A/N: This was inspired by Torri Higginson's light-hearted remarks about fighting with Joe Flannigan, on the commentary for TLG.
Post-TLG: Non Animus Injuriandi
Elizabeth Weir was asleep. It made his throat tighten oddly to see her lying in bed next to him- wait, not the way that sounds, let's rephrase-- in the infirmary bed next to his. The white gown she wore was too big for her and served to make the expedition leader look all the more defenseless. It was unusual to see her out of standard uniform, and especially in any color other than her usual preference for a commanding shade of red. Now Sheppard was used to being in the infirmary, he always ended up in there for some complaint or another, but for Elizabeth to join him as a fellow patient in this fashion was plain weird, it turned the natural order of things upside down. She wasn't supposed to get hurt like he did. While she frequented the infirmary quite often, it was in order to check up on her people, to assure them that the finest scientific minds in the galaxy were working on the problem, and whatever was wrong would be resolved soon. Whether or not the facts indicated a positive outcome, she was always firm in maintaining that they would be just fine and giving them faith that miracles could happen. He was meant to keep her out of harm's way, yet the entire damn situation had escaped his control from the moment she stepped too close to the life-pod they'd retrieved and promptly collapsed as it imprinted a psychotic alien consciousness over her own. Note to self: do not ever let Elizabeth near alien technology again.
It had been hard to take her seriously at the beginning of this misadventure. Her voice had sounded so cold and venomous as she made threats of violence and death, completely at odds with the normal soothing yet authoritative tones she normally employed. Their first shoot-out had been over before it really began as they split in different directions, evading the security forces while stalking each other. Only when she fired a barrage of bullets at him with glee in her voice as she fantasized about killing him, had Sheppard been forced to radically re-adjust his thinking. Although being under the control of an alien intelligence had severely limited his options in regards to a response to this incredibly bizarre situation, he was still jittery over the way Thalan had made him hunt Elizabeth through the city, regardless of how well she had defended herself and counter-attacked in return. The sight of Elizabeth wielding a gun like a pro was disturbing and profoundly unnatural. Aiming at her with his own weapon was just a nightmare, after he had sworn to himself that she would never have cause to fear him again. Now they were lying in adjacent beds and she was swathed in that oversized medical gown and the contrast with their earlier life and death theatrics was so ridiculous, he had to choke down his amusement. It was either laugh or lose it, and Sheppard decided to have a sense of humor. Elizabeth shooting at people? Him shooting back at her? Just hysterical. Ha ha ha.
It was almost as though she'd heard his thoughts, moving around restlessly til she was curled up on her side and facing him, one hand pillowing her cheek. Her mouth twisted a little, as she exhaled sharply, then it settled in a resigned grimace and his overactive imagination decided she looked as though she were bracing herself for a long boring lecture on some inconsequential facts that McKay always nattered on about in an effort to show off his high intellect, rather than editing for brevity and efficient information exchange. Sheppard noticed she bore it patiently nonetheless, her slight frame now peaceable under the blanket, not fidgeting at all. One audacious curl interfered with his view of her eyebrow, so he couldn't tell if that normally hyperactive feature was getting a workout or not.
Get a grip, he told himself. Damn it, what could be so fascinating about Elizabeth Weir's eyebrow? Sure, odes could be composed on its wealth of expression and quirky nature, the way it revealed a moment's light-hearted humor in an absurd situation, a sarcastic or cynical train of thought when she was otherwise professionally pokerfaced, or a stern demand for an explanation when someone had done wrong. But he wasn't a poet. He'd leave the artsy thing for guys with too much time on their hands and not enough sense to do something constructive amidst all their languishing about in educated dismay at the cruel cruel world's lack of appreciation for their talent.
Hmph. With that attitude, it was no wonder he'd barely made headway through 'War and Peace'. Some people had a book for all occasions, and delighted in losing themselves inside a thick volume's dusty pages, but he knew what would entertain him during this interminable medical stay.
"Carson," he beckoned the doctor over confidentially. "In the interests of maintaining peaceful doctor-patient relations, do you think you could lay hands on a PDA somewhere for me?" Sheppard asked.
"Well, now, since you're being such a good lad and haven't tried to shoot me or anyone else in the past few hours, I suppose I should reward this behavior," Carson replied cheerfully. "Wouldn't do for you to revert to shooting your way out of rooms when you're recovering so well."
