Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Breathing was a twisting knife on the inhale, shards of broken glass on the exhale. Malvick's shoulder dug into John's middle, the moving gait constant torture. He muffled his screams into the crook of his elbow, biting and gnawing at his arm like a rabid dog. He'd been studious of the number of needles consumed in the last day, creating a fog around the pain, but it'd been one he could find his way out of in an emergency.

The constant grind of his ribs and jarring to every inch of his body was a crescendo that had him digging for how much orris he could find, stuffing an unknown number that didn't slip from his bouncing fingers into his mouth.

Survive this, John. Make it through, use your magic gene to get Ronon home and bring back Atlantis intel on the Saurin threat. What was the saying? Turn lemons into lemonade? He laughed, imagining Rodney's indignant expression. The image was a painful reminder of what he was fighting for. He focused on riding the incoming wave of not so here and squeezed his eyes closed in hopes of dodging all the monsters who wanted to kill them.

The detachment thing was weirder this time around. He'd been surfing the Mediterranean Sea, but that wasn't right, because the air wasn't saturated with salt, only ash and ferric oxide. Then the nebulous cloud disappeared and it smelled like the inside of a pencil sharpener, shreds of graphite and dust coating the back of his throat.

“Is that where you used to live?”

“Where I was kept.”

“It doesn't look that far. Maybe we could--”

“No, we'll keep going. What's left of the buildings sometimes attracts the beasts.”

“Place looks leveled. Did the Saurin destroy it?”

“No, we did.”

John craned his neck from where it hung down and glimpsed at the distant outline of a vast graveyard of demolished buildings and watched a dead city vanish from sight.

“We have two on our tail.”

He knew that voice. Was it his radio?

“We'll round the next bend and circle around,” was the gruff reply in John's ear, his hand flailing for his headphones.

“I won't leave Sheppard.”

“We're not. Got a nice place to stash him.”

John was suddenly flying in the air and crash landing in a fireball. He reached for his aviators, fingers sliding over his numb face, watching a chunk of earth shift in front of him and block the incoming streams of twilight.

“Hey!” he screamed.

“Sheppard, you gotta stay quiet. We're coming back. You hear me?”

“Holland?”

No, Holland was dead, but who else would be out there with him? This wasn't the cave they'd been holed in when night had descended. John peeked through the gap of the boulder he was trapped behind, skimming the gray poking through, pausing when he noticed his bloated sausage fingers.

John was all about the Novocaine. His rubbery left hand tried prying at the crack, the giant rock obstinate against his efforts. Sliding sideways, the cave held him up, and he quit pawing at the entrance, satisfied at watching the world from his slanted peephole. Staying like this was just dandy, and he sunk into himself, not giving a crap about what lurked on the other side.

The outside was a tantalizing stream of silence and noise. Perhaps he should be worried; there was screaming after all, twisted inhuman cries of terror. He used to be motivated by such noise, but forgot why when he tried to recall the reasons. His heart was doing a rumba and he lost himself in the rapid staccato.

Suddenly the cave began to shake, jolting John out of his nice slated place, heart skipping at the wild man who suddenly appeared. “Sheppard?”

It took a moment to realize that was him and John shook his head.

The wild man - no, Ronon - reached out for him. “We have to go.”

John didn't want to leave, knowing deep inside he'd be forced to face things that were better off out there.

“Come on, help me.” Ronon pulled him out to stand, and John wobbled drunkenly, Ronon grabbing him by the arm. “Sheppard.”

Solid ground formed beneath his feet. “We've got to go. Gotcha,” he mumbled, looking regretfully at the hole he was being forced to leave.

Malvick prowled restlessly out of the corner of Ronon's eye, constantly throwing back glances at them. Ignoring him, Ronon tightened his grip on Sheppard's forearm when the man started to tip forward. “John!” Sheppard's legs gave out and Ronon held him up, lowering him to his knees. “Talk to me, buddy.”

Nobody was home in Sheppard Land and Ronon frowned. “We'll be at the gate soon. You need to hang on longer.”

A small amount of recognition flickered in Sheppard's eye. “I'm really tired, big guy.”

“You giving up?” Ronon accused, echoing a familiar argument from under the remains of Michael's compound. There was a sad chuckle and Ronon recalled John's earlier painful confession of failure. “When you give up, I drag your ass back. Got it?”

Sheppard nodded, giving a strangled, “Got it.” Ronon helped steady his CO, giving him a moment to pull things together. “What about...”

“We're clear for now,” Ronon answered, staring out at their guide hanging back.

Malvick sniffed the air again, freezing mid-step in his prowling, and made a beeline toward them. “Okay, you got your two minutes. Let's move.”

Ronon tried not thinking how much further they had to go, or how bad off Sheppard was looking. Or what had happened behind the bend. Two people were dead, two foes he'd never seen coming, two hunters killed by a superior predator before he'd gotten close enough to see the bodies. Staring at Malvick, Ronon had never been so torn between admiration and disgust.

They were being pursued in all directions, their foes purposely lurking around the corners to make them sweat. Ronon couldn't see them, but his spine tingled in warning, his hearing straining over the faintest noise. The two Malvick killed earlier had attempted a flanking maneuver; these new foes were hanging back.

Ronon pressed harder, striding next to Malvick. “There are three behind us.”

“And six ahead.”

“I'll take care of mine. Can you—”

“Don't worry.”

Ronon glanced at Sheppard's form and Malvick gave a smile. “He's our ticket outa here. I won't let anything happen to him.”

Nodding, Malvick ramped it up a notch as Ronon slowed down.

There. Five meters east. Two targets and an additional one coming at him from the west.

He slowed, no longer hiding the limp, allowing it to show and entice, fingers gripping his cane, ready to drop it for both knives.

Two targets emerged at once and he let his cane clatter to the ground.

They came from both sides, not monsters, but people with drab infirmary tops and pants with hair that smelled of shampoo and disinfectant. His enemies were unarmed and Ronon hesitated, growling when two Saurin moved closer, his hands tightening around both knives.

The Saurin bared their teeth, their voices shot and raw. It seemed to frustrate them, their mouths opening wide in silent whispered screams.

Ronon sensed their untapped rage, watched as saliva dripped from their mouths. He threw the first knife, hitting the closest guy in the chest, then adjusted his aim and tossed the other blade.

It missed the mark and the second Saurin went on the offensive.

The man was unimaginably quick, and Ronon couldn't get his hands up fast enough to block the endless swings. What the punches had in speed, they lacked in strength, and Ronon went for the guy's throat and squeezed, holding on until the Saurin fell limp.

Where was number three?

There was a smear of motion and color. Something smashed into his face, then his side, and clipped him in the back. It was like the air pummeled him. Ronon swung, swiping emptiness and caught a lucky blow to the eye.

Then there was a noise and the Saurin appeared next to him huffing for air. Ronon didn't think, lashing out and catching the guy on the chin, knocking him unconscious.

He hobbled over, gathering up his weapons, checking heartbeats. Two dead, one out cold. He stared at their infirmary clothes and human features. They weren't any different than Michael's hybrids.

He raised the knife to finish off the guy who still breathed by his feet, but for some reason Ronon couldn't deliver the death blow, and he stormed away, trying not to think about why.

Images of Koyla's torture chamber flashed through John's mind, all the dampness sinking into his bones, a smoldering fire raging inside his chest while the rest of him swam in a cotton sea. After each feeding, his veins had flowed with leftover enzyme, his mind disconnected, sparing him from the shock ravaging his system. There had been this phase, this in between time, when the enzyme dissipated before the pain.

He dug his fingers into the knotted muscle beneath him, grounding himself, and the world jolted to a halt. John found himself sliding into a hole while someone whispered, “Don't move.”

“What's...”

“Don't make a sound,” someone ordered, the voice morphing into Malvick as he slipped an object in John's hand. “If you see anything, use this.”

John stared dumbly at the knife then back into the desert night, listening to sounds of battle echoing off the rocks. He was in a fight. No, they were in a fight and John scanned for his teammate, but without stars, there was little light save for a patch of purple at the far the horizon. He shivered, his body covered with perspiration, and he pushed himself up on legs of pins and needles, blade trembling awkwardly in his hand.

He crawled out of the rut in the ground, leaving behind a perfectly good foxhole and exposing himself. Wiping the sweat on his brow, John stared back at the hole in temptation, the nothingness calling to him. But his feet carried him forward, the air crackling with energy, like invisible lightning strikes. There was a scream, followed by another.

John waited, his heart chiseling its way through his sternum. The wind carried the smell of rubbing alcohol, and he froze, his blood pumping loudly in his ears.

He saw it. A speck becoming a human outline a few meters away. The skittering gait was achingly familiar, not Ronon's, not Malvick's. It was quick, standing before him, unsure of its next move. John stood, breath caught in his throat upon the bluish-tinted skin and cat eyes.

It wasn't full-fledged bug yet. In fact, there were no scales or spikes poking out, no exoskeleton trying to replace soft flesh. This was a dream, another waking nightmare, except the knife was heavy in John's hand and his skin crawled with goose flesh.

“Hey,” he called out without response. “Do you understand me?”

The Saurin cocked its head at John's voice.

“I don't want to hurt you,” John said, using calming tones. But he couldn't let go of the knife, not with the in between phase slowly evaporating. “We could both go our own way.”

John's legs were shaking and cat eyes locked onto the knife trembling in his hand.

Another scream pierced the darkness, this one more pain filled, and the Saurin listened until it faded away, its features creasing with tension. The Saurin edged closer, its dark sandy hair and matching eyebrows that hadn't fallen off yet.

“Don't come any closer,” John warned.

“Kill it!” Malvick's voice boomed in the distance.

John jerked at the sound, and the Saurin lunged, its weight slamming into him, knocking John down. Fire lanced through his shoulder as claws raked through his robe and he instinctively plunged the knife into the Saurin's chest, blood splattering his face. The Saurin made a keening noise, raising its claws for the kill.

He expected his throat to be ripped apart, but the Saurin was knocked away, followed by a crunch like snapping celery. John glanced down at the dead body and the skin was actually gray, not blue, and he wiped at his eyes with a shaky hand.

Malvick came into view, his breathing gigantic gasps, and he scanned the distance for something, his lips curling upward. “Looks like we're all still alive.”

John searched the darkness for Ronon, his own breaths a noisy rale.

Ronon hobbled over, winded but whole, and bent down to John's side. “You're bleeding.”

Among other things, John thought. He wiped at the blood on his face and gave his shoulder a glance. “They're not too deep.” He stared at the stains on his fingers. Human blood. These people were victims, were the reason he and Ronon were here.

“Rest time's over,” Malvick commanded, taking a whiff at the wind.

John was freezing, but he wasn't numb anymore, and despite the pulsating agony of his hand and almost everywhere else, he desperately held on to it. “I don't want to kill any more of them.”

“It's kill or be killed. You know that.”

John didn't look at Malvick, but to Ronon. “Not if we can help it.”

Ronon stood there, jaw locked in place, but he didn't argue, and that was all that John needed.

The final leg of their journey lasted ten or twenty minutes in a din of thrumming pain. Sheppard no longer held back, grunting and panting with each bumpy step, while Ronon's was a blaze down his leg.

His breath got caught in his throat, all the exhaustion and torment ceasing when he gazed at the gate ahead.

He dug his cane into the ground, barreling toward their way home, unsure if it was all a cruel trick. Malvick deposited Sheppard onto his feet, hands steadying the man, leading him toward the DHD.

Ronon held his breath as Sheppard clung to the pedestal and gave this strange laugh. “The DHD has a false panel over it. Probably made out of out something to resist any force.” The outer controls retracted back. “All they did was hide the real controls from you,” he said sadly.

The 'gate hadn't been programmed differently. The Saurin had only concealed the real dialing part with something that only responded to the Ancestor gene.

Ronon wanted to yell at Sheppard to start dialing, but there was something in his demeanor, the way he glared accusingly at the controls.

“Dial!” Malvick demanded, all his calm dissolving.

“There's...” Sheppard hesitated, pressing all the right buttons without effect. “It's broken.”

“Then fix it!” Malvick screamed.

Ronon put himself between Sheppard and the fuming man. “Stand back.” He waited until Malvick eased away and watched his friend gazing at the controls. “Take your time.”

“It's....” Sheppard fumbled with the display, moving his face within inches to get a decent look and shook his head, the action leaving him woozy. Pitching sideways, he clamped onto the DHD until he was steady. “I'm...I need some time.”

“We don't have any,” Malvick reiterated, looming next to Sheppard.

Ronon was sick of this. Of running without knowing the reason. “Why are they stalking us?”

“I told you!”

Ronon wouldn't accept that. “You said they were hunters.”

“They are!”

“And they're crazy.”

“You haven't figured that out yet? You think the Saurin drop off just anyone of their people here? Just the ones too far gone. Too dangerous or too broken to fix.”

“Why don't they--”

“Kill them?” Malvick bellowed. “Kill one of their own? They're too morally superior for that. Why do they give water to prisoners?”

Ronon stared, perplexed, buying time for Sheppard to figure out the gate without Malvick breathing down his neck. “They let the prisoners fight it out. But their own kind? They drop them off near the city's remains.” The tendons in his neck bulged, his nerves all twisted and shot. “The Void offers refuge. But...all the wildlife...” Ronon shook his head. “There's none here. Not the type of meat you gave us. I know what its like to be a hunter. Remember?”

The vein in Malvick's forehead pulsed as he turned his attention to Sheppard. “Well?”

Sheppard could have been daydreaming for all Ronon knew from his mannerisms and he was surprised when the colonel spoke in a rough voice. “There's something wrong with the crystal array. Do you have any tools or parts?”

Malvick strolled over to the gate and began pushing a huge boulder out of the way. “Got to safeguard stuff,” he mumbled, digging and pulling out a metal box and slamming it next to Sheppard's feet. “This is everything I've ever found around the 'gate, not sure about tools but maybe--”

Ronon tensed, reading Malvick's tells as he picked up a scent and tracked peoples' signatures. For the first time he was envious of his superior sight. “How many?”

“Six. They're circling us, probably gearing up for an attack. Rush us at once.” Malvick monitored the movements. “It's what I'd do.”

“We should head them off,” Ronon said, mustering all his willpower. “We don't want to make this a defensive position.” If they made a stand here, there wasn't a way to protect Sheppard, but if they took the fight to the Saurin, it gave his friend time to fix the gate.

“A few of them could still slip through.”

It was like he was reading Ronon's mind and that freaked him out. Could Malvick do that? The man stared at him again with a sly smirk. Not a mind reader, but able to see through masks, using his vision like one of those mood ring things Rodney scoffed about. “If we catch them off guard...”

“They'll see us coming. The ones who go after the gate tend to be the smartest. No, I have an idea,” Malvick said, twirling a knife.

Such enthusiasm was in stark contrast to Sheppard's knotted ball of tension over the DHD. Ronon went over there, a blip of background noise. “John, we'll be back. Don't worry about--”

Sheppard spun around, all color draining from his face. Ronon almost changed his mind about leaving, until Sheppard dug his fingers into Ronon's shoulder, for balance, or a connection; it was hard to tell. “Go. I can get us home,” he whispered.

“I know.”

Sweat rolled down Sheppard's cheeks, pooling at the bottom of his throat. “Both of us.”

Ronon squeezed his friend's hand. “Count on it.”

Crawling under the DHD was testing out Kevlar and getting shot point blank with an automatic rifle. Add in a creeping numbness to John's fingers and that made yanking out control crystals an Olympic sport in coordination. Leaning on the base for support, he choo-chooed for air in a vain attempt to subdue the feeling of pliers cracking his ribs apart. Surely there was an orris needle or two at the bottom of his pocket, but he ignored the urge to put them between his gums.

Rummaging through the storage box, he found nothing to help him, no magical manual. He did find a few data chips and stuffed them in a pocket for later. Cradling his throbbing right hand in his lap, he channeled his inner McKay and studied one of the crystals.

It was incorrect somehow. Right crystal, wrong spot. Only the dialing part had been protected by a fake panel that only recognized the ATA gene. The rest was up for grabs and frustration. Someone who didn't know how to fix the DHD had rearranged the crystals, leaving it a mess. There were nine in all, and over three hundred thousand combinations. The numbers made his head spin. Literally.

“Come on, what is it?”

He had to do this.

There was an order; he just needed to recall which one. Not in an hour, or a half hour. Not with Ronon going up against super genetically-altered people with a side dish of insanity and didn't that also describe Malvick to a freaking T?

