![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
sgasesa-admin.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
sga_santaTitle: villa triste
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rysler
Recipient:x_varda_x
Pairing: Gen, slightly McKay/Keller
Rating: R for violence and torture
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: 2800 words. Merry Christmas!
Summary: McKay is captured and held for ransom.
~*~
Blood.
That was his blood pouring out of his nose and onto the stone floor. Rodney pinched at his nostrils, squeezing them shut despite the pain. He was used to stopping nosebleeds but this was like a thousand, all at once.
He wanted to scoop up all his blood put it back in.
But it would mean letting go of his nose.
He decided to cry.
Tears dripped over his fingers and onto the floor, diluting his blood. Then his blood looked less like blood and more like tomato sauce left at the bottom of a glass jar.
This wasn't the first time Rodney had gotten a hood over his head, or had been dragged off to some cold dungeon--someone's converted wine cellar, or someone's Grendel cave, whatever--but rarely was he taken alone.
His friends should be here, willing to die with him.
God, he hoped they'd escaped.
The blood flow stopped, probably because his nose was too swollen to let the blood through. It hurt. He opened his mouth wider and breathed. He rubbed his eyes, brushing away tears, the blood from his fingers getting onto his cheeks.
He wiped his hands on his shirt. They'd at least let him keep his undershirt. And his pants. His boots, though, were gone, along with his pack and his gun and his uniform.
Aside from the forcible stripping and the kick to the face, they hadn't done much to him.
Yet.
And it had been--he did a calculation--a whole hour.
"Oh, God," he said aloud. Then, just to hear the sound of his voice in the lonely, echoing chamber, he added, "My nose hurts."
* * *
"Get up." A boot prodded his ribcage.
He didn't know how long it had been. He should have been keeping track. Counting minutes or watching shadows or something. Making marks on the walls. He was such a bad prisoner. He should really know better.
Lying around sniveling was not what a good soldier would do.
He sniffed.
"Up!"
"Fine, fine. Hold on."
He rolled over and knelt, his knees bruising as he pressed them into the stone floor. Hands grabbed his arms. Fingers dug into the tender flesh below his armpits.
"Ow!"
He steadied himself on his feet, trying to lift his weight off the grip of fingers.
"Good," the guard said.
"Are you taking me to lunch? I'm starving. Or, look, I have a protein bar in my vest, if you could just--"
"No food."
"What?"
"You are our hostage. No food."
"You may not be clear with the Geneva Convention and I will be happy to--"
"Your peers can buy your health, the way they can buy your freedom. It means nothing to us."
"Well, If you treat me decently, they might be inclined to be nicer than if you treat me poorly."
"We have no interest in treating you."
Rodney blinked. He couldn't see the guard standing behind him, still holding his arm in case he bolted. The guard couldn't see how the blood drained out of Rodney's face, leaving him pale and shaking.
Maybe it was just the hunger.
"What are you going to do with me?" he asked.
If John were here, John would punch the guard's lights out and escape. Rodney clenched his fist.
The fingers in his arm tightened.
"Ow." He tried to stomp on the guard's foot.
He missed.
"I've killed men for less, you know," he said.
The guard yanked him toward the door.
He was dirty, he was hungry, and he was leaving behind his blood in a large dried smear in the cell, like spilled Koolaid. He was embarrassed to be seen like this. Especially with tear tracks visible on his face, along with the streaks of blood.
At least no one could smell him.
The guard put him in a chair and strapped down his hands and feet.
"What, not my neck?"
"We want them to see you flinch."
"Flinch? Why?" He already felt like he was sitting in an electric chair, but surely--
"When we hit you."
"Oh."
"Turn on the monitors."
The vacuum-tube-powered screen in front of him flickered to life and on it he saw the hazy visages of Woolsey, John, and Jennifer.
"I can see them?"
"Yes. And they know you can see them."
John leaned closer to the monitor. "Hi, buddy."
Rodney narrowed his eyes.
John said, "Dr. Keller's here to monitor your vitals."
Such a Star Trek thing to say. It only made Rodney feel worse. People who had their vitals monitored were in bad shape. Usually close to death.
He shivered.
Woolsey stepped forward. "We demand the release of--"
The guard hit Rodney across the face.
"Ow!"
