Disclaimer: If I owned it, why would I be writing fanfiction?
Cleaning Service
PG13 (T)
To be admitted as personal to Atlantis you either need a doctorate with a world-famous reputation, or you need to be the best sharp-shooting marine in your own sweet part of planet Earth. Or, you're one of the 'hospitality crew'. Yep, that's me with rubber gloves on.
The scientists see it below them to be the ones polishing the floors and washing linen, but who in their right mind would leave sanitation up to a bunch of army knuckle-heads?
"Do you think we should put one of those dinky little mints on his pillow?" Amcotts asked, sorting her pile into lights and darks. I added some 'wonderful-fantastic-lemon-power' washing soda into the Earth-made machine and fiddled with the settings.
"I'd rather spend the government's money getting something that doesn't smell of lemon or pine," I replied flatly, "I'm on window duty this afternoon, anyway. The interior decoration of 'Michael's new room' will be entirely up to you."
"Window duty?"
"One of the southern towers that got scorched when the wraith attacked. Upstairs want to keep everything as bright and shiny as the way they found it," I mimicked brightly.
"God, I'm glad I don't have your job," Amcotts laughed, setting the other washing machine to spin.
"Speaking of jobs, the head Chef? He's got a doctorate."
Amcotts laughed out loud, moving to the next machine and loading, "How do you get a doctorate in food preparation?"
"I have no idea, but I keep getting the feeling I'm going to be replaced by a person with a doctorate in oven-cleaning."
"No, no. They're all busy fighting the Ori back home," Amcotts chuckled, "Besides, Caxton. We'll get off-world one day. Remember that time Edgerton went to that planet with the… what was it, green plague? Red plague? Blue plague?"
"That's all Edgerton ever talks about," I checked my chrono and zipped the collar of the fitted tan coveralls right up, "Almost time for lunch, are we done here?"
"Yep. All systems are flow."
"A-ha, you're hilarious. How 'bout a masters in bad jokes?" Fitted coveralls in highly invisible tan, you see, were just great for pretending you're not there. Hell, it'd be awkward acknowledging the cleaners, wouldn't it? Well, for Major Lorne, anyway. I swear; he must bring back a bucket full of mud every time he goes out on a mission.
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It was windy. Horribly windy. The bucket of soapy water attached to my harness was jiggling about and throwing me off-balance as I abseiled down the battle-scorched windows with window-wiper in hand. The sea was hissing and rushing with high crests smoothing themselves against the city, but I couldn't hear seagulls. A wave of salty sea breeze wafted past with a wave of, of what, homesickness? Hell, I missed the sound of those little flying rats. Just the sound of water hitting rock seemed… alien, without sounds of life—F!
I didn't crack the glass… no. That would be bad. My nose, on the other hand… "Shi.. shi, ow hell." Thankfully I'd caught the bleeding with my hand before it could hit my coveralls. "Mighty LORD!" I swore. I couldn't keep cleaning the window in this wind, and my hand was getting messy.
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"You okay?"
"Foot slipped and a southerly smacked me into the window." Yes. Better me than the window, thank you. "Bleeding stopped." And the window-cleaner is burning my face.
"Good. Dr Beckett needs some hands in the isolation room, that way."
Oh my God.
"Just in time lass, can you give me a hand with these?" Beckett asked, indicating… the wraith? Oh wait, the linen he was lying on.
"Sure," I grimaced. How?
"Others… others will come…" the wraith wheezed, eyes flicking about the room, hazy as through fog.
"He's pretty sedate. All we need to do is lift him onto the stretcher and change the sheets. They're not too bad, but a couple of days old," Beckett explained, smiling. I smiled back, although a little strained. He shrugged, "Thought it'd be nice for a clean start. Start with the basic humanities and work our way up."
What a good opportunity for an escape, so glad that there's only one guard at the door. When we grabbed the wraith—Michael—to dump him on the stationed stretcher, the bastard almost threw me off.
"You will die a PAINFUL death!"
"Funny, I think that every time I'm called out to clean Ronon's quarters," I snarled, fixing the manacles on the stretcher as the good Doctor shot him with another dose of something powerful, grinning appreciatively at the joke. The wraith passed into unconsciousness and I went back to strip the isolation bed.