Ronon's back-up!

The weight crushing him since their imprisonment, pressed down harder, and its icy numbness robbed him of dexterity, the crystal slipping from his fingers. Come on, John! He fumbled for it, nearly clipping his aching head on the base, staring up at the display out of the corner of his eye.

“One day you might have to do this without me, heaven forbid. Each control crystal has a number at the bottom,” Rodney explained.

“Like a fuse?”

Rolling his eyes, Rodney sighed. “Yes, like a fuse, Colonel. Hey, pay attention.”

John pulled out each crystal, studying the identification markers finely etched at the bottoms, laughing bitterly about the lack of light, and laid them on the ground. They were in Ancient, of course, and he had to bring each one up to his left eye, the symbols bending and blurring. His brain wasn't up for reading, expressing its displeasure in nauseating dizziness, his stomach finally having enough.

He rolled away from the platform, retching what little was in his belly, acid and bile burning his esophagus. The pliers worked their way across his sternum and John resisted the urge to curl up in a ball, wiping spit and tears from his face, and forced himself to crawl back toward the DHD.

And smack dab into a set of feet standing there.

John followed the shoes up a pair of legs, into the oval face of a petite woman clothed in scrubs. He stared, dumbfounded, at strands of strawberry hair and freckled cheeks. There'd never been any female prisoners outside the Void, thank goodness, and seeing one just a few meters away, robbed him of words.

“Hi,” he said dumbly.

She couldn't be more than twenty-five or thirty with a lithe stature similar to Teyla's and weighed maybe a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet. The woman blinked, shifting her gaze from him to the 'gate, tilting her head to examine the ring.

“If you wait a few minutes, I think I can fix it and...” He gasped, his brains trying to force their way out his ears, and swayed on his feet, mumbling, “If I don't pass out.”

Her penetrating eyes latched onto him and John got lost swimming in their dark blue depths. The countdown clock was flashing zero and he pinched the bridge of his nose as his migraine raged. “Look, if you don't want to talk, that's fine. But if you don't mind…”

“No.”

“What? Did you say something?”

The woman simply stood there, fixated by the stargate, her eyes wide as she started toward the DHD.

“Hey!”

She froze, layers of thick hair obscuring her face, long delicate fingers tracing the outline of the controls. Snatching her hand away as if burned, she held it up in awe, the sleeve of her shirt rolling down to reveal dozens of bloodied gashes.

“Who did that to you?'

Ignoring him, she circled the DHD, her movements delicate, almost predatory.

“Get away from that,” John warned, moving toward it.

“No.”

John hesitated, his heart speeding like a hummingbird's, the DHD spinning. “That's you. You're inside my head.”

Talking wasn't on the menu. She launched herself at the DHD, pounding the controls with her tiny fists.

“What are you doing?” John yelled, reaching out to grab her.

His head exploded with “No!” And John dropped to his knees, a mallet breaking apart his skull from the inside. He screamed, his good eye bugging out of its socket, wrapping his arms around himself while he dry heaved.

Panting, he stared woozily into a set of ice-blue eyes. “Look,” he coughed. “I can help us... I can help us get home.”

“HOME.”

Anguish. Horror. Fear. An onslaught of raw outrage shredded his brain. Needles pierced his arms, ripped open vessels; restraints immobilized his limbs. The smell of sweat, blood and piss assailed him.

“Stop!” John beseeched. “Please, stop,” he pleaded.

The mental attack ceased, violent tremors seizing his muscles. The woman watched him for a moment, her face a flat slate of marble. She searched the ground, finding another large rock and struggled with its weight before crashing it down onto the control panel.

“Don't do that!” John growled, staggering to his feet in a half hunched-over position. She ignored him, attempting to lift up her weapon, and John lurched over, hand searching for his knife. “Please, don't make me hurt you.”

“HURT.”

His heart imploded. John's lungs spasmed for breath and he clawed at his chest, his pulse skyrocketing. She stared at him, vestiges of smiles and shy laughter, twisted and mangled by hate. The mental connection was twofold, and John realized through the waves of madness assaulting him, her frantic necessity to destroy the gate. The one link to her oppressors.

She grappled with the boulder and raised it to her chest, unable to lift it any higher.

John had to stop her, hauling himself across the ground with both hands and knees, the pain everywhere. Under his skin, splitting his nerves. She knew what he was doing and under all the
vile ugliness was a hint of sadness.

Don't, he screamed in his head, a ping in the chaos of her mind overcoming his. Blood dripped from his nose, his vision gone white. He was stroking out, left with the choice of killing a victim of monsters, or getting him and Ronon home.

Bowing his head to the ground, John asked forgiveness for his decision as fury was unleashed into him.

They walked in silence and Ronon rebelled against it. The others were stalking them and talking didn't give away their position.

“The Saurin provide water for the prisoners. Do they drop off supplies for those they leave in the Void?” Malvick said nothing, confirming Ronon's suspicion. “You stole their food.”

“I did what it took to live. Nothing different than you and your friend.”

“We took our share.”

“And you did that without spilling blood?” Malvick mocked. “The Saurin don't drop off their beasts as often as water.”

“You kill them for their supplies, not mercy.”

Malvick spun around, breathing hard. “I hunted the beasts because they turn on one another, prey on the weakest first. There's nothing left in the Void to support them. The Shan'ka took everything useful long ago.” Tapping the knife against his hip in a familiar habit, he cracked his neck. “I right the balance. Keep them from dying slow, horrible deaths. I wasn't lying about that.”

“You don't let a single one live.”

“No.”

“And you enjoy it.”

“Told you, the balick matches got too dull. Thought you might have understood.”

When Ronon had been made a runner, he had done things, had become something less than human. “I killed Wraith.”

“To survive,” Malvick pressed.

“They hunted me. I hunted them back.”

“Do you think with all the Saurin's advancements, that those dropped off might pose a threat? Think the Saurin would sacrifice such precious commodities unless they were too hard to control?” Malvick scanned the horizon and this time his voice was lower. “Killing becomes a habit, another instinct after a while. You forget who you were before life was nothing but sleeping until the night.”

Ronon shivered, because he understood. He'd witnessed what a couple months had done to Sheppard, and what additional months might do to them both. But they'd never fall that far.

Would they?

“And the Shan'ka?” Ronon asked, wondering how they fit in.

“They can't have the competition. Or maybe they didn't want to see images of themselves daily, knowing nothing's changed since the extermination.”

“When the Saurin tried to destroy all those they experimented on?”

Malvick's facial muscles twitched. “No. See, one day all the monsters finally had enough. We killed them, nearly wiped them out, but some escaped in ships, leaving behind most of their precious research.” Turning around he searched the darkness. “Then we burned everything down.”

All the ash, the odor of burnt metal, it still hung heavy in the air.

“Now, I scavenge the debris for parts. Trade what the Shan'ka don't want with the merchants. All those bones, bits of plastic. Keep all the good stuff for myself.”

“Why do you stay here?”

“I was one of the last. A half-breed. I can't even remember being a child. But I remember being at the mercy of the Saurin. Given their enhancements. When the uprising began and the city burned, I tried staying with the Shan'ka. I was different. I didn't have their mental abilities. I hadn't reached their stage of advancement. But I had no where else to go. So I stayed out here. Allowed the Shan'ka to control those in the desert.”

“And let everyone struggle and die there!” Ronon fumed.

“Who says anything would be different? Think we'd all just get along?” Malvick challenged. The Shan'ka provide control and balance. Besides. What else would they do?”

Things still didn't add up, then Ronon started to put a few more pieces of the puzzle together. “The other prisoners avoid going in here because they’re afraid of mythical creatures.”

Malvick's expression was neutral. “The transport drops off dozens of rejects at a time and it takes me cycles to get them all. Can't help it there's collateral damage. Some prisoners just have bad timing when it comes to being curious. But a few survive and witness the beasts, spreading warnings about the evil lurking here.”

“But the prison transport only comes every forty cycles. What about the times when the Void's clear and it's just you?” Ronon waited and when Malvick said nothing it confirmed his guilt. “You're the real evil in the Void.”

“Am I? By whose standards? Yours?”

Ronon didn't get it. “And you just wait around? Obeying the Shan'ka who shunned you.”

“No, I found ways to survive. Waiting to see if someone who could operate the gate would be dropped off. I wasn't lying when I said I gave up, but like many things, looking became a habit.” Malvick read Ronon's perplexed expression. “I still have some of the Saurin lab equipment and as part of my deal with the Saurin, they allow me to test all those who come in for a water exchange.”

Ronon's fury boiled. “You tested Sheppard's blood.”

“I did, but like I said, I couldn't be sure it was right. I even made sure he got some help one time because I'm generous like that.”

Nothing made any sense. “But the Saurin can operate Ancestor tech.”

“They altered our genes so we couldn't. Made it easier to keep us locked up.” Malvick suddenly held up a hand, raising his face to the wind, listening. “They're coming. Time for the plan.”

“What is it?” Ronon asked, listening.

“You become the bait.”

And Malvick punched him clean in the face.

Ronon struggled through the cobwebs of consciousness. Peeling open his eyes, he found himself sprawled on the ground, the scent of anesthetics tainting the air.

He lay vulnerable, both knives inches within reach, shadowy human forms ghosting the twilight. He was the distraction and that meant moving. His cane was lost in the darkness and he sprang to his feet, his bad leg seizing with the sudden weight, crumpling to his knees with radiating fire.

They shoved him to the ground, pounding him in fury. Ronon grabbed a handful of fabric and flipped a body off him and went for the eyes of another. He needed leverage, lashing out with both fists and feet, regardless of the collateral damage.

Without anyone on top of him, he got to his knees and swiped one of his knives.

Both Saurin circled him. “Where are the others?” one asked the other.

They talked?

A howl echoing in the distance made everyone flinch.

They stared at one another, seeing each other for the first time. The Saurin sported human features, short hair and normal skin. Both stared at Ronon in fear, like he was the monster. All three of them trading looks in confusion.

“You're not going to kill us?” one of them asked.

Gripping the knife in his hand, Ronon was lost for words.

It was a fleeting moment. A blur of muscle slammed into the other two. A third Saurin fought like an animal, ripping open the throat of the first guy and pouncing on the other.

Ronon shoved his knife to the hilt between a set of shoulders, pulling it out and plunging it in back in. There was a scream, and arching and bucking, and Ronon was knocked to the ground.

The Saurin studied him. A patchwork of pasty white skin mixing with normal flesh tones peeked out from clothes that hung over its torso in shreds. Wisps of white hair curled toward a set of green human eyes. Hissing, it readied for an attack, deep gashes from a previous attack healing like a Wraith.

Ronon waited, blood dripping from his knife, while another figure crept up behind the mutated Saurin and Ronon waved his knife. “Come on! Get me!”

It lunged and Malvick tackled it, the two rolling around on the ground. Malvick got the upper hand and slashed its throat. Ronon watched as Malvick cut off its head and stood on shaky legs. “Some of them can heal real quick. Got to be certain.”

“Thought you left,” Ronon breathed heavily.

“Naw, his buddy got the drop on me when I was hunting this one.” There was a large seeping wound in his shoulder and Malvick stared at it. “He got me good, a point for him.” Scanning the ground, he gestured at the other dead bodies. “You do that?”

“No, he did.” Ronon pointed at the half Wraith, half human thing.

“Leaves one more.”

Malvick's head snapped as a familiar human scream echoed in the air. Ronon gave up searching for his stupid cane and ran full tilt without thought to his leg. Purpose and emotion overrode all his pain as he hobbled in the direction of the 'gate.

“Go!” he screamed at Malvick, but a gaping wound was a gaping wound, slowing a super soldier to just plain normal.

Distance for once was on their side and it took two minutes for them to reach Sheppard. Malvick's momentum never slowed and he plowed toward the figure and instantly crumpled to the ground only a few meters away.

Ronon's leg gave out completely, broken bone overriding sheer will, and he lay in sprawl of quivering weakness. There was a woman, a thin spry thing with a huge rock gripped in her fingers. Sheppard screamed in broken clips of sound, crawling toward her in half starts and stops.

Malvick was down, growling in vicious barks and Ronon was frozen in place, a great power keeping him from budging. The woman was shaking, trying to lift up the boulder.

Sheppard got to his feet and pitched forward, plowing into her. Letting out a strangled, choked sound, he rolled onto his side, the woman motionless next to him. Ronon's body tingled back to life and Malvick scrambled to his feet.

Then everything went crazy.

Intakes of air filled John's starving lungs as his heart rattled. The phantom imprint of the woman's mind slowly dissipated from John's and he swallowed a 'sorry' under his breath at her. The woman's eyes were closed, her face lax in peaceful unconsciousness.

“Good job,” Malvick praised him. He stood poised over the woman, the front of his shirt wet with blood, his pants coated with it. “I'll take care of the rest.”

Something clicked, and John covered her, his face meeting the edge of Malvick's knife. “No, you won't,” he growled.

“Move,” Malvick ordered, adjusting the tip of the blade under John's throat.

“Back off,” Ronon warned, gripping two blades in both hands.

John clumsily pulled out his own knife, all his weight on his right shoulder and elbow.

“You gonna trade your life for hers?” Malvick asked in disbelief.

“She's no longer a risk,” John hissed.

“And she won't be.” Malvick looked from John to Ronon and let out a chuckle. “Neither of you are fast enough to stop me.”

“Then you'll have to kill me.”

Malvick gaped at John, pulling down his goggles in silent contemplation. “You're serious?”

“Deadly.”

“If you touch him, you're dead.” Ronon was barely upright, pale face streaked with blood, his voice unwavering. “Back away. Won't ask again.”

Malvick stared at John. “Tell me why.”

Not a chance. “We're going to leave this place,” John spoke. “There's no more need for vengeance. No matter how many you kill, it won't fill the hole inside you.”

“Will saving one more fill yours?”

John swallowed. “No, but it helps keep it from getting bigger.”

“I'll take your word on that.” Sheathing his knife, Malvick stepped away and gestured at Ronon. “If she wakes up, you have two seconds to neutralize her, or I will.”

The world dipped in and out and John fumbled for somewhere in the middle. Ronon was there, providing a much needed anchor. “You okay?” the big guy whispered.

“I'm not sure,” John admitted, but a little tension eased out of his shoulders. “And you?”

“I'll live.”

Fixing the crystal array came to him in perfect clarity as if the schematic was a lost file in the hard drive of his mind. He stared at the woman, but didn't question how or why, slowly switching them out in a clouded haze. He leaned on the DHD, the only thing holding him up, and dialed a random address to see if it worked.

The discharge of a wormhole sent shivers down his spine. “You first,” he told Malvick. There was no way they were taking the man to the alpha site.

The demon of the Void gazed at the event horizon without his eye-gear and John wondered how amazing it must have looked. “Freedom,” Malvick breathed, then regarded him. “I meant it. I'll help you destroy the Saurin.”

“Maybe. If I need to get a message to you, I'll leave it here.” His words rang false; then again, Malvick didn't need them.

“Remember what I asked you? After one of the balick matches?” John nodded and Malvick smiled. “You're not one. Not like me.”

Looking at Ronon he held his chin up high. “That day outside the cave with the rock. I could have stood by. Watched the desert claim another, but then I wouldn't have learned the real reason for your motives. Like I said, never met anyone who'd die for another. I didn't understand.” Malvick looked at them both. “Maybe I do now.” With a flash of his teeth, he pressed the controls, dialing an unfamiliar address and walked up the steps.

Turning around, he took one last look at the Void and disappeared.

John shook from a stimulus and pain overload. “Did I just let a... I mean...” His words were as jumbled as his thoughts.

“We both let him go,” Ronon whispered.

“At what cost?”

Resting a hand on John's shoulder, Ronon leaned heavily on him. “We'll leave the dead here. Leave everything else. We survived. That's what matters.”

John wasn't sure, the footprints of Medena a large trail over his back. He patted down his pants and pulled out one of the data chips. “Maybe one of these will provide some answers. Found them with the rest of Malvick's stuff.”

“Maybe.”

John clutched at it, but they both knew that some questions would always be elusive. “Let's go home,” he said, savoring the words. He punched in the sequence to the alpha site, looking down at the woman.

“If that chip does have any information. Maybe we'll come back here.” Ronon's voice was ragged with pain.

John stepped away from the platform, legs giving out from under him, until Ronon caught him by the shoulders. “I've got ya,” his friend breathed.

