(no subject)

[tacit]

Title: Reckoning
Author: tacit_uk       
Fandom: SGA
Rating: PG-13 for gore and namecalling
Pairing: gen
Word count: 5300
Notes: Thanks to the lovelyferret_kitty   for beta and cheerleading, and to kristen999   for prodding my pronouns. All mistakes are mine.

This is for everybetty   in the Sheppard H/C Secret Santa. everybetty   requested gen Shepwhump featuring Beckett, that didn't skip over the medical details. This is what came out.

Nb: At the end of The Defiant One, McKay nods to Sheppard's gun shot wound and asks if Sheppard's okay. Sheppards replies, "Other than this and a few cracked ribs," which seemed eye-rollingly over-stoic, to me. I've taken a bit of poetic license with the severity of Sheppard's injuries.

 

Reckoning by tacit

 

 

It didn't look like much, just a stumble breaking Sheppard's hurried stride. McKay knew though. Knew Sheppard had been hit. The four of them were spread out in the shadow of the cliff, shooting behind them. They took turns to shoot in a complex rota based on whose terrain was the easiest, their vantages among the rocks, how tired each was getting. McKay could predict all of their paths, could see where each of them would shoot from.

 

Instinctively, the team took Sheppard out of rotation so he could save his energy for outpacing the natives. McKay didn't know how badly Sheppard was hurt, but after three years, he finally trusted Sheppard to let them help him. They were a team.

 

 

 

~*~ Three years ago ~*~

 

 

 

McKay should have realised something was wrong when Sheppard delegated the retrieval of Gaul and Abrahms. Sheppard: delegating. It was weird. But he was as exhausted as he imagined Sheppard was; shaky and upset, and still processing that he was the kind of man who knew what exact shade grey-matter was.

 

He barely noticed that Sheppard was handing off responsibilities to his minions, leaving Teyla and Ford to retrieve the bodies. They had all only been on Atlantis a few months at that point, and Sheppard's 'leave no man behind' credo was not yet an ingrained truth. It was a theory with too few data points, an ideal without certain proof, so it didn't seem odd to McKay that Sheppard was appropriating Ford’s jumper and a marine to fly it, and they were leaving ahead of the others.

 

The adrenaline had worn off while he was getting them access to the jumper. Their remote was in as many pieces as the Wraith; scattered, burnt and with no chance of resurrection. McKay's workaround had been quick and simple; the kind of task he had been brought along for; a welcome contrast to the brutal, unsettling tasks of the day. The rear compartment was tidy again; familiar, cool and inviting. Lying down in the back of the jumper and sleeping was a much more appealing prospect than flying it.

 

He sat down heavily on the narrow bench. His skin felt dirty, and his eyes were gritty from the desert air. He rubbed at his face, then slumped down, elbows to knees, hands to face. He was still hunched up that way after they left the planet's gravity well, when Sheppard sat down opposite him. The autopilot was engaged and the grunt was briefed on which displays to watch, and which beeps signalled normal service and which signalled imminent death. It was more training than McKay had had for his day's work.

 

McKay was surprised by the release of tension he felt when Sheppard joined him, two men when there should have been four. Sheppard was guarding the ribs he said he had cracked. McKay had seen him take a handful of Tylenol earlier on, and he was pale. He was alive.

 

They looked at each other, wearily. McKay figured he should probably check that Sheppard was okay, if he needed help re-dressing his arm. McKay guessed Sheppard was thinking similar thoughts about him. They just shared a long look of exhaustion, and then almost in unison, they rearranged themselves to lie on the benches. He heard Sheppard's breath catch on pain, but Sheppard had already said he was fine. He didn’t think there was any reason to worry. And dammit, he was overdue for some down time. He fell asleep.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Sheppard was starting to look strained and sweaty. He went from bounding athletically over small rocks to a one-two, up-down over them. They were all dusty with the chalk they were kicking up, and on Sheppard it added to his pallor.

 

“How far,” McKay asked between breaths, “to the gate?”

 

“Twenty minutes,” Ronon replied, firing a few shots out and not sounding winded at all. “If we don't slow down.”

 

“Backup?”

 

“Three hours.”

