A/N - Sorry for the delay! I went to a convention last week, met David Hewlett and everything :) I'm in the process of typing up a report with photos, but felt this needed to be finished first!

Chapter 6

Jennifer stood behind a privacy curtain in the infirmary with Rodney laid out in just his boxer shorts in front of her. She gently pressed her hands down on Rodney's abdomen, testing each area in turn by palpation. She studied him intensely for his reaction as she said, "Someone told me you were a being a little bit grumpy today."

He huffed and glared at her. "I just want to be like I was. Free from this and from you."

She smiled kindly and tilted her head, "Well, squeak if anything hurts and I'll see what I can do."

"It all hurts," Rodney hissed through gritted teeth. "And you jabbing and poking your hard fingers into me really isn't helping!"

Jennifer lifted her hands away and furrowed her brow at him. "Where does it hurt the most?"

"I don't know. Everywhere?"

Jennifer sighed quietly in exasperation and carried on gently pressing her fingers along his skin. When she reached the large knotted surgical scar on his flank, Rodney drew in a sharp breath and tensed up. Jennifer stopped straight away and noted down something on her clipboard. She checked his arms and legs next, concentrating her examination on his forearms and lower legs.

He still couldn't quite make a fist with his right hand and winced. The grip of both of his hands was weak and he soon dropped the pen Jennifer handed him. He growled in anger. "I hate this. Why's it always so bad when you're watching?"

"Residual tenderness in all injured areas," Jennifer said out loud as she carried on scribbling notes.

She peered over the top of her board at him and he shrunk down into the bed. He blushed red and looked away after a few seconds, moving his shaking hands up and covering his belly with them. But it wasn't enough and he started to feel angry at Jennifer's scrutiny. Why the hell was she looking at him like that?

He suddenly went off the rails and he shrieked, "I said I hate it! Stop looking at me!"

"I'm just trying to help! You know the drill, finding out where you're hurting, how much, and then I can figure out what I can give you to make it better."

"What, by starring at these hideous marks all over me!?"

"They're not hideous and neither are you."

"Yes, yes they are, and you shouldn't have to look." He leapt off the bed and stumbled. He grunted angrily as Jennifer dropped her board and caught him when he overbalanced. When he regained control of his limbs and they took his weight at last, he shoved Jennifer away. But not too forcefully, just enough so that she got the message and let go.

He scrubbed his hand over his face and through his hair in fury, keeping his other forearm resting on his stomach, not really knowing what to do with himself. "Just, just, go away and stop looking at me!"

Jennifer nodded, "Alright, but call for help if you need it. Don't hurt yourself."

He went over to his clothes on the chair nearby and pulled them back on, grumbling all the time about how his hands shook so much in fury that they wouldn't grip the material and he kept on fumbling and getting tangled. He could feel his heart pounding so hard that it felt like his whole body was vibrating with every beat. When he caught sight of his scarred legs he switched into a diatribe of under the breath mutterings about how ugly his puckered and blotched and gorily tattooed flesh now was.

He walked unsteadily from the infirmary, and after he was gone, Jennifer called Heightmeyer and arranged a private meeting for later that day.

Rodney once again found himself in another session of therapy under Heightmeyer's care. He sat opposite her with his arms folded over his chest as he gazed back at her defiantly and feeling highly irritated by the usual incessant chatter.

She asked, "Why do you hide your scars? Are you ashamed?"

Rodney gritted his teeth and winced. "I hate that word. Well, both of those words."

"What would you prefer?"

"Not to talk about it. Not now or ever."

"Show me your arm."

Rodney cradled both of his long-sleeved shirt covered and terribly scarred arms against his chest defensively and said, "Why do you want to see that?"

"Just humour me and you'll find out."

Rodney sighed and furrowed his brow. He stretched out his right arm and looked down to his left and stared at the floor as he slowly pushed his sleeve up to the elbow.

"Now look," Heightmeyer said.

Rodney screwed his eyes shut and said, "I can't. I don't want to." He quickly pulled his sleeve back down and sighed in relief, "I don't want you seeing it either."

When he finally gathered enough courage to open his eyes and look up at her again, Heightmeyer was looking at him intensely, her expression unreadable.

