Tide Pools

by livengoo

livengoo at natch

Well, you and I both know which characters belong to people and companies whose names don't start with Goo, but I won't hurt them.

I was scanning my computer and found a little old Storm fic I hadn't remembered I had . . . Spoilers up to and including The Storm or whatever they really called that puppy. Hope it's not too stale.

Another aftermath story of course. You never know what the tide will wash up after a storm . . .

It was frantic. Rodney McKay watched the organized chaos for a moment.
They had it under control, though, and he breathed a deep sigh of relief. They didn't need him. Not now. McKay slipped out of the gate room unnoticed. The hall was bustling - too busy for anyone to really notice who was there or who wasn't. He picked up his pace as he neared his room, tasting sour bile at the back of his throat.

He barely made it to his room and the bathroom - what the Ancients used for one - before he was doubled over, bringing up bile. It burned in his throat, the back of his sinuses, bitter and foul. No food - he hadn't had time to eat in the rush to prepare for the storm, and the Genii certainly hadn't fed them. He almost laughed at the notion. Instead, he doubled over again. Crap, but it felt like he'd thrown up meals he ate in Russia, ghosts of dinners long gone.

It took forever. He finally sagged sideways against the tiled basin full of water that he and the other humans used as a sink (who knew what the Ancients did with them . . . the only thing they'd been able to really recognize were the toilets. Humanoid crap - the engineer's Rosetta Stone). McKay dragged himself up onto his knees and grabbed the edge of the basin full of water, dunked his head and washed away the foulness in his mouth.

Throwing up had never been an activity he enjoyed. It left a foul taste in his mouth, sore muscles in his gut and an ache in his head. He finally slumped down to sprawl on the cool tiles. They felt soothing under his back. He rolled his arm, the one with the bandage, and let the chilly floor leach the heat out of him, fight the wound's burn.

McKay really didn't want to move. When he moved he ached - the arm, of course, but also the bruises on his back, and dull discomfort of exhausted muscles. He drowsed there for a minute, before pushing up to his feet. The bandage around his forearm was stained, gawky and clumsy. It was a botched job and he'd known it when he did it - but it was enough. No one had asked him any questions. Probably just as happy not to have one more person begging for attention. Hell, he knew hypochondriacs were a medical staff's nightmare. He snorted at the thought. They were probably rubbing their rabbits' feet and hoping he didn't darken their doors. Hang a little garlic to keep him away.

He picked at the edges of the bandage then winced at the results. Okay, so picking at wounds hurt. Scientific method proved it, he felt no need to repeat the experiment. He also felt no need to demand his share of medical attention. Evolution gave him a perfectly good immune system, let it cope unaided for once. He sighed. Truth to tell he just didn't feel like dealing with anyone. Or their questions. He could picture it in his imagination - what little imagination he had. Sheppard wondering what the hell happened with the Genii. Zelenka offering concern and curiosity he didn't want to satisfy. Weir . . . well. She knew the answers. That was bad too. And Beckett . . . even the idea made his stomach twist again. He shook his head. No, this wasn't the right time to go to the infirmary. They had enough on their hands.

So. Infirmary off limits. Commissary off limits - too many people with too many questions. His lab should be safe ground but, no, he'd have questions to answer there too.

Zelenka. He frowned. Kavanagh. He grimaced. Sheppard. He winced. There were too many questions he could imagine, all needing answers and none of which he wanted to give. Not yet. Not when it was so raw and fresh.

McKay padded out to the main room, staring around the little space that was his haven. Though not this time, probably. He tapped the little radio at his ear, asked Grodin if they needed anything. He heard the brief hesitation and wondered what the man heard in his voice. No, not really. He didn't actually care what Grodin heard, though he knew he'd heard something.

No real problems up there, nothing a few terse comments couldn't settle. Nothing in the lab. Nothing from Sheppard or Weir, not yet. He breathed a sigh of relief. Quiet. It was really quiet here. He'd noticed it before. Usually liked it. This time it itched like a peeling sunburn on the back of his neck. Mckay rubbed hard at the spot where his skull met his neck, pacing, trying to override it. He knew the feeling - work was the cure. No problem, the storm and the Genii had left plenty of that. He froze, recalling one piece of work in particular. He crammed tools and some food into a pack and left his quarters, if not that itchy feeling, behind.

Carson Beckett glared. Theda Harrison poked a finger into his chest. "You heard me."

"Aye, you're loud enough."

She snorted indelicately. "Sure, if you've got a hangover or a concussion. And we both know which one you've got."

Beckett glared, then winced at the light, rubbed delicately at his temples. "Theda, my head will hurt whether I am here or in my room. At least here I can keep busy."

"And make us nuts."

"Just let me sit in my office. I'll get paperwork done."

She frowned. "And we'll wear holes in the floor checking on you every two minutes."

"Theda . . "

"You know what I'm going to say. You say it yourself so often you can say it in your sleep. So why are you giving me a hard time? Do you REALLY want to prove to me that doctors are the worst patients?"

"I am not!"

She made a rude noise and pointed towards the door. "Out."

"But -"

"Do not MAKE me go get Dr. Biro to treat you. You know her best patients are dead."

He shuddered. "I'd rather -"

Her fingertip landed firmly on his lips. "You'd rather plant your workaholic Scottish butt in your office and sit there wincing and moaning and taking up our valuable time worrying about you and instead of that you're going to take your own advice and go SLEEP."

"Or what?" He crossed his arms and mustered what he had left of a stubborn glare.

"Or I'm telling Dr. Weir on you." She lifted her chin in triumph.

"You would not! That'd be tattling!"

"Damn straight."

"You're an honorless woman, Theda. Completely and totally without common decency and . . . and . . ." He flailed for an insult that would annoy her without getting his tea spiked with something nasty. "And your socks sag."

"That's it. Out. Now."

He groaned and took it like a man. Whining and moaning as he slunk out of med.

The salt air was fresh and brisk. It made McKay feel slightly queasy, though the sunlight helped. Last time he'd been here it had been a dark and stormy night and he'd been scared as hell that a shot would ring out. He sighed and shook his head. Maybe it wasn't the salt air making him queasy. Probably the melodrama instead.

He picked up a bullet-pocked housing and bolted it back into place. One down. Three to go. The Major had thoroughly wrecked this particular piece of technology, and Kolya and his goon squad and just put the icing on the cake. They were people who really put their hearts, souls, and ammunition into their work. And into the panels of the grounding station, McKay acknowledged as he unbolted the next piece of perforated housing. It had struck him as extremely odd that the Ancient technology, and Wraith technology as well, was so vulnerable to projectile weapons. He'd have expected Wraith darts and Ancient consoles to be more resistant to projectiles, tougher than terrestrial technology. But he'd seen Wraith darts brought down by bullets - albeit big ones in large quantities - and this particular blasted console was thoroughly and unpleasantly sieved.

Maybe irreparably sieved. McKay pulled out the shattered remnants of a crystal and scowled at them. Junk. A piece of exquisitely designed technology which transmitted and modulated energy, reduced to trash. And the Ancients - arrogant bastards that they were - hadn't left instructions for making new ones. McKay rolled what looked like a handful of broken safety glass back and forth, then sighed and threw it towards the railing. It glittered briefly in the sun then fell, some clattering to the platform and most into the sea far below. He and his fellow humans could use the stuff, some of them could even understand it, and all of them could destroy it. Not a single one, not him, not Sam Carter, not Daniel-used-to-be-an-Ancient-Jackson, could make it. Useless.

He sagged to the deck and leaned back against the console, pulling a power bar from his pack. Chocolate chip was usually his favorite. Today it tasted like crap. He took a few nibbles then wrapped it up and wadded it back in his pocket. The food didn't offer the usual comfort. He rubbed tired, sore eyes and turned back to the work, studying the ruined crystals. He might be able to cannibalize some . . .and at least the work was absorbing.

