I like this chapter. I'm glad I decided to post this story for this chapter alone - it would have been a crime not to, I think. Hopefully you'll agree!


Chapter 6 - Translation

By the time John emerged from his little hut the sky had clouded over and a light rain was falling. But still, even the muted grey made him screw up his eyes and wince at a warning stab of pain. The pain, however, soon subsided to a background murmur. John looked at his surroundings.

The area within the wood and stone walls was much smaller and more crowded than the settlement on the Hill. There was very little space between the huts and the ground sloped up to the rounded summits of each peak, so that some of the tiny houses seemed stacked one on top of another. John's little hut was at the edge of the lower peak, close to the outer wall. The large roundhouse where he had spoken, after a fashion, to the Lady Gronya, rose above the melée of lesser dwellings, on the higher peak. It seemed to have a little more space around it.

Firelight flickered in the dark interiors of the nearby huts and dim figures could be seen crouching over cooking pots, or moving about. The drizzle seemed to have driven most people indoors, but there were some chickens pecking at the dirt around John's hut. They had blue feet and blue beaks and wattles. John didn't know if there was a similar Earth breed or not. He'd never felt the need to keep up with types of chickens. Eggs would be welcome, though, even if they too were blue.

There was something caught on the hem of his tunic. Oh. No, there wasn't - it was a small child, tugging to get his attention.

"Hey," said John. "What's up?"

The child, who had straw-coloured shoulder-length hair and wore a tiny tunic and leggings similar to John's own, smiled up at him and then wiped its nose on the back of its hand before offering him the same hand.

"Er. Sure. Are we going for a walk?" He held out his hand and the little person caught hold and pulled him toward a gap between the huts. "Seems like we are," said John.

He allowed himself to be pulled along. The hazy rain beaded on his woollen clothes. He couldn't see the bulk of the high hills, even though they were close - grey mist or low cloud hid them completely from view. Maybe it was heading toward Fall. Or maybe summers were just a bit on-and-off here. It didn't seem like the ocean ever warmed up, that was for sure.

They passed a woman carrying a bale of unprocessed wool. "Good day to you, John Sheppard," she said.

He responded in kind. And when they met a boy chirping encouragement as he led a goat by a rope, John got his greeting in first.

"Good day to you, Lord," the boy responded.

Lord. John smirked. Which was good, because he was a smirky kind of guy and it was good to feel his features relaxed and not screwed up in pain.

His guide glared as John slowed down to look around. He'd heard the sound of singing and caught a glimpse of a weaving loom inside one of the larger huts.

"Okay, keep your hair on, I'm coming."

She (or he) led him down a path set with large stones and then up again, as they crossed to the higher peak.

"Are we going to see the Lady?"

The tangled head turned and grinned.

"Are you scared?" asked John. "I'm scared." He made his captured hand tremble and pulled a terrified face.

He (or she) giggled and the straw mop shook.

"Yeah, I know," said John. "No need to be scared if you're there to protect me. You won't run off and leave me, will you?"

The small hand tightened on his. The little figure took a fortifying breath and shook his (or her) head, frowning seriously. Was this a rebuke? Was the child telling him not to be so silly? Or pledging their protection in the face of the ultimate authority?

John squeezed the little hand. "Lead on, young warrior," he said.

His protector towed him up the slope and then, when they reached the great roundhouse, wrestled its large leather door curtain aside so that John could enter.

"Thanks," said John, holding the curtain, which threatened to brush the child aside. He let it fall and was towed, once again gripped by the hem of his tunic, into the glow of the central hearth.

The Lady's chair was empty, but on logs drawn up close to the fire sat Teyla and Ronon and Breesha. Breesha was holding one of the little round handlooms that John remembered and a long cord trailed from its centre.

"Ah, Sellen, there you are," said Breesha. She sorted through a bag at her feet and held out a small piece of carved wood to the child. "Your reward."

Sellen enfolded the item in a grubby fist. "Fank-oo, Leddy Bweesha," she or he said, politely and squatted down to walk the tiny wooden animal over the floor, jumping it over the scattered rushes.

"Sit down, John," said Breesha, patting the log next to her.

John sat. Ronon nodded and quirked a half smile at him, before resuming his knife-sharpening.

Teyla greeted him. "John. You look much better. I am glad."

"Yeah, me too," said John. "I mean, you look better too. Both of you."