Woolsey recoiled. Rodney winced, seeing him on the screen. Woolsey's reaction to his pain only reinforced that he was in pain.
That sure sucked.
John remained passive. Rodney looked at him instead.
"Look," Woolsey said. "What do you want?"
"Technology," the guard said. He pulled out a knife.
"No," Woolsey said.
The guard sliced Rodney's shoulder, tearing through his sleeve, leaving a red mark that felt like a thousand hot needles burning his skin.
John's cheek twitched.
Oh, that wasn't good. Blood tickled as it trickled down his arm.
Rodney moved on to Jennifer. She smiled at him, lips pursed, eyes watery.
She was nice to look at.
He smiled.
She swallowed, then moved her hand up to cover her mouth.
"Weapons," the guard said.
"No," Richard said.
The knife struck lower on the arm this time. Like the world's worst paper-cut. He was leaving blood all over the place. He gave Jennifer a frantic look.
She nodded.
"Look," John said. "Give us McKay back, or we're going to bomb your planet into oblivion. We are going to kill your children, poison your air, and pull you apart, limb by limb."
"Colonel," Woolsey said.
John snarled and looked over at him.
Rodney really wished he didn't have to see any of this. He asked the guard, "Can't you duct tape my eyes and mouth? Plug my ears?"
The guard laughed. He pressed his knife against Rodney's ear.
"Oh god, not the ear. Not the ear. That isn't what I meant. Not the ear."
Jennifer turned away from the screen.
The guard said, "Agree to speak with us about this matter in honest and open negotiations, or we will not stop."
"Not stop what?" John asked.
The blade pressed against Rodney's ear.
Rodney squeaked.
"We'll talk," Woolsey said. "You don't have to torture him to get our attention."
The guard smirked. "Don't I?"
Woolsey asked, "Can't you at least feed him while we negotiate? Clean him up? Let a medical team see him?"
"You will have to offer something in return for all that," the guard said.
Woolsey rubbed the back of his bald head and said, "All right. Colonel, doctor, please leave."
"But--" John gave a pained look to Rodney.
Jennifer simply slunk out, her shoulders shaking.
Rodney met John's eyes, trying to convey all the fury he felt. John had gotten him into this. These people didn't even want his scientific mind or his physical labor. He was just collateral. He was nothing to them. Barely even a body.
John looked away.
Rodney put his head down.
Woolsey sighed, sounding like a hiss through the feed static.
Atlantis felt very far away. Like world Rodney had only dreamed about.
The monitor shut off.
The guard barked orders and Rodney was unstrapped from the chair and dragged off by two men who smelled of camphor and oil and hate. They threw him back into his cell and extinguished the lights.
"I can't see anything," he complained.
"Maybe your team will negotiate for light," one of the guards said.
"What? What kind of bastards are you?"
The door slammed shut.
Rodney didn't do well with sensory deprivation. He scrabbled along the stone floor, feeling its bumps, reaching for his blood. He finally landed on his back, staring up at nothing, at darkness.
His whole body hurt and felt weak, like he had the flu. Just shivering. Violent chills. The lines along his arm where they'd split his skin burned. He probably needed stitches.
His nose still hurt.
He whimpered.
The sound of his own voice comforted him. And at least no one could see his degradation, he decided, trying to list his pros next to his long, long list of cons in his mind.
Without his computer, without his gun, he was helpless.
Except, he could still use his mouth. Their mistake.
He shouted.
If he was going to suffer, so were the guard's eardrums.
If anyone was there at all.
* * *
Teyla visited him. Her touch was cool on his face. Her strength was just out of reach. He tried to clutch it, to hold onto her. Every time he moved, even just a finger, screaming pain went through his body.
"Don't," Teyla said. "Even if you can't reach me, I'm here. I'm here."
Her feather-light fingers against his cheeks eased him until he could breathe through his nose again. Until his throat was less raw.
Then she was gone.
And then he was gone, slipping from his dreams into deeper sleep, going down into the blackness inside himself, hiding as far away as possible from the pain.
He woke to blinding light and the smell of burnt animal flesh. He wretched. The sudden, shocking light made him sneeze. The pain made him choke. He saw spots. Then he blinked and saw the walls of his cell. He reached out to touch them.
A plate of indescribable meat and porridge sat near the door.
No guards.