 

McKay turned and shot. This planet sucked. “Perfect.” He risked another glance at Sheppard, who was still keeping up just fine. “Sheppard?” he prompted.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

En route back to Atlantis, McKay woke suddenly. He wasn’t sure what had woken him – the lights were dim and he had not been asleep long enough for them to be home already.

 

“McKay,” Sheppard rasped for attention. There was something in his voice that made McKay sit up and peer at him anxiously. Sheppard had moved while McKay was asleep and now he lay on the floor between the benches, arms outstretched. He had changed the bandage on his bullet wound. He was an alarming shade of grey and he was breathing in rapid, shallow breaths.

 

“Jesus,” McKay swore. “What happened?” Barely awake and seeing Sheppard pale and wheezy in the jumper's emergency lighting, he shot a glance at his neck as if the Iratus bug could have spontaneously reappeared.

 

Sheppard winced at the tone. Or maybe the volume of it. Also, it was probably a little high pitched. “Can’t breathe,” he told McKay.

 

“I can see that!” he replied. “Why not?!”

 

Sheppard shook his head, gesturing vaguely to his damaged ribs. McKay had hoped he would have something a little more useful to say.

 

“Well, did it just happen? Or have you been stoically suffocating while I slept for a while, now?” he asked tightly. This was the second medical emergency McKay had dealt with on this mission and he would admit it, he was a little pissed off about it. He watched Sheppard form words and could see the effort it was for him to get the breath to talk. He forestalled Sheppard's response with a raised finger. “Yes or no answers,” he ordered. “Is this new?”

 

Sheppard eyed him warily and shook his head, “No,” he wheezed. “Worse, though.”

 

“Great! Excellent.” McKay knelt and took his pulse. “Do I thank you? My nap was very restful, it was good of you not to wake me to let me know about your impending death!”

 

Sheppard glared at McKay, and McKay glared back. He wasn’t angry, he was freaked out. And maybe a little angry. Sheppard's pulse was racing. The bulkhead door was closed, so McKay keyed his radio. He paused, realising he had no idea what the marine’s name was.

 

“Stafford,” Sheppard supplied helpfully; smug despite the effort it obviously took to say.

 

“Stafford,” McKay repeated into the radio, shooting Sheppard a quelling look. “Radio Atlantis, get Beckett on the line.”

 

“Is everything alright, Doctor McKay?” the marine asked.

 

“Yes, everything's fine! Nap time is ambling along marvellously. I want his haggis recipe.” McKay bit out in clipped tones. The marine was silent for a moment, obviously uncertain. “Chop chop!” McKay exclaimed.

 

With a little concentration, he mentally keyed the lights up. He started rooting around in the overhead storage, tugging out all the medical supplies. He had only the vaguest ideas of what to do with any of it, but he could at least get it all to hand for Beckett’s instructions.

 

Now that the jumper wasn’t in semi-darkness, he could see colours more clearly. When he knelt back down by Sheppard, he was alarmed by the blue tint to his lips. McKay stubbornly chose to believe Sheppard's lips had been blue when he first woke up as well, because the alternative was that Sheppard's condition was getting worse with frightening speed.

 

“Rodney? What’s the problem?” Beckett came through on the radio. He sounded concerned, interested, calm.

 

“Carson,” McKay greeted him, relieved. He took a fortifying breath. “Sheppard’s the problem,” he said, which was accurate on a number of levels. “He can’t breathe. And his lips are blue. And he didn’t wake me up!”

 

Sheppard, the bastard, rolled his eyes. McKay knew Sheppard was trying to act normal for his benefit, but unless Sheppard could extend the illusion to include his rebelling lungs he wasn’t going to be impressed. One of them had to get some control over the situation. McKay was tired of it being him.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

“Gun shot to my side,” Sheppard grated out. His voice was pitched low and didn't carry well. “I'm bleeding.”

 

“Okay, alright,” McKay said. “We'll find--”

 

“Over here,” Teyla called, and she wasn't breathing hard either. “We can take shelter for a few minutes.” There was a rocky outcrop at the base of the cliff. McKay couldn't see it yet, but Teyla must have spotted a cave. McKay's sharp gaze took in the land ahead, reassessing the route if their four parallel paths started converging. Ronon could go higher, protect them all with some concentrated gunfire when they slowed.