Sheppard felt like making a face, but managed a bland expression instead. "Thanks, Carson, I appreciate it." He had the sickening feeling that the entire base was going to be cracking jokes at his expense for the next few weeks, and found himself praying for a minor disaster to befall someone else, anyone else, in order to take the heat off him. Kidding, just kidding, he qualified hastily. Didn't do to wish for more trouble around here, seeing as how whatever passed for deities in this region were always thrilled to heap more onto their already overburdened shoulders. Boy, one really was paranoid when one had to censor one's own thoughts. And referring to oneself in the first person would indicate what exactly? Or was 'one' actually a third person reference? What the-?
Carson's return relieved Sheppard of the headache of trying to figure out that convoluted chain of thought. "Here you go, Colonel," the doctor proffered the long-awaited PDA. "Hopefully that will keep you peacefully occupied til our tests are complete. Now everyone's extraordinarily territorial about these gadgets, so we brought you Elizabeth's, since she won't be needing it right now. Play nice with her when she wakes up, though, I know how the two of you fight over this thing."
"That's not true, I'm always happy to share her belongings-" Sheppard had just begun to innocently protest when the sound of instruments beeping frantically abrogated their conversation. His gaze shot over to the woman in the bed beside his, and found that Elizabeth's peaceful sleep was a thing of the past. A brief glimpse of her body arching violently and thumping back down against the bed met his horrified eyes before the medical personnel rushed into place around her, obscuring further glimpses of the traumatic process she was undergoing. Thalan had been almost serene at the end, the overwhelming force of his passionate enmity fading into a bittersweet yet resigned near-restful passing. Phoebus, evidently, was not content to advance to the next plane of existence so easily. She was determined to make this as difficult as possible for Elizabeth and everyone around her. Trying to shut out the sound of their urgent orders and stat readings and damn machine bleeps, Sheppard regarded Elizabeth's PDA blankly, then turned it to Solitaire and devoted himself entirely to the card game.
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For anyone keeping track, this was the second time he'd tried to kill Elizabeth Weir. He should really win something by this stage. If there were a competition based on attempts to literally kill your boss, he definitely ought to be in the top running. Of course, Sheppard reasoned as he stared up at his own ceiling for a change, he hadn't been quite himself on either occasion. Not quite oneself being the euphemism for alien possession, mutation or cohabitation with a foreign identity. A rather bland way of describing completely bizarre and unusual situations.
But lingo aside, and on a totally different track, Sheppard had to ask the inevitable question. Why did it always happen to him? Oh, sure, he'd been thankful to have been spared the ordeal of cohabiting with Rodney- one body was not big enough for the both of them. It had been entertaining viewing the madness from an observer's perspective, for once, rather than as the afflicted party. Watching McKay going insane from the taunting of a voice no one else could hear had been a guilty pleasure, after all the times he had driven the people around him crazy. Although everyone had been glad when things were returned to relatively normal- while the occasional excitement was welcomed by everyone, military folks and science types alike, they were all the better for the brevity of the experience. The novelty of McKay acting like Gollum/Smeegle from the Lord of the Rings trilogy would soon have worn off and ended up causing everyone else a headache from his constant bickering with himself. Well, not himself, obviously, with Cadman, the other person sharing his body for a mercifully brief period. It was annoying trying to work out how to refer to 'him', 'her', 'them'… 'it'…the only worse situation he could imagine would be a time travel experience. Now there the past and present tenses would cause a worse headache than the one he currently faced. Trying to deal with the fallout from attempting to kill his boss and friend once more. Without the distraction of Solitaire as a barrier against the guilt.
But at least he hadn't seriously hurt her or anyone else. The one action he'd been responsible for was stunning her at the end, once Thalan had left him, but that was in order to save everyone else, he hadn't been trying to kill her. Knocking her out still left him queasy though. Trying to kill McKay when he knew the scientist was invulnerable was one thing, seeing Elizabeth crumple into a heap after he fired at her, willingly and voluntarily, was another. He was grateful that she hadn't looked hurt or betrayed, that her expression had been more along the lines of stoic and resigned. Seeing the very image of Elizabeth react so impersonally to what would have otherwise been a major blow to their friendship had this been 'real' helped diminish a bit of his guilt. He could try to believe it hadn't been her, put a different face on the enemy and leave Elizabeth out of it, erase her from the memory of his violence and believe her untouched by it.
