John sat in the cafeteria glaring at the large pile of food on his plate. Two bottles of sports drink and a cafeteria cup of water were lined up along the top of the tray, one of the bottles empty the other half gone.
"Hey! Good to see you getting around. This seat taken?" asked a voice at John's left elbow. He didn't have to look up to answer.
"Hi, Rodney. No. Go ahead. I'll be right back."
He could hear Rodney's chuff of exasperation as John leaped out of his seat to hit the latrine (again, he was drinking damn water all the time and getting rid of it just as fast, it seemed). By the time he'd returned, bringing another bottle of Gatorade with him, Ronon and Teyla had joined Rodney, arranged in their usual formation. John set the fresh bottle next to the other two and sat down, blushing and grinning at his team's warm welcome.
"When did the Doc let you out?" Ronon asked around his first large bite of food.
"Last night. He was finally happy with my electrolytes. I'm off duty for another day or two, though." As if the civvies he was wearing weren't enough of a clue. He was dressed in workout pants and a t-shirt and felt the right temperature for the first time in three days. The dehydration had done a number on his thermostat and he'd felt either too hot or two cold the entire time he'd been in the infirmary. Carson said it was because his chemistry was finally coming into balance. John was going to chalk it up to comfortable clothes and his own room.
"You take all the time you need to rest," Teyla said, acting as Carson's agent when the doctor wasn't around, as usual.
"It's not rest I'm short on. I'm hungry. And thirsty. All the time." He glared at his food again, his expression of disgust obvious to the rest at the table.
"How come you're not eating then," Ronon asked, waving a chicken leg in the air. John sighed and shoved the tray further away.
"I'm full. My stomach either shrunk or I'm so filled up with water that I can't eat any more. It's the damnedest thing. I feel like I just packed in Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner in one sitting...but my brain keeps telling me I'm starving."
"Understandable," Rodney was nodding. "You're still craving calories to catch up what you lost. You're lucky. Carson's always on my back about dieting. You've got the perfect excuse to eat whatever you want and get away with it. Enjoy it while you can."
"McKay's right. You still look too scrawny. You need to eat high-calorie meals every few hours. Concentrate on dried fruit, beans, coarse bread, natural sugar like honey and fats like nuts." Ronon waved at Sheppard's plate full of mashed potatoes, white rolls and meatloaf. "That stuff's too starchy, too much fat. It fills you up before you get the kind of calories you need."
John raised an eyebrow, "When did you turn into a dietitian?" Ronon shrugged.
"Figured it out when I was running. I'd have to go days without food, then would have to catch up without slowing down. I had to be real careful not to lose too much body fat overall, but it was hard to gain."
"I'll take that as good advice, then."
"Never had to worry about water, though. Not usually." Ronon sounded sympathetic, and John fidgeted. "Just remember to do weight resistance training in lieu of cardio while you're bulking up. That'll keep the calories going into muscle instead of flab." Ronon chewed on his chicken with a pointed look at Rodney.
"What?" Rodney asked when he stopped eating long enough to realize everyone was looking at him. John chuckled. This was why he ate with his team, even when he was grumpy. He'd been frustrated and worried that he wasn't getting his strength back as quickly as he wanted, despite Carson's reassurances. He felt both encouraged and cheered up.
"You hear anything from the teams that went back to the Festival planet? They have any luck finding that kid I told them about?"
Teyla and Ronon exchanged a very suspicious look. Ronon shrugged ever so slightly, giving the floor to Teyla.
"Sgt. Schriver's team returned a few hours ago. As you suspected, the people at the Festival came from many different worlds and most had already returned to their homes. The few that remained were taking down their temporary shops and packing up the last of the supplies."
John sighed. He'd expected as much, but he'd hoped someone might have known where the kid lived. And then he narrowed his eyes, gave Teyla the onceover. She squirmed.
"You said...most had returned home?"
"Schriver got to talk to a few of them. You were also right that he was an excellent...representative to send."
John's nod was solemn. Schriver was the SGC's best "enemy" weapons expert. When John needed to learn how to use an enemy weapon, he went to Schriver. When John needed to know what he was going to be up against - whether wraith, Genii, Goa'uld or...anything, he went to Schriver. Any time they picked something good up and brought it back, it went to Schriver first. The man had an uncanny ability to take any weapon apart and put it back together. And then he'd test the thing and write up a milspec as detailed as if he'd manufactured it himself. Rodney had been trying for months to get him to use his magic on other gadgets, but Schriver refused, saying that he only understood weapons - he could figure out what a designer wanted and why. John had pulled every string he could pull to get Schriver to Atlantis, and didn't begrudge a single favor he'd spent on making it happen.