"Why don't you want me to see you?"

"It's horrible. People stare at it and you shouldn't have to see it either." He grimaced. "So disgusting…"

"Is that what you think when you look in the mirror or catch sight of yourself every day?"

Rodney furrowed his brow and blinked slowly. "It is now." He laughed bitterly, "So I had all the mirrors in my quarters removed."

Heightmeyer pursed her lips and Rodney's face fell. She clasped her hands together and asked carefully, "Do you believe that you are in some way responsible for how you look?"

"Of course not!"

"Then why is it a problem?"

"People stare at the marks," Rodney snarled. "I don't like it."

"And no-one's ever looked at you before?"

"Well obviously they have. But I don't want them staring at me like I'm some kind of freakshow centrepiece."

"But what about the mirrors in your quarters? If you can't even look at yourself, how will that alter what you believe are other people's perceptions of you?"

Rodney frowned and twitched in his seat uncomfortably. "I don't know! You're trying to outsmart me with psychobabble, but it won't work!"

"Then look at your arms and legs, abdomen and back, and tell me again; what do you see."

"I see ugliness."

Heightmeyer sighed and leant forwards in her seat. Rodney looked back at her sadly and said, "I take it that was the wrong answer?"

"There are no right or wrong answers here, Rodney. And the legacy of what you went through is tangible and understandable."

Rodney sighed and said sarcastically, "Great, so I'm covered in red ridges and surgical scars, but there's nothing I can do so I should just get over it and carry on with my life?"

"If that's what you believe."

Rodney huffed in frustration and rubbed his face, wincing as he moved.

"You are an attractive man, Rodney. Never let others or your own thoughts tell you otherwise."

"Really, you think so?!" His face suddenly fell and he glared at her angrily, "You're just saying that to make me feel better."

"Did it work?"

"Yes, for about half a second."

"Good. Keep repeating it to yourself and it will work more often and then become permanent."

"Hmm," he looked away and down, lost in thought. After a few seconds he looked back up again, "It's not working. I still feel hideously disfigured."

"Did Dr Keller discuss skin grafting with you?"

"Yes, but I said no. I've had enough of surgical procedures to last me the rest of my life. And anyway, it'll just be transferring the problem elsewhere. To a place I definitely don't want to be marked."

She gave him a small smile.

His hands flew in time with his words as he said hotly, "But I want them gone gone gone! I don't want to get used to myself. I don't want to be comfortable covered in this… this horror. I know. I should go and put myself through the ascension machine again and heal them all up like I did with Ronon! It's gone back to Earth but I can always recall it!"

Heightmeyer waited patiently for his outburst to end and then asked quietly, "Do you want to kill yourself?"

Rodney looked back at her aghast, "What!? No. What made you think that?"

"The ascension machine nearly killed you last time. I thought it was broken?"

"Yes, but I know I can fix it!"

"So, you magically remove all your scars, then what? All fixed? The nightmares and flashbacks gone too? No more sleepless nights, nausea, outbursts, all the other things I know you're still going through every now and then but not talking about?"

"Well, I wouldn't call them outbursts."

"You can then carry on as though nothing happened?"

"Sure."

"But something did happen, Rodney. You're not superhuman or invincible. Even if there were no physical signs left on your body, the wounds go deeper than what can be seen with the naked eye."

Rodney ran his hand over his cloth-covered left forearm absently and said nothing more.

Rodney called the maintenance team and asked them to refit his quarters with mirrors, but to cover them. That way, if he really couldn't face it when he got back, he didn't have to go through with it.

He knew Heightmeyer was tricking him and trying to bait him into doing something he really didn't want to. It was beyond him how she didn't think he was ugly.

"Ronon to McKay."

Rodney glared upwards from where he had been starring at the empty spot in his bathroom wall where the mirror had once been while he waited for the maintenance team. He lifted his hand up and activated his radio. "What?"

"You're late. Gym. Now."

Rodney grimaced. His sessions with Ronon and Teyla caused nothing but pain. Especially if he left too long between them and 'forgot' to do the exercises. He started to feel ill, his stomach churning and his throat closing up in anticipation of how bad it was going to be.

