Out of the Hot Zone Into the Fire by EllieV [Reviews - 2]
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Category: General
Characters: Aiden Ford, Elizabeth Weir, John Sheppard
Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Episode Related
Warnings: None
Series: None
Word count: 3903; Completed: Yes
Summary: One-shot tag for Hot Zone containing spoilers from various other episodes. A sequel of sorts to Some Element of Repetition.
Disclaimer: These people don't belong to me but if I can at least have a John Sheppard doll to stick on my mantle, that'd be shiny.
Author's note: This story is a Hot Zone tag, which contains spoilers from various other episodes as well. It was a request from someone whose review of my previous story Some Element of Repetition I accidentally deleted from my email. My apologies for not recalling your name. The request was a Hot Zone tag from Sheppard's POV. This story contains a scene from Some Element but from Sheppard's angle.
Other influences on this story are the Sheppard Appreciation and Discussion thread at Gateworld. I lurk but there's some stimulating ideas contained therein. Also, strangely, I was influenced by a review of another writer's story about Sheppard in the infirmary. I don't recall the story or the writer. Again, sorry. My memory is mush.
Yes, for those of you who have asked by email, All the Good Stories is coming. I'm at the last two chapters and I think I'll be okay once I get all the quotes right. Soon-ish. Occasionally I write another 2000 words and wonder why I haven't finished yet. Many apologies to Gaia, who has been my most staunch supporter, and who has probably given up on me by now. This one kind of just blurted out in an hour or so. Complexity takes more time.
Out of the Hot Zone, Into the Fire
By EllieV
He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, going over everything that had happened. He wondered if anyone else was doing the same. Everyone who had been stuck in the bowels of Atlantis watching their friends die. All those trapped in the mess hall when Peterson had come in because John Sheppard couldn't shoot straight. He wondered if Bates regretted following his orders. Possibly. It was hard to tell with Bates. Their relationship was...prickly.
He wondered if Teyla regretted leaving the gym and following him about the city. It had been the first time she'd really criticized him. He dismissed that thought—he really didn't care about Teyla's regrets or her criticisms. She was a member of his team; all she had to do was follow orders. Democracy wasn't part of the deal. He had never been sentimental.
That lead him to wonder why he didn't think that rule applied to him. Major John Sheppard: great at giving orders, taking them...hmmm, not so much. Contradictory, yes. Hypocritical? He usually tried to avoid that one but today—he looked at the clock: 5:00 am—well, today it kept sneaking around the corner. He could see it out of the corner of his eye; he could hear it whispering at the edge of his consciousness.
He had a headache. Tylenol hadn't helped. Beckett had insisted on an examination when he arrived back in the city. He wasn't stupid, being bounced around in the atmosphere after a nuclear explosion was no doubt bad for his health, and so he submitted willingly enough. He could hear various whines from the other staff who had been affected by the virus but honestly, if not strangely, he liked the infirmary. It had pretty nurses and people left him alone. Admittedly, the latter was because Beckett became ferocious when his patients were disturbed but John Sheppard was a sensible boy when it came to his own ills. He didn't want to be discharged then fall flat on his face. Not in this city. God knows how long it would take him to be found. Nope, a stay in the infirmary was just fine by him when it was warranted. When Beckett suggested that a night in the infirmary would do him the world of good after being shot and dented by an insane warrior Wraith, he had agreed so immediately that the medical staff looked suspicious. Ulterior motives: he wanted to talk to Beckett about sending McKay to Heightmeyer. As for himself, after losing two of the expedition's best scientists because he wanted a boy's own adventure, he needed some grace to sort out his own head. Never mind McKay, John Sheppard should have been the one to say no before they'd even contacted the city to beg for permission.
His list of mistakes grew every time he set foot outside his room. Beckett had suggested he have an early night. Sheppard would have preferred a night in the infirmary but Beckett had sent him off to face the music and Weir had slapped him down. So, here he was, back to the rule. He knew better than anyone else. And he was wrong. A lot. Fair enough, a lot of the time he was right but sometimes he wasn't. Question: was it worth him beating himself up? Question: was it worth taking on Weir?
The real problem. He was honest enough to admit that he wasn't so much regretful that he could have got everyone killed so much as Weir having tweaked his conscience. He weighed everything up. On one hand there was him saving the day—again—and having everyone congratulate him in a nice ego-stroking way. On the other there was him leaving the gym after ordering Bates to open the doors and undermining Weir. Plus there was him exposing the rest all the people in the dining room because the doors being opened allowed Peterson to skip through the city like there was no tomorrow. And there wouldn't have been except for him and the others who had the gene. An irony knowing that being a genetic mutant would provide him immunity.