It was finally happening. John's throat tightened and he squeezed his eye closed to battle back the emotion.

Walking toward the glistening pool, Ronon stumbled. John steadied him, taking his friend's long arm and draping it over John's shoulder. Ronon wrapped his other arm around John's waist and they both limped into blue starlight, leaving a nightmare behind.

Fresh air and clear skies welcomed their stumbled steps and Ronon released a choked sigh. “We're here.” His ryoko was complete, but the journey was far from over. “John?”

Ronon's arm was the only thing between Sheppard and gravity. Ronon cried out when he took the next step and clumsily lowered his friend to the ground, hopping toward the DHD. “We're almost there.”

Staring at controls, he realized he didn't have a way to send his IDC and he growled in frustration. The he remembered an emergency back-up box hidden under one of the nearby boulders. Malvick wasn't the only one with secret supplies. Hobbling on his busted leg, he screamed, forcing his body toward the familiar formation. Using nothing but adrenaline, he shoved the giant rock aside and started digging. Panting, fingers rubbed raw, he located the metal box and entered the numeric code he'd been forced to memorize.

Pulling out the radio, he squeezed the talk button. “Atlantis, this Ronon.”

Silence.

Punching the button again, he screamed, “Answer, damn it! Atlantis, This Ronon Dex!”

Was the city there? Had it been attacked?

Anxiety squeezed his heart; a war cry built up in the pit of his belly.

“This is Atlantis. You're using an emergency radio on channel Delta, Charlie. Please repeat your identification.”

“This is Ronon Dex. I have Sheppard with me. Lower the shield!”

There was the sound of commotion and other voices and Ronon resisted the urge to smash the radio. “Look. Have a security team on stand-by. Bring every Marine to the gate room. I don't care, but we're coming home, so you better lower the damn shield.”

There was a burst of static. “We're lowering the shield.”

Battling security protocols and threatening a bodiless voice was a last gasp. Ronon forced weight onto his leg one final time, crying out as fire engulfed the limb. Grabbing Sheppard by his robe, Ronon draped his friend's limp arm across his shoulder and dragged them home.

Artificial light scraped his eyeballs, blaring alarms assaulted his ears and he clung to the dead weight of his friend, staring defiantly at the dozen P-90s aimed his way. Ronon was breaking, his leg folding under him and still he hung on to Sheppard as he fell onto his ass. It was a swirl of noise, loud and chaotic when he'd been used to silence. The sharp tones slowly faded, and the rush became a single sound.

“Ronon, it's Jennifer. I'm walking toward you.”

The security detail fanned out as Jennifer approached him with a bright smile, a med kit slung over the shoulder of a freshly laundered uniform. She smelled of powder and chemicals, her face a healthy glow with a hint of makeup.

Bright eyes widened, then falsely calmed at his appearance. “Hey.”

Ronon was on the verge of passing out. “Tired.”

His words soothed that tightly controlled expression. “I bet you are.” She glanced behind her shoulder. “Your ride's waiting. Is that okay?”

He simply nodded.

She looked anxiously over at Sheppard. “My team should really take care of him.”

Ronon didn't budge as a pair of gurneys were rolled closer, medical personnel waiting to touch them with smooth skin and too clean hands. Jennifer tentatively reached for his arm, squeezing gently, fingers sliding down to study his pulse. Still he didn't move, as Jennifer used slow, purposeful movements, like he would bite her, and pressed her fingers against Sheppard's neck.

Her frown shook him out of his daze. Panicked at wasting precious time, Ronon practically shoved Sheppard into her arms. “He's really hurt.”

Medical personnel lifted Sheppard onto a gurney, and more helped Ronon onto his own, lifting his legs up. Squeaky wheels, shuffling feet, whispered commands. The bustle of an entire city closed in, rushing panels and rows of lights making him dizzy, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

“Where are the others?”

Jennifer dipped down to his ear. “What?”

“Teyla. McKay.”

“They're off-world. Looking for you guys. They're due back anytime.”

His brain flipped off with her words and the slight rocking of the gurney lulled him into a quiet place in the back of his mind.

He never fell asleep, but teetered on the edge of blackness and the light filtering between his lids. A nurse cut away his clothes, stripping them off his dust-crusted body. Ronon didn't growl, grateful for being freed of his robe, squinting against the too-bright overhead light.

Hands touched and ghosted his skin; there was a prick in his arm from an IV, and a sting in the other as blood was drawn into two large vials. A nurse caught his gaze, giving him a pretty smile with lips of pale pink and he shivered when she pressed the cold metal stethoscope to his chest.

“Sorry,” she said, blowing on the bell before pressing down again.

He didn't say anything when the BP cuff squeezed around his arm or when a penlight caused his head to pound. Faces blurred into one another as too many bodies became a wall surrounding him. Two sets of hands became four, and when a pair touched his legs, Ronon balled his fists and snarled.

“Hey, I'll take over, Lindsey,” Jennifer said, and the rest of the medical staff disappeared. “How are you doing?”

Ronon didn't say anything, had no idea how to respond. Jennifer scanned the monitors around him, tapped at her PDA, then studied his leg. “We're going to run some imaging scans on you in a few minutes.” She placed a hand on his shoulder with nails free of dirt. “Ronon?”

“What?” His voice cracked.

“You're going to be okay.”

Ronon's dreads scraped both cheeks; they needed to be cut, his beard trimmed, but it'd take days to rid all the sand from his pores. “I want a shower.”

Jennifer's smile was for real this time. “We'll clean you after we run your tests. Are you injured anywhere else besides your leg?”

Did it matter? The pain had been an overpowering force, the taskmaster of his ryoko. He'd known nothing else.

The infirmary swarmed with people yelling for tests and instruments, voices competing with beeping machines. A half dozen swarmed Sheppard, and Ronon was glad his friend wasn't awake during the mayhem.

Jennifer stepped in front of Ronon, shielding Sheppard from view while a nurse bustled over, wielding a PDA like it was on fire. “Here are Dex's lab results.”

“Great, go ahead and give him 3 milligrams of morphine on an IV push, okay?”

Words and sounds bombarded Ronon and he felt a tug in his arm, a rush of heat following.

Another nurse hurried by and handed Jennifer another data pad, her eyebrows forming a V in confusion. “Ronon, there's an unknown substance in Colonel Sheppard's labs. It doesn't appear in your blood work. Do you have any idea what it is?'

Not really, Ronon thought.

“Ronon, the colonel might need surgery. If he's been given anything, it could cause complications with the anesthesia.”

A third nurse joined the second. Ronon couldn’t keep up with them as they buzzed around him. “There's blood in the colonel's Foley.”

“Get him under the scanner, stat. Page Doctors Graham and Sato,” Jennifer ordered, then turned to Ronon. “If you could tell me what happened, it might---”

“It was pain medicine,” he blurted. “He was in pain. He took it.”

“How long ago?”

Ronon laughed at the question. Jennifer misunderstood and squeezed his shoulder in an act of comfort. “It wasn't enough. It stopped working,” he said. She seemed relieved at the answer, but it was a biting truth. “They jumped him... I...I wasn't--”

“Oh, my God, it's true!”

Feet clattered over, followed by the rank smell of stagnant water. Rodney stood by the gurney, twitchy blue eyes in a dirt-streaked face. “How the hell did you get back?”

“Rodney,” Teyla warned. “We are very glad you're home,” she said, leaning toward him.

Ronon accepted her grease-streaked forehead, her tears staining his cheeks as he wrapped a hand around her shoulder. “You smell like a swamp,” he chuckled, unable to hide the quiver in his voice.

“It was a marsh.” Rodney fluttered nearby, eyes bulging. “Oh, my God. What the hell happened to you? When did you eat last?”

Jennifer pushed McKay away. “We need to take care of him, Rodney.”

“What about Sheppard?” Ronon asked.

Teyla wiped at her eyes and cast a sideways glance at Jennifer. “We have not seen him. We were not permitted.”

“We felt it best.” Jennifer pulled up the rails of the gurney and more staff swooped in, rolling the equipment beside them.

Rodney and Teyla looked to him for answers and Ronon bit his lip, leaving them with nothing as he was wheeled away.

A sheet covered John's lower half, thin cotton teasing comfort. The iciness of the wormhole had seeped into his bones, sucked away the last of his soul, and spat him out the other side. Where he'd died. Or he thought he had. But there was no mistaking his pain's furious appetite, chewing on him like a piece of rawhide. Or the frisson of air conditioning on his skin, the vibration of the city through the metal and fabric of the gurney.

“Colonel? Can you hear me?”

John's eyes fluttered, a heavy leathery warmth combating the chill in his veins.

“You're being wheeled into pre-op for surgery. We've given you something to help you relax, okay?”

All he saw were yellow lights, not the constant shine of white hot, or the never-ending twilight. Then there was pinch in his arm and everything dimmed out before he questioned why.

“Colonel?”

“Colonel Sheppard? Could you please open you eyes?”

“W't?” John moaned. Didn't he just fall asleep?

“There you go. Try to keep them open for me.”

His reactions were a few seconds behind, the room slowly morphing into a blob of soft gray. Smacking raw lips, he was surprised to find a straw hovering nearby.

“You can take a couple small sips.”

Cold water slid down his throat; ice cubes rattled the bottom of the cup. He smiled around the straw, mmmming in happiness.

“I bet you didn't see any ice water where you were.”

His eyes rolled open, awareness creeping in tiny increments and the female voice became Jennifer Keller. “No,” he rasped and swallowed around the awful dryness of his throat. “How did you...”

“Educated guess based on the sunburns and your dehydration. I know you're tired, but I need to monitor your reaction to the anesthesia.” And she pulled out a penlight. “You gave your anesthesiologist a tough time.”

John rolled his neck, head sinking in the pillow. “Sor'ry.”

“That's alright,” she replied. “Ready? I'm going to check your pupil reaction.”

A stabbing flash of light bore into his left eye, and he was surprised at the blur in his right.

“The swelling in your other eye has gone down enough for the lid to open. I have an ice pack waiting with your name on it. There doesn't appear to be any damage to the cornea, but I'll do a more thorough eye examination in a few days.”

The light triggered fireworks in his head and John hissed, shifting to get away from the obtrusive beam. Keller’s apology filtered through the layer of fog the pain had laid over his brain. Thinking was swimming in an abyss.

“How's Ronon?” Not having him in his line of sight was unnerving.

“We're still working on him.” Seeing his alarm, she quickly added, “He's going to be fine. He'll be facing a long recovery. The first break of his tibia never fully healed properly causing a second stress fracture. He's getting a cast while we speak. Both of you are going to be off your feet for a long while.”

John was gone with he's going to be fine, not really caring about anything else.

“Colonel?”

John heard his name again and ignoring it didn't make the voice go away. He'd been content in a new in between place, but the voice was insistent, a hand on his shoulder adding to the disruption.

Acknowledging it might silence the damn thing and Keller’s smiling face fuzzed into view. “Hey there.”

“Hey.”

“You checked out on me earlier.”

“Hmmmm.”

“I really need you to stay with me a little longer this time.”

John had other ideas.

He'd stayed awake during his next bout of awareness, answering stupid questions about his name and rank, laughing when she asked the date. There were a few more trips to the surface and John coasted the real world a few minutes each time before sinking back down.

His head ached this time around, a dull throb under the haze of narcotics, forcing him awake. Keller had returned, fussing with his IV in what John recognized as a classic stalling technique. Rolling his head he studied his hand cemented by plaster, propped up onto a stack of pillows, his first three fingers cocooned in braces.

Since he was alive, he might as well tally up the damage. “How am I doin'?”

Keller smiled with her friendly physician's expression. “You have a laundry list of problems, but they'll all heal in time. We had to go in and repair a small tear in your left kidney that was a source of a slow bleed, and a hematoma in your spleen.” Pausing to see if he was still with her, John gave her a nod and she continued. “You have three broken ribs and there are various contusions on your torso, back and face. But the swelling should go down in time.”

Keller's ability to keep a light optimistic tone faded as her eyes drifted across him in sadness. John despised the pity. “And my hand?”

“Doctor Graham is an orthopedic specialist and he didn't think you required any additional surgery. He'll be examining you later, but X-rays showed carpal fractures in your hand and four metacarpal breaks in your fingers, but all the bones have been aligned and splinted.”

“Guess you have me on the good stuff, huh?” His hand felt like a block of wood. “What about...”

“There's a possibility of loss of motion from nerve damage or arthritis after they heal. I'm sorry; we won't know for sure.”

“Thanks for not sugarcoating things.” Keller was giving him that mother hen vibe. “I'm sure you have other patients.”

She was smiling, fumbling for an excuse to stick around. “None that need my attention right now. I could arrange for--”

“Look, Doc, I just want to sleep,” John said.

“Oh. Okay.” Keller pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. “If you need anything, the call button is on your left side.”

“Got it.”

She made a hasty retreat and John blinked up at a high ceiling of white squares. Buzzing equipment and soft padded soles of people moving outside his curtain was an odd kind of loud from what he'd been used to. A blanket, soft and warm, was draped over his sheet.

It was cozy.

Strange.

Tracing the stubble of his cheeks he considered asking for a shave and a pang of apprehension shot through him. Maybe later. The pharmacy filtering through his system was a good distraction and he allowed himself to go where it wanted to take him.

“Hey? You awake?”

“No,” John grumbled.

“Answering are you awake with no is a contradiction.”

“Okay, I don't want to be awake.”

“It's polite to open your eyes when having a conversation.”

“I'm not having a conversation.”

“I spent the last eleven weeks searching for you and Ronon. Losing precious sleep. Allowing experiments to fail and the city to go down the tubes. Oh, and Teyla and I spent a whole week trapped with a bunch of people who rode gigantic frogs and spent every waking moment drunk on kufuku flowers.”

“Did you drink any of it?”

“What? No, of course not.”

John forced his eyes open, taking in Rodney's huffy expression. “You should have.”

“Well, I'm sorry if I don't share your adventurous taste in exotic alcohol.”

Rodney broke off direct eye contact, his gaze sweeping the tiny space between privacy curtains. Unable to look at anything continuously for more than three seconds, he kept stealing glances, eyes straying wide.

“Stop staring.”

“But you look like...you look like...”

“Like I've been marooned in the desert.”

“Before or after your heavyweight title bout with the Terminator? And has Jennifer given you food yet? I mean, have you seen yourself in the mirror?” John bit his bottom lip, tasting blood.

Rodney didn't notice and the pacing and hand gestures began in full force. “We had no idea where the Saurin stashed you. They cut off all ties with us and we searched all their surrounding planets, but there were no life signs. Do you know how long by jumper we had to go on each trip? Nine, twelve, even eighteen hours. Each way.” Rodney took a breath. “There's only a space gate near the Saurin secret base.”

“I know.”

“Of course you do.” Rodney paced in a tiny path making John dizzy. “How did you escape?”

“Gate on the planet.”

“That's it? What took you so long? Was it guarded?”

“Kind of.”

“What do you mean kind of? Was it broken?”

“Yeah.”

“Which was it? And what's with the one word answers? Did you and Ronon exchange personalities or something?'

“Rodney.”

“What?”

“I'm going to sleep.”

“But...I have a surprise.” There was rustling as Rodney fumbled with something and he pulled out a laptop like a rabbit from a magic hat. “I downloaded all the seasons of Buffy. V the original miniseries. I found Buck Rogers, Knight Rider, and even the A-Team because I think you and Murdock were separated at birth.”

Rodney looked at John expectantly, and damn it. He wanted to say yes, wanted to lose himself in campy TV Land, but John couldn't. It was too much, too soon.

“Maybe later,” John offered.

“Oh.” Rodney's shoulders slumped. “I'll just, you know. Put it on the table beside you. If you change your mind, your music collection is there, too.”

“Thank you,” John whispered.

Rodney's presence loomed like a shadow despite closing his eyes. John couldn't shift onto his side, or pull the blanket over his head. There was a moment of panic that his friend would pull up a chair and actually stay, but a heavy sigh and shuffling of feet signaled Rodney's exit.

And John was alone again.

Solitude was a pipe-dream. Vital checks. Medication rounds. Screechy equipment carts, talking, the damn ventilation system. His body was disconnected from his mind, mimicking his thoughts.

“I have soup for lunch today, Colonel,” a smiling nurse chirped.

A bowl of broth was placed on his tray and Nurse Happy took a spoonful and held it up.

“Just leave it.”

“I know you're right-handed--”

“I'm good.”

