Coming Home

by KathainBowen

McKay suddenly reappears afters years missing, but with no memory of what has happened, or even who he is. Can Sheppard get him to come home willingly after all this time? Or will McKay just slip away once more? Yummy amnesiac hurt/comfort abounds.

2. Runs in the Ink

RUNS IN THE INK

From the personal journal of A'Gaeris

Gitsahth is an unforgiving Age, precisely as I wrote it. I find this Age to have a rugged, untamable beauty to it, a savage world. I spent the better portion of three years crafting this Age to my whims to willfully fashion a world inhospitable for permanent residence, discouraging for any nosy busybodies or Maintainers that might just slip into this Age. I did not, however, chose Gitsahth as our refuge entirely for this reason; I chose it for the sea, cold and viscous, the perfect behavioral correction with little force or effort required to employ it.

The outsider, Rodney McKay, is far more tractable today after his stay on the East pier. Even now, as I pen this entry, he sits across from me, silently working away. I put him to work early this morning studying the Rehevkor and practicing his written D'ni in his copybook. He is not happy, not at all. In fact, I do believe he rather loathes the drudgery of such tasks. He stews and sulks, even now, but he is holding his tongue well for the moment, the memory of my exacting punishments still fresh at mind.

This is the last time I shall force him to copy from the Rehevkor out of necessity. His penmanship, though uneven, choppy and appallingly atrocious, seems to have reached its pinnacle, an inherent limitation spurned by his natural and unseemly haste. It was necessary that he be fluent in written D'ni that he comprehend my notations on the subject, but this incessant copying is not necessary anymore. I find it merely occupies his mind while I have other, more pressing matters to attend to.

Tomorrow, the true work begins.

xxx

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xxx

Gulls swoop and caw overhead, alighting and skimming easily along on the breeze. They glide along effortlessly and gracefully, seeming to hover atop the updrafts before drifting back down to the sandy dunes only to reeling up once more to the heavens. They bob and slip along like little kites caught on the wind, their feathers shining in bright ivory under the warm, afternoon sun of this world. Rahd'ni raises his hand to shield his eyes and studies the birds as they fly freely over him. He pauses only in his observations briefly to jot a quick note in his journal regarding their behavior and the wind patterns along this strip of creamy sand; it is a deeply engrained habit Rahd'ni cannot so simply curtail.

He shuts this, his newest journal to glance over his shoulder at Sheppard. The man sits perhaps no more than a few yards away upon one of the smooth, warmly baked boulders. Sheppard's splinted leg stretches out before him, but the man hardly seems to care. One hand hovers perpetually at his ear, and he speaks nearly constantly to someone on the other side of the radio. Rahd'ni wonders who before feeling a flush of shame at his prying; it is in exceedingly ill manner to listen in on another's conversation in D'ni and any culture really.

Sheppard notices Rahd'ni attention and calls, "You doing okay over there?"

Rahd'ni gives a curt nod, opens his journal once more and purposely wedges his nose firmly between the pages. He feels awkward and uncomfortable about Sheppard, his hackles raised impossibly. Rahd'ni did not feel this way until he saw the downright gleeful and covetous gleam in Sheppard's eye upon spying Rahd'ni's schematics. The man had seeming genuinely thrilled to see such detailed designs, the story of the lives hanging in balance rather heartfelt. Yet Rahd'ni cannot bring himself so simply and easily trust, and he feels a knot steadily forming in his gut.

"Lorne's almost here. ETA 8 minutes," Sheppard announces almost cheerfully, slapping a hand on his hip. "We'll be home before you know it."

"Home," Rahd'ni whispers timidly to himself, too low for Sheppard to hear, shivering despite the pleasant warmth of this Age.

It does not matter; Sheppard has returned his attention to the radio and misses the minute tremble at the thought of this supposed "home." The word feels devoid of meaning when not referring to the great, wide cavern of D'ni, the only home he has known in the terrifyingly short span of his memory. This world is too bright, too open, too wide. D'ni had been comforting, cloistered, protective, dimly lit by the soothing glow of the lake's bioluminescent algae and shrouded by the perfect, cloudless darkness of the cavern's ceiling.

Sheppard calls once more to Rahd'ni. "Hey." Rahd'ni turns to spot the colonel pointing at the blue skies. "There's Lorne now."

Rahd'ni squints to focus the light but sees nothing. He slips the glasses perched atop his head down, over his eyes, and adjusts the magnification and focus to them. Sure enough a cylindrical object jets through the skies towards them, glistening in the sun with a metallic, sheen somewhere between bronze and gold. Jumper, no gateship. His mind easily supplies the name for the nimble little craft. Rahd'ni smiles warmly at the approaching ship, his heart leaping in his throat and trilling happily at the sight. There is something intensely satisfying about seeing the craft cut through the sky and burst through the clouds.

"Pretty cool, isn't it?"

Rahd'ni shrugs it off with the nonchalance granted a Writer well adjusted to crafting Ages of sublime beauty with just the precise combinations of words. "I guess."

Sheppard rolls his eyes but says nothing else as the craft swoops down towards them to land neatly upon the beach. He clambers to his feet unsteadily as the hatch opens to greet Lorne. Out of the corner of Sheppard's eye, he spots Rahd'ni rising to his feet as well, swiftly stuffing his journal into his knapsack. Lorne jumps from the puddlejumper, trotting over to them lightly across the sand. The motion is too sudden, too fast, and Rahd'ni flinches instinctively from it, taking a reflexive step back, his face blanching. Lorne instantly comes to a halt as soon as he sees the surprise and unbridled fright written upon Rahd'ni's features.

The presence of a paper, blue surgical mask across his face does not surprise Sheppard entirely, but Lorne smiles at Rahd'ni broadly and easily beneath the mask, his eyes shining with the expression. "McKay, it's really good to see you again."

Rahd'ni frowns at this newcomer and shifts his weight tensely. His palms go acutely cold and clammy. He rubs them on his pants leg, but the sensation remains, tingling through his skin with uncomfortable chills. Rahd'ni trembles slightly, and he fidgets to attempt to loosen the tension in his muscles. He purposefully keeps his distance as Sheppard draws near to this Lorne and exchanges a few, tense words with the stranger. Lorne nods and totters back to the puddlejumper, his eyes wide with shock, but, as he goes, some of the tightness to Rahd'ni's muscles slips away with him. He turns away, embracing the calm emptiness of the ocean, oddly and infinitely preferring the loneliness of the vast seas and slow, hypnotic and methodically languid curls of the waves to the abrupt and jerking motions of Lorne and Sheppard.

Sheppard's fingertips brush Rahd'ni's shoulder, jolting Rahd'ni from his silent reverie and breathing, "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah," Rahd'ni mutters, withdrawing from Sheppard's touch.

"Shall we?" the colonel inquires, gesturing with an overly dramatic sweep of his hand to the open jumper.

Rahd'ni swallows, his stomach clenching once more. This is supposed to be easy, simple. Sheppard's presence heralds a home he cannot remember, promising to return the life he has lost. And, yet, it feels like standing before a deep, gaping precipice and preparing to leap right off. The expression on both Lorne's and Sheppard's faces had been that of excitement and relief. Did that make him a good man and a loved friend in his past? Does he have a prior history and fame to live up to? It bothers him, this not knowing. It seems, in retrospect, somehow easier to live without memory and alone in D'ni than to worry about picking up the pieces of a life that still does not feel his own.

Rahd'ni nods and replies, "Yes, of course."

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Doctor Jennifer Keller fingers the smooth band of cool metal once more before letting the ring slip through her grasp. It does not fall far. The thin, silver chain about her neck suspends it effortless above her pale skin where the ring has resided for several years now. It is a plain, unadorned thing, simple and crude even by Pegasus standards of craftsmanship, but, to her, it is beyond compare.

A voice crackles over the bud in her ear, tinny and metallic sounding. "This is Lorne, en route with Sheppard and McKay." There is a pause. "Lorne to infirmary."

Keller's heart skips a beat at the message, but she manages to raise a shaking hand to tap her radio in response. "This is Keller. Go ahead, Lorne."

"Sheppard busted his leg in a fall and thinks it might be broken."

Keller nods to herself. "I'll have a team on standby." She holds her breath, reaching down absently to brush the ring about her neck with her fingers before asking, "And Rodney?"

A long silence spans over the radio, too long for Keller's comfort before Lorne answers. "He seems disoriented and a bit confused to be honest. Sheppard says he's experienced severe long term memory loss." Keller catches her breath in horror, but Lorne goes on reassuringly, "Aside from that, he's coherent and looks to be in good health. Just quiet."

The doctor in Keller is both dually pleased and intrigued. Memory loss is generally indicative of a severe trauma, either physical or psychological. She instantly calculates the various factors that could have caused such an extreme impairment. Simultaneously, that part of her sighs in intense relief. A cognizant patient suggests that damage has stabilized over time and is not necessarily crippling, nor worsening; here is something to be said for such small miracles. The physician is currently and clinically plotting away at all sorts of tests and scans she will order in an attempt to track the source of the amnesia and disorientation to reverse the effects.

Conversely, it is the woman in Keller, the friend and lover who wants nothing more than to curl into a tiny ball in her bed and sob. Rodney McKay had always been a proud, stubborn and self-sure man. She cannot imagine a Rodney without any sense of self or history. McKay had always prided himself at his intellect, his innately eidetic memory, his varied accomplishments. It seems impossibly cruel to for him to have his memories stolen away.

It is, however, the doctor in Keller who wins out and reaches to her radio once more. "We'll be on standby for your arrival."

xxx

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xxx

The jumper ride is quiet and relatively uneventful. Rahd'ni sits in silence in the far aft of the compartment, his head bowed slightly, his body trembling despite the smooth, easy ride of the craft under Lorne's steady command. Sheppard sits across from him, his leg stretched out before him, staring at the tensing man before him. The colonel wants to say something, anything, to reassure Rahd'ni, but he cannot find anything really to say.