Coffee. Coffee solved a lot of problems. He stood up too quickly and held out a hand to steady himself as the room spun around. He didn't think it was caffeine withdrawal. He could feel the headache. Possibly a migraine. It wasn't quite there yet but it always started in his neck, then moved up into his temples. And it pounded. Coffee wouldn't help, would probably make him throw up, but he might be able to function. He'd make a cup then—checking the time again: 6.00—he'd head out to the pier to watch the sun rise.
He stepped through the door, sipping his coffee, and frowned. Ford. Ford who had been stuck with the scientists yesterday; Ford who pounded him on the back; who had nearly put his neck out of place with his enthusiasm after he'd got back to the city. Ford, who he admitted was probably a little too hero worshipful for Sheppard's ego's own good. He really didn't get it. He hated it; he was flattered.
"Ford," he drawled. Ford stood, stumbling over his greeting, the look on his face indicating that he knew he was intruding on Sheppard's favorite place to get away from everyone. The guilt that always hung around him at Ford's idolization tapped him on the shoulder. He waved the Lieutenant back down.
"Sit, Ford," he said, "pier's big enough for both of us."
"Yes, sir," Ford said.
Sheppard sat down gingerly. The headache was up to the base of his skull, right on schedule. Ford looked like he thought Sheppard was going to pitch into the sea. He cut the thought and said, "What's up, Ford?"
"Sir? Uh, nothing, sir, just came out to watch the sunrise, sir" Ford replied, nodding a little too emphatically.
Aww hell. He sighed inwardly. Just what he needed. He looked a little more closely at Ford, keeping his face schooled to blankness. Ford looked awful. No sleep, and...what was it? Ford had an open face. Was it...guilt? He contemplated his coffee, contemplated going back to bed, contemplated Ford's anxious face. Better now than later.
"That's a lot of "sir's" for a nothing, Ford, you look like crap." There was silence from Ford. "Ford..." Sheppard repeated.
"Do you know anything about prime numbers, sir?" Ford blurted out.
Out of left field. He said bemusedly, "What?"
Ford was clearly having something of an inward debate.
"Ford, prime numbers," he prompted.
Ford sounded casual. "Dr McKay and Dr Zelenka were talking about them yesterday. I just kinda wondered that's all."
That was all. Even in his worst high school moments, Sheppard couldn't think of anything about prime numbers that could create that sort of anxiety.
"Prime numbers can only be divided by themselves and one," he replied. "Like 1,979." Ford looked blank. "Look, it's easy. What can you divide 13 by?"
"Anything," said Ford. "Like, two. That's 6.5."
He shook his head. "No remainders," he said. "No decimal points. For it to be a prime number, you can't have decimal points or for it to be divisible by any other number. What can you divide 15 by?"
"Three and five," said Ford.
"What can you divide 97 by?" he asked.
"Ninety-seven can be divided by three, can't it?" Ford floundered.
"Ninety can," he said. "Seven can't. Seven can only be divided by itself and one. What about 993?"
"Not prime," said Ford.
Amazing, he thought, Ford got it.
"Good," he said. "Now you can tell me why I'm giving you a math lesson at," he checked his watch, "6:30 in the morning."
"They complained, didn't they," said Ford.
Huh, what?
"Who complained?"
"Dr Zelenka and Dr McKay," Ford replied miserably.
He sighed, "Just tell me what happened, Ford."
"I told Dr Zelenka that I used to beat up on guys like him in high school," Ford confessed.
"And did you?" he asked mildly, not terribly interested.
"No!" Ford snapped.
Sheppard raised his eyebrows at Ford who colored and mumbled, "Yeah, a little. Once. A math geek."
"Why?" It was like pulling teeth.
"Didn't you do anything like that at school, sir?"
"Ford, I was a math geek in high school," Sheppard said amusedly. He put out a hand as the Lieutenant opened his mouth. "I'm good at math, Ford. Did you put this math geek into hospital?"
"No, sir!" said Ford indignantly. "I just pushed him to make him drop his books. It was a dare. I was in a kind of gang at school. Not like gangbangers or nothin' but we did some pretty stupid stuff. I got into trouble a lot."
"Okay," he said. He wondered vaguely if Ford realized how idiotic that sounded. He looked into his coffee, now long cold, and drained it, making a face at its bitterness.
"Clever people don't care about hurting anyone else's feelings," said Ford a little defiantly. "The guy embarrassed me in front of everyone in class."
"So you beat him up?" he asked. "Is that what happened with Zelenka and McKay? They ask you about prime numbers, did they? Feel like you were back in high school?"
"Yeah..."
"What happened with the math geek?"
Ford smiled a little. "My grandpa happened, sir. The school phoned him and I got into the biggest trouble in my life. He'd take the Wraith on and win."
