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Ricochets (SGA/Traders xo) no 13 H/C
Author: Sealie ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jimandblair
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis/Traders xo [Atlantis: sur la mer segment]
Rating: G – some swearing; according to LKY this needs a gag warning; also British English spelling, which means things like more letters of the ‘u’ and ‘s’ variety.
Spoilers: none -- set beginning of second season SGA and after Traders finished
Betas: the LKY and L gave it a look over. Thank you kindly.
n.b. Thanks to susn who okayed me to write Traders/sga when I should be writing her auction fic!
This is a direct continuation from Ricochets 13b
Ricochets 13 H/C
by Sealie
“Doc,” John said softly, as they entered the wormhole. “Can I have something for Grant’s hand?”
The light around them changed as they emerged into Atlantis’ embarkation hall.
Carson turned on his heel. As Grant warmed, albeit slightly, blood began to ooze more rapidly from the cuts on his fingers. The dressing that Carson selected was the type to cover large surgical incisions. It would look like an oven glove wrapped over Grant’s fingers.
Rodney coughed, a wet wracking sound underscored with a bleat of pain, which had Carson turning back to him, leaving John holding the dressing.
“Come on, Squirrel. Just lay your hand on this.” John held the wad of material in one hand, already peeling off the backing tape from the adhesive strips. Still a little cowed, Grant obediently placed his hand on the dressing.
“Just head straight to the hanger. I had the medical personnel wait there,” Carson directed the pilot, even as he was tapping his own ear piece. “Five casualties, three on this ‘jumper, two to follow. Dr. McKay: red. Dr. Janksy: yellow and Colonel Sheppard: green. No info on the other casualties.”
“Green?” John asked.
But Carson was focused on Rodney. Beneath the fogging mask, his face was marked by snotty looking foam. “We’re going to be moving you onto a gurney, Rodney. I don’t want you moving around too much until I’ve had a chance to look at those ribs.”
The ‘jumper rotated on the spot, smoothly and with the unmistakable air of automatic piloting.
“Cars--” Rodney wrenched off his oxygen mask and retched. Between one blink, Carson was reaching, hands splaying on Rodney’s chest and leaning him slightly forward. Vomit splattered over the deck plates.
Rodney’s fingers clenched open and closed frantically as another wash sprayed the deck.
“Wow.” It was impressive volume. John lifted his feet.
Kneeling in it, Carson simply continued to hold his patient as the ‘jumper smoothly descended. A dull clunk heralded the back hatch opening. The medical personnel were primed to run up the ramp.
“Rodney, the gurney’s here. We’re going to be doing all the work.”
The clatter of the gurney was loud in the confines of the hold. The marines were forced back into the cockpit with no escape. Carson was already moving, shifting Rodney around so that he could shore up his back and lift.
“High flow --15 litres -- oxygen by facial mask and, people, I want ACLS,” Beckett said as the medical personnel swarmed over Rodney.
“ACLS?” Sheppard began.
Grant’s bandaged hand was pressed up against John’s stomach, anchoring him. His gaze for once was direct, reading his face like a computer print out.
There were too many people inside the ‘jumper. John stood and the faintest edge of blackness closed in on his vision. Grant was there, at his side, shoring him up. Together they sat down with a thump.
“Don’t you move an inch, Colonel Sheppard,” Carson said without turning from Rodney. The man had to have eyes in the back of his head. Between one slight ‘greying’ and a classic Carson-berate, Rodney was situated on the gurney, its head raised a fraction. He was curled on his good side, facing them. Eyes open, his gaze was focussed inward concentrating on maintaining raspy breathing.
Even as Carson helped guide the gurney back out of the ‘jumper, he was assessing John.
“Dr. Pega, upgrade Colonel Sheppard to a yellow, but check Dr. Jansky first.”
~*~
The controlled chaos that the medical assessment suite was famous for was in full swing when John was rolled into the infirmary. Rodney had centre stage. One nurse wielded scissors snipping him out of his trousers even as the other was layering thick blankets over his pale, sparsely haired legs. A technician manhandled the Ancient scanner over to Rodney’s bed. Carson’s head nurse, Andamann, strode past John with three vials of blood cradled in her hands.
Rodney’s bared, bruised chest was dotted with leads and banks of machines chirped loudly behind his head. IV ports were installed in the backs of his hands and there appeared to be a line under the blankets going into his foot. The medical personnel worked fast. Scowling, Carson resituated the pulse-ox peg on his finger.
“Doc?” The technician had the matrix screen of the Ancient scanner manoeuvred up beside Rodney’s bed.
“Rodney?” Carson tapped the mask covering Rodney’s mouth and nose. “Rodney, we’re going to take some images of your chest and head. We’re all going to step back a fraction. I just want you to keep still. Okay? Rodney?”
Rodney slowly raised his thumb.
As one, Carson and his gaggle moved back. The technician worked fast, moving the screen up and over Rodney. Momentarily barred from his most serious case, Carson turned a piercing gaze on his other two patients. Grant was curled up in ball on his own gurney, effectively excluding the male nurse and the doctor who were trying to get him to uncurl.
From his wheelchair, John made a one-handed attempt to roll toward Grant’s bed. The marine assigned to push him kept a tight hold of the wheelchair.
“Stay.” Carson pointed. Finger still extended, holding John in place, he assessed his staff. Finally his gaze settled on the youngest, a petite, mop-topped nurse who had been with them from the beginning and still had a gamine smile and an effervescent personality. “Connell, look after Grant, won’t you, darling. Some nice warm blankets, nasal cannula, and IV of warm saline at the very least. I want bloods, gases and vitals.”
“Dr. B?” Connell asked, even as she crept up to Grant’s side a smile on her face. The stone-faced Dr. Pega straightened, essentially giving his patient over to the nurse, but he didn’t step back.
“Explain everything that you’re doing. No sedation without my express authorisation.” Instructions given, Carson’s attention moved to John, who manufactured a smile.
“Perfectly fine here, Doc.”
“Hmm.” Carson waved the nurse over who had been trying to help Dr. Pega with Grant. “Gubler, help Colonel Sheppard. Standard vitals. When Copper’s finished with Dr. McKay I want some images of his shoulder.”
“Carson!” Dr. Biro beetled into the emergency suite, laptop cradled in her arms. She turned the screen to him. “Salinity of the coastal surface water is thirty four point eight parts per thousand.”
Brow furrowed, he scanned the results, finger coming up to track a column of numbers. “Good. We don’t have to worry about a Dead Sea situation. That’s a fairly standard mineral composition for sea water. And the next time you see the marine biologists tell them to upload their data on the servers like normal scientists.”
“Already suitably berated, Carson.”
“Hmmm, Colonel Sheppard’s arrived. You can have him.” Obviously timing to the second, Carson moved back to Rodney’s side as the tech wielding the matrix screen pulled back. He drew the blankets folded over Rodney’s legs up and over his chest.
John’s view was excluded by the inimitable Dr. Biro leaning over him. “And so what did you do to yourself this time, Colonel Sheppard?”
~*~
Carson tapped on the laptop keys, calling up the image of Rodney’s lungs. Grant had reported that Rodney had not stopped breathing, but there was ample evidence – from the foamy mucous to the wheezy breath sounds – that Rodney had aspirated sea water and that could bring its own set of nasty complications. Auscultation of the chest had revealed the possibility of inspiratory rales and the image indeed confirmed the presence of minor bilateral alveolar and interstitial infiltrates.
The laptop email programme pinged and Rodney’s latest blood gases arrived. Arterial blood gases told a story -- pH 7.20, P02 42 torr, PCO2 32 torr -- and his serum electrolytes -- sodium 130 mEq/L. chloride 96 mEq/L, bicarbonate 13 mEq/L, potassium 4.2 mEq/L -- completed the picture. Carson swore under his breath; three hours in and they were seeing evidence of bilateral diffuse pulmonary oedema.