Sheppard gazes ahead of them through the window of the cockpit, to the blue expanse of Lantea's wide open skies spread before him invitingly. Lorne skims the jumper just over the water, keeping low and even. In time, a tiny, glittering speck appears on the horizon, steadily growing and taking shape of the elegant, towering spires of Atlantis. Sheppard smiles at the silver gleam of the city as it greets him with a warm hum in the back of his mind.

He nudges Rahd'ni with his toe and nods his head in Atlantis's direction. "Check it out." As the towers span tall on the horizon, Sheppard grins broadly. "Look familiar?"

Rahd'ni sits up slightly, staring out at the shining metal city and smiling distantly, taking in the sight studiously. He feels his heart swell in recognition. This is the city he has dreamed of so very often in the dark depths of the silent, dead, D'ni nights. It stands tall and proud, floating over a glittering sea as it always has in his dreams, both catching and reflecting the light of a crisp, summery sun. The city shines both a silvery blue and a burnished gold where the light glints just right, shimmering with an impossibly iridescent splendor in countless colors between the sharp reflections. The metal seems to flow in design, curving here and there at just the right angle, a masterpiece worthy of the admiration of even the greatest of Surveyors, every measured and precise angle an expression of serenity and timeless beauty.

Something tickles at the back of Rahd'ni's mind, fanning out over his consciousness with a familiar and tender warmth. It hums through his nerves, flaring outward with an electric tingle. It is a familiar sensation, bearing with it an uncanny sense of welcome. Rahd'ni's consciousness recoils reflexively from the intrusion, no matter how faint, and feels the presence retreat and dim away, flushed with an impression of hurt.

Sheppard's expression quirks slightly to something akin to disappointment, and he glances to Rahd'ni. "She missed you..."

"She?"

Sheppard turns his gaze downward to his boots, drawing a pregnant breath. "Yeah. We all did."

Rahd'ni frowns at whatever the colonel might be insinuating, but, instead of pressing the issue or fawning over the city as Sheppard expected Rahd'ni to, he merely takes his journal and a stick of charcoal to jot a rough sketch of the city. Sheppard peers over his shoulder and smiles mildly at the artistic skill he never knew Rodney to bear. Rahd'ni finishes quickly, giving pause to add a brief annotation in scrolled D'ni before closing the book once more and stowing it safely away in his knapsack. The stark lack of dramatic overreaction that once typified McKay's behavior unsettles Sheppard, but he refrains from commentary as Lorne calmly sets the jumper down in the bay.

"Dr. Keller has a medical team ready and waiting to take you to quarantine," Lorne states, looking quite pointedly to Sheppard.

The colonel nods and opens rear hatch to the jumper, revealing Dr. Keller accompanied by a quite sizable entourage of medical staff decked out with their own precautionary masks and protective garb. Sheppard only winces visibly initially at the sight of an empty wheelchair awaiting him at Keller's side, forgetting the other man. He has been hobbling about on one leg for some time, and, while his legs ache from the effort, Sheppard is not about to willingly entertain the notion that he cannot make it to the infirmary under his own steam. Keller folds her arms across her chest sternly, as though both reading his mind and preparing for a stand-off on that small matter.

"Face it, you're getting a one way ticket to the infirmary whether you like it or not," the doctor orders mockingly.

Sheppard shrugs, ambling forward on wobbling legs. "Wasn't about to argue it."

The doctor glares playfully, her eyes speaking volumes to exactly how much she believes that statement as Sheppard staggers forward, revealing the man behind him. The doctor's eyes go wide at the sight of Rodney McKay after all these years. So changed, so different, with his long hair, formal clothes, and sturdy cloak. He blanches upon seeing her.

"Rodney?" She whispers his name and takes a step forward, too quickly, perhaps, sending his respiration racing. Keller freezes instantly at the reaction, impulsively touching a hand to the ring upon her neck. "Rodney... do you remember me?"

Jennifer, nude yet artistically demure, lying out on his bed on her stomach with her hair swept over one shoulder, her body lithe and elegant. The blankets rumpled, gathered up, and held before her decidedly modest but altogether lovely chest. Her long, lanky legs crossed at the ankles like a pin-up model. Her voice husky as she beckoned with a seductive curl of her finger, a come-hither gesture that seems somehow indelibly sinuous coming from her. A geeky joke of a come on that only he could appreciate passes through lips soft and plump from kissing as she smirks devilishly.

"Face it, Tiger, you just hit the jackpot."

She's gotten into his comic stash, and he couldn't be more thrilled.

Rahd'ni swallows hard to force the sudden thickness in his throat down and grips at the memory wildly, but, like dreams upon waking, fist fulls of sand and slippery bars of soap, the harder he grasps at it, the swifter it abandons him. His cheeks flush and burn with embarrassment of the intimacy of the memory, and his head throbs from the effort of clinging so desperately to it. This is the way it always is when he tries to remember too hard. He turns his gaze downward to avoid the pointed stares as he inches back, into the jumper.

Sheppard looks to the man behind him as Rahd'ni begins to shrink back and winces. "Sorry, doc. I should have better warned you." He turns his full attention to Rahd'ni and drops his voice to a croon gently, "Rahd'ni, this is Dr. Keller. You've known her ever since she came to Atlantis."

Rahd'ni nods slowly and appreciatively, sifting through the fragments of what remains from the decidedly inappropriately timed memory flittering through his consciousness. The stranger folds his arms across his chest uncomfortably and presses his lips together tightly. He moves forward with a slow, hesitant shuffle that does not escape Dr. Keller's notice. His reluctancy is a frightfully heavy thing, weighing upon her heart with a crushing weight. His eyes flicker fearfully between the medical officers, jerking towards them at even the barest suggestion of motion. Both the colonel and the doctor stir at the sight of the obvious discomfort.

Sheppard teeters towards Keller, artistically trips, and, when she catches him, leans in to whisper in her ear, "He was alone all this time." Sheppard jerks his head purposefully in the direction of the medical team. "Think we can ditch some of these guys?"

"Good idea."

Keller "helps" Sheppard into the wheelchair and breaks away for just a moment, long enough to give her team their marching orders. She receives raises eyebrows and curious stares for her effort, but, under her sharp glare, the team scurries off to the infirmary to prep the scanner and a barrage of tests for Rodney. With a vaguely satisfied smile, she returns to the wheelchair and takes the handles. Rahd'ni, however, has backed further into the puddlejumper by now, retreating away from the bustle and motion; Keller sighs in relief to know that the team is leaving granted this reaction.

"Rodney?" she calls softly. "Would you come with us?"

The man scrunches his face into a tight, bitter expression; Sheppard frowns deeply and corrects the woman in a low, chiding hiss, "Rahd'ni. He prefers Rahd'ni now."

Keller flinches at the new identity of the man who had once been her lover, a man she hopes is her lover still, lurking beneath these outer layers; she apologizes limply. "I'm sorry, Rahd'ni." She gestures to the corridor. "If you would just follow me."

"Where?" he demands coldly, clutching his knapsack tightly with white knuckles.

Sheppard speaks calmly, slowly, as though to child or spooked horse. "The infirmary, Rahd'ni. Keller just wants to check you out, make sure you're okay."

"I am healthy," Rahd'ni argues, folding his arms indignantly across his chest and sticking his nose in the air proudly. "I've been... tracking my health since the fall." An inscrutable expression mars his features once more, something bordering on remorse and perhaps tinted with anger. "Healthy."

"It's just standard operating procedure around here," Sheppard presses.

Rahd'ni snorts but slowly, reluctantly, complies.

xxx

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xxx

From the personal journal of A'Gaeris

Perfection. I woke the outsider, Rodney McKay, early this morning, a little after third bell. He balked as always but, with just a small measure of pressure, acquiesced quickly to my summons, albeit with a dogged reluctance in his own tiny and willful defiance, dragging his feet as we went. I more than benevolently indulged his childish antics this morning I brought him to my private library.

I had already carefully concealed and secured the linking book to Mehtidhsai - the world he was snared from, and, thusly, he posed little threat to me in my own, personal library. He had never been to my library before this morning and, surrounded by so many books, the outsider's mind clearly yearned to taste the information contained therein. He kept his hands to himself, though, like a well mannered little pet, but his eyes were roving, planning, taking notes of whatever supplies and tools I may have carelessly left within reach. I allowed him such study freely, knowing nothing is left out without reason.

He was hungry; he had not eaten since early yesterday evening. I had Corlam serve a simple breakfast and invited the outsider to sit with me. Rodney McKay ate in silence. I enjoyed my meal and the disquiet brooding in my captive guest.

After a time, he asked how long it had been, and I answered honestly, seeing no reason to lie at this time. It has been a little over six weeks since he arrived on Mehtidhsai and two weeks since our quite untimely retreat to Gitsahth. It seemed to bother him, this length of time. He went silent again for a time and just lipped at his food. Then, he inquired if I had been back to Mehtidhsai and the Age he had originally come from since his acquisition. Again, I saw no reason to lie and admitted that I had, in fact, returned to that Age - one which I had dubbed Irvan.

Rodney McKay fumbled over the next question, wishing to know if I had seen anything unusual upon that Age. When I told him simple that I had not, he went quiet once more. I explained quite carefully that Irvan had been a temporary foothold for me, nothing more, with little technical value, illustrating just how minute of notice the Maintainers would have given to that pathetic little rock. He said nothing more, but I went on, knowing the answer he wanted. I told him that no, there had been no other visitors like him, no other outsiders in my visits to Irvan.

