Atlantis, 2:00 a.m.
By midnight, the whole infirmary seemed to have moved to Sheppard's bedside. One by one, his friends and adopted family gathered to sit or stand nearby and offer silent encouragement. Elizabeth grinned when shortly after Carson, Teyla and she had finished their second cup of coffee, Rodney came wandering by, carrying his laptop and muttering about his Wi-Fi connection. With a surreptitious glance over his shoulder at the sleeping Colonel, he plopped himself on a bed nearby and set up shop, unfolding his computer and burying himself in complicated-looking Ancient schematics.
When McKay finally noticed everyone's grinning stares, he startled and groused out a petulant, "What? The wireless reception is much better here!" Then he promptly ignored the raised eyebrows and "Yeah, sure," expressions.
Not long after, Ronon appeared silently at the edge of the curtains that blocked off this section of the room, slouching casually and looking like he'd simply made a wrong turn on his way to the cafeteria. He stopped at the sight of the silent group and froze. Elizabeth, however, was quick to offer an encouraging nod, and jerked her head to an empty patch of floor opposite her. Looking a bit awkward, the large man considered, then moved to stand over his commander and friend in relaxed sentry; watching his back, figuratively and, in this case, quite literally.
John grew restless around 2 a.m., with the familiar mumbles escalating into an incoherent shout or two. He seemed anxious and kept scrubbing his sleeping face with his hands. The rest exchanged worried looks at the fretful movement, but Carson actually seemed pleased, and his satisfaction only grew as John's activity settled into simple repetitive twitches and jerks.
"He's waking up!" Carson whispered, checking the monitors one last time. Ronon looked skeptical, and Teyla glanced at Elizabeth with hopeful doubt.
McKay dropped the pretense of working at once to shuffle over and stare unabashedly, his computer tucked back under one arm. "Well? When? He still looks pretty asleep to me."
She was shooting Rodney a look of annoyed amusement when she heard a very soft whisper.
"McKay?"
The voice was so soft, that it took Elizabeth a moment to sort out where it had come from. Looking around for who had spoken, she was confused until rustling sheets drew her gaze to the bed and with a smile of triumph she leaped to her feet to stand over John who was squinting at her, blinking slowly in the dim light.
"Hey," she whispered happily, resisting the urge to take his hand; now that he was conscious she had to respect his preferred space. "I'm really glad to see you're awake."
He nodded, but closed his eyes and didn't speak for so long she thought he'd maybe dropped off again. Smiling she looked up to share her joy…and was shocked to find that everyone but Carson had left. She just caught the backwards glance of Teyla and Rodney as, grinning happily, they turned for one last look at their friend. Ronon seemed to have already made it to his bed and was lying down with his hands behind his head, his face comfortably passive. They were right: John needed space and time to wake up and orient himself. In a gesture of true friendship, they were giving him that space, needing only to know that he was on the right path.
Feeling the warmth down into her toes, she returned her attention to Sheppard. "John?" she asked softly, hoping to confirm on behalf of all of them that he wasn't in any need.
When he turned his head again, however, she caught her breath at the pain in his expression and the sad urgency of his voice. "Nalia? I'm sorry, I really am, but I have to go. I want to go home."
"John, you are home. You're on Atlantis. You made it."
He frowned, then suddenly seemed more oriented. "Right. Elizabeth. Are the others OK?" He spoke in little pants, as if pushing through pain, but it was so typical for him to ask about his team before bringing up his own discomfort that Elizabeth's smile returned.
"They're fine. They're all just great, in fact. Thanks to you. Do you need anything? Are you in pain?"
"You could tell Beckett to stop whoever's drilling a hole in my shoulder, but other than that, never felt better."
"I'll tell him." She looked up, caught Carson's eye from where he was standing behind John, fiddling with an IV and repeated with a twinkle in her eyes, "Dr. Beckett, get this man some painkillers for his shoulder!" It wasn't exactly what he'd said, but she took the liberty of being a bit pushy on his behalf. Beckett chuckled and was grinning from ear to ear as he disappeared into the pharmacy, only to return a moment later with a syringe and a bounce in his step.
John was dozing again, but woke easily when Carson nudged Elizabeth aside and questioned him, prying out a few more admissions of discomfort. Finally satisfied with his answers, Beckett injected the drug and John sighed deeply as the cool narcotic soothed the pain almost immediately. "Are you hungry, Colonel?"
John's eyes drooped, but he nodded his head, "Yeah, starving…really tired…" his words were slurred and he was soon breathing deeply.
"That's the best news I've heard all day, son," Carson answered softly. The feeling of relief was palpable, the tension in the infirmary evaporated, and along with it the sense of expectant waiting. John was asleep again, but he would waken. And he would need some space.
Elizabeth returned to her own bed, thinking about Nalia, whoever she was. She wondered if she ever would really know. She had been important to John, and he held some deep regret over their parting. But in the end, Nalia had let him return to Atlantis. To them. And she would always be grateful for that.