“Dr. B?” Andamann stuck her head in his office. “Dr. McKay’s O2 sats have just dropped.”
“I’m no’ surprised.” Carson pushed quickly away from his desk. They had moved Rodney from the assessment suite into the ward that held the majority of the beds.
Rodney had the bed closest to Carson’s little office. His friend was propped up on a pile of pillows, wrapped in warming blankets – combating the borderline hypothermia along with warm saline IVs -- until only his face was uncovered. Carson took in the monitor readings with the ease of long practice. Rodney was arching his head back into the pillows, wincing at the pull of bruised and cracked ribs and flesh, but striving to find more air despite the pain.
John was sitting up on his own bed watching through narrowed eyes.
“Vent, Dr. B?” the nurse asked eyes on her patient.
“No, let’s keep him on the BiPAP,” Carson judged. Apart from the first instance of bloody tint to the foam when they had inserted a nasogastric tube, there was no evidence of severe bleeding and his hypotension was responding to dextran 70 and an epinephrine infusion. “We’re not to intubating just yet. Increase the inspiratory pressure to 33cm H2O and PEEP to 14cm H2O.” Carson spoke in an aside to his head nurse, “Cut back on the saline and I want updates on his urine output every fifteen minutes.”
Rodney drummed a finger free of the enveloping blankets. The demand for information was obvious.
“Rodney?” Carson freed Rodney’s hand and held it gently. “We’re going to be increasing the pressure in your mask to help you breathe. We don’t need a vent. No nasty endotracheal tubes; I know how much you hate them. You’ll help us and yourself if you sit quiet for a wee while. If you give me any trouble I’ll have your rectal temperature taken again.”
That sparked a response, blue eyes fixing on him. The scan of Rodney’s head had revealed no evidence of concussion, exhaustion and lack of oxygen dragged him down. Carson patted his hand, satisfied by the warmth in his extremities.
Rodney shifted, feet rucking the blankets. “Grant?” he mouthed.
“On your right.” Carson gently cupped Rodney’s cheek guiding his head on the raised pillows. They had had a fair old battle stopping Grant cocooning in warming blankets so that they could monitor his breathing and administer oxygen via a nasal canula. He slept now on his back, head tipped back and his stitched hand resting on a pillow. Judicious use of sedation had been necessary, but he looked comfortable.
Across from Grant, John waved with a casual twist of his fingers. Rodney blinked tiredly, struggling to put together John, the bulky bandage on his shoulder and a sling into one story.
“Cracked shoulder bone,” Carson supplied. “We’re keeping an eye on him for an hour or two, and then he can go to his room. Strangely enough, he seems quite happy to hang around today, can’t think why.”
A couple of beds down from John, Parrish slept under a white blanket. Stackhouse, a little further down the ward, sat cross legged on his own bed. He was intent on his DS, fighting graphic bad guys. Feeling their regard, he looked up and flashed a bashful smile before returning to his fighting, thumbs dodging back and forth.
“Sleeping,” Rodney rasped and closed his eyes.
~*~
“I looked after him,” Grant said in his quietest voice as he stood by the bottom of Rodney’s bed.
“Sorry?” Carson leaned forward, head cocked. “Yes, you did a good job.”
Grant shrugged inwards, clutching his terry cloth robe tight one handed against his throat.
“Do you want to get back to bed?” Carson extended an arm, shepherding without touching. “Some hot chocolate probably wouldn’t go amiss either, would it?”
“I look after Rodney,” Grant said intently even as he watched Rodney sleep.
Carson dropped his arm, watching every nuance. “That’s what family does.”
Grant’s head switched around. A billion thoughts scrolled over his face and Carson marvelled, trying to track the mercurial swiftness. The haunted cast left Grant’s features.
Grant nodded jerkily. With a smile, Carson cajoled him to his bed. Grant bounced on the mattress and then shuffled up to sit on the pillow. Carson perched on the far end. In another hour, Grant who had also had a toss around in the spin cycle of the waters of P4M-792 would be cleared of the possibility of any complications from the minor amount of water that he had inhaled. But Carson had already decided that there would be no harm to keep Grant overnight.
“Can I have Mr. Jinx?” Grant blurted.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Grant. Not in the infirmary. And I don’t want any cat dander around Rodney when his lungs are a little sensitive.” Both looked at Rodney who was sleeping despite the hiss and whir of his BiPAP mask.
“Jinx will be lonely.”
“I’m sure we can ask Colonel Sheppard to check on him,” Carson offered.
Grant nodded sagely. “Flyboy will check on Mr. Jinx. He will come back, won’t he?”
“John?” Carson checked.
“Flyboy. He left.” Grant picked at his nails, finger and thumb on his unbandaged hand clicked. “It’s all wrong. It was wrong. It was all sharp and horrible.”
“On the planet?”
Grant brought his fingers to his mouth. “I don’t want to go through the Stargate again.”
“It shouldn’t be necessary, Grant,” Carson said reassuringly. “You’re not part of an exploratory team. That was just a little trip to let you see an alien planet and see if it helped you understand Teyla.”
Grant sagged at little into his pillows and Carson wished that he could bring Mr. Jinx, but there was no way that he was going to compromise on that rule.
“We’ll see about getting you that hot chocolate, Grant.” Carson pushed off the bed.
Grant perked up visibly, a tiny smile curling his lips.
~*~
It was all a bit disconnected. The lights on the ceiling were dimmed, but one lamp just above his head was actinic bright. The inevitable cough rose and Rodney curled around it, trying to hold in the pain. A gob of phlegm splattered on the mask.
“Nice,” he mumbled.
A rich voice, caught between a tenor and comfort, washed over him. Amazingly, a hand rested on his forehead.
“Just going to change your mask, Rodney.” The washing air that seemed to blow up his nose and mouth and out of his ears stopped. A straw was placed between his lips and automatically he sucked. It was bliss.
“There you go.” And the bliss was pulled away. A latex covered finger dabbed at his lip and mint flooded his mouth. The mask was back, hissing and pushing and wheezing.
Rodney tried blinking to better focus on the blur succouring him. “Carson?”
“You’ll be as good as gold in no time.”
Was gold good, Rodney wondered. A sharp prick, made him flinch, but he couldn’t figure out which way to move. He thought distantly that he might have been jabbed in his stomach.
“There you go.” The harsh light beside his bed dimmed. The darkness was cool and soothing. Rodney let himself slip into its grasp.
~*~
“What’s up?” John shifted his sling into a more comfortable position.
Carson straightened, revealing a slightly flushed McKay. “Touch of a temperature. Not surprising, considering.” He held a disconnected mask in his gloved hands.
McKay’s eyes were open a slit but no one was at home -- irises crystalline blue against his rosy skin.
“He’s delirious?”
“What? No?” Carson shook his head, as he took a spatula from the tray beside McKay’s bed and scraped some reddish sludge off the mask. John couldn’t look away as he deposited the gob in a little jar. “No. no. no, he’s just tired. Takes a lot out of a body – near drowning.”
“Near-drowning, is that the official term?”
“Aye, tis, actually.” Carson tossed the now sealed jar into the air and caught it. “Excuse me, I’m going to give this to a nurse so she can send it down to biology to grow some cultures.”
“Lovely.” Swallowing, John finally looked away, realising what was in the jar as Carson ambled off.
Through the transparent mask, he could see Rodney licking at shiny, gel-coated lips.
“Hey, don’t do that,” John remonstrated, “that’s stopping your lips drying out.”
The scowl was unmistakably McKay and he didn’t even need a finger to tell John to fuck off.
“Grant?” McKay rasped, “How’s Grant?”
Grant slept twisted, ass in the air and face turned into his pillows. The small plush cushion from the couch in Carson’s office was tucked tight up against his neck. He didn’t have any attached monitors.
“Looks fine,” John could say honestly. “Sleeping like a baby.”