[the encrypted cypher to A'Gaeris's personal journal switches here. It is not unusual, for A'Gaeris rotates cyphers every entry, but to change mid-entry is indeed odd. It changes to a more complex pattern]

In short, I lied.

xxx

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xxx

Rahd'ni shivers to himself and rubs his arms in self comfort, desperately trying to will the tightly coiled tension from his muscles. This place is cold and antiseptic, nothing like the warm comfort of the Guild of Healers and their vast, mellow halls. The air bears a caustic quick to it, along with the damp saltiness of the sea. Light filters through paneled windows in jagged shards of color in place of the many, gently glowing fire marbles that had illuminated the Guild House and the halls of have seated him upon a mildly comfortable pallet that he could only charitably consider a bed covered in a coarse material that itches the skin, a far cry from the soft, spongy layers of downy duvets to the Healers' great infirmary.

And, yet, it is somehow familiar, like the watery memory of a dream faded by the light of dawn.

They have left him to himself in a small, somewhat octagonal room with the solitary, uncomfortable thing he sat upon centered in the middle. He does not cast his gaze upwards. He knows without looking that there is a second level beyond the confines of this room that peers through glass windows down and at him. Rahd'ni does not wish to see them staring at him as a foreign curio, despite the fact that he knows that is what he is. They have left him for some time now. perhaps hours even, but it does not bother him. Only the knowledge that they watch, even now, unsettles him.

Finally, the door eases open, and it is Keller who enters, accompanied by another, slender woman. A nurse. The doctor carries a tray filled with tools, thing Rahd'ni now recognizes they likely thought he might have used as a weapon. They approach slowly, cautiously, as though entreating with a cornered predator, their fear radiating and pulsing upon him. Rahd'ni's heart trills in answer.

"Hello, Rahd'ni." There is an unease to her voice, a quiver, even as she rather stoically gathers her tools. "I just want to give you a quick physical." Keller's eyes settle upon the knapsack held tight in his hands. "We need to examine and catalogue any foreign items."

Rahd'ni understands through her diplomatic wording and clutches the knapsack tighter to him, curling over it protectively. He shakes his head once, a curt gesture. His fingers grip sharply, the knuckles turning white under the pressure.

"We have to be sure whatever you've got in there is safe," Keller assures in a chiding tone, reaching slowly. "It's for everyone's safety."

"No," Rahd'ni forces out through clenched teeth.

The doctor recoils as though struck, her cheeks flushing hotly, but a voice calls from behind her. "What if I just looked through it?" Sheppard; he sits in a wheelchair at the door frame, his leg propped up by raised footrest. "Just me."

Rahd'ni flinches at the thought and gives a toss of his head once more. Sheppard merely wants his greedy, grubby hands on the designs for the.... the whatever it is that Rahd'ni is designing. ZPM, Sheppard had called it. Zero point module. His mind reels over the possibilities of the unimaginable power he knows the device will contain when his vision is fully realized. The power to split stars, dance across the far reaches of the universe, and even lift cities from the ocean's crushing depths. No, he will not so easily turn his journal over to Sheppard's covetous hands, hands that reach, and beg, and remind so much of something that has slipped away from Rahd'ni's memory.

Sheppard does not argue the point and merely nods, suggesting, "What if someone else were to look through it? Catalogue everything right here in front of you and return it to you?" The colonel glances to the doctor. "Would that be alright?"

"Of course," Keller quickly answers.

Sheppard returns his attention to Rahd'ni, watching those hands carefully that they do not slip into the pack and to the linking book he knows is contained. "Rahd'ni?"

Rahd'ni shrugs his shoulders wearily and concedes in a breath, "Alright."

He looks to the floor for a moment, considering the options presented to him before calling the only name to his fragmented and scattered identity that seems familiar and trustworthy. Who could he call? This place and these faces may be familiar, but there are little to no substantial memories to attach.

"Yes." Radek, furious, his face practically beet red, trembling in annoyance and perhaps fear. "I made a mistake trying to save your life! Now, do you want me to try and fix it, or do you want to continue to berate me some more?"

Words, spilling smugly from his own lips. "I am perfectly capable of doing both at the same time."

The name falls numbly from his lips. "Radek."

"Sure," Sheppard gives a slow and easy nod before reaching to tap his radio. "Zelenka..... you're needed in the infirmary." He looks to Rahd'ni and flashes a wide, warm and cocky smile. "See? That wasn't so hard."

But it was so very hard, and Rahd'ni cannot be certain why entirely it requires such an effort to concede so willingly even if it is so very grudgingly. Sheppard sees it, though, as does Keller, and Woolsey, watching from on high in the observation room above isolation. It is screamed in the tightness to Rahd'ni's carriage, in the measured caution to the man's expression, and in the stark pallor to his face. Sheppard is not as close as Keller, and, thus, only she sees the pulsing tremble of his carotid artery pumping furiously as his body floods with adrenaline. He does not trust them, not in the slightest, and this grave distrust breaks each of their hearts.

Fortunately, none of the four spend much time in silence, as Radek Zelenka quickly arrives at the infirmary. The wiry Czech appears nervous and rather frazzled, his face slicked with sweat and his breaths panted. He has run to the infirmary in elation at Sheppard's call, having already heard the news of McKay's return. The Czech has expected, nay, hoped, that Rodney would return after all these years. CSO is not nearly the glamorous and enviable job that McKay had often made it seem to be, and the labs have been dreadfully silent without their playful verbal sparring - no matter how bitter and vicious it may have sounded to the average outsider.

Zelenka grins, but his expression instantly caves upon setting his eyes upon this much changed McKay, leaving him sadly sobered. "Ah. Sorry to keep you waiting."

"It's alright, Zelenka. Rahd'ni, you obviously remember Radek," Sheppard mentions for the sake of propriety. "Radek, Rahd'ni."

An immediate red flag raises in Zelenka's mind. The Czech blanches slightly at this alien name but forces it back under the colonel's stern gaze. He is not here to question, to assume, or to judge. He has been called here for a specific reason judging by Sheppard's knowing expression. Radek files the name quickly in the back of his consciousness, mindful to ask Sheppard of it later.

"Charmed, I'm sure," Radek teases, extending a hand for Rahd'ni to shake.

Curiously, Rahd'ni stands to his full height, holding himself ramrod straight and setting his shoulders back. He does not take the Czech by the palm but, instead, by the wrist. It is a formal greeting, one of mutual respect and one that raises several eyebrows. Radek glances curiously about to Sheppard for explanation but the colonel gives a tired shrug. When Rahd'ni looses his grip and sits once more on the gurney, Radek looks to his empty hand and feels the warmth of Rahd'ni hold leeching away in the chilled air of isolation.

"Right. Colonel, you said I was needed?"

Sheppard nods. "Rahd'ni's things. We need them catalogued and returned to him. Well, everything that's not world-endingly dangerous." When the Czech shakes his head with an unspoken question, Sheppard sighs. "He asked for you."

Radek nods and holds out his hands to Rahd'ni. For a painfully drawn moment, Rahd'ni holds tight to the knapsack, but, then, he relents once more and places the sack in the Czech's waiting hands. Zelenka allows a tiny, comforting smile before taking his place on the other side of the room and pulling up a steel rolling table. He is not certain why Rahd'ni asked for him, but the scientist will be sure that he will not foolishly shatter whatever limited trust lingers in the man. He will examine everything quickly and carefully in plain sight; Rahd'ni sees this over Keller's shoulder as the doctor swoops in and appreciates it immensely even though he offers no words of thanks.

Keller begins slowly and carefully, explaining herself as she does and jotting down quick notes. Rahd'ni nods and breathes deeply, but shuddering upon exhaling. He is nervous, frightened, perhaps terrified even. She hardly needs her instruments to know his pulse, blood pressure, and respiration have all increased dramatically over the course of but a few moments. She still takes those basic vitals though, and records their measure. Rahd'ni's lungs sound quite clear, despite his insistence that whatever plague he might carry and whatever wiped out D'ni had a distinctive effect upon the respiratory system not unlike influenza and eventually pneumonia. He stares beyond her and to Radek defiantly as she checks his eyes, ears, throat, and glands. He is the picture of health externally, something unusual for Rodney.

Rahd'ni hardly notices. His eyes are upon Radek as the Czech carefully paws through the contents of his knapsack, murmuring in a strange language as he does. Slowly, the scientist places the contents of the bag upon the steel table, one item at a time. The blue glass pot of ink, adorned with delicate whorls of creamy white in a lacy pattern that the Artisans created with Rahd'ni specifically in mind, a gift of Lord Eneah of the Maintainers. A series of quill pens, simple and perfunctory in design, clearly meant for function over form. Protective lenses. A small, pack lunch. A small pouch containing a few dozen fire marbles. A leather bound journal. His map of the city, sheathed in a protective polymer and covered in marks denoting the various points of damage from the quakes. Rahd'ni can see the Czech attempt to figure the scale for a moment before frowning and setting it aside. The linking book joins it shortly, over a brief, silent exchange between Sheppard and Zelenka.

Radek pauses long enough to take the journal carefully in his hands and impulsively thumb through it. The beautiful, curled script of the D'ni, penned in Rahd'ni's own hand, covers each and every page, filling just about every scrap of space not occupied by detailed drawings and schematics. There are lengthy equations here and there, a jumbled mess of both English calculations and what seems to be D'ni mathematics, as well as Ancient. Zelenka freezes when a familiar image crosses his vision. A ZPM. He blinks in appreciation of the complexity to the designs, the detailed layers of understanding and documentation to the device. Zelenka nods in appreciation before easing the journal gently shut and setting it down with a deserved air of reverence. McKay has done the impossible; he has cracked the ZPM.

Radek reaches deep inside the sack and yelps, jerking his hand out and holding a reddened index finger. A slew of what must be Czech profanities issue forth from the otherwise meek scientist as he grabs the bag again, roughly, and opens it to peer inside. A pair of eyes sparkle back at him, and Radek jumps in fright, garnering a tiny squeak from Keller as well.