There was something comforting about Teyla. When she fought, the steady, rhythmic clatter of her sticks spoke of confidence and control. To Carson Beckett, at least. He had a feeling that Major Sheppard heard them entirely differently but that was neither here nor there since Teyla wasn't fighting at the moment. She was on the open deck above the jumpers, directing her people and she was still confident and in control. And still comforting. Beckett watched her for a minute, gauging the pace and the pattern of her actions. She almost danced, moving from one task to the next as if her course were choreographed. Here, directing a group to count boxes of food and load them. There, helping Halling load military shelters for the mainland. She should have looked ridiculous working with him, but Teyla never did. You could dress her as a clown and put a red ball on her nose and she'd look . . . well. Maybe she'd look ridiculous then. He smiled to himself at the thought and turned to the group puzzling through the boxes of medical supplies.

And she was suddenly there, hand on his arm and warm eyes sharp on his face. "Dr. Beckett. I had thought you were to rest?"

He shielded his eyes from the sun. With the storm past, it was brilliant and hot. "And what makes you think that?"

She gave him a quizzical look and tapped her head. "You would say as much were any other so hurt."

He blustered. "I might or I might not. T'is not so bad . . ."

Her rueful smile widened a bit. "That, and perhaps I did hear that Nurse Harrison . . . how do you put it? Devoured your hindquarters?"

"Chewed my arse?" He couldn't restrain the snort of amusement. "Have you spies everywhere?"

She tucked a hand into his and led him to a shady spot out of the way. "People tell me things. Am I to stop them?"

He let her, settling beside her out of the sun. "Just for a moment. There's a great deal to do."

Teyla pulled her hair off her neck, letting the breeze dry sweaty skin. "That is true. And we will gladly accept your help."

He smiled. "You're welcome."

The quizzical look was back. "Even if it is just an excuse."

"What?" He frowned, then winced as it caused his head to twinge.

She shrugged. "I will accept your help for my people, but perhaps it is I who can help you."

Beckett found himself staring at her, mouth open. He snapped it shut. "That's a bit unnerving, you know. But I can see why your people think so highly of you."

Her smile gleamed. "Thank you, Dr. Beckett. But it was not so difficult for one who knows you fairly well. Your attention is on helping when you wish to help. Right now your attention is elsewhere. You should be asleep, yet you came here, to me. So how may I help you?"

He snorted. "You're too big fer yer britches sometimes, Lass."

She smiled. "Which is why I sometimes where a sarong."

"An' how would a woman in the Pegasus Galaxy know about a thing like that?"

One brow rose in a suggestive arch. "How would a man from any galaxy know about a thing like that?"

He couldn't help smiling. "I asked a woman who was wearin' one."

She smiled back. "As did I."

Beckett's smile widened. "How do you do this?"

One of those athletic eyebrows of hers arched again. "Wear a sarong? It is simple but I do not think it is a thing you would wish -"

"No." He laughed then winced as it put a spike of pain through his head. "No. How can you be so calm?"

She looked around her, looked at her hands, full of lists, and back at him. "This does not seem calm to me, but if I did not stay in control the work would not be done."

His smile had fled. He rubbed gingerly at the bruise on his temple. "I mean . . . we nearly died."

Teyla tilted her head. "But we did not."

Beckett stared at her. "Can you really let it go so easy as that?"

"There is nothing to let go, Doctor. We are not dead. We are well."

"A man who says he's our friend tried to kill us both!"

Teyla tilted her head to one side and considered that. "But that is not what happened, is it?"

"It most certainly is! Rodney would'a killed us both if the Major hadn't a stopped him!"

Teyla nodded. "It is true that he made a decision that would most likely have led to our deaths, and it is true that Major Sheppard decided otherwise. Yet, you do not think Dr. McKay wished our deaths, do you?"

"No." Beckett made a frustrated gesture. "No! But we'd a been as dead!"

Teyla shrugged. "This is true. But what other decision would you have had him make?"

"Wait for us maybe?" Beckett was incredulous.

"And had he done so, and the wave hit, then we would be as dead, would we not? And more with us?"

"But . . . that didn't happen!"

Teyla sat back, thoughtful. "I see. Our deaths by electricity, which did not happen, are troubling. Our deaths by drowning which did not happen are not."

Beckett blinked. Stared off at the clear sky above them. "When you put it that way it doesn't make a great lot of sense, does it?"

Teyla smiled at him, slow and sweet. "It makes sense in its own way. You feel a betrayal of you took place because Dr. McKay made a choice."

"YES." Beckett nodded, sagged back against the wall. And said more softly, ". . .yes."

"Dr. Beckett, faced with the choice of two lives or the city, what choice would you have made?"

The doctor opened his mouth then sat there, a puzzled look on his face. Finally shut it and looked at her in frustration. "But it was us."

"I know that. And he knows that. Had I been there, I would have made the same decision, Doctor. Would you truly have risked the whole city for hope?"

"But Major Sheppard was right," he whispered.

Teyla shook her head, a sad look on her face. "No. Dr. McKay was right. Major Sheppard was lucky.

Beckett considered that, an unhappy, conflicted look on his face. Finally sighed and sagged a little, really tired and really achy. "I don't like it."

"I am certain that neither did Dr. McKay." Teyla looked sympathetic. Then rattled her lists. "Have you spoken with him of this?"

"You know I haven't."

She smiled slyly. "That is true."

"What would I say?"

"The truth." She shrugged. "That you feel hurt but you understand. That he chose wisely and you forgive him."

"Do I?"

"I think you know the answer to that, Dr. Beckett. You are a good man."

"Sometimes you expect far too much of a man, Lass."

"But not this time, I think." She smiled at him, a warm, welcoming smile. "Not this time."

Beckett groaned. "You would say that to me. Now I won't be able to sleep, not 'til I do."

She chortled. "That is your own burden to bear, doctor. You may not give that to me."

"Brat!" He baffed her hair then leaned in, hugged her tight. "John isn't just lucky. He's made the right choices many a time."

When he rose the tension had left his shoulders, and his walk was easy even if his head still hurt.

Everything smelled like mildew. McKay had had no idea that there was mildew in the world of the Ancients. Somehow, it knocked some of the gloss off of their image. A bit more, actually, given some of the things they'd learned about the Ancients didn't leave them looking as spiffy as they had. Hell, next thing they knew they'd probably find out the Ancients had had foot fungus. Given his luck they'd figure it out when some kind of mutated, evolved foot fungus thing from hell squelched its way out of the depths of the city.

Depths, come of think of it, that he was squelching his way into. He sighed. And sneezed and spat. It splatted into the thin layer of stale, salty water on the floor. Glanced at the scanner in his left hand. The energy signature he'd found was stronger. Good. He puffed a breath and nodded. Spare parts ho.

The light dazzled back from flooded rooms, glittering off the water. It was almost beautiful. Until he took a breath because it most definitely did not smell beautiful. Here and there strange fish bellies shone glossy white. McKay was momentarily glad he didn't like seafood. He certainly wouldn't have after this.

The scanner flickered in his hand. He grunted, punched at it and studied the output. He had it set to a small radius, high sensitivity. At this level it would pick up the static in Major Sheppard's hair. Thankfully, it would also differentiate between signals as erratic as that and what he was after, since the idea of searching for a submerged, Ancient corpse with that hair would give anyone nightmares. McKay paused, studied the output and sloshed into a room. His flashlight beam bounced off high walls, relatively undecorated for the Ancients. A quick search found a small panel that yielded to prying fingers and tools, and gave up . . . trash. Just like the five he'd looked at before. He sighed and pulled out the small, brownish crystals. Flaws in their depths caught the light. Very pretty and very useless. They'd blow at the first serious surge. McKay tossed them over his shoulder and splashed on, deeper into the city.