Teyla smiled and it wasn't just the light from the fire - she had real colour in her cheeks, and it occurred to John that she'd not been quite herself even before the Jumper crash. There was something else different about her, too, other than the rusty orange dress she wore and the fact that she had one arm in a sling.

"Did you do something to your hair?"

Ronon snorted.

Teyla ran her free hand down one of two smooth braids. "The young women that I have been sharing a house with insisted that my hair should be braided as I am married." She tugged at the braid, which ended just past her chin. "But mine are short. I think I look like a little girl playing dress-up."

"You look cute," said John, without thinking. But Teyla didn't seem to take offence. "Uh - you okay, Chewie?"

"Yeah." Ronon nodded at his extended leg. "It's healing pretty good. I'm going running tomorrow. You wanna come?"

John scratched the back of his neck. "Maybe."

"No," said Breesha crisply. "Whatever your friend suggested, John, your answer is no."

"He says he's going running tomorrow," John translated.

"He is, as I have said, a foolish young man. But no doubt he knows his own limits." She held up her woven cord in the firelight and examined it critically.

John opened his mouth to argue. He knew his own limits. He just didn't often respect them. And he didn't usually get a choice, did he? Being the buck-stops-here, military commander. He frowned and flicked at the end of his leather belt and grumbled under his breath.

"I had thought Rodney would bring you to us," murmured Breesha, concentrating once again on her cord. "But you did not come, and Sellen, my little helper, was at hand."

Maybe he should ask her for one of the little round looms to keep his hands busy. John pleated up the edge of his cape and then let it fall.

"He came to you and helped you dress?"

"Yeah."

The fire spat. Teyla was very still, staring into the flames. Was she seeing her son's face?

"I could send Sellen to find him."

"Mm."

She sighed. "I hoped you would both help in teaching your friends our language."

"I'll help," said John. He shuffled along the log so that he was nearer to Ronon. "Hey, buddy - how about we go through these guys' words for weapons?"

"Sure," said Ronon.

John began teaching his friend and, in a soft murmur, Breesha named things for Teyla. And there was no more awkward conversation.

An informal lunch was served - bread and cheese and sharp, juicy fruit, as well as the usual light ale. Men and women drifted in to eat and John didn't see Rodney come in, but suddenly Breesha was scolding him and flinging his damp cape over the high rafters and spreading it out carefully to dry.

Then a party of noisy children tried to get more than their fair share of the fruit and Breesha had to deal with them. She followed them out of the doorway, assigning tasks as she went.

Rodney helped himself to a generous plateful of the food. John decided to ignore him. Teyla would pick up any slack in the team conversation anyway. But Rodney hesitated. Was he not even going to sit with his team? Had his dislike of his former friend gone that far? The fruit John had just eaten turned sour in his gut.

Dislike wasn't the word, though. John didn't know what words would describe Rodney's attitude toward him. Other than fucking pathetic, obviously.

Eventually, Rodney sat down on one of the logs against the outer wall. Fine. John had had it with their friendship. Earlier, he'd thought there was a chance Rodney had got over whatever issue he had stuck up his ass, and John had been pleased. But if he couldn't even be bothered to sit with his team, if he couldn't even bring himself to sit down and have a meal with them because John was there…

"Log," said John angrily, slapping his seat.

Ronon repeated the word. He wouldn't forget it either. Once John told Ronon a word, that was it - it was indelibly written in his memory. As indelible as John had thought his and Rodney's friendship was.

"Uh, okay…" He ran his hand through his hair. His head was starting to ache again. "We've done bread, cheese… Hey, I think you're ready for something more complicated."

"Cool," said Ronon.

"Yeah, okay, let's do some slang," said John. Yes, he thought. Let's do some goddamn fucking slang. Let's do that and see how he likes it. "So, it took me a while to work out words like cool and so on. But every language has 'em."

He explained a few of those flexible words - the words that, like in English, could mean one simple thing but could, when said with a certain emphasis or appreciation (or maybe things like anger or resentment) mean something quite different.

A young woman walked by, her hair tumbling loosely around her shoulders. "She's hot," said Ronon, using the local phraseology and getting the idiom exactly right. She blushed and gave Ronon an openly admiring glance before moving away.

"Yeah, you're getting it," said John. "And some things are the same in any language." Rodney was still there, stuffing his face, chomp, chomp, chomp and then a slurp of beer, like a rhythmic machine. "So," said John bitterly, "if you wanted to say 'He's an asshole', it'd go like this…"

Ronon repeated the words, appreciatively.