"Pity he's not here, then," he said dryly. Watch the sarcasm... "What about Zelenka?"
"Dr Zelenka said he wanted me to take part in a study on statistical probabilities because I got all the prime numbers wrong. That's when I told him I used to beat up guys like him."
Sheppard squinted at him. The headache had reached his sinuses and was making his eyes water. He could feel it encroaching from his eyes out towards his temples. Headache tablets sucked.
"And during the hurricane, I threatened Dr Beckett," Ford said, "and yesterday I panicked when I thought I was gonna die and I yelled at him."
"Ford, what's this in aid of?" Sheppard asked, wearily rubbing his temples. Ford was confessing to something and he didn't think a confrontation with a couple of scientists was it. "Are you angry with yourself because you screwed up or because Zelenka complained about you?"
Ford paused. "Both, sir."
"Conscience is just the fear of getting caught," he quoted. He knew Ford wouldn't get the irony of him saying that and he'd said it as much for himself as for Ford. "Zelenka didn't say a word, Ford. McKay didn't say a word. Neither did Beckett—about anything. Be angry with yourself for screwing up but they didn't say anything about you."
"Are you angry with yourself, sir?" Ford asked him. The Lieutenant looked curious.
Sheppard barked out a short laugh. Oh god... "All the time, Ford, all the time." He rubbed his temples again. Coffee: another mistake. He'd never learn. "Look, are McKay and the other scientists known for their social skills?"
Ford grinned, "No, sir."
"So..." he prompted.
"So, I should take that into account," Ford said, Sheppard thought maybe a little dutifully. Ford frowned at Sheppard. "Sir, what was it like when you were a lieutenant?"
He'd started to droop but lifted his head at that and turned it toward Ford, his eyes narrowing: the heart of the matter. "Feeling a little picked on, Lieutenant?"
"Like I'm always too young, sir," Ford said sulkily. "to get any respect."
"What makes you think that people don't respect you?" he asked surprised. Ford thought people didn't respect him?
"They wouldn't have done that to you, sir," Ford pointed out.
"Zelenka, no, but McKay would," he said. "I don't know if you've noticed but McKay's kind of like that." He thought for a moment about the two scientists. McKay. "Did he start it?"
"Yes, sir," Ford said.
"You think they meant any harm?"
"No, sir."
"Well, keep losing your temper and they definitely won't respect you," Sheppard said impatiently. Time to wrap things up.
"You have a temper, sir," Ford said, showing a touch of resentment. "They still respect you."
He replied bitingly, as the core of yesterday's anger at himself and at everyone else hit more sharply than a nuclear explosion-induced migraine ever could, "If everyone in the mess hall had died yesterday because I broke quarantine, you think you'd be talking about how much people respect me?"
"But they didn't. You saved everyone," Ford said.
"Could have gone the other way, Ford," he said. "Remember that." He stood up, and grabbed the railing to steady himself.
"What should I do?" asked Ford, as though Sheppard could solve any problem.
He sighed again. "Look Ford, I'm no more answer man than Rodney. I make a lot of mistakes. I try not to make the same ones over and over but sometimes I do. I'm not an expert on what people should do to gain respect. I'm not much of an expert on anything. I'm good at math and flying. For what it's worth, when I was a Lieutenant I was crap at everything except helicopters." He massaged his temples. "I'm going back to bed."
"Yes, sir," Ford said. "Thank you, sir."
"For what?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. Truth be told, he wasn't that interested though he should be. He was more interested right at this moment in making it back to his quarters before he threw up. He'd think about it later. Maybe Ford should have his own team. He was a Lieutenant. Sergeants had their own teams. Bates did. Stackhouse did. Maybe Ford would feel more respected with his own team. Truth was, though, he liked the kid. He was enthusiastic. Sheppard felt jaded and scared, more scared than McKay. He needed the balance.
He lay on his bed, eyes closed. He didn't know how long he'd lain there. No one had come knocking at the door. No one had called him on the radio. He opened one eye and slowly lifted his arm to look at his watch: after midnight. He sat up gingerly, testing his body. Not bad. He wondered if he should have asked Beckett before taking the sleeping tablets. Probably. He rubbed his face and then noticed the sheet of paper, propped up against a glass of water.
"Drink lots of water," it read. "You'll be dehydrated. Ask me next time instead of self-medicating." It was signed "Beckett. The CMO. You idiot." This last was underscored heavily.
Oh. Crap.
At least he could think a little more clearly now. And he went back to yesterday. Over and over. He knew he'd made the right decision to leave the gym, in spite of everything else, and he had saved lives. He approached the central problem, this time face on. Undermining Weir.