"Would you like us to come to you, Rodney? We do not mind."

"No no. I'll be right up. It may take a while, so I suppose you can play for a while?"

Ronon grumbled, "We'll be waiting."

How he got to the transporter and all the way to the gym was anyone's guess. But now he sat slouched on the padded floor of the gym opposite his team mates. Bending forward and curving his back the wrong way helped the pain in his lower belly, but didn't help Teyla's mood.

She came over and placed her hand on his lower back and gently put her other hand on his chest and pressed. Rodney had no other choice than to straighten up. He hated the contact, and his back throbbed where the torture spikes had been pushed all the way through him.

Teyla pursed her lips, "Correct posture is essential to mastering what we have been trying to teach you."

They slowly took him through the exercises he had been shown by the physiotherapist. It hurt and he was breathless by the end, but both of his hands gripped properly. Sometime the sessions were worth it, even with the pain they caused.

"I swear, this is making it worse," Rodney gasped where he was now sitting on the floor again, shaking in exertion. He was sweating, perspiration seeping through his long sleeved shirt and trousers.

Teyla asked, "Perhaps you should wear more suitable attire?"

Rodney instantly snapped, "No."

Teyla looked hurt for a fraction of a second and then her expression altered into a stern warning. "Why not?"

"You sound just like Heightmeyer. Why is everyone so fascinated with trying to make me to wear less clothes anyway? Can't I wear what I want?"

Ronon gave him a knowing nod and said, "The scars."

"Are none of your business." Rodney folded his hands in his lap and hunched over.

Teyla leant forwards and peered into his face. "You are a very handsome man, Rodney. Nothing has happened to alter that."

He gritted his teeth and frowned deeply in fury as he glared back at her. The fires and flames of his annoyance were fanned and he felt heat spread out over his face. He took his right sleeve in his left hand and worked it above his forearm so that the red marks on either side were visible. He grimaced and then grunted when his hand slipped a little in sweat.

The scars were still as livid as he remembered. Two, three inch long lines, eclipsing the small white mark that Kolya and his goons had created. They had been amateurs, but Michael was a complete basket case.

Rodney felt bile rising in his throat and swallowed hard. It was horrible, like he was looking at some other poor idiot who'd gotten himself captured, bound and tortured. No way was that on him! It was like something from a horror movie and he was once again jarred out of reality, like he was only watching from a faraway place and no longer connected with anything around him.

He put his left hand against it and tested the edges. As it wasn't real and not a part of him, maybe he could pull it off?

He curled his nails into the flesh with minimal success, because there was no grip.

Teyla cried, "Rodney, please stop! You're hurting yourself!"

A firm hand grasped his left wrist and pulled his arm away easily. His damaged muscles not strong enough yet to resist. Ronon said, "Teyla told you to stop."

Rodney looked into Ronon's unreadable expression and frowned. Of all the people trying to help him, Ronon was the one who had also once borne terrible scars on his back.

Rodney sighed and relaxed. He didn't stand a chance against either of them. And they were right, he was being stupid. He turned to Ronon and tentatively asked, "What was it like, having them?"

Ronon released Rodney's wrist and answered, "Never thought about it. I couldn't see them anyway."

But Rodney's were very visible. The ones on his arms to everyone all the time, the ones on his legs if he ever decided to wear shorts again. The red striations on his belly and back only to him and to anyone who would ever want to get intimate with him. He thought for a while and then asked, "After I healed them. How did you feel?"

"The same."

"Really?"

"Sure. It's just skin. Doesn't change who or what I am."

"Hmm…"

"Why do you think I've got all these tattoos?"

"You're under there somewhere!" Rodney said nervously.

Ronon grunted and Rodney became silent. He glanced down at his arm briefly and then covered it again. "Well, I'm out. I've got a stack of work to do which isn't going to finish itself."

Teyla nodded, "Very well. But remember to go through the exercises once more before resting tonight."

Rodney stood up on his jelly legs and waved her off, "Yes, yes. I know."

He limped out of the room and felt sickness creeping up on him again. He diverted back to his quarters, intending to purge himself of either the feeling, or his lunch.