“But...”

“I can eat on my own!”

Nurse Happy flinched, but quietly put the utensil down, voice all sweet. “Okay, Colonel. But if you need any help just hit the call button and I'll be over.”

John felt like a jackass, almost pushing his lunch aside, but even broth had him salivating. Fighting the growing hunger he made himself grab the spoon, not just bring the bowl to his lips to down in one go. It wasn't a complete catastrophe, only a little dribbled on his gown, yet strangely enough, his belly was full before he was done eating. He stared dumbly at the bowl, knowing what lengths he would have gone to for a little tasty soup in that hellhole.

“Knock, knock.”

John glanced up at Keller. “Hey, Doc.”

“Colonel,” Keller addressed with a practiced smile. She did the usual check of the machines before her eyes settled on his meal. “That's not bad. I'd really like it if you ate a little more.”

“Kinda full.”

“I'm sure you are. When you go from a regular diet of meals to a much smaller intake your stomach shrinks. I'll get you up to speed over the next few weeks with higher calorie meals.”

“Does this mean I'll be mainlining desserts?”

“Afraid not. But I hear foods rich with protein, vitamins and minerals are very gourmet.” Her attempt at being upbeat was a dud so Keller did what she could to barrel past it. “You've been deprived of proper nutrition for a long time. Your electrolytes are also all over the place, most of which I can balance in your IV solution, but you'll be drinking plenty of Ensure for the next month at least.”

“Guess a rib-eye and potatoes will have to wait.”

“I think I could arrange that in a few days. Mashed potatoes and applesauce first, then the good stuff. I don't want to shock your body too much, but in time we'll get you healthy again.” And she patted his arm.

Her smile was plastic and John's walls went up full force. “Sounds good. Um, look. I need a favor.”

“Depends what it is,” she said with a twinkle.

“You have my clothes. There's a substance in the pocket. A plant.” Little forget-me needles. “Do you think you could run a few tests on it?”

Obviously his request was confusing. “Um, sure. I can do that.”

Then she launched into stuff about his hand and more scans. A regimen for replacing the pounds he'd lost. In one ear and out the other.

“Colonel?”

“Sorry. What was that last part?”

“You have a visitor,” Keller announced.

Richard Woolsey approached with a stiff smile and a warm greeting. “Colonel Sheppard, it is good you see.” He glanced at Keller. “Is the colonel up to a conversation?”

“He's lucid, yes,” Keller replied almost protectively.

He gestured for privacy. “Very well, if you don't mind.”

“Try to keep it brief. He needs plenty of rest and is due for another dose of pain medication.” Keller hovered, leaving only after Woolsey cleared his throat.

Woolsey's mask was firmly in place, perfect and at ease. “Colonel, I know you have had a very...a very rough ordeal. One I could not even imagine. I know your report will be detailed, but I must ask for a preliminary update on the events leading to your and Ronon's imprisonment.”

John explained about the labs, the cloning chambers, the Saurin desire for Atlantis' Wraith research and genetics. How his and Ronon's memories would have been wiped.

“Given the threat of having all intel concerning their genetics program taken from your mind, you decided to destroy their computer database because--”

“Dumma told us all their research was centrally stored in one area. It presented the best target to set them back.”

“In other words, you attacked without orders and destroyed a sovereign government's classified facility.”

“Yes.”

“Even if such an attack would be considered an act of war?”

“Yes.”

Woolsey's expression gave no hint of his reaction. “This was based on your assessment of a military threat to Atlantis despite any hostile or violent acts.”

“It was a first strike decision.”

Woolsey waited for more, but John wasn't offering anything. “The Saurin contacted us three days after we were removed from their base and informed us that you and Ronon had been convicted of an act of terrorism, and severed all ties. We tried many times to re-establish contact to negotiate for a release.”

John lay there, propped at an angle, grinding his jaw.

“On the planet, were you able to gather any additional details on the Saurin from the other prisoners?”

“There was this one prisoner.” And John stumbled over the word. What was Malvick? Prisoner? Criminal? Mass murderer? “We gathered information about the Saurin, but it was vague, outdated stuff about their abandoned outpost there.”

“And the others?”

“What others?”

“The ones you were incarcerated with. Were you able to--?”

“We were pretty much on our own.”

Even the keenest diplomat was unable to hide a flicker of disappointment.

“Are we....” John thought of the woman they'd left outside the gate and his eyes went wide. “The data chips! Ask Rodney to go over the data chips I had with me. They were in a pocket.” John's heart pounded in his chest. “Don't recall which one, but--”

Woolsey laid a hand on John's shoulder, his eyes nervously eying one of the urgently beeping machines. “We collected everything from your clothes. Dr. McKay is already studying them as we speak.”

“If it has any intel. If you can find out the gate address to the planet. Are there an preliminary plans to investigate---”

“I'm afraid any operations relating to the Saurin are on a need-to-know basis. I'm sorry.”

That pissed John off, but he couldn't muster the energy after his mini adrenaline rush. Obviously he'd been shoved aside again. Woolsey didn't make a move to leave, awkwardly remaining, so John gave him an escape. “Did you need anything else?”

“Maybe later,” Woolsey replied. “Get some rest, Colonel. We'll talk more when you're feeling better.

Ronon's leg lay wrapped from ankle to knee and anytime he tried getting out of bed, tubes pulled and pinched his skin. But there was no walking, no standing. Staff fluttered in and out, aware of his foul mood, talking less anytime they completed a task. He hated the drugs they fed him, preferring the pain and alertness than this spaced-out feeling.

A nurse swept by, cleaning away his empty tray and placing a second helping of red Jell-O and chocolate pudding on the bedtable. He gave her a smile, shoveling into the closest cup, slurping down the cherry goodness, loving every second of pure, sweet bliss on his tongue. The spoon rattled against his front teeth and he quickly put it aside at Jennifer's amused expression.

“Guess you really enjoy Jell-O, huh?”

“Tastes good.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

“Wouldn't mind steak.”

“I'll see if I can arrange that for you tomorrow.”

“Meatloaf's good, too. Pizza, muffins, those Athosian pastry things...”

“Well, your appetite hasn't diminished. I'll try fitting those in with healthy things, but since your new diet is going up to six small meals a day, it shouldn't be a problem.”

“When can I start that?” he grinned. He really, really missed eating. Four years on Atlantis and he'd grown to love stuff with rich tomato sauce, anything stuffed with cheese, or drenched in gravy. Days and nights in the cave he used to dream of cake layered in chocolate and whipped cream.

“Baby steps. I don't want anything to upset your stomach. Let's get your salt levels and electrolytes in order and then we'll talk.”

“Okay.”

She chuckled. “I wish all my patients were as receptive as you.”

Ronon froze reaching for the pudding. “Sheppard?”

Jennifer averted her eyes and he knew she wasn't supposed to talk about those in her care. It was a stupid rule.

“I should check on him.”

“You see him a few times a day.”

“He's always asleep.”

“He's recovering from major surgery on top of his other injuries.”

Ronon fidgeted, balling the ends of his blanket.

Jennifer took his hand. “He's only thirty meters away.”

That didn't quiet the need to see with his own eyes. Just to be sure. Bad things happened when he wasn't looking.

“You know if you wanted to talk about things, I have a good ear,” she offered.

He intertwined his fingers with hers, savoring the gentle warmth before slipping his hand away. “Thanks.” Which was his nice way of saying no.

Jennifer rested her hand on the rail. “Colonel Sheppard should only have a few more days in critical care. I was thinking of transferring him over here. I really think he--”

The soft tread of leather on tile signaled a visitor, and Woolsey tentatively walked over. “I'm sorry for the interruption, but the rest of my day is filled with meetings and I wanted a word with you if I could, Dr Keller?”

Jennifer instantly walked toward him. “Of course.”

Turning his attention to the bed, Woolsey offered a polite smile. “I was hoping I could speak with you as well, Ronon. Perhaps tomorrow morning?”

“Sure.” Woolsey had dropped by yesterday when Ronon was more heavily medicated. No doubt wanting some report or another.

Jennifer pulled aside the curtain and both stepped away. Ronon peeled the foil lid off the pudding cup and devoured it. Lunch done, he was stuck again with nothing to do except the DS game McKay had left him. Picking it up to play the shooting game, he tried ignoring the hushed voices of people who thought they wouldn't be overheard.

“How are they really doing?”

Ronon rolled his eyes at Woolsey's question.

“You have my full report--”

“What's not in the report?”

Ronon suppressed the urge to crawl out of bed and demand they talk about him in front of his face.

“Ronon's tough; don't let the leg and weight loss fool you.” Jennifer paused. “But I think he should talk with someone. When two people go through a great trauma together, depending on one another for a long time...well...we've learned very few details of their ordeal other than it was horrific based on their conditions.”

“Hopefully, we'll gather those soon. Colonel Sheppard had some type of data chip with him that Dr. McKay is going to brief me on. I'll send you copies of that and their reports when they're turned in. And of course psych evaluations are standard protocol under these circumstances.”

Smashing the plastic container, Ronon grabbed the metal spoon, aiming over the curtain, hand shaking. But he didn't want to hit Jennifer so instead he bent the utensil, snapping it in two.

“I am worried about Colonel Sheppard,” Jennifer whispered.

“Agreed. He didn't even challenge me during our conversation.”

“I'm not a trained psychologist, but he exhibits classic signs of depression.”

“Let's walk; I'm expecting a data burst from Stargate Command.”

Ronon shoved the rolling table aside, chucked his sheets, and glared at the monstrosity of his leg. Growling, he shoved the guardrails down, pressed down on his hands in an attempt to move. Both arms trembled and the room started to spin.

“Hey? What are you doing?”

Someone touched his shoulder and Ronon swung, catching air.

“Take it easy, it's Lorne!”

“Get off me!”

“Okay, okay, but enough with the jail break. You'll make a mess.”

Breathing hard, Ronon slumped down, totally spent, the IV line tangled up and his bedding all over the floor. “What do you want?”

“Nothing. Just thought I'd visit a friend.” Lorne wore the haggard expression of command under too much crushing weight and was all kitted out for a mission; the only thing missing was his P-90. “I just returned from off-world. This is the first time the two of you have been awake when I've been around. Thought after my post-check up, I'd say hello.”

Ronon stared at the pile of linen that had fallen away.

Lorne took the opening and picked up the sheets. “Here,” he said dumping a pile on Ronon's lap.

Ronon gathered up the fabric; his eyes drifted over his body barely concealed by the ridiculous gown, muscle tone eaten away, leaving a useless being in his place. “Not in the mood to talk.”

Sighing, Lorne shook his head. “Yeah, that's what the colonel said. Except in fewer words.”

“What kind of mission were you on?” Ronon asked, not looking up.

“Rendezvous with another shady contact.”

“Who?”

“A guy who had information concerning the Saurin.”

Ronon's head jerked up. “About what?”

Lorne tensed, risking a look around. “I can't share the details with you.”

“Not asking to share.” Ronon glared and Lorne glared back. “If you were in this bed, I'd tell you.”

“You've been terrorizing my nurses,” Jennifer announced with a sigh, pulling aside the curtain.

Ronon glanced up from where he had the DS scattered in pieces. “I want out of this bed.”

“You suffered a stress fracture after your old break, not that it mattered much. The second one was caused by all your walking on the first when your tibia became too unstable.” Jennifer crossed her arms. “Getting up and walking around—”

“Don't want to walk around. Just get me a wheelchair.”

“And I want you to regain your strength. You have more than just a broken leg. You've suffered long-term malnutrition and an infection. If you overdo it and fall, you could break another bone. You've lost fifty pounds and--”

“That can't stop me from sitting in a chair.”

“I'll make you a deal.” She pulled out a data pad. “Stop snapping at my staff. You don't have to talk to them, but no more growling and intimidation.”

“You said this was part of a deal?”

“I'll set up an overhead trapeze for you to do upper body exercises.”

“Cool.”

Jennifer grinned, walking behind the privacy divide and bringing out a wheelchair. “I thought you might want to visit Colonel Sheppard since he's more awake now, but only if you let two of my staff help you into it.”

“And?” Ronon knew she was holding back.

“Doctor Flores is scheduled to have a chat with you later today. Please don't stonewall him.”

“You mean the head shrink?” Jennifer gave him a look and Ronon shrugged. “It's what McKay calls them. Fine. Talked to him before.” After his withdrawal from the enzyme last year, he hadn't had a choice.

He started to roll down his sheets. “Can I go now?”

“I'm warning you. Colonel Sheppard's been....he's had his ups and downs. Mostly downs,” Jennifer explained, obviously frustrated at being unable to help.

Ronon eyed his metallic ride out of bed. “Don't worry, I'm used to it.”

Jennifer pushed Ronon personally through the infirmary, his IV hooked to the back of the chair, but she wisely allowed him to take the last of the journey on his own.

Sheppard was inclined in a sitting position with his eyes closed, a laptop resting on the table next to him. No one had shaved him yet; dark purple bruises with yellow blotches peeked out from his beard. Even resting, he was tense - corded neck muscles, rigid shoulders.

“You're not sleeping,” Ronon stated.

“Thought you were one of the staff,” Sheppard replied. He pushed himself up the best he could with a grunt. “Been meaning to see you for a change, but they've been real picky about me moving around.”

Ronon purposely didn't reply, staring into all the new lines the sun had burned into his friend's face.

Sheppard's weary expression hardened. “What?”

“Heard you took the blame for attacking the Saurin.”

“Who told you that?'

Ronon purposefully crossed his arms; he wasn't ratting out Lorne. “Why'd you do it?”

“Because I'm the team leader.”

“But it was my idea.”

“I made the final decision.”

Sheppard said nothing and Ronon furiously wheeled himself closer. “Damn it! Stop being a stubborn ass! We did it together. Taking all the blame doesn't prove anything.”

“You done? Because I've got a roaring headache and it doesn’t care for people yelling at me.”

Sheppard's complexion was pale and Ronon felt slightly contrite. “Did you mention it to Jennifer?”

Sheppard rubbed his temple one-handed, adjusting his head among the pillows. “She thinks it's the pain meds. Or something. I don't remember.”

“You tell her about--”

“I haven't mentioned a lot of things,” Sheppard snapped. “Not yet.” He dug the heel of his hand into his right eye. “Sorry. Been... I dunno.”

Ronon searched for the braking mechanism, engaging it and getting as comfortable as possible. “Don't wait too long.”

“I won't.” Sheppard watched Ronon settle in for the long haul and let out a breath, but he didn't chase him away.

It was the cave with long stretches of nothing. “I can't wait to beat the crap out of someone,” Ronon offered.

“As long as it's not me.”

They didn't talk about the Saurin or the desert. Not today.

John's mom had died of cancer. She'd never told him of her illness until it was too late. He'd suspected something with all the doctors’ visits and growing weakness, and that expensive wig never felt real.

When she passed away in her bedroom, he'd never accepted it.

Mitch and Dex had died when John was on another black op. Their coffins were empty because there wasn’t enough of their remains to fill them.

A man whose name he'd never been told was murdered inside a tent while John stood outside. After the screaming had ended, Akram placed the informant's head on a spike for all to see.

During one of his few medivac missions, John transported the body bags of over thirty-two men, and deep down, he wondered if there was ever anything he could have done to prevent at least one of them.

Holland's chopper crashed when John was sleeping after two back-to-back missions. Holland’s crew testified at John's hearing, but by then, John didn't care about the outcome. Apparently his long career saved him from a complete discharge; in time he'd be forced to retire.

He really did love Antarctica; no one died there. In fact, he never got to know anyone and preferred it that way.

The tally of dead earned a new name on the very first day of his new life and the hits kept on rolling month after month. Carson. Elizabeth. Every fallen Marine under his command and civilian he'd been responsible for. Seventy-two in all.

He’d relived every death in their cave. Reevaluating, fixating on what-ifs, doing all the stuff he wasn't supposed to. He’d broken the rules he'd lectured his men on when it came to losing people in battle.

He’d never expected to be alone with his thoughts for so goddamned long. All the crap he'd believed was long buried had nowhere to hide.

John sat in the chair across from his bed, shaking in pain and exhaustion from walking twenty steps with two giant orderlies. Another migraine took up residence behind his eyes, causing everything to glow with strange halos. He sat there, staring at the pain medication machine, fingers resting on the button, gazing longingly at it. Not for the buzzing tingle it did to his body, but for what it did to his brain.