He called out, "What did they have to give up, in order to get me this?"
He wanted to refuse and throw the bowl against the wall. Whatever they had given up, it wasn't going to be worth it. Bastards. He could handle himself. He didn't need to be traded for.
The surrender made him sick to his stomach. Made tears burn in his throat.
He crept to the bowl and dug his finger into the porridge and brought it to his mouth.
Whatever horror it was, it was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.
* * *
The second day the food had vegetables and bread and even a piece of fruit. The guards gave him clean clothes, of rougher, warmer material than his undershirt. He was denied a computer, but he stayed on his back all day, looking at the ceiling, imagining equations. Drawing invisible lines with the waves of his fingers.
On the third day he awoke in darkness, and as soon as the fear took hold of him again the guard was there, knife in hand.
"What happened?" he asked, backing into a corner.
His newly minted escape plan depended on light. Now there was nothing but the smell of the man's breath, the touch of cold metal as it sliced at his abdomen.
Rodney screamed and more men were there, kicking his legs out from under him. His knees scraped and bled. Then something hit him hard in the stomach, taking his breath away. He doubled over, trying to gasp, finding no air. A hand twisted his arm behind him.
They were going to tear him apart.
The knife cut across his chest, leaving lines. After the glimmer of hope, after the day of food--
Something must have gone wrong. They weren't going to come for him anymore. His life was over. The darkness--all he could see was darkness.
He didn't have the breath to say, "I'll tell you whatever you want to know."
"Your friends have betrayed you," the guard said.
"No," he gasped.
"You are not worth the ransom to them."
Rodney let his head dangle from his neck, so that the blows landed on his shoulders. His back.
"You're not worth the food we gave you."
"You have no idea--" Rodney panted.
"You're not worth wiping the blood off my blade."
"--what I can do for you."
The blows stopped.
Someone pulled back Rodney's head so that he could see the lantern being brought in, illuminating the guard's face. The guard knelt.
His voice was almost tender. "What can you do for me?"
"I can improve your weapons. Your technology. Your barricades. Whatever you need." He breathed in, shallowly, quickly, re-oxygenating himself.
"Just you?"
"It was always just me. I saved their asses, I can save yours. You're at a disadvantage. That's why you're resorting to these tactics. And I'll need my equipment. Assuming you didn't destroy it."
The guard laughed.
Rodney said, "Just show me what you're after."
The guard nodded. He stood and gestured to the men. They let Rodney go and crept off in the semi-darkness.
"You know," Rodney said, "You could have just asked."
"You will find out soon why we did not."
The door slammed shut.
Rodney toppled forward onto the cold stone floor.
* * *
Ronon was sitting on him, crushing his chest.
"Get--"
Ronon looked down at him kindly but dispassionately.
"Off!"
Rodney pushed Ronon off his chest and woke up, choking. He got to his kneels, coughing up something. Probably blood. Maybe bile. He couldn't breathe well. For long minutes he thought he would suffocate.
As soon as he was sure he wasn't going to die, at least not imminently, he passed out again.
When breakfast came, and more light, he ate vigorously. Then the guards brought him maps and diagrams.
"This is our base," the guard said. "We're vulnerable to attack from the east."
"I see," Rodney said.
The guard stared hard at him, and Rodney felt every wound on his body sing in response. He wanted his friends. He wanted the ocean. He wanted his own bed.
Any bed.
He shook the maps at them and glared.
The guard left him alone and he began to plan a new escape route.
* * *
In the late afternoon--he adjusted to the rhythms of his life in a little room--screaming and weapons fire came from outside. He got up, pencil in hand like a stiletto, and crouched behind the door's hinges.
The door burst open.
"McKay!"
"Here," Rodney said. But he didn't move.
The guard appeared first, walking into the open cell, and Rodney jumped out, stabbing him in the back.
Attempting, anyway. He mostly missed, sliding against the fabric of the guard's jacket and toppling forward.
John grabbed his shirt from behind and pulled him toward the open door.
"Go left," Rodney said.
"That's downhill. The Stargate is--"
More weapons fire.
"Trust me," Rodney said.
"What if they gave you fake blueprints?"
"Trust me. Hurry. I want to go home."
"Well, I'm sorry. I was busy."
They jogged down the sloping corridor, John shouting orders into his radio for Teyla and Ronon. The door at the end of the corridor opened onto a field.
