Chapter 27: What's Not There

"Alex?"

There was a voice at the edge of his consciousness.

"You with us, laddie?"

His eyes were open.

Fuzzy white filled his vision.

Far.

Near.

Someone was there.

"There we go, you're doing just fine."

A hand patted his and Alex blinked.

Gone.

Alone.

He pushed his fingers into the bed.

Felt like the world was moving.

He was moving.

"He is awake again, Dr. Beckett."

Alex startled at the voice, before searching them out. Red hair. Blurry. Far away. "Ja-aack?" The name slurred on his tongue.

Uncooperative.

Wrong.

"How are you feeling?" Jack – it had to be her – got closer. Laid a careful hand on his arm.

"I's all wrong." He tried to crane his head, tried to get a better look. Blurry. Out of focus.

He knew not to move.

Could feel the twinges of unthought of pain, hovering at the edges. Blunt, dull, muted.

"What is?" She stepped closer. Still out of focus.

Wrong.

Not right.

Jack was dead.

"Nooo… t's wrong." Alex pushed the hand away, forgetting not to move. Forgetting why he was holding his breath so carefully. "You're dead… Jack… you're dead." He couldn't stop the sob that broke at that.

She was dead.

So dead.

So long ago now.

"Who is… Jack?" The voice drifted in from far away, but Alex was lost. Lost in his sea of pain and memories.

He was curled onto his side.

Just like before.

Something had woken him.

His eyes felt heavy.

The world was disjointed.

Fascinated, he let his fingers splay over the sheets. White. Stark. Bright next to his hand.

Dull, muted aches spread from his back.

That was… normal?

Better.

Better than… before.

"Hey, kid."

A person just appeared.

Alex blinked, trying to pick out details. It was hard when everything was moving. "Uncle—?"

There was a surprised inhale. "Uhh…"

Something wrong.

Something not right.

"Yassen's going to kill you!" The thought struck him like a bolt of lightning. Ian was going to die. Alex reached out and grabbed onto Ian's arm. "You've got to tell them about… about Sayle."

Ian patted Alex's hand, awkwardly. "Okay, okay…"

No… that wasn't it either…

Sayle.

Sayle had already happened.

Alex's eyes widened.

No.

He was too late.

"You're dead," Alex blurted out, jerking his hand away. "You're dead, you're dead, you're dead." But he was here. So that meant… "I'm dead."

"Hey, hey, no." Ian caught his arm before he could flail, looking for a way to prove he was still alive. But no, Ian was there. Solid. Real.

"I don't want it. I don't want it."

"Shhh," Ian tried to soothe, taking his hand, rubbing warmth into his fingertips. "You're okay. You're here, real flesh and bone. Promise."

Alex blinked back the tears. He didn't want to be dead.

"You're just recovering from some injuries. You'll be right as rain in no time."

Injuries.

That… made sense.

"Oh, did I get shot again? The assassin missed, last time." He let his eyes slide shut, not waiting to hear Ian's response.

Coming out of the drug induced bliss and into the real world of pain and discomfort was an unpleasant reality.

He groaned as the dull ache increased to a more persistent stabbing. Like the glass shards again.

Oh, he remembered those.

"There we go, laddie." Dr. Beckett had appeared just when it seemed to be getting worse and pushed something into the IV. "Give it a couple minutes—"

"Don't feel good," Alex groaned, trying to take short, sharp breaths. He squeezed his eyes shut against the waves of nausea and dizziness. Tried to ground himself, knowing he was laying on the bed. Stationary. Motionless.

"Aye, can't imagine that you do. On a scale of one to—"

"Seven," Alex choked out. "Eight, maybe." He swallowed back bile, but a moment later, he knew that was a losing battle. The bile turned into dry heaves, and the dry heaves turned into full on vomiting within just a matter of minutes.

His body was shaking, but even that was too much.

Every heave made it feel like his insides were trying to come back up.

Coinciding with jolts of pain up and down his back and neck. Like the stitches were trying to split apart.

"We'll try something different," Dr. Beckett said, hand resting on the back of Alex's neck, providing support.

He just… wanted it to stop. But his body was revolting against himself.

His leg was cramping.

But he was also too comfortable to try moving. Everything else felt dull and numb. Disconnected. There was no telling if moving would just make the pain come back.

He flexed his foot, hoping it would stretch his calf out enough, to pull away at the pins and needles sensation. It wouldn't, but he could pretend it did.

It was better than the alternatives.

"Hand."

Alex scrunched his nose up at the strange command that trickled through his consciousness, before deciding to ignore it.

"Know you're awake." The voice rumbled, demanding.

Well, that was something he wasn't quite sure about himself… What was awake at this point? He squinted an eye open, letting the bright light and grey walls of the infirmary blur into focus around him.

Right.

He had fucked up his back.

Time seemed to be moving only slightly faster than molasses, as Alex tried to process everything around him. The veritable giant sitting next to him.

"Hand." The statement was a little more insistent this time, as Ronon's presence slowly filtered through the noise.