Schriver had also been badly burned in an Ori engagement two years ago. The man's scarred face and permanently missing hair on one side gave him something of a bad-ass reputation among the younger troops, but he was damn good at what he did and that was what he was known for. His morale and attitude were admired by everyone who spent ten minutes with him. John had called him in to explain the situation before recommending him to Lorne for the recon mission. Schriver had been hesitant - he hadn't pulled much off-base duty since the injury - until John had told him how much he wanted Schriver to show those messed up people what real pride was about.
"I knew he'd do great," John agreed. "Did they find the kid?"
"There was no boy named Merk on the planet at the time." Teyla was definitely stalling.
"But...?"
John grinned at Teyla's sigh of defeat. He had her number. "But a few of the remaining people were from the boy's world. They gave Schriver the gate address."
"Great!" John shoved his chair back and was starting to throw his trash onto the tray when Teyla put a restraining hand on his arm, correctly interpreting his intentions.
"You are still recovering, John. You are not cleared for gate travel for another week. Elizabeth's orders."
"I'm not going on a mission Teyla, I'm going on a visit. I just want to find the kid and get Carson's people to look at him, see if there's anything he can do."
"Carson and Elizabeth both insisted that you wait a week. Not only for you to heal, but for tempers to cool. There may be members of the festival that still wish you harm, even more so because you defied the ceremony."
"But..." John sagged, seeing the determination and truth in her eyes. "Fine," he pouted. "I'll put a mission on the books for a week. Carson's going personally for that, though."
"I think he will accept those terms." Teyla's eyes were twinkling.
"What's so special about the kid?" Rodney asked. "You told us you only talked to him for a few minutes and that he got you some water."
"That IS what's so special about the kid." John was silent for a moment, knowing he wouldn't be able to explain without getting poignant. He took a deep breath and found himself looking at the ceiling...but he gave it a go: "You can't imagine what it was like, having every single person hate you so much without knowing so much as your name. Merk was the only person in that entire, be-damned place, that said so much as three kind words.
"And the water... the water saved my life. I hadn't had a drop in almost two days, save the drugged water. I was desperate. I probably wouldn't have made it through the next day without the liter that little boy stood in the rain to get for me. I definitely wouldn't have taken out the champion. You would have shown up to find me spread around that cage in little bits and pieces. I owe him," he finished softly and then fiddled with the bottle before he finished off the half-empty one. Just talking about that time made him thirsty.
"You said he was ill?" Teyla asked softly. John chuffed, hating the sympathy in her voice...for him.
"Yeah, he said it was his heart. I hope Carson can, well, do something."
"We'll go with you." John looked up at Ronon in surprise. He shrugged. "Sure. We owe the kid, too, if he did that much for you. We were too slow. If the kid kept your skinny butt around long enough for us to find you, then he's part of the team."
"Agreed!" chimed in Teyla, looking pleased. John looked at Rodney who gave a "whatever" wave, then grinned.
"Agreed," he repeated, softly.
"At least you won't be kidnapped for being pretty anytime, soon," Rodney added chortling at his own joke. John and Teyla AND Ronon rolled their eyes at the line that was already getting really old. "You sortof look like a mangy raccoon at the moment."
"Rodney!" Teyla scolded, sounding like someone close to handing out a smackdown. She'd been the most upset by Rodney's constant teasing and the most concerned about John's reaction to it. Rodney had a point, though. The face in the mirror this morning was definitely NOT pretty. His nose was still swollen and the double crescent of deep bruises under his eyes did give him a rather "masked" look. He'd shaved once in the infirmary since coming home, but hadn't bothered this morning - the scratches and scrapes on his face made the task too uncomfortable for mere vanity.
"I told you, Rodney - those people called anyone who was normal a 'pretty'. It wasn't meant...nicely," John growled, shuddering for emphasis.
"Yes, yes. You told us. Let me know when you're going. I'll get my hair done."
John threw an empty bottle at Rodney who ducked and snatched for his tray before John could re-load. He grabbed John's tray, too, taking it to the dirty drop off in a rare gesture of thoughtfulness.