G3C-187, Day 3
John woke up slowly with intense, late morning sunlight glowing through his eyelids. He blinked and shifted his head out of the glare of the narrow sunbeam that had managed to find its way through the forest canopy and bounce in through the small panes of the window over the kitchen sink. The first thing he noticed was that his neck was stiff from sleeping propped up, his head lolled back against the bed's headboard. He shrugged his shoulders a bit, still too groggy from sleep to think much past stretching out the kinks.
The second thing he noticed once he finally looked down at the bed next to him was Nalia. Still deeply asleep, the girl had her hand on his wrist, as if she'd fallen asleep in the middle of checking his pulse, which wasn't such a wrong guess. With a flush of embarrassment, he took in his bare chest and boxer-briefs and felt his face grow warm with blushing. "Well, now this isn't awkward," he muttered, the sarcasm amusing only to himself. He hastily tugged at the twisted blankets trying to cover himself, at least from the waist down, but the motion of sitting further upright and leaning over broke loose a wet spasm and he was absorbed in lung scouring coughs for the next several minutes.
When he finally fell back against the pillows, worn out from the exertion, he could at least admit to himself that he felt a little better. Although tiring, the cough was clearing out the suffocating lump, and he breathed easier with every breath. He opened his eyes again and found Nalia standing close by, a cup of water in her hand and an anxious expression on her face. She looked as exhausted as John felt but he suddenly blushed again, finished pulling the blankets around himself, and reached for the cup.
He swallowed the cool liquid gratefully and as he handed the cup back, his hand caught hers and he pulled her closer until she finally met his eyes. He finally understood that she must have found the cure. And not only had she returned, she had cared for him in his delirium, pulling him back from the brink, soothing his fever and relieving his panic until the vaccine started to fight the disease and he could begin to heal on his own.
"Thank you, Nalia." His voice was just a whisper through a hoarse and gravelly throat, but his eyes were flooded with the gratitude he needed to convey. The girl caught her breath, and a slow blush crept up her neck to set her cheeks into a rosy flame. For a long moment, she was lost in his gaze, her own eyes revealing her deep feelings and awkward desires. John smiled at her discomfiture, chuckling ruefully at himself and the predicament he was in. Sighing, he let her hand go with a flop and closed his eyes. He suddenly felt very old. She needed to be chasing after other teenage boys at football games, he thought, not falling in love with middle-age pilots while nursing them through the killer flu. It was not going to be pleasant when he left. The sooner the better, he decided.
Nalia looked shyly away and busied herself with pouring another cup to set by the bed. "You should drink as much as you can," she began to babble nervously, unable to smother her pleased grin. "You still have a fever, and were too sick last night to drink very much."
"You found Naden's cure?" He asked it only to force her to admit the situation. She needed to understand her father's duplicity. He absently rubbed his thigh where two tiny bruises gave evidence of the site where she must have injected the vaccine.
"Yes," she said stiffly, the grin suddenly gone. "I…There was nothing in our home, so I went to Father's offices and took the only medicine I didn't recognize. It looked like what he gave to Davka, so I hoped it was right. I also stole an antibiotic and gave that to you last night, to help fight the pneumonia." She walked away to rummage in the kitchen for a while before returning with a steaming bowl of porridge-like hot cereal.
"You did good, Nalia," said John taking the bowl from her and trying to catch her eye again, "It worked. I'm sure I'd be dead now if you hadn't gone for it. I'll always be more grateful than you can possibly know." He just hoped she could remember that when he stepped home through the Stargate.
She fiddled with the blankets for a moment, then sat at the edge of the bed to watch him tip up the bowl and slurp at the thick breakfast. "I saw my father last night too," she began hesitantly, looking intently at a hole in the mattress where the straw was poking through.
John dropped his hands to his lap, suddenly wary, "Where?" he asked brusquely.
"At our house, while I was looking for the medicine before going to his office." John remained tensely silent and she finally continued. "He was looking for you. Or actually, he was going out to look for you some more. He said they found Davka in the prison and were searching the road between town and the Stargate. He had come back for his gun…" Nalia raised her head, "He hates you, you know. I confronted him about a cure, and he said even if he did have one, he'd let you die in a ditch before he lifted a finger to help. Why does he hate you so much, John?"
It was his turn to blush at her use of his name with such quiet familiarity, but he considered her question, trying to decide how blunt to be. He didn't know much of the details, but he'd figured out Naden pretty quickly. Taking a deep preparatory breath he answered as honestly as he could without completely demonizing the girl's father in front of her, "Naden hates me because he hates himself. He has become something he doesn't want to be and I guess, maybe, I pushed him into recognizing that. He's done some terrible things, Nalia, and I can't excuse him for that. But I think I understand. You've all been through so much, between the plague and the damn Wraith…" he trailed off to sit quietly for a moment. John also thought that Nalia's crush had been pretty apparent, and that would only fuel Naden's spite.