He had said to Teyla that Elizabeth—she'd said to call her Elizabeth but it still felt odd—sometimes made a decision, locking herself into it. Teyla had replied that Weir wasn't the only one. Later, when Weir confronted him, he'd said that he trusted her but really, he didn't. Not militarily. He wasn't the one to decide what was or wasn't a military situation? Who was then? Weir? What exactly, he had wanted to ask, was her expertise in military matters? He'd read through McKay's report of the bug/stuck in the gate incident, and noticed the criticism between the lines of the scientist's "Dr Weir requested all information regarding the incident prior to contacting the science team" and "Stargates remain open for 38 minutes under relativistic conditions" and the final, "Assistance was provided at 35 minutes." Three minutes was a long period in gate time.
This wasn't getting him anywhere. Work. He booted up his computer to start his report, and as ever, opened the first he'd written after coming to Atlantis. He read it through carefully, every word piercing the armor plating of his self-imposed shell. He got to the last section and highlighted the words on the screen. He stared at them and ran over yesterday's events and putting in his next report. Churning them over. Wanting, he realized with irony, more information.
He blinked and looked at the time. Nearly 2:00 am. He started tapping out his report. He got to the end of the first sentence and paused. He flicked back to his first report, the highlighted section blinking. His finger hesitated over the delete button, hit it, and he started typing quickly, now with no uncertainty. He saved it and hit send. He hoped he'd get up there quickly enough.
He opened the door, and just managed to stop himself walking into it when it only opened part-way. He squeezed through, and pulled off the sign. "Major Sheppard got nuked yesterday and is now sleeping. Please address all questions to Dr Weir." Beckett had signed it. This time CMO was heavily underscored. He crumpled the paper and tossed it into his room.
She was still in her office, of course. The control room was darkened, with a skeleton staff on duty. He knocked at her door and leaned just inside the frame. She looked up and smiled, clearly pleased to see him.
"Major! Dr Beckett said you were sleeping. How are you feeling?" she asked.
He didn't smile back. He stared at her, almost seeing the worry lines and the stress for the first time. Her smile faded.
"Major?"
"I was lying," he said.
"I'm sorry?" she looked puzzled and not a little apprehensive.
"In the infirmary. After the bug. I wasn't going to say to take care of each other," he said stonily. It was harder than he thought.
"It doesn't matter," she started. "I knew that..."
"Yeah, it does," he interrupted. "Because I lied in my report. The first one. Sort of. At least, I left something out. You need to know. You said I needed to trust you."
She looked over his face and said, "I know you trust me, Major."
"I didn't. Not until you said yesterday that I should."
"I don't understand," she said.
"I shot Colonel Sumner," he said.
"I know, Major, you said that in your report," she said.
"Deliberately," he said. "I killed him deliberately. I sent you an amended report. You should read it."
And he walked out.
He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, going over it in his head. He turned his head to check the time. She was taking hers. When the knock at the door finally came, he tensed, even though he was expecting it.
She was alone. That was unexpected. He frowned at her.
"I read your report," she said. She pulled up his chair and sat down.
He bit his lip, just as he had when she'd smiled up at him on their arrival. She'd been clutching that ridiculous bottle of champagne.
"Why?" she started.
"Didn't I put it in my report?" he finished. He snorted. "Would you have?"
"No," she said, "Why have you been living with this guilt all this time without talking to anyone?"
"I am not talking to Heightmeyer," he snapped. "She's a pretentious idiot."
"I suppose I'm trying to say that you could have talked to me," Weir said patiently. She held up a hand. "I know, we clash—a lot—but you should have known that you could have trusted me."
He nodded mutely. He did know that deep down. He just didn't want to admit it.
"I've replaced the report," she said. "And backdated the submission. I think you wanted that."
"I was right about yesterday," he said.
"You weren't," she said and smiled. She leaned across and poked him in the arm. "You weren't."
He smiled back, slightly horrified that they were joking. "Was too..."
"What if I ordered you to see Heightmeyer?" she asked.
"I wouldn't go," he said.
She clasped her hands and looked down a little as though gathering herself.
"Then talk to me," she said. "If you need to."
He nodded again. It wasn't something he could promise out loud.
"Good," she smiled. "Get some sleep, Major. There's a sign on your door about you being nuked and needing some sleep."
"I took that down," he said.
"Carson replaced it," she said. "He also said to..."
"...drink lots of water," he replied dutifully.
She stood, graceful and elegant. She seemed less tired now. He realized she probably worried about him just as much as anyone else in Atlantis. He wouldn't talk to her but he could resolve to make her life a little simpler.
"I'll get some sleep," he said.
"Good," she said. Then she left.
He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, going over everything that had happened. Then he closed his eyes, strangely comforted, and went to sleep. As promised.
