SGA Fic: Back to the Old Ways

[out_there]

Title: Back to the Old Ways
Fandom: SGA
Spoilers: Lost Boys
Summary: For once, Rodney understands: knowing what you've lost, what you can't have, doesn't make life any easier.
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I make no money from them.
Notes: Thanks to iamsab who showed enthusiasm above and beyond the call of beta duty. Also thanks to scribewraith and 0bake for encouragement (and poking).



Back to the Old Ways


"Is this how you felt after--" They've agreed not to talk about it, agreed to ignore the sickened expression in John's eyes when they do, but Rodney's never been good at working within other people's limits. "When you stopped turning into a human-sized creepy-crawly, I mean, afterwards. When you were back to normal. Is this how you felt?"

John squints towards the blue-on-blue horizon and leans further over the balcony. The Atlantis sunshine slices across his face, playing with the purple and green of fading bruises. The rest of them had received worse, had fought viciously, wildly -- and in Rodney's case, randomly -- but John's the only one still wearing the injuries.

"It might have escaped your notice," John says slowly, "but you haven't actually said how you feel."

Rodney can't explain it. Can't explain it to Kate, can't define it for himself. He remembers the enzyme running through his veins, remembers the sharp strength and the muted worry, the soaring knowledge that he could push too hard, do more, do better. The fear of being unable to give this up. Then there was Carson and that week of empty stomach and hating everyone as he was weaned off the addiction. It was utterly frustrating: getting enough to know what he was missing, to make the pain bearable and the need impossible.

Then he was him -- back to the regular, extraordinary Dr Rodney McKay -- relieved and reassured by the familiar physical flaws.

And...

That's where it gets difficult. Because there's something else there. Something he doesn't want to think, let alone say, but John's turned towards him, one dark brow raised, curious and concerned, and the word slips out the corner of Rodney's mouth.

"Diminished."

John's brows draw together. Rodney can feel his heart speed up, but all he can think is that John'll develop frown lines if he isn't careful. As if that would be the great tragedy of Atlantis. "Rodney--"

The hiss of static in their ear-pieces protects Rodney from the question. Someday, he'll thank Elizabeth for that.

***

For a great, big cave, it's amazing how claustrophobic Ford's hideout feels. Rodney blames it on the two muscle-bound guards beside hovering over him, strong hands clasped on his shoulders.

Rodney's sick of being the hostage. He's always the hostage, the one held by soldiers and guns, the one who has to wait patiently, and stall for time, and hope Sheppard knows what he's doing. He's not good at believing in other people's ideas -- or their general capacity to think clearly -- and he's even worse at being patient; this isn't a role that plays to his strengths.

He wouldn't mind it as much if there wasn't a sickening probability of them grabbing his arm and sticking sharp things into it. The only consolation is that this time it's a needle -- filled with something that belonged inside a Wraith and was probably going to do irreparable damage to his system -- not a knife. Rodney couldn't handle a second knife.

***

The avoided conversation isn't forgotten. He knows that from the way John raises an eyebrow at him from the other side of the mess.

It's a conversation Rodney doesn't want to have: he's sick of discussing it, sick of Teyla's supportive silence and Kate's careful questions. Sick of the concern that's been in Elizabeth's eyes ever since Lorne said, "Well, ma'am, Dr McKay gave us no choice. He had a P90 trained on us. And one of our marines in headlock."

Rodney isn't proud of his actions, isn't proud of devolving into a caveman and using brute force where intelligence could have been applied, but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't enjoyed it. He barked orders, and the military guys scrambled to obey. He came up with a plan that would only work if they were very, very lucky -- which they were -- and didn't have the common sense or basic self-survival to worry about the risks. It was like being Lt Col Sheppard for a day: all adrenaline and bravado, Boys' Own adventure and playing hero.

But they returned with three less marines. Rodney wishes he knew their faces, knew their names. He's sure John would have.

***

He and Radek spend days trying to track down Ford and never get any closer. Ford's out there somewhere, Rodney's sure, but after pulling apart three DHDs and trying to order the dialed address, he only has gut instinct telling him Ford's alive. Rodney doesn't like relying on instinct; figures and facts are far more dependable.

Rodney drinks coffee like it's flavored water, waiting for the caffeine to kick in. He needs the clarity, needs his thoughts to sharpen, to find an explanation that stands up to logic. He's looking for energy, for that awareness thrumming under his skin, but it never comes.