“You wanted to see me, Colonel?” Keller asked. “Feeling rough from your earlier stroll?”

John grunted. “Look, I want to get rid of this thing.”

“You don't want your PCA pump?”

“No.”

“John, I already cut back your regimen of morphine. Twice. It's the reason for the pump since you're weren't happy otherwise. If the body's in pain, then it doesn't heal. You don't need the stress.”

“What I don't need is to be hooked up to a happy dispenser,” John growled.

Keller wasn't having any of it. “It's only been three days.”

“Really? That many? I couldn't tell.”

“Would you like a clock? It might help you acclimate to a normal night and day cycle?”

John really wished he wasn't talking to a sensible person. “I'd end up counting the second hand.”

Pulling up a chair, she took a seat, all the I'm the doctor, I'm in charge slipping from her expression. “Want to tell me what's really bothering you?”

“No.”

“Then the PCA machine stays, including the automatic dose it dispenses.”

John grabbed a glass of water, unable to resist swirling it around a few times, drinking it slowly, eye on the full pitcher on his table. He finished the glass even if he wasn't that thirsty and carefully poured another one. He did this all day. Drinking all the water he could stand and watching someone bring him another full pitcher only minutes later. “Did you ever examine those plant fibers I asked about? The ones in my robe?”

“I collected the dust in your pocket, enough for an initial analysis. This was the pain medication you took when you were attacked?”

John averted his eyes, studying the floor. “Pain medication. No, it was an appetite suppressant. Part of the local economy.”

Her eyebrows rose up in surprise. “And you used this before you were injured?”

There were twenty-three tiles in the floor by his feet. “The first few weeks were bad. Ronon was hurt. We had no food, no water. I took it to keep the hunger pains at bay. I still ate,” he said defensively. “If I got too weak, I wouldn't have been much use to Ronon.”

“Of course.”

He wiggled his broken fingers, riding the clash between pain and that muted heaviness.

She reached over to still them and pulled her hand back at the last second. “You shouldn't move those.”

John laid them on the armrest. “Orris. That's what they called it. It was used to---the prisoners used it to--”

“Escape?”

“To get high,” John corrected. He locked eyes with her this time. “They smoked it.”

Keller's expression was perfectly even. “And you didn't smoke it?”

“No, I chewed them.” She had that thinking face and John was pin wheeling. ”What?”

“There's a metabolic difference between orally ingesting certain chemical compounds and smoking them.”

“What does that mean?”

“In your case? I'm not sure.”

Typing with your non-dominant hand while a guy chiseled the inside of your skull with a needle was agony; realizing that three months of your life were made up of death and killing, well, John didn't go there. It was depressing whatever the conclusion. Hitting send didn't lift any great burden off his shoulders; if anything he felt worse.

“Am I disturbing you?”

“Yes,” John replied without thought.

“Why?”

“I'm sorry, Teyla.” John really was, closing the laptop and pushing it away. What was with him snapping at people all the time? “I'm not good company.”

“That's my job, not yours.” Teyla brought her own chair and put it next to the bed, sliding into it. “I have brought you some tea for your headache.”

“That obvious, huh?”

She pulled out a canteen bound in brown leather, pouring some into his water cup. “Sorry that I cannot serve you formally from a tea set, but carrying one from my room would prove a challenge.” Pausing, Teyla tilted her head. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” John lied, unable to tear his gaze from the worn homemade canteen.

He took the cup despite the slight tremble in his hand and drank the spicy sweet liquid.

“Hopefully it will ease your head.”

Teyla's hair was a vibrant swirl of browns and gold. When she leaned over to remove the cup, strands fell away from her face and John was struck by the sudden need to touch them. “May I?” he asked, hand hovering.

“Go ahead.”

Sliding his fingers through the strong flowing locks, he whispered. “Thank you.” But it meant so much more than those mere words. Teyla knew better than to respond, thank God, and John's hands strayed to his own recently shampooed hair and down his bearded face.

“I see they cut your hair.” She smiled. “Perhaps you would like me to bring your razor? I know you have not been allowed to get up and take a shower yet.”

“Helen gives me a sponge bath.” Helen, who was the oldest nurse on staff.

“Then I'll bring it next time,” she answered brightly.

“Don't,” John blurted more forcefully than intended.

“You do not wish to shave?”

“No, I'm saving it for later.” He gave her a smile that never reached his eyes.

Teyla responded by enveloping him with her arms, digging her face into his shoulder. “We missed you both so much, John.”

His whole body stiffened, but her warm, tight embrace would not give in to his defenses and John allowed himself to accept the moment without guilt. His wall gave in just a little.

“Do you know the difference between hunger and appetite?” Keller inquired without preamble on her next round to visit him.

It sounded insensitive, but John was too perplexed to care. “Um.”

She pulled up the vacant chair Teyla had left last night. “Appetite isn't exactly hunger, but rather an interest in eating. Hunger is a physical sensation. A growling or empty stomach and over time, headache, shakiness, decreased concentration.”

“Okay.”

“Then there's satiety, the feeling of fullness which triggers our desire to stop eating. Appetite, hunger, and satiety are governed by the digestive system and hormones. The body can sense things physically, like whether the stomach is distended or the intestines are stimulated. It's a complex feedback loop for hormones -- when one goes up, another might go down.” Keller was geared up, hoping for a reaction. John had nothing. “The orris. It triggers the hormones that control that desire for food and a false feeling of being full.”

John wasn't in a waiting mood. “And the punch line?”

“Remember when I said that drugs metabolize differently based on consumption?”

“Vaguely.”

“When orris is inhaled, it's the perfect appetite suppressant because of its effects on those particular hormones. As a solid, it inhibits the NMDA receptors in the brain.” Keller was on a roll, throwing out words and explanations in excitement. “I ran several computer simulations once I plugged in its unusual chemical makeup. It's quite complex. The effects seem to take place mainly in the hippocampal formation and in the prefrontal cortex and...”

“Doc?” John rubbed at his eyes. “Could you bottom line it for me?”

“Oh, of course. Sorry.” She blushed. “Evidence suggests the solid form of orris impedes the memory process based on the bonds it attaches itself to.” She cleared her throat. “The short version: ingested, orris causes a type of sensory overload to the brain more associated with chemical reactions seen in schizophrenia and near-death experiences.”

John's eyes widened. “I don't remember anything like that.”

“It's all theoretical, sorry. Were you...um, taking a hundred grams at a time?”

“I don't know. They were in needle form.”

“Like pine needles?”

“Something like that.”

“About fifty?”

John's forehead scrunched up. “Fifty? No, more like ten. Twenty tops.” Okay maybe more when he was in the Void.

Keller's eyes got wide and round in alarm. “Several times a day?”

“No,” John snorted, then sobered. “I'm not sure. We didn't know what a day was. I only took them when…” He clamped his mouth shut.

“Colonel?”

Blinking, it was John's turned to be embarrassed. “I can't say. I was never given more than a hundred needles at once and that seemed to last a long time.”

Checking his pulse out of some nervous tic, she asked, “Are you feeling any side effects from not consuming them?”

“No... Maybe the headaches?”

Her face relaxed in relief. “Your vitals have been stable the last couple of days. I'll run more lab tests on the orris. With this new information we'll be monitoring you more closely and if the need arises, begin a detox program.”

But the not knowing for sure would eat away at him. “Do you think you could do a more detailed analysis. To be sure?”

“Sure. It'll take a few days. But I'll let you know. And I'll need to inform Doctor Flores.” As if sensing his feelings about that, she quickly added. “Of course since you're seeing him later today, you can tell him yourself. Addiction comes in two forms. Physical and...”

“Psychological,” John finished.

Like his brain wasn't conflicted enough.

Staring up at the overhead trapeze Jennifer had installed, Ronon considered what number of exercises to do as his fingers traced his favorite set of blades Teyla had brought him. Jennifer did everything in her power to give him the freedom he desired despite his impeded mobility. Frequent strolls in his wheelchair around the infirmary and the surrounding halls. Chatting with Sheppard when he wasn't conked out on pain meds or in one his 'moods', and frequent visits with Teyla and McKay kept the caged-up feeling to a minimum.

But having his knives gave him an odd sort of touchstone. He missed them, missed the intimacy of sharpening them and the strength they lent. There was security at wielding such weapons, the bond at having forged them by hand or earned them in battle. They were markers in history; each one told hundreds of stories. Some people collected blades as war trophies, but a weapon should be used in combat, not displayed.

“Planning a raid?” McKay stood outside the curtain, hands clasped behind his back, bobbing from his toes to the balls of his feet. “Because unless your wheelchair is motorized, after you kill, lemme see, one, two...ah, all eight poor defenseless nurses, you'll be out of weapons, thus a sitting duck.”

Ronon didn't even smile, tossing a knife from one hand to the other. “Don't need a raid if I have a hostage.”

McKay acting indignant used to annoy Ronon, but he’d missed that huffy face. Even if he'd never admit it to the man.

“Ha, ha, I'm your slave labor for today,” he grumbled, shifting behind the privacy curtain and returning with a wheelchair. “You're supposed to wait for the Jolly Green Giant and his pal to help you.”

Ronon did wait for the help, surprising the both of them, but no way was he admitting the difficulty of shuffling from the bed to the chair without the aid. “Where are we going?”

“Woolsey wants to have a meeting, and since Colonel Grouchy has more restrictions for moving than you, I was told to fetch you.” McKay clapped his hands together, bouncing on his feet. “I swear it's hard to get good help these days.”

Ronon wrapped his blades up in a swatch of purple cloth, setting them aside on his table with the books he never read and the spare laptop Zelenka had dropped off.

“Finally.” McKay scrambled aside as a male and female nurse came over, removing the IV first. “I'm an unpaid chauffeur, not manual labor.”

The rest of any rants was lost in the painful, tedious process of transferring to the chair, and by the time Ronon was settled, leg aching, face broken out in sweat, he was too busy being pissed to ask what the meeting was about.

Lorne and Teyla were sitting in chairs around Sheppard with Woolsey at the foot of the bed. “Oh good, we're all here now.”

“I've got it,” Ronon grouched, taking over the duty of wheeling himself around and parking next to the IV stand.

Sheppard was sitting up, hands in his lap, eyes darting about for the hidden dagger. Paranoia was contagious and Ronon was fully on alert, fingers denting the leather handles.

“The reason for this meeting is to discuss the military strike against M1P-346,” Woolsey began.

“Where?” Ronon asked.

“That is the designation of the planet on which you and Colonel Sheppard were imprisoned.”

Sheppard’s face went from confusion to shock. “You got information from the data chip?”

“After three non-stop nights of analysis all we managed was the gate address,” Rodney sighed, dark bags under his eyes a testament to the long hours. “We're still working our way through the rest, but most of the information is encoded and we don't have a key.”

“But we're attacking it?” Sheppard questioned, impatiently waiting for an answer.

“Two of our people were held captive by a government that severed all diplomatic ties. Stargate Command and the IOA didn't want to take chances with a society with the technological level of the Saurin. In the last three months we began intelligence gathering operations on the possible threat.” Woolsey looked to the group, none of them surprised at the announcement. “I'll allow Major Lorne to take it from here.”

Lorne turned his chair around and straddled it. “Over the last twelve weeks, using our allies and various contacts, we met with three different sources whose intel corroborated one another's.”

McKay rolled his hand in a hurry up gesture. “The Saurin are like the Travelers except without ships. Well, they have ships, but they don't live in them.”

“As I was saying,” Lorne growled as he shot McKay an irritated look, “it seems the Saurin go around the galaxy gathering technology and research to enhance their society. Very few worlds have much to offer, but there are enough abandoned Ancient facilities lying around to pique their interest.”

“If they're so powerful, why don't they attack?” Ronon asked.

“We've determined that the Saurin have several small bases throughout the galaxy. For whatever reason, we're not sure. Maybe they split from one another or it could be a way to safeguard their limited numbers,” Lorne answered.

“We were told there weren't a lot of them around,” Ronon offered.

“They're a dying race,” Teyla spoke up. “They're very old and cannot keep their population going. Part of their quest is to advance their numbers.”

“Because they're tainted.” Sheppard spoke up. Everyone looked to him and he shrugged. “Makes sense. They've been experimenting on themselves, cloning over and over again; bet the gene pool is pretty messed up.”

“Then why don't they take what they want? Use their military to conquer worlds that get in their way. They have space ships.” Ronon scanned those gathered.

McKay smirked. “Because they're an insane hippy cult with a limited population. They're all about enhancing their race. Becoming godlike, hear that before? But they won't stoop low enough to actually kill anyone. It'd taint their search for the perfect being they've sought to become.”

Rolling his eyes at Lorne's stern look, he continued. “They're master con artists. When they target a city or world, they profile them and present themselves as the perfect ally. Great healers, environmentalists, the most agriculturally whatever. They parade their advancements in the field in exchange for what they want. When we were on their base, they dazzled me with Ancient tech and I'm sure gave you,” he stared at Sheppard, “the speech on how all their knowledge would improve our military.”

Sheppard's eyes went hooded. “Yeah, that was the pitch at first.”

“They worship the Wraith,” Ronon growled.

“Not worship. Admire. As in the Wraith are the perfect lab rats to base what they want to recreate in themselves, minus the killing.”

“And we're striking the prison planet because?” Sheppard prompted.

“To free the political prisoners imprisoned there,” Woolsey answered.

Ronon had almost forgotten he was in the room. Sheppard had a vacant expression as he reached for cup of water. “Political prisoners?”

“Yes, sir,” Lorne replied. “The Saurin made several alliances with worlds, but not everyone in power shared the enthusiasm as the rest of the government. The Saurin arranged for voices of dissent to disappear, including several in the military. The contact I spoke to said his brother and uncle were vocal in their distrust of sharing Ancient texts they had stored on their planet. The next day during a meeting with a Saurin envoy, they never returned.”

“I've heard the same stories,” Teyla spoke. “People in ruling councils disappearing.”

Sheppard shook his head. “But the people there, they were...they were all criminals.”

“You and Ronon weren't criminals,” McKay pointed out.

They had been, Ronon thought.

“Perhaps the Saurin have criminals? People who do not share their common belief? Or even violent members in their society,” Teyla suggested.

“Or they bring criminals in from their trading partners,” Woolsey theorized. “If they have a planet to dump them on, it'd save their allies resources.”

Sheppard sipped his water. “And the military op is to free them?”

“This is a massive intelligence operation,” Woolsey explained. “According to your and Ronon's reports, many of the prisoners have conformed to the rough aspect of their confinement. I believe granting them a way home and providing them with supplies would give us ample sources of knowledge.”

“What about the Shan'ka?” Sheppard sat up even straighter. “They have access to a lot of unknown technology.”

“We're going to avoid them for now,” Lorne answered. “Based on your intel, they're centralized in one area. We'll focus on the civilian population surrounding their compound.”

“How many squadrons?” Sheppard asked, his face hard.

“Five squads of Marines,” Lorne answered.

Sheppard shook his head. “Not enough to control the population and any supplies you'll bring.”

Lorne nodded. “The Daedalus is arriving tomorrow morning. We'll funnel people to a temporary alpha site. Captain Vasquez's squad is setting up a small tent city to house and feed them while we conduct interviews. We're hoping to compile a list of Saurin allied planets, base locations, and any intel on their defensive capabilities.”

“And the prisoners? If their own government kicked them out, where do they go?” Ronon caught Sheppard's gaze; they both wanted to know the same thing.

“We have found different towns and villages willing to take them until their situations change,” Teyla replied confidently.

“A lot of them are thugs and killers.” Ronon leaned forward, elbows on his armrests. “Just gonna cut them loose?”

Sheppard's jaw tightened and Ronon realized what he had just said.

Woolsey held his chin up high. “It's a good question. We have no way of determining who is a real criminal and who is a legitimate political dissident. We don't have the resources to keep long-term prisoners and there is no centralized police force or penal system in which to place them. But, we're willing to take the chance to obtain intel that could have an impact on the rest of the galaxy.”

“What about the next round?” Sheppard stared at the surrounding perplexed faces. “We rescue the current ones. What about the next set the Saurin dump?”

“Let's worry about those who are there now,” Woolsey replied.

Ronon listened without further comment to the rest of the mission details, impressed that they were amassing this type of intelligence operation. Hopefully he'd be fully healed by the time any military ops were scheduled after studying the findings.

The meeting went on about possible scenarios and outcomes and finally finished, but only Woolsey excused himself.

“You guys have been busy,” Sheppard commented dryly.