"Yeah, that's good," John approved. "That's perfect. Or, hey, you might want to say, 'He's a shithead.' Some days, I feel like saying that all the damn time."

He translated, really giving the words plenty of oomph, letting the hurt out for a change instead of ramming it down inside himself. Maybe the blows to his head had shaken a few things loose.

Ronon repeated his words, grinning. Then he asked, "How d'you say you're a shithead?"

"John," said Teyla. "I do not think-"

John ignored her and told Ronon what he wanted to know, glancing at Rodney again. His jaws had stopped chomping.

"You're an asshole and a shithead," said Ronon, loudly, with perfect pronunciation. "How's that?"

"Great," said John. "Hey, you're good at this."

"John, if you want to teach Ronon such words, you should do it in private," said Teyla. "You might offend some of our hosts."

"C'mon, Teyla," said John. "We're not doing any harm. And anyway, do they look offended?"

Several of the warriors looked amused and the girls who'd already been watching Ronon didn't seem at all put off by his and John's language.

John rubbed his hands together, shuffled further forward on his log and leant toward his friend, a sudden, eager need to purge himself of poisonous resentment obliterating the pain in his ribs. "So, let's try something more complicated." He rubbed his beard, thoughtfully. Maybe he'd ask Ronon to shave it for him with one of his many knives - but not until they'd finished their language lesson.

"So, say there's someone really pissing you off, and you don't know why. Say you've really gone through all the things you've said or done to make this guy think you deserved to be treated like a piece of shit - and you've come up blank. Say that every time you think, 'Hey, maybe that's it, maybe we're back to normal now,' he just goes and fucks off again, like you've done something else wrong - fuck knows what, but anyway-"

"I get the picture, Sheppard. What do I say to the guy?"

"Okay, so you'd want to say something like this. Listen." He spoke in the dialect of the Hill, which was subtly different to the Island, and different again to the more singsong quality of the Sumark folk. He turned his head in Rodney's direction and his throat tightened so that he couldn't keep the tremor out of his words. "What the hell is your problem, you total piece of shit? Who the fuck do you think you are, treating me like that, speaking to me like that? I thought we were friends! You complete fucking bastard!"

Rodney's gaze was fixed straight ahead, the bread forgotten in his hand. A flush crept up over his cheeks to his forehead and a sheen of sweat sprang out.

"Sheppard?"

John was breathing through his nose, his mouth clamped tight. He forced himself to relax and shrugged and said, "Let's break it down a phrase at a time, yeah?" His voice cracked with anger and hurt, but he couldn't stop. "So, repeat after me…"

Rodney sprang to his feet and threw his bread roll down on the floor. He was trembling. All of the Sumark folk had stopped talking and were looking their way.

And John looked Rodney directly in the eye and said, "What the hell is your problem, you total piece of shit?"

Then Rodney spoke, fast and high and brittle, but Teyla also spoke, soft and desperate - and for a long moment John couldn't separate their words. Then his brain caught up.

Teyla had said, "I am pregnant."

And Rodney… Rodney - high and fast and so, so desperate - Rodney had said:

"My problem is that I love you!"

John looked at Rodney. "You…" Then he looked at Teyla. "You're…"

He looked back at Rodney. "You love me?"

And then at Teyla. "You're pregnant?"

Teyla responded, in a tumbling rush. "Yes! And I am afraid that my husband will never meet his daughter and my son will never know his sister and that I will never… never…" She broke down and covered her face with her hand.

John found himself at her side, and Ronon moved to Teyla's other side and she was pregnant and she'd said-

"Hang on, you said a daughter? It's a girl? How do you know?"

"I just know, John!" She grabbed his hand and squeezed it painfully tightly.

"But, how long…?"

"Hey!" Rodney interrupted. "Hey! Over here! Why's she getting all the attention? I just spilled my guts too!"

John didn't even look at him. His eyes were fixed on Teyla's bangs, which hid her downturned face. She'd never seemed so small.

"Excuse me, I just asked a question!"

Hands were flapping in the periphery of his vision. John turned toward Rodney, Teyla's hand still gripping his.

"Because what she said's important and what you said's just bullshit!" growled John. He turned back to his drooping, pregnant teammate. "Teyla, why didn't you say? You shouldn't have come. You should never have gotten into this mess with the rest of us."