Beckett changed the pillowcase while I was tucking the corners of the sheets, making small talk about the city. "That is a nasty wee bruise on your nose," he commented, "When did that happen? Must've been just before you got here."
"Hit a window. Does it really look so impressive?"
The doctor smiled, "Oh, it'll hang around for a while. Bigger than anything your friend Edgerton got when he was helping us out."
"Should we move the wraith back?"
"Ah, now. His name is officially Michael Kenmore, now. A lieutenant, too."
I nodded, dimly, "You gave him a haircut." Ah, the deep and thoughtful observations of a genius. Look, less hair! And he's in scrubs.
He still had pallid, waxen-looking skin and those odd slits on either cheek. Dr Beckett hoisted the wraith up from under the arms and I took the legs. "RR-AAAARGH!" Halfway through that roar something resembling a foot obscured my view and the ceiling spun down before me. The blackness dissolved out of my vision as I rolled over onto my side. Beckett was crouched over me and—uck! Shining a light in my eye. I could hear Michael moaning and thrashing weakly against his restraints in the background.
I let out a similar-sounding groan.
"Do you need to go to the infirmary?" Goddamn, the throbbing!
"Would I get the rest of the day off if I didn't?"
"Sure, sure." I was left in the room, guard at the door as Dr Beckett went back to the infirmary to work on something else. Oh well, better get onto drying and folding Wednesday's load, but slowly.
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I peered groggily into the mirror, flicking on all possible light sources. The bridge of my nose was huge and purpley, and I knew it wouldn't be visible beneath the mop of black hair but there was a huge knob-like swelling on the back of my head, too. Thank you, Michael.
I zipped the tan coveralls over my white t-shirt, tenderly pulling my messy hair into a high ponytail before I went to the mess hall for breakfast with the rest of the tan-gang, 4:15am.
"Jesus Christ, Caxton, your face—" Edgerton exclaimed. I set my tray down heavily and thumped down on my seat.
"I met Michael."
Amcotts laughed, "I'm really getting him a mint for his pillow now."
"The bruise on the back of my head is Michael. My face was me getting smacked into Atlantis with the wind yesterday. I'll have to finish those windows this morning." Although taking a wraith foot to the jaw… I pulled the jelly closer to me and ignored the toast. It's not called jell-o because it's mine. My English-spelling jelly.
"Who's on sterilisation today? New roster's out." Someone from the night shift asked, finishing dinner.
"Fantastic. More good news," I groaned, "Me and Amcotts?" Window washing will have to wait.
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I wheeled the trolley of sterilised equipment back into the isolation room, noticing how many people were trying to avoid the entire corridor or even the general area. It was before breakfast time, but some doctors didn't sleep too well. Apparently.
"Oh, hello again," Beckett greeted sunnily. Morning person, or caffeine? Probably both. "Ah, thanks for that."
"How's he doing?"
"Well, there's colour in his face now, it's definitely progressing."
"There's more colour in my face, too. I think he's contagious," I muttered, unloading the tools into their proper homes, all clean and untouched by ungloved hands.
"The cartilage that made up those bumpy things on his face is dissolving, too. He won't even have scars when they're done," Beckett reported, "In a few days he'll be out of the isolation room altogether."
"And there's welcome mints on the pillows for when he does," I remarked dryly. I glanced sideways at the slowly transforming wraith. He did look a lot more human, strangely. "You could put him in tan coveralls the way he is and he'd pass for human." I nodded to the doctor, "Good luck with him."
"Gold star for calling Michael a 'him' not an 'it'," Beckett called after me.
"Thank you Dr Beckett." And now on to the next surgical room.
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"Got an interest in nursing, do we?"
"I'm rostered on for 5:00am sterilisation," I explained to the grinning doctor. No, of course I'm not interested in your little wraith project and coming day after day to see it, "Had an interest once, though. Didn't pan out."
"Oh?"
Very carefully trying not to breathe over the extremely clean utensils, "I wanted to be a painter but never got accepted into art school."
"Really? Why not?" Beckett went over to check some readings from the jungle of wires and monitors that surrounded the… the newly inaugurated human. His hair had gone darker, turned a sandy brown.
"Couldn't paint."