"Glad you're back on your feet," he called over his shoulder. John slouched back in his chair, enjoying the freedom to just sit for a while without duties calling him.
"Me, too," he answered, grinning. "Me, too."
John got the mission scheduled three days later on a technicality. Elizabeth had said a "week". She hadn't said a week from what. One week to the day from when he'd been rescued, John stepped through the gate and pulled out his sunglasses, half to block the mid-afternoon glare, half to hide the still-dark rings under his eyes. Teyla, Rodney and Ronon followed, then, after a brief wait, Carson puffed through the event horizon lugging a large medical kit.
"Let's move, people," John ordered cheerfully, ignoring Carson's plea for help with the bag to pick up the small duffel of his own he'd brought. Ronon finally took pity and they were soon marching into the village that spread along a cheerful brook only a few meters from the gate. He liked the times when he and his team strolled into town and made the perfect first impression - cheerful, friendly, badass - and today was one of those days. The traders noticed them first and he knew things were going well when the town magistrate was trotted out to meet them within the first hour of their visit.
Today, he let Teyla and Ronon do most of the talking. He hung back, kept his shades on and an eye out for anyone he might recognize and vice-versa. And for Merk, of course. Later that afternoon, after they had been treated to lunch at the magistrate's home John left the others doing their meet and greet thing, grabbed his duffel and wandered into the "residential" area of town. Here, the shops and government buildings gave way to simple houses and yards full of flowers and livestock. And children. John stopped to watch a pack of boys playing the same hacky-sack game the others had played in the rain, and then looked carefully into every shadow and porch and window around the neighborhood.
Still no Merk. Not allowing himself to get discouraged, he unzipped his bag and pulled out a couple of the things he'd brought. One of them was a football, the other a Frisbee. He tossed the ball into the air a couple of times and immediately had the attention of the kids. They watched him sidelong for a moment, then sidled closer.
"What you got?" one of the braver boys demanded.
"This? Nothing. Just the coolest ball ever invented."
"It's pointy. Don't look like no ball I ever seen."
"Ah, that's because it's not for bouncing, it's for throwing. And kicking." The kid looked skeptical, so John waved, "Go long! I mean, go over there and I'll throw it to you. No, further. A little more..."
When the kid was three houses away and snickering with his friends, "No one can throw no ball that far," John let fly. He had a decent arm and had managed to pull of a perfect spiral. The kid who'd been laughing made a little whumfph of surprise when the ball landed neatly in his belly. He curled instinctively and caught it, then looked at it like it had magical properties.
"Give it!", "I want to try!", "Let me have it!" the kids all pounced on the dazed scoffer and John smiled. He'd pulled the football routine on at least a dozen worlds and it worked every time.
"Get off!"
The kid with the ball shook off the crowd and with a cocky gleam, drew back his arm. "Go long," he copied as if the words might invoke the magic. John chortled along with the rest of the kids when the ball tumbled end over end and landed in the street only a few meters away.
"There's a trick to it. You gotta practice," John said as he strolled over to scoop up the ball. A half hour later and a lot of patient instruction, several in the group had a passable game of catch going. The girls tended to gravitate to the Frisbee, a circle of them were figuring it out further down the street. With the kids occupied for the moment, John walked the length of the area, peering again into the porches and windows. A flicker of movement caught his eye behind a window, a face peeped out at the noisy group of kids, then disappeared again. John smiled.
"Colonel!" John turned to see Carson puffing up the street with his medical kit. "You find the lad, yet?" he finished as he drew close. John nodded but was interrupted again.
"Colonel Sheppard!" (John had insisted the kids use his formal title during introductions) "Show Mikel how far you can throw!" The boy who'd first tried out the ball demanded, towing a boy who had clearly just joined the group. They shoved the football into John's hands and stood expectantly. He winked at Carson and tossed the ball between his hands.
"All right, one more time. But you have to tell me something first."
"OK, sure."
"Is that Merk's house?" John pointed to the window he'd seen the face. The boys laughed and made panting noises, clutching at their chests with exaggerated drama.
"Merk the baby? Yeah, he lives there."
John just tossed the ball back and forth, his face stern, his body still until the boys realized he wasn't laughing with them and they stopped their pantomime, going a little nervous.
"Merk is my friend," John said at last, cocking his hip and resting his hand on his 9mm at the same time. They boys eyes went wide and they looked at each other then back at John.
"That's Merk's house, sir."