“We never stopped looking for either if you,” Teyla reassured them, her face creased from months of stress. “When we exhausted all attempts to negotiate with the Saurin, Mr. Woolsey and Major Lorne drafted a recon operation.”

Lorne looked straight at his CO. “We didn't want to be caught with our pants down with the Saurin. While digging for intel on them, we were searching for any information on your whereabouts.”

“That's how we stumbled upon one of Teyla's contacts who knew a person who knew a person. When we finally had a meet, we learned about the disappearances of vital people in ruling tribes or whatever.” Rodney flapped his hand.

“And you waited to tell us ‘til now?”

Sheppard's question hung heavily in the air.

McKay shuffled his feet and Lorne stiffened to attention, but it was Teyla who answered. “We were under orders not to.”

Ronon might have growled; Sheppard sank into his bed.

“Woolsey wanted your reports before being debriefed. He was afraid your account might be influenced,” Lorne defended, but he hadn't been for it. Ronon could tell.

“Jennifer wanted both of you to have a chance to recover before being thrown into planning another mission.” Teyla walked toward Ronon, placing herself between him and Sheppard. “None of us wanted to keep things from you.”

“You did what you had to.” Sheppard's voice was tired. “I understand.”

It didn't matter what anyone else said after that; Sheppard had shut his ears to the outside world, huddling deep into his own.

John's head pounded with the fierceness of a power drill on its race to the back of his skull. The words political prisoners had batted around the soft matter called his brain all night and into the morning.

Where the fuck were they? He'd never seen anyone of the sort. Or did he see what he wanted to? What'd been easier.

“You ready, Colonel?”

“As ever,” he muttered.

John was eager for a chance to clear his mind, the promise of a shower the right prescription for his aching head. Keller had temporarily taken out the IV that morning, promising he'd lose it for real in a few days in exchange for vitamin pills and his continued consumption of small meals and that awful Ensure. The only consolation to his new and improved diet was a steady supply of ice cream.

“I taped plastic over your incision site, but that doesn't mean you can go splashing around like a duck,” Jana, the day nurse, fussed. She was a feisty one, brown hair pulled into a bun, always humming a tune. “Same goes for your hand. There's a chair in the middle of he shower. If you get tired, sit and relax.

“Yes, ma'am.”

Jana parked him outside the facility, giving the string on the back of his gown a tug and untying it. This was a step toward normalcy and he rose to his feet and walked toward the stall, careful not to jar his ribs. The shower head was a big shiny thing of goodness and he turned the knob more than halfway, savoring the pour of solid warmth.

He allowed the spray to splash him in the face and braced all his weight on left arm, allowing rivulets of water to run down his back and between his shoulder blades. Heaven was mist and steam and all his knotted muscles turned to dough. It was a purifying thing, allowing the heat to boil, his body uncoiling into putty. John's body went lax and when standing was too much effort, he melted into the chair.

The need for conservation lost meaning in a wall of vapor and John sat there, basking in a complete waste of resources. He scrubbed with a washcloth, rubbing his chest, careful of all his sore spots, and between the sharp angles of his ribs.

Balling up the washcloth, he stared transfixed as an avalanche of sand and dirt swirled between his toes, turning into red eddies down the drain.

Doctor Flores would definitely want you to discuss this with you, John.

He was home, damn it! There wasn't time for this crap. Ronon was right; he had to leave everything all behind.

Business as usual.

Jana dried him off efficiently, taking his elbow and supporting him as he settled back into his wheelchair. “Thanks,” he breathed.

“Any longer and I was going to send out the Coast Guard,” she said, wheeling him back.

John smiled at that, the little spark fading as he spotted Lorne waiting for him by his bed.

Jana set the brake on the wheelchair and pulled down the sheets. “I'll be back with your meds, Colonel.”

He sat carefully on the bed, gingerly pulled his legs up, and tugged his blanket over his middle. Damp hair sank into the pillow and he relished the pliancy, eyes heavy with exhaustion.

“At ease, Major.”

Lorne relaxed his tight posture, but there was a glint in his eye that John recognized as pure adrenaline. “Sir, I wanted to inform you that the mission is scheduled in the next seventy-two hours.”

“That soon?”

“Yes, sir. The IOA is worried that its been months since our last contact with them and won't wait for McKay to finish studying the chips since he can't guarantee it'll provide us with anything useful. Ronon drew us a map of the area and we're taking a cloaked jumper to scan the planet. We'll take the data and compare it to Ronon's info before launching the mission.”

“The water transports came on a three day cycle; there's no telling if you'll get discovered,” John warned.

“Agreed. The Daedalus will be far enough back to keep from being discovered while we make a sweep.”

Lorne filled him in on more details, his brain battling the need for more and the desire to shut it all out. “Be careful. A show of force will control the prisoners, but the Shan'ka are a dangerous element.”

“We'll have cloaked jumpers in the air for backup and we can be beamed out in a hurry.”

The warmth of the shower receded into soft sheets and familiar aches and pain started nibbling on John’s bones.

“We'll be on radio silence throughout the duration since we don't know the Saurin’s ability to monitor our broadcasts.” There was a commotion outside and Lorne turned around at the noise that quickly dissipated. “There's one more thing, sir.”

“What's that?”

“Do you want us to leave a signal or note for that guy, Malvick?”

John sat up, fingers digging into the bed. “No.”

“If he has inside information, shouldn't we---”

“Negative.” John's voice was even, fingers tracing the scar on his bicep. “He's not returning to his cage.” He snagged his pitcher, listening to the sweet sounds of water filling his cup. “I'm sure you have a long night ahead of you.”

“Yes, sir. Wish you were coming with us.”

Lorne and Jana traded places as he left, the somber soldier becoming a peppy nurse. “Here are your comfort meds,” she smiled, setting the tiny paper cup down and dashing out.

John remembered that day at the gate, of covering the woman with his body, daring Malvick to kill him. She might have been saved if he'd pushed Woolsey more about their plans. He wouldn't have been left out of the loop and maybe the mission might have been moved up.

Shoulda coulda woulda.

He gave his comfort pills a glance and tapped them onto the table, playing with the first one with his pinky, before curling his fingers around them and crushing them in his palm.

Keller stood by his bed, lab coat covering a set of surgical scrubs. “You wanted to see me?”

John plucked at the end of his blanket, the seam unraveling into a single thread. “Catch you at a bad time?”

“No, not at all. I was done with surgery and was working on my post-op notes when I was told you wanted to talk.”

She didn't say a word about the destruction of the linen.

“I need to get out of here for a while.”

“John--”

“It's been over a week and walking around the infirmary's not cutting it.” Or he was going to pry apart his heart monitor using utensils.

“What did you have in mind?”

He blinked. That was too easy. “I want to leave. I won't go far, but I need to,” his eyes drifted around his curtains, “need to be away from all of this.” Keller looked thoughtful, but she was conflicted. “I walked all over a damned desert and through a mountain to get here. I can walk around on my own.”

“I know, Colonel. I want you to heal, but I won't let this feel like another prison. How far do you want to go?”

John needed to wander about without borders. “I want to see the ocean.”

“I can do that.”

She surprised him again. “You talk to Flores or something?” John had been crawling the walls during their last session.

“You spent most of your time in a cave. I'm sure sitting in bed all day surrounded by privacy curtains is a change in color, but not amount of space.” Keller smiled. “Ronon's been pretty antsy. I get an ear full.”

John remembered being closed in by darkness, of doing push-ups and ignoring Ronon's screams of anger.

“Colonel?”

“I just want away from here.” With a nod at her duds, he gave a wan smile. “With scrubs preferably.”

“I'll get Jana to help you out with the gown, and I'll take you wherever you want within reason of the infirmary.”

“But?”

“I'll give you only a half an hour of alone time.”

“Two hours.”

“One.”

“One and you take a radio that you will answer when I call. The second you don't respond, you're right back here.”

“Deal.”

Keller was aglow in victory. “I'll return once you change.”

“Thanks, Doc. And um...” John found an interesting part of the floor. “Did ever get that analysis back?”

“I did.” Her smiled faltered. “I'll download it to your PDA for your review.”

“Thanks.”

Ronon sat on the edge of the bed, his plastered leg a cumbersome anchor that he fought the urge to smash against the metal frame. His wheelchair was stashed behind one of the machines and he estimated how many steps he could take before reaching it. Sliding down onto his good leg, he was about to hop the distance when he heard a loud cough.

“Did you need some help?”

Busted.

Ronon gave an impish grin at Teyla, sitting back down, swinging his good leg. “I was just...you know.”

“Going to walk on your broken leg against Jennifer's orders and set your healing back because you couldn't wait until tomorrow morning for your release.” Teyla strolled over and pulled the wheelchair out, steering it toward the bed.

“I know how to walk on crutches. Jennifer won't give them to me,” he complained.

“Perhaps it is because you'll leave?”

“I don't need to stay here anymore.” Ronon held up his arms to prove his point. “Don't even have an IV.”

“I trust in Jennifer's judgment about what you need.” Teyla leaned on his bed, watching him with keen eyes. “When I was a prisoner of Michael’s, I stayed in a cell all day for weeks except for the time he insisted I dine with him or gave me a... checkup,” she said distastefully. “He'd allowed me access to a limited part of the ship, but I stayed in my cell in protest. I know our situations were widely different, but I understand about feeling trapped.”

Ronon swallowed, thanking her with his eyes for the understanding.

The last few days he'd felt useful. Needed. Helping plan the mission with Lorne gave him a purpose than he'd been robbed of inside the cave. Now he had other things he needed to do.

Sliding off her perch on the bed, she patted the leather wheelchair seat. “Where would you like to go?”

The shooting range, the gym, the mess hall.

“How about one of the piers?”

Teyla helped Ronon down, angling the chair for him to take a seat. “It is a bit of a walk.”

“That's the point.”

“Very well. I have to gear up for the mission, but I will take you out there and will inform one of the staff where we are going, so they can help you back.”

He grabbed her wrist. “Be careful.”

Taking both hands into her own, she brought them to her mouth for a kiss and placed them over her heart. “I will. Promise.”

Smiling, Ronon covered her hands with his larger ones and let them drop. “Maybe we should ask Sheppard if he wants to come.”

“It seems both of you have the same need to escape your beds. Jennifer personally escorted him to one of the sitting areas the botanists landscaped a few months ago.” Teyla was a sly one and Ronon didn't need to see her expression to understand her meaning. “We could say hello to him if we ran into him.”

Ronon realized if he disagreed, they'd accidentally stumble across Sheppard on the way. He pretended not to have come to this conclusion. “Sounds good.”

There were not many people in the halls in the middle of the day; most didn't give Ronon much attention, and the Marines were masters at discretion. The hallways were the arms and legs of a sprawling city. Alive and loud.

Teyla was a silent force behind him and she waved her hand over the door sensor, humid air smacking Ronon in the face. A row of shrubs lined a dirt path surrounded by large patches of short thick grass and potted trees. The soil was only a few inches thick over the metal roof of one of the science labs and the large towers cast shadowy pockets of shade.

“It is very windy out,” Teyla commented.

“Feels good.”

They were walking on top of one of the lower buildings on the edge of the city, moisture feeding the steady breeze. Ronon had the urge to run. Run with the wind and follow it to the crests and waves below. He spotted an empty wheelchair near a set of benches and Ronon searched for its missing occupant, finding Sheppard by a newly constructed railing.

Teyla squeezed the top of his shoulder. “I will see you when I return.”

“Count on it.” He gave her a sincere smile as she walked away.

The wheels crunched loudly over the dirt, but Sheppard didn't wave a hand in greeting, or turn around. Ronon parked the chair and hobbled to his feet to lean against the railing next to him. The wind was fierce, blowing his dreads in all directions. Ronon licked his bottom lip, tasting salt. “Storm's coming.”

“Been watching it brew for a while.” Sheppard closed his eyes, enjoying the nice breeze. “Hope we get a lot of rain.”

“Jennifer will kill us if we get wet.”

“She send you to come get me? I have twenty minutes left.”

“Nope. Was sick of the smell in there. Wanted to go outside.”

Sheppard stood from his slouch and shuffled toward a pair of benches and sat on the closest one with a groan. Ronon took the bench across from Sheppard, staring at lush bushes with yellow and purple blossoms, struck by their dazzling colors. The delicate petals were silky smooth and he rubbed the pads of his fingers over them. Pretty wasn't a word he thought of often, but it was the most fitting description.

“I hear Keller's springing you in the morning.”

Ronon nodded and considered plucking the flower, but thought better of it, tearing his gaze away. He was getting out a day before Sheppard's release into normal care. “And you?”

“Not sure. Few more days. I'm supposed to rest more.” Sheppard rolled his eyes. It didn't appear as if he'd slept much since their return. His healing black eyes blended in with his bruised and bearded face. “I think I could sleep out here, though. Watch the sun go down.”

“Under the stars.” Maybe Ronon would escape and witness it.

“The mission to the planet's going to begin soon.” Sheppard clutched a data pad in his lap. “Two days of radio silence. There'll be no way of knowing what's going on.”

“And if we did, we couldn't do anything about it.”

“McKay and Teyla are going to be with Lorne.” Sheppard's knuckles went white. “I should, I...” He gritted his teeth.

Ronon would trade his whole knife collection for a spot on one of those teams, except his mission objective would be of a different nature. A wind gust scattered blossoms in wild streams of purple and yellow, Sheppard oblivious to its beauty.

Ronon pushed off from the bench and hobbled over to him. “You tired of brooding?”

Sheppard's head shot up. “What?”

Ronon gestured at Sheppard's death grip on his PDA. “We're outside. Away from noise and people, breathing fresh air and you're about to break that thing in two.”

Sheppard tapped the data pad to his knee. “I asked Keller to analyze the orris left in my robe.”

“And?”

“It's inconclusive.”

“What did you want it to read?” Sheppard said nothing. “You don't know, do you?”

“At the water tanks, I did what had to be done. But it still ate away at me.” Sheppard played with the metal braces on his broken fingers. “Then after a while, I didn't feel anything at all. But that's what you do. Separate yourself to get the job done. Still didn't make it right.”

Ronon sat back down, letting Sheppard talk.

“The days disappeared and the dead piled up. And I didn't know who I was anymore. Kind of like...” Sheppard scratched at his beard, hand straying to the back of his neck. “After the balick matches, I didn't care if I ever found myself again. I wanted to just forget. Forget everything.”

“The orris helped you forget?”

Sheppard struggled to his feet, his robe spilling to the ground, sharp lines and knotted muscle showing through his scrubs. “I thought it did. In large doses, it can turn you into a lump of clay. A freaking zombie.”

Ronon didn't understand, but Sheppard kept pacing. “But I wasn't taking it in large doses and Keller doesn't know what it can do in smaller ones.”

Ronon watched Sheppard bleed off all his energy, wrapping an arm around his middle, falling back onto the bench. Sweating and breathing hard, he hissed when his hand brushed up against his middle, mumbling about not knowing what had been real.

Ronon had seen and talked to Kell, had been haunted by visions of his mother.

“We all have walls.” Ronon bent forward, taking in the physical damage to Sheppard's body, getting a feel for how badly it went on the inside. “Sometimes they get real high and we can't tear them down. Maybe the orris affected you more, maybe it didn't. Does it matter?”

“Yes, damn it!” Sheppard balled his other fist. “How much of it was really me? I did so many things...I...I even gave up when the Jad jumped me. I waited to die.”

Only cowards bow to defeat, Kell had preached.

Ronon had submitted twice in his life. “When I was sick, I almost smashed my skull with a rock.” He could still feel its weight in his hand. “If Malvick hadn't come by...”

Sheppard's eyes narrowed; anger, regret, guilt flashed within their conflicted depths.

Ronon's mother had been dedicated to the art of expression, capturing passion, values. What was art, but a testament to life?

“Do you count them? All those you've killed?” he asked.

War was the burden of soldiers. Those willing to take life in order to preserve it.

“No.”

“What about those you failed?” Sheppard avoided Ronon's eyes and that was enough. How many of Ronon's nightmares were of those who had perished in front of him? “Do you count how many you haven't?”

“What?”

“The ones you saved.” Because Sheppard had risked much time and time again. They all did. But good men only remembered their mistakes. “You've forgotten about those who lived?” Ronon accused. “The planets we've defended. Our people? They might get to grow old. Have families that have families. You're good with numbers. Figure it out.”