"We'll be sitting ducks," John said.
"There," Rodney said. He pointed to a stone wall, ten feet high, only twenty meters from their position.
John ran for it and leapt up. After he swung his legs up he he leaned down for Rodney's hand.
Rodney grabbed it but John's grip slipped, just as weapons fire came from the corridor. Rodney screamed as bullets tore into his leg and back. Then John hauled him over and Ronon was there, running from the other entrance.
"See. We'll cut a good two kilometers off the gate travel if we follow the low route."
"It's less guarded."
"Then shoot back!"
* * *
Rodney woke to light and an absence of pain. And an absence of smells. He breathed in deeply. His chest protested, clenching around his heart. Hurting his ribs.
"Careful," Jennifer said. "You've got tubes up your nose."
Rodney carefully opened one eye, letting the light fill his pupil.
Jennifer smiled at him.
"Hi," Rodney said.
"They tortured you. And shot you. We had to reconstruct some veins."
"They were amateurs."
He took another controlled breath. Shallow this time. Much better.
He asked, "Why did you stop paying?"
"We never paid a thing, Rodney," Jennifer said.
"What?"
"Woolsey wasn't able to get it done."
"But--"
"Whatever they said to you, they were lying."
"Oh."
Jennifer sat on the edge of the bed. She took his hand.
Rodney smiled. His face hurt. He imagined his smile looked like the Joker.
Jennifer said, "All you had to do was wait for rescue."
"I thought--"
"What?"
"It doesn't matter what I thought, I guess. I was going to be out of there myself in a matter of days."
Jennifer smiled.
"But it's easier this way. I get to be lazy."
"And you get to sleep," she said.
"Right." He closed his eyes. As bad as he had felt the day before, and the day before that, he felt amazing now.
She didn't let go of his hand.
END
Author:
ryslerRecipient:
x_varda_xPairing: Gen, slightly McKay/Keller
Rating: R for violence and torture
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: 2800 words. Merry Christmas!
Summary: McKay is captured and held for ransom.
~*~
Blood.
That was his blood pouring out of his nose and onto the stone floor. Rodney pinched at his nostrils, squeezing them shut despite the pain. He was used to stopping nosebleeds but this was like a thousand, all at once.
He wanted to scoop up all his blood put it back in.
But it would mean letting go of his nose.
He decided to cry.
Tears dripped over his fingers and onto the floor, diluting his blood. Then his blood looked less like blood and more like tomato sauce left at the bottom of a glass jar.
This wasn't the first time Rodney had gotten a hood over his head, or had been dragged off to some cold dungeon--someone's converted wine cellar, or someone's Grendel cave, whatever--but rarely was he taken alone.
His friends should be here, willing to die with him.
God, he hoped they'd escaped.
The blood flow stopped, probably because his nose was too swollen to let the blood through. It hurt. He opened his mouth wider and breathed. He rubbed his eyes, brushing away tears, the blood from his fingers getting onto his cheeks.
He wiped his hands on his shirt. They'd at least let him keep his undershirt. And his pants. His boots, though, were gone, along with his pack and his gun and his uniform.
Aside from the forcible stripping and the kick to the face, they hadn't done much to him.
Yet.
And it had been--he did a calculation--a whole hour.
"Oh, God," he said aloud. Then, just to hear the sound of his voice in the lonely, echoing chamber, he added, "My nose hurts."
* * *
"Get up." A boot prodded his ribcage.
He didn't know how long it had been. He should have been keeping track. Counting minutes or watching shadows or something. Making marks on the walls. He was such a bad prisoner. He should really know better.
Lying around sniveling was not what a good soldier would do.
He sniffed.
"Up!"
"Fine, fine. Hold on."
He rolled over and knelt, his knees bruising as he pressed them into the stone floor. Hands grabbed his arms. Fingers dug into the tender flesh below his armpits.
"Ow!"
He steadied himself on his feet, trying to lift his weight off the grip of fingers.
"Good," the guard said.
"Are you taking me to lunch? I'm starving. Or, look, I have a protein bar in my vest, if you could just--"
"No food."
"What?"
"You are our hostage. No food."
"You may not be clear with the Geneva Convention and I will be happy to--"
"Your peers can buy your health, the way they can buy your freedom. It means nothing to us."