Rahd'ni, however, walks quite calmly to the knapsack, reaches in, and pulls the tiny, kittenish Jeruth from the bag, displaying her proudly and lovingly. "It's just a harmless little reekoo." The voice is one of indignation, the same sort of way a childish petulance that earmarked so many conversations with Rodney McKay. The harshness melts away for him to murmur at the creature. "Shh.... shh." Jeruth calms and scrambles up Rahd'ni's chest taking up residence at the top of his shoulders and curling about his neck; he strokes her fur and smiles. "She's alright. Continue."

Keller cocks her head at the cat-like creature. "Of course..."

In time, as Keller continues on with her medical study of Rahd'ni, Radek finishes his survey of the sack's contents and replaces them one by one with a delicate reverence. He saves the linking book for last, raising a questioning eyebrow to Sheppard. The colonel nods and makes a small, placating gesture. Radek understands and replaces the linking book with the rest of the items.

Part way through the exam, Keller elects to draw a blood sample. She gently turns his arm to swab the site on the inside of his elbow and pauses in concern, noting the faint patterning of scars upon Rahd'ni's palms. The scars shine smoothly under the light, puckering at the edges in a way that turns the doctor's generally steady stomach. She turns his other hand and finds more markings there. These are burn scars, old and faded to a milky white.

"Rod- Rahd'ni," she corrects herself softly. "How did you get these scars?"

"I don't know," the man mutters in evasion, pulling his hands back and folding his arms across his chest, stuffing his hands under his armpits and well out of sight.

It is only a half-lie. Rahd'ni remembers. He had put his hands in the fire himself. He remembers the lick of the flames upon his palms, the searing agony of the fire on his skin. He remembers the scent of his own flesh burning, a sickly scent that still occasionally tears him from his sleep to vomit up whatever is in his stomach. He still hear the crackle of the fire upon the hearth and the roar of a triumphant and boisterous laugh behind him. Rahd'ni still feels the charred pages of parchment between his fingers flake apart to blackened ashes and nothing. He can still see the chips of ebony sticking to his scorched and oozing hands. He recalls the ghastly, anguished howl that escaped his own lips, a mindless, brutal sound of profound grief and impossible suffering swallowing him whole. There is, however, no context to this memory that is so perfectly painted in his mind.

Keller, quite fortunately, does not question the burn scars and takes this as her perfect opportunity to question the amnesia symptoms. "What do you remember, Rahd'ni? What is the very last thing you remember."

"D'ni," he responds sourly. "The Guild House. I was hurt."

"A head injury?" the doctor suggests, lifting an eyebrow.

"Among other things," Rahd'ni sniffs before going flustering and fidgeting about. "The Healers said I was lucky to live, that the memory loss may have been a blessing." He sniffs hotly and quickly adds with disdain, "Quacks. All of them."

"Anything before that?" she presses, her medical mind engaging now.

Rahd'ni thinks for a moments and shrugs heavily. "Small things." His hand slips out, with a faint, fluttering motion, a quiver of his fingers. "Flashes every now and then, but nothing much. Nothing substantial to outweigh..." He looks down and shakes his head limply. "I get headaches from trying too hard to remember."

Keller purses her lips together in concern and to squeeze back the question burning at the tip of her tongue. Does he remember her? Oh, god, she wishes he remembers her. She wants to ask and know, to be certain, but he startles so easily, shies so quickly. Keller worries that, if she forces too hard, pushes too aggressively, he'll retreat away. She holds her tongue for a long moment, perhaps too long.

When he suddenly looks up to meet her gaze, Keller flushes and blurts out, "I'd like to do a full scan." Rahd'ni's eyes fill with fear, and she places a hand upon his tenderly, whispering, "It's nothing, really. Standard operating procedure."

Rahd'ni groans inwardly, wondering if this SOP is just a smoke screen for these people to hide behind.

Keller must see the disbelief written in his features as she leans close. "I just want to rule out any head trauma that may be causing your amnesia. I'd like to see there is anything we can do to possibly reverse the effects and restore your memory. It won't hurt, I promise."

Rahd'ni is already exhausted, annoyed, and worn raw from the trip. However, he keeps this to himself and allows the various scans and tests for Keller, accompanied by Jeruth the entire time. As much as she says she wants to know, Rahd'ni is certain he desires it more. He nods with his consent.

xxx

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xxx

From the personal journal of A'Gaeris

I had linked to Irvan once after the outsider fell into my snare, just to ensure that we have no other unwelcome guests and to ensure the destruction of the linking book to Mehtidhsai. I must be cautious, for I have not waited all these years for my opportunity to squander it so foolishly for the fault of an outsider. When I linked to Irvan, I saw things beyond my wildest machinations. Great flying contraptions, descending from the heavens with grace and ease. Men bearing weapons the likes of which I have never seen. It was simultaneously both the most incredible and the most frightening sight of my life.

I immediately set the cask of acid, held the linking book over it, and linked back to Mehtidsai, well assured from time and trial that there would be nothing left of the linking book by the time the travelers reached it.

However, Rodney McKay can never know this. He has been lulling in a mild depression. This is excellent. I need push and prod it further, melding him to my needs now. Oh, yes, I am indeed aware that the outsider continues to plot and scheme even to this day behind his mask of sorrow, but this effective stroke of implication that no one is looking for him is all the miniscule effort required to severe that small glimmer of hope and push him further into the despair necessary to keep him pliant.

It works accordingly, and I know the outsider will wallow for several days in his own grief and sense of abandonment. However, I know that he is a stubborn one, that his mind is a keen one and that he will not stop attempting, pushing. I shall continue his "tutelage" with the Rehevkor now if only to instill a sense of pattern and comfort in the predictability of my place. The doldrums of this activity is necessary, to allow his mind to stretch and reach to impossible limits of questioning and worry. He shall continue to plot even through this, but, now that he feels cut off from those who might have sought him out, he will turn to me, in his own time. I am, after all, the only person he has to turn to in my Age. He will see me a tool for his usage, and I shall indulgently allow this illusion.

I could see upon this, my great revelation that the outsider was fighting disbelief and tears and, so, took my leave of him to allow him the small comfort of privacy for his sorrows. He will come to me, eventually, and I will be waiting patiently. His intellect and the myriad of secrets he holds therein are worth the wait, however long it may take. Am I not D'ni? Are the D'ni anything but a patient race?

As eternal as the rock into which we bore, I shall wait.

xxx

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xxx

The one thing that John Sheppard absolutely loathes about casts is the weight. Over his life and his sundry lists of injuries, he has sorted out various solutions for the dreaded itch-you-can't-reach scenario; he already has the exact hanger he will bend and shape into the perfect hook in mind to solve that little problem when it inevitably arises. Dragging about the additional weight of the cast, however, is not something he can so simply fix. It is awkward and cumbersome, sending him off balance. Normally, Sheppard would grit his teeth and bear it, but, this once, he opts for the wheelchair, for now, mindful that this meeting is far too important to be worrying about hauling about an extra few pounds on his ankle.

Keller is droning on and on in boring physician's terms, placing up slide after slide of views into Rahd'ni's head from a variety of angles and through several different filters. X-rays, cat scans, MRIs, everything. Woolsey appears quite interested, while Teyla wears a face of intense concern. Ronon, on the other hand, seems just as confused by all this as Sheppard. Keller maintains a brittle mask, hiding behind her medical vocabulary to avoid facing the stark truth of the matter as they consult her about Rahd'ni's condition while he remains unaware in the isolation unit of the infirmary.

Finally, in irritation, Sheppard growls, "Would you cut to the chase, doc?"

Keller blinks in surprise at the abrupt interruption but stills herself quickly and swallows. "There are clears signs of a traumatic brain injury." She points to a spot on one of the slides. "See, here?" Sheppard nods like he actually sees whatever the doctor is pointing to, and Keller goes on. "Scar tissue suggests a cranial fracture."

"Bottom line?" Ronon asks sternly, his voice rumbling deeply.

"The bottom line is...." Keller draws a deep breath at that juncture, both her benefit and for those about the table. "The bottom line is that there just is no bottom line. Brain injuries are unpredictable at best. He has healed, physically, yes, but his brain is still working to reconstruct the mental pathways that were once there. He might eventually regain all of his memory, or next to none of it."

"What kind of a timeframe?" Woolsey inquires, always the cold, calculating businessman and scientist of the bunch.

Keller shrugs and shakes her head miserably. "There is no precise recovery timeframe for head injuries."

"Rahd'ni said he had been in D'ni for five years," Sheppard breathes flatly, toying listlessly at the fresh, professional rounded edge of his cast.

"All the more reason to believe that..." Keller gives a soft, muffled sniffle, her fingers subconsciously reaching for the metal band about her neck. "That his condition is an extremely old one that has stabilized and that, if he hasn't regained the vast majority of his memory by now, the damage might be permanent. Rodney may never regain all of his memory."

Woolsey sighs and pinches at his sinuses. "Anything else I should be aware of?"

Sheppard does not wish to say anything, preferring to play it close to the chest, yet Radek pipes up, raising his hand and waggling his finger slightly. "Actually, yes." He looks to Sheppard, who shrugs, before announcing, "In his book, it seems Rodney has devised a means of producing charged ZPMs."

"Impossible," Woolsey breathes in shock, his heart stuttering for a moment.

"Completely possible," Sheppard snaps back, rolling his eyes. "Oh, c'mon. You honestly believe in books that take you to random places when you touch them, but you can't bring yourself to believe a genius like Rodney McKay could crack ZPM technology after five years of nothing else to do with his time?"

Woolsey shakes his head. "It's.... it's just unbelievable..." He looks to Zelenka. "Is it safe?"

"That the only reason you glad to see McKay back?" Sheppard grumbles from his place darkly.

"I assure you, it's not," Woolsey argues flatly. "Don't misunderstand me. I'm thrilled that you've brought McKay back, but surely you of all people can grasp the implications of this, Colonel. You have been on more wild ZPM chases than any other member of the expedition. A means of sustainable ZPM manufacture means a secure Pegasus once more, and an end to the Wraith in time." When Sheppard says nothing, Woolsey scowls. "I have to think of the big picture."