She flung up her head and met his gaze with all the pride of her Athosian heritage. "Because it was ending, John. The tyranny of the Wraith was supposed to be ending after so long, after so many, many people loved and lost. And I wanted to be there."

"Yeah. Yeah, I see that." He sighed and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Teyla. I'm sorry I got you into this. But you know I'm gonna get you home, don't you?" Her hand was limp and soft and now it was his turn to squeeze, projecting his strength.

"I know, John." She sniffed. "I know you will never give up."

"Well, I won't give up either, you know!" said Rodney. "And of the two of us, it's more likely to be me that gets us home, that discovers some miraculous way of sending a signal, or resurrecting our drowned Jumper or some other solution that no one else would ever come up with in a million years except me!"

"Shut up, McKay," said John. One more word. One more piece of made-up bullshit and he'd snap and punch McKay in the face.

"Didn't you hear me?"

Hard fingers grabbed John's shoulder and shook it.

"Didn't you hear what I said?"

He let go of Teyla's hand and sprang up and his headache bloomed back to life and his ribs screamed at the sudden motion. "What? What did you say that I could possibly want to listen to?" John yelled in Rodney's face, nose-to-nose and it felt really, really good.

"You wanted to know! You wanted to know and I told you!" Rodney waved his hands at the watching crowd. "I told everyone here, loud and clear - I love you!"

"And I told you," - John poked Rodney hard in the chest - "bullshit! And I'll say it again - that's bullshit McKay!"

"No, it's not, goddammit! It's not! I've loved you for years! Years and years and years! And I've had to watch you with your alien princesses and your Ancients and your nurses and my scientists and all the others, and know you'll never look at me like that, that I'll never be the one for you, not like you're the one for me, not like you're the one that makes everyone else second best!"

"What the fuck are you on about, McKay? You love me?" John's stomach turned. "You don't even know me! You don't know a goddamn thing about me, if you think - you think that's me, that guy who -" John sneered and stepped back. "I don't know why I'm even talking to you!"

"John, perhaps you should hear him out."

"Teyla?"

"Perhaps you should listen to what Rodney has to say this time."

John stared at her. His fingers twitched at his sides and his heart raced.

"Yeah, buddy." Ronon nudged at his leg with one extended foot. "Then maybe you can both move on."

His throat was dry. He licked his lower lip and swallowed. His brain wouldn't process. Listen? He'd done nothing but listen to Rodney for - was it weeks or months this had been going on? He'd listened, he'd taken all the crap. Maybe he should just have gone for punching him in the face first, no questions asked.

"Look," said John, "I don't know what the hell's going on here, I really don't. But if you think I haven't listened, haven't been putting up with this shit…"

"But you wouldn't listen when Rodney confessed his feelings to you," said Teyla. "And I believe that is what has led to all of this unpleasantness."

"What?" John rotated slowly in place and Rodney swung back into view. He couldn't feel his feet or his legs. The faces of the Sumarkians were blank blobs swimming in the background. Rodney's face came into focus, sharp and clear, his cheeks redder than ever, his mouth twisted to one side, his eyes cast down. "McKay?"

"Well, you wouldn't. Listen. When I -"

"When you what? When you told me all about you and Keller? When you told me how you were just waiting for the right moment to propose? When you went on and on and on about her - about how perfect she is, how right for each other you are, how every little thing she does makes you love her even more?"

"I do love her!" said Rodney. "I do! And maybe if I'd never met you I could have been happy with her. But I did! And I can't! I can't get over you. She'll always be second best and I'm such a shit because she loves me, really loves me and I'm just settling! I'm taking what I can get because I can't have what I really want! I want you, John! I always have!"

"You didn't tell me!" John swung around again, and looked down at Teyla, cradling her sore wrist and Ronon, his long legs stretched out, his eyes narrowed as if assessing a potential target. "He didn't tell me! I don't know what he said to you, but this is the first I've heard!"

There was a short pause. John's head swam. He wiped his brow on the back of one sleeve.

Then Teyla asked, "Rodney?"

Her voice was freezing cold, but John was hot - too hot. And Rodney was looking at him with those big, blue, pleading eyes.

This was why John had learned to fly. So he could get away. So he didn't have to stay, trapped and caught in the middle of shit like this, in the middle of resentment and conflict and feelings. Give him the type of conflict he could deal with. Give him a warzone where there was an enemy and it was his job to shoot them down.

"Rodney, did you confess your feelings to John?"