Another faint spark showed on his scanner. Up ahead, about fifteen-hundred feet . . . he picked up the pace a bit, shuffling his feet to be sure he didn't step on anything he'd rather not. There'd been enough spills that he was drenched and knew that unpleasant alien marine life forms were taking up residence where he'd rather they didn't. McKay turned a corner and stopped, and suddenly he wasn't paying attention to stale water or sticky clothes.

The room was immense. It arched above him, colors barely shining at the extreme range of his light, a bare hint of orange and gold. He was still underwater, and the light was filtered, dim. Circular walls embraced what must once have rivaled the gate room. Now it was a lake, barely moving, gleaming gently in the dark. He had to step up onto a raised floor, finally stepping above shallow water, only to find himself looking down onto deep water. And he had no doubt it was deep, no need to look at the scanner in his hand. Something in him just felt it, knew this for a sunken, drowned place. It might have been newly drenched in the storm, or have lain here for thousands of years, echoing the faint drip of water from somewhere high above. He suddenly gasped and realized he'd been holding his breath, not wanting to disturb the quiet of this room. It felt vaguely wrong to disturb this place. Another glance at his scanner, though, and he was convinced. Daniel Jackson had shown how much tomb raiders were worth to the US Government and who was Rodney McKay to argue? Better yet, when it wasn't even a tomb he had to raid. Dropping his pack, he started to check the location . . . and looked up, frowning. The frown slowly faded to be replaced by a look of intense disgust.

"Fantastic. Perfect. I should have known." He winced at the echo of his own voice from the ceiling, then shrugged philosophically. Summers in Vancouver were about to come in handy, he thought, putting down the scanner and kicking off his shoes. At least he was used to swimming in cold water. Used to it, not fond of it, but another glance at the scanner told him it was worth it. Pants, shirt and jacket followed the shoes and socks, dropped to the dry, dirt-crusted platform. McKay ran a thumb inside his boxers and decided a drowned room in the depths of an alien city just didn't feel like the right place for skinny dipping today.

The water was a glossy black, like obsidian. Diving was out of the question, when he couldn't see the bottom. Instead he padded down the stairs of a double staircase, a twin to the gate room, several miles away. The floor felt gritty with eons of dust and junk, but nothing sharp, no reason to turn back. He reached the lapping water and took a breath, stuck in a foot, and squealed and yanked it back out, hopping on one foot. "Cold cold cold cold!"

His echo answered him, sounding ridiculous and he stopped just to shut it up. Wrinkled his nose. The water wasn't going to get any warmer. Tensing, he stuck his foot back in, and hissed at the chill. Good thing he was Canadian. Americans, with their reliance on sunny, Floridian waters and shallow pools would never have been able to cope. Warming himself with the notion of national superiority, he plowed into the water, trying to tell himself his goose bumps were a sign of courage. It took the considerable intellectual might of a true genius to REALLY cook up a good delusion, and this one was top of the line. Right. He was warm. His people frisked naked in the snow for fun. Sure. McKay took a deep breath and used that considerable brain and will-power to ease all the way into water that felt like it came right out of snowmelt, thank you very much. Damn it, but Atlantis's people owed him a lot.

Back home, once he was in, he'd acclimate. Sunlit water would feel warmer, brisk and clean. Here, black water folded around him, oily and cold. He paddled a moment, hoping vainly for that moment when the water would feel better but it never came. McKay finally gave it up, stroked for the center of the room where he remembered the scanner showing the glitter of power. In the center of the room, an ornate pillar plunged from the ceiling to the depths. Its reflection now had ripples, perhaps for the first time in centuries, who knew. McKay swam the yards out to the thing, treading water to look up at the delicate traceries and arches of Ancient machinery, as beautiful as it must once have been powerful. It still held the spark of power and that was enough for him. McKay studied the structure, deciding where best to look, then took a long, deep breath and dove.

The gate room was a mess. Frantic. Too few security officers were playing traffic cop for too many refugees streaming in through one stargate into one room. It was a damn big room but Grand Central Station would have been too small to handle the population of a village and a small city. Or maybe it was just a hamlet full of geeks but even so, it was more than enough people to make the gate room more crowded than a Who concert on a Saturday night.

And John Sheppard hated it. He'd hated it when he was a lowly wingnut and he hated it now. Only two things were worse: honest-to-generals busywork, and . . . paperwork.

The very idea suddenly had him seeing the current tasks in a better light and he actually mustered a smile for the elderly Athosian woman whose goat-kind-of-thing decided to take a dump just after it came through the gate. The smell made him wrinkle his nose and actually wish that there were people who needed nice, clean, boring machines turned on. As opposed to unpleasant, dirty, boring traffic cop duties needing to be done, but if the military taught you nothing else, it taught you to buckle down and do what needed to be done. As least as long as the brass was watching. Which, damn it, was all the time since here he WAS the brass.

Sheppard sighed, then used at least one of the prerogatives of rank and whistled at a lowly airman who was shortly tasked with cleaning up goat crap. Ahhhh, yes. Rank did have its privileges.

He found himself a quiet place to the side of the gate room and watched for a minute. The city was a mess. Its people were a mess. They were flooding back in through the gate as rapidly as possible, Athosians carrying bundles of food or whatever cherished little trinket they'd been able to save from their homes. Humans carrying their equivalent, items of technology or keepsakes from Earth. They'd come through the gate and immediately be ushered away, clearing the ramp for the next person through. And each and every one of them had to be led into the warren of small rooms and briefly questioned, checked to make sure no OTHER sneaky little bit of Genii scheming was waiting to be sprung. Not that the kind of quick and dirty, customs-officer check they were doing was likely to catch it, but it was better than nothing.

He looked up at the balcony where Elizabeth was leaning, head hanging heavy and circles under her eyes visible even from here. The woman better sit down or she'd fall down, from the way she looked. Of course, she looked like he felt so he didn't have many legs to balance and hop around on himself. He met her eyes and saw his own thoughts reflected there. Shared a rueful shrug with her, he turned back just in time to nearly be mowed down. "Hey, HEY" he yelped, skipping aside to avoid the two children racing by, pelting each other with vegetables. Sighed for what seemed like the zillionth time in an hour and really, really, really missed Teyla. He'd thought it was pretty tough to face the challenges of commanding marines and geeks. He was getting an education. Whatever they were paying Teyla, it wasn't enough.

He didn't have much warning. Sheppard saw Elizabeth straighten up fast, saw her eyes widen and her mouth opened. He heard an outraged squawk as the impact took him off his feet and Carson Beckett, skidding madly, crashed to the ground on top of him.

"ACK!" Yelped Beckett.

"OOOF!" Grunted Sheppard, and "YECCHH!" as he realized what he'd landed in.

Children snickered. Sheppard, flat on his belly, looked up to see a small child and a smaller goat. The child smiled brilliantly and giggled. "You smell funny."

What could he say? The kid was right. Sheppard curled a lip and shot a quick glare at the kid, who giggled and called to his friends. The intimidating effect wasn't helped when he grunted as a well-educated elbow dug in his ribs. "Doc! Could you watch where you put those things?"

"Ah, sorry!" Beckett managed to remove himself from the Major's back without causing major bodily harm, where he stood and muttered something about being very sorry and very clumsy and, again, very sorry. Sheppard groaned and eased himself to his feet, then smiled reassuringly at the contrite MD.

"It's okay. Nothing a few weeks in traction won't cure."

It worked. Beckett's face shifted to exasperation and he rolled his eyes. "Oh aye. And next I'll be hearing from your lawyer, is that right?"

"Y'know, I hadn't considered that. I could be set for life!" Sheppard grinned broadly and rubbed his hands together like a silent movie villain. "I bet McKay's got a whole folder in his computer for personal injury lawyers."

"Y'can keep Rodney's ambulance chasers to yourself, Major." Beckett scowled at him theatrically for a moment, then shrugged. "But I am looking for Rodney. I thought he might be here."