"Good! I've got something special for him." John waited until he was certain he saw a look of curiosity cross their faces and then he grinned. "Go long!"
The phrase had become something of a trademark and the whole pack, girls and boys, hooted with happiness and ran as far as they could go down the street. John flung the ball at the pack. Carson hooted along with the kids as they jostled and wrestled in a great jumble, each trying to catch the ball themselves.
"I take it we're going to the house," he said when John turned back.
"Yup."
Together they strolled onto the porch of the simple wooden house. There were a few toys on the porch and the flower boxes were spilling over with bright, alien-looking flowers. John was relieved, Merk had a nice home to live in. He'd come to loathe the people of the festival so deeply that he'd rather assumed the worst about them in all aspects. He knocked firmly on the door, then smiled with a respectful nod at the harried woman who opened it. She had a toddler on her hip and a dishrag in her hand and looked perfectly...normal.
"Hello, ma'am. My name is John Sheppard, this is Dr. Carson Beckett."
"Hello?" the woman responded but didn't offer her name.
"I, uh...We came through the stargate this morning and I came by to say Hi to Merk. We met...at the festival." John wasn't sure how exactly to explain that, but all mothers he'd ever met would demand some kind of reason why a grown man was asking about their kid.
"The festival?" her voice went suspicious.
"Yeah. Didn't end up quite like everyone thought it would. But I've got a present for him, and I need to thank him for something. And if you'll give your permission, Dr. Beckett is a very skilled healer. He'd like to examine Merk and see if there's something he can do for his heart."
John managed to keep his face straight at the flicker of hope that flashed over the woman's face.
"You can fix his heart?" she demanded.
"Well, we need to see what the problem is first, but I'll do what I can do."
"I...you'll have to talk to his Dad about doing any potions on him, but I suppose it's fine if you talk to him and look. Merk!" she finished with a mom bellow. The boy's face popped around the frame of the door immediately. He'd obviously been lurking and listening. "Merk! Oh, there you are boy. These men say they want to talk to you."
Merk hung his head and shuffled out the door to stand in front of them. John grinned, relieved that the boy was no longer limp and wheezing like he'd been at the festival. In the bright daylight, the child's over large forehead and slightly bulging eyes were even more obvious, but the eyes were sparkling green and flashed with intelligence.
"Hey, kid," John greeted softly, dropping down on one knee. The mother bustled back into the house, muttering something about food on the stove. "I'm glad I found you."
Merk looked puzzled, trying to do it in a 'so what's it to me' kind of way. John took off his sunglasses and scrubbed at his hair, aware of Carson smiling in that annoying 'this is too cute' kind of way.
"You helped me out at the festival. Do you remember?"
Merk finally lifted his head to study John's face. John pantomimed getting a drink of water and Merk's eyes went suddenly wide and he backed up a step, breathing hard.
"You're the...you're the pretty!" he whispered looking around nervously.
"Yeah! You got me a drink. You saved my life. I had to find you to thank you."
"You fought the champion and won!"
"I did. I won because you gave me that drink of water when I really needed it." Merk's face blanched.
"Uncle was really mad you won. And then, when the metal bird swooped down on everyone, we got scared and ran away."
"Sorry about that. My friends were in the metal bird. They came to take me home, help me get well. My friend Carson," John waved at the doctor who gave Merk a small wave back, "fixed me up."
Merk looked Carson over, then looked at John, that wise expression back on his young face.
"You said you had a present for me?"
John laughed, long and loud until even Merk grinned. "Yes. I brought you a thank you gift. And then Carson's going to check your heart and see if he can do anything to make you feel better."
"What's in the bag?" Merk demanded, single minded.
Giving up, John just plopped himself on the porch steps, patted the spot next to him and opened the bag. Merk watched wide-eyed as John pulled out a large, bright red helicopter and radio remote. He presented it to the boy who was too stunned to do anything but gape, so John started talking.
"I know you have trouble running and playing, so with this toy you can fly high in the sky without moving around at all. It's a helicopter."
"It flies?" Merk was entirely skeptical.
"Yeah. Remote control. I had Rodney rig up a better power source so you won't run out of battery...in your lifetime at least. It's not too hard to figure out, but be careful around trees and never fly it too close to other kids or people."
"Ok," Merk sounded like that wasn't a problem he was worried about having.
"Let me show you."