The silence grew awkward and Nalia at last urged him to finish the porridge, which he did, gratefully accepting the excuse to avoid further conversation. He had figured Naden out, but Nalia was beyond his experience. He had no idea how to deal with her infatuation and while he didn't want to hurt her, he obviously couldn't offer her what she clearly wished; he was almost old enough to be her father too. Almost. (His pride demanded the emphasis…)
After finishing another glass of water, John took a deep breath, swung his legs off the side of the bed and contemplated getting up. He'd spotted his pants and shirt nearby on the hearth and planned to dress himself, grab the antidote and get the hell out of dodge. His ambitions were perhaps a bit ahead of his abilities, because the moment he pushed off to stand and reach for his clothes, the room began to swim, and his legs wobbled like rubber out from under him. If Nalia hadn't made a snatch for his waist, having just returned from washing the breakfast dishes, and helped lower him back to the edge of the bed, he would have made quite an unceremonious thud on the hard wooden floor.
"John? You're still too sick to get up! What are you doing?"
Nalia sounded worried rather than scolding, but John was annoyed by his body's mutinous weakness. Apparently, it had been easy to feel great lying in bed with someone bringing you everything you needed. But John wasn't really that kind of guy. He'd been a loner too long, and the fussing only embarrassed him, "I'm trying," he snapped through gritted teeth, "to get the hell out of here so I can go home."
It wasn't exactly the way he'd planned to broach the subject of his leaving, but he was fighting dizziness and the renewed pain of still sore joints that were protesting movement after so long at rest. When he finally scrubbed his face and looked up at Nalia to ask if she could just bring his clothes over to him, he was brought up short by her expression: She stood frozen in place, wearing a look of devastation and growing panic.
"You're leaving?" she finally asked in a choked gasp, and John realized he was in way over his head. It had never occurred to him that his wanting to leave would surprise her, although he had known she'd probably be disappointed, even sad, when he did. The shock and desperate disbelief in her face, though, took him aback, and he was suddenly, deeply, saddened by the circumstances of this girl's life that had left her so cruelly neglected that she could feel such grief over a mere stranger.
Trying to concentrate through the discomfort and shakiness of his own situation, he replied as quietly and comfortingly as he possibly could, "Yes, Nalia. I'm leaving, soon. I'm sorry, I really am. But I have to go. I want to go home." He played the "home" card again, hoping she would maybe care enough for him to be sympathetic to his point of view.
Instead, she hung her head and he squirmed even more as he caught bright tears welling in her deep brown eyes. "This could be your home," she whispered.
John sighed, "I seriously doubt your father would allow that," he muttered realistically, "even if I wanted to. But Nalia, you have to understand: I already have a home, and a job to do, and friends who need me. My people who were with me before are sick too, and while I know they are being cared for, they may need the vaccine to fully recover, too." His voice grew urgent as he also reminded himself of his responsibilities. He tried to stand again, managing to get himself upright by hanging on tightly to the foot post.
"John, I need you, too. Please don't leave me all alone. Take me with you."
God this was awful, he thought, starting to sweat and shake from the exertion of merely standing up. "I can't do that Nalia." He knew enough to know she needed to make her own way, and that taking her to Atlantis wouldn't really help her. "But," he sighed, giving up his efforts and sitting heavily down again, "I can wait a bit before I go. I think I have to." He closed his eyes and lay back with a flop. If he couldn't make it across the room, he surely wasn't going to make it the 3 miles back to the gate, even with help.
Nalia started to fuss with the blankets, automatically preparing to cover him. "Don't," he said simply, frustrated by the delay, worried about his friends, exhausted by the tension he was so ill-equipped to cope with. He scootched onto the pillows, pulled the blankets up by himself and covered his face with his arm, meaning only to rest for a few minutes, then try again. He was asleep within moments.
In a daze, Nalia walked around to the other side of the bed and sat facing the kitchen for a long, long time. He was leaving. He would leave her to die of loneliness like the townspeople left the plaguers. Unable to resist, even in her sorrow, she tenderly turned to watch him sleep. He lay on his back, face turned away, slight shadows of expression playing across his face even as he breathed deeply in slumber. Everything was perfect when he was sleeping, she thought. She could watch him, and care for him…love him. But piece by piece her plan, her fantastic dream, was being destroyed out from under her: her father would never accept the man she'd chosen, and John planned to go home without her.
The rational part of her tried to assert that, of course he would wish to return home, to his own people and his friends, just as he'd said. But the thought only brought to mind the beautiful woman John traveled with and a kind of jealous rage swept through her. Just then, he began to cough; lying on one's back wasn't an ideal position for the illness he'd been through. She expertly tugged him more comfortably onto his side, and the cough quieted without his waking.
She ran her hand down the sleek muscles of his bare arm and her broken soul finally snapped in two. He would stay, he would have to. John belonged to Nalia, and to her alone.
She quietly lifted her coat off the bedpost and slipped out the door.
She waited back in her house for a long time, dwelling on John, her thoughts growing more confused and twisted as she sat, the shadows moving across the windows into evening. When Naden finally opened the door and wearily shuffled in, his shoulders slumped in defeat, Nalia quietly stood up, and called out, "Father…"
Surprised, Naden rushed over to her, wrapping his arms about her in a fierce embrace, "Nalia, girl. I was so worried. I've been searching for you all day. You were gone this morning and I thought…"
What he thought she never learned because she pushed away to look him in the eye. "Father, I…I know where the plaguer is. He's alive."