FINIS
- Text Size +
Category: General
Characters: Aiden Ford, Elizabeth Weir, John Sheppard
Rating: PG
Genres: Angst, Episode Related
Warnings: None
Series: None
Word count: 3903; Completed: Yes
Summary: One-shot tag for Hot Zone containing spoilers from various other episodes. A sequel of sorts to Some Element of Repetition.
Disclaimer: These people don't belong to me but if I can at least have a John Sheppard doll to stick on my mantle, that'd be shiny.
Author's note: This story is a Hot Zone tag, which contains spoilers from various other episodes as well. It was a request from someone whose review of my previous story Some Element of Repetition I accidentally deleted from my email. My apologies for not recalling your name. The request was a Hot Zone tag from Sheppard's POV. This story contains a scene from Some Element but from Sheppard's angle.
Other influences on this story are the Sheppard Appreciation and Discussion thread at Gateworld. I lurk but there's some stimulating ideas contained therein. Also, strangely, I was influenced by a review of another writer's story about Sheppard in the infirmary. I don't recall the story or the writer. Again, sorry. My memory is mush.
Yes, for those of you who have asked by email, All the Good Stories is coming. I'm at the last two chapters and I think I'll be okay once I get all the quotes right. Soon-ish. Occasionally I write another 2000 words and wonder why I haven't finished yet. Many apologies to Gaia, who has been my most staunch supporter, and who has probably given up on me by now. This one kind of just blurted out in an hour or so. Complexity takes more time.
By EllieV
He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, going over everything that had happened. He wondered if anyone else was doing the same. Everyone who had been stuck in the bowels of Atlantis watching their friends die. All those trapped in the mess hall when Peterson had come in because John Sheppard couldn't shoot straight. He wondered if Bates regretted following his orders. Possibly. It was hard to tell with Bates. Their relationship was...prickly.
He wondered if Teyla regretted leaving the gym and following him about the city. It had been the first time she'd really criticized him. He dismissed that thought—he really didn't care about Teyla's regrets or her criticisms. She was a member of his team; all she had to do was follow orders. Democracy wasn't part of the deal. He had never been sentimental.
That lead him to wonder why he didn't think that rule applied to him. Major John Sheppard: great at giving orders, taking them...hmmm, not so much. Contradictory, yes. Hypocritical? He usually tried to avoid that one but today—he looked at the clock: 5:00 am—well, today it kept sneaking around the corner. He could see it out of the corner of his eye; he could hear it whispering at the edge of his consciousness.
He had a headache. Tylenol hadn't helped. Beckett had insisted on an examination when he arrived back in the city. He wasn't stupid, being bounced around in the atmosphere after a nuclear explosion was no doubt bad for his health, and so he submitted willingly enough. He could hear various whines from the other staff who had been affected by the virus but honestly, if not strangely, he liked the infirmary. It had pretty nurses and people left him alone. Admittedly, the latter was because Beckett became ferocious when his patients were disturbed but John Sheppard was a sensible boy when it came to his own ills. He didn't want to be discharged then fall flat on his face. Not in this city. God knows how long it would take him to be found. Nope, a stay in the infirmary was just fine by him when it was warranted. When Beckett suggested that a night in the infirmary would do him the world of good after being shot and dented by an insane warrior Wraith, he had agreed so immediately that the medical staff looked suspicious. Ulterior motives: he wanted to talk to Beckett about sending McKay to Heightmeyer. As for himself, after losing two of the expedition's best scientists because he wanted a boy's own adventure, he needed some grace to sort out his own head. Never mind McKay, John Sheppard should have been the one to say no before they'd even contacted the city to beg for permission.
His list of mistakes grew every time he set foot outside his room. Beckett had suggested he have an early night. Sheppard would have preferred a night in the infirmary but Beckett had sent him off to face the music and Weir had slapped him down. So, here he was, back to the rule. He knew better than anyone else. And he was wrong. A lot. Fair enough, a lot of the time he was right but sometimes he wasn't. Question: was it worth him beating himself up? Question: was it worth taking on Weir?
The real problem. He was honest enough to admit that he wasn't so much regretful that he could have got everyone killed so much as Weir having tweaked his conscience. He weighed everything up. On one hand there was him saving the day—again—and having everyone congratulate him in a nice ego-stroking way. On the other there was him leaving the gym after ordering Bates to open the doors and undermining Weir. Plus there was him exposing the rest all the people in the dining room because the doors being opened allowed Peterson to skip through the city like there was no tomorrow. And there wouldn't have been except for him and the others who had the gene. An irony knowing that being a genetic mutant would provide him immunity.