"Here?" Sheppard looked around himself at the returning Athosians, the little animals, the children, and then down at the dung on his own uniform and back up to Beckett. "HERE?" he repeated incredulously.

Beckett took a long, slow look around him then came back to Sheppard. "I suppose I do see your point."

"Yeahhh." Sheppard started to brush at the stuff on his clothes, then changed his mind. "Have you tried his lab?"

The exasperated look was back. Beckett didn't say anything, just raised one eyebrow in an all-too-expressive manner.

"I suppose that was pretty stupid." The eyebrow notched a tiny bit higher. "Did Zelenka know?"

"I think that's covered under 'not in the lab', Major. Should I have brought you a cup of coffee?"

"I wouldn't have turned it down." Sheppard stretched and yawned, then tilted his head. "But I have an idea."

"Should I ask?"

"Sure. Who always knows where everyone is?"

Beckett blinked once, twice, then slapped his forehead. "I have the brains of a . . . a . . ."

Sheppard just grinned and headed for the stairs. Peter Grodin was, as always, hunched over his consoles, watching them with the wary look of someone entirely too busy who knows he's about to be asked for something else. "Can I help you, Major?"

"Depends. Have you seen McKay lately?"

The suspicious look cleared as Grodin ran a confident hand over a panel. "Just give me a moment . . ." He voice trailed off as a slight frown grew. "Umm."

Sheppard looked over his shoulder. "You can tell them apart? They all look the same to me . . ."

"They are." Grodin glanced up and wiggled his fingers. "Trust my physic powers."

Beckett cringed. "That is a very bad pun, lad. You've been keeping bad company."

"That might be true." Grodin grinned fiendishly. "But . . ."

"But?" Sheppard glanced up from the screens to find Grodin's smile was fading into a puzzled frown. "Peter?"

"Well . . . with so few we can afford the tracking capability to identify them but I don't see Dr. McKay here."

"What?" Sheppard and Beckett both leaned in. "Where is he?" "Where could he be?" Their questions overlapped.

"If I knew I would certainly tell you," snapped Grodin. He heaved a noisy sigh. "Let me widen . . . little wider . . . AH!"

"Ah?" Two voices asked.

"That is very disconcerting, gentlemen." His fingers caressed a few symbols and then the city core schematic widened, focused, and shifted to three dimensions. There was a glowing, dense cluster of dots and then one, all by itself. Grodin tapped it. "But even without labels, I would wager that that is our Dr. McKay."

Sheppard leaded in closer. "There? What's he doing way down there?"

Grodin shook his head. "I'm physic. Not psychic. I can tell you where he is but if you want to know why, you'll have to ask him yourself."

"Ha bluidy ha," muttered Beckett. "Can you call him?"

"Out there?" Grodin shook his head. "It's black-out down there. Unexplored or near enough and now it's drowned to boot."

Sheppard groaned. "So of course, that's where he is. "It's big. It's dark. It's scary. Naturally McKay goes right for it."

Beckett snorted, then winced. Sheppard glanced over. "Men with concussions shouldn't throw stones. Or make rude noises."

"I'll remember that the next time we're taken over by mad alien Nazis then, shall I?"

"Hey, it's a useful life lesson. Don't knock it."

Peter Grodin glanced up at them. "This is all very entertaining but while you're bantering, should I set up a search party for Dr. McKay?"

Sheppard shook his head. "Naahhh. Do that and the city'll explode. That's just a McKay rule of the universe. No, I'll go look for him."

"But you've got . . ." Beckett waved a hand around at the organized chaos. "I can look."

"Last time I checked, you were concussed and on medical restriction. Medical chief or no, rules are rules. Also, last time I checked, any time McKay goes off the reservation the people who look for him should carry big guns." He grinned and patted his.

Beckett rolled his eyes and winced again. "Of course, you're the only man in Atlantis who carries a gun."

"Fashion accessory." Muttered Grodin.

"What was that?" Sheppard turned half around to glare.

"Absolutely necessary, Major. I understand." Grodin smiled.

Sheppard shot a suspicious look his way, then nodded and smiled at Beckett. "I'll round him up. You need him for anything in particular?"

"No emergency. But . . ." Beckett seemed to flounder for a moment, then his face cleared and he nodded. "He should get his arm checked . .. Bring him on by, would you?"

Sheppard opened his mouth to ask, then shut it. Shrugged and plastered his best clueless wing nut grin from ear to ear. "You got it, Doc!"

Rodney McKay's eardrums ached with cold and pressure. Everything ached with cold, come to think of it. Except for his arm, which felt numb with the cold. It was sort of a peaceful feeling.

Bubbles tickled their way past the flashlight in his mouth, trickled their way up his face and into the black water over his head. The water was salty and stale. He'd have wrinkled his nose but the first time he did that he'd dropped the flashlight and had to swim further down, where the silt clouded the water and doubtless toxic amoeba were infiltrating his ears and nostrils. He shivered, possibly with cold, then his eyes crinkled with a smile his lips couldn't form.

He'd found treasure down here. Buried treasure. This room must have been drowned eons ago. Silt had settled in the depths and some kind of disgusting organic muck had grown over every surface it could cling to. Including his crystals. He wanted to sigh. What should have been glorious, clean, elegant crystals looked like something from an uncleaned refrigerator. He reached out and brushed at the stuff and the water instantly went opaque with muck. McKay shut his eyes tight and kicked for the surface.

The air was chilly and, needless to say, stale. The light of his flashlight was bright on the ripples. Tessellated reflections reached the ceiling in faint patterns, dim echoes of the dazzling surface of the water. McKay thought of all those centuries here in the dark and he shivered. The water lapped softly at the edges of the room, and a distant, slow drip rang loud in contrast as he floated, treading water. He exhaled explosively and struck out towards the steps, paused at how loud his swimming was, then snorted in disgust and started again.

The stairs were slick and felt slimy under his bare feet - more of that muck he'd cleaned from the crystals muddied the water around him. He climbed out, slipping and catching himself. His clothes clung, heavy and stinking. McKay shuddered, this time in disgust. The brownish, foul stuff stained the trousers and shirt he wore and looked like brown fuzz sticking to his bare arms and feet. Logically, he should have stripped to dive but the thought of seeing that stuff on his own skin - well. It wasn't going to happen in this galaxy or any other.

The deck was cold under his feet. Every bit of grit and debris felt like a boulder against his wet soles, and his feet left dark, damp prints. The dry nylon of his pack rustled, zipper loud over the quiet lapping of ancient water. The tiniest sounds echoed weirdly in the big room, like the rip of the package on a wet wipe.

He wiped his hands carefully, digging in behind the nails to get them clean, then wiped the back of his neck and grimaced at the light brown filth and promptly shoved the thing into the pocket he used for trash. Another wet wipe and he didn't feel like things were crawling into his pores anymore. McKay sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. The ripples from his swim had died away and the light reflected eerie and still from its glassy surface. When he turned away from the water and the light, the halls were impossibly black. McKay swallowed hard and turned back to his flashlight, rubbing his hands together so briskly they ached. "Well. Soonest begun, soonest done, as I'm sure Carson's mother would say."

He padded back down the stairs, intentionally slapping his bare feet down to make a sound, and whistling in what he knew was an atrociously off-key way. After all. The water was waiting, with his crystals in it.

John Sheppard was tired. And he was hungry, and he really wanted a cup of coffee and one of those neat little rolls the Athosians had taught the kitchen guys to make. And, more than anything, he wanted to see light. Real light.

The thought made him pause in the middle of a long, reeking hall. The floor was mostly dry, though some spots had sagged over the millenia and puddles dotted the tiles. The rest of the floor and most of the walls was crusted in a thin, gritty layer of salt and a lot of things that would probably fascinate the biologists but that made Sheppard long for his nice, clean jumpers in the nice, fresh sky above the ocean.

