A/N I read a lovely drabble called White Lies by WinterEyes on another site and it sparked this. I really hope she doesn't mind me borrowing her basic idea and running with it.

One day I will be able to write something that is not hurt/comfort or angst - today is not that day!

"The slickest way in the world to lie is to tell the right amount of truth at the right time-and then shut up." ― Robert A. Heinlein, Stranger in a Strange Land

He tries to buoy them up with rousing words; to form this disparate group of people into a team, knowing that their lives depend on it. But the words trickle through his hands like sand, lying fractured and broken on the floor and the "team" remains a group of individuals unable to even talk to each other without anger.

There is a split second when the bull is chasing Hercules that he knows without doubt that they are all going to die – that they will not work as a team even in the face of imminent danger. So he makes a choice that isn't really a choice at all and calls the bull towards him, already knowing that there is only one thing he can do to try to pull them all together – if he fails there will be no other options left but at least he may not be here to see it.

As the bull charges towards him, he takes a deep breath, runs and jumps, taking full advantage of his unnatural acrobatic agility (and just where the hell did that come from anyway?). At the last possible second he twists in the air, knowing that this will land him in a heap in the arena – quite probably defenceless in the face of the charging bull. In the moment before his shoulder hits the rock hard back of the beast he thinks "this is going to hurt", then white hot pain flares in his chest, driving away his breath and his thought, and he hears something crack.

He lies, momentarily stunned on the hot sand, beyond sight and sound, with hot blood roaring in his ears. He is unaware of his friends lifting him to safety, or of the others finally acting as a team and calling the bull, confusing it, to keep it away from where he lies prone.

When he comes back to himself, it is to the cool darkness of the cells and the barely contained panic in Pythagoras' voice. He opens his eyes wide and tells the mathematician he was "just lucky", smiling brightly through the pain and allowing his friend to assume he is unharmed. He tells himself it it not exactly a lie – merely an omission of the truth. The relief in Pythagoras' voice is palpable and he is briefly grateful that his friend cannot yet read him well enough to tell that his responses are not quite true. The pride his friend feels in the ability of the group to finally act as they need to and in Jason's own cunning is clear, and he allows himself to be carried along on a wave of good feeling.

The first thing that strikes him as he steps through the gate into the arena is the heat, and he is briefly glad that he chose to forgo wearing his tunic for this – even though he knows this will be the last time for a while that he will be able to go shirtless; the bruising to his ribcage is still unnoticeable at present but it will not be long before it is visible and he has no wish to let his friends know that he did not tell them he was hurt.

The second thing that strikes him is how big the arena is and just how many people have come to watch. The thought is both sobering and galling – the people will rejoice if the team succeeds but equally will revel in the blood if they should fail. Although he knows that this is human nature, it is still hard to stomach. He steps forward with the others to stand facing the royal box and sets his jaw, unwilling to show any of the terror he actually feels – unwilling to give the occupants of the box the satisfaction of seeing him afraid. Ariadne, beautiful Ariadne, looks scared, showing the fear that he cannot allow himself to exhibit. The king himself seems impassive, merely anticipating a pleasant afternoon's entertainment, and the queen's slimy nephew can barely contain his glee – he is almost bouncing up and down in his seat like a spoiled child awaiting a treat. Quietly he warns the others not to show any fear before uttering the ritual words of the condemned – the words that will start the "contest".

As the bull is released, a wave of pain overtakes him – pain as if a hundred knives are suddenly stabbing into his thigh and if it weren't for Pythagoras – dear, sweet, loyal Pythagoras – holding him up he would fall to the ground. By the time the knives transfer to his stomach he can no longer support his own weight and he crashes to his knees on the sand, Pythagoras' arm still securely around his shoulders. He manages to look up in time to see Hercules jump the bull – it is not elegant, not graceful, but it is clean. Two down, three to go. The problem is that right now he knows he could not stand let alone jump – but if he fails they are all dead. Pain like nothing he has ever felt grips his abdomen again – worse even than when his appendix burst when he was fourteen – and he writhes, moaning in agony, unaware of his surroundings for a moment. Somewhere in the back of his mind he hears Elpis calling the bull, drawing it away and towards herself, but he cannot summon the energy to look, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Until now he had hoped that the others had been wrong about the queen wanting him dead but it appears they were right – although he still can't quite fathom why she would hate him so much.

Then a miracle happens and as suddenly as the pain came it has gone without a trace. There can be only one answer – Medusa has succeeded in stopping Pasiphae. He stands, ready to make the most of the chance that the girl has given them – and it is still such a slim chance, relying on both Pythagoras and him to play their parts. He repays the loyalty the mathematician has shown him with faith of his own – believing utterly in the words he says to his friend; believing utterly in Pythagoras. As with Hercules, the jump is not graceful and distinctly ungainly but the young genius succeeds in spite of his fears. Then, finally, it is his turn. He has Elpis call the bull towards him while he centres himself. As he begins his run, he feels his side twinge – by this point he is fairly certain that he has one or more fractured ribs, but he has to make this jump cracked ribs or not. Of course he could jump simply, but adrenaline is surging through him and part of him – the part that understands that grandstanding is sometimes necessary – wants to prove something; wants to prove to the Lord Heptarian that he has not been broken. So he jumps two footed into a spectacular double somersault, barely registering the flare of pain from his ribcage as he lands neatly on his feet.

The group hug that follows Minos' proclamation of their freedom is somewhat painful, with Hercules on his right and Shabaka on his left (and just how did the man get to be that big?), but he is so happy that he just grins and ignores any other feeling than pleasure. He even waves to the crowd as he jogs out of the arena – may as well put on a bit of a show.