When Rodney returned to his room, he discovered that the mirrors were back and they were uncovered. He grumbled, "Lazy idiots. Can't get anything right!"

His hand twitched over a robust Ancient artefact he was using as a paper weight on his desk. The temptation to lob it at the mirror in his bathroom was so great that he struggled to stop himself.

"This is stupid." His stomach roiled again and he averted his eyes as he dashed into the bathroom and knelt down before the toilet. But the feeling passed before he was actually sick and he sighed shakily.

He rubbed his aching belly and sat back on his haunches, allowing the waves of nausea to wash over him until he had them firmly in check once more.

He slowly straightened up and was met by a pair of dull blue eyes peering back at him. The rest of his face was sickly-looking, his green-tinged pale cheeks darkened by stubble, and his hair, despite its shortness, was unkempt and messy.

But it was like he was looking at another person. It had been so long since he had seen himself. He moved his hand up and frowned, the reflection looked back at him in puzzlement when it moved at the same time.

He placed his hand on his chest. The reflection did the same.

He sighed and looked away, curling his hands under the hem of his shirt. He closed his eyes tightly as he peeled off the garment and tossed it unseen to the floor.

He smoothed his hands down his chest and stopped before they hit the uneven part of his torso.

He very slowly opened his eyes and glanced at himself in the mirror. Bile rose quickly and he only just made it to the pan in time. Even with his eyes closed he could vividly see what he had just seen imprinted on his eyelids from the brief glance of that man peering back at him curiously. He vomited and his abdomen cramped, leaving him breathless. He looked down at the offending area of his anatomy and quickly sat up and retched nothing.

"Oh, ow. Drugs… drugs…"

Rodney crawled into the main room of his quarters and popped some of the pills. He sat down on the floor, leant against the desk and tilted his head back. He breathed heavily as he waited for them to kick in, the pain and nausea slowly fading.

He steeled himself and looked down again. He muttered, "I only see me. I only see me."

He then huffed and tipped his head back again with an audible clunk as it hit the desk, but without enough force to hurt. "This is even stupider than the questions Heightmeyer asks."

He staggered back into the bathroom and removed the rest of his clothes. The mirror only showed him down to the navel, but it was enough.

"Okay," he laughed in bitter emptiness. "Me." He huffed when the nausea started to make a return. He hated medical things; the very thought of splinters and papercuts and his own blood (or anyone else's for that matter) made him physically sick. Keller would know he'd been sick. She always did. He'd probably pulled something inside his gut that was still being held together by spit and sticky tape.

He ran his hand down his chest again, paused at the base of his ribs and then ran in lightly over the marks. He flinched at the feel of himself, but did it again, while he glared at the intense frown on the face looking back at him. "Me," he growled.

He flopped down onto the floor, exhausted and spent, and gazed at his lower legs. The marks were similar to those on his arms, but a lot bigger. The hair partially hid them even when he was naked, but they were there alright. Red and blotched as ever, purple and shiny and grotesque.

"Teyla said I was handsome," he said as he poked the side of his marred left leg and grimaced. "Even Teyla. Huh."

He raised his eyebrows as he prodded the other leg. "Keller said I wasn't hideous." He frowned and paused. Maybe not such a compliment, but hey…

He stood up and spoke directly to the man regarding him from the mirror. "Hell, even Heightmeyer called me an attractive man. But she's paid to say whatever crap she can think of as long as she gets the cogs turning again." He found his lips curling up into an involuntary smile, even as he glanced down at the person in the mirror, no longer seeing the reflection, but himself. He was looking at himself for the first time in weeks without feeling ill!

"Teyla said I was handsome!" he said, with tears welling in his eyes. But he was unsure where they were coming from. He didn't feel particularly bad, or happy about it.

He backed himself up into the door of the shower and leant against it, slid down to the floor, curled his arms around his knees and pulled them in as close as he could without compressing his painful abdomen. He shut his eyes and buried his face into his arms, for once not caring about the feel of the blemished skin brushing against his face, or the light scratch of stubble. "Handsome…" he whispered as he continued to cry.

"Maybe there's hope for me yet."