Hold My Hand
"Mairghread."
No, I don't want to wake up. The darkness is nice—no pain. No guilt.
"Mairghread, luv, come on, wake up lass…"
Dr. Beckett…his voice calling me back to reality…the surgery!
"Where's Gilleasbachan?!" I shout as I sit bolt upright in my bed. Carson is crouching next to me and holds up his hands passively.
"Calm down, luv," he sooths. "He's still in his bed. We've not moved him yet. But yer mum had an idea last night, thought ye might like tae hear it."
"Huh?" I answer stupidly; without the adrenaline of blind panic, I am left with a sleep-befuddled mind that doesn't want to acknowledge reality yet.
Carson smiles kindly and offers me a hand up. "Come on, let's get ye some breakfast."
In the far corner of the isolation room, a small table has been laid with breakfast things. Dad and Mum and John are already sitting there; I can smell coffee (for John and Carson), tea(for Mum, and possibly me), pound cake, eggs, sausage, and a mélange of other things.
"Hey, how ya doing, Mairghread?" John inquired flippantly and hands me a steaming mug of tea. "Its tea—don't need another coffee incident, today of all days."
I accept the drink and can't help but snicker, remembering the ill-fated time I tried coffee. If I want the taste of it, I have to have it as ice cream, without the high caffeine content.
"Are you…alright, Mairghread?" Mum asks more seriously. "You seem…worn."
"Yeah," I reply, and then, realizing that my reply was ambiguous, "I'm alright. Just a nightmare."
I receive sympathetic looks from all around, but I quickly try to change the subject. Knowing that I won't escape without eating something, I grab the simplest thing on the spread, a slice of the pound cake, and say, "Um, Carson mentioned you had an idea, Mum?"
"Ah, yes," she wraps her hands around her tea, leaning forward on her elbows. "Would it not be possible for you to…communicate with your brother while Dr. Beckett is doing the surgery? Try to…explain to him why it was necessary."
I do not answer at first. I had not considered this possibility. Under the influence of the anesthetic, Gilleasbachan will have retreated deep within himself—it will not be easy to reach him. On the other hand, my powers in that area are very strong, and he may be more rational if he is deep within himself. Of course, he may also be fighting his 'subconscious demons' as Dr. Heightmeyer would call them, but if I were there, he would not be alone in fighting them. Even if I could just allay his fears a little, it may be of great help.
"Mairghread?" John calls me back to the present. "What d'ya think? Can you do it?"
I nod slowly. " I think so. But," I look to Carson, "What would Dr. Beckett think of me cluttering up his operating room?"
He looks up from his coffee mug. "Think nothin' of it, lass," he assures me. "Ah take it ye'd be at his head, right? Well, ye on one side, Dr. DeVries on the other tae keep an eye on the anesthetic, and Ah'd nae know ye were there."
"Well then," John claps his hands and refills his coffee mug. "Hopefully that settles that. Now, Mary," he looks pointedly at my half-slice of pound cake. "You are going to eat more than that for breakfast, right?"
As of this moment, I hate John Sheppard. Passionately.
My stomach is not pleased at my forced, large breakfast. In fact, it is seriously considering rebelling.
At Carson's suggestion, I'm taking a shower in one of the infirmary bathrooms while the nurses prep Gilleasbachan for surgery. I had tried to protest, but Carson kindly and gently pointed out that the nurses knew what they were doing and that since Gilleasbachan was unconscious, there was no conscious comfort I could give him by being there. Hence, I am here in the shower room usually reserved for nurses and doctors. I noticed when I came in that a pair of blue surgical scrubs, as well as clean underwear(I try not to wonder who has been raiding my dresser), has been laid out for me on the sink counter.
I strip slowly, my muscles stiff from the abuse I have given them over the past three days. The rosy pink dress, hung carefully on a hook so it doesn't wrinkle. The white shirt folded inside out so I know to wash it.
"Aiëà!" I yelp as I step under the streaming water—its freezing! My hand shakes violently as I try to adjust the temperature to warmer, but the touch controls are sensitive—I end up alternately scalding and freezing myself several times before I can stabilize the water at a nice, warm temperature.
I'll never be warm again, bitch…
"Shut up!" I mutter and shake my head to rid myself of the haunting voice of the queen. I hate her, I hate her I HATE HER!!!
Mairghread, breathe… I hear Mum's voice reminding me gently that getting worked up will not solve anything…try to calm down…force the queen to the back of my mind, where I can't hear her.
The harsh infirmary soap sloughs off the top layer of my skin, and I vaguely wish I had thought to bring soap from my apartment. Unlike yesterday (or was it two days ago?) I have no desire to scrub my skin away. I am calm enough to know that the part of the queen that clings to me is not something I can wash away, no matter how harsh the soap.
You'll never get rid of me, you know.
Murderer.
"Oh, shut it," I growl at the deadly purr in the back of my head and stand under the spray, letting it dampen my hair and rinse away the dirt and soap. "I don't have time for you right now." That was very McKay sounding—how much time have I spent around him lately?