“Good,” Rodney breathed.
John made a production out of looking at his watch. “It’s late; shouldn’t you be asleep? Grant’s asleep.”
“Don’t need--” he coughed wetly, “--cajoling. Go away. Check on Jinx.”
“Glad to see you’re feeing better.” John patted him once, just once high on the shoulder. “Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do.”
Rodney blinked sleepily, more than half way to sleep. There was an unspoken thought screwing up his brow. John waited for it to emerge. Lids slumped to half mast and then drifted all the way. The switch to sleep was unmistakable; a tension simply switched off.
John straightened. Sleeping was on his agenda too, after he had liberated the cat.
~*~
The day started early in the infirmary. Grant pushed a pile of scrambled eggs around his plate. Rodney had told him that food in Atlantis was different, but this was scrambled eggs. He wanted to try the local Athosian delicacy ‘red-red’ but, given that it was spicy, perhaps not for breakfast.
Rodney’s eyes twitched open a crack. Watching lazily, he simply lay. Grant wiggled his fingers on his good hand also managing to keep a hold of the fork. Impressive. Grant abandoned his breakfast and bed and padded to his cousin’s side.
“You’re okay, Rodney.” He couldn’t rub Rodney’s tummy because he was bruised. Quaking, just a little bit, he tried to understand all the numbers and buttons and flashing lights on the abundance of machines carefully positioned around his cousin.
He picked at the bandage around his cut hand.
He didn’t know these numbers.
“Do you need anything? Something to eat? The mask will get in the way, won’t it? How can you eat with that mask on? You could starve.”
Rodney waved his hands, bringing them together in a sloppy ‘T’.
“You need to eat. You need to eat regularly or you get more cranky.”
Rodney rolled his eyes.
“You need food.” Mission parameters set, Grant considered his plate. But it had been touched, Rodney was picky about things like that, unless he was really hungry. Grant eyed him considering. Chocolate might be the way to go, melt in the mouth, easily swallowed, complex sugars.
“Chocolate!” Chocolate solved everything.
“Hello, Grant. And how are you this fine morning?”
Grant made a little, shufty sideways glance, he could see white coat, stethoscope and blue t-shirt. Doctors, doctors, doctors, lots of doctors.
“Did you like your eggs?” he said with more of a Scottish burr than normal. “It’s funny that it’s the wee little things you miss the most. Eggs – proper eggs.”
“Numbers.” Grant pointed at the monitor on a pole with wheels, behind the head of Rodney’s bed.
“Numbers? Oh, uhm, that’s heart rate, O2 sats.”
Grant shuffled closer to stroke the side of the boxy monitor on Rodney’s right.
“Blood pressure is a little high – but that’s Rodney for you,” the doctor continued. “Heart rate’s fine and his O2 sats are improving.”
Carefully, Grant felt Rodney’s forehead with the lightest of touches. Rodney jerked his head out from under Grant’s assessing fingers and glowered.
The numbers resolved into meaning. Rodney awake, and more than miserable, fumbled with the bed controls. Raising the head of the bed, he winced theatrically.
Grant clucked. “Can you help him? Stop the pain?”
“Well, the thing is you see, pain meds often repress breathing function.”
“But--”
“Don’t worry, we’re titrating his meds. He’s comfortable as can be without significantly suppressing his breathing.”
“Hey, hey, hey.” John sauntered up, undamaged hand firmly stuffed in his trouser pocket.
“Rakish!” Grant exulted – taking in the picture. The narrow breath with length; black on black, startlingly white sling, artfully tousled hair and face too pale by far. Flyboy was not one hundred percent just yet.
“Excuse me?” John said, eyebrow rising.
“That’s what you are – rakish.” Grant rocked up on his heels.
Behind Flyboy, Teyla held a tray piled high with, Grant spotted, all of Rodney’s favourite things.
“Gee, thanks, Grant. For that I’m not going to let you share mine and Rodney’s breakfast.”
Teyla raised an eyebrow. “Kh’c”
Oh, Grant thought, all that pain and scariness because they had to go through the Stargate to initiate the language function and it hadn’t worked. Grant felt himself sink down to his toes. Despite the fever colouring his perceptions Rodney read the knowledge, or lack of knowledge in his stance. Rodney covered his eyes with a hand and gave out a wheezy, dispirited sigh.
“Sorry,” Grant muttered and shuffled back to his bed giving Teyla as wide a berth as possible
“Hey guys, what’s the matter?” John asked.
“I don’t understand Vit e’ Emm-gen,” Grant said.
“What?”
Teyla spoke, “Ig ks wl, ag gkj’x, Xlj’ jdjg’f vl gnd dl-- afg vzfljf’d gh gnd Qhk’hgx.”
“Favoured by the Ancients?” John said his tone an echo.
“Some people never get the language upgrade? Why didn’t you say so, Teyla?” the doctor asked.
“K sae n’f’f qxi’c.”
“I guess we didn’t ask you, did we, Teyla luv?”
All eyes turned to Grant, he squirmed under attention. Oh, he didn’t like this – too many people realising that he existed could lead to all manner of nastiness. A little shuffle closer to his bed was called for.
John uttered dispiritedly, “He’ll never understand Teyla?”
Grant took a deep breath and said evenly, ::I am Grant Jansky, brother-cousin of Rodney McKay of Atlantis::
The first smile that Grant had seen directed at him graced Teyla’s face.
“You ozr,” she said. Grant didn’t get the second word.
“Well, well, that’s interesting.” The Scottish rumble of his voice should have sounded comforting.
Grant didn’t like the dissecting mien to the doctor’s gaze. Carefully, he pealed back the tucked in sheets, sat and pushed his feet under the blankets. A shuffle and a shrug had the blankets pulled tightly around his neck.
~*~
It was misery, misery in its pure encapsulated form. It was like being eight again and a snot nosed allergy brat. The insides of his lungs burned. Carson had twittered on about borderline pneumothorax which would hopefully resolve with -- hopefully, it made Rodney want to scream at the subjective vagueness -- medication rather than surgical intervention.
Each breath was a tight, painful strain. A nebuliser thingy had helped but Carson hoarded the magic mist.
His laptop sat on the bedside table angled over his bed. There was a brain-candy movie (Sheppard’s term) playing. Rodney wasn’t too sure what was happening throughout the movie and that fact was disconcerting in the extreme. It appeared to be about vampires and werewolves. Incongruously, Frankenstein’s monster had also made an appearance. And every single scene seemed to be an ongoing fight, or at least every time he opened his eyes an improbable monster battled a Stetson-wearing hero.
“Dracula?” What the hell was this film about?
Sheppard lazed in the chair by Rodney’s bed. Back moulded into the plastic curve and crossed feet resting on Rodney’s own bed, he was entranced.
Grant fully dressed, instead of pyjamas and robe, sat cross-legged on his bed, tapping away one-handed on a laptop. Bandaged hand in his mouth, his expression was pensive and internal. Rodney wanted to see the data output, but something like a dab of petroleum jelly had been smeared over his eyes.
Being ill sucked.
~*~
Rodney blew heavily through his nose. Freedom from the BiPAP mask was a great improvement. The nasal canula was annoying. In sleepy curiosity, he had picked his nose earlier in the morning and the gob of dried up snot had been laced with crusty clots. But it was better than the BiPAP mask. The rush of forced air from the modified ventilator had been torturous.
Rodney shifted, uncomfortable. Cough, cough, wheeze, wheeze. His life was disturbingly tinged with childhood déjà vu
The bubbly effervescent nurse, who could always draw a shy smile from Grant, bounced over holding his little plastic cup of meds. It appeared that he was on every antibiotic known to man.
“Would you like your water refreshed, Dr. McKay?”
“Coffee.” He was reduced to one and two syllables in between wheezes. But at least he could enunciate the important words.