He looked forward, down a corridor that faded into gloom and back down a path behind him that'd be identical if it didn't have his chalked arrows on it. He took a shallow breath and suddenly turned off his light. And blinked. Dark. Really dark. He turned his head and looked up and down what he knew to be a hall but saw . . . nothing. When he waved his hand right in front of his face he saw nothing. There had never been a night on Earth this dark. The thought made him snort in disgust. "Course there hasn't, idiot." His voice sounded really loud all of a sudden but he spoke again, just because. "Underground, Shep. Under. Ground. Or under water, as McKay would point out to you. If he were here. Jeez. I'm becoming my own McKay."

He stopped, glad no one could hear him talk to himself. For a second he imagined McKay hearing it and shuddered, making a face at the idea. But there was no way - if McKay'd heard him, the scientist would have been laughing like a hyena by now. Safe on that account. "Yeah," he muttered to himself. "No mini-McKay here. That would be . . .oh." He winced at that image. "Why couldn't I have a mini-ME? He'd be short and wear a leather jacket and be so cool! I can see those little mirror shades now. But noooo, I have to have a mini-McKay in my head. This is just so unfair."

He tried to think of something else to say, pretty much anything to say to make noise, but the silence was crowding around him like a living thing. He turned back on his light. It seemed brilliant for a moment. He took a breath that never got to be deep because the stink made him snort it back out, sighed and glanced back to be sure that he was walking away from the occasional damp boot print he'd left behind. Turned back and looked at the smudged salt and slime where another set of boots had already walked. And followed the trail.

An hour later he was muttering under his breath, "Bring him by, right. Just a quick trip down to the bowels of hell, no problem! I HEY!" Sheppard squawked and a foot skidded out from under him, sending him splashing down on his butt in the soggy, rotting muck on the corridor floor.

He got up carefully and took a disgusted look at himself. "CRAP! I thought I smelled bad before." Then he thought of Dr. Rodney McKay, Ph.D., slopping through this and couldn't control a snicker. That turned into a chortle and was moving towards a belly laugh. And then he thought of Rodney McKay down here, in the dark, in an abandoned, dead place with whatever might live in such places, and he thought of McKay's truly diabolical gift for finding whatever those things might be and he didn't feel like laughing at all. He took a deep, stinking breath of humid air and shouted "McKAY! McKay? McKAY! You better get your ass in gear and have it haul that big brain out here or I'll kick that ass of yours halfway back to Earth! McKaaaay!"

"ay ay ay ay" echoed back to him. Sheppard sighed and let his hands drop from his mouth. "Damn it. McKay. Weren't hot zones good enough for you? You had to hit a new low and head for the sewers?"

If the damn pain in the ass would just answer his radio it'd help. Sheppard sighed. That would be asking too much. He knew it. McKay doing something convenient would be . . .unMcKay-ish. Like telling somebody where he was going. Or maybe leaving nice, big arrows on the wall saying 'this way.' But noooo, not Rodney McKay. Sheppard started slogging again, kicking his way through rancid salt seaweed and the crusty junk on the floors of the corridors, punctuated here and there by the scummy puddles of what used to be water.

At least this mess had the virtue of showing a trail better than bread crumbs ever could. Or maybe it'd be powerbar wrappers with McKay, except one of his few virtues was NOT being a litterbug. Sheppard sighed as he met a puddle that encompassed not one, but three branching corridors. Of course Rodney wasn't a litterbug. Litter would make him easier to find. He winced and took a step into the slop.

Oooh McKay was soooo gonna owe him for this.

The puddle might have been water once, but it was a slippery, congealed seaweed-and-whatever soup by this time. He was carefully sliding his feet through the glop, trying to keep from landing on his ass when the radio in his ear beeped. He paused and wobbled, then reached up to tap the receiver in his ear. "Yeah. Sheppard."

"This is Weir, Major." As if he wouldn't recognize her voice by now.

He slid his foot forward again, grimacing as something squelched under his boot and stinky bubbles rose to the surface. "Love to talk, but I'm a bit busy right now."

"Any sign of Rodney yet?" Her voice held a subtle tinge of worry. He grinned briefly.

"Not yet", 'Mom', he added in his thoughts.

"Where are you?" Curiosity joined the worry. "Peter has you on scope but you keep flickering.

"Yeah, well . . . the cell phone reception down here sucks."

"Lovely. So it's not the best neighborhood?"

"You could say that." He breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped out onto relatively dry hall flooring. The floors down here were a little buckled, like sidewalks over roots. The radio spat static then went stable again for no reason he could identify. "I'm down in the guts of nowhere having flashbacks to the steam tunnels at school, Doctor. Figures that's where McKay would go. Someplace dark and smelly."

"Do you need help?"

"Nah. Flushing rodents is flushing rodents. I'll find him."

She snickered, he was sure of it. He could hear the laughter in her voice. "Do I need to ask if HE needs help?"

"He might if it takes much longer for me to find him."

"Major. You know he isn't hiding to annoy you."

"Are you sure? This is McKay we're talking about."

This time she laughed openly. "Bring him back in one piece, all right Major?"

"Do I HAVE to?"

"Yes, you do. It'll be detention if you break him."

"But I have football prac . . . .oooh wait a minute."

"You found him?" Or that's what he thought she said, through the interference.

"I found traces of him," The footprints he was following were muddled, as if McKay had shuffled around, peeking through one door. Sheppard stepped through and shone his light around, up, across consoles and chairs on a balcony then out over glimmering, black water. And back, where McKay's pack and shoes sat high and dry on a raised platform. Sheppard couldn't quite keep the worry out of his voice. "Definitely traces of McKay."

He walked over to study the pack. It had fresh, damp hand prints on it and he breathed out a sigh of relief, releasing a tension he hadn't known he'd had. And looked up at the flooded room, shining his light up across the high, barrel vaulted ceiling and back down to reflect off the chill, still water. Shivered. Then jumped as a shadow moved just under the surface.

"Give me that." Carson Beckett jumped as the whatever-it-was was snatched from his hands. "Do not play with things you do not recognize. You hurt yourself."

Beckett would have frowned but that made his head hurt. Not that it didn't hurt anyway, but inviting unnecessary pain always seemed counterproductive to him. "I wouldn't break it, Radek."

"That is what YOU say! It is not you who would explain it to Rodney." The little Czech tucked the . . . whatever-it-was back into a drawer. He eyed Beckett with a wary expression on his face. He finally spun, snatched up something made of softly burnished bronze metal and panels of colorful material and dropped it in Beckett's hands. "Here. Play with this. Is safe."

"What is it?" Beckett turned it over and over, feeling a bit like a curious raccoon. "What does it do?"

"We do not know but if you can turn it on, tell me."

"Radek!" Beckett put it down.

The scientist sighed and pulled a chair over to sit in front of Beckett. "Dr. Beckett, why are you here?"

"Here?"

"Why are you sitting on Rodney's desk? You have your own desk to sit upon."

Beckett blushed and rubbed his face. "My staff won't let me into the infirmary."

"Ah. You make them nervous too?"

"I make you nervous?"

"Well, not you personally but whenever I see you it is usually accompanied by oh, much blood and screams and gnashing of teeth. And whining. Yes, much whining." Zelenka shuddered theatrically. "Would that not make you nervous?"

"Well, aye. I suppose. If you're not used to it."

"You're used to Rodney?" Zelenka sounded disbelieving.

Beckett couldn't stop himself from snorting a laugh, then winced as a pain shot through his head. "By now, yes, you could say I'm used to him. As much as anyone could be."

"Poor man." Zelenka cringed. "Does your staff not wish to see you?"

"They told me to go rest." Beckett looked around aimlessly.

"So you come here to sit on Rodney McKay's desk because that is restful?" A note of cautious horror was creeping into the little man's voice and Beckett caught him fingering the earpiece of his radio..