"Well, I've always wanted to be a doctor, to help people…" he looked down at Michael, a meditative look crossing his face. "Michael's still comatose, but his DNA shows a complete transformation. He might even wake up today."
"Another Michael turning into a white man, eh Doc? Ah well, Have fun."
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White gloves are for sterilisation. Pink gloves are for cleaning. Black gloves… rubbish duty. The only good thing about that was being able to incinerate it with a naquadah powered generator in the containment room afterwards. I probably would have been earlier if I hadn't hung around the isolation room so long. The timetable was designed so that the hospitality crew never got in the way.
"Hey, rubbish lady? Excuse me?" Rubbish lady? I wouldn't be surprised if the timetable was designed to keep us away from McKay in particular. I turned my head, holding the full black bag of wasted paper and food wrappers. Just let me put it in the bin. He was holding up an apple core with an expectant, 'bring the bin over here?' look on his face. I drew the drawstrings and dumped the spent bag in the metal bin-trolley and stuck a new bag in.
"You're not a little kid any more, Dr McKay, you can put your own rubbish in the bin. And don't throw it because everyone knows what a bad shot you are."
Dr McKay spluttered indignantly, "Hey, you can't talk to me like that!" A terribly heavy silence fell over the lab; people scurrying about near the back of the room and silence.
I straightened my back with a 'crick', "Why, is it a matter of social standing?" I asked levelly.
McKay blanched "Well, yes—" A matter of principle? It's in my job description? I don't have a doctorate, highness? He wasn't near the exit, so I couldn't drop the bin over to him without it looking weak. Condescending, condescending will work.
"Oh you big—" I pursed my lips and dropped the bin beside him. Insult? Get fired? Not insult? Appear ineloquent and feed his damn ego? I shook my head in the most condescending and could-not-be-bothered-with-you way. Yeah, that'll teach him. That was so embarrassing. Look irritated and disinterested, not defeated!
Edgerton wasn't so pleased when I turned in that morning.
"You just messed with one of their top-dogs. They're never gonna take you off world now."
I took my frustration out on the interior windows that night, not squeaking them so loudly but rubbing them so clean I'm sure they hurt. Revenge for the other day, I suppose. I made quick work of the glass panels of the gateroom balcony; people didn't put their grimy hands on walls as much as doors and windows. Someone else stuck with night duty was downstairs with the echoing humming machine that polished the floors. Sure, Atlantis had its own way of keeping itself clean, but money and janitors are in bigger surplus than ZPM power.
One of the night patrols walked past, one hand on his holster. "Hey Jeff," I smiled. The marine returned the salutation.
The perpetually glowing light of Weir's office exploded into the hallway as her door flung open and she hurried out, one hand on her earpiece. Working late or starting early? I kept my head down, polishing glass and looking invisible.
"Yes Dr Beckett? Good, I'll be there in just a second." Was that Michael waking up, then? He's going to have some bad jet lag. Or Wraith-lag. Species-lag?
Amcotts had 5:00am sterilisation this morning.
"I'll trade you sterilisation for a weeks worth of rubbish duty," I offered, laying my hands on the breakfast/dinner table.
Amcotts looked at me confused, and set down her spoon, "I already have sterilisation."
"Yeah, I know." Graveyard shift specialty, heated leftovers!
"Why do you want the 5:00—wait, Michael's awake, isn't he?"
Thank goodness the hall was practically empty, "Yes. Weir got called out to the isolation room by Beckett about an hour and a half ago."
"No."
"No?" I half whined, gripping the table.
"No, no. You have had too much wraith lately, missy. I'd like to see what this Michael guy looks like myself, actually," Amcotts grinned.
"Like he should be on TV," I muttered sourly. And my head still has a bump on the back of it. Throb. Throb.
Amcotts snorted on her coffee, "I'll give the agents a call next time they're looking for stars in 'Oven cleaners in space'."
I made a face, "Drink your coffee, Am."
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It was late when I woke. Probably time to go… what was today? Probably checking the generators were working. Rotational jobs were about as much pain trying to remember as the Repetitive Stress Injuries that the organisers were trying to prevent.
Someone was knocking. That's odd, probably what woke me in the first place. Amcotts was on the other side, holding coffee. "Morning," I grunted with some irony, grabbing for the coffee. Amcotts was eating some bread product and trying to talk to me at the same time.