"Well, If you treat me decently, they might be inclined to be nicer than if you treat me poorly."
"We have no interest in treating you."
Rodney blinked. He couldn't see the guard standing behind him, still holding his arm in case he bolted. The guard couldn't see how the blood drained out of Rodney's face, leaving him pale and shaking.
Maybe it was just the hunger.
"What are you going to do with me?" he asked.
If John were here, John would punch the guard's lights out and escape. Rodney clenched his fist.
The fingers in his arm tightened.
"Ow." He tried to stomp on the guard's foot.
He missed.
"I've killed men for less, you know," he said.
The guard yanked him toward the door.
He was dirty, he was hungry, and he was leaving behind his blood in a large dried smear in the cell, like spilled Koolaid. He was embarrassed to be seen like this. Especially with tear tracks visible on his face, along with the streaks of blood.
At least no one could smell him.
The guard put him in a chair and strapped down his hands and feet.
"What, not my neck?"
"We want them to see you flinch."
"Flinch? Why?" He already felt like he was sitting in an electric chair, but surely--
"When we hit you."
"Oh."
"Turn on the monitors."
The vacuum-tube-powered screen in front of him flickered to life and on it he saw the hazy visages of Woolsey, John, and Jennifer.
"I can see them?"
"Yes. And they know you can see them."
John leaned closer to the monitor. "Hi, buddy."
Rodney narrowed his eyes.
John said, "Dr. Keller's here to monitor your vitals."
Such a Star Trek thing to say. It only made Rodney feel worse. People who had their vitals monitored were in bad shape. Usually close to death.
He shivered.
Woolsey stepped forward. "We demand the release of--"
The guard hit Rodney across the face.
"Ow!"
Woolsey recoiled. Rodney winced, seeing him on the screen. Woolsey's reaction to his pain only reinforced that he was in pain.
That sure sucked.
John remained passive. Rodney looked at him instead.
"Look," Woolsey said. "What do you want?"
"Technology," the guard said. He pulled out a knife.
"No," Woolsey said.
The guard sliced Rodney's shoulder, tearing through his sleeve, leaving a red mark that felt like a thousand hot needles burning his skin.
John's cheek twitched.
Oh, that wasn't good. Blood tickled as it trickled down his arm.
Rodney moved on to Jennifer. She smiled at him, lips pursed, eyes watery.
She was nice to look at.
He smiled.
She swallowed, then moved her hand up to cover her mouth.
"Weapons," the guard said.
"No," Richard said.
The knife struck lower on the arm this time. Like the world's worst paper-cut. He was leaving blood all over the place. He gave Jennifer a frantic look.
She nodded.
"Look," John said. "Give us McKay back, or we're going to bomb your planet into oblivion. We are going to kill your children, poison your air, and pull you apart, limb by limb."
"Colonel," Woolsey said.
John snarled and looked over at him.
Rodney really wished he didn't have to see any of this. He asked the guard, "Can't you duct tape my eyes and mouth? Plug my ears?"
The guard laughed. He pressed his knife against Rodney's ear.
"Oh god, not the ear. Not the ear. That isn't what I meant. Not the ear."
Jennifer turned away from the screen.
The guard said, "Agree to speak with us about this matter in honest and open negotiations, or we will not stop."
"Not stop what?" John asked.
The blade pressed against Rodney's ear.
Rodney squeaked.
"We'll talk," Woolsey said. "You don't have to torture him to get our attention."
The guard smirked. "Don't I?"
Woolsey asked, "Can't you at least feed him while we negotiate? Clean him up? Let a medical team see him?"
"You will have to offer something in return for all that," the guard said.
Woolsey rubbed the back of his bald head and said, "All right. Colonel, doctor, please leave."
"But--" John gave a pained look to Rodney.
Jennifer simply slunk out, her shoulders shaking.
Rodney met John's eyes, trying to convey all the fury he felt. John had gotten him into this. These people didn't even want his scientific mind or his physical labor. He was just collateral. He was nothing to them. Barely even a body.
John looked away.
Rodney put his head down.
Woolsey sighed, sounding like a hiss through the feed static.
Atlantis felt very far away. Like world Rodney had only dreamed about.
The monitor shut off.