"I know." Sheppard goes rigid and tense in his chair. "It's just not so simple," Sheppard answers while staring down the cast on his leg before shaking his head. "Rodney doesn't trust us. He's not going to just give us the designs, especially if it looks like that's all we want from him."

Radek nods, chiming in, "Even if he did, the designs are in a mix of the same language as the book and English. I cannot decipher."

Woolsey turns to Jackson, who shrugs and shakes his head. "Oh.... no. Don't look at me. I'm still working on the first book you gave me. D'ni is a much more subtle written language than originally thought, and nothing like anything from Pegasus or the Milky Way. It could take months to establish a complete lexicon of even common vocabulary and grammar for D'ni, let alone build an understanding of something as complex as ZPM fabrication."

"Looks like it's all on Rodney.... again." Sheppard smirks at Ronon at his side and points accusingly. "Don't you dare tell him I said that."

xxx

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xxx

A whisper in the back of his mind. A mental tickle flaring at the base of his skull. A soft, electric embrace across his nerve endings. Quiet, hushed humming singing through his veins. These are the tiny fragments of disjointed synesthaesia that gently nudge Rahd'ni awake from an uncomfortable slumber in the the tiny room with a faintly pulsating, electric vibration coursing through his nerves and singing down his spinal column until rousing him to full alertness. He rubs the bleariness from his eyes and swings his legs over the side of the stiff gurney perhaps a split second before the doors to the isolation unit hiss open to allow entry for Dr. Keller. Rahd'ni finds himself instantly quite appreciative for the advance warning, feeling a returning swell of warmth radiating about him from nothingness in what approximates a vague sensation of gratitude.

Dr. Keller glances over her shoulder at Rahd'ni with a graceful, elegant motion, sweeping her serene, chocolate brown eyes over him for a moment. Rahd'ni's breath catches at the sight of those eyes of hers, staring at him from the scattered fragments of his shattered reality. His heart hammers in his chest, drumming against his ribs. The blood rushes to his cheeks in a hot, searing flush. Keller smirks coyly, but Rahd'ni turns his head away in shame, turning to take his journal and bury his nose between the mellow, leather cover and the delicate, vellum pages adorned with his own script.

On the occasion of a lovely, early spring visit to the Age of Gemedet, his hostess, Lady Ti'ana had inquired if Rahd'ni had ever had a lover, a consort or female companion. When he admitted to the vague dreams and flashes of memory of a woman, Lady Ti'ana had apparently quite often entertained the notion that Rahd'ni might be.... happier with a woman. Lady Ti'ana had once been an outsider to D'ni, the first in many centuries. The noblewoman had confided that, while she thought of herself as a highly adaptive person, were it not for the love and friendship of her husband, Aitrus, she might not have survived in the dour, subterranean realm of D'ni, let alone thrived as she had. Rahd'ni had grudgingly indulged the silly notion with a few downright laughable failures of attempted D'ni courtship before Lady Ti'ana acknowledged what a lost cause it truly was to wage war against the ghostly woman of Rahd'ni's past who still held such sway over him.

And, yet, curious as he is, Rahd'ni cannot face her by his lonesome, not yet. He focuses instead on his journal, turning to the page of his initial rough sketch of the city. It is a crude drawing that needs further fleshing and annotation, and, yet, he feels an intimate knowledge of this place and its mechanics humming in the back of his mind, threading throughout his thoughts in murmured undercurrent. It is remarkably like staring at a drawing or photograph of a lover after a long time apart. The tingle of nostalgia, the sweet yearning for times past, swallowing him whole. As Keller continues to fiddle with something to the side, Rahd'ni takes a quill and his pot of ink from his knapsack to add a few quick notes to the side of the drawing and distract his mind.

Nekisahl. He rather pointedly places this word beside one of the towers to the very tip. It is a communications device, meant for picking up distant signals. A long range sensor, he corrects himself. Yet his annotation is a cruel truth. "Bent, twisted, distorted," that is was nekisahl means in D'ni. It is not by much, perhaps 500 torans - 3 degrees - at the utmost, yet it will produce slightly faulty data. He marks the tower in question with the proposed measurement of error. It is likely damage from ancient material stressed by centuries of exposure to the elements, yet instead of replacing it, the tower merely needs a minute calculation adjustment in the base operating programming of the sensor array to account for any error. Rahd'ni frowns at his instinctive and intimate knowledge of this place to be aware of such a minute problem and its natural solution, flowing out simply through his hands.

Something clatters on the doctor's table, jerking Rahd'ni's gaze up to her. She has merely dropped a syringe, hardly noticing his gaze, yet Keller snares his attention once more. She is beautiful, exquisite, really. Her figure... her face... the creamy pale color to her skin, and the soft, pert pink of her lips. He licks his own lips, feeling the shiver of a memory of her tough tingling across them. His pen flicks across the page, unbidden. It is only when the door opens once more for Sheppard in his wheelchair and a few strangers to enter that Rahd'ni forces his head back into the journal and spies what he has scrawled upon the page.

Gormeht kehn tomeht biv roo miruh. Tsahn botaigahn shehm, oyn mor'okh'mor, Jennifer.

He blushes harder now and slams the journal shut, pushing it aside before anyone can see what he has written there. The D'ni written language is a an extremely complex yet subtle script, crafted by tiny nuances to the curled, filigree strokes and almost imperceptible punctuation hidden between letters. It is highly unlikely that these people can even grasp basic sentence structure, let alone the schematic notations the statement is hidden among, yet Rahd'ni cannot help it, his cheeks burning now.

A tall, reedy man with thinly frames glasses and a smooth, bald held that gleams as though polished coughs to both clear his throat and passive aggressively demand attention from both Rahd'ni and the strangers before going ramrod straight and greeting formally, "Dr. McKay." The facade of a widely forced smile plastered to his face falters ever so slightly as the man stumbles. "Excuse me. I understand you prefer to be called Rahd'ni. Is this correct?"

Rahd'ni rises fully at the sound of his name with a tremble of fear quivering down his spine, standing at full height and extending a hand formally to this supposed emissary of the newcomers. "Yes."

The stranger holds out his hand as well, palm open and presented in welcome. "Dr. Richard Woolsey."

Woolsey commands authority with the same cold, dry distance and placid, unflappable composure of the senior Guilds Masters and elder members of the Council. Rahd'ni swallows, his mouth going acutely parched and cottony in this man's presence. It requires some force, but Rahd'ni wills himself to still his shaking hand long enough to close the distance between them and grasp Woolsey's wrist in salutation and the respect that seems due. Woolsey raises an eyebrow to this but says nothing to the negative, even showing not a single hint of distaste at how embarrassingly sweat slicked Rahd'ni's palm has become. Instead, Woolsey reciprocates the gesture in earnest, curling his fingers about Rahd'ni's slender wrist gingerly for but a moment's hesitation before gripping securely yet warmly.

"Rahd'ni, I'd like to welcome you home," Woolsey announces, still gently cradling Rahd'ni's wrist.

A sliver of doubt in Rahd'ni's mind reminds him that D'ni is his home, and, as a result, he withdraws his hand, feeling his wrist still buzzing from the contact. Yet the humming of the city about his shushes this thought instantly. The alien sensation drowns out his fleeting mental quibble with a rush of radiant warmth, enfolding him in a comfortable, easy embrace that simply fits.

"I'd like to reintroduce you to Teyla Emmagen and Ronon Dex," Woolsey states, gesturing to the muscle bound man and lithe woman behind him. The bald man draws a deep, contemplative breath, clearly preparing to broach potentially awkward and dangerous subject matter. "Dr. Keller has already apprised us of your... condition."

"Condition?" Rahd'ni gulps fearfully as his mind reels; he looks to Keller, his face blanching upon realizing what the man speaks of.

"You're free of any signs of viral or bacterial infection." Dr. Keller sighs heavily, looking down to her feet. "But as to your memory.... I'm sorry, Rahd'ni, but you've sustained a serious head injury. The damage might be permanent."

"No..." the whisper slips from Rahd'ni's lips, escaping in a gasped breath.

Keller goes on, presenting him with data and images that barely register to Rahd'ni until the dark gloom engulfs him, dragging him down so deep that even the other presence in his mind cannot draw him back. Rahd'ni stumbles back against the gurney, nearly stumbling In a flash, a hulking man with a dark, knotted mane and a strong woman with feral eyes and skin the color of burnished copper are at his side. Ronon and Teyla. In a heartbeat, there are hands upon him, the tender hands of strangers, but he is too numb to feel the fear he knows lingers there, to feel anything as these people handle him gently. They manipulate his pliant body to help his sit upon the edge of the bed as Rahd'ni flounders desperately in the horrific gloom of this revelation juxtaposed so terribly against the backdrop of a sensation so achingly familiar of these people circling about him, protecting him, helping him.... caring for him? Rahd'ni wants so very badly to cry, to pour his emotions out in lurching sobs, yet such conduct is entirely unbecoming of a guildsman and quite unproductive for the effort expended.

Dr. Woolsey allows him a few moments to calm and still his heart, to swallow his sorrows before addressing the man once more. "Rahd'ni, I'm very sorry about this."

The man lifts his head ever so slightly, just enough to face Woolsey with some small measure of self-respect; he listlessly mutters, "It is not of your doing. It was not your fault."

Woolsey's lip twitches in a tiny smile. "I have been the leader of this expedition for some time, Rahd'ni, since before your disappearance. The safety of each and every member of this expedition is my personal responsibility, and, as such, I am inclined to believe something quite the contrary." Woolsey gives a quick nod. "Rahd'ni, I don't want you to think we are pressuring you into anything, but you have several options before you. You may return to D'ni if you truly wish. We..." Woolsey dares a glance at Sheppard, Ronon, and Teyla, each of them holding their breaths. "We will not stop you if that is what you want. Or, you may stay here, on Atlantis, and we can attempt to help you piece things together, share with you what your life was."