"You have floor polishing tonight, I checked the roster for you," And sipping decaf at the same time, multi-tasking!
I grumbled. "Did you get to see Michael?" Hot coffee!
"Yeah. He has muscles. Not a good thing if he… flips. New rule; don't say anything he shouldn't hear anywhere. Message passed on from Weir to the mess hall to you," Amcotts informed, swallowing more decaf.
"…Oh right. How long do you think it will last?"
"Last?"
"Well, practically speaking, do you really expect him to grow old and die here? Go back to… home? On earth?"
Amcotts shrugged, "I don't know. Could happen."
My brow line dropped pessimistically, "Come on, Am. Someone will say something."
"With the fear of being held responsible by Dr Weir, Cax?"
"You can't expect something not to slip."
"Well, if everyone just keeps their heads on for a couple of weeks we all might just… forget about it?" she suggested, weakly.
"Ronan Dex won't. The local guy with the dreads, you know. He'll go ape shit on him, I swear. I don't know why they decided to keep him. All he does is make mess and start fights."
"Yeah, but he's one of the 'celebrities', they'd send whole battalions after him if he went missing."
"And if one of us went missing?"
"'Oh crap, they killed an expendable!'" We both laughed. Hours at the tan-table had brought up a number of group-fantasised circumstances where someone would need one of the hospitality crew off world. It had also brought up discussion on how they'd react if one of us got killed. My favourite had been 'the collapse of the entire Atlantean base because staff shortages meant Major Sheppard's laundry never got done.'
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I wish the damn polisher wasn't so noisy. The walls of Atlantis were mostly soundproof, but it did wreck the nice silence that settled in the corridors this time of night. I was given one wing of the massive city to do by morning. Just the public areas of frequent use. Thankfully Weir had tried not to spread civilian quarters thinly over large areas, minimising the space that was used and the space that was needed to clean.
It was relaxing work.
Apart from that jarring yelling sound just then.
The polisher's hum faded into a dying whine as I flicked it off, approaching the door. Where was I again? Too bad. I knocked on the door, having to be sure that it wasn't one of the freaky disasters that plague Atlantis. The janitors in the movies all died ignoring the screams, you see.
Footsteps. Michael opened the door. Oh my freakin' GOD. I cringed only a little bit, the little throbbing lump on the back of my head coming to attention like a small dog recognising its owner. Throb, throb, throb.
Keep it professional, don't look suspicious! "Everything alright… sir?" Sir. What am I, a maid? Well, it's better than 'What's the problem, Michael, monsters hiding under your bed?'
"Yeah, just… nothing," he rubbed his palm over his forehead, cold sweat? He looked really disturbed.
"Oh, well," I shrugged nervously, "Good—er, have a good night." Now is the time when you close the door and I go back to my polishing, Michael. Bye!
"Wait—"
I froze, just a little bit, and turned around again, "Yes?"
He had a curious look on his face; "Do I know you?"
"…Possibly…" He says 'did I kick you in the face' and I will—run away very fast.
"Are we friends?" According to Amcotts, that was one of his most popular questions.
"Hah, I'm one of the cleaners. I'm everyone's friend." No, no humour. Bad Caxton, don't continue the conversation!
"I'm Michael Kenmore," he grinned, weakly. Something must've freaked him out badly.
"Joan," I reluctantly shook his hand. Oh God, he could have one of those little life-suckers on his hand! What if he accidentally EATS me? Christ…
"Something wrong?"
"Uh? Oh, sterile hands. Gotta go wash them again. Rotational jobs mean dirt could be passed on from anywhere. Dr Weir likes us to keep our hands sterile, all the time. Probably should wear gloves, too," I laughed. Only a little bit shaky.
"Oh, sorry."
"No problem, I'm probably not going to get too dirty polishing the floor, eh? Goodnight," I grinned, only a bit strained. I turned away, "Don't let the bed bu—oh." Aw SHIT, Caxton.
"What?"
Bed bugs? Bed bugs? "…Bed bu…mps bother you. The isolation room has really bumpy mattresses. …Never mind."
"Oh. Uh, thanks. Goodnight."