The silence that followed was the good kind and Ronon didn't mind it this time because there was a sweet ocean breeze and stupid pretty flowers next to him. Sheppard had that thinking look where he frowned a little and his eyes got larger as the things in his head started to click.

John's stomach was a growing pit of dread as he counted the hours until radio contact with the Daedalus was reestablished. Keller was not happy about his barely eaten breakfast and threatened him with the IV when lunch went mainly untouched. He blamed having a clock with its constant reminder of time, and yes, he got word to Zelenka to come visit him, only to use all his charm and persuasion for getting a radio to monitor communications. Of course, obsessing over the fact that the Daedalus was overdue led to noticeable elevations in his vitals based on the two worried faces of the nurses who checked on him.

He knew he was in trouble when Keller walked in, his reflexes too slow to hide the com under his pillow.

“Hand over the radio, Colonel.” As if to prove a point, she waltzed over to the IV stand in the corner and uncoiled the tubing. “Stressing out about the mission is affecting your appetite.”

John reached for the plate of abandoned baked chicken and rice, began picking at the side salad.

Keller held open her palm. “And the radio?”

Reluctantly, he handed over the com. “Not knowing what's going on is just as bad.”

“A mild sedative would take care of your anxiety.”

All his good humor evaporated and John caught her with a steel glare. “A quarter of our military force is on a mission that could become real bad, really damn fast. The Saurin are not the Wraith, or the Replicators. They're an unknown factor and dealing with an enemy blind is dangerous. I need to be on top of things.”

“I sympathize. But you're not Colonel Sheppard, military commander of Atlantis. You're John Sheppard, a patient under my care. And that means you follow my rules.”

“Then when can I be discharged?” John wasn't giving up that easily.

“In a few days.”

“I'm tube free. I take all my meds, and up until today, I've eaten everything you've put in front of me. I can do that in my quarters.”

“I'm the physician, John. I don't tell you how to lead your team in the field. Look,” she sighed. “I'm not trying to be a bad guy. You had major surgery last week. In your normal healthy condition I would have discharged you in less time. But you lost thirty-five pounds on a diet of rats and insects.”

“We didn't eat rats.” John watched Keller mentally count to ten. “Our supplies got better.”

“That's why you maintained some of your muscle tone. Look, nutritional problems aside, your body took a real beating. Literally. Things have a cumulative effect. You need rest and monitoring. I can't allow you to overdo it. Your immune system is very susceptible to illness and if you get too stressed out, it could turn into a major setback.”

“I got you, Doc,” John admitted, sinking into his bed.

Keller fussed with his sheets. “I'm sorry, John. But if it’s any consolation, it's good to see some of that old fight in you again.”

He was going to say thanks, but the approaching clacking noise could only be Ronon, and the big guy was huffing by the time he reached John's bed.

“Here, sit down,” Keller offered, hastily pulling out of chair.

Ronon was too riled up to sit down. “Lorne just radioed. They've returned from the planet.”

John was pulling away the sheets Keller had smoothed out seconds earlier, pausing long enough to give her a beseeching look.

“They have to come here for post-mission checkups,” she countered. “You don't need to go anywhere.”

Ronon sat on one of the exam beds, Sheppard in one of the waiting room chairs as dust-covered teams entered one by one. Most of the Marines were in one piece with various cuts and bruises. None of the medical staff was running around, but his heart pounded less when Teyla, McKay and Lorne shuffled in, exhausted but unharmed. Instead of submitting to checkups, they headed towards them to the irritation of the medical staff.

“I can't believe you guys lived there. Do you know hot it was? Of course you do, because, well, you spent all your time in a cave. But, seriously. It was fifty-seven out there. One thirty-five for those who can't convert to Fahrenheit.” McKay snatched two ice packs from a nurse walking by and shoved both onto the sides of his face, which thankfully stopped him from talking, except when he slid one off. “Does anyone have any water?”

“Perhaps Jennifer could start an IV,” Teyla suggested calmly to McKay's horror.

Lorne sat heavily on the exam bed between Ronon and Sheppard, his complexion a scary shade of red and all his hair matted to his forehead. “That place kind of sucked, sir.”

“It was no picnic,” Sheppard answered. “How'd it go?”

Ronon had a strange desire to snag Lorne's canteen from him when he started drinking. “Phase one was a success. There were no run-ins with any Saurin ships and once we got the population under control, they were all too eager to listen to our offer.”

“That simple?”

Lorne laughed. “No, sir. But that's the Reader's Digest version. We had to demonstrate who was in charge a few times.”

“I'm deaf in one ear because of a bunch of trigger-happy Marines,” McKay complained.

“They mainly fired in the air,” Teyla quickly added.

Ronon didn't really care about any of that. “Did you move them all to the new alpha site?”

“Three hundred and seventy-six.” Lorne capped his canteen. “There was some resistance, but we have the rowdier prisoners under heavy guard and made sure to separate the gangs in opposite areas of the camps. We didn't encounter the Shan'ka. Woolsey wants us to try to contact them, but not until we finish our first set of interviews.”

Ronon's palms started to sweat; the Jad were in custody. He didn't care about the rest, not really. Lorne discussed the SOP being implemented at the alpha site and security precautions for the medical staff needed to take care of the refugees. He filtered out the clutter from the important stuff.

“Did you do a full sweep of the planet?”

Sheppard had been strangely quiet, his mask in place as he listened to the debriefing.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you find a woman by chance? In the Void?”

“There were no female prisoners, sir.”

Ronon had forgotten about the girl.

They could never save everyone. That's why it hurt.

“You really named it the Void?”

“That's what it was called it, Rodney.”

“Stupid name.”

“What was it?” Ronon had always wanted.

“The Void?” McKay moved the icepack to the back of his neck. “The Void was the shadow of a moon. One in a very low decaying orbit mine you.”

“Okay,” Ronon replied with a blank look.

“It's called tidal locking,” Sheppard mentioned.

“Give the man a Kewpie doll,” McKay snarked.

Ronon looked from McKay to Sheppard, having no idea what either of them was talking about.

“Sometimes a smaller object can get caught in the drag of a larger one,” Sheppard explained.

“Exactly. The planet is the primary body and it's stronger gravity slowed the moon 's spinning, presenting the same face to the planet at all times, blocking the sun and creating your Void.”

Ronon scratched his chin. “So, the Void was...”

“The shadow of the moon,” McKay finished for him. “Creating a constant type of nightfall.”

“Okay, that explains the Void. But the sun never went down,” Sheppard pointed out. “Why?”

McKay clapped his hands in excitement, bouncing on his heels. “That is the million dollar question, isn't it.” Giddy with enthusiasm, he practically vibrated. “While the moon was tidal locked with the planet---the planet was tidal locked with the sun! What are the odds of that! There was a single spot about four hundred miles wide on the light side of the planet casting a thin border area around and inside the Void and creating the only habitable area. If you call living in a broiler habitable.”

“Even before the Great Extermination, I only went north of the compound once. And you don't go through the Void, it gets too cold. You go around the edges.”

Malvick had been telling the truth.

“And the rest of the light side?” Ronon wondered.

McKay snorted. “Death in under an hour, give or take. The planet's core temp is hotter than Earth's and the only real source of water is in the Void.” McKay rolled his eyes using the word. “Cooler temperatures and the height of the mountains were enough to draw moisture down to create rainfall. I supposed a few inches or so feed the border area for whatever super strong plant life was able to adapt to the environment.”

“Then why didn't the Saurin build their base in the dark side of the planet?” Ronon wondered.

McKay was still beaming. “Even with a hotter core, the dark side doesn't see sunlight. It was too cold. Temps measured a hundred below zero.”

“Perfect place to put a secret base,” Lorne commented. “Millions of square miles of desert and under the moon's shadow, a livable, hidden area.”

“The Wraith would not go to a dead planet,” Teyla agreed.

“Perfect place to build Mengele's lab,” Sheppard groused. “I'm glad they burned it all down.”

“You kidding me? That old city is probably a treasure trove. All that technology, all that....”

“Yeah, Rodney. I'm glad they did,” Sheppard growled. “Too bad the Saurin escaped the first time.”

John was livid. Because he was a hypocrite, wasn't he? The whole Michael debacle was the result of their own foray in biological warfare to defeat the Wraith. John laughed, bending his broken fingers, allowing the pain to build between the damaged joints. Funny how motivations became excusable justifications. How many worlds had paid the price for their mistakes?

But they never tested anything on their own people. That was good enough, right? In the past there'd been Hitler and his cronies, and the Air Force didn't have the cleanest history when it came to experimenting on test pilots. Lines and crossed lines.

John remembered the pods, hundreds, maybe thousands of them. And the Saurin had been working toward perfection for how many years?

The desert and the Void were graveyards, sand and ash concealing the dead, their self-appointed guardians the only ones who knew the true numbers. They were gearing up for a fight with one group for their potential threat while he'd allowed one individual to walk through the gate, knowing exactly what crimes he'd committed.

Ronon was there visiting, slouched in one chair with a pad of paper on one knee, his cast propped on John's bed after having dropped off Lorne's latest report that John wasn't supposed to have.

“Do you regret what we did at the end of everything?” he asked.

“Regret what?”

“Malvick.”

Ronon ceased his doodling, rolling his pencil between his fingers. “I'm glad he was there.”

“Because he helped save us?”

With a glance at his sketch, Ronon shook his head. “Because he showed us a future.”

A future them. John had started down that path. He remembered the balick matches, the water tanks. The smell of blood, the thrumming in his ears, the cold numbness in his veins. He'd ignored the weak. Allowed himself to become something he didn't recognize.

Malvick got into John’s face, slowly, methodically, practically breathing his air. “The man’s a cold blooded killer. Are you?” He took a long sniff around John‘s face, pressing a finger to John‘s lips, silencing his reply. “That‘s for you to figure out.”

John's hand pulsed with pain and he stared at where he tried to make a fist despite the plaster.

Ronon stared back at his drawing, his pencil still. “Doing that hurt?”

John shook his fingers, embarrassed.

“You don't have to test yourself anymore,” Ronon commented.

Maybe. Maybe not.

“What about you?” John deflected.

“What about me?”

Two could play this game. “Still planning on killing Ziffka?”

Ronon growled, slapping his sketchbook closed and hobbled toward his crutches. “We all have things we need to do.”

“A friend of mine told me once to leave things behind. To move forward.” John grabbed a magazine from a stack on his table. “Think that was good advice?”

“I don't know. Did he listen to it?”

John's release was a quiet one, with Teyla walking with him toward his quarters. She carried all his meds and care sheet instructions, and he focused on taking one step at a time, trying to shake the feeling of his boots digging into sand.

She stood inside his doorway, watching him dump all his stuff on his nightstand. “I would ask if you wanted company, but I believe you would like to be alone.”

His spartan room had never seemed so empty. “Actually, would you like to stay and watch a
movie?”

“Perhaps we could invite Ronon and Rodney as well?”

By the time John was settled on his tiny bed, Ronon pulled over a chair and sprawled into it, his casted leg propped up on the edge of John's mattress.

“I hope you realize the precious time I'm losing by hanging around to watch...what are we watching?” McKay groused, searching for a place to sit and taking the office chair from John's desk and sitting in it. “Oh for heaven's sake, do you know what this will do to my back?”

John grabbed an extra pillow. “Get up for a second.”

“What? Why?”

But Rodney stood and John laid the pillow sideways against the wall and the chair. “There.”

Grumbling, Rodney sat back down, his body slipping sideways with the cushion, until he bumped John's shoulders. “Yeah, that helps,” he said sarcastically.

Somehow, Teyla managed the impossible, finding a sliver of bed and settling next to John and where Ronon lounged on the chair, her body snug between them. “What are we watching?” she inquired.

“Star Wars,” John smiled, booting up the movie on his laptop.

No one complained---out loud.

He'd seen it a million times. Had the words memorized.

It hurt oddly when Luke left the ashes of his life behind to set off to find his destiny.

He laughed harder at C3PO's obnoxiousness throughout the whole flick and he grinned wider when Han and Chewbacca argued.

But it was the scene after the mission to destroy the Death Star, when Han and Luke whooped and hollered and Leia, Chewy and C3P0 were all swept into the celebration. There was this familiar feeling of triumph over impossible odds and the realization that everyone was alive and whole and together.

It was corny. Silly.

It made him smile.

The edge of Rodney's shoulder dug into John's arm and Teyla was squished up along his other side. The edge of Ronon's foot rested by John's leg and for the first time in freaking forever, John felt surrounded by a steady, encompassing warmth. It was solid. Secure.

It was the feeling of being wanted.

Of being human.

John's eyes slowly welled up no matter how much he tried to stop them; a slow trickle of moisture ran down his face. He quickly wiped at it, but there was no hiding the next trail, his body shaking with pent up emotion.

Closing his eyes to conceal his embarrassment, a set of slender arms slipped around his neck and held onto him, not too hard, not to soft.

Tentative fingers dug into his left shoulder and gave it an awkward steady squeeze.

A larger, stronger hand took his other shoulder and dreads brushed the side of his head when a forehead was pressed against the side of his temple.

And John let it out, his face slick with wetness, his body trembling, but that feeling of being wanted. Of being loved, grew. He felt moisture on his cheek that didn't belong to him and he reached out and took Ronon's hand with his busted fingers and squeezed them.

This was the reason for surviving that Hell-hole. Right here. Right now.

Movie night left John with a slight feeling of hope and a reminder of who he was and what he could be again one day. It a first step out of the dark abyss he'd found himself lost in as he still stumbled around trying to find a way out. Having an objective focused John's thoughts. Eating was a goal, filling his stomach, building back muscle. Walking down the halls and walking further the next day. The gym was off-limits, but going outside was encouraged; blue skies and endless miles of ocean offered his mind an escape from the four walls of his quarters.

Changing in and out of clothes was easier. The puffy pink incision mark down his middle still hurt, but the bruises were mostly gone except for lingering shades of faded yellow. His ribs ached and he had to be careful with bending and turning as he pulled on his black t-shirt. He was going out to the east pier today to watch the waves lap the city when the door chimed.

The door swooshed open and Lorne didn't waste time launching into his reason for visiting. “There was an incident at the camp. A fight broke out and about dozen refugees are dead. I wanted you to hear about it from me instead of second hand.”

“Our casualties?”

“Nothing serious, a fractured arm and mostly bruises. Captain Morris was stabbed by a shiv sharpened out of a spoon, but all the fatalities were refugees.”

John grimaced. He had a hard time associating the prisoners with that word. “Gang activity?”

“Yes, sir. We're still trying to determine the cause. A group of Jad slipped into the Spraza camp with homemade knives. The leader, Ziffka, was killed, along with several of his right hand men.”

John's voice was easygoing as he casually leaned on the doorjamb without any outward show of emotion at the news. “Thanks for the report, Major.”

“Knew you wanted to be in the loop. Can't say I'm too broken up about it.”

John looked his XO right in the eyes. “I'll assume that the proper amount of force was used in his case?”

Lorne's spine went ramrod stiff. “Yes, sir. It's all in the report I forwarded to you. Since then, we've doubled the patrols, turned the camp upside down, and added precautions to prevent any further violence.”

“Plastic silverware?” John deadpanned.

“Yes, sir. Not sure what we can do about the tension between gangs. Doctor Flores suggested integrating them slowly in group work projects.”

Lorne was as thrilled with the idea as John given the doubt in his weary features, but the city psychologist came from the military and that gave all his suggestions more weight. John respected psychology; shrinks asked the questions most people tried to avoid answering. The problem was that John knew this better than anyone.

But Flores didn't know what it was like to have a layer of yourself peeled away day after day.

Lorne cleared his throat. “Sir?”

John had zoned off again. “I'm not sure the group work is a good idea, yet.”

“Woolsey wants to give it a try. They don't have supplies to fight over anymore. Maybe it just takes acclimation.”

“Maybe,” John echoed without enthusiasm.

John read daily briefings on the refugee camp and its mounting pile of incident reports. An attempted raid on the kitchen and the theft of seed supplies and gardening tools. Fights that broke out standing in line at the temporary mess hall. Report after report of unrest and paranoia.

He rubbed at his eyes and closed out the screen as Rodney plopped down in the chair next to him, bits of muffin stuck to his chin. “You supposed to be looking at those?”

“At what?”

“Please. I doubt that was the latest online issue of the Green Lantern,” Rodney snorted, unpacking his lunch.

John lounged back in his chair, the sun skirting across the horizon. “You brown bagging it now?”

