his legs underneath him.
"Good man," Ronon said encouragingly, apparently genuinely impressed. He reached up to John's hair and ruffled it back into its usual spiky mess, and John seemed to perk up a bit. Teyla smiled softly, almost willing to forgive Ronon for how cavalier he was acting about the situation as a whole. Almost.
They pulled John across the floor, and he managed to at least occasionally engage the muscles in his legs. There were a few times when Teyla was worried he would vomit - he was dangerously pale, and if he moved too much, she could see him swallowing hard. But he managed to stumble along, with Ronon's assistance, until he could be propped on a bench.
He looked immediately better once he was sitting down, out of the view of other people. Still pale and weak, listing dangerously to one side, but at least he could support himself under his own power, and she was less worried about him embarrassing himself or them.
"John, can I get you some water?" she asked. She knew the answer would likely be no, but she still felt she had to ask. She simply wasn't sure what else she could do for him.
Sure enough, she shook his head emphatically, the biggest show of emotion she'd seen from him since the ninth drink.
"You really should try," Ronon said, and the fact that he was supporting her was rather worrying in and of itself - if even Ronon thought John was in trouble, things really must be looking bad.
"Nope," he said softly. "I think I'm...I'm ready to take my next drink whenever, but I...I really don't feel so good…."
Teyla rubbed his shoulder encouragingly. She hoped he would rally a little bit in the next ten minutes, because otherwise she honestly wasn't sure he was going to be able to take the next drink under his own power.
"They normally won't even let guys like me try this," he said softly.
Teyla hadn't the slightest idea what John might mean by that. But she just nodded and kept rubbing his back lightly
"'S is all part of a plot," he whispered. "It's because it's the tenth one. This 's the thing about it. They don't even...you know, six or seven more times an' this woul' be illegal."
"You're completely right about that," Teyla said soothingly, biting her bottom lip. She was starting to get truly worried now. Saving John's pride had completely exited the equation, and even getting the trade agreement seemed only nominally important. If John didn't give up soon, he was going to be in serious danger.
He started mumbling again, and she had to bend down to hear him. "'S because...have you seen the shiny thing? In there? If you count them an' it's...makin' everything crazy…."
He broke off with a slight shudder, that turned into a hiccup that Teyla was sure was going to start him vomiting.
"Are you sure you don't want water?" she asked desperately.
"They don't make that here," he whispered.
Teyla wasn't sure how to respond to this, since it was not only untrue but also made no sense. She patted John's back, trying to come up with an answer.
Ronon beat her to it. "I bet we can find some for you, if you want it. We have our ways."
"Can't," John mumbled, and try as they might, they couldn't get him to change his mind. By the time the buzzer for the next drink went off, John still hadn't drank any water, and he didn't look any better. Nor did he seem to notice the buzzer.
"Last one," Ronon said, heaving John to his feet and propelling him towards the table. Teyla had to agree with his prediction, although she wouldn't have said as much aloud. John looked terrible, grey-faced and ill, eyes unfocused. Still, with Ronon's help, he stumbled to the table and slumped into his chair.
Shot Ten
This...John didn't like this mission anymore. His stomach was churning before he even managed to swallow the drink, and he had to repress his gag reflex at even the smell of the moonshine.
He almost threw up right there at the table, but he had a dim impression of people staring, and he didn't remember much but he knew he had to keep this down. He pressed a clumsy hand to his mouth and swallowed a few times, willing it to stay down.
After about a minute, John's throat had stopped working, but his stomach and chest were burning and he knew it was only a matter of time.
John groaned softly and slumped forward, or at least began to. His progress was stopped by a hand, and suddenly he was face to face with Ronon. It was hard to focus on him, the edges of John's vision seemed to be getting blurry. And the middle, too, for that matter. John blinked, hoping that would make it better. It didn't.
"Are you gonna throw up?" Ronon asked him.
"No," John said, as definitely as he could. He wasn't, not now, at least. He couldn't, he didn't think. There was some reason why, but he wasn't exactly sure what it was anymore. It was enough to know that if he threw up, he'd be letting his team down. Even as drunk as he was, that wasn't an option.
Ronon's face broke into a broad smile, and John smiled uncertainly in return. Then, Ronon's arm was around him, and John felt himself being pulled into a hug.
"I lost," Ronon exclaimed delightedly, and John couldn't follow this at all any longer. Was Ronon in the contest too?
"I lost and I don't even care," Ronon told him quietly, and then John was pulled upright, still clamped tight to Ronon's side. That was probably a good thing, because he couldn't feel his legs very well and wasn't entirely sure how to work his muscles at this point.
"This guy," Ronon said, very loudly, "is the coolest. Shep, you're gonna win this, you know that?"
John didn't feel like he was going to win this. But Ronon seemed to be less drunk than he was, and if Ronon thought he was going to win, then he was probably right. John nodded in agreement, then found that moving his head made him dizzy and sick and dropped it onto Ronon's shoulder.
"We need to sit him down somewhere." That was Rodney. Nobody else sounded that panicked. John wanted to tell him that, but talking no longer seemed within the realm of possibility. He was afraid to open his mouth.
"I am sittin' down," John slurred quietly.
"John, you are not sitting down," Rodney said, high and way too loud. "You're standing up, and Ronon is keeping you that way. You need to go sit down, somewhere away from everyone else. Alright?"
Rodney had asked him a question. John's brain felt like it was processing everything very slowly, if at all. He felt sick and stupid. He was drunk. He knew he was drunk. That was about the only thing he did know. Everything...everything made no sense at all.
Apparently, Rodney accepted that he wasn't going to get an answer, because he was talking to Ronon now. John struggled to make out the words. He heard something about taking him "this way" and "be careful" and "God, Ronon." When Ronon started moving him, he felt his stomach flip and saliva flooded his mouth. He swallowed carefully.
"Stop for a second, I think he's gonna be sick." Rodney's voice.
"Not," John whispered, but no one seemed to be paying him any attention. Maybe they couldn't hear.
"You're alright," Ronon said, in a voice that left no room for argument. He was alright, Ronon said so and so he couldn't be anything else. "Come on, Shep, just take some deep breaths."
John took some deep breaths. He couldn't remember what that was supposed to be helping. But Ronon seemed satisfied, because soon he was walking again, stumbling along beside Ronon. He stared at his feet, which kept threatening to get tangled with Ronon's feet. At one point, he was set down on a bench, but he didn't look up.
Ronon let go of him, and he immediately felt himself list hard to one side. "Grab him!" he heard Ronon yell, which was unnecessary because a hand was placed on his shoulder at nearly the same instant and he was hauled back upright. Some part of his brain registered that it was rather strange that he couldn't be sitting up all on his own. Usually, he could both sit and walk without any sort of assistance.
"This is happening," he informed the room at large. His tongue felt thick and heavy. "I'm...I'm drunk."
His stomach churned again. He remembered Ronon telling him to breath so he focused on that, panting around the nausea until it seemed to abate slightly.
John closed his eyes, letting his head fall forward. He concentrated on keeping the contents of his stomach in place, letting his friends hold him upright on either side. He couldn't really remember why, now, but he knew it was important. Maybe if he waited long enough, it would come back to him.