Chapter Text
June, 1853
Rodney knows exactly –to the millisecond- when his future changed from promising, brilliant and great potential to wasted, overrated and lost cause.
That day, there were no big cataclysmic changes, the apocalypse didn’t strike Earth and God didn’t swoop down from the Heavens to teach his wayward children a lesson. No. Nothing like that at all. It was just another ordinary Spring day in Boston. One stupid accident and just like that— POOF. His future and -no doubt- amazing, and up until that point, non-existent career (because he was only eleven at the time) as a scientist went out of the window, without even as much as a wistful goodbye.
His name wouldn’t be Rodney McKay if he didn’t resent whoever was in charge up there just a little for taking away his only chance at everlasting glory. Okay, maybe he resented a lot, but only because clearly, this God person had no idea how important his ideas could have been for humanity.
And it wasn’t like it was just him who had noticed his genius. No. He still remembers how Miss Betty Fletcher, his teacher –and she might not have been the brightest of the bunch, but she had earned her degree to teach, so she was a viable judge- approached his parents at the market one morning, waxing poetic about how brilliant their son was and how he would grow up to do great things, if –he still doesn’t quite know what earned him that last remark- he learned to be a little more sociable and less stubborn.
That day is still etched in his mind’s eye. The clear look of pride his father sent him as he quickly glanced down at Rodney. His mother’s gentle smile and the way she hugged him a little closer as if to protect him from that world for a little longer.
He was only four back then, but it didn’t stop him from dreaming.
He dreamt about books and education. Large study halls where he could absorb knowledge like a sponge soaked up water. Oh, he would have loved to listen to professors sharing the wealth of their minds. And he could see it in front of him— how he would have gone on to invent a new kind of Physics, shocking the whole scientific world with his new, daring and bold ideas.
What a dream it was.
And a dream is exactly what it turned out to be, because on that bright sunny Spring day he and his sister, Jeannie, were playing outside. It was in the middle of the afternoon and too hot to sit out in plain sunlight. Rodney had never liked the sun with its ability to scorch his fair skin to blisters, so he and his sister had sought refuge in the shadows at the back of their house.
The day had started out so well, as Rodney had got up that morning in an exceptionally good mood-- something that didn’t happen all that often, if ever. His parents had taken off to the local market to get supplies and had left him in charge of the house.
So far so good, right? Sure. Up until the moment his father had shown up again, without mom. He looked pale, distraught, not quite sure what to say to his children and Rodney just knew. He’s still not quite sure how he found out, but he was a child prodigy, so he must have connected the dots and calculated the variables before his father had the chance to say: “Your mother won’t be coming home again— ever.”
Father never did tell him what happened back on that marketplace. The only thing he ever said was that it had been an accident and it was nobody’s fault.
That had been it though, an abrupt end of his brilliant career in science. Because he could already see what his future would bring. Endless hours of taking care of Jeannie, waiting for his father to come home from work. Cleaning, cooking and so many other things would become his responsibility. At the age of fourteen he would have to go out to find a job and he’d grow up to be just another mindless slave of society.
But apparently –and lucky for them- his father didn’t see it that way, because four days later, after his mother’s funeral, he took both him and his sister to a quiet picnic site, just outside of Boston. Once they were there, he had settled in between his children, explaining to them how he couldn’t take care of them any longer, not without mother there to help him, so he had sent a letter to his childless sister Beatrice and her husband Marshall Sumner, hoping they’d be willing to take the children in and care for them.
Two months later, Rodney found himself on a carriage to Branson, Missouri, trying to comfort his sister as she cried herself to sleep against his shoulder. He himself never shed a tear though. No way. And if his cheeks were a little wet, it’s because it was a warm Summer day and he sweated a lot— but not because he cried. Not at all.
BRANSON, Missouri
August, 1853
Five days. That’s how long Rodney sulks and refuses to interact with his aunt or uncle and then he just gets bored. Because Branson, Missouri is the most boring place he’s ever been to. Jeannie seems to be having a good time though and that counts for something.
So, the day he’s sitting underneath the big tree at the edge of the Sumner orchard and a strange skinny boy with wild hair and pointy ears, who’s carrying fishing gear, comes along and just kind of stops in the middle of the path to stare at him, is firmly written down as the first day something interesting happens in Rodney McKay’s ohsoboring existence.
“What are you looking at?” Rodney asks as rudely as he can, because the staring gets old real soon.
“You,” the boy says, a grin tugging at the edges of his mouth.
“Yes, I can see that,” Rodney replies, rolling his eyes dramatically. “Tell me, is this entire state populated by idiots?”
“No,” the boy just says, cocking his head to the side, scrutinizing Rodney.
“Then why are you acting as one?” Rodney asks, beyond annoyed.
“To annoy you,” the boy says, bursting out in laughter.