"Was?" Rahd'ni sniffs, curling with lip and accompanying the word with a distinctive and unmistakably "Rodney" air of indignation. "You say that like..... it's over, just like that."

Sheppard winces, but Woolsey, ever the diplomat, tactfully continues. "I'm sorry. I obviously did not mean it in that sense." He swallows and toys with his hands in a noncommittal stall to gather his thoughts and focus them constructively; it is a mannerism Sheppard recognizes from Elizabeth as preparation to delicately tip what may be too much information. "Rahd'ni, you were an integral member of our staff as both Chief Sciences Officer and as a field expert in Ancient technology. In your extended absence, the position has been filled."

John rolls his eyes and suppresses a snort. It is fairly common knowledge on Atlantis that, while the position is filled, it is neither happily nor voluntarily occupied, by none other than Radek Zelenka. The job is difficult and exceedingly stressful, and rather thankless. Now, the Czech is frayed and haggard from work, with fine lines cropping up here and there on the scientist's face from more than simply aging. Sheppard knows, given even the slightest inkling of Rodney's return to work, Radek would gladly hand the job over in a heartbeat to escape another moment of the misery that Rodney had adored so greatly.

"Understandably, we did not do this to replace you, but merely to facilitate in the ongoing functioning and security of the city as well as the expedition," Woolsey continues.

It is quite obviously an attempt at both clarification for Rahd'ni and placating for the members of the team. It fails miserably in Sheppard and just as equally with Keller and Ronon, if looks are any indication. Radek had never said anything, but Sheppard has always secretly suspected the Czech would agree as well. Woolsey's endorsement of Radek had been too enthusiastic for most people's tastes. Teyla had made the mistake of rationally arguing to Woolsey's defense, stating quite calmly and logically that it had been a necessary measure, but even that had admittedly been a half-hearted attempt at easing her own uneasy conscience.

Rahd'ni looks to Sheppard questioningly. "Why did you bring me here, then?"

"I thought you'd want.... I mean, we all wanted you to come home." Sheppard blinks, surprised at how tight his throat constricts about the words. "We... we missed you."

Rahd'ni is quiet, staring down at the floor limply as he speaks in a hushed voice just a shade above a whisper, "There's a catch."

"No catch," Sheppard answers, shaking his head.

"There's always a catch," Rahd'ni argues, his features pinching into a tight frown as he sits still for but an instant. Then, he launches into motion, springing off the gurney and pacing madly along the far side of the room. "There's always a catch." Rahd'ni waves his hands wildly in the air. "A wrench in the system, an unaccounted for variable. Something."

"Rahd'ni," Teyla speaks softly, her words as sweet as honey. "We were merely attempting to extend our welcome home. We have missed you."

"No," Rahd'ni snaps suddenly, running his fingers roughly through his hair. "No. It's not that simple is it?" He jerks his head to Sheppard, his eyes narrowing. "You.... you told them about it..... didn't you?" Rahd'ni jabs a finger at the wheelchair bound colonel. "You did, didn't you?" When Sheppard swallows hard but fails to answer, Rahd'ni's face falls, going quite ashen. "You did."

"Rahd'ni...." Sheppard breathes hesitantly.

Rahd'ni trembles, his legs shaking visibly as he sinks to the ground, wraps his arms about his legs and rocks on the balls of his heels, cowering in a tiny ball and muttering, "Of course you did."

"Rahd'ni.... I didn't..." Sheppard whispers timidly, struggling to keep his tone even and non-threatening. "Radek saw the journal too. He knew what was in it." Rahd'ni tightens at the though. "He had to tell Woolsey."

What Rahd'ni says next is so quiet that it is lost; Woolsey cranes his head towards the crouching man. "Hmm?"

He repeats, low and sullen, resigned to this in a way that breaks Keller's heart just a little more. "What do you want?"

"Rod-Rahd'ni..." Keller croons, edging closer onto to have her once lover slip further back into a corner. "We don't want anything."

"Everyone wants something," Rahd'ni snarls bitterly from his place curled up on the floor. "Especially for that..... that whatever it is. Just spill it so we can move on from the pointless, insincere platitudes and right on to the part where I tell you 'no' and you..." Rahd'ni shudders, trembling like a leaf upon the wind. "Just get it over with."

Sheppard blinks, dumbfounded. "You don't know?" He laughs, a chortle that startles everyone in the room, especially Rahd'ni; then, abruptly, Sheppard stills, flushing in shame along with everyone else in the room. "No. No, you might not know what's at stake." He looks to Woolsey uncertainly. "Sir, if I may?"

Woolsey nods solemnly. "Of course."

The colonel smiles in commiseration at the frightened, angry stranger, and holds out a hand. "C'mon, Rahd'ni."

"Where?" the man growls, a wolf cornered.

"I've got something to show you."

xxx

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xxx

From the personal journal of A'Gaeris

He is quiet, my pet Rodney McKay, sullen. He has been for days, weeks now. I have been so kind as to allow him private quarters, where he spends much of his days sulking in silence. My compatriot, Veovis, informs me that I am far too indulgent with the outsider who remains so defiant to my wishes.

Today, however, I summoned Rodney McKay to my quarters. He was quiet and cautious, polite to a fault even by D'ni standards. There was a nervousness to his eyes that was not there before. I rather prefer him so flighty and unhinged compared to his generally abrasive, cocky attitude. He sat across from me still and silent, waiting for me to address him. He wanted something, precisely as I had predicted. To test his resolve to this course, I did not address him nor even acknowledge his presence for the better part of an hour. Instead, I flippantly ignored him and continued to pen in the copybooks for my latest of Ages. Like the penitent little whelp he should be, Rodney McKay held his tongue and waited, although it did wear on him to the end of the span, I could tell.

When I felt he his resolve and nerves had been surely tested and only then, did I deign to acknowledge him. It began quite simply as a quiet interview over tea. Who he is, where he came from, what was his occupation. His responses were tight-lipped as to be expected from a captive, yet honest. A scientist, and scholar, expert in various forms of astronomical studies from a planet far and away. I must admit, he has me intrigued. A scholar of a race capable of such unique creations is surely an astonishing treasure to have stumbled across so easily.

I inquired as to how he came to my humble little Age of Irvan, and he stumbled through an attempt to explain some sort of transportation device before quite pretentiously concluding that I was too ignorant to understand its function. I benevolently allowed the petty, small insult, for now. He so needs to feel important, in control, dominant, and above my intelligence, and, as the childish illusion of power neither serves nor hinders my plans, I feel no harm in allowing this impression to persist. He needs to feel welcomed, embraced. And, so, I tutted him and laughed politely as though it was just an ordinary joke, albeit a social blunder, but jest nevertheless. The conversation flowed easier after that, as though my outsider's tongue had been loosened now.

We spoke for an hour over trifling things of little interest before I felt our time need draw to a close. Only then did I offer the copybook to the outsider. I need not teach Rodney McKay the Art. Not yet. Not until I am certain he is capable. However, I diplomatically implied that he might be bored here on Gitsahth. Rodney McKay raised an eyebrow and shrugged it off, but I know he lied. I offered him the copybook and suggested he consider it. He may have denied his boredom, his loneliness before, but my outsider snatched up the copybook quickly before returning to his quarters.

The next day, Rodney McKay did not leave his quarters, not even for morning or midday meals. When he did not make a sound, not even a whimper, I had my serving man prepare a simple supper for him for me to bring him personally. I took that and another copybook of my work to him. I knocked, but he did not answer. I entered and found my guest seated at his work desk, writing madly away in a blank copy book. I set the meal beside him on the desk with the intention of peering over his shoulder, only to have him hunch over his work protectively.

I turned to leave him to his work, then, when he stopped me and handed my copybook back, asking what sort of a joke it was. I feigned innocence. Rodney McKay scoffed at the intellect of anyone who could believe such a world could exist. He commented that it defied the laws of nature and physics before turning to his work. I leafed through the copybook and found he had written all over it, noting the places where there were structural instabilities to the Age, both obvious and subtle, physical insecurities and improbabilities that would, in time, lead the Age to collapse and self-destruct under the crushing weight of its own gravitational force.

His work was absolute and undeniable genius. Rodney McKay is an natural Writer, with an instinctive sense for the delicately balanced mechanics of the Art of writing Ages. He will make a fitting protege.

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Atlantis, Rahd'ni notes with a clear pang of despair renewed, is not too dissimilar from the City right before the end. The entire city of Atlantis seems to be a complicated web of tall corridors and halls, winding about one another and weaving together in a seamlessly intricate web. Angular, colored glass windows span from the smoothly worn floor to the towering ceilings, each glowing with a faint, radiant warmth not unlike the many, large fire marbles lining the streets. Crystalline slivers of light in mellow, tranquil reds, muted oranges and chipper golds cast through the patterns to illuminate the copper and blue halls.

Aside from mere aesthetics, the city of Atlantis bears the same impressively ancient yet warmly welcoming feeling as D'ni. The sinuous, burnished floors feel smooth and buttery beneath him, as though worn by the tread of many thousands of feet, an eerily and achingly familiar sensation to the velveteen nara lined avenues and grand walks leading endlessly up from the main portion of the city to the Guild House Rahd'ni spent so much time in. There is a bustle about Atlantis, steeply imbued by the same life, vigor, and earnest passion for learning and for excellence as had once been in the eyes of the younger guildsmen rushing this way and that through the corridors.

Sheppard speaks slowly and almost reverently as he wheels beside Rahd'ni, in the same hallowed tones as Lady Ti'ana had once used to describe D'ni itself. "Atlantis is more than just a city, Rahd'ni, but you probably already guessed that. She's a ship, the home of this race of people called the Ancients. But she's more than that."

