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!)

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 Four – "Don't tell me if I'm dieing, cause I don't wanna know..."

He passed only a few people on his way back to his quarters, yet he was unable to stop the stony, blank look from passing over his features as each one passed, barely noticing that while they averted their eyes quickly and hurried away, their eyes were still full of questions. How? Why? ... Why?

He himself was only just beginning to work it out, inwardly cursing himself as his mind forced the images to the surface once again. Forcing him to confront the events of a few hours previous, memories he knew he wasn't ready to face. Damn.

He passed Lorne and Zelenka last, coming around the final corner leading to his quarters to find both men standing outside the Radek's door, talking quietly as he approached, bent together so that their foreheads were nearly touching. The sight nearly sent him careening into the corridors next arching corner, the image of the two of them together bringing him back to a similar moment in the gate room when they had emerged from the wormhole.

There had been a lot of people crowded into the gateroom, many more then he had ever remembered seeing in one place since they had arrived on Atlantis, years previous. And it hadn't just been personnel from the sciences; it had been people from all sections. It didn't matter if they had been on duty or off duty; the stairs and the corners had been crowded with them, everyone from the Marines, the Air force, to even the kitchen staff. Rodney had never fully realized just how many people's lives he had touched throughout the years. Elizabeth and Carson had been there of course, easily the two most visible presences in the room as they had rematerialized, standing slightly off to the side to make room for the stretcher and their party.

He was sure that almost no one save himself and Lorne had noticed when the wiry haired man had skidded into the room mere seconds after the wormhole dissipated. When everyone froze, it had been him, out of them all, even before Carson that had quietly come forward. His eyes had visibly glistened with unshed tears, but he let not a single tear fall as he did what none of them could. What he could not do, and had unwrapped the shroud, only stopping when he had unwound the cloth down to Rodney's broad shoulders.

And before he had stepped back, letting Carson and the medics through, he had placed his hand on the Canadian's pale shoulder and had said a few words in Czech, his hand resting on Rodney's skin like it belonged there. Finally stepping back as Lorne's moved forward, his hand coming to rest comfortingly on Zelenka's shoulder as they listened to Carson's wavering voice as he sent his orderlies back to sick bay, his stethoscope crumpled in his tight fist as he reached down to gently close Rodney's sightless blue eyes. He tried not to hate them both for having the courage to do what he could not. Radek at least had been able to say his goodbyes.

He hadn't figured it was possible but the little Czech somehow looked worse then in the gate room. While his eyes had lost that dead, disbelieving look, it was clear that he had definitely seen better days. Radek had taken the death of his friend, and boss as hard as he had. His hair looked more wild then usual, which was saying something itself, standing out from his head like a light brown halo. His eyes remained red and blood shot, and his characteristically expressive face had turned grim. Lorne had a comforting hand on his shoulder again, one which he did not immediately remove when he noticed that the hall was no longer empty.

As he neared them the Major turned, nodding respectfully, his face carefully neutral as he made to speak. "Sir." He greeted. "Doctor Weir asked me to tell you that she wants to speak with you right away." He relayed, his lips twisting a bit as he finished. He had only nodded, unsurprised at the news and biding them both goodnight as he past, the expression on Zelenka's tired, broken face spurring forth to many unwanted memories of earlier that day...

(Flashback)

He remembered little after the flames and the screams. He regained consciousness nearly an hour after the blast, coming back to reality with a painful lurch as a dozen stinging wounds seared across his skin, products of skidding across the rocky ground, a throbbing headache blossoming at his temple where he had hit his head on landing. As the world spun into focus he slapped Lorne's gentle hands away as the man readjusted the bandage wrapped around his head, the cotton already damp and crusted with his blood.

Do you dream, that the world will know your name?

The world returned in a rush as his senses seemed to switch on all at once. The bright blue lights of the ancient station pierced his tender eyes, the smell of scorched hair and clothing mixed with the unmistakable scent of burnt skin, so overpowering that he could taste it, sickly and gritty on his tongue and between his teeth. Lorne hovered over him, his lips moving, forming words.. sentences, but he couldn't hear him, his ears still reverberating with the percussive explosion, beating in time with his heart. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

So tell me your name

The world finally swirled to a stop, and while his ears still heard nothing, he felt his lips form the words. Mckay. "Mckay... Mckay!?" He didn't know if he had screamed it or whispered it, but regardless Lorne held him by his shoulders, forcing his face towards him as a penlight seared his retinas before he had even registered the movement. Panic rose in his breast like bile, where was he? He should have been here. He was always there, always right beside him, his mouth always talking, his hands always moving. But there was nothing.

Do you care, about all the little things or anything at all?

He twisted in Lorne's arms, ignoring the pain that followed the movement, his eyes desperate now. Where? One of the Obsasan blocked his view, rucking up the pant leg of his BDU's and smearing something cool and soothing to his calf, a place that before the coolness of the salve he hadn't realized was searing with pain and heat. He twisted again, trying to see over the woman, trying to find Rodney. Why would he not answer? Why? He always did! Always!

I wanna feel, all the chemicals inside I wanna feel...

He turned once more, eyes scanning the room, doing a circuit and then swinging back, again and again, until he fully realized what he was looking at. No. Laid out, supine on the ancient chair was Rodney. But it wasn't the Rodney he had gone through the gate with. No, this one was charred and still.