"I -"

"Before today, Rodney. Did you tell John you loved him and wanted to have a relationship with him?"

Rodney folded his arms. And there it was, the defensive chin lift - just the right angle so that John's fist would meet it with all his strength. John clenched both fists, but didn't move.

"I made it quite plain," said Rodney. "I spent all my free time with him and a considerable proportion of my not-free time."

"Did you tell him?"

"I organised date nights. We talked about… everything. We sat so close you couldn't get a graphene membrane between us - and that's only one atom thick, you know!"

"Rodney!"

"Okay, maybe not in so many words! Maybe I didn't actually say the words! But for fuck's sake - how could you not get that? How could you misinterpret that in any way shape or form? How could you not know?"

"I…" A trickle of sweat ran down the side of John's face. His woollen clothes were too warm, there were too many layers wrapped around him, stifling him. He yanked at the pin on his shoulder and the cape slithered down his back and fell on the ground.

Teyla was talking. Ronon was talking. Rodney was still talking.

"I didn't…" He was too hot and his ribs screamed with every quick, shallow drag of his lungs.

They were talking to him - at him - and to each other and he didn't answer but they didn't stop.

No. No, he wasn't doing this. He wasn't staying here to take this. He couldn't fly away, no. But he wouldn't stay, not like he'd had to, all those times when his Dad had made him stay - 'stand up straight, hands behind your back, listen to what I have to say to you!'

"John? John!"

He didn't know if it was Teyla calling after him or Ronon or all three of them. There was grey cloud above him and cold air on his skin, cold air pushing its way between the folds of his clothes and fine drops of misty rain on his face and hands, dampening his hair, working down toward his scalp, cooling him and soothing him.

John stumbled down the slope, skidding on the rain-slick slabs and jarring his ribs, then carried on, beyond the palisade, ignoring the hail of the guard. He should stop. He should go back and face them, but his feet led him down the beaten-earth path, past the boy grazing his goat, down and down, circling around the hill, his boots squelching in the mud.

He reached the foot of the hill and didn't recognise the path - he'd been too tired, too hazy with concussion and exhaustion when they'd arrived. And he didn't want the path anyway. He didn't want to be seen from the fort, which could see everything for miles around.

I've loved you for years.

John plunged off the path into the thick undergrowth, into the thickets of small willow trees and tumbled clumps of rushes.

Years and years and years.

The ground was soft. Water seeped into his boots. He grasped a branch to steady himself, but then moved on, one handhold to the next, the scent of earth and rotting things rising. The water was ankle deep and then calf deep. He kept going.

How could you not know?

John stopped, dizzy with hurt and confusion and the roaring in his head. He bent over, his hands on his knees, and the ripples in the water pixelated and sharpened in time with his rapid pulse.

Heat and sweat flashed over his temples. His mouth filled with saliva and he vomited, then staggered away and collapsed against a tree, one arm clamped to his side against the unrelenting jabs in his ribs.

Rodney loved him.

Did he? Really?

What kind of love was it, then, that could inflict so much pain? That could deliberately grind John down, day after day, week after week? Love mixed with anger, he guessed. Love mixed with self-loathing. Rodney loved and Rodney hated - John, Keller, himself?

"I don't…" His head spun. "I can't…"

John shivered. He could go back. He could go back to his little hut and take off his wet clothes and bank up the fire and not come out until he'd made sense of this whole thing.

But not yet.

It had been like a performance. A drama performance for the whole fort, for everyone who happened to have popped into the meeting house for lunch - entertainment laid on. And it didn't matter that he and his team had been speaking English. They'd still know. They'd all know.

He couldn't go back yet. Couldn't face the stares, the enquiries. Couldn't face Breesha. Not yet.

John gripped the willow branch more tightly. Then he swung himself up into the arms of the tree, pushing between the close-packed branches until he was well wedged in.

He'd come full circle, then. Right back to all those times when he wouldn't go back, he wouldn't go in - when he'd hidden in the woods rather than go back to the ranch house, or he'd hidden in the park when he couldn't go back to the apartment, or he'd walked and walked for miles next to the rushing, surging waves, because the beach house was too full of anger.

Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard, military commander of the Ancient City of Atlantis, hid in a tree at the edge of a swamp. He rested his head against the steadiness of the living branch. And just breathed.


What a mess! Teyla's pregnant! Rodney finally came out and said it! And John, finally, spoke his mind! I really enjoyed writing that scene. I think Ronon enjoyed it too...