He downs cup after cup, until Radek takes the mug -- thick, white porcelain made to last, small cracks already slithering down the side -- and turns the coffeemaker off. "No. No more, Rodney. That is sixteen cups in the last five hours. Your hands are shaking."

When he tries to write, the pen in his hand taps a nervous, stuttering rhythm against his page. Gripping it tighter doesn't stop the tremors at all.

***

The next time they go offworld, it's a simple trip through the Stargate, no space travel, no jumper, no alien civilizations trying to kill them. Just stark, blue sky and grassy fields wavering in the breeze. Rodney presses his hands against his thighs, checking that they're still and calm. Not so long ago, he could see all the way to the horizon, could see the sharp contrast of leaves and branches cutting into the sky. Now he can see that there are trees further out, but the details are lost to him.

There have been careful discussions of what the team can and can't do. They are to check for mineral deposits, to collect some clearer readings of the area near the gate. They are not to fall out of radio contact for more than forty minutes. They are not to overstay their time offworld. They are to take precautions, to maintain all explorations in pairs and if there is the slightest chance that something will go wrong, they are to radio Atlantis immediately. Rodney understands Elizabeth's concerns -- in fact, he's somewhat grateful for it, because she forces John to explain the plan, to detail the mission, and doesn't allow John to ask any worrying questions -- but he also feels like a kid who fell off his first bicycle and has been forced to put the training wheels back on.

He and Ronon head east together -- Elizabeth's suggestion: since he and John are most familiar with the scanning equipment, it's best if they each go separate directions -- and there's a long time where all he has to do is stare at the console in his hand and wait for it to beep.

Rodney jumps when a flock of parrot-like birds fly past squawking. "I can't even hear your footsteps," he complains to Ronon, who hadn't even flinched at the sudden noise. "You know that's unnatural, right?"

Ronon's not John. Where John would complain back, where John would say something wry and insulting and almost touching, Ronon doesn't. Dreadlocks sway as Ronon keeps walking stealthily though the grass, watching the quiet fields and the horizon of dark trees and barely glancing at the scientist beside him.

"Unnatural and extremely creepy." There's no use repeating his point, no sense in trying to push for a reaction -- for any reaction -- and yet, Rodney does. "I'm sure that other people find it creepy, too. When your foot hits the floor there's supposed to be a noise. Especially when you're walking through dried grasses and sticks, that's when we expect you to be really noisy."

"Bad habit." Ronon meets his gaze, only for a moment. There's a distinct lack of hostility; it almost feels like affection, given its source.

Rodney doesn't mean to be fascinated, but the unknown has always had its appeals. "It's a bad habit? Walking silently is a bad habit of yours?"

"Making noise. It's a bad habit to create."

Rodney stops walking. It's nothing to do with what Ronon said -- or didn't say. It's more to do with the way that Ronon seems fine, as if their last mission wasn't a mentally scarring disaster.

Ronon's hand doesn't move, but his stance shifts, moving his weight onto his back foot, getting ready for action. Then the tension across his shoulders eases and Rodney's breath escapes in a hiss. Without the enzyme, he can't hear or see as well; he knows he wouldn't be the first to recognize sudden danger.

His hands start shaking. He hides them behind his back.

They start walking again.

***

It's remarkably easy to avoid John. So easy that Rodney doesn't even notice that he's doing it, that he's suddenly not in the mess hall when John is, isn't roaming the corridors at the same time of night. If he'd had to guess, had to suggest anyone would call him on it, it would have been Teyla or Elizabeth.

It wouldn't have been Ronon.

"You're avoiding John." He says that, announces that, and then stands in Rodney's doorway like he has a right to interrogate and use non-sequitors.

"No. No, I'm not. What are you talking about? I'm not avoiding anyone." The words are rushed and high-pitched; he's squeaking like an abandoned gate, tripping over the lies. "If I were avoiding someone, it'd be the idiots that pretend to understand Newton and try to damage my lab on a daily basis, not the guy who shoots the life-sucking aliens for me."

Beneath the animal skins that Ronon pretends are clothes, Ronon shifts his weight again. Rodney's not going to attack, not in any way other than verbal -- wouldn't bother without the enzyme, without the false strength and co-ordination to back him up -- so it seems unnecessary and pointless.