The guard barked orders and Rodney was unstrapped from the chair and dragged off by two men who smelled of camphor and oil and hate. They threw him back into his cell and extinguished the lights.
"I can't see anything," he complained.
"Maybe your team will negotiate for light," one of the guards said.
"What? What kind of bastards are you?"
The door slammed shut.
Rodney didn't do well with sensory deprivation. He scrabbled along the stone floor, feeling its bumps, reaching for his blood. He finally landed on his back, staring up at nothing, at darkness.
His whole body hurt and felt weak, like he had the flu. Just shivering. Violent chills. The lines along his arm where they'd split his skin burned. He probably needed stitches.
His nose still hurt.
He whimpered.
The sound of his own voice comforted him. And at least no one could see his degradation, he decided, trying to list his pros next to his long, long list of cons in his mind.
Without his computer, without his gun, he was helpless.
Except, he could still use his mouth. Their mistake.
He shouted.
If he was going to suffer, so were the guard's eardrums.
If anyone was there at all.
* * *
Teyla visited him. Her touch was cool on his face. Her strength was just out of reach. He tried to clutch it, to hold onto her. Every time he moved, even just a finger, screaming pain went through his body.
"Don't," Teyla said. "Even if you can't reach me, I'm here. I'm here."
Her feather-light fingers against his cheeks eased him until he could breathe through his nose again. Until his throat was less raw.
Then she was gone.
And then he was gone, slipping from his dreams into deeper sleep, going down into the blackness inside himself, hiding as far away as possible from the pain.
He woke to blinding light and the smell of burnt animal flesh. He wretched. The sudden, shocking light made him sneeze. The pain made him choke. He saw spots. Then he blinked and saw the walls of his cell. He reached out to touch them.
A plate of indescribable meat and porridge sat near the door.
No guards.
He called out, "What did they have to give up, in order to get me this?"
He wanted to refuse and throw the bowl against the wall. Whatever they had given up, it wasn't going to be worth it. Bastards. He could handle himself. He didn't need to be traded for.
The surrender made him sick to his stomach. Made tears burn in his throat.
He crept to the bowl and dug his finger into the porridge and brought it to his mouth.
Whatever horror it was, it was the most delicious thing he'd ever tasted.
* * *
The second day the food had vegetables and bread and even a piece of fruit. The guards gave him clean clothes, of rougher, warmer material than his undershirt. He was denied a computer, but he stayed on his back all day, looking at the ceiling, imagining equations. Drawing invisible lines with the waves of his fingers.
On the third day he awoke in darkness, and as soon as the fear took hold of him again the guard was there, knife in hand.
"What happened?" he asked, backing into a corner.
His newly minted escape plan depended on light. Now there was nothing but the smell of the man's breath, the touch of cold metal as it sliced at his abdomen.
Rodney screamed and more men were there, kicking his legs out from under him. His knees scraped and bled. Then something hit him hard in the stomach, taking his breath away. He doubled over, trying to gasp, finding no air. A hand twisted his arm behind him.
They were going to tear him apart.
The knife cut across his chest, leaving lines. After the glimmer of hope, after the day of food--
Something must have gone wrong. They weren't going to come for him anymore. His life was over. The darkness--all he could see was darkness.
He didn't have the breath to say, "I'll tell you whatever you want to know."
"Your friends have betrayed you," the guard said.
"No," he gasped.
"You are not worth the ransom to them."
Rodney let his head dangle from his neck, so that the blows landed on his shoulders. His back.
"You're not worth the food we gave you."
"You have no idea--" Rodney panted.
"You're not worth wiping the blood off my blade."
"--what I can do for you."
The blows stopped.
Someone pulled back Rodney's head so that he could see the lantern being brought in, illuminating the guard's face. The guard knelt.
His voice was almost tender. "What can you do for me?"
"I can improve your weapons. Your technology. Your barricades. Whatever you need." He breathed in, shallowly, quickly, re-oxygenating himself.
"Just you?"
"It was always just me. I saved their asses, I can save yours. You're at a disadvantage. That's why you're resorting to these tactics. And I'll need my equipment. Assuming you didn't destroy it."
The guard laughed.
Rodney said, "Just show me what you're after."
The guard nodded. He stood and gestured to the men. They let Rodney go and crept off in the semi-darkness.