“Since you made a campsite out here and refuse to go down to the mess hall for lunch. Yes.”

That wasn't true. John found the view from here more majestic. Besides, it beat all the curious stares and well-wishes. “It's one table, a couple of chairs.”

Rodney pulled out a ham sandwich, a cup of blueberry yogurt, and an apple and piled it in front of him. “Your feast. All I get is leftover garlic pasta.” Unwrapping the plastic off his paper plate, he grabbed a plastic fork and chowed down, having enough breath to order, “Eat.”

“I don't know. Looks like you had a snack on the way over here.”

Brushing away the crumbs, Rodney humphed indignantly and pointed his fork at the laptop. “You read Doctor Sato's report about the hygiene problem?”

Only Rodney would reprimand John for reading reports then try discussing them. “Hadn't gotten to that one.”

“They won't take showers.”

“Who?”

“The refugees.”

John took a giant bite out of his apple, the juice and cascade of sweetness a shock to his palate, and nearly spat it out. Covering up with a cough and avoiding Rodney's unnecessary pat to the back, he forced himself to chew and swallow it.

“Besides almost choking, have you been paying attention to me?”

His skin was soft and smooth and John traced his veins from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. “They see it as a waste of water.”

“Yes, yes, I get that. But we've gone through great lengths to show them how it's sanitized and recycled.”

The pulse point beneath John's finger doubled and a rush of nausea threatened a reappearance of the apple.

“Oh, God. What's wrong? I'll call Jennifer.”

“Don't!” John snapped. “Just....wait.” He felt it, the tiny scar from the cauterization, heard the sound of his blood filling the bag.

Rodney grabbed John's trembling shoulders. “What is it?”

“I think...” John sat up, deeply breathing the ocean air. “I think discussing the idea of recycling might be problematic.”

“What?”

You don't know, John screamed in his head, but he never wanted them to find out. “I'll talk to Sato. Maybe a river might be an easier transition.”

Rodney still held onto to John's shoulders and he looked from his hands to John's odd expression and gave him a manly pat, covering the act of compassion with a snarky remark. “Yeah, a river's sanitary.”

“Ever been in a military shower? The stalls are small and they--” John's belly churned unhappily. He knew why the prisoners were revolting against using them. “The Shan'ka used very similar methods to harvest water from human tissue.”

Rodney's eyes went from confused to horrified, pushing the last half of his pasta aside. “Right. I guess old habits are hard to break.”

That's what scared John the most, sitting out here with nothing but time and an imaginary roll of pennies for his thoughts. “Tell me about your latest theory on negative energy and vacuum space.”

“Which one?” Rodney smiled and pulled out a slice of cherry pie, shoving it front of him. “Jennifer says I should cut out some of my sugar.”

John actually matched his friend's smile.

Ronon was waiting outside his door, slightly surprised when it opened, straightening the best he could with his crutches. “Hey.”

“Hey,” John shot back. “Guess you heard.”

Ronon didn't shrug, but his words dripped with indifference. “Six more prisoners are dead.”

John didn't need a report to guess the Spraza had sought a reprisal. “It's hard adjusting to new circumstances.”

“When I came to Atlantis, I slept on the floor for months before I was comfortable in a bed.”

John wasn't surprised by Ronon's confession; they both slept with a weapon in reach. “But you sleep in one now.”

“Because I had support.”

Moving people’s locations changed physical boundaries, but not the instincts for survival. Being given a roadmap out of hell didn't mean people could follow it out without help.

Pulling out a PDA, he opened up his newest e-mail. “I asked Lorne for a list of all our guests on the planet and found a very interesting name there.” Knowing he had Ronon's attention he offered a wan smile. “I say we check out the status of our refugees.”

Four weeks after escaping hell on earth, John stood outside the stargate with his team, surveying men busy building fences and plowing fields for the long haul of a more permanent settlement. Ronon carefully descended the steps and stood next to him. “Odd not to see them in desert gear.”

“Nice to see them working together,” John replied. He counted their numbers, allowing himself to see the generations that might spring forward once they found new homes.

“Huh,” Rodney commented. “This doesn't feel like déjà vu to anyone else?”

“These people are not Wraith hybrids,” Teyla responded, but her tone was weary.

The similarities were not lost on John and he and Ronon shared a knowing expression.

John was in BDUs with a set of familiar aviators shading his eyes. Although he wasn't kitted up with a tac vest, it felt good to be somewhat in uniform. He wasn't on duty and it would be a week before his next physical, but it felt normal to be off-world so to speak.

Ronon dug his crutch into the ground and the two of them stood to one side. “Think they were all political prisoners?”

“No.” John didn't need to think twice. “But some.” Hemma and Juka perhaps. The scarecrow. All those who hadn't joined gangs and maybe those who did. “I think they were at first.”

Then the desert took over.

“What were we?” John spoke out loud. “Criminals or political refugees?”

“We were all prisoners,” was Ronon's quick reply.

John surveyed the sprawling settlement. “Adapt and survive.” It was life's lesson. A very ugly one.

Lorne jogged over and saluted. “Sorry for being late, sir. We had another altercation in the west camp. Seems the Jad aren't comfortable with the power vacuum resulting from actually having plenty of resources. One of our patrols was attacked, but we subdued those responsible.”

“Are you kidding me?” Rodney waved a hand at the tent city. “We took them from Planet Death Desert and settled them on the equivalent of a boy scout picnic area, complete with trees and rivers. Oh, with plenty of food, water and medicine and they're still fighting? What for?”

“Because they know nothing else,” Ronon answered.

“Not all of them.” John removed his glasses, stuffing them into a pocket. “About sixty have been interviewed already and transferred to other planets. Some are still receiving medical care. A couple dozen have started giving us valuable intel. It's the other two hundred we need to reach.”

Lorne nodded in agreement. “Each day builds new trust. They're not captives, but they have nowhere else to go yet. A few have even come around to give us valuable intel and are more than happy to see things through to a resolution.”

“And the rest?” Rodney prompted.

“Violent prisoners are under guard in a separate area and the rest… Well, as the colonel said, we just have to show them we're not the bad guys.”

“That's what we're here for.” John gestured at the center green floppy tent. “Is he in there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps Rodney and I will tour part of the camp,” Teyla suggested, grabbing Rodney's arm before he protested.

John appreciated her gesture of privacy and he and Ronon walked and toward the tent and pulled away the flap. A man dressed in gray fatigues, slowly rose from his seat. “Why am I not surprised to see you here?” Lyle greeted.

“Decided to drop by and see how you were doing.”

Lyle snorted. “I hear you're in charge of all this,” he said, waving a hand about. “Seems my instincts were right about you.”

John allowed a genuine grin. “And my sources inform me that you were more than just a merchant.”

Lyle's blue eyes twinkled. “Our pasts were meaningless, were they not? But now, now they shall meet.”

“Minister of Commerce of your world; doesn't seem like you branched out too far from comfort.”

“The same could be said about you, Colonel Sheppard.” Lyle smiled. “We have much to discuss, but first things first.” Digging in the pocket of the new pants he wore, he pulled out a tiny vial. “I do believe this belongs to you?”

It was the deed to his life. John took the vial of his saliva, mouth going dry. “You never tried to cash it in.”

“You were a hard man to find to do that.” But Lyle eyes' betrayed his words. He chuckled. “You were always trying to grab stuff out of reach. Maybe it was because you knew how to search for things those others didn't see.”

John gave a sideways glance at Ronon. “No, it's because I had other people to back me up.”

“Hmm, maybe I was wrong about loyalty. Never thought it'd ever triumph after many defeats.”

“I'm sorry you never experienced what it truly felt like,” John replied.

Lyle stood proudly, posture a perfect straight line. “There's always time to rebuild. Maybe together we'll make up for our transgressions.”

Clutching the vial in his good hand, John slipped it in a vest pocket, reclaiming a tiny part of himself. “Rebuilding would be a nice change of pace,” he admitted. It wouldn't make up for his mistakes, but just maybe, it'd allow him a chance to try.

It'd be a start in the right direction.

Ronon sat in a worn leather chair, right arm propped up on a small side table. Sergeant Hector Garza finished shaving Ronon's bicep of hair and sprayed a liquid mist before applying the stencil.

“We'll do the outline today. I have to inventory all the small arms in the armory at 2200,” Garza said, peeling away the stencil.

Staring at the blueish transfer of his new tattoo, Ronon nodded. “That's cool.”

Garza was a burly guy, bigger and taller than Ronon, both arms covered with ink. Of course half of the Marines had more muscle than he did, but that was improving day by day. Garza filled the ink caps, pulling tubes and needles from their sterile packaging. “So, what did you call this design again?”

“It doesn't have a name.”

“The right symbol's for friendship. Left's for service. And the middle one's for--

“Loyalty.” Ronon stared at the art work. “It's called the quilo.”

Garza gave a grunt of approval. “Most people get stupid shit. A tat is a spiritual thing. It symbolizes our devotions and self identity.”

Ronon traced the imprint's edges. “Wasn't sure I deserved to wear it.”

“But now?”

Head held high, Ronon looked up at artist. “I earned it. It's who I am. As long as I keep fighting for it.”

His door chimed and he hobbled over to open it, allowing Teyla inside as she carried a huge cardboard box. “Where would you like this?”

“Oh, um..” Ronon pointed to his desk. “Here's fine.”

Putting the box down, Teyla unloaded pencils, brushes, and oil paints. “Major Lorne has some spare canvas.”

“I have a few pieces, just not enough of anything else.” Ronon studied the supplies. It'd been a long time since he'd felt creative. “Thank you for hunting all this down.”

“I am glad you're indulging your creative side during your convalescence,” she smiled.

Picking up one of the brushes, he twirled it between his fingers. Like knives, the best ones were light and made of the finest materials. Testing the bristles, he admired the quality of the animal hair. Someone loved this brush.

“It's been a long time,” he admitted.

“Perhaps this is an opportunity to reacquaint yourself again with something you used to enjoy.”

Something he'd given up.

Teyla picked up one of his drawing pads, her eyes wide. “This is beautiful. When did you sketch it?”

Embarrassed, Ronon snatched the pad, closing it. “Couple of weeks ago when we were playing Monopoly while Sheppard was still in the infirmary.”

“You mean when you got angry that Rodney owned all the utility companies and donated your properties to me and John.”

“Yeah, well. Everyone was together and I thought I'd like to have something of all of us besides what's in my head.” Art was more than preservation, he learned. It was a celebration of life.

She pulled the sketchpad out of his hand and opened it to the drawing of the four of them sitting around a table laughing instead of around John's bed. “This is wonderful work. You should not hide it.”

“It's not bad,” Ronon conceded.

He thought maybe though, his mother would have been proud.

He was down to a walking cast, having broken his crutches too many times, and headed to the most isolated pier of the city. He was a month away from active duty after being cleared by the shrink this week. Anger issues were nothing new and answering all questions had been the most direct route of moving on. He was honest and to the point in all his sessions, much to the relief of the doc. It wasn't going to fix his problems, Ronon had a lot, this was just a new collection and he pushed forward, tying to get by the best he could.

Night descended on the city; millions of tiny twinkling lights blinked in the black canvas above. Stars. He would never get tired of their presence overhead, taking comfort in their company, always running toward them in his dreams. It was no surprise to find Sheppard lying flat on his back staring up at the sky.

“Hey.”

John rested his head behind his crossed hands, making Ronon wonder how that was comfortable with the cast.

“Rodney says there should be a meteor shower tonight.”

Ronon slowly hobbled over, spreading out on the grass, taking in the brilliant light before him. “Cool.”

“Used to do his as a kid, go on out on the lawn, wondering how old the stars were, knowing by the time the light reached us, the stars might not be up there anymore.”

Ronon settled himself next to Sheppard. “I'd wonder what other worlds were like out there. If there was a single one without the Wraith. Most of the time, I just wanted to touch them.” Letting his eyes stray over, Ronon did a double take. “You shaved.”

Sheppard rubbed his hand over his clean face. “Thought it was time.”

“And?”

“I knew who was staring back at me in the mirror. I just have to learn to accept him....maybe one day I will.”

Ronon grabbed Sheppard by the shoulder. “I know who you are. Wouldn't have your back if I wasn't willing to follow you anywhere. Includes the dark places.” Sheppard squirmed, but not that much.

Sliding his hand away, Ronon adjusted his leg into a comfortable position, letting the grass tickle his cheeks.

“Rodney was able to get a little more info off one of the data chips,” Sheppard spoke. “According to logs, the Shan'ka have very long life-spans as a result of the experiments done on them. The Saurin were forced out a couple hundred years ago.”

“How? They weren't Wraith. They didn't feed.”

“Rodney's vowing to find out. It'd explain what Dumma said about them trying to make up for so much lost research. Thank goodness.”

Ronon stared up at the stars. “Malvick mentioned he didn't have all the traits of the Shan'ka. He chose to live in the Void because he had nowhere else to go. That's a long time for hatred to fester.”

“What he did....” Sheppard's words trailed off.

How many had Malvick killed? How long had it taken to rob him of his soul?

Ronon didn't want to know. “They discover anything else?”

Sheppard plucked at the grass. “Not yet. Apparently the IOA wants to know what their hyper-drive capabilities are since the prison planet was nowhere near the Saurin base. It took a few days to get there, so we're hoping its only at Wraith standards.”

There were too many unanswered questions. All Ronon wanted was a direction to follow.

“So,” Sheppard broke the silence, fumbling for words. “I have something for you.” Ronon propped himself on his elbows as Sheppard pulled an object from his belt. “Wasn't sure if I was going to run into you today, kind of kept it on me out of habit.” He handed Ronon a knife. “This belongs to you. Lorne found it on Ziffka's body.”

Ronon recognized the very blade that had kept them both alive. “I can't.”

“It's not mine.”

It didn't belong to Ronon. “You earned it.”

“Yes, and according to Satedan tradition, I am bestowing a symbol of battle to my closest ally and kin.”

“You remembered those stories?” Ronon had recited many important oaths and legends from his culture. He never thought Sheppard had listened.

Sheppard pushed the knife into Ronon's palm. “In the bleakest times, when I lost myself, your words were all I had. Even if I didn't understand them at the time, they found a way to filter through all the other crap.”

Ronon wasn't sure if he deserved such an honor.

“Are you turning away my offer?”

That was the greatest of insults. Sheppard was playing dirty. “I didn't do much.”

“You followed me into the desert. Saved my ass and kept me alive in the Void. I think that's another Satedan custom, but there were so many.” Sheppard was smirking now, but it was another mask and Ronon could read the bold honesty in his eyes. “Those days in the cave...I'm not sure what would have happened. You know?”

Ronon accepted the knife. He did know deep inside, even with Sheppard's bad communication skills. It was one of many things they had in common. It was fine. They made up for it.

Relaxing against the ground, he traced designs in the sky. “Think we'll attack the Saurin soon?”

“Don't know. Lyle's helped calm things with the pri---among the refugees. More people are sharing with us, but we have a while to go. IOA's still studying our most recent data. Could be months before they reach a decision.”

“As long as I get a crack at them.”

“I think there'll be a long line.”

“Won't keep me from breaking in front.” Ronon lifted his leg, counting the days until the cast came off. “How's the hand?”

The moonlight reflected off of Sheppard's face, twinkling in the sparkle of his eyes. “Doc doesn't think there'll be any permanent damage based on the scans. Only time will tell. I can go back on active duty if I complete a physical and finish my sessions with Flores. Then I have to pass the psych exam.” Looking off in the distance he let out a breath. “The last one will take longer. I'm aware of that. Even then, well...”

“You'll get there.”

“In time.” John played with the grass. “I need to work.”

“Good, because you still owe me beer and a banto's match.” Ronon studied the skies, sketching out the idea for a new painting. The first new one since he joined the military on Sateda. If he squinted hard enough, he saw his mother smiling back at him. “I wanted to be the one who killed Ziffka.”

“Now?”

“There are enough bad guys. Each one I kill means there'll be fewer out there.” Twin moons rose out of the horizon and Ronon propped himself on his elbows to gaze at them in appreciation. He glanced over at Sheppard, his mouth open in a smile, taking years off his face. “What are you thinking?”

John's answer was genuine. “I'm counting all the stars out there. Wondering what they'd be like if we'd never visited them.”

“And?” Ronon prodded, relaxing into the grass.

“We'll never know, but it shouldn’t stop us from reaching out and trying to help whenever we can.”

--fini