Feeling that this was getting way too personal, a helpful coping mechanism steered him away from those thoughts of hurting her, pointing out that he was less culpable than her, after all, Elizabeth had shot Ronon. Thalan had only made him stun or knock out those unfortunate enough to stray into his path, but under Phoebus's control, Elizabeth had put a bullet into the Satedan warrior. Sure, the stunner gives them a hell of a jolt, but compared to a bullet, there is no competition on which is more painful and damaging, Sheppard reasoned, then promptly felt like a jerk. Screw coping mechanisms. It doesn't matter how I disabled them, I'm still going to be on awkward terms with few people…we should have an annual repentance ceremony for whatever whoever did while under the influence of something other than themselves. It would get all the apologies out of the way, clear the air…And as terrible as it had been for him, at least he was trained to use force on people. They also had tons of training scenarios on how to deal with hostiles when they were your own people turning against you, so that officers were prepared for times when they might have to incapacitate a familiar face, a friend, or even a superior officer. This helped to take the edge off of going on a shooting spree around the city. Or at least it did if he tried really hard to focus on positive happy thoughts. The military's conditioning only went so far with him, he'd always been keen on doing his own thinking, rather than being the perfect little sponge, soaking up all their propaganda and regurgitating it faithfully.
At least he had the advantage over Elizabeth, who was the quintessential pacifist, it wasn't in her nature to harm people, so however he spun it, the entire situation had to have been so much worse for her. He winced. Just think how he had once berated her for possessing a terrible bedside manner when he had the same fault- case in point, one of the first things he said to Elizabeth after she woke up as herself again was a reminder of the injury she had caused. He had been at a loss for how else to act, though. Elizabeth was a first class negotiator, and whether that meant she had grown up with an inherent delight in conversation and situational analysis, or if she had developed it in her line of work, he wasn't in the mood for exhaustive scrutiny of whatever minute details attracted her curiosity from their escapade. That curiosity was what had drawn them into this mess in the first place, her compassion for the last survivors of a race and musing what their story may have been, what forgotten history they had left behind. She was a woman, and they just loved talking through a shared ordeal, while Sheppard did not see the use in recalling what he had done, and the last thing he wanted to do was examine his role in the havoc they had caused throughout the city. He hated to add fuel to the cliché about men repressing their emotions, but unless he was drunk, he wasn't going to be talking about how he felt after being used this way. Keeping his responses short and a touch more sardonic than usual- while returning his focus to solitaire- had sent that message, and mentioning Ronan had definitely distracted her. Injuring someone that severely- and they both knew it had been touch and go during his operation, especially since Carson had needed to make do without power- was going to stress her out a hell of a lot. Shooting Ronon was nothing new for him; it was almost a game between them, and so far, sadly, the Satedan was out-numbering him in terms of shots fired and hits sustained. Ronon really was too trigger happy for anyone's good. But she wasn't going to see it that way. Sheppard felt a twinge of guilt as he remembered the stricken look that had passed over her face once she remembered, since he'd made a goddamn point of making her remember. Good move, Sheppard. And this time you don't have no alien personality making you do and say what you don't want to.
Strange, he thought absently, how it was easier to think of how she'd handle this than figure out how he'd deal with it. If you want to be psycho-analyzed, go see a shrink, Sheppard felt. But with Elizabeth…I do care about how she feels, it's only that I don't want to open up discussion and then have her divert to my feelings. And mushy stuff, I can't take the mushy stuff. The whole 'it wasn't your fault' thing has been done to death a million times. And apart from that, the only other possible variation is the 'it was your fault' scenario, and that wouldn't be very pleasant. Isn't it better to just lay this thing to rest and move on?
About the only benefit arising form it was how things had been smoothed over with Caldwell. A lot of people hadn't trusted him after the revelation that he'd been taken host, but after having the two leaders of Atlantis succumb to a similar madness, the residents had to deal with it and move on. You couldn't blame Caldwell for unwillingly betraying you when the two most senior staff on Atlantis had gone around the city shooting at each other and anyone else who got caught in the cross-fire. Elizabeth had been on the brink of gassing three-quarters of the population, and if they weren't going to hold a grudge against her for almost wiping them out, then Caldwell was in the clear. Although Sheppard wasn't sure how he felt about that when the jerk had cracked a joke about 'the kiss'. Burn. He bet the older man had felt gleeful at that little dig. Had he no shame in taunting two bed-ridden individuals recovering from a harrowing experience?
Blame Caldwell and everything will go back to normal. What the heck, it was a good enough ploy. Enough about Elizabeth's feelings, that was how he would get on with life after this, he would successfully put it all behind him. Sheppard considered the viability of that scenario for a moment, and then snickered at his ridiculously optimistic train of thought. Sure it'll happen…
Either that or he'd end up in the infirmary with an ulcer from all the guilt.