A mental haze coils its way about Rahd'ni's brain, blurring reality between the lines here and there uncomfortably. His heart longs for D'ni once more, for the richness of life there and the exuberance of the younger guildsmen he had befriended before the fall, yet it aches for Atlantis as well, for something just beyond the reaches of his shattered memory. Rahd'ni wonders, if he closes his eyes, will he see the Guild House about him once more, the grandiose halls extending forth before him to the Council chambers and the elaborate vestibule beyond? Or will it be another of the labyrinthine halls of Atlantis leading to a laboratory and a cup of something brewed and steaming, served in an alabaster colored mug and set before an expanse of white board begging to be marked upon with calculations and derivatives? Rahd'ni winces slightly at himself, wondering exactly where these fragments of imagery belong.

Jeruth mewls softly from her place curled up about his neck in a faint sound of protest. She senses his unease, and it clearly bothers the small creature. Rahd'ni can feel her displeasure, her disquiet. The silky little reekoo trembles where she presses against his skin, her miniscule claws gripping roughly through his shirt. Rahd'ni occasionally absently strokes her downy fur to sooth Jeruth.

He follows Sheppard through the city, past the various labs and communal areas, listening to the colonel extoll the many virtues of Atlantis. He introduces Rahd'ni to a few of the Athosians who Rahd'ni curiously feels he might know, granted the odd stares whenever Sheppard utters his D'ni name. He allows Sheppard to weave his tales of charitable efforts and peaceful exploration with a distance, a wariness taught by time and trial, musing to himself on how it seems like nothing more than the practiced propaganda of an experienced councilman attempting to sway a vote his way. Sheppard goes on and on despite this, as though he could fix Rahd'ni's shattered mind by sheer force of will; it is another annoyance that irks Rahd'ni, rubbing him quite the wrong way in fact and adding to the unease that holds him tight.

His mind, still lost and quite far away in these musings, almost dose not register when Sheppard speaks once more as he wheels along beside Rahd'ni. "And here we are."

Rahd'ni cocks an eyebrow but says nothing. His time in D'ni has taught him better, to question with his eyes first before his sharp tongue. He waits in patient silence, as patient and eternal as the stone wreathing about the great city cavern of D'ni, watching curiously, as studious as any intrepid new acolyte to the Guilds. Sheppard has brought him to a heavy, imposing doors with thick locking bolts and flanked by two stern looking men, bulking and imposing enough to boast the Maintainer's Guild insignia had they been D'ni. The design is incongruous, clashing with the soft, muted metallic colors and art deco architecture. It is a recent addition, his mind silently notes, pondering the meaning of such a jarring creation. Something dangers lies beyond.

"I am too close to see the Whole," he concludes in a heartbeat, bracing himself for whatever is behind that door as Sheppard nods to the armed guards.

It is something Lady Ti'ana told Rahd'ni often, something her father had told her and Aitrus had thoroughly embraced, enthralled by the sheer ingenuity of the philosophy. She had explained it once, quite simply, that the universe is more than just several disjointed incidents and players, but also the sum total of such factors. To truly understand anything - anything - in the known universe, one haS to see both the cogs driving the machine and the end product.

He holds his breath as the door swings open, with a barely audible whisper upon the welled-oiled, monstrous hinges. Rahd'ni blinks in surprise at the darkness that lies beyond the threshold, but his eyes adjust swiftly. His eyes have grown accustomed to the pale light of D'ni, and they quickly welcome the swell of familiarity to the city.

"Come on in and see the freak show," Sheppard teases flatly with a sweeping gesture.

Rahd'ni shivers at the awkward toning joke of voice, the uneven keel to it that unsettles him somehow, like being on the outside of a drastically cruel inside joke. Jeruth snarls from his shoulder and slithers down his sleeve to towards his knapsack, her claws digging into his arm. Rahd'ni hardly feels it. He plucks the creature from his shirt and protectively cradles it close to his chest. She vibrates with a nervous rattle in the back of her throat.

It is a laboratory of some form, filled with various consoles and computers. Beakers line the walls, filled with odd samples of fleshy bits and colored, viscous fluids that bubble languidly in their jars. Lights flicker upon broken and long abandoned projects here and there. Organic electrical conduit of slick, black flesh slinks over the floor and dangles from where it is strung from the ceiling like forgotten garlands. It quivers and twitches as though a live thing, responsive to stimuli and adaptive. Rahd'ni's fingers itch and quiver, longing to just touch and investigate each and every bit of those projects.

"Ah, Colonel John Sheppard," a voice intones with a deep rumble from somewhere beyond in the dim light. "Come to pay me a visit, yes?"

Wraith! Rahd'ni flinches inwardly at the thought, the instinctive recognition flickering from the depths of his mind. He knows that sound of voice, that strange, predatory purr. The temperature of the room plummets to an arctic chill, racing up and down his spine and sending shivers playing with his body. Jeruth hisses wide and terrified once more before scrambling to the safety of the knapsack. They are in the presence of a beast, but Sheppard hardly pays any heed, wheeling through the jumbled array of parts and tubes towards the back of the lab.

There is the sound of a deep inhalation, and, upon exhalation, comes the almost sinfully delighted croon. "And you have brought a guest."

Sheppard frowns. "Something like that."

At last, they reach the far back of the lab, where a long, wide work bench spans nearly the entire back well. A long figure sits there, his back to Rahd'ni. Long, silvery threads of thin hair dangle down the man's spine and cascade across the wide, broad shoulders. He works in silence, laboring with delicate, nimble motions over a piece of organic cable draped over the station and slit open, exposing the intricate network of microfilaments encased within the sickly, stinking flesh. The stranger purposefully ignores both Sheppard and Rahd'ni before freezing, drawing another deep breath.

"Doctor Rodney McKay," the stranger whispers, a reverence to the voice. "It has been some time indeed."

The flaxen-haired stranger turns slowly in his chair, and Rahd'ni almost bolts immediately in the instinctive natural terror of prey faced with their ancestral predator. The man at the desk is not a man at all, but a sneering beast with twisted, angular features, skin glistening with moisture, and flashing gold eyes. And, yet, the features are aged and weathered beyond the smooth, waxen details conjured in the back of Rahd'ni's mind. The face is marred by fine lines at the edges of the creature's eyes and mouth, eyes that Rahd'ni somehow knows should not be there. There seems a weariness, a certain degree of effort to his movements where Rahd'ni feels the creature should move fluidly and slickly. The hair is not smooth and glossy as a wolf's pelt, but dry and straw-like. The creature seems faded and thin, even beneath the bulky, leather clothes.

"Todd...." the name falls from Rahd'ni's mouth before he knows it, a sullen sound of perhaps grief or surprise, he cannot tell.

The Wraith blinks slowly, too slowly for Rahd'ni's liking, dipping his head. It is the tiniest of inclines, truly, but some part of Rahd'ni knows this is more respect than any Wraith would dare offer him. He is not certain why, but he does not question, choosing instead to hold tight to that knowledge and savor it to himself in silence. The Wraith takes a moment before awkward extending his hand towards Rahd'ni. He shies from it, stepping back and away from the open, pale palm and the raised, pink scar crossing it.

The Wraith starts, glancing down at his offering hand and immediately draws it back to him. "Forgive me. I was under the impression that this is the appropriate greeting of your kind."

Sheppard smirks a lopsided smile. "Why, Todd, I didn't think you cared."

"I do not," the Wraith admits without any hint of emotion before returning to his work. "I find, however, that it makes your people more amenable when I appear to be assimilating normal social custom." He lifts a lip into a downright horrid and macabre grin. "And I do find it puts off the more irritating specimens of your kind enough that they avoid my presence altogether."

"Always thinking ahead," the colonel quips. He looks to Rahd'ni at his side and grows serious once more, explaining, "Rahd'ni, this is-"

A hand upon his chest, slamming down. The crack of his own sternum breaking, fragile as his mother's good china beneath the crushing blow. The hot breath of a Wraith upon his face, the stench of old blood and rotted flesh upon its pointed, vile teeth. The kiss of moon white hair brushing against his cheek and rustling against his ear. The awful feeling of his life seeping impossibly away from him, flowing through him and into the Wraith. The Wraith's pale cheeks flushing with vitae that rightly belongs in him, in Rodney!

"A Wraith," Rahd'ni spits, clenching his teeth against the sudden migraine that sweeps through his mind, sending a harsh throbbing pulse beat through his temples and reverberating deep in his cranium.

Running, fleeing. Sheppard taking point, leading them through narrow corridors of bruised flesh. The air, hot and stuffy, uncomfortable and claustrophobic. The very heart and belly of a Wraith hive ship. Teyla at his side, bolting with long, elegant strides, a veritable goddess of the hunt or war beside him, Athena, Artemis, any and all of them all in one lithe form. Ronon coming up behind them, somehow keeping just ahead of the stomping, thundering Wraith drones chasing them. Throwing himself at a console.

"Well, yeah," Sheppard admits. "Todd's been with us for a few years now, since taking the good Dr. Beckett's gene therapy." The Wraith raises both hands to display the smooth skin there, marred only by long, pale scars; Sheppard smiles widely and chirps, "Quite tame now."

Todd sighs heavily, a worn sort of sound escaping him before he gestures to his face. "However, the treatment has had..... unfortunate side affects."

The aging, Rahd'ni realizes grimly, is what the Wraith is suggesting. Wraith do not age as humans do, their bodies slowly wearing and weathering with time. They remain constant, their faces carved and chiseled in fine bone and calcium carbonate exoskeleton. Todd, however, is showing the faint crows feet and wrinkles that suggest a human aging.

On Atlantis, the city hurtling through space. The city trembles and shakes violently about them. Metal groaning in his ears, whining in protest of the sudden stress after thousands of years beneath the water. Sheppard in the chair, his fingers digging into the armrests as he struggles to hold the city-ship together. The Wraith. They have to get away. The Wraith are coming.