“Dr. B. didn’t say anything about coffee,” the nurse said as she straightened his table top. They were obsessed with making things neat and aligned just so. Rodney wondered if it was pathological.
“Coffee.” Rodney drummed his fingers on the plastic table top. A neat, short, staccato rat-tat-tatt.
“I’ll see.” The annoying nurse bustled away, the jug of warm water clutched to her sparse bosom.
Rodney was fairly sure that he knew what Carson’s answer would be when he was asked about the coffee
As the nurse left, movement caught Rodney’s attention. Grant gave a timid little nod. Seeing that the coast was clear, he darted across the expanse of the quiet ward, a giant mug of coffee in his hand.
Grant made such a good minion.
~*~
Grant hovered as Rodney took his first unaided step. Grant was not too sure about this little excursion even if it was only up and down the ward. Rodney growled, crotchety-like their grandfather. The resemblance, from the spiky straight-up hair, ample stubble and the plaid robe was uncanny. Sufficiently so that Grant almost never wanted to look in a mirror ever again. Grandma had been sweet like sugar spun candy floss. Grandfather had been sharp and sour – lemon like.
There was a definite wobble to Rodney’s steps despite hanging onto his I.V. pole until his knuckles were white. The bugs in his lung were ‘tenacious, wee buggers’ and now Rodney was on I.V. antibiotics. It meant that he had to stay in the infirmary another few days and that resulted in an overly irritable Rodney. He staggered another step, heeing a wheezing sound of satisfaction as they finally reached the end of his bed. White-faced and pinched, he made an unwieldy turn. Grant shadowed his every step, arms outstretched, ready to catch. Rodney didn’t register him – intent on his target. Grant slipped by him to draw back his messy blankets. Rodney face-planted straight into the pillow. By the time that he had drawn up his feet into a lax curl he was already asleep.
Grant stuffed his soggy, bandaged fingers in his mouth and chewed. Rodney no longer had the monitors which sang his pulse and breathing. Sleeping like this did not seem right. Finally covering Rodney with the blankets, he tiptoed to the office the end of the ward.
Grant grabbed a hold of the lintel and waited, gaze fixed firmly on the floor, to be noticed.
The tapping of computer keys stopped almost immediately.
“Hullo, Grant, what can I do for you?”
“Rodney fell asleep,” Grant said quietly.
“Pardon?” A squeaky chair moved.
Grant kept studying the tiles on the floor, until the pattern was obscured by black and grey trainers.
“I’m sorry, Grant, what did you say? I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Rodney took a little walk up-and-down the ward,” Grant said sing-song.
“Oh, did he now? Silly wee bugger – with barely a breath in him.”
Grant was pushed aside with alacrity but found that he didn’t mind.
Mission accomplished, he sidled back to Rodney’s bed. Deft hands had turned Rodney onto his back, unkinked the tubing delivering fluids into the back of his hand and slipped an O2 sat monitor (Grant always listened and learned) onto his finger.
“He’s okay, Grant, just tuckered out.”
Grant shook his head; Rodney never changed.
~*~
The ward was quiet. Rodney and Lieutenant Hillier were his only patients. The marine had taken a tumble while on a mission and had sustained a slight concussion. Absently, Carson glanced at his watch, his shift ended soon and his bed was beckoning.
A finger-dance across his keyboard called up both his patients’ stats. Interfacing human medical technology with the Ancient technology was an ongoing process, but what they had achieved so far was impressive. Hiller was bruised from head to toe – as indicated by the reddish flares on his body scan and increased fibrinogen converting into fibrin evident at the landing sites on his hip, right buttock, shoulder and side of the head. Clumsy little twit.
Several pathogen types had been cultured from Rodney’s specimens necessitating a complex antibiotic regime. His chest scan showed improvement with a reduced area of infiltrates. Rodney had been very lucky.
Carson propped his head on his hand and gave into a tired yawn. Tonight, he felt that he could get a decent night’s sleep. As Carson gazed into vague space, Sheppard wandered into the ward proper. The colonel was wearing his sling, but Carson suspected that he had only put it on for the visit. Some people were their own worst enemies.
Sheppard stopped at the end of Rodney’s bed and studied his friend as Carson studied him. Seeing a comfortably sleeping Rodney, the rake of Sheppard’s back relaxed and he stood hip loose. He ran an absent hand through his black hair, disordering the cowlicks. Carson dropped his gaze back to his laptop, letting Sheppard visit without the weight of eyes. He flicked through his audio files library – a book chapter before bed might be just what the doctor ordered.
“Hey, Doc?”
“Hello, Colonel.” Carson rocked back on his chair and pretended to be aware of the man for the first time.
Sheppard leaned against the door frame. “How are my… Lieutenant Hillier and McKay?”
“Hillier will be out of here tomorrow morning with a headache and a wee bit stiff – light duties for a week. Rodney’s continuing to improve – I’m very happy with his progress.”
“That sounds like platitudes.” Sheppard shrugged, abashed at his words.
Carson raised an eyebrow; the colonel’s shoulder had to be hurting and there were little smudges of dark bruises under his eyes.
“Platitudes – no. Phrased a little tritely – yes. Rodney is getting better. He’s got himself a nasty chest infection on top of his broken ribs. We’ve got antibiotics that are effective against bugs. His chest x-rays and bloods show improvement. Do you want figures? I can show you some pretty pictures, if you’d like?”
“No, Carson,” Sheppard said his tone an apology.
“Here.” Carson rifled in his lab. coat pocket and pulled out a blister pack of double strength Excedrin. He tossed it over. “I’ll be going off duty in ten minutes. I deserve a good night’s sleep. I recommend that you take a couple of them and get yourself a good night’s sleep.”
“You’re not staying on your couch tonight?” Sheppard nodded at the couch in the corner and the neatly folded, thick-knit blanket.
“Nope.” Carson met his gaze.
“Okay.” Sheppard tucked the tablet pack in his trouser pocket. “Night, Doc.”
“Good night, Colonel.”
Carson let a little smile cross his face as Sheppard sauntered out of the infirmary.
~*~
Escape had not come too soon. Rodney still had a cough that curled him sideways, and the results were disturbingly chunky, but at least it wasn’t fluorescent green.
Sheppard, sans sling, was sitting astride one of the gurneys aimlessly rocking back and forth making the frame squeak relentlessly.
“Okay, Rodney.” Carson was in his face. “I’m discharging you. But you’re to convalesce for another fortnight – that’s fourteen days. And you’re to come in for respiratory therapy every day.”
The temptation to make the talking hand was almost irresistible – however, he managed.
“Grant, I’m handing Rodney over into your care. He needs to go to his room – he can walk and then rest. I’ll have one of the new service staff deliver some food at dinner time.”
“Carson,” Rodney growled, but the ire was snuffed dead by a cough.
Even as Carson braced once side and Grant braced the other, Sheppard was vaulting off the gurney
A coughed gob of phlegm smacked Sheppard explosively right in the middle of the chest. The expression on his face made Rodney laugh and cough and then cough some more.
“Here.” Carson smashed a convenient wad of tissues in Rodney’s hand.
Sheppard stood stage struck, expression a twist of horror, fixed on the phlegm adhering to his chest. It showed no sign of dripping.
“I don’t believe that you did that.” The shriek was definitely girly.
“Colonel Sheppard,” Carson said briskly, “I know that you’ve dealt with and handled worse.”
“It doesn’t mean that I have to like it!”
“Here have a tissue.” As if by magic Carson had another one.
Arching like a fastidious cat, Sheppard dabbed at the offending snot.
“Grant,” Carson continued as if they hadn’t been interrupted. “If Rodney wants to he can have a shower later this evening.”
Grant’s head bobbed, fervently.
“If you like,” Carson continued relentlessly, “I’ll write some instructions down for you.”
The nod was sharp, definite and determined.
Effectively gagged by talking equalling coughing, Rodney couldn’t even protest as he was handed over into the care of his little cousin.