"Even if I was avoiding John, even if -- and you need to understand here that I'm *not* because I have absolutely no reason why I'd even waste the energy thinking about John when I could be concentrating on more important things like our shields and weapons --" And the way they'd make John's eyes light up, if he could wrestle one more system into working for them, if he could offer John one more big, zappy gun to play with, and the thought makes Rodney's gut seize. "-- even if I was, which I'm not, I still don't see how it's any of your business."

Ronon shrugs.

If he wasn't standing in the doorway, Rodney would be closing the door now. "Why are you here?"

"Because you're avoiding John."

Rodney wants to punch something, wants to hurt something, wants to make it bleed. There's a twisting spiral in his chest that leads down and down, that whispers how good it felt to lock his arm around that poor kid's throat -- marine, early-twenties, and Rodney never knew his name -- and reminds him of the way he emptied a P90 into a Wraith guard as he fearlessly marched closer. Reminds him that he can be heroic and daring, as long as some wonder drug can make him someone else.

Power corrupts and invincibility is a fallacy. Knowing it's true doesn't change how lacking he feels. "Diminished," he hears himself say, low and weightless.

"I don't understand." Ronon gives him a slivered look. "You saved him. He's saved your life before, right?"

And he did again, but John doesn't know it. John was unconscious, crumpled on the floor, by the time they'd overpowered the Wraith. He doesn't know that Lorne had ordered his people back, had ordered the charges to be set, and that the only thing stopping Rodney from taking control -- from going to find more Wraith and slowly shooting them, stabbing them, whatever it took to make them explain every flaw in their ships, every distorted plan in their hive mind -- had been John's bloody, swollen face.

Even then, Rodney had indulged a moment of second thoughts. Had wanted to send John back with Lorne -- because Lorne was military, was reliable, was brighter than half the apes they called marines -- and pummel and hurt until the Wraith knew fear, until they knew what it was like to be hunted, to be overwhelmed, to be terrified. But they were attacked again and suddenly outnumbered, outgunned, and being beamed back to the Deadelus without a choice.

Rodney tries to push Ronon backwards, out of his room, out of his carefully hidden guilt and blood-splattered memories, but his hands hit solid chest and Ronon barely shifts. Then he moves, hands blurring to Rodney's wrists and crossing them, holding them firm against Ronon's vest.

"What's going on?" The question rumbles through the warm leather to the thin bones of Rodney's wrist. The broad, clay-brown fingers aren't tight, aren't painful, but Rodney's caught and trapped. It feels like one more inadequacy, one more impossibility, one more thing that he wants to do and can't, but that's false. Rodney couldn't overpower Ronon with or without the enzyme. "Dr McKay?"

It's the honorific that snaps him out of struggling, that lets him question. "Don't you feel it? The loss? The sudden, overwhelming number of things you can't physically do? It was so easy, so simple, and now it's back to normal, back to how it used to be, and it sucks. Everything's hard and complicated. Or don't you even notice the difference between being a tall, muscle-bound wild warrior and being on the Wraith enzyme? Maybe there isn't a big difference for you."

"There's a difference." Ronon glances down, watching Rodney's limp hands like the lines and dryness and pen-calluses can be read and tracked, before stepping closer. "It's the difference between thinking and moving, between planning and reacting. It made me stronger but not smarter. A strong fool is still a fool."

"See, there's the difference," Rodney says, pulling his hands back. "It made me smarter and stronger."

Ronon tilts his head to the side -- tendons in his neck standing up and shifting with the stretch -- and then steps backwards, out of Rodney's room, out of Rodney's doorway. "It made you a fool if you were willing to give up everything else."

Rodney lets him have the last word, lets him leave without refuting it. He wants to believe it's because he's too mature to yell down the corridors, but he doubts his own rationalizations.

***

Running into John is accidental: hurrying around a blind corner, wanting to get back to the labs where he knows how to be useful, knows why he was allowed to come here. It's also painfully literal as they collide. John was running -- shorts, sneakers, sweat-drenched T-shirt -- and the force should have knocked Rodney to the ground. The only reason he's standing is because it knocked him into the wall instead.

"You okay?" John's panting, and pushing damp hair off his forehead, and grinning that irritating little smirk of his. He sounds like he wants to laugh.

"I'm fine, thank you, Colonel." He's not. He's out of breath and he's just been slammed against the wall by six foot of military muscle. "If you insist on running through the corridors like truant school kids, you should be a little more careful."

"I didn't see you there," John says, because stating the obvious is suddenly important.

Rodney almost rolls his eyes. "That's the whole blind part of a blind corner."

