Work Text:
Finally
by JiM
His last thought, watching ashy bits of scorched alien ripple into the sky, is: fuck-ouch-badsmell-ouch-sorry-cold-finally-ouch. Dimly, he wishes it were something more profound than that but he knows at least that much about himself. If his lungs weren't filling up with blood, he'd chuckle. Or maybe snort. He's lying on sand, dying at dusk, just like Laurie did, and he can hear copters, just like she could and his last thought is still: fuck-ouch-finally.
~ ~ ~
His first thought, eyelids scraping open over sanded eyeballs, is: fuck-ouch.
But even he can tell this thought has some vigor behind it. Mostly, what it really wants is to scream for some morphine. There is an oddly muffled beeping and he is cold.
Someone pale pink and rimmed with dark leans over him and garbles something as if through water. He blinks and isn't especially surprised to find that he can't swallow or speak. The pale pink blob makes an encouraging sound and then there is an annoying tendril of fire creeping up his left arm and he remembers that this is what morphine feels like just before it really hits and steals your ...;
~ ~ ~
"Why would you even come to Vegas in the first place?" McKay demands, flinging a hand at the ceiling.
"Because that's where they keep the gambling," Sheppard says. "You know everything about me, remember?"
He deeply wishes he could scream for more morphine. But they started weaning him off of it two days ago. Before then, he hadn't even seen Rodney McKay.
Probably. To be honest, he doesn't remember much of the 8 days they say he's been here. They patched his lung (punctured in two places, once by the bullet and once by the broken rib that shifted when he skittered over the hood of his car, trying hard not to be shot anywhere else), pinned his scapula (the bullet again), sewed up his ear-drum (burst in the explosion) and coincidentally fixed the ulcer he'd been working steadily on for four years (drinking, bad booze and bad coffee in pretty much equal amounts). They even brought in a plastic surgeon to take tiny perfect stitches in the cut under his eye (from where Mikey's goon's ring had split it during their last accounting check-up).
McKay snorts, far more effectively that John Sheppard ever could. Maybe he should take lessons, he thinks, then realizes that maybe they had started pulling him off the drugs a bit too late. His brain seems to keep going very strange places.
"You're not a gambling addict, Sheppard. You're just bored."
That shakes him as nothing else has since he awakened properly. In fact, it offends him. How dare McKay assume anything about him! He glares and turns his head to stare out the window. But the bastard keeps talking.
"Terminally bored, I'd say. Taking on a Wraith by yourself? With two clips and a bag of hundreds for back-up?"
Sheppard has to turn and stare at that, then winces when sutures and stitches and who-knows-what-the-hell-else pull.
"Oh yeah, we found the money in your car. The car is parked out at the facility; it's going to need some touch-up work. The money...; I took care of that for you."
It was the smug look that wasn't quite a smirk that had him growling. "What did you do with my money, McKay?"
"Technically, it wasn't actually your money anyway."
"Where's the money!"
Fuck-ouch, he thinks. He makes a mental note: no more shouting; settle for low-voiced menace, it hurts a hell of a lot less.
McKay has a hand on his right shoulder, gently helping him to uncurl and lay back against the pillows. He slips a straw into Sheppard's mouth and watches dispassionately while he sips cool water, eyes glaring hot death up at the irritating bastard. He lets the straw slip from his lips and asks tiredly, quietly,
"What did you do with the money?"
"I cleared your debt with Mikey Cerratani."
His brows knit and he wishes he had the lungs to shout again. There was a hell of a lot more in that bag than what he'd owed to Mikey C. "And the rest?"
"Policemen's Widows and Orphan's Fund. Anonymous donation in honor of your retirement."
"Bastard."
McKay's hand is still on his shoulder and it tightens slightly as his lip quirks. "You have no idea. But you will."
The raised eyebrow and blank stare seem to do better than shouting would anyway.
"Sheppard, think about where you are in the Universe." The hand tightens again. "Do you really like it all that much?"
The question is phrased oddly enough that it actually does make him think. Vegas, he thinks, then snorts. Damn, his shoulder and lung really aren't up to that yet. Nothing to miss here.
"I was on my way out of town when I called you, McKay. What does that tell you?"
McKay nods and smiles, the crooked line of his mouth smoothing into something less smug. "Were you heading anywhere special?"
Water, he thinks. "The ocean. I thought I'd take a cruise. Maybe get in some surfing."
McKay's smile deepens. "The ocean? I can promise you some spectacular waterfront views, John."
"Where?"
But he knows. He can see it in McKay's eyes even before he speaks.
"Atlantis. Come with me...us. I have a team. We can use you."
"I...," he stops, unsure of what he had begun to say. No one has actually asked for him in so long, not since before Afghanistan. Every commander, every boss, every lieutenant, every partner, they'd all been stuck with him.
"You won't be bored," McKay says, as if that should clinch the deal for him.
And maybe it does, because he finds himself saying, "Well, you know me; I like to gamble."
Then they're both laughing like idiots and it hurts like hell, but it feels like he's finally breaking the surface and taking his first deep breath in years and all he can think is: fuck-ouch-finally.
end