Fin
jimandblairFandom: Stargate Atlantis/Traders xo [Atlantis: sur la mer segment]
Rating: G – some swearing; according to LKY this needs a gag warning; also British English spelling, which means things like more letters of the ‘u’ and ‘s’ variety.
Spoilers: none -- set beginning of second season SGA and after Traders finished
Betas: the LKY and L gave it a look over. Thank you kindly.
n.b. Thanks to susn who okayed me to write Traders/sga when I should be writing her auction fic!
This is a direct continuation from Ricochets 13b
Ricochets 13 H/C
by Sealie
“Doc,” John said softly, as they entered the wormhole. “Can I have something for Grant’s hand?”
The light around them changed as they emerged into Atlantis’ embarkation hall.
Carson turned on his heel. As Grant warmed, albeit slightly, blood began to ooze more rapidly from the cuts on his fingers. The dressing that Carson selected was the type to cover large surgical incisions. It would look like an oven glove wrapped over Grant’s fingers.
Rodney coughed, a wet wracking sound underscored with a bleat of pain, which had Carson turning back to him, leaving John holding the dressing.
“Come on, Squirrel. Just lay your hand on this.” John held the wad of material in one hand, already peeling off the backing tape from the adhesive strips. Still a little cowed, Grant obediently placed his hand on the dressing.
“Just head straight to the hanger. I had the medical personnel wait there,” Carson directed the pilot, even as he was tapping his own ear piece. “Five casualties, three on this ‘jumper, two to follow. Dr. McKay: red. Dr. Janksy: yellow and Colonel Sheppard: green. No info on the other casualties.”
“Green?” John asked.
But Carson was focused on Rodney. Beneath the fogging mask, his face was marked by snotty looking foam. “We’re going to be moving you onto a gurney, Rodney. I don’t want you moving around too much until I’ve had a chance to look at those ribs.”
The ‘jumper rotated on the spot, smoothly and with the unmistakable air of automatic piloting.
“Cars--” Rodney wrenched off his oxygen mask and retched. Between one blink, Carson was reaching, hands splaying on Rodney’s chest and leaning him slightly forward. Vomit splattered over the deck plates.
Rodney’s fingers clenched open and closed frantically as another wash sprayed the deck.
“Wow.” It was impressive volume. John lifted his feet.
Kneeling in it, Carson simply continued to hold his patient as the ‘jumper smoothly descended. A dull clunk heralded the back hatch opening. The medical personnel were primed to run up the ramp.
“Rodney, the gurney’s here. We’re going to be doing all the work.”
The clatter of the gurney was loud in the confines of the hold. The marines were forced back into the cockpit with no escape. Carson was already moving, shifting Rodney around so that he could shore up his back and lift.
“High flow --15 litres -- oxygen by facial mask and, people, I want ACLS,” Beckett said as the medical personnel swarmed over Rodney.
“ACLS?” Sheppard began.
Grant’s bandaged hand was pressed up against John’s stomach, anchoring him. His gaze for once was direct, reading his face like a computer print out.
There were too many people inside the ‘jumper. John stood and the faintest edge of blackness closed in on his vision. Grant was there, at his side, shoring him up. Together they sat down with a thump.
“Don’t you move an inch, Colonel Sheppard,” Carson said without turning from Rodney. The man had to have eyes in the back of his head. Between one slight ‘greying’ and a classic Carson-berate, Rodney was situated on the gurney, its head raised a fraction. He was curled on his good side, facing them. Eyes open, his gaze was focussed inward concentrating on maintaining raspy breathing.
Even as Carson helped guide the gurney back out of the ‘jumper, he was assessing John.
“Dr. Pega, upgrade Colonel Sheppard to a yellow, but check Dr. Jansky first.”
~*~
The controlled chaos that the medical assessment suite was famous for was in full swing when John was rolled into the infirmary. Rodney had centre stage. One nurse wielded scissors snipping him out of his trousers even as the other was layering thick blankets over his pale, sparsely haired legs. A technician manhandled the Ancient scanner over to Rodney’s bed. Carson’s head nurse, Andamann, strode past John with three vials of blood cradled in her hands.
Rodney’s bared, bruised chest was dotted with leads and banks of machines chirped loudly behind his head. IV ports were installed in the backs of his hands and there appeared to be a line under the blankets going into his foot. The medical personnel worked fast. Scowling, Carson resituated the pulse-ox peg on his finger.
“Doc?” The technician had the matrix screen of the Ancient scanner manoeuvred up beside Rodney’s bed.
“Rodney?” Carson tapped the mask covering Rodney’s mouth and nose. “Rodney, we’re going to take some images of your chest and head. We’re all going to step back a fraction. I just want you to keep still. Okay? Rodney?”
Rodney slowly raised his thumb.
As one, Carson and his gaggle moved back. The technician worked fast, moving the screen up and over Rodney. Momentarily barred from his most serious case, Carson turned a piercing gaze on his other two patients. Grant was curled up in ball on his own gurney, effectively excluding the male nurse and the doctor who were trying to get him to uncurl.
From his wheelchair, John made a one-handed attempt to roll toward Grant’s bed. The marine assigned to push him kept a tight hold of the wheelchair.
“Stay.” Carson pointed. Finger still extended, holding John in place, he assessed his staff. Finally his gaze settled on the youngest, a petite, mop-topped nurse who had been with them from the beginning and still had a gamine smile and an effervescent personality. “Connell, look after Grant, won’t you, darling. Some nice warm blankets, nasal cannula, and IV of warm saline at the very least. I want bloods, gases and vitals.”
“Dr. B?” Connell asked, even as she crept up to Grant’s side a smile on her face. The stone-faced Dr. Pega straightened, essentially giving his patient over to the nurse, but he didn’t step back.
“Explain everything that you’re doing. No sedation without my express authorisation.” Instructions given, Carson’s attention moved to John, who manufactured a smile.
“Perfectly fine here, Doc.”
“Hmm.” Carson waved the nurse over who had been trying to help Dr. Pega with Grant. “Gubler, help Colonel Sheppard. Standard vitals. When Copper’s finished with Dr. McKay I want some images of his shoulder.”
“Carson!” Dr. Biro beetled into the emergency suite, laptop cradled in her arms. She turned the screen to him. “Salinity of the coastal surface water is thirty four point eight parts per thousand.”
Brow furrowed, he scanned the results, finger coming up to track a column of numbers. “Good. We don’t have to worry about a Dead Sea situation. That’s a fairly standard mineral composition for sea water. And the next time you see the marine biologists tell them to upload their data on the servers like normal scientists.”
“Already suitably berated, Carson.”
“Hmmm, Colonel Sheppard’s arrived. You can have him.” Obviously timing to the second, Carson moved back to Rodney’s side as the tech wielding the matrix screen pulled back. He drew the blankets folded over Rodney’s legs up and over his chest.
John’s view was excluded by the inimitable Dr. Biro leaning over him. “And so what did you do to yourself this time, Colonel Sheppard?”
~*~
Carson tapped on the laptop keys, calling up the image of Rodney’s lungs. Grant had reported that Rodney had not stopped breathing, but there was ample evidence – from the foamy mucous to the wheezy breath sounds – that Rodney had aspirated sea water and that could bring its own set of nasty complications. Auscultation of the chest had revealed the possibility of inspiratory rales and the image indeed confirmed the presence of minor bilateral alveolar and interstitial infiltrates.
The laptop email programme pinged and Rodney’s latest blood gases arrived. Arterial blood gases told a story -- pH 7.20, P02 42 torr, PCO2 32 torr -- and his serum electrolytes -- sodium 130 mEq/L. chloride 96 mEq/L, bicarbonate 13 mEq/L, potassium 4.2 mEq/L -- completed the picture. Carson swore under his breath; three hours in and they were seeing evidence of bilateral diffuse pulmonary oedema.