Behind John, Ronon snorts and makes a small hand gesture at John. It's one of those military signs that might mean anything from 'shhh, I'm wabbit hunting' to 'those new boots suit you'. This one probably means 'I'll catch up with you later' or 'I want to get to the mess before they run out of spinach', because John nods once and Ronon keeps running down the corridor.

"You two should come with subtitles," Rodney says, head ringing and shoulders sore, and above everything else, feeling physically vulnerable. He's always been vulnerable, always been surrounded by overly fit military types, by grunts who can shoot and fight and probably know far too many ways to wound or kill a person. This is the way it's always been: the only difference is that he's now aware of it.

He hates that he's aware of it. Hates that he's had weeks to forget the feeling of doing what he can't and shouldn't, to ignore all these things that never bothered him before. He's spent all his life as an uncoordinated academic -- clumsy, walking into walls, tripping over things in his haste to learn about the next idea, the next theory -- but now it's grating at him, like he's a block of cheese being cut and shredded, reshaped and used, but not actually changed.

And that's the reason Rodney doesn't philosophize on an empty stomach: too many food metaphors.

"You sure you're okay?" Behind the smile, behind the raised eyebrow, there's a seriousness to John's expression that unnerves Rodney. That makes him want to flee.

"Apart from being hungry and inconvenienced by you, my life is fine. At least until I get my hands on Prefft and have to explain the difference between following scientific method and pulling answers out of thin air."

"Rodney," John says, stepping closer, using height and charisma to pin Rodney against the wall, "that wasn't what I meant."

Then it happens fast. John presses a hand against Rodney's shoulder, and Rodney reacts. Pushes. Shoves John away. He does it without thinking, without planning, just pushes John as hard as he can, two palms flat against John's collarbones. Sudden and forceful, compelling John to take a few steps back, away from the not-so-tame scientist.

There's a malicious glee in the purity of action, in not having to think it through, and then the wide, worried cast of John's eyes hits him. This is too much, too different, and actions like these have consequences.

Rodney's so sick of consequences.

***

John finds him the main desalination station at the east side of the city. It's dark and industrial, ten thousand years of dust and grime that haven't been cleared away, machinery that was never meant to be seen by the public and wasn't built with aesthetics in mind. It's shadowed and abandoned, which is precisely what Rodney wanted: to sit in the dark and be ignored.

The fact that John knows him well enough to understand this, to know where he'd go, is both depressing and reassuring.

"So." John leans against one of the vats -- elbow-high cylinders that line the walls, that filter sea-water and turn it into something drinkable -- and every inch of his pose is carefully non-threatening. There's two yards between them, plenty of space for Rodney to get up and retreat, if he needs to.

There's an apology sitting on the back of Rodney's tongue, but he doesn't know what he's apologizing for, or why, and it's far easier to be rude. "Yes?"

"You didn't bring your laptop." A dip of the head and a casual smile, and Rodney's not in the mood to be charmed, to be talked out of this -- whatever this is -- even if part of him wants to be. "So I'll assume I'm not interrupting actual work."

"I'm sitting here and mulling on the inherent unfairness of the universe, and wondering why I'm the one who has to work with both Prefft and Warne, and hoping that those two never breed. Honestly, their children would be enough to horrify the entire scientific community and make us all take up astrology as a career." It's amazing the way he can open his mouth and not even plan the insults that come out. It would be more amazing if it managed to fool John.

"What's going on?"

Tilting his head towards the roof -- which is remarkably cleaner than the floor, Rodney notes -- he sighs and realizes that he can't keep running, hiding, forever. "I don't know. This isn't something I can, you know, explain. Not in a way that makes sense to anyone. I don't know."

"Then tell me the parts you do know," John says, sliding down to sit on the floor, "and we'll work it out from there."

Rodney looks at him. Looks at the long legs stretched in front of John, the loosely-woven fingers lying in his lap. Wonders how much of it is John, and how much is The Good Team Leader, and where those two identities start and stop.

Then he closes his eyes and talks. "I'm really tired of this, of being this, of being me. Which is remarkably stupid because I've never been annoyed about it before -- oh, sure, I've complained and had issues with the way our society privileges the young, fit and attractive -- but it's never been this… this all pervasive thing. But ever since… Ever since the enzyme, ever since that damn big needle, ever since we got back, it's all been so… I don't know. Frustrating."