The infirmary air bites frostily when I step out of the steamy shower. I towel off quickly and clamber into the thin scrubs. They do little for warmth, but they do stop the draughts. I quickly braid my hair and slip it inside the surgical cap—if it's going to get in there at all, it's going to have to be while it's damp.
I realize, a bit belatedly, that I have no footwear; I kicked off my shoes and socks to sleep last night and never bothered to retrieve them. Oh well. Dr. Beckett will throw a fit if—no, not if, when—he sees me walking barefoot through the infirmary. Hmm…a pair of slipper-socks and surgical booties should conceal my lack of properly soled footcovering.
However, being barefoot means that I can easily slip back into my brother's room.
I enter the isolation room silently, all though it turns out there was no need for my stealth. Nurses have already gathered around my brother to prepare him for surgery.
I want to go touch him, reassure him that it is alright—reassure myself that he is still there, that he made it through the night, but this is foolishness—I can hear the monitors beeping quietly, rhythmically—they make no noise for the dead. Right now, I'd only be in the way, and so I sneak out again and go up to the observation room.
As I mount the stairs, I hear Mum, Dad and John's voice floating down to me.
"John, we understand that the regulations of your military—" Mum sounds…worried?
"Forget it Teyla," John's voice rings with his customary dismissal of the absurd. "Just 'cause you guys are on my team, doesn't make you military."
"Sheppard—" Dad's voice, also tinted with a worry that I rarely hear, though I can often sense.
"Seriously, stop worrying," John sounds happy, playful. "Come on, Chuck had bets going on you guys. Most people lost, by the way. You guys held out a long time."
Marriage—Mum and Dad are finally getting married. Why are they asking John first? Why haven't they told me yet?
"The betting pool knows?" Dad growls, and I imagine him stepping up to tower over John menacingly.
I choose this moment to step fully into the half-light of the stairwell and make my presence known, trying not to show that I overheard the conversation.
"Hello," I greet them, hopefully not sounding hurt.
All three of them look vaguely like they've been caught at stealing from the chocolate reserves in the kitchen. John is the first to recover.
"Hey Mairghread," he tries for chipper, and falls slightly short, but I doubt any but the most sensitive ears would have noticed. "Come to keep an bird's-eye on your brother?"
"Yes," I step past him, ignoring the obscure reference I don't feel like digging out the meaning of, into the room and up to the large, one way mirror. From up here, I can see everything that the nurses are doing.
They have stripped him of his scrubs, just a sheet covering his hips and legs. His arm casts have already been covered with protective plastic bags and they are gently sponging him down, bit by bit. His hair is all tucked up inside a disposable surgical cap, and small pieces of tape have been laid over his eyes.
"Mairghread, Beckett just called. They're about to take him into surgery for the final prep. He says you should head down and get yourself situated," John tells me, standing beside me and looking down at my brother. "You know, I never thought I'd feel sorry for a wraith," he looks at my raised eyebrows before rocking on his heels and turning to the window again. "Present company accepted, of course."
I nod and shoot over my shoulder as I head down to the surgery. "Just don't think of Gilleasbachan as another Michael."
The operating room is cold and dry, but I hardly feel it I'm so worried for my brother. I sit on the plastic covered chair they've given me, my face covered by a surgical mask, trying to calm myself sufficiently.
They wheel him in presently, one nurse using a bag to breathe for him until they can connect him to the operating room ventilator.
"On the count of three. One, two three!" the head nurse orders and they shift Gilleasbachan off the gurney using the bottom sheet and onto the operating table. They then roll him from one side to another to retrieve the sheet and throw it in a laundry bin. Two of the nurses busy themselves with covering him with green surgical cloths while another hooks him up to the ventilator and yet another transfers his many IV bags.
In the next room, I hear Dr. Beckett and Dr. Biro washing their hands and getting ready for the surgery. Trays of instruments I'd rather not have seen are brought out of the autoclave and set ready for use. One the nurses, Joshua by his voice, is carefully coating Gilleasbachan's stomach and chest with dark orange iodine. As I look on in fascination—whether I can call it horrified or not I'm not sure—one of the nurses mercifully raises a curtain over Gilleasbachan's neck, so I can see his head but nothing else.
"Hello there, Mairghread" Dr. DeVries hails me, the corners of his eyes betraying a smile hid by the mask as he checks on Gilleasbachan. "How are you today?"
"Well enough," I reply quietly. Dr. DeVries is a very nice man, but sometimes just a bit too cheerful.
"Ah, not really in the mood for converzation, then?" he asks as he checks the IV bags and arranges a new set of syringes for the surgery. "I understand. Um," he turns to look at me. "Anything I need to know before you….," he waves his hand in a circle, as though it would provide him with the answer. "Do what it is you're going to do?"
"No," I reply succinctly. "Except maybe keep me from hitting my head if I happen to fall off the chair?"
He smiles again. "Of course."
"Alrecht, shaa we gie started 'en?" Dr. Beckett asks as he comes in and a nurse puts gloves over his hands. His accent is particularly thick today—I can't help but think that he's concerned about this surgery. "Mairghread, lass, ye ready tae begin?"