“Dr. B?” Andamann stuck her head in his office. “Dr. McKay’s O2 sats have just dropped.”
“I’m no’ surprised.” Carson pushed quickly away from his desk. They had moved Rodney from the assessment suite into the ward that held the majority of the beds.
Rodney had the bed closest to Carson’s little office. His friend was propped up on a pile of pillows, wrapped in warming blankets – combating the borderline hypothermia along with warm saline IVs -- until only his face was uncovered. Carson took in the monitor readings with the ease of long practice. Rodney was arching his head back into the pillows, wincing at the pull of bruised and cracked ribs and flesh, but striving to find more air despite the pain.
John was sitting up on his own bed watching through narrowed eyes.
“Vent, Dr. B?” the nurse asked eyes on her patient.
“No, let’s keep him on the BiPAP,” Carson judged. Apart from the first instance of bloody tint to the foam when they had inserted a nasogastric tube, there was no evidence of severe bleeding and his hypotension was responding to dextran 70 and an epinephrine infusion. “We’re not to intubating just yet. Increase the inspiratory pressure to 33cm H2O and PEEP to 14cm H2O.” Carson spoke in an aside to his head nurse, “Cut back on the saline and I want updates on his urine output every fifteen minutes.”
Rodney drummed a finger free of the enveloping blankets. The demand for information was obvious.
“Rodney?” Carson freed Rodney’s hand and held it gently. “We’re going to be increasing the pressure in your mask to help you breathe. We don’t need a vent. No nasty endotracheal tubes; I know how much you hate them. You’ll help us and yourself if you sit quiet for a wee while. If you give me any trouble I’ll have your rectal temperature taken again.”
That sparked a response, blue eyes fixing on him. The scan of Rodney’s head had revealed no evidence of concussion, exhaustion and lack of oxygen dragged him down. Carson patted his hand, satisfied by the warmth in his extremities.
Rodney shifted, feet rucking the blankets. “Grant?” he mouthed.
“On your right.” Carson gently cupped Rodney’s cheek guiding his head on the raised pillows. They had had a fair old battle stopping Grant cocooning in warming blankets so that they could monitor his breathing and administer oxygen via a nasal canula. He slept now on his back, head tipped back and his stitched hand resting on a pillow. Judicious use of sedation had been necessary, but he looked comfortable.
Across from Grant, John waved with a casual twist of his fingers. Rodney blinked tiredly, struggling to put together John, the bulky bandage on his shoulder and a sling into one story.
“Cracked shoulder bone,” Carson supplied. “We’re keeping an eye on him for an hour or two, and then he can go to his room. Strangely enough, he seems quite happy to hang around today, can’t think why.”
A couple of beds down from John, Parrish slept under a white blanket. Stackhouse, a little further down the ward, sat cross legged on his own bed. He was intent on his DS, fighting graphic bad guys. Feeling their regard, he looked up and flashed a bashful smile before returning to his fighting, thumbs dodging back and forth.
“Sleeping,” Rodney rasped and closed his eyes.
~*~
“I looked after him,” Grant said in his quietest voice as he stood by the bottom of Rodney’s bed.
“Sorry?” Carson leaned forward, head cocked. “Yes, you did a good job.”
Grant shrugged inwards, clutching his terry cloth robe tight one handed against his throat.
“Do you want to get back to bed?” Carson extended an arm, shepherding without touching. “Some hot chocolate probably wouldn’t go amiss either, would it?”
“I look after Rodney,” Grant said intently even as he watched Rodney sleep.
Carson dropped his arm, watching every nuance. “That’s what family does.”
Grant’s head switched around. A billion thoughts scrolled over his face and Carson marvelled, trying to track the mercurial swiftness. The haunted cast left Grant’s features.
Grant nodded jerkily. With a smile, Carson cajoled him to his bed. Grant bounced on the mattress and then shuffled up to sit on the pillow. Carson perched on the far end. In another hour, Grant who had also had a toss around in the spin cycle of the waters of P4M-792 would be cleared of the possibility of any complications from the minor amount of water that he had inhaled. But Carson had already decided that there would be no harm to keep Grant overnight.
“Can I have Mr. Jinx?” Grant blurted.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Grant. Not in the infirmary. And I don’t want any cat dander around Rodney when his lungs are a little sensitive.” Both looked at Rodney who was sleeping despite the hiss and whir of his BiPAP mask.
“Jinx will be lonely.”
“I’m sure we can ask Colonel Sheppard to check on him,” Carson offered.
Grant nodded sagely. “Flyboy will check on Mr. Jinx. He will come back, won’t he?”
“John?” Carson checked.
“Flyboy. He left.” Grant picked at his nails, finger and thumb on his unbandaged hand clicked. “It’s all wrong. It was wrong. It was all sharp and horrible.”
“On the planet?”
Grant brought his fingers to his mouth. “I don’t want to go through the Stargate again.”
“It shouldn’t be necessary, Grant,” Carson said reassuringly. “You’re not part of an exploratory team. That was just a little trip to let you see an alien planet and see if it helped you understand Teyla.”
Grant sagged at little into his pillows and Carson wished that he could bring Mr. Jinx, but there was no way that he was going to compromise on that rule.
“We’ll see about getting you that hot chocolate, Grant.” Carson pushed off the bed.
Grant perked up visibly, a tiny smile curling his lips.
~*~
It was all a bit disconnected. The lights on the ceiling were dimmed, but one lamp just above his head was actinic bright. The inevitable cough rose and Rodney curled around it, trying to hold in the pain. A gob of phlegm splattered on the mask.
“Nice,” he mumbled.
A rich voice, caught between a tenor and comfort, washed over him. Amazingly, a hand rested on his forehead.
“Just going to change your mask, Rodney.” The washing air that seemed to blow up his nose and mouth and out of his ears stopped. A straw was placed between his lips and automatically he sucked. It was bliss.
“There you go.” And the bliss was pulled away. A latex covered finger dabbed at his lip and mint flooded his mouth. The mask was back, hissing and pushing and wheezing.
Rodney tried blinking to better focus on the blur succouring him. “Carson?”
“You’ll be as good as gold in no time.”
Was gold good, Rodney wondered. A sharp prick, made him flinch, but he couldn’t figure out which way to move. He thought distantly that he might have been jabbed in his stomach.
“There you go.” The harsh light beside his bed dimmed. The darkness was cool and soothing. Rodney let himself slip into its grasp.
~*~
“What’s up?” John shifted his sling into a more comfortable position.
Carson straightened, revealing a slightly flushed McKay. “Touch of a temperature. Not surprising, considering.” He held a disconnected mask in his gloved hands.
McKay’s eyes were open a slit but no one was at home -- irises crystalline blue against his rosy skin.
“He’s delirious?”
“What? No?” Carson shook his head, as he took a spatula from the tray beside McKay’s bed and scraped some reddish sludge off the mask. John couldn’t look away as he deposited the gob in a little jar. “No. no. no, he’s just tired. Takes a lot out of a body – near drowning.”
“Near-drowning, is that the official term?”
“Aye, tis, actually.” Carson tossed the now sealed jar into the air and caught it. “Excuse me, I’m going to give this to a nurse so she can send it down to biology to grow some cultures.”
“Lovely.” Swallowing, John finally looked away, realising what was in the jar as Carson ambled off.
Through the transparent mask, he could see Rodney licking at shiny, gel-coated lips.
“Hey, don’t do that,” John remonstrated, “that’s stopping your lips drying out.”
The scowl was unmistakably McKay and he didn’t even need a finger to tell John to fuck off.
“Grant?” McKay rasped, “How’s Grant?”
Grant slept twisted, ass in the air and face turned into his pillows. The small plush cushion from the couch in Carson’s office was tucked tight up against his neck. He didn’t have any attached monitors.
“Looks fine,” John could say honestly. “Sleeping like a baby.”
“Good,” Rodney breathed.
