Disclaimer:I don't not own Stargate Atlantis or any of it's characters. Do you THINK I would be here If I did?! So I do not in any way shape or form own any of the plot or the characters. They belong to whoever owns 'em. I just took the general idea for a test jaunt. So, don't sue me...not that it would be beneficial, as I am a poor university student, yadda yadda yadda.

Warnings: This is a Mckay and Sheppard slash story (Eventually). Thus, eventually the rating will more then likely change from Teen to Mature. It's angst, and seems like a death fic at the moment. Believe me people, it is not, so just bare with me here. Blame the rabid plot bunnies. Spoilers are considered fair game up to the end of the Season Three, and while this story doesn't really have a set place in the storyline, just consider it occurring at a time when Elizabeth was still on Atlantis, and Carson either didn't die, or this is his clone. (I usually just repress the thought that he died anyway! Heh!)

*Also I hold myself totally not at fault for any fan death by sqwee in regards to Orange Fleece! :D

Authors Note: Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism.

Those Were Not His Hands

Chapter Two – Orange Fleece

The jacket was a shade lighter now, dulled by one too many washes. But just like the man who wore it, it bore its scars and imperfections proudly, sporting a mended tear on the back hem and a few pock-marked holes on the cuffs where the fleece had been singed by welding sparks. Yet despite it all Rodney wore it nearly as often as his expedition jacket, always standing out when he did, one bright neon mark in a sea of military blacks and greens, and the science tans and blues. 'As if the man really needed clothes to stand out!' He mused with a fond shake of his head.

Rodney McKay was more a part of Atlantis then any of the natural Ancient gene carriers, sometimes even more then himself. It was more then just a simple machine and man understanding...it was a bond, a connection, and despite all his sarcasm and bluster he knew Rodney felt it too. Just the same way he knew why Atlantis seemed to light the halls just a fraction of a percent brighter for him as he stalked past, nose deep in schematics, or why Atlantis responded just that much faster to his every command. He could almost feel the fondness the city directed towards him whenever Rodney sat in the chair, the same feeling John often felt from her as well.

He sometimes wondered if it was Atlantis' way of showing her love, of caring...

And even now, especially now, it killed him that he had never acted on his own feelings. Cursing himself for letting years worth of opportunities slip by unheeded, letting his cowardice, and uncertainty rule him until he had buried the longing and the desire for more down so deep beneath friendship, bravo, and comradeship that he had almost tricked himself into believing it wasn't there at all. Almost.

He had made himself pretend that his heart didn't nearly stutter to a stop whenever the Canadian would grin or even laugh, a sound that had been rare in their first year on Atlantis, but now had become almost common. He made himself forget how it truly felt to be around him, to know the very moment when that metaphorical light bulb would flash on in his brain and how it felt to look up and catch that glint of near child-like excitement that would appear, and being able to share in that feeling with him. He had even pretended that he didn't enjoy it when, out of all things, they would be running for their lives on some far-flung, ass-backward planet, and know that everything was just as it should be when Mckay was racing along at his side, complaining and bitching the entire time.

It wasn't until the garment made a distressed sound that he realized he was fisting it tightly, nearly wringing it in his fists. Forcing himself to relax, he pressed it to his chest, crushing it into his dusty black shirt, heedless of the volcanic ash that still covered his shirt as he wobbled slightly, sinking down on the end of the bed. He slumped right down into the middle of the mess of blankets, the movement sending a burst of the mans distinctive scent tumbling and rushing through the air, the scent searing his nostrils, over powering the scent of burning from his clothes.

Still breathing deeply he forced himself to look around the room, taking it in in all it's messy glory. The desk chair was pulled out, his tan science expedition jacket hung over one side, the Canadian flag still displayed proudly on the right shoulder. On his desk one of his many laptops still complied a program, doing various system checks, and filling the room with a barely discernable hum as it worked. His quarters looked for all the world, as if he had simply stepped out to the mess hall, bound to return at any moment. The thought alone was enough to tighten the coiled vice of grief inside his chest once more, as if his entire body was betraying him as he fought to remain strong.

After a few rough moments, seconds where he could only concentrate on breathing, he realized that at some level that that was excately the problem. That was why after even carrying Rodney's stretcher to the gate, baring his dead-weight through the wormhole and back to Atlantis himself, that his mind just wouldn't accept it. Wouldn't. Couldn't.

The man was just too present, with little parts of himself spread all over Atlantis. Rodney was just as present in the orange fleece as he was in gateroom, puttering under a console or working five stations at once, mouth going nine thousand miles per minute as he berated everyone and their uncles. He was in the cluttered corners of the labs he had claimed for his own, the side of the couch in the rec room he always dived for, the spot on the floor he sat on when they drank beer in his room. He was present in his empty seat at their table in the mess, even in the lonely chair at the conference table, the seat still pushed out from the table, the only chair from their morning meeting not neatly placed in order with the rest.

He was everywhere on Atlantis, everywhere in their lives, in his life. He had always been. And he was haunted by it, haunted by a thousand ghosts of memory that whispered through his mind, a thousand opportunities lost. Gone forever.

How could he be gone when he was still so strongly here? It was all so wrong. Minutes, maybe even hours trickled past as if time held no meaning, the early afternoon sun fading to the dusk of evening. As if it wasn't real at all.

He was waiting, sitting there in the middle of Rodney's bed, the mans jacket clutched in his lap, his combat boots making dark volcanic smudges on the floor in front of him, waiting, poised on edge for the moment someone would burst in and shout it was all false. An elaborate joke, a strange alien kidnapping, that the dead man in the morgue was not really Rodney at all...something. Anything.

He kept waiting, half-expecting the door to swish open, and Rodney to come turning around the corner, contentedly munching on a power bar, tablet in hand, already computing dozens of system checks and god knows what ever else, a half-snarky, half-amused grin already blossoming on his lips, eager to needle him for being so gullible...so emotionally wrecked. He was also ready for the serious, and slightly concerned look that would undoubtedly appear as he realized how much it had hurt him, his blue eyes widening in understanding. He was ready for how Rodney might tentatively sling a companionably hand over his shoulder as he would try, unsuccessfully to hide the warmth in his eyes. Rodney had never really been able to hide much from him, his eyes were too expressive, his face far too open.

Some people wore their hearts on their sleeves, but Rodney blithely wore his on his face, iit was there, in his eyes for everyone to see if only they cared enough to look. And he loved him for it. So yes, he kept waiting...But no one saved him, and Rodney didn't come..

He was startled when the tears came. The first a single drop that coursed briefly down his cheek to fall and dampen the orange jacket on his lap, the fleece slowly soaking up the moisture as he watched. He had thought he had forgotten how to cry. He had thought it had been just one more thing he had lost among the sandy desert dunes in Afghanistan, buried alongside one too many friends and comrades. It figures that it would be Rodney who would be the one to dig it out of him again.

"Damnit Rodney..." He whispered, looking up at the ceiling vainly trying to halt the welling moisture in his eyes, blinking away the liquid blur. "Not you..not you."

A/N: I want to thank everyone who had reviewed thus far, I am glad you guys are enjoying the story! Hopefully this chapter will be as much to your liking as the first.