In large patches his BDU's had been burnt away entirely, leaving angry red and charcoal patches where pale, freckled skin had once been. One side of his expressive face had been blackened and scorched by the plume while the other side remained untouched except for a few streaks of grey ash, the cinders so thick in his dirty brown hair that it had turned it a premature grey. The Canadian flag and the designation patches that had once been sewn onto his uniformed shoulder had been lost entirely. Burned away and gone.

I wanna sunburn, just to know that I'm alive...

He laid there, held up by the Major's strength, tipped back in his arms like one would hold a small child, watching as Otesterian and one of his men carefully slipped off the charred husks of Rodney's combat boots, removing the scraps of clothing from his legs as they reverently began to wrap him in a long roll of stark white cloth. The white color so pure and untainted that it stood out boldly in contrast with the irritated reds, and the charred blackness of Rodney's skin. A shroud. Why were they wrapping him in a shroud?...No..No! It can't be. Not him.

To know I'm alive

He wrenched himself forward, his hearing returning in a consuming, thrumming rush. His ears echoed with sound, the steady hum of the ancient technology, Lorne's concerned voice, their explanations, demands, all words... all demanding his attention. But he ignored them all, unsteadily regaining his feet and shaking off Lorne's helping hands. He had to get to Rodney. Rodney needed him.

Don't tell me if I'm dying, cause I don't wanna know..

He nearly fell, clawing his way past Otesterian and leaning over the side of the chair for support, ready to see those bright blue eyes crack open once again. Ready for him. But there was nothing. Rodney's eyes remained closed; his eye lashes burnt off in the plume. He remembered calling his name, his throat searing and raw, nearly choking as he murmured the words again and again. He buckled slightly, but barely registered it as Lorne's arms came to support him from behind, nor did he feel Otesterian's when he grasped his arm, plucking at the sleeve ragged insistently. He didn't listen, he couldn't.

If I can't see the sun, maybe I should go..

He reached for him. He wanted to touch..he needed to know. But he couldn't. His hand hovered over the mans still form, inches above a half torn sleeve, his seared hair, his broad chest, a charred theigh..But he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to touch him. He couldn't bring himself to touch this husk, this shell of the man he knew. Couldn't. He tried, reaching out again and again. But he just couldn't. And he hated himself for it.

Don't wake me cause I'm dreaming, of angels on the moon

He couldn't bring himself to touch his best friend, his team mate, his partner. He wanted to, more then anything in the world to simply hold him for the first time. Just to hold him. But he couldn't. He wanted to take him in his arms and hold him, to tell him everything and damn the consequences, and then maybe he wouldn't go, maybe then it would be enough that he wouldn't leave. That he wouldn't leave him.

Where everyone you know, never leaves too soon...

It was nearly two hours later before they finally left Obasan. Silently and slowly navigating the geyser fields, their party following Ostesterian as he carefully paused every few meters, listening intently for something he didn't even care to think about. He had walked upright and pole-straight, keeping his eyes on Lorne's back as they hauled Rodney's stretcher across the fields and back to the gate. He tried not to look down. He made himself not.

Soon after regaining consciousness, and seemingly ages after he had nearly collapsed over that Ancient chair, he had finally collected himself, sealing himself in a shroud of his own. One where he could form a sense of emotionlessness, and put forth that innocuous kind of strength that burned inside, it nearly killed him to maintain the facade of the strong and capable leader. It was all a lie. Because Rodney wasn't there. Mckay had gone and left him with this husk, this shell, something that was no longer Rodney.

Just before they had gone back through the gate, Lorne efficiently wrapped up their dealings with the Obasain people. But on the way to the gate, Ostesterian had come forward, walking along side him, his hand restless on his shoulder as he attempting to capture his attention, trying once again to tell him about the strange lights that had appeared in the sky when he had been unconscious, trying to tell him of the twisting blue and white spirals that had burst forth, like the ones that had lit up the evening sky in their culture's legends when the Ancients had visited.

The words washed over him in a jumble, he found no interest in the mans prattle, he didn't care if that same spirals had been seen in the village when they are retreated back to the station after the accident. Nor did he care of how for a few bright moments that the room had seemed to briefly alight in a shimmer muted sapphire blue, haloing them all in it's rays. He spoke of many things, the insistence and the importance of his words carving deep contours into his tanned features.

But he hadn't been listening. None of it really mattered anymore, not to him anyway. All that mattered now was getting Rodney home, like he always did, like he had once promised him he would, all those years ago. Rodney was coming home, but he wasn't really here, it wasn't really Rodney on that stretcher, he knew that. But he could do this, he could bring his best friend home, he could bring this one, the one he loved back home.

A/N #1 : In the flashback I used some lyrics from Thriving Ivory's song: "Angels on the Moon." Which I adore. I thought it really fit John's mood in that portion of the story. I recommend you guys to check it out on you tube or what not.

A/N #2 : The Zelenka and Lorne bit in this chapter is for Tbrown152 and Stargatesg1973! Sorry I couldn't fit it in any sooner; I got side tracked with my Kavanaugh and Simpson scene. I am Radek lover regardless so I like to slip him in wherever and however I can! (Snuggles Zelenka)