John made a production out of looking at his watch. “It’s late; shouldn’t you be asleep? Grant’s asleep.”
“Don’t need--” he coughed wetly, “--cajoling. Go away. Check on Jinx.”
“Glad to see you’re feeing better.” John patted him once, just once high on the shoulder. “Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do.”
Rodney blinked sleepily, more than half way to sleep. There was an unspoken thought screwing up his brow. John waited for it to emerge. Lids slumped to half mast and then drifted all the way. The switch to sleep was unmistakable; a tension simply switched off.
John straightened. Sleeping was on his agenda too, after he had liberated the cat.
~*~
The day started early in the infirmary. Grant pushed a pile of scrambled eggs around his plate. Rodney had told him that food in Atlantis was different, but this was scrambled eggs. He wanted to try the local Athosian delicacy ‘red-red’ but, given that it was spicy, perhaps not for breakfast.
Rodney’s eyes twitched open a crack. Watching lazily, he simply lay. Grant wiggled his fingers on his good hand also managing to keep a hold of the fork. Impressive. Grant abandoned his breakfast and bed and padded to his cousin’s side.
“You’re okay, Rodney.” He couldn’t rub Rodney’s tummy because he was bruised. Quaking, just a little bit, he tried to understand all the numbers and buttons and flashing lights on the abundance of machines carefully positioned around his cousin.
He picked at the bandage around his cut hand.
He didn’t know these numbers.
“Do you need anything? Something to eat? The mask will get in the way, won’t it? How can you eat with that mask on? You could starve.”
Rodney waved his hands, bringing them together in a sloppy ‘T’.
“You need to eat. You need to eat regularly or you get more cranky.”
Rodney rolled his eyes.
“You need food.” Mission parameters set, Grant considered his plate. But it had been touched, Rodney was picky about things like that, unless he was really hungry. Grant eyed him considering. Chocolate might be the way to go, melt in the mouth, easily swallowed, complex sugars.
“Chocolate!” Chocolate solved everything.
“Hello, Grant. And how are you this fine morning?”
Grant made a little, shufty sideways glance, he could see white coat, stethoscope and blue t-shirt. Doctors, doctors, doctors, lots of doctors.
“Did you like your eggs?” he said with more of a Scottish burr than normal. “It’s funny that it’s the wee little things you miss the most. Eggs – proper eggs.”
“Numbers.” Grant pointed at the monitor on a pole with wheels, behind the head of Rodney’s bed.
“Numbers? Oh, uhm, that’s heart rate, O2 sats.”
Grant shuffled closer to stroke the side of the boxy monitor on Rodney’s right.
“Blood pressure is a little high – but that’s Rodney for you,” the doctor continued. “Heart rate’s fine and his O2 sats are improving.”
Carefully, Grant felt Rodney’s forehead with the lightest of touches. Rodney jerked his head out from under Grant’s assessing fingers and glowered.
The numbers resolved into meaning. Rodney awake, and more than miserable, fumbled with the bed controls. Raising the head of the bed, he winced theatrically.
Grant clucked. “Can you help him? Stop the pain?”
“Well, the thing is you see, pain meds often repress breathing function.”
“But--”
“Don’t worry, we’re titrating his meds. He’s comfortable as can be without significantly suppressing his breathing.”
“Hey, hey, hey.” John sauntered up, undamaged hand firmly stuffed in his trouser pocket.
“Rakish!” Grant exulted – taking in the picture. The narrow breath with length; black on black, startlingly white sling, artfully tousled hair and face too pale by far. Flyboy was not one hundred percent just yet.
“Excuse me?” John said, eyebrow rising.
“That’s what you are – rakish.” Grant rocked up on his heels.
Behind Flyboy, Teyla held a tray piled high with, Grant spotted, all of Rodney’s favourite things.
“Gee, thanks, Grant. For that I’m not going to let you share mine and Rodney’s breakfast.”
Teyla raised an eyebrow. “Kh’c”
Oh, Grant thought, all that pain and scariness because they had to go through the Stargate to initiate the language function and it hadn’t worked. Grant felt himself sink down to his toes. Despite the fever colouring his perceptions Rodney read the knowledge, or lack of knowledge in his stance. Rodney covered his eyes with a hand and gave out a wheezy, dispirited sigh.
“Sorry,” Grant muttered and shuffled back to his bed giving Teyla as wide a berth as possible
“Hey guys, what’s the matter?” John asked.
“I don’t understand Vit e’ Emm-gen,” Grant said.
“What?”
Teyla spoke, “Ig ks wl, ag gkj’x, Xlj’ jdjg’f vl gnd dl-- afg vzfljf’d gh gnd Qhk’hgx.”
“Favoured by the Ancients?” John said his tone an echo.
“Some people never get the language upgrade? Why didn’t you say so, Teyla?” the doctor asked.
“K sae n’f’f qxi’c.”
“I guess we didn’t ask you, did we, Teyla luv?”
All eyes turned to Grant, he squirmed under attention. Oh, he didn’t like this – too many people realising that he existed could lead to all manner of nastiness. A little shuffle closer to his bed was called for.
John uttered dispiritedly, “He’ll never understand Teyla?”
Grant took a deep breath and said evenly, ::I am Grant Jansky, brother-cousin of Rodney McKay of Atlantis::
The first smile that Grant had seen directed at him graced Teyla’s face.
“You ozr,” she said. Grant didn’t get the second word.
“Well, well, that’s interesting.” The Scottish rumble of his voice should have sounded comforting.
Grant didn’t like the dissecting mien to the doctor’s gaze. Carefully, he pealed back the tucked in sheets, sat and pushed his feet under the blankets. A shuffle and a shrug had the blankets pulled tightly around his neck.
~*~
It was misery, misery in its pure encapsulated form. It was like being eight again and a snot nosed allergy brat. The insides of his lungs burned. Carson had twittered on about borderline pneumothorax which would hopefully resolve with -- hopefully, it made Rodney want to scream at the subjective vagueness -- medication rather than surgical intervention.
Each breath was a tight, painful strain. A nebuliser thingy had helped but Carson hoarded the magic mist.
His laptop sat on the bedside table angled over his bed. There was a brain-candy movie (Sheppard’s term) playing. Rodney wasn’t too sure what was happening throughout the movie and that fact was disconcerting in the extreme. It appeared to be about vampires and werewolves. Incongruously, Frankenstein’s monster had also made an appearance. And every single scene seemed to be an ongoing fight, or at least every time he opened his eyes an improbable monster battled a Stetson-wearing hero.
“Dracula?” What the hell was this film about?
Sheppard lazed in the chair by Rodney’s bed. Back moulded into the plastic curve and crossed feet resting on Rodney’s own bed, he was entranced.
Grant fully dressed, instead of pyjamas and robe, sat cross-legged on his bed, tapping away one-handed on a laptop. Bandaged hand in his mouth, his expression was pensive and internal. Rodney wanted to see the data output, but something like a dab of petroleum jelly had been smeared over his eyes.
Being ill sucked.
~*~
Rodney blew heavily through his nose. Freedom from the BiPAP mask was a great improvement. The nasal canula was annoying. In sleepy curiosity, he had picked his nose earlier in the morning and the gob of dried up snot had been laced with crusty clots. But it was better than the BiPAP mask. The rush of forced air from the modified ventilator had been torturous.
Rodney shifted, uncomfortable. Cough, cough, wheeze, wheeze. His life was disturbingly tinged with childhood déjà vu
The bubbly effervescent nurse, who could always draw a shy smile from Grant, bounced over holding his little plastic cup of meds. It appeared that he was on every antibiotic known to man.
“Would you like your water refreshed, Dr. McKay?”
“Coffee.” He was reduced to one and two syllables in between wheezes. But at least he could enunciate the important words.
“Dr. B. didn’t say anything about coffee,” the nurse said as she straightened his table top. They were obsessed with making things neat and aligned just so. Rodney wondered if it was pathological.