"Aye," I reply and lean forward to touch foreheads with my brother, placing my hands on either side of his head.
"Let's begin 'en…"
The noises of the operating room fade as I slip more and more into the 'telepathic world'. I fold into my own mind before reaching out to Gilleasbachan.
There is something…blocking me. I can't tell if it's the effects of the anesthetic or because Gilleasbachan is trying to keep me out. Slowly, gently I push forward, but it's like pushing through week old jello or semi-set cement. I feel it ooze around me, at once repelling me and closing in behind me. The further I press onward, the more difficult it becomes—I feel as though I were being smothered, despite the knowledge that no such thing can in fact be happening to me.
All at once, the barrier disappears, but the darkness does not. As I stand still and try to orient myself, I find once again that I cast a soft light around me. Today, however, it is not as bright as it was before. Perhaps because I have acknowledged the darkness in my soul…or perhaps because unlike last time, I am unsure of what I need to do.
I stumble forward, casting around for any sign of my brother and hoping that I am lurch towards him, and not back towards the pudding wall.
"Gilleasbachan!" I call out to him as I continue my search. "Where are you?"
"Go away," returns the plaintive cry to my ears, and instantly I know where to find him. I move in that direction and find my brother curled up despondently in the roots of a tree.
"Go away!" he shouts at me, not moving from his hiding spot.
"Gilleasbachan, will you please just listen to me?" I beg him, crouching down so I am eye to eye with him. "Please, just let me explain."
"No!" he shouts back and then mutters. "Torturer.Betrayer."
"No, no, Gil," I try to block out his words, which have echoed in my mind all night. "No, Gil. Dr. Beckett and I, we're healing you."
"By cutting me?" he shoots back. "By ripping me to shreds all over again like she did?"
His words slice through my heart, but I shake my head. "No, no." an idea...maybe... "Gil, what would happen if one of the kids had gotten into one of the control panels and rearranged all the connectors? You'd have to disconnect them and pit them back in right order, right?"
He nods slowly, clearly not sure where I'm going with this.
"Gil, its just like that. We have to undo the damage."
He thinks about this for a moment, before shooting back, "You said no one would hurt me again! You swore!" he screams back at me. Mentally I sigh—so much for comparison.
"Gilleasbachan, they wont!" I shout back. "Can you feel any pain? Anything?Even a tiny pinprick?An itch?"
He shakes his head slowly, confusedly. "No…"
"They're doing the surgery right now," I tell him. "But there's no pain, is there?"
Once again, he has to slowly shake his head, before shooting back, "But there will be!"
"No, no there won't, Gil," I tell him placatingly. "By the time you wake up, you'll be healed. And any pain you still feel from the broken bones, Dr. Beckett has medicine to make the pain go away."
At last he looks into my eyes, almost childlike in his trust. "Really?Promise?"
I allow myself a small smile. "Yes, Gilleasbachan. I promise."
He nods enthusiastically. "Okay." But almost immediately, he seems afraid again. "She won't like it. No, no she won't," he mutters almost to himself and it is all too clear who that 'she' is.
"Gilleasbachan, she's dead," I remind him. "I killed her. John burned her. The marines scattered her ashes all over the sea. She's gone and the Spirits aren't going to let her out of her punishment so she can come hurt you."
"But I can see her," he whispers like a frightened child. Kate warned me about this, that he may act child-like while he is healing one minute, the next like a warrior backed into a corner.
"Here," I tell him, stretching out my hand to him. "Hold my hand. She won't dare come near me."
"You're sure?" he whispers, his hand just centimetres from my own.
"Yes," I promise him. "Just hold my hand."
Trembling, he grasps my hand in his, his grip strong and fierce. I move to sit down next to him under the tree.
"Dr. Beckett says you should be able to eat in a few days at most," I tell him. "What would you like to eat?"
"Eat?" his eyes light up at the mention of eating. "Food?REAL food?"
I laugh, "Yes. What else?"
His countenance darkens for a moment and I realize that that was a stupid thing to say, so I quickly go back to food. "What's your favourite meal? Um, simple meal—Dr. Beckett probably wouldn't want you to start out with a steak dinner."
"What's steak?"
Oops, earth references for someone who never heard of the place. "Um, a really fancy meal. Like a khuzark, but a little tougher and more flavourful."
"Oh," I think he's trying to imagine such a strange meat, but he gives up after a moment. "Um, isean and tava bean soup? Bread?" his eyes get a far away look, as though he were being transported back to his childhood. I realize, in a flash, that we must be very deep in his mind—perhaps here, all his fears and pains have not had as much penetrative power. Maybe that's why he was more willing to accept my explanations than when he was awake. To be sure, even here he's not totally free, but...
"Mairghread?" he whispers my name and I shake my self free of the thoughts, turning my attention back to him.
"Yes Gilleasbachan?"
"Will you stay here? Just for a little while?"
In his voice, I hear his fear, the fear which supersedes all else for a wraith—the fear of being completely alone.
"Of course," I squeeze his hand lightly. "I won't go until I have to. I promise."
TBC
A/N: Sorry its been so long, but the chapter is longer and I am working on it!