John flipped the switches to turn everything on, put the helicopter on the ground in front of him, then pressed the throttle lever. The blades began to spin, then lift the body up off the ground. When the toy was hovering at about eye-level, John gently nudged the tail rotor lever and tipped the nose to send it forward in a large circle.
"Wow!" Merk breathed, his eyes shining. John brought it back and lowered it to the ground.
"Your turn. And don't worry if you don't get it right away. Takes a lot of practice to get the feel. It'll take a few crashes. Go ahead."
Merk took the control box and with some coaching and a nudge of the thumb or two, was able to rev the blades enough to lift it off the ground and lower it again with only a small...flop.
By this time, the buzz of the motor and the odd thing flying around on the street had attracted the kids again. Not entirely able to keep the gloating smirk off his face, John watched the boys who'd acquired the football stare in utter jealousy, their own prize forgotten.
"Show your friends how it works, Merk," John encouraged. Merk looked bashful for a minute, uncertain about the attention, but he pushed the throttle and lifted the 'copter off the ground to hover all by himself. He actually had a pretty good touch for a kid who'd never even played a video game. When the children crowed with delight, Merk busted into a wide grin...and took the toy even higher. With a gleam of daring, he tried moving it forward, too. It wobbled, shot forward, then dropped. The kids raced to pick it up and Merk's face went horrified. John just waited.
A second later, a girl ran back, put the helicopter at Merk's feet. "Do it again, Merk! Make it fly again!" she shrieked.
The look of pleasure on Merk's face - that moment when he realized that he was the one with all the attention and all the power - THAT was what John had been waiting for. He leaned his elbows back on the porch and watched Merk fly the helicopter again, getting better with each pass. Whenever it fell, a kid would fetch it and bring it back to him.
"I guess my exam will have to wait," Carson chuckled and sat next to John. Merk's mother was standing in the doorway, tears sparkling in her eyes as the children laughed and cajoled, no begged, Merk to play.
John sighed, deeply content.
"Carson," he said. "It doesn't get any better than this." The doctor didn't answer right away so John looked at him, surprised to find him being studied ferociously. "What?"
Carson just grinned. "You're right of course, Colonel. It's the small pleasures in life that seem to mean the most, once you take the time to notice."
John looked at the boys who'd made fun of Merk, now happily chasing the 'copter around and fetching it back for him. "And the smallest differences that make for the most trouble," he added softly, thinking of his father again for the first time since...the festival. "Maybe someday people will figure out how to accept each other for who they are."
"That would be lovely."
John knew full well that his trick with Merk was just that - a trick. As soon as the cool toy was broken or forgotten, the boys would most likely resume their taunting. But perhaps, just perhaps, Merk would be able to see it different. Perhaps, he'd see himself different and decide he didn't care what the others thought. Maybe, someday, John thought, he would, too.
"Someday."
A/N: OK, the fish story (probably not worth it after the buildup ;-)
More than two years ago, my son picked out a silver, black and yellow cichlid for our 30 gallon tank in the kitchen. We named him "skunk" because the black and silver went down his back just like a skunk stripe. Skunk is big and badass and proceeded to kill every other fish we put in that tank, even other cichlids. For a year, it was a "one-fish" tank as Skunk would harass any new fish literally to death before they got a chance to acclimate and fight back. About six months ago, we saw a gorgeous and HUGE, brilliant iridescent blue cichlid at the fish store. Hubby and kids had to have it, so we put a mesh tank divider to separate BJ (blue jay) the new fish from the mean old Skunk.
Skunk is now a really nasty, splotchy, battle scarred (lost one eye to ick), and certifiably insane fish. He attacks the net divider constantly, trying to get to BJ. His aggression is really...scary. BJ is gorgeous and beautiful and (now that he knows he's safe) just kindof looks at Skunk like "whatever".
SO, I was watching insane Skunk attack the net, I started imagining a scenario where Shep (the beautiful fish, of course) was caged with an insane crazy person who of course at some point would be let loose for Shep to deal with. When I sat down to write it, I thought about how we have the fish purely for recreation, how we like the pretty fish for purely superficial reasons. And how we dote on BJ and only tolerate the ugly (crazy) Skunk. Oh, well, analogy gone bad, but came out to be an OK story, if 100% completely indulgent and sappy at the end. I'm going to put pictures of the fish up on my LJ page when I post the story there, search for user "tepring" if you want to see them.
Thanks for reading, t'pring