“Coffee.” Rodney drummed his fingers on the plastic table top. A neat, short, staccato rat-tat-tatt.
“I’ll see.” The annoying nurse bustled away, the jug of warm water clutched to her sparse bosom.
Rodney was fairly sure that he knew what Carson’s answer would be when he was asked about the coffee
As the nurse left, movement caught Rodney’s attention. Grant gave a timid little nod. Seeing that the coast was clear, he darted across the expanse of the quiet ward, a giant mug of coffee in his hand.
Grant made such a good minion.
~*~
Grant hovered as Rodney took his first unaided step. Grant was not too sure about this little excursion even if it was only up and down the ward. Rodney growled, crotchety-like their grandfather. The resemblance, from the spiky straight-up hair, ample stubble and the plaid robe was uncanny. Sufficiently so that Grant almost never wanted to look in a mirror ever again. Grandma had been sweet like sugar spun candy floss. Grandfather had been sharp and sour – lemon like.
There was a definite wobble to Rodney’s steps despite hanging onto his I.V. pole until his knuckles were white. The bugs in his lung were ‘tenacious, wee buggers’ and now Rodney was on I.V. antibiotics. It meant that he had to stay in the infirmary another few days and that resulted in an overly irritable Rodney. He staggered another step, heeing a wheezing sound of satisfaction as they finally reached the end of his bed. White-faced and pinched, he made an unwieldy turn. Grant shadowed his every step, arms outstretched, ready to catch. Rodney didn’t register him – intent on his target. Grant slipped by him to draw back his messy blankets. Rodney face-planted straight into the pillow. By the time that he had drawn up his feet into a lax curl he was already asleep.
Grant stuffed his soggy, bandaged fingers in his mouth and chewed. Rodney no longer had the monitors which sang his pulse and breathing. Sleeping like this did not seem right. Finally covering Rodney with the blankets, he tiptoed to the office the end of the ward.
Grant grabbed a hold of the lintel and waited, gaze fixed firmly on the floor, to be noticed.
The tapping of computer keys stopped almost immediately.
“Hullo, Grant, what can I do for you?”
“Rodney fell asleep,” Grant said quietly.
“Pardon?” A squeaky chair moved.
Grant kept studying the tiles on the floor, until the pattern was obscured by black and grey trainers.
“I’m sorry, Grant, what did you say? I didn’t quite catch that.”
“Rodney took a little walk up-and-down the ward,” Grant said sing-song.
“Oh, did he now? Silly wee bugger – with barely a breath in him.”
Grant was pushed aside with alacrity but found that he didn’t mind.
Mission accomplished, he sidled back to Rodney’s bed. Deft hands had turned Rodney onto his back, unkinked the tubing delivering fluids into the back of his hand and slipped an O2 sat monitor (Grant always listened and learned) onto his finger.
“He’s okay, Grant, just tuckered out.”
Grant shook his head; Rodney never changed.
~*~
The ward was quiet. Rodney and Lieutenant Hillier were his only patients. The marine had taken a tumble while on a mission and had sustained a slight concussion. Absently, Carson glanced at his watch, his shift ended soon and his bed was beckoning.
A finger-dance across his keyboard called up both his patients’ stats. Interfacing human medical technology with the Ancient technology was an ongoing process, but what they had achieved so far was impressive. Hiller was bruised from head to toe – as indicated by the reddish flares on his body scan and increased fibrinogen converting into fibrin evident at the landing sites on his hip, right buttock, shoulder and side of the head. Clumsy little twit.
Several pathogen types had been cultured from Rodney’s specimens necessitating a complex antibiotic regime. His chest scan showed improvement with a reduced area of infiltrates. Rodney had been very lucky.
Carson propped his head on his hand and gave into a tired yawn. Tonight, he felt that he could get a decent night’s sleep. As Carson gazed into vague space, Sheppard wandered into the ward proper. The colonel was wearing his sling, but Carson suspected that he had only put it on for the visit. Some people were their own worst enemies.
Sheppard stopped at the end of Rodney’s bed and studied his friend as Carson studied him. Seeing a comfortably sleeping Rodney, the rake of Sheppard’s back relaxed and he stood hip loose. He ran an absent hand through his black hair, disordering the cowlicks. Carson dropped his gaze back to his laptop, letting Sheppard visit without the weight of eyes. He flicked through his audio files library – a book chapter before bed might be just what the doctor ordered.
“Hey, Doc?”
“Hello, Colonel.” Carson rocked back on his chair and pretended to be aware of the man for the first time.
Sheppard leaned against the door frame. “How are my… Lieutenant Hillier and McKay?”
“Hillier will be out of here tomorrow morning with a headache and a wee bit stiff – light duties for a week. Rodney’s continuing to improve – I’m very happy with his progress.”
“That sounds like platitudes.” Sheppard shrugged, abashed at his words.
Carson raised an eyebrow; the colonel’s shoulder had to be hurting and there were little smudges of dark bruises under his eyes.
“Platitudes – no. Phrased a little tritely – yes. Rodney is getting better. He’s got himself a nasty chest infection on top of his broken ribs. We’ve got antibiotics that are effective against bugs. His chest x-rays and bloods show improvement. Do you want figures? I can show you some pretty pictures, if you’d like?”
“No, Carson,” Sheppard said his tone an apology.
“Here.” Carson rifled in his lab. coat pocket and pulled out a blister pack of double strength Excedrin. He tossed it over. “I’ll be going off duty in ten minutes. I deserve a good night’s sleep. I recommend that you take a couple of them and get yourself a good night’s sleep.”
“You’re not staying on your couch tonight?” Sheppard nodded at the couch in the corner and the neatly folded, thick-knit blanket.
“Nope.” Carson met his gaze.
“Okay.” Sheppard tucked the tablet pack in his trouser pocket. “Night, Doc.”
“Good night, Colonel.”
Carson let a little smile cross his face as Sheppard sauntered out of the infirmary.
~*~
Escape had not come too soon. Rodney still had a cough that curled him sideways, and the results were disturbingly chunky, but at least it wasn’t fluorescent green.
Sheppard, sans sling, was sitting astride one of the gurneys aimlessly rocking back and forth making the frame squeak relentlessly.
“Okay, Rodney.” Carson was in his face. “I’m discharging you. But you’re to convalesce for another fortnight – that’s fourteen days. And you’re to come in for respiratory therapy every day.”
The temptation to make the talking hand was almost irresistible – however, he managed.
“Grant, I’m handing Rodney over into your care. He needs to go to his room – he can walk and then rest. I’ll have one of the new service staff deliver some food at dinner time.”
“Carson,” Rodney growled, but the ire was snuffed dead by a cough.
Even as Carson braced once side and Grant braced the other, Sheppard was vaulting off the gurney
A coughed gob of phlegm smacked Sheppard explosively right in the middle of the chest. The expression on his face made Rodney laugh and cough and then cough some more.
“Here.” Carson smashed a convenient wad of tissues in Rodney’s hand.
Sheppard stood stage struck, expression a twist of horror, fixed on the phlegm adhering to his chest. It showed no sign of dripping.
“I don’t believe that you did that.” The shriek was definitely girly.
“Colonel Sheppard,” Carson said briskly, “I know that you’ve dealt with and handled worse.”
“It doesn’t mean that I have to like it!”
“Here have a tissue.” As if by magic Carson had another one.
Arching like a fastidious cat, Sheppard dabbed at the offending snot.
“Grant,” Carson continued as if they hadn’t been interrupted. “If Rodney wants to he can have a shower later this evening.”
Grant’s head bobbed, fervently.
“If you like,” Carson continued relentlessly, “I’ll write some instructions down for you.”
The nod was sharp, definite and determined.
Effectively gagged by talking equalling coughing, Rodney couldn’t even protest as he was handed over into the care of his little cousin.
Fin