Coffee. Coffee solved a lot of problems. He stood up too quickly and held out a hand to steady himself as the room spun around. He didn't think it was caffeine withdrawal. He could feel the headache. Possibly a migraine. It wasn't quite there yet but it always started in his neck, then moved up into his temples. And it pounded. Coffee wouldn't help, would probably make him throw up, but he might be able to function. He'd make a cup then—checking the time again: 6.00—he'd head out to the pier to watch the sun rise.
He stepped through the door, sipping his coffee, and frowned. Ford. Ford who had been stuck with the scientists yesterday; Ford who pounded him on the back; who had nearly put his neck out of place with his enthusiasm after he'd got back to the city. Ford, who he admitted was probably a little too hero worshipful for Sheppard's ego's own good. He really didn't get it. He hated it; he was flattered.
"Ford," he drawled. Ford stood, stumbling over his greeting, the look on his face indicating that he knew he was intruding on Sheppard's favorite place to get away from everyone. The guilt that always hung around him at Ford's idolization tapped him on the shoulder. He waved the Lieutenant back down.
"Sit, Ford," he said, "pier's big enough for both of us."
"Yes, sir," Ford said.
Sheppard sat down gingerly. The headache was up to the base of his skull, right on schedule. Ford looked like he thought Sheppard was going to pitch into the sea. He cut the thought and said, "What's up, Ford?"
"Sir? Uh, nothing, sir, just came out to watch the sunrise, sir" Ford replied, nodding a little too emphatically.
Aww hell. He sighed inwardly. Just what he needed. He looked a little more closely at Ford, keeping his face schooled to blankness. Ford looked awful. No sleep, and...what was it? Ford had an open face. Was it...guilt? He contemplated his coffee, contemplated going back to bed, contemplated Ford's anxious face. Better now than later.
"That's a lot of "sir's" for a nothing, Ford, you look like crap." There was silence from Ford. "Ford..." Sheppard repeated.
"Do you know anything about prime numbers, sir?" Ford blurted out.
Out of left field. He said bemusedly, "What?"
Ford was clearly having something of an inward debate.
"Ford, prime numbers," he prompted.
Ford sounded casual. "Dr McKay and Dr Zelenka were talking about them yesterday. I just kinda wondered that's all."
That was all. Even in his worst high school moments, Sheppard couldn't think of anything about prime numbers that could create that sort of anxiety.
"Prime numbers can only be divided by themselves and one," he replied. "Like 1,979." Ford looked blank. "Look, it's easy. What can you divide 13 by?"
"Anything," said Ford. "Like, two. That's 6.5."
He shook his head. "No remainders," he said. "No decimal points. For it to be a prime number, you can't have decimal points or for it to be divisible by any other number. What can you divide 15 by?"
"Three and five," said Ford.
"What can you divide 97 by?" he asked.
"Ninety-seven can be divided by three, can't it?" Ford floundered.
"Ninety can," he said. "Seven can't. Seven can only be divided by itself and one. What about 993?"
"Not prime," said Ford.
Amazing, he thought, Ford got it.
"Good," he said. "Now you can tell me why I'm giving you a math lesson at," he checked his watch, "6:30 in the morning."
"They complained, didn't they," said Ford.
Huh, what?
"Who complained?"
"Dr Zelenka and Dr McKay," Ford replied miserably.
He sighed, "Just tell me what happened, Ford."
"I told Dr Zelenka that I used to beat up on guys like him in high school," Ford confessed.
"And did you?" he asked mildly, not terribly interested.
"No!" Ford snapped.
Sheppard raised his eyebrows at Ford who colored and mumbled, "Yeah, a little. Once. A math geek."
"Why?" It was like pulling teeth.
"Didn't you do anything like that at school, sir?"
"Ford, I was a math geek in high school," Sheppard said amusedly. He put out a hand as the Lieutenant opened his mouth. "I'm good at math, Ford. Did you put this math geek into hospital?"
"No, sir!" said Ford indignantly. "I just pushed him to make him drop his books. It was a dare. I was in a kind of gang at school. Not like gangbangers or nothin' but we did some pretty stupid stuff. I got into trouble a lot."
"Okay," he said. He wondered vaguely if Ford realized how idiotic that sounded. He looked into his coffee, now long cold, and drained it, making a face at its bitterness.
"Clever people don't care about hurting anyone else's feelings," said Ford a little defiantly. "The guy embarrassed me in front of everyone in class."
"So you beat him up?" he asked. "Is that what happened with Zelenka and McKay? They ask you about prime numbers, did they? Feel like you were back in high school?"
"Yeah..."
"What happened with the math geek?"
Ford smiled a little. "My grandpa happened, sir. The school phoned him and I got into the biggest trouble in my life. He'd take the Wraith on and win."