"You needn't call security. It's not like that." Beckett toyed with the pretty little artifact he'd been handed. It glowed randomly.

"I wasn't calling them. I was thinking of Dr. Kate." Zelenka edged back towards him to eye the artifact curiously. "Can you make it glow again?"

"I dunno." Beckett rubbed idly at a panel that stayed dark. Another lit up for no reason he could tell. It made a melodic chiming noise. "It's not a weapon is it?"

"Rodney has been calling it an egg timer. Kavanagh thinks it might be explosive."

"Oh, well. Then." Beckett smiled and tried to make it light up again. All the lights came on, blinked, went off, and it chimed pleasantly in a little tune. "Why does Dr. Kavanagh think it explodes?"

"Because it makes Rodney turn red and puff up and yell." Zelenka grinned evilly. "You know they have chairs in the gate room."

Beckett shot him an apologetic look. "Aye. But Dr. Weir told me she'd have security haul me out if I kept sitting there."

"Ah. Now if she'd offered to do that herself . . ." Zelenka licked his lips.

Beckett rolled his eyes and reminded himself not to do that again. "Have you told her about this obsession you have?"

"Not yet. Do you wish to find out what I did to earn my MIT prankster associate label?" The little man had a truly evil smile.

"I think I needn't know the details of that just yet, Radek." Beckett fidgeted, then tapped his radio. "Uhm. Gate room?"

Peter Grodin's sympathetic, harried voice answered immediately. "Major Sheppard is still looking, sir."

"Ah. Right. Okay."

"I'll tell you when I hear from them, doctor."

"Thank you."

Zelenka, hearing only his side of the conversation, raised his eyebrows. "Rodney is not answering his radio?"

"Hasn't been for several hours," sighed Beckett.

Zelenka tipped his head to one side and shoved his glasses back up his nose. Wispy brown hair caught the light. He sighed audibly. "You could go back to your room. I would call you. I will."

The doodad went dark in his hands. He looked at it, then back up. "I know you would, Radek, but . . . can I wait here? Please?"

Zelenka heaved a long, noisy, showy sigh. "I suppose. But please, sit down. If you fall I will have to file a report and Elizabeth will not approve."

Beckett smiled just a little. "Thank you. Thank you very much."

Sheppard tensed. His hand drifted to the weapon at his hip, resting there as he studied the water where a light glowed brighter in the depths. He shut off his own light, watching intently. He rubbed his fingers together slowly, feeling a bit of a chill, a little sweat. His breathing was steady but his heart seemed too loud to him.

The light was rising, coalescing from a dim glow to . . .

The tight, focused beam of a flashlight. Sheppard snorted softly as he leaned against the ornamental railing and crossed his arms. McKay broke surface in a scatter of drops that sparkled in light that seemed bright in that eons-old dark. McKay shook his head, scattering more, and sucked in noisy gulps of air.

Sheppard grinned. "I don't believe it, McKay. Are you even a drama queen by yourself? And what the HELL do you think you're doing?"

"Major?" Startled blue eyes came up as McKay slid under the water, then back up to spit out a mouthful and cough. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for the holy grail? What do you THINK I'm doing here? I'm trying to find YOUR ass and keep you out of trouble."

McKay issued an annoyed grunt as he tread water. "Although your delusional half-witted little mind may find it difficult to grasp, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself!"

"If you're so good at taking care of yourself, how come you're up to your neck in . . . " Sheppard gestured, ". . . cold . .. water."

McKay smiled maliciously. "I realize you are a master of cliches, Major, but that's a bit strained even for you."

Sheppard leaned over to rest his elbows on the railing and grinned. "So it didn't roll trippingly off the tongue. It's the thought that counts."

"I suppose I should be relieved that that you and your amazing powers of observation are here, guarding us from potential peril, Major. I tell you, it warms the cockles of my heart and -"

Sheppard didn't really notice the rest of what he said. Something about the water caught his eye and he straightened, tension returning to his muscles. McKay's voice was still harping - did the man ever shut up? - but now Sheppard's heart was suddenly pounding hard, much harder than it had before. "McKay, get out of the water!"

"What?" McKay suddenly thrashed, turning this way and that. "Why?"

"GET THE HELL OU-" He never finished the word as the surface suddenly splashed and two black triangles broke the surface. It was huge, spreading out to either side of McKay, a good ten feet wide at least, black and shaped like a flying wedge or maybe like a manta ray. The wings slapped the water hard. McKay made a sharp noise and then he was gone, just gone, as the glossy black shape seemed to just sweep over him like a magic trick.

The wings made one more slap and it slid back under the surface again. All that was left was a ripple of water that circled out and lapped at the stairs. Sheppard stood there, panting with adrenaline, staring at into the dark. For a moment he couldn't move, then he was scrambling to get off his shoes, his jacket, cursing. "FUCK fuck fuck fuck SHIT! Come on . . ."

He kicked of his boots and stripped to his tee. It was easy to hop up to the broad railing and dive. He hit the water smoothly, knifing in and angling towards where he last saw McKay. A dim glow hung there and he struck out for it fast. The water was clear but it didn't seem that way - it seemed murky and cloudy around him. It faded into the dark like nothing he'd ever encountered on Earth.

And it was cold. So cold. Cold like it hadn't known light in ten thousand years.

His skin was going numb but the light was brighter, closer, even though a dark shape slid between him and it at times. This close, the water wasn't still. It brushed over him in currents and swells like an impossibly heavy breeze. He mentally cursed the slowness of swimming, dragging himself through water towards that light.

There was a sudden flash of color in the murk, blue and gray and the pale beige of icy skin. The light swung wildly from the lanyard that held it to McKay's collar, shining insanely across flesh, both pale and shiny black. McKay was struggling, lashing out. And he could see . . . tentacles? The thing was like a solid shape that faded to black smoke in the water. The top was smooth and winged but long, ropy strands of dark muscle boiled up from beneath it to wrap around McKay's body and drag him further down.

This close to them, Sheppard could see the underside as it rolled and fought to hold onto its prey. A mouth like a slit gaped and worked in the middle of those tentacles. McKay planted a foot across it and shoved - the thing writhed and McKay arched, pulled every which way by the strands of black meat that held him so tight.

Sheppard reached out and grabbed. The thing felt rubbery, a smooth, black strand of muscle. He yanked but he couldn't get it loose. The underside rippled with thousands of tiny suckers around sharp little teeth, or claws.

The creature was whipping McKay back and forth, but now Sheppard clung to it too. The weight of the prey was doubled and it slowed, corkscrewing instead of thrashing back and forth. Sheppard pawed at his belt, struggling to get a knife loose from its sheathe. An insane little voice in his head sounded suspiciously like the Crocodile Hunter, nattering on about mama and her babies and the prey . . . but this time it picked the wrong prey and he just couldn't let it win.

Sheppard slashed at a tentacle and red clouded the water. Another slash and the water wasn't clear anymore. The tentacles hadn't let go but they were rippling, loosening their grip. That would have made Sheppard happy if McKay would just move. The Canadian barely moved, hands pushing ineffectually at alien skin and Sheppard could see white gleaming in the flashlight. His eyes had rolled back in his head.

One of the tentacles unfurled. McKay coughed out a burst of bubbles. Wings flipped, flipped again, and the other tentacles let go. And then they were alone, Sheppard's chest aching for air and McKay hanging limp in the water, not moving anymore.

Instinct took over. Sheppard lashed out and grabbed him and headed for the surface, fast. The body in his arms was growing looser, heavier. Limp. Sheppard broke the surface and dragged McKay up and into the air. He pulled him around, McKay's back to his chest, wrapped his arms around tighter than tentacles and squeezed hard, DAMN hard.

McKay made a terrible sound, then wheezed and gasped in air. He gave a huge, whooping cough that doubled him up and put his face right back in the water. Sheppard cursed and dragged him back up into the air, holding McKay against his chest, riding out the coughs, keeping them both in the air.