The man looked only slightly less intimidating when he was sitting in an infirmary chair, especially when he was staring at Alex with such intensity. And the stick currently in his lap didn't fit with their surroundings, but then, neither did the wicked looking knife in his hand.

"Wha—" His throat felt parched.

Ronon just stared at him, before flicking his dreadlocks over his shoulder and unceremoniously grabbing Alex's wrist. He curled Alex's fingers around the stick, as if testing for size – his fingertips didn't quite meet. Ronon hummed to himself, before releasing Alex's hand.

He gave Alex another piercing stare, before sitting back in the chair. "You forgot how to hit back."

Alex blinked, rolled the words back through his mind once more and… nope. It still didn't make sense.

"Don't pick fights with idiots twice your weight." Ronon gestured with his knife, before picking the stick back up and starting to carve it down to size. "They don't fight fair."

Alex opened and closed his mouth, before… giving up. "What…?"

There was a long moment, where the only sound was Ronon's knife scraping thin shavings off the stick. Whittling it down into… something. How Dr. Beckett hadn't kicked him out already because of the mess, Alex had no idea.

"Sheppard said you were smart."

Alex blinked heavily, still trying to parse the words.

There was a long pause, as Ronon regarded him carefully, before grinning – a smile that seemed both terrifying and comforting. "You're still drunk."

No, he wasn't. "Haven't had no… alcohol…" He would know, after all.

Sheppard would kill him.

"Beckett's medicines." As if that were all the explanation needed.

And maybe it was.

The cramp had subsided and Alex was able to stretch his leg out fully. There was a dull roar – a hint of the pain that was to come – in his back, but as long as he didn't move too much…

"My people are all dead," Ronon said softly.

Alex blinked at the non-sequitur.

"Atlantis is my home now; these are my people." Only the soft scrape of the knife against the wood interrupted them. "But I remember what it was like to be one against the universe. Everyone out to get you. No safety in sight. Then, coming here to all their rules and asking too much. All the restrictions – for your safety. You made it longer than I did."

Alex huffed out a sigh. "Probably… not so… terribly." He wasn't ready to process what the fall out was going to be. Sheppard had all rights to kick him back through the stargate.

Ronon hummed, before shrugging. "Everyone does stupid stuff sometimes. You didn't kill anyone. Didn't get yourself killed. Didn't ruin a precious historical artifact. Didn't blow up a solar system…"

Based on the quirk of his lips, there was definitely a story there.

"I think you'll be fine."

He certainly hoped so. They settled into silence, Alex watched the hypnotizing carving and fully accepting that he was drifting in and out. Ronon seemed content to sit guard, watching for… who knew what.

"What're you…" Alex huffed as he tried to think, tried to corral his thoughts. "Doing… here?" It wasn't quite the question he wanted answered, but it would do.

Ronon gave him a blank stare, before focusing down at his carving once again. "Someone has to keep the crazy doctor lady away from you."

Oh.

Well.

"And she doesn't like me." There was a definite hint of amusement in his voice, as he relaxed back in the chair.

Alex couldn't imagine why not. Everyone seemed to like Ronon.

The Marines couldn't wait until it was their turn to train with him. Were jealous that Alex – and Greg – got to share a table with him at times.

"S'not… normal." His thoughts weren't keeping up with his mouth though. "Everyone likes you."

Ronon clapped him on the shoulder. "Flatterer."

Alex snorted. Then wondered what kind of mirror verse he had slid into.

"When you're back on your feet, we'll spar."

"M'kay…" And that was the last coherent thought before sleep pulled him under once more.

After what felt like an eternity fiddling with medications and dosages, things had finally evened out and Alex felt more or less like a real human being again.

At some point, they had piled him in bed with enough pillows supporting him that Alex was pretty sure he was going to have to dig himself out at some point. For now though, he was just going to enjoy not being in pain anymore and feeling more coherent. And if Dr. Beckett and Dr. Morray were to be believed, he'd be up by that evening and back to normal activities in just a couple of weeks.

"Kid, if you're ever under the influence like that again you're going to be considered a national security risk."

Alex craned his neck to watch Sheppard over his shoulder. The only downside to being on his side was he couldn't see people sneaking up behind him.

Sheppard settled into the chair next to the bed, which Alex had vague memories of being filled previously. "They get you all sorted out, then?"

Alex shrugged a shoulder. "Can't have morphine, apparently."

Sheppard snorted. "Oh, that wasn't even the beginning of your problems." He pulled out a familiar looking iPod and set it down on the bed next to Alex's hand. "Figured you're probably going to get a little bored these next few days."

Probably. He never did particularly well at sitting around and letting things… heal.

"So, uh, you were assassinated?" Sheppard sounded awkward asking the question. "Or attempted, I guess, since you lived."

Heat rushed to Alex's face. Oh, god. "What did I say?"

"Which time?" There was a mischievous look on Sheppard's face and Alex fought the urge to bury his head under his pillow. "Yesterday you were telling me that you wanted to keep the bullet as a souvenir."