Rahd'ni shudders, his head swimming and stomach turning. Neither the Wraith, Todd, nor Sheppard says anything for a moment. Instead, they stare with wide eyes as Rahd'ni attempts to swallow the headache and force it down. The Wraith twitches oddly, his wide, feral eyes fixated upon Rahd'ni's mouth with a sort of anticipation. Warmth seeps down from his nose to his lips, a heat that gives a metallic taste to it.

"Um...... Rahd'ni...." Sheppard breathes, gesturing with a fluttering motion of his fingertips beneath his own nose. "You've got something...."

Rahd'ni trembles and gingerly touches his fingertips to his upper lip; when he draws them away, they are stained crimson. Blood. He roughly wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve in surprise as lightning surges of white hot pain sear across his brain.

"Rahd'ni, I think we'd better get you back to the infirmary....."

The man gives a quiet, half-hearted bob of his head and slowly turns to make his way from the lab back to the infirmary. Sheppard turns to leave, easing on the wheels of the chair, but the Wraith's hand shoots out in speedy defiance of his seeming frailty. Sheppard glances back in fear as the Wraith squeezes hard upon his wrist, holding him sharply. The colonel blinks, glaring as he meets the beast's feral, honey gold gaze. Sheppard glances back to Rahd'ni, but the man has stumbled too far out of earshot, back to the door.

The Wraith drops his to a low hiss, far too low for Sheppard to hear. "I am not amused by this play of yours."

"My, my, whatever do you mean?" Sheppard coyly taunts, despite his unease and the almost palpable tension churning thickly between them.

The Wraith growls, a lowly, throaty sound, with a certain rattling vibration to it emanating from deep within. "I am not a specimen for display or personal amusement." His golden eyes flicker with a certain measure of what might be sorrow to the scar in his hand, to the lines upon his fingers and the age written there. "It will do you well to remember this."

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A battery of tests along with an extremely concerned Dr. Keller await Rahd'ni upon his untimely return to the infirmary after his all too unpleasant visit with the Wraith. She wrinkles her face in a vaguely maternal expression as she tends to him and gently administers a mild painkiller. He looks pained, his features strained by the seemingly endless barrage of blood draws and excruciatingly droll neurological tests. The doctor longs to touch him as she once had, to gently brush his neck and simply sooth his worry away, but that is no longer her place. She stands now with a wide, cold and yawning gulf between herself and the silent, contemplative man she had once called her lover.

He sleeps for some time after that, a quiet lulling doze while Keller studies the results of this new battery of tests carefully, sifting through the facts and data. She glances at him occasionally, ever satisfied with the peace she spies upon his features, a calmness in him. One of her staff brings him an evening meal of simple fair, and Keller watches cautiously from a distance as the nurse rouses Rahd'ni and as he lips at he food listlessly before making a note of it in his chart. He sleeps after that, his back to her and curled about his knapsack protectively, Jeruth snuggled up against him and purring away contentedly.

Rahd'ni hears her behind him as she drifts through the infirmary to check on him one last time before retiring for the evening. He pricks an ear to the sound of her motion as she pauses to note something in his chart before tiptoeing away. She must think he is asleep; it is late after all. He waits in practiced stillness for her to leave. Keller does not know he sleeps sparingly, and Rahd'ni does not wish to worry her more than necessary over trifling issues as his insomnia.

Once he is certain she is gone and the darkened infirmary lies empty and quiet once more, Rahd'ni takes his journal from his knapsack. Slowly, he turns the pages, studying the words written there in an awkward smattering of D'ni, Ancient, Wraith, English, Russian, Goa'uld, and the mathematical equations associated with each specific language in a chaotic hodgepodge. He leafs through his maps of the city, trailing the tips of his fingers delicately over his own schematics for the fabrication of what Sheppard called a zero point module. He lingers on the pages detailing Gemedet, the personal Age of Lady Ti'ana and Master Aitrus, waxing on the verdant, rolling hills and trees, wishing for just a moment he could again be at the well cavern, marveling at the sun at its zenith pouring golden light down through to the carved, wooden cover to dance in the chilled, spring-fed waters below. He thumbs past his notations for Lantea, skimming quickly over his documentation of the downfall of the once great D'ni empire and his various theories as well as the newer drawings and notes for Atlantis until he comes at last to his final note.

Gormeht kehn tomeht biv roo miruh. Tsahn botaigahn shehm, oyn mor'okh'mor, Jennifer.

He smiles to himself wistfully for a moment before turning his attention to documenting more about this place, his golden Age of Lantea. He loosely sketches what he remembers of the Wraith's twisted, angular features, paying special attention to the pointed teeth and the sheer incongruity of aging in the fine lines and shadows of slowly forming wrinkles. He quickly scribbles what he recalls of their anatomy and behaviors, the memories flittering through his brain like butterflies twittering on the wing. Rahd'ni has much to annotate on this evening from the Wraith to the structure of Atlantis and the mapping of her internal halls and corridors, but his thoughts keep returning even with this distraction to Jennifer.

Rahd'ni flips back to his little note, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile as he reads the words he has penned.

"Now I am here with all that I would desire. Always I will love you, heart of my hearts, Jennifer."

He closes the journal, hugs the leather bound book to his chest, and rolls over to sleep once more.

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Dr. Keller sighs to herself heavily as she walks down the long halls of a dimly lit nighttime Atlantis and looks down to the band of silver. The metal feels cool and smooth to the touch, soft in a way. Rodney would likely go on and on for days about how he had been cheated, sold an impure alloy not worth whatever he had traded for it. The ring is rather rough, poured to the mold by humble craftsmen. She can almost picture him blushing and flustering nervously about the thing, making his general, fluttering motions with his hands. Yet, he apparently never had the opportunity to make such a gesture.

Teyla had found the ring. After the meager search was called off for Rodney, Woolsey asked the sensible minded Athosian to pack his things, particularly any items of great sentimental value, for return to his sister. Teyla sorted out several items, carefully wrapping and stowing them for transit back to Earth, including his degrees, his various awards, his books and private computer. It was only after much of his room had been cleared had the Athosian found the tiny, square box tucked between the bed frame and mattress. She had instinctively sensed the importance of the item and brought it, along with the silver treasure still wrapped in a white, silk handkerchief of Rodney's to Keller.

Keller starts when she realizes she has arrived at the door to her quarters and pushes the thought aside. The room is dimly lit, but warm and cozy, waiting just as she prefers it. However, Keller is not alone. A lump stirs on the bed as she enters silently. She perches herself upon the edge of the wide, plush bed feeling the mattress sink beneath the weight of the other as he shifts and rolls towards her, sighing slightly. On any other evening, the woman might have just slipped under the covers with him and curled up to snuggle and savor every small measure of his strong embrace.

A wide hand rubs her shoulder, gently massaging the deeply set knots while a second cards lovingly through her hair; a voice rumbles in her ear something between a predatory purr and a mellow whisper. "Hey. You okay?"

"Yeah," she replies evenly, tasting the lie, both bitter and sour on her tongue like bile.

Keller can almost hear his smirk as he ruffles her hair playfully and teases, "You're a horrible liar." For a moment, neither says a thing, but, after a long pause, he lets out a heavy breath and asks, "You're thinking about him again, aren't you?"

Keller does not ask for clarification. She does not need to. He means Rodney. He knows that the doctor often thinks fondly of Rodney, sometimes laughing and joking about the funnier stories, sometimes softly crying herself to sleep at night in his muscular arms as she remembers the tender moments between herself and Rodney so many years ago. Surprisingly, it did not foster any jealousy or ill feelings to her knowledge in the past; he seemed to understand her private pain over the matter. However, that was when Rodney McKay was dead, his ghost interred along with a few of his personal items in Canada in his family's plot under a towering, creaking spruce, before the physicist returned to them. Now, his voice holds a flatness to it, a practiced lack of emotion to conceal his opinions and feelings.

Now, the woman cannot lie, not to him. "Yeah."

"You still miss him," the man notes, broaching this dangerous new territory of emotion cautiously, his fingers limply slipping down her long arm. A tear rolls down her cheek, which he quickly brushes away with the ball of his thumb as he soothes, "It's alright. I know."

"I can't hide anything from you, can I?" she blurts out along with a nervous chortle.

"Never." He strokes her hair tenderly before lying back once more. "Come to bed."

Keller nods half-heartedly, going through the motions of changing into her pajamas without any conscious thought or effort. It seems a blink of an eye before she is sidling up beside him, feeling the warmth of his bulk bleeding through her soft, cotton t-shirt comfortingly. He wraps his arms about her, encircling her in his strength and planting a kiss upon her forehead. She snuggles close to him, burrowing her head against his broad chest.

"This changes everything," Keller whispers timidly.

He shakes his head, his words vibrating against her ear. "It changes nothing. I still love you, Jennifer."

"I know..."

He can hear the question lingering there and supplies, "But?"

"But.... I don't know." She frowns, uncertain of the thought on the tip of her tongue.

"You still have feelings for him, don't you?" He asks, his voice going gruff and unkind.

Keller cannot stop the tears now, feeling them streaming down her face in hot, searing trails. "Yes."

"You haven't told him about us, have you?" he questions sternly.

"No... how could I?"

He sighs, a cold jealous sound before rolling away from her, putting his back to her, stealing his warmth away. His body goes stiff and rigid with rejection. Her fingertips brush his arm, but he coldly and brusquely shrugs off her touch. She blinks in surprise, suddenly quite alone on her side of the bed for the first time in two years, the first time since their simple, haphazard wedding on a sun-drenched beach. Her lip quivers at the abrupt abandonment of her lover.

"I'm so sorry, Ronon."

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Author's Note : Sorry for delays with all my stories. I wanted to update before Otakon, but that obviously did not happen. So, if you were there, hope you had as delightful a time as I did!!!

By the by, I'm trying to rotate stories, so Feast of the Samhain is next for update. Huzzah!