"Bye." Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Don't let the BED BUGS BITE? What, humour him on how he's a wraith and doesn't know it? Why don't you just show him Beckett's video recordings for heck's sake!
I carried on with the polishing, mentally beating it into myself that I. Would. Not. Say. Wraithy. Connotations. To. Michael. Bad Caxton, very bad.
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"What's with the sudden blue jello fetish?" Edgerton asked, obligingly handing me another one. I happily took it and shovelled a spoonful into my mouth.
"I am taking a stand once and for all," I announced around my mouthful, "I'm not putting up it any more! I am so sick of being looked down on. Tonight I am making a stand."
"This morning."
"This morning I am making a stand, against social prejudices and… other things," I waved my spoon around in gesture, "By consuming all of this blue jelly before McKay wakes up."
"You do know he will have no clue it was you."
"Here's hoping."
"And no possible idea about your little 'cause'."
"This tastes really good."
"Suppose I'll help you with that cause, then. Mm. Careful about your diet, those things have a lot of sugar in them." WHAT?
"Shummup," I frowned. Bossy. I could eat jelly all I wanted, right?
Edgerton paced for a while, taking up his own jello raid on the little blue things. He exhaled tersely as he looked at me, very judgemental. Knowing Edgerton, this could be a compliment coming on. The man looked like he ate grass every time he had something pleasant to say. "Do you know how lucky you are?"
How bout no?
"You're giving the whole department a bad name." I watched him, transfixed with curiosity and anger. What? What? "You've talked to Dr Beckett, even Dr McKay! Hell, next thing you'll probably talk back to Major John Sheppard."
"Look, Edgerton, I don't give who the hell I talk to. They're just people. People I have to clean up after."
"That's a bit hypercritical of you to say," He made mockeries of my hand movements emphatically, "Do you think you're not see-through, trying to 'eat all of McKay's jello'."
CLINK. Anger was constricting my throat into a tight little knot. I croaked, but couldn't answer. My violent setting down of the jelly made that bastard raise his eyebrows, as if to prove a point. What point?!
"Come on Caxton, can you just put aside your own infatuations and learn a little respect, for the sake of your coworkers?"
"Respect?" How can he use that word?
"Those doctors are all geniuses and the soldiers that lead those expeditions out there are like war heroes. These guys are the best the world has to give and it's about time you treated them like it," I felt like a little kid. So small and ignorant. I wanted to kill him. He didn't know what he was talking about.
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I hoped my flushed face looked more grumpy than teetering on the edge of self-pity. I was collecting the rubbish before dawn. Then I would sleep, and be alone. My eyelids felt lined with sandpaper. And I didn't care what Edgerton thought of me. Screw him.
"Hmm."
Lovely, another scientist thinking aloud. They'd probably talk to me about their little problem like some blank reciprocal that wouldn't understand any of it but would be awed by their brilliance. Not that I did understand any of it, but damn…
I did my best to ignore them, turning my back on them while I changed the rubbish baggies.
Edgerton was not right. The people here were geniuses, but he was not right. It didn't make any sense for him to be right.
"Don't you ever get tired of that tan coverall?" the voice behind me suddenly questioned. Sympathy for my cause, and at this hour of the morning? Unfortunately I had already answered with a non-committal "Hm," before realising that the question was friendly. It would be nice to have someone to talk to that actually knew what was going on and didn't look down on the hospitality crew as 'the help'. But Kavanagh? I only knew him by name because we had the same type of ponytail.
Kavanagh tapped his pen thoughtfully against his chin then shrugged and went back to scribbling on something. Oh well, the sympathy is what counted.
"Maid outfits would make this place far more interesting. Hey, where are you going? The rubbish is still here!"
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Perhaps I should go home. I need to go home.
I curled up on my cot, the dawn sun thankfully shielded by heavy blinds. I could feel that it was morning, though. I shut my eyes forcefully, getting motion sickness from sitting so still.
There were dreams; thick as paint and filled with a dull throbbing.
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I only truly woke up when the warm cup of coffee burned in my hand. I convinced the cooks to part with some breakfast cereal at what was clearly the wrong time of day to be eating breakfast. I shonked myself down at the clear end of the least occupied table and clunked my loaded tray down. The cereal was mine, mine for thee slurping and crunching and to heck with anyone who tried to tell me otherwise. They would get a half-angry scowl, yes.