He hates talking in half-sentences, not knowing what he's trying to say, but John seems to get it. "You wish you were still on the enzyme?"

"Yes." And the reply is so quick it makes John blink, makes John's hand clutch for a weapon that isn't there. Rodney wonders what shows on his face. "Which is not to say that I liked it, or that I'm suddenly fond of needles, or that I don't understand all the ways it was slowly killing me. I know the dangers, I know the practicalities. I'm not going to suddenly steal a jumper and try to get in contact with Ford."

"Not that you could if you wanted to." Slow drawl, sleepy snail-like movements, and it's all John's attempt to reduce the tension. "Seeing as we still don't know where he is."

"If that was your attempt to find out if I've been secreting away information about Ford, that was incredibly clumsy," Rodney bites back. "But, no, I don't know. But I am smart enough to figure out how to get the enzyme from the raw source, if need be, so it's not like that's why I'm sticking around."

"Then why are you?"

"Because you need me. Because the entire city needs someone who can re-wire safety protocols and complete half-built nukes, and apply some actual scientific reasoning to explain all the devices we don't understand. And while Zelenka may be a reasonable replacement for me, having two of us is far more useful than one."

John's eyes narrow and for a moment, he looks like he's trying to access a new readout from the jumper, like he's trying to intuit something that has no apparent factual basis. "You're sticking around because you're needed… but you want the enzyme. Why aren't you going to Beckett and bullying him into making more of it? Or failing that, just stealing some of the samples from the medical supply rooms?"

"Because I know my place!" And, wow, that came out with far more bitterness than he'd expected. "I'm here because my utterly intimidating IQ makes me vital, makes me important. You've already got guys to run around and shoot things. There isn't any point in me doing something moderately well when there are already exceptional people doing it."

"Huh."

"Which is not to say that I don't know my strengths, my abilities. Also, I'm not running off to join the enzyme circus. But… For a while, I got to be the other guy. I got to be the daring, stupid, suicidal one and not care about all the horrible, painful ways that it could go wrong. For a while, I didn't have to be the one thinking about what was going to happen, who was going to be hurt."

"You can't be that guy, Rodney."

"Yeah, I know." It's not a death sentence: it only feels like one. Rodney stands up before John can say anything else. "I'm me. And, like I said, I know how this works."

"Nobody gets to be that guy," John says, so softly that Rodney almost misses it amongst the sliding rustles of John standing up. "Nobody gets to rush in and ignore the consequences. Every daring, stupid, suicidal hero has blood on his hands."

Rodney swallows. His throat is tight but, for the first time in a long while, the band around his ribcage is loosening. "It didn't feel like that."

"You were high as a kite," John says, with a smile that's all in his eyes. "You could have punched a wall and still been happy. The last time you grinned like that, I'd just tried to shoot you and was nearly hit by the ricocheting bullet. This isn't about being the other guy, Rodney. This is about not being scared."

Rodney smiles. There's nothing he likes better than finding the answer to a problem, the logic to a pattern of behaviour. John, as always, holds the key to Pegasus mysteries that baffle and frustrate Rodney. "I thought you hero types were supposed to be fearless."

"That only happens when you've got nothing left to lose." John's hand hovers in the air, and for a moment, Rodney thinks he'll reach out and touch, grasp on to one more thing this galaxy can hold hostage, one more thing that can be threatened and lost. But John closes his hand, slowly, and pulls it back. His knuckles are almost white.

For once, Rodney understands: knowing what you've lost, what you can't have, doesn't make life any easier. Personal awareness is not what it's cracked up to be.

It only takes a moment for John to shift back to himself, to hide his uncertainty beneath a carefree smirk. "Since you seem to be done with your existential dilemma -- thank you, by the way, I needed a valid reason to avoid the mission report -- I think it's time for lunch."

"Colonel, and I say this with the utmost sincerity," Rodney says with a grin, and just like that, they're back to the old ways, "that's the smartest idea you've had yet."

Comments

[out-there.livejournal.com]

Thank you! *beams*

The "white knuckled" bit there at the end particularly got to me. Loved the little extra tidbits like that, that showed so much more than the actually quick, fast words were.

That bit is shamelessly "inspired" by a moment on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. There is a perfect moment between Buffy and Angel near the end of S3, where Angel starts talking about leaving, and she can't handle it and does this little fist in the air gesture, and it says so much. I love moments like that: moments where you know and the characters know that the words are nowhere near the most important part of the conversation.