"You know," Rodney said, "You could have just asked."
"You will find out soon why we did not."
The door slammed shut.
Rodney toppled forward onto the cold stone floor.
* * *
Ronon was sitting on him, crushing his chest.
"Get--"
Ronon looked down at him kindly but dispassionately.
"Off!"
Rodney pushed Ronon off his chest and woke up, choking. He got to his kneels, coughing up something. Probably blood. Maybe bile. He couldn't breathe well. For long minutes he thought he would suffocate.
As soon as he was sure he wasn't going to die, at least not imminently, he passed out again.
When breakfast came, and more light, he ate vigorously. Then the guards brought him maps and diagrams.
"This is our base," the guard said. "We're vulnerable to attack from the east."
"I see," Rodney said.
The guard stared hard at him, and Rodney felt every wound on his body sing in response. He wanted his friends. He wanted the ocean. He wanted his own bed.
Any bed.
He shook the maps at them and glared.
The guard left him alone and he began to plan a new escape route.
* * *
In the late afternoon--he adjusted to the rhythms of his life in a little room--screaming and weapons fire came from outside. He got up, pencil in hand like a stiletto, and crouched behind the door's hinges.
The door burst open.
"McKay!"
"Here," Rodney said. But he didn't move.
The guard appeared first, walking into the open cell, and Rodney jumped out, stabbing him in the back.
Attempting, anyway. He mostly missed, sliding against the fabric of the guard's jacket and toppling forward.
John grabbed his shirt from behind and pulled him toward the open door.
"Go left," Rodney said.
"That's downhill. The Stargate is--"
More weapons fire.
"Trust me," Rodney said.
"What if they gave you fake blueprints?"
"Trust me. Hurry. I want to go home."
"Well, I'm sorry. I was busy."
They jogged down the sloping corridor, John shouting orders into his radio for Teyla and Ronon. The door at the end of the corridor opened onto a field.
"We'll be sitting ducks," John said.
"There," Rodney said. He pointed to a stone wall, ten feet high, only twenty meters from their position.
John ran for it and leapt up. After he swung his legs up he he leaned down for Rodney's hand.
Rodney grabbed it but John's grip slipped, just as weapons fire came from the corridor. Rodney screamed as bullets tore into his leg and back. Then John hauled him over and Ronon was there, running from the other entrance.
"See. We'll cut a good two kilometers off the gate travel if we follow the low route."
"It's less guarded."
"Then shoot back!"
* * *
Rodney woke to light and an absence of pain. And an absence of smells. He breathed in deeply. His chest protested, clenching around his heart. Hurting his ribs.
"Careful," Jennifer said. "You've got tubes up your nose."
Rodney carefully opened one eye, letting the light fill his pupil.
Jennifer smiled at him.
"Hi," Rodney said.
"They tortured you. And shot you. We had to reconstruct some veins."
"They were amateurs."
He took another controlled breath. Shallow this time. Much better.
He asked, "Why did you stop paying?"
"We never paid a thing, Rodney," Jennifer said.
"What?"
"Woolsey wasn't able to get it done."
"But--"
"Whatever they said to you, they were lying."
"Oh."
Jennifer sat on the edge of the bed. She took his hand.
Rodney smiled. His face hurt. He imagined his smile looked like the Joker.
Jennifer said, "All you had to do was wait for rescue."
"I thought--"
"What?"
"It doesn't matter what I thought, I guess. I was going to be out of there myself in a matter of days."
Jennifer smiled.
"But it's easier this way. I get to be lazy."
"And you get to sleep," she said.
"Right." He closed his eyes. As bad as he had felt the day before, and the day before that, he felt amazing now.
She didn't let go of his hand.
END
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-12-16 06:49 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-16 06:58 pm (UTC)I might have to read it again... and again... :D Thank you!
no subject
Date: 2009-12-17 12:21 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-17 12:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-17 01:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-12-17 01:16 am (UTC)His friends should be here, willing to die with him.
God, he hoped they'd escaped.
Aww, that was great! I love Rodney wishing his team was there and then glad they aren't. I love the negotiation situation when he looks from Woolsey to Sheppard to Keller, then smiles. I love that he's frightened and stoic and weak and strong all at the same time.
Very creative premise well done!
no subject
Date: 2009-12-17 05:47 am (UTC)