Convulsive hacking slowly faded to simple coughs. Sheppard just held him, slowly kicking back towards the stairs, swimming for them both. Life saving training seemed like an awfully good idea just at that moment. He was immensely relieved when he felt hard stairs behind him and was able to pull them both into the shallows.

It felt really good to just lie there and breathe. McKay had flopped back on the stairs, coughing, and cursing. "Are -" Sheppard lay still and let him cough a bit more before his sharp voice continued, albeit breathlessly. "Are you just going to lie there like a beached anorexic whale?"

Sheppard let his head fall back on a step and rolled his eyes back to see McKay without moving his head. "Well excuse me, Rodney, but I'm a little bit tired. You know, after rescuing you and slaying the dragon and all."

"It wasn't a dragon," huffed McKay, as well as anyone could huff between coughing and panting.

"Sea monster. Good enough for government work. And that reminds me," growled Sheppard as he rolled over to shoot a legitimate, official, Air Force-issue glare at McKay, "Do you MIND telling me what the HELL is so important that you have to go play SNACKFOOD for the creature from 20,000 fathoms?"

"I think . . ." cough, "That was the black cough lagoon."

"What-EVER!"

McKay coughed theatrically and tottered to his feet. Then blurted out, quietly, ". . . thank you."

"You're welcome." Sheppard slowly rose as well. "And you didn't answer the question."

"What question?" McKay gave him a vaguely dazed look.

"What's worth you becoming bouillabaisse?"

McKay scowled. "Have you been talking to Zelenka again?"

"Will you answer the question?"

McKay coughed. Then dug in his pocket and held up a crystal. "This."

Sheppard snatched it out of his hand. "Don't you already HAVE enough of these? What are you? Greedy? Do we need to get you in a twelve step program?" He struck a pose. "Hi, I'm McKay, and I collect crystals."

McKay sank back down to sit on a step, wheezing. "I'm too tired to think down to your level."

"Well come on." Sheppard held out a hand. "Let's go. You're going to think down to Beckett's level for a while."

"I'm fine. Just let me COUGH catch my breath."

"McKay. You are not a good liar. We're going. Now."

"No."

Sheppard frowned, puzzled. Then shrugged and physically hauled Mckay onto his feet. The physicist coughed, hunching over. Sheppard just tightened his grip and started pulling McKay, stumbling, up the stairs.

McKay tugged against his grip. "Hey! cough do you mind? Drowned cough man here!"

"I figured the drowned part out already. I was there, remember?"

"Yes, yes, just let go now. Fine here. cough"

"I worry when you say you're fine."

"You really are an annoying man, do you know that?"

"Takes one to know one!"

"And grossly immature. You are the poster child for arrested development."

Sheppard smirked as he tugged McKay up to the upper deck of the room. "There was never enough evidence to make the arrest. I'm a poster child for suspected development."

"That might be witty if I were . . . oh, FOUR!"

"I thought I hit five at least," whined Sheppard in an aggrieved tone.

"I don't . . ." McKay grunted as Sheppard half lifted him onto his toes then shoved him down onto his heels. "What?"

"Stay. You know the meaning of the word? Hell, my DOG knew the meaning of the word and you're a genius! So . . STAY!"

"Arf," Muttered McKay as Sheppard sat down to get his boots back on.

Sheppard grimaced. "Ew, wet socks."

"I am sooo sorry," oozed, McKay, slathering his words with false sincerity. "May I cough wheeze on them to help them dry faster?"

"That's okay. You might kill the fungus and I'm just getting it broken in right."

"Oh god," McKay turned and retched up seawater. "I think I'm half-drowned. And I know I'm fully revolted."

Sheppard hummed as he got one boot properly fastened, then turned to the other. McKay squelched over to put his crystal in his pack.

Sheppard scowled. "What did I tell you?"

"Which time?"

"What part of STAY is escaping you?"

"The part where I don't put away my things and put on MY boots?" McKay gave him a theatrically baffled look. It would have been more effective without water dripping from his hair and the occasional muffled cough.

McKay brushed dried seaweed from a chair and took a seat. Sheppard briefly wondered why he bothered, given the messy condition he was in.

McKay coughed as he leaned over, sniffled and rubbed at a runny nose as he grabbed his boots and starts pulling on the socks he'd tucked inside them. "You see, if you do it right, you remove your socks BEFORE jumping in the water and then you have dry socks AND shoes."

"Well excuse me for being worried! I'm afraid that I wasn't thinking about my feet when the ugly sea monster tried to eat you."

"It was trying to drown me. I doubt it would have tried to devour me ante-mortem, as Beck . . .before that. I'd be a bit unwieldy for it."

"You're a bit unwieldy for me," grumbled Sheppard, whipping his shoelaces into a knot

"Fine. Go."

"Finish tying your boots!"

"Why do you care?"

"Because if you trip over them it makes it harder for me to drag you out of here."

"And who says you'll BE dragging me out of here?"

"Uh, that would be . .. me?"

McKay glared. "I don't think so."

Sheppard pointed at him. "You non-violent scientist." Pointed at himself , "Me vicious air force major with violent antisocial tendencies."

Mckay snorted. Sniffled. "Oh do NOT even try that with me! You're a closet geek and we both know it."

"Are you TRYING to drive me to violence? Because that he-man Tarzan rescue really got me in the mood to do some blood curdling yells and attack any damn FOOL who gives me shit!"

McKay got the second boot fastened and stood up, chest to . . . lower ribs with the major. That pugnacious jaw jutted out and the physicist narrowed his eyes. "In case you didn't notice. I'm not a total wimp! "

Sheppard loomed as much as he could with the few inches advantage he had. "I'm taller."

McKay squared his shoulders. "Much as I hate to admit it, I'm wider. And I certainly weigh more."

Sheppard edged up on him. "Well mine's all muscle mass."

"After the running-from-Wraith training you made me do, so is mine!"

"Don't MAKE me hurt you!"

"Wouldn't DREAM of it! But in the meantime do you think you could just go back to whatever violent macho Captain Kirk fantasy play you were engaged in? You've saved the geek and can now go rest on your laurels. Hope you don't get any fleas."

"McKay, you are SO irritating!"

"Thank you!"

Sheppard grabbed McKay's pack and shoved it into his arms. "Fine! If that's how you want it!"

"It is!" McKay clutched his pack and stumbled. Sheppard grabbed the off balance scientist and continued the momentum, using it to turn him towards the door and keep him moving. "Fine. This will do!"

"But . . "

"Keep moving. You can cough up a lung later."

Sheppard force marched him out of the drowned quadrant, keeping him moving too fast to really catch his breath, therefore too fast to do much more than wheeze and cough. As tactics went it was dirtier than most but it did the job.

McKay wasn't allowed to catch his breath until they were in the transport, leaning against the wall where they left wet prints of their backs and butts. Which was when things stopped going so smoothly. Sheppard concentrated and the transport lurched. Then stopped. He shifted and concentrated and the transport lurched and stopped again. He narrowed his eyes and looked up to see the same expression on McKay's square face. They turned to stare at the door, then at each other. At the same time both said, "Is that YOU?"

Sheppard sighed and the transport suddenly began moving smoothly.

And lurched. And stopped.

Sheppard narrowed his eyes a bit more. "Will you stop that?"

"I will if you will."

"Come on. Infirmary. You know you wanna."

"I know no such thing."

"Rodney." Sheppard lightly thumped his head with a knuckle. "Hellooo? You're a hypochondriac?"

"So I've been told."

"So let's go to med."

"Later."

"Now."

"I've got work to do!"

"So does Beckett!"

"Mine first!" McKay crossed his arms pugnaciously. Winced and changed them so the right crossed over the left. Sheppard flinched at the stain on his sleeve.