"Pity he's not here, then," he said dryly. Watch the sarcasm... "What about Zelenka?"
"Dr Zelenka said he wanted me to take part in a study on statistical probabilities because I got all the prime numbers wrong. That's when I told him I used to beat up guys like him."
Sheppard squinted at him. The headache had reached his sinuses and was making his eyes water. He could feel it encroaching from his eyes out towards his temples. Headache tablets sucked.
"And during the hurricane, I threatened Dr Beckett," Ford said, "and yesterday I panicked when I thought I was gonna die and I yelled at him."
"Ford, what's this in aid of?" Sheppard asked, wearily rubbing his temples. Ford was confessing to something and he didn't think a confrontation with a couple of scientists was it. "Are you angry with yourself because you screwed up or because Zelenka complained about you?"
Ford paused. "Both, sir."
"Conscience is just the fear of getting caught," he quoted. He knew Ford wouldn't get the irony of him saying that and he'd said it as much for himself as for Ford. "Zelenka didn't say a word, Ford. McKay didn't say a word. Neither did Beckett—about anything. Be angry with yourself for screwing up but they didn't say anything about you."
"Are you angry with yourself, sir?" Ford asked him. The Lieutenant looked curious.
Sheppard barked out a short laugh. Oh god... "All the time, Ford, all the time." He rubbed his temples again. Coffee: another mistake. He'd never learn. "Look, are McKay and the other scientists known for their social skills?"
Ford grinned, "No, sir."
"So..." he prompted.
"So, I should take that into account," Ford said, Sheppard thought maybe a little dutifully. Ford frowned at Sheppard. "Sir, what was it like when you were a lieutenant?"
He'd started to droop but lifted his head at that and turned it toward Ford, his eyes narrowing: the heart of the matter. "Feeling a little picked on, Lieutenant?"
"Like I'm always too young, sir," Ford said sulkily. "to get any respect."
"What makes you think that people don't respect you?" he asked surprised. Ford thought people didn't respect him?
"They wouldn't have done that to you, sir," Ford pointed out.
"Zelenka, no, but McKay would," he said. "I don't know if you've noticed but McKay's kind of like that." He thought for a moment about the two scientists. McKay. "Did he start it?"
"Yes, sir," Ford said.
"You think they meant any harm?"
"No, sir."
"Well, keep losing your temper and they definitely won't respect you," Sheppard said impatiently. Time to wrap things up.
"You have a temper, sir," Ford said, showing a touch of resentment. "They still respect you."
He replied bitingly, as the core of yesterday's anger at himself and at everyone else hit more sharply than a nuclear explosion-induced migraine ever could, "If everyone in the mess hall had died yesterday because I broke quarantine, you think you'd be talking about how much people respect me?"
"But they didn't. You saved everyone," Ford said.
"Could have gone the other way, Ford," he said. "Remember that." He stood up, and grabbed the railing to steady himself.
"What should I do?" asked Ford, as though Sheppard could solve any problem.
He sighed again. "Look Ford, I'm no more answer man than Rodney. I make a lot of mistakes. I try not to make the same ones over and over but sometimes I do. I'm not an expert on what people should do to gain respect. I'm not much of an expert on anything. I'm good at math and flying. For what it's worth, when I was a Lieutenant I was crap at everything except helicopters." He massaged his temples. "I'm going back to bed."
"Yes, sir," Ford said. "Thank you, sir."
"For what?" he asked, not waiting for an answer. Truth be told, he wasn't that interested though he should be. He was more interested right at this moment in making it back to his quarters before he threw up. He'd think about it later. Maybe Ford should have his own team. He was a Lieutenant. Sergeants had their own teams. Bates did. Stackhouse did. Maybe Ford would feel more respected with his own team. Truth was, though, he liked the kid. He was enthusiastic. Sheppard felt jaded and scared, more scared than McKay. He needed the balance.
He lay on his bed, eyes closed. He didn't know how long he'd lain there. No one had come knocking at the door. No one had called him on the radio. He opened one eye and slowly lifted his arm to look at his watch: after midnight. He sat up gingerly, testing his body. Not bad. He wondered if he should have asked Beckett before taking the sleeping tablets. Probably. He rubbed his face and then noticed the sheet of paper, propped up against a glass of water.
"Drink lots of water," it read. "You'll be dehydrated. Ask me next time instead of self-medicating." It was signed "Beckett. The CMO. You idiot." This last was underscored heavily.
Oh. Crap.
At least he could think a little more clearly now. And he went back to yesterday. Over and over. He knew he'd made the right decision to leave the gym, in spite of everything else, and he had saved lives. He approached the central problem, this time face on. Undermining Weir.