“Oh, haha. Yes, I can see how that can be entertaining in this wayward part of the world,” Rodney spits out.
“Yeah well, you know us simple folk—always trying to put down the educated geniuses,” the boy answers, grinning like a lunatic.
“Huh— you’re not stupid, are you?” Rodney more states then asks.
“I don’t know. You tell me,” the boy counters.
“Well, you have ridiculous hair that resembles a dead animal and a stupid smirk that makes you look like a babbling idiot, but you just said educated geniuses without slurring, so that has to count for something,” Rodney says matter-of-factly, bobbing his head up and down.
“Cool,” the boy says, sticking out his hand, “I’m John Sheppard. I’m twelve and I live a little further up on the road with my dad. I heard my grandma talk about you and your sister. Did your mom really die?”
“Yeah, she did,” Rodney says, shuffling his toes in the sand.
“Mine too,” John says, “So we have something in common. You want to be my friend?”
“Sure,” Rodney accepts, standing up and shaking John’s hand. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do around here.”
“Great,” John says, picking up the fishing gear from where he dropped it earlier. “Wanna come fishing with me?”
“Fishing? Oh, that is such an idiotic pastime,” Rodney says, shaking his head in disbelief.
“So— is that yes or no?” John asks, lifting his eyebrows.
“Hmmm— yes. Sure, why not? But only to inform you correctly about all the accidents one can have during a simple fishing trip,” Rodney says, following John who’s already a few steps in front of him. “Did you know that—“
John just grins at him and lightly shakes his head, his eyes clearly broadcasting the message I can’t believe how strange you are. I like it.
That marks the day as the first of many where Rodney drops everything to follow John. It’s like a compulsion he never really loses during the many years to come. And at the beginning of every one of those years, Rodney is always convinced that this will be the year he’ll lose John, for his friend will inevitably grow bored or tired with him, like all his other friends in Boston did.
But John never does leave him and it only makes Rodney love him more.
SHILOH, Tennessee
April 8th, 1862
Hell. That’s how John will always remember the battlefield of Shiloh, Tennessee. It’s been a day now and they’ve just begun recovering bodies— thousands of them. Most of them young men, drafted to go to war, some of them were there of their own volition, enthusiastic about finally seeing some action. John knows about this, because he was one of them not so long ago. One of the idiots who actually wanted to go to war.
Wandering around aimlessly, he has to make sure that he carefully places his feet to avoid stepping on one of the scattered bodies. And this is not what he dreamt of when he signed up to become a soldier. He had expected glory and fame, as all young men do at a certain age. But this-- all those people— all the death and destruction. The only thing he feels like doing right now is lie down and sleep for an eternity, trying to forget the massacre and the blood-- escape the stench of rotting corpses and the sound of vultures feasting on them.
But he won’t do that, because his father would probably come back from the dead to kick his ass, telling him in clear words that he didn’t raise his son to be a coward. So he just sits down forlornly, next to a body dressed in the Confederate’s colours. This is supposed to be the enemy, but John’s long since abandoned his hatred for the other side. He studies the young man’s face for a moment, trying to picture him alive— laughing with his buddies, talking to his parents. Parents who are probably anxiously waiting for some news about him. Parents who’ll keep on waiting, because their son will never come home again.
In a way he’s somewhat envious of this guy. At least he might still have family out there, keeping him alive in their memories. John isn’t that lucky. His grandmother died a few years ago and his dad gave up his struggle with tuberculosis now eight months ago. He’s got no relatives left and if it hadn’t been for Rodney, he would be completely alone in the world.
Thinking of Rodney perks him up a little as a small grin tugs at the corners of his mouth. Rodney joined up the same day he did, complaining loudly that if he got wounded or killed in battle somewhere it would all be John’s fault because John lured him into signing up.
In reality, however, John did no such thing. In fact, he was very much against Rodney signing up to go to war with him. But when Rodney found out that John was joining up, he had berated him and called him all kinds of not-so-polite names. He dedicated hours of his time to talk John out of it— he even drew complicated charts with strange mathematical equations John had never even heard of-- and when he finally came to the conclusion that John wouldn’t back down, Rodney simply decided to join up too—if only to rescue John from his suicidal tendencies and to make sure he got back home in one piece.
However, Rodney hadn’t counted on his father’s influence. Rodney’s dad, who was still alive and well, living in New York these days, was a personal friend of some high-ranking general and he made sure Rodney never got to see an actual battlefield, by posting him at intelligence headquarters. Safe to say that Rodney hadn’t been happy with this as he cursed his father for all he was worth. Secretly though, John had been pleased. He knew Rodney-- and a battlefield was no place for a guy that panicked at the sound of a bug buzzing around his ears.