 

Another hundred metres, and Teyla gestured. McKay saw the mouth of the cave. Sheppard was close enough to touch now. McKay caught his arm. Their boots pounded in synchrony, crunching over gravel.

 

Ronon had disappeared, hidden by the rocks a few metres above them. McKay could see the blasts from his gun but not the man himself. Just ahead of them, Teyla darted into the cave, and reappeared seconds later with a nod. She settled herself behind some rocks just outside, and lay down more covering fire. As they passed her, McKay tossed her his last spare cartridge, which she plucked from the air with barely a glance. McKay and Sheppard swung into the cave, almost skidding as they halted.

 

Breathing hard, McKay caught Sheppard's other arm so they were facing, McKay's hands bracketing Sheppard's elbows. Their eyes met briefly, Sheppard letting McKay gauge how hurt he was in the lines of his face. Pained but not agonised, slowed but not halted. A quick triage, and they would be able to move on.

 

 

 

~*~

 

 

 

Carson didn’t expend any time or effort telling McKay to calm down, which he appreciated. Then the doctor was all business. “Is he breathing now?” Beckett asked.

 

“Yes. Fast and shallow. And his pulse is fast, too.”

 

“Can you quantify that for me, lad?” he asked. McKay could almost have believed Beckett was a real scientist.

 

He watched Sheppard’s chest for a few seconds. “Aahh, one breath every two seconds or so? Pulse is around 120.”

 

“Alright, let me know if those speed up any more.” Carson said. “Is he conscious? Did this come on suddenly?”

 

“He’s conscious, just not too chatty. And he says it’s been going on for a while, but he was fine when I went to sleep.” McKay looked at Sheppard for confirmation. He wasn’t looking at McKay, his attention was directed inward. McKay lay a hand on his heaving shoulder. Sheppard noticed the questioning glance, and he seemed to cast about for the question he had just been asked. He nodded.

 

“What can you tell me about the mission? Any injuries? Toxins, poisons?”

 

“He got thrown around a bit. He said he had ‘a few’ cracked ribs. Seriously, ‘a few’, like they’re bruises, or, or split ends. Who breaks ‘A few’ bones?” His voice rose on the last words.

 

“Rodney,” Beckett interrupted, bringing him back on track.

 

“Um, and he got shot in the arm, but he didn’t think it was too bad. He was moving around fine.”

 

“Aye, that’ll be the adrenaline. Ask him if his breathing got suddenly worse or if it was a steady decline.”

 

Sheppard heard the radio, but McKay restated it so he could answer yes or no, “Suddenly?” he said. Sheppard nodded jerkily. “Suddenly,” McKay confirmed to Beckett.

 

“Alright. Look at the blood vessels on his neck. Do they look engorged?”

 

McKay looked, and grimaced. “Okay, that’s unpleasant.”

 

“Rodney, lad, I’ve an inkling of what’s wrong, and we can fix it. First, I need you to cut his shirt open and tell me what you see.”

 

McKay went for the zipper but paused, waiting for permission because this was weird, right? Undressing his team leader? “Uh, Sheppard?” Except Sheppard wasn't reacting. “Okay, right.” McKay unzipped his vest and pushed it to the sides, then got some scissors from the supplies and cut a slit up Sheppard's shirt. Beckett's straightforward, quick-fire questions reassured McKay, left him feeling a little more in control. He wished again that they had had a medic around for Gaul.

 

Exposing Sheppard’s chest, all McKay could see was that it was a mess of bruises and it wasn’t moving right. “It's...” He wiped sweat from his temple with a trembling hand. “God. What am I looking for?”

 

“Is it moving symmetrically?”

 

“No, the left side’s hardly moving. My right, his left. And I'm about two seconds from freaking right out.”

 

“Left,” Beckett clarified. “Is it moving consistently? Are any sections moving inward when the rest moves out?”

 

“Oh, that's so wrong. The bottom left is… sort of fluttering,” McKay said. He eyed him for another breath, “’A few cracked ribs’? Seriously?” he asked Sheppard incredulously, because the fact that they were more than just cracked was obvious and it really couldn’t have escaped the soldier. McKay don’t care how much adrenaline he had coursing through him. It looked horribly unnatural. And painful. Ow. Sheppard ignored him, not paying any attention anymore.

 

 

On to part two