John, Dave
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The mail, when it comes, is terse and plain. Nine words only, probably written or maybe dictated at great pains. John, I've had a heart attack. Please come. Dave.
Of course you need to go, Rodney says. I can do your paperwork for one more month, Major Lorne says. I will watch over your marines for you, Teyla says. Of course you may take your accumulated leave, Woolsey says. Go, Ronon says.
I can't believe you came, Dave says, when John sits down on the small stool beside the hospital bed. John feels uncomfortable getting stared at in his pristine uniform, but he had not felt like taking the chance that people at the hospital might not take him seriously.
You asked me to, John says, and before Dave can argue that Dave had asked him to come after Dad's first heart attack, too, he says, There are people who like me involved in the screening process now.
He's the one who stayed at home, took care of the family business, safe, and he's the one tied down in there now, he accuses the doctor later that night.
Do you want me to believe you've never been injured? the doctor asks.
Of course not, John grouses. But he was supposed to be safe.
Dave has not "been safe". He has worked too hard, has had far too much stress, slept too little, has simply given too much. So much so that even now, two months after the terrible merger went through, he still cannot sleep properly, still not let it go.
He needs time off, the doctor says. Real time off, get away from all this. Only I know him, the man says, leave him on a Caribbean island somewhere and he'll still be working. Lock him away with nothing to do and he will worry himself nuts.
A little stress might actually be good, the doctor adds. As long as it's a different kind of stress.
A place far away, no communication with Sheppard Industries, and enough excitement so he won't get bored, John says as they re-enter his brother's room. Dave, seemingly recognizing the tone in his voice even after all these years, stares up at him in wonderment. I can do that.
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