bouncyAuthor:
tarapierson (Marie Whi Mitshue)Pairing: McKay/Zelenka, kinda
Rating: Light R, for blood and angst. Or, FRT (Fan Rated for Teenagers) if you follow the fan system
Warning: a little angst, a little mention of blood, pre-slash, possible Character Death
Summary: He’s shivering and shaking, half-curled in your lap, sweat-dampened, short brown hair mussed into random peaks and spikes, cheek pressed against your thigh. You can feel the fever-heat of his skin right through your trousers, and it’s just one more reason you want to scream and cry and destroy something.
Notes: I’m in a rather depressed mood, and this came out.
UNBETAED.
I posted this at
atlantis_slash and kat_lair suggested I post it at welovezelenka and wondergeeks, saying they'd like it, so its cross-posted at all three LJs. Whew. Hope y'all do like it.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rodney’s fingers clench tightly around yours, and a wet, gurgling breath rattles in his throat. His eyes, those bright blue eyes that you’re so used to seeing gleam with intelligence, arrogance, humour, affection, even uncertainty and anger and fear, those eyes are now so dull and darkened. They hold barely a tiny spark of the man you know and care about.
He’s shivering and shaking, half-curled in your lap, sweat-dampened, short brown hair mussed into random peaks and spikes, cheek pressed against your thigh. You can feel the fever-heat of his skin right through your trousers, and it’s just one more reason you want to scream and cry and destroy something.
One of Rodney’s hands is curled weakly in the hem of your blue shirt, the other is twined with your own hand, palms pressed tightly together, fingers laced together. You hold on as tightly as you can, and ignore the tacky wet red that slicks both your hands.
He coughs again, red speckling that beautiful, crooked mouth, and you bite your lip, staring down at the field dressing you covered the horrible wound in his side with, staring at the crimson that was soaking through it. Hope drains out of you with every drop of Rodney’s blood that trickled from his body.
It’s so dark in here, the only light comes from your flashlight propped up against Rodney’s leg, and the light on Rodney’s P-90, which is still where it fell when Rodney dropped it, a few feet away the light pointing just past you and Rodney. The left lens of your glasses is spiderwebbed with cracks, and your cheek is scratched and bruised, but that is all the injury you suffered.
You lift your free hand from where it was rubbing soothingly against Rodney’s shoulder, and tap your earpiece, hoping to hear Sheppard’s voice, Carson’s, Ronon’s, Teyla’s, Lorne’s, anybody’s. You get that weird static burst that seems to be blocking all communications again, and you bite back the cursing and the screams that want to escape you. Rodney is bad enough now, if he were to think that there was no rescue coming… You leave the com-channel open, hoping that if that interference fades or is removed somehow, the others will hear you and Rodney and come and get you out.
Before it is too late.
Rodney tries to curl closer to you, but lacks the strength, and you carefully, though not without causing pain, manage to shift him, so he is now propped up against you, legs tangling with yours, his head on your shoulder, the heavy, warm weight of his solid body against you something that would be a pleasure any other time. Now, now he is bleeding to death, his whole body is burning with fever and wet with blood and sweat, and he is far too still, far too silent for Rodney McKay.
The hands that should be gesturing non-stop are still, even now gripping your hand and shirt. The mind that should be racing so fast only few (and you are one of those proud few) can keep up with him, is slowed and crippled now, with pain and blood loss and confusion. The mouth that should be snarking, or joking or ordering, is only parting to allow horribly-wet, panting breaths and little whimpers out.
You find your free hand moving of its own accord, burying itself in Rodney’s sweat-dampened hair, cradling his head against you as if that tender touch could keep him breathing, keep death from him.
“R..Rad..ek…” Rodney’s voice is broken and barely there, a mere wisp of hoarse, burbling sound. It makes something in your chest ache to hear your name in that voice, when that voice should be stronger, brighter, intense and deep.
“Yes, I am here, you must stay still and quiet while they come for us, Rodney. You must, please.” You babble at him, not sure if you are speaking English or Czech.
His thumb flutters weakly over your skin, and you blink down at your joined hands.
“’S bad, I know…” He gasps, turning his face up towards mine. His skin, speckled with blood around his lips, is far too pale, like curdled milk, and his eyes are so faded. “I jus’…you ‘ave to know…” He has to stop, gasping and coughing, and you lift him, holding him upright and pound his back until the blood that was caught in his throat comes out, splattering the both of you in bright, sinister red. He sinks back against you, tears of effort, frustration and pain sliding down grey-white, red-flecked skin, and you can’t help it, you hold him to you tightly, desperately.
You are going to lose him. Rodney McKay is going to die here, in the dark, caved-in ruins of an offworld Ancient building, in your arms, and it is all your fault.
“Rad..ek…” He whimpers, and you can no more stop the kiss you press to his sweaty forehead anymore than you could stop a hiveship by throwing bowls of borscht at it.
“Shhhh, Rodney, please, you must save strength. Colonel will come. Please, I do not wish you to die, please, stay still, stay with me. I cannot do without you. Please.” You beg, your voice cracking and breaking, tears of your own streaming down your face. You are broken wide open, saying things you swore to keep buried, but if it keeps him alive, you would say or do anything, including die yourself.
His hand untangles from your shirt, and trembling, weak fingers stroke lightly over your stubbly, dirty jaw. You are staring into his eyes, clinging to the spark of life, of emotion, that is barely visible in the pain-dulled depths.
“L..love y-you, Rade..Radek…:” He gasps out, voice so weak you can barely hear it, barely decipher his words. “I –“ His face pales further, suddenly, and there’s a hot, violent gush of wetness against you. He convulses in your embrace, eyes squeezing shut, and screams in agony.
There are voices shouting in your ear now, familiar, not Rodney’s, only just heard beneath his screams, but all your attention is on the man – the man you love – who is dying in your arms.
He falls still, with one last, gasping breath that shudders through him, and his body is a heavy, limp weight against you, frightening in its very still limpness. You lower him down to the ground, assessing him even as you cry harder. You no longer hear anything over the rush of your pulse in your ears.
He is not breathing. His heart is not beating. Very well. You shall do both for him. You shall perform CPR, breath air into his lungs, keep his heart beating, for however long it takes. Someone will come, you just have to keep breathing for him, keep his heart beating for him, until they do.
What a fool you were – he loves you, Rodney loves you, as you love him, and you could have been sharing his bed, his world, his life, all this time.
Tears drip down your face unheeded as you breathe for him. As you keep his heart beating.
You know if you stop, if his heart is forever stilled, yours will follow. His is your heart, and you cannot live without him, no matter how many times you have tried to deny what you feel.
Someone will come.
Someone must come.
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