In a gentler tone, Sheppard chimed in. "Beckett. Then work."

McKay's eyes narrowed. He followed Sheppard's gaze down to his arm and changed the cross of his arms again. Looked up. "Look. I have to get that power station back on line. It was damaged."

"Why? Is there another storm coming?"

"No, but -"

"Not. But. You need that looked at." Flicked a finger towards the injured arm.

"You can bandage it."

Sheppard stared at him. Reached out suddenly to put the back of his hand to McKay's forehead. McKay ducked back with a hiss of annoyance. "I don't want to waste any time."

"You spend hours for a PAPERCUT!"

"Well, those can get infected and necrotizing fascii- " McKay jerked himself to a stop. "This isn't that bad!"

"It's BLEEDING!"

"Not much."

"Not MUCH? That ALONE tells me you probably have a head injury! Not to mention all the little sucker bites. McKay, you've got to have monster hickeys all OVER you!"

"I'll thank you not to discuss my hickeys," rejoined McKay in an arch tone. The transporter flickered and rematerialized.

"I will when they're from some blood sucking creature from the bottom of the sea!"

Another flicker and materialization.

"I don't discuss your taste in kinky alien sex acts," growled McKay and it flickered and materialized again.

"You don't?"

"Well . . . not much." Another lurch.

Sheppard was getting tired of this. "Look. You KNOW my ATA gene beats yours." The transporter flickered.

"I don't CARE!" it flickered again.

"Will you STOP that?" Sheppard rubbed at a growing headache as it flickered again. He was starting to lose track of whether the transporter was where he wanted it or where McKay did.

An instant later he had his answer when it flickered AGAIN. McKay grunted in satisfaction and took two quick steps to the door. Which he nearly ran into when it refused to open.

McKay growled. "Open the door."

Sheppard smirked. "No."

He frowned and the doors opened, shut, opened, shut, opened, shut. Sheppard hissed at the growing ache behind his eyes. If this was getting to him, then McKay's head had to be pounding.

McKay spun and glared. His voice was low and flat. "Open it."

"Open it yourself."

"I have been!"

"And I've been closing it."

"I figured that out!" McKay took a step closer. "Why can't you get this through your thick head? I'm going back out to that station!"

"I get it." Sheppard held his ground and his temper. "I just don't understand it."

"What's to understand? It's broken. I'm fixing it.!"

Sheppard raised a hand, lightly touched McKay's shoulder then let it drop. "Are you sure that's what's broken?"

McKay took a quick step back, turned to look at the door. "Just let it go, Major."

Sheppard stepped up next to him. "Can't."

"Why not?" The fight was gone from the statement. McKay was watching the doors with that frustrated frown he got sometimes.

"Cause I need to fix what's broken?"

McKay looked at him. Away. "You can't."

"Why don't you let me decide that?"

McKay gave a low, humorless laugh. And a cough. "If there's one thing I know, it's when something's REALLY broken."

"Let me put it this way." Sheppard injected a little more acid into his tone. "Tell me or we both need to decide which corner we'll be pissing in."

"You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"Oh god." A look of dawning horror crossed McKay's face. "You would."

"Damn straight!"

McKay shut his eyes, ground the heels of his hands into them. Looked up and groaned in frustration. "You're completely uncouth."

Sheppard pasted a wide, cheerful smile on his face. "Thank you!"

"That was NOT a compliment."

"Coming from you, I consider it high praise." Sheppard let his smile get even toothier.

"This is all a plan, isn't it."

"What?" Sheppard had practiced his hurt expression in front of his mirror and he knew it looked about as real as Pamela Anderson's bust line.

"This. You're going to ANNOY me into telling all, aren't you? Is this some kind of demented interrogation technique they teach you people?"

"It's working, isn't it?"

"Unfortunately YES!"

"Then just talk and it'll all be over!"

"I killed my best friend and my sister, okay?"

Sheppard opened his mouth to gloat, then stopped, confused. " . .. what?"

"You heard me."

"Yeah." Sheppard's voice was barely above a whisper. "I heard you. Now explain it."

"Why?" McKay slumped back against the wall, butt resting on the railing.

"Because I don't really get what you just said."

"You were there. If it hadn't been for you, they'd be dead."

"Ah." Sheppard nodded, shifted and discretely plucked his wet clothes from where they'd compacted themselves. As distractions went it sucked, but it did give him a second to think. "Beckett and Teyla." Sheppard didn't mean it as a question.

"Carson and Teyla." McKay did mean it as a confirmation.

"Last I looked, they're both still alive."

McKay snorted, muffled a cough "No thanks to me."

Sheppard also leaned against the wall, remembering. And sighed. Shrugged. "At least you're only feeling guilty for two."

"Huh?"

McKay's expression would have had Sheppard in stitches any other time. Even now it drew a small smile from him. "You heard what I said."

"At the risk of quoting you, I don't really get what you just said."

"You could choose worse sources."

"I suppose it's theoretically possible."

Sheppard grinned. Then let it fade. "You nearly killed two people you cared for. I nearly killed us all."

"See, that . .. " McKay pointed. "Not getting that part."

"The whole city, Rodney. I risked the city for two people."

"And you were right."

"No." Sheppard shook his head. "No. I wasn't."

"But it worked!"

He sighed. "Thank god for that."

"So . . "

Sheppard shook his head. "It was the wrong decision. Believe me, I'm thanking my lucky stars that you've got that big brain to save my ass. Cause that one . . ."

"Worked." Stated McKay flatly.

"Better than it should have."

He got a puzzled look for that one. Sheppard ran his fingers through damp, gel-sticky hair and grunted. "I couldn't do it, Rodney. I got there, and I knew what I had to do, and I tried, but I'm a shit. I just couldn't."

"You know, I'm a genius. I KNOW I'm a genius. I've been tested enough that there's no doubt. Not borderline, not on the edge of bright, nowhere near it. No, I'm a jeen-ee-yus. Certified. Got the little certificates and ribbons and all. But I am totally lost."

Sheppard chuckled. "Let me draw you a picture."

"No crayons, sorry."

"Words, smart ass, I'll do it with words."

McKay gave a smile and it was the truest one he'd seen in what felt like days. What might have been days. "I'll try to follow the grunting."

"You are so gonna pay for that." Sheppard pointed a finger at him.

"Send me a bill."

Sheppard sighed and slumped against the wall. "Chain of command means I tell you to flip the switch and it's okay, cause I know it needs to be done, and you know that I took the hit, and yeah, Beckett and Teyla die but the city lives and we live and the rest of our people maybe actually live and fight the Wraith and get home. That's how it's supposed to happen. That's how it should have happened."

"That," said McKay wryly, "Is an enormous, stinking heap of grade-a, Military issue crap."

"You're telling me."

"Yes, I am."

"I couldn't do it."

"You did the right thing."

"No." Sheppard smiled. "Actually, you did the right thing. I just got lucky." He reached out and rubbed the top of McKay's head.

Who ducked and scowled. "Stop that! What was that for?"

"You're supposed to rub good luck symbols."

McKay opened his mouth but the words didn't come. Blinked. Frowned, but thoughtfully this time. Then finally his face relaxed into a slight, ironic smile. And he reached out, hesitated, then rubbed at the major's hair. "Yuck. What on earth do you put in this stuff?"

"I ran out of hair gel. I've been stealing jello from the mess."

"Oh god. I'll make you a deal. I make you gel, you use it according to instructions."

"I don't know, I really like the stuff." This time when the doors opened, they stayed open.

"I hear they can treat that now." McKay let Sheppard tug him into the hall.

"But you'd have to treat half the base!"

McKay squeaked, "Half?"

"Alll the women . . . Okay, maybe more than half."

"You are so full of it!"

Sheppard's laugh drowned out the rest as it rang down the hall. Behind them, droplets from their clothes dried like tears, with barely a hint left behind.