It’s been a year now since he last saw Rodney and he’d be lying if he said that he didn’t miss his friend something fiercely, but it’s enough to know that Rodney’s still out there. He knows Rodney-- he really does. By now his friend is giving his superiors hell, complaining and insulting their intelligence as loudly as he can— demanding to get information on the battle that took place here yesterday and the day before that. He’ll end up visiting the top generals if necessary. He’ll yell at them in the most polite manner he knows. Trying to get them to use their influence to find out about John’s welfare. And the mere thought of Rodney on a rampage, just for him, makes him feel warm in all the right places. As long as he has Rodney in his life, he’ll never be alone.
Lost in thought, his head snaps up when he hears shuffling noises coming from his left.
“Hello?” he shouts, slowly pulling his gun out of the holster, hesitating slightly as the gun doesn’t come out as easily as he would have liked. The thought crosses his mind that he should really have that thigh holster made that he’s wanted for such a long time.
Carefully stepping over the bodies, he walks over to the place where the noises originated from. There’s some movement in a ditch nearby, so John aims his gun, moves a little closer as he tries to sneak a cautious look over the edge and—
WHACK!
John yells out loudly as something solid makes contact with his nose, because— ouch. He quickly moves out of the way as he sees a heavy branch coming his way. And what the hell?
A young, dark-skinned woman jumps out of the ditch, all lean and limber, swirling the branch around as if it’s something she’s born to do. John reacts by pointing his gun straight at her.
“Drop it,” he says sternly. “Now. I don’t want to shoot you, but if you keep wielding that stick of yours, I’ll have no choice.”
It takes a brief moment before the woman reluctantly drops the branch back into the ditch. She never stops glaring at him though, and John absentmindedly thinks that if looks could kill, he’d be a dead man by now.
“Who are you?” he asks, curious why this woman is hiding in the middle of a battlefield.
The woman doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring at him, her eyes skittering all over the place, looking for a way out-- in all ways resembling a cornered animal. And it occurs to John that pointing a gun at her might not be the best way to get her to open up, so with slow movements he puts the gun back in the holster.
“Look,” he says, sticking up his hands in the air, studying her face, noticing for the first time that her hair is matted with blood. “No more weapons okay? I just want to know who you are and if you’re all right.”
He’s not sure what he did, but he must have done something right as the woman visibly relaxes and just says one word. “Teyla.”
“Teyla? What’s that?” John asks, lowering his hands.
“I’m Teyla,” she says.
“Well, okay. Hi Teyla. I’m John Sheppard and— if you let me, I can help you. But no more hitting with big sticks-- all right?”
“All right,” Teyla says, still eyeing him warily, but clearly acknowledging that she needs help.
“Good. I’ll take you to the camp. They’ve got some good doctors there who can take a look at that head wound of yours,” John says, taking a step back, expecting Teyla to follow him. She still hasn’t told him why she was hiding in that ditch, but he’s tired and he doesn’t want to be here anymore, so perhaps he doesn’t need to know so badly.
“Will I be your personal-- slave?” she suddenly asks, her voice filled with obvious disdain and anger as she doesn’t move an inch.
“What?” John asks, cocking his head, suddenly fully realising why exactly this woman was hiding in a ditch. Some people have a big problem with run-away slaves. “No. There are no slaves where I come from Teyla. We— and especially I don’t believe in slavery. People should be free to do whatever they want to do. Just come with me, you’ll be medically treated and afterwards you can go wherever you want to go. Your choice, no one else’s.”
“Promise?” Teyla asks, straightening up proudly.
“Promise,” John says. “You don’t know me, but you’ll have to take my word for it. Can you do that?” he asks, searching her dark eyes for an answer.
For the next few moments John lets Teyla study him quietly and deeply. He doesn’t speak, he just lets her watch. Until finally—
“I trust you,” she says as she closes her eyes briefly. “Show me the way to freedom.”
Strangely enough, once they reached the camp and Teyla’s wound had been tended to, she refused to leave John’s side. She hardly said a word and after a while she stopped speaking all together, as if she didn’t want to attract any attention to her presence, afraid of being taken away again.
For her entire life she had been the property of someone else and when she finally had the chance to break free, she couldn’t do it. So she decided to stick with John, not out of necessity or possession, but out of gratitude.
John tried convincing her that she didn’t owe him anything-- that she could just leave and enjoy her new-found freedom, but she never listened and stuck by him every step of the way, ignoring and fighting off the army’s attempts to make her leave— for war is no place for a woman they informed her, which always made John laugh out loud, because Teyla could fight better then any man he’d ever met.
In the end John stopped trying as he grew used to her silent presence, helping him stay sane as the war progressed and he had no one else to fall back on.
When the war finally drew to an end, he knew –without a doubt- that his dream of roaming the West would come true and that Teyla would be there, by his side, not just out of loyalty anymore, but out of friendship— something she’d never known before.