He had said to Teyla that Elizabeth—she'd said to call her Elizabeth but it still felt odd—sometimes made a decision, locking herself into it. Teyla had replied that Weir wasn't the only one. Later, when Weir confronted him, he'd said that he trusted her but really, he didn't. Not militarily. He wasn't the one to decide what was or wasn't a military situation? Who was then? Weir? What exactly, he had wanted to ask, was her expertise in military matters? He'd read through McKay's report of the bug/stuck in the gate incident, and noticed the criticism between the lines of the scientist's "Dr Weir requested all information regarding the incident prior to contacting the science team" and "Stargates remain open for 38 minutes under relativistic conditions" and the final, "Assistance was provided at 35 minutes." Three minutes was a long period in gate time.
This wasn't getting him anywhere. Work. He booted up his computer to start his report, and as ever, opened the first he'd written after coming to Atlantis. He read it through carefully, every word piercing the armor plating of his self-imposed shell. He got to the last section and highlighted the words on the screen. He stared at them and ran over yesterday's events and putting in his next report. Churning them over. Wanting, he realized with irony, more information.
He blinked and looked at the time. Nearly 2:00 am. He started tapping out his report. He got to the end of the first sentence and paused. He flicked back to his first report, the highlighted section blinking. His finger hesitated over the delete button, hit it, and he started typing quickly, now with no uncertainty. He saved it and hit send. He hoped he'd get up there quickly enough.
He opened the door, and just managed to stop himself walking into it when it only opened part-way. He squeezed through, and pulled off the sign. "Major Sheppard got nuked yesterday and is now sleeping. Please address all questions to Dr Weir." Beckett had signed it. This time CMO was heavily underscored. He crumpled the paper and tossed it into his room.
She was still in her office, of course. The control room was darkened, with a skeleton staff on duty. He knocked at her door and leaned just inside the frame. She looked up and smiled, clearly pleased to see him.
"Major! Dr Beckett said you were sleeping. How are you feeling?" she asked.
He didn't smile back. He stared at her, almost seeing the worry lines and the stress for the first time. Her smile faded.
"Major?"
"I was lying," he said.
"I'm sorry?" she looked puzzled and not a little apprehensive.
"In the infirmary. After the bug. I wasn't going to say to take care of each other," he said stonily. It was harder than he thought.
"It doesn't matter," she started. "I knew that..."
"Yeah, it does," he interrupted. "Because I lied in my report. The first one. Sort of. At least, I left something out. You need to know. You said I needed to trust you."
She looked over his face and said, "I know you trust me, Major."
"I didn't. Not until you said yesterday that I should."
"I don't understand," she said.
"I shot Colonel Sumner," he said.
"I know, Major, you said that in your report," she said.
"Deliberately," he said. "I killed him deliberately. I sent you an amended report. You should read it."
And he walked out.
He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, going over it in his head. He turned his head to check the time. She was taking hers. When the knock at the door finally came, he tensed, even though he was expecting it.
She was alone. That was unexpected. He frowned at her.
"I read your report," she said. She pulled up his chair and sat down.
He bit his lip, just as he had when she'd smiled up at him on their arrival. She'd been clutching that ridiculous bottle of champagne.
"Why?" she started.
"Didn't I put it in my report?" he finished. He snorted. "Would you have?"
"No," she said, "Why have you been living with this guilt all this time without talking to anyone?"
"I am not talking to Heightmeyer," he snapped. "She's a pretentious idiot."
"I suppose I'm trying to say that you could have talked to me," Weir said patiently. She held up a hand. "I know, we clash—a lot—but you should have known that you could have trusted me."
He nodded mutely. He did know that deep down. He just didn't want to admit it.
"I've replaced the report," she said. "And backdated the submission. I think you wanted that."
"I was right about yesterday," he said.
"You weren't," she said and smiled. She leaned across and poked him in the arm. "You weren't."
He smiled back, slightly horrified that they were joking. "Was too..."
"What if I ordered you to see Heightmeyer?" she asked.
"I wouldn't go," he said.
She clasped her hands and looked down a little as though gathering herself.
"Then talk to me," she said. "If you need to."
He nodded again. It wasn't something he could promise out loud.
"Good," she smiled. "Get some sleep, Major. There's a sign on your door about you being nuked and needing some sleep."
"I took that down," he said.
"Carson replaced it," she said. "He also said to..."
"...drink lots of water," he replied dutifully.
She stood, graceful and elegant. She seemed less tired now. He realized she probably worried about him just as much as anyone else in Atlantis. He wouldn't talk to her but he could resolve to make her life a little simpler.
"I'll get some sleep," he said.
"Good," she said. Then she left.
He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, going over everything that had happened. Then he closed his eyes, strangely comforted, and went to sleep. As promised.
FINIS