By the time they leave the bull court and step out into freedom the adrenaline is beginning to wear off, leaving him drained and in pain. He has laced his breastplate slightly more loosely than normal and is carrying himself a little more stiffly, but he is fairly certain he has managed to hide it well enough – although he does catch Hercules looking at him shrewdly at one point which is a little disconcerting to say the least. Outside he manages to avoid another bone crushing hug from Shabaka by going in for a manly arm clasp himself, but Elpis launches herself at him before he is truly aware and it is all he can do not to visibly wince even as he returns her hug awkwardly.

Once they have parted, he, Pythagoras and Hercules make their way home, the banter between them light and friendly. Hercules even has an arm slung lightly around his shoulders as they walk and this friendly gesture makes him feel warm and secure and, in a strange way, loved – and he hasn't felt like that in a very long time.

It's late, very late, and the adrenaline of the last few days has long since departed. He is exhausted, every overworked muscle crying out for rest, but the constant bone deep ache that seems to have taken up residence in his side will not let him sleep. Of course sleeping on the floor rolled up in spare blankets doesn't actually help matters all that much, so he pushes himself painfully up from the floor and goes to sit on the balcony, blanket wrapped tightly about his shoulders to try to ward off the night's chill. As far as he can tell it is still some hours until dawn (he misses having a watch so much right now) so he rests his head back against the wall and lets his thoughts drift.

A light breeze stirs up dust, which in turn catches the back of his throat and makes him cough. Every cough causes his chest to spasm slightly, bringing wave upon wave of sheer white hot agony from his damaged ribs (yep, definitely at least two fractured), and he tries to ride out the waves as best he can without waking the mathematician in the next room – Pythagoras worries enough about life without him adding to the man's burden. But his throat has been thoroughly irritated by the dust and he just can't seem to stop coughing – each new cough bringing new misery – and he curls in on himself, drawing his knees up tightly under his chin. A calloused yet gentle hand begins to rub up and down his spine, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders and back, but he cannot pull himself together enough to look up and see who it is. Just breathing seems to have taken up his whole world.

As the spasms finally fade a cup of water is thrust unceremoniously under his nose and he takes it, drinking greedily. The cool water eases his throat and he uncurls slightly, resting his head back against the wall and looking sideways through slitted eyes.

He is somewhat surprised to find that it is Hercules next to him and not Pythagoras as he had presumed. To be completely honest he had thought that the big man would be in a drunken stupor by now, having retreated to his room with a jar of wine several hours ago. Hercules stares into the distance, his eyes lost in thought, and they sit for some time, shoulder to shoulder in companionable silence. Eventually Hercules turns to him with one eyebrow quirked.

"How many?" he asks.

"What?" His confusion is genuine – and here in the still of the night it feels like the most honest thing he's said in days; he doesn't really like deceiving his friends even if he does believe that it is for their own good.

"Ribs," the large man clarifies. "How many ribs have you broken?"

For a moment he is dumbfounded. He had thought he had done a good enough job of hiding his pain. Besides which Hercules has never been the most observant person so it worries him that he is so easy to read (he has so many secrets he must hide – too many secrets). He laughs a little bitterly, just a short bark, before the aforementioned fractured ribs remind him that laughing is no better idea than coughing. Once he can breathe again he glances back at his companion, before turning his gaze to study the floor intently.

"A couple, I guess... how did you know?"

Hercules smiles in the darkness.

"I've been around the wrestling arena for years," he says. "Seen too many broken ribs to not recognise the signs. Besides you hit that bull pretty hard. Hit the floor hard too..."

"I thought I'd hidden it."

"Oh you didn't do too bad. I just knew what to look for." Hercules nodded at the curtain separating off Pythagoras' room. "Why didn't you tell him?"

He smiles wryly into the night, not looking at the big man next to him.

"I thought he had enough to worry about," he admits.

Hercules laughs quietly.

"Pythagoras worries about the sun coming up. Worry is a natural state for him. You might as well ask the tide to stop coming in as to ask him not to worry. You shouldn't be keeping things from either of us though... not while you're living here at least."

Jason frowns. He closes his eyes at the thought of leaving them, even though it has crossed his mind many times that they might be safer without him here – that he only brings trouble to them.

Hercules leans forward.

"You don't talk about your past. I understand that... well I don't really, but it doesn't matter all that much. But I need to know right now if there's anything else you should have told us and haven't."

And just like that all the truths he cannot tell them come crashing down on his head. All the little omissions that he told himself weren't really lies. All the knowledge of the future that he has but cannot say. And his breath hitches in his throat, the lie he is about to tell sitting heavily in his stomach, making him feel sick. The air feels thick and heavy as he struggles to force the lie past his teeth, to tell this big, trusting man that he has kept nothing else important from them. And he can't do it – he cannot look the man straight in the face and lie.

"I can't," he says in anguish. "I can't tell you where I'm from. I don't really know where I'm from... or where I'm going." To his horror he realises that tears are tracking down his face and he can't seem to stop them. In the darkness before the dawn he sobs out all his fear and sorrow; a lost boy in a strange world.

Hercules pats him awkwardly on the shoulder, unsure of what to do. As he quiets (and how has Pythagoras slept through this – the man must be one hell of a deep sleeper) he finds that he is more at peace than he has been at any time since he arrived in Atlantis. He sighs and leans back again.

"Pythagoras has got quite attached to you," Hercules remarks suddenly. "If you're planning on leaving I think you should tell him."

"I'm not going anywhere," he says and realises as he says it that it is the complete truth. "I think I've finally found somewhere I belong."

The big man nods.

"I suppose we'd better find you a proper bed then. You can't be sleeping on the floor forever if you're going to stay." Hercules stands and offers a hand to pull him up.

As he lies back down on his blankets, he smiles to himself. He has found home at last.