Maybe it was too late to die from complications of surgery, but he was pretty sure he was going to die of mortification.

"Well, as long as you're not seeing dead people, I'd say that's a distinct improvement."

"Dead people?"

Sheppard looked a little more chagrined at that. "Let's just say, there are some things that just won't be spoken about. Nothing inappropriate. But if they ever get you on the hard drugs again, you're getting your own room. We were just lucky there were no other occupants over the past few days and Dr. Madsen is scared of Ronon."

Mortifying.

Burying his head in his pillow wasn't going to be enough.

He'd have to suffocate himself.

"Hey," Sheppard reached out and grabbed his wrist. "It happens to the best of us. Rodney's practically a lovable chatterbox when Carson's got him on morphine." He pulled back, then reached into his pocket once more, pulling out something metallic. "Got something else for you."

He handed over a set of dog tags, letting the chain pool in Alex's hand.

Alex ran his finger over the words – his name, social security number, birth date…

"You get to be one of the honored few that have a third tag," Sheppard said, grinning slightly. "Under absolutely no circumstances are you to ever get an MRI. Not unless you want that shrapnel moved around."

He grimaced at that thought, before turning the tags over in his hand and letting the rubber bumpers knock together. It was a sign that Sheppard wasn't going to boot him off the city as quickly as he could.

Alex chewed on his lip, before glancing up to catch Sheppard's eye. "Sorry for all the trouble. I really shouldn't—"

"No, you shouldn't have." He sat back with a long sigh. "But what's done is done. And as much as I'd really like to know what you were thinking, Major Davis is going to interview you soon enough."

Alex swallowed. "Major Davis?" That was the guy that had helped them get out of the SGC the first time. O'Neill's seeming right-hand man.

On Atlantis?

Sheppard shook his head. "A lot has happened in the past few days and… I don't want to unduly influence you. Just… answer his questions when he gets to you and then we'll talk about what that's going to mean moving forward."

Moving forward.

A lead weight settled in Alex's stomach at those words.

Surely they wouldn't…

They couldn't send him back to…

The Trust would—

"Hey, don't worry about it. I mean it." Sheppard broke in, seeming to catch onto Alex's spiral of dismal thoughts. "Nothing's really going to change. Just have to make some… administrative decisions."

Alex wanted to curl up inside of himself.

That never boded well.

Even when people said nothing was going to change. How could he really believe them?

He suddenly felt exhausted and wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. Maybe whatever consequences would blow over by then.

Sheppard seemed to sense that he was done, because after another couple of minutes, he patted Alex on the shoulder and left, promising to come back later.

Right then, Alex wasn't so sure he wanted a later.

It wasn't quite learning to walk all over again, but it certainly felt like it. Dr. Beckett had appeared on the second day with a back brace he was supposed to wear whenever he was out of bed – and then put him through his paces. The thing was tight and uncomfortable – owing to the fact it was definitely made for someone with a different physique. Thankfully, he was only looking at a week or two with it.

All things considered, that was remarkable. He probably would've been permanently maimed if he had been back on earth.

What Alex hadn't counted on was that the time he had spent essentially sedated and then immobile immediately after surgery had sapped his strength considerably. Even simple things like sitting on the edge of the bed had required the use of muscles he wasn't even aware he had – never mind even thinking about walking across the room to use the bathroom. So, by the time the fourth day post-surgery rolled around, he was feeling stiff and awkward and ungainly.

"You're doing remarkably well, Alex," Dr. Beckett said, after they finished the latest round of physiotherapy. "But give yourself some slack, you're only four days out."

Alex resisted the urge to slouch, knowing that it would just cause the edge of the brace to bite into his stomach uncomfortably. The whole walking thing was okay now, but any hint of an incline or stairs just… wore him out.

"How's the pain?"

He thought about it for a moment, debating how bad it actually was. "Two or three?"

"Perfect." Dr. Beckett held out a hand for his arm. "You're officially cleared from the hard stuff, then." He started fiddling with the IV port, until it slid out and he bandaged the small puncture. "Oral meds every four hours – set an alarm for the evening."

Alex glanced up. "You mean—"

"Cleared to go back to your quarters. And rest," He added, fixing Alex with a hard stare. "No adventuring for at least another two weeks. You know your exercises to do. You'll come back once a day and we can check the progress of the stitches and your range of motion."

"Great, thanks, because you know, I don't hate you all, but—"

"You hate it down here, I know." Dr. Beckett patted Alex on the knee and gave him a cheeky smile. "Thank you for being a much better patient that the colonel and his team."

Alex ducked his head, then picked at the loose pants provided by the infirmary. "You don't suppose I could get some real clothes, first, could I?"

A/N: Sorry for dropping off the face of the earth again. Ronon didn't want to be written, but I needed him to… And I've just adopted a 90+ lb. toddler puppy into the household mix – and well, let's just say my stress levels are extraordinarily high. Today was better and he's currently snoozing. Better days ahead. Here's to hoping the next couple chapters will go a little smoother.