There was a heavily armoured guard walking past me, all dressed in black and… and automatic rifle in his hand, and another guard… and Michael. Oh, oh no. He was sitting across the table from me. And he was grinning, and making eye contact and oh there is going to be a conversation.
He was a happy boy. "Hi! These are more of my friends," he gestured with his thumb to the guards, "They like me for my personality." I laughed.
Good, Caxton, very smooth.
"You got to sleep well then, I take it?" I started, trying to sound normal. The guards exchanged questioning glances. For the GODS.
"Yeah," he nodded, still grinning.
Oh well, at least he wasn't picturing me in a maid's outfit. "You enjoying the food—today?" Saying 'today' instead of 'Atlantis' at the sudden tensing of the guards. Yes, the last thing they needed was a stupid cleaner to mess everything up. Note the irony. I continued, "New chef; he's got a doctorate. Why anyone would want to spend six years and thousands of dollars learning how to cook is beyond me." Probably shouldn't have said that within earshot of all the other doctors, cooks… and everyone else here who DID spend that much to get where they are now, simply to get where they are now, and you're here for doing bugger all! JUST SHOVE THE FOOT IN FURTHER, CAXTON.
"It's good food, though," Michael said with some hope, but I could tell by the way that he moved the bits of sweet potato and beef-something around on his plate that he wasn't so compelled to eat it. "What are you having?" he frowned, almost conspiratorially.
"Breakfast," I mumbled, mouth full of the substance in question, "Some rice or wheat or corn stuff with dried bits of fruit in it. The usual. And my coffee," I curled my fingers around the warm cup protectively. My coffee, all mine.
"Do you work at night?" I looked up at the Wraith-come-human trying to hide his ignorance of the way our world worked.
"Some weeks I do. This week I am working at night, and probably the next two as well. They don't like to change groups too often—it can really screw you up some days, being awake on the wrong side of the clock," I amused myself by separating the fruit from the brown crunchy things while I talked.
"Oh," he said, a little distantly. The awkward silence grew. I waffled down the rest of my breakfast, letting Michael take the responsibility of starting any new conversations; even though it was obvious that since the topics of food and work were gone, there was nothing he could think to talk about. I sipped at my coffee, not wanting to panic the suspicious human by rushing off to boring old labour.
"Hey Cax," I looked up and smiled at James, today's busboy. I handed him my tray and kept my coffee close at all times.
"Hey James."
"Night shift?"
"Again." He reached over to get someone else's spent dishes at the same time.
"McKay noticed the blue jello was missing," James smirked.
I smiled, "Oh dear, won't do it again now, will I?"
"See you," he grinned. I repeated his words and dragged myself back to coffee—and angry looking Michael. Shit.
"You said your name was Joan," he remarked, eyes narrowed in a suspecting way.
"Yeah," that sounded blank.
"He called you Cax."
"Joan Caxton. That's my full name." To his confusion I added, "Everyone calls me Caxton. We have this thing in hospitality—we're basically at the bottom of the (don't say food chain) social ladder, so to speak. We're not geniuses or the-best-of-the-best-of-the-best-Sir. We call each other by our last names in mock-seriousness. Pretending that we're all… important. Like peasants in the old days extending their little pinkies when they drank to mimic the rich and famous," I took a swig of coffee, demonstrating so. "Call me whatever you like, I'm just the help," I grunted.
Yeah, pour your troubles out onto a life-energy-sucking alien. They care.
"Do you know Teyla? She's nice…different from everyone else. I think she understands me more, with what I'm going through. More than my own people from Earth, the soldiers, you know," he laughed, trying to make light of the conversation.
"She's good with that," I agreed. I had never met her, personally.
"You're different too," he frowned at me, "…A different different, though."
I laughed aloud, "She stands apart from the crowd. I am stood on," I shrugged, "It is my belief that you are only below someone if you allow yourself to believe that you are. Lately, I have been reconsidering that philosophy, though."
"Keep your philosophy. It sounds… useful," he shrugged, vying for positive. I drained my coffee cup quickly. The cleaning beckoned to me.
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Feedback appreciated, guys! Toodles!