Author's Notes: This is a response to a challenge posted on the Yahoo! SGAHC Group: to begin a fic with the phrase 'My father never...' It is also inspired by the Due South episode called 'North,' written by Jeff King, and as such the plot and an occasional line may feel familliar.

No spoilers, no ships, no warnings. Reviews welcomed and adored. Beta'd by the lovely Nebbyjen. Thank you kindly!

North

Chapter One

"My father never took me camping."

I pause, breathless, placing one hand against the cool surface of a rock to steady myself. "Is this really the time, McKay?"

"I lied. He didn't do…"

"The outdoors?" I suggest.

"Children. Brunette PAs," he adds, his voice shifting a tone, "those he did in wild abundance. But not kids. He was never, ah - he never took to parenting."

A stunner bolt hits the rock a few inches from my hand and sends tingles through my fingers. Ducking, I return my hand to McKay's back and follow the man down a small slope toward the sounds of the river. "Really, McKay - is this going to take long?"

"Everything else was true," he pants. "I borrowed my mother's sheets, I packed up a crate of food, and then I waited out in the yard for him to come home." He suddenly turns and grabs me by the arms, pulling me down to my knees. "Duck."

Another blast erupts overhead, and what feel like leaves shower from overhead.

McKay takes my arm by the wrist and tugs me sharply upward, continuing our descent down the slope. "All I wanted was to spend some time with him, to talk to him, to get to know him." I slip on something wet beneath my feet but he jerks me upright and pulls me onwards. "He promised he would be there but he never turned up."

"Did he…" I pause, wincing as my right hip clips something hard and unresisting, with enough strength to bruise. "Did he apologize?"

He snorts. "Hah! No. He came home in the early hours in the morning and the next time I saw him it was two days later. He didn't say a thing about it, and I didn't bring it up. I'd unpacked everything and cleaned the sheets - what was the use?"

My feet skitter over rocks, and another explosion rattles in the space to my left.

"My point is," McKay pants, "I never went camping. I never did any of that father-son bonding stuff. I lied. I guess…" and then his hands are suddenly on my shoulders, pushing me down to a crouch, "I didn't want you thinking that before we die."

"We're not going to die," I retort, feeling mud soak through my pants to my knees.

"Tell that to Dave."

Another bolt hits somewhere overhead, and McKay instantly drags me back up onto my feet, pulling me down the slope. I slip and fall the last few feet, skidding to the bottom to be greeted by shingle. Rodney grabs my shoulders and half-drags, half-pushes me several meters, then presses a hand to my chest.

"Stay here," he urges, and then I hear the scuffle of shingle as he moves away.

Oh crap. He's going to be a hero. "McKay!"

---------------------------------------------

I don't believe in God. Never have done, never will do. Somehow the idea of an omniscient, omnipotent being looking out for the welfare of mankind so offends my sense of reason that I've never found any faith to be particularly appealing.

I lack spirituality of any kind. I don't believe in the soul or the afterlife. We are only what science dictates us to be – flesh and blood and electrical impulses advanced thanks to a nice dollop of evolution.

Had I been pressed into ascribing any type of sentiency to the universe, however, it would be a malevolent one. How else to explain how Major Sheppard and myself ended up crashing into an alien planet, unable to contact Atlantis, with one hungry and pissed off Wraith on our trail?

Yes, the universe hates me. Which might not be so bad if someone could explain quite what I'd done to deserve it? I'm a good guy, right?

Most of the time, anyway.

It was a simple driving lesson. After our encounter with the super Wraith the ability to drive a jumper had somehow lost its appeal, but Sheppard had insisted I continue learning. He threw a variety of hideous circumstances at me which all culminated in him being either dead or unconscious and myself as the only person gifted with the gene who could lead the rescue.

He can be amazingly cheerful at times.

Despite his unwarranted abuse at my sense of direction – there is no up in space, no matter what Sheppard believes to the contrary – I was getting the hang of the flying part. Not that I was going to admit it, but the jumper's computer handles most of the direction, and all the driver has to do is give it the occasional mental nudge now and again.

Getting the jumper out of the bay – that proved more difficult. After bumping the ceiling for the fifth time and leaving a welt across the wall Sheppard wrested control off me for fear of hurting his baby beyond even Zelenka's repair.

I swear, the man is possessive to the point of psychosis at times.

He decided to try something he promised was a little easier – namely, threading the jumper through an orbiting Stargate. Trying to forget a variety of colourful flashbacks involving our last experience with puddle jumping, I managed the task on my first try – and I might have celebrated, had we not arrived into the path of a scouting Wraith dart.

Earlier he pushed me from the controls, muttering about paint jobs and leaving toddlers car keys. This time there was violence, Sheppard mentally ripping my mind away from the driving seat.

We were still too slow. I'm not an expert on the topic, and I will never admit it to him – but John is an excellent pilot. Still, even he couldn't outrun a dart, not with the element of surprise lost.

It was only a glancing blow, but the first shot took out our ability to cloak. With the jumper unprotected and vulnerable, Sheppard decided to do the only thing we could – run.

The atmosphere of the planet was enough to lose the dart for a while, but by that point the jumper was too badly damaged, and despite his cursing I could not pull off the miracle Sheppard demanded of me.

I'm a genius, not god.

So… we crashed.

---------------------------------------------

"Major?"

Oh god. Ow. Christ. Ow. I've had hangovers before but this feels like somebody crushed my head in a car compactor.

"Major? John? Oh god, please be okay. I'm not good with people dying on me, alright? It's… it's not a fun thing for me."

Ow. Holy crap. There's a jackhammer somewhere in my skull, and if someone told me my brain was bleeding out of my ears, I wouldn't be surprised. When I first came round after having the Wraith tick removed from my neck – that was bad, that was a migraine of planet-like proportions. But that's a day in the park compared to this.

"John, please – wake up. I don't – I'm not doing this on my own."

Somebody suddenly grips my chin, fingers scrabbling at my neck. Sluggishly I manage to lift my hand in protest, though I feel strangely detached from the action, as though I'm operating my body from remote. "Grr-off."

Okay. Speech not entirely lucid.

"Oh, thank god." The voice I recognise as McKay releases a loud sigh. "Ah, Major, we have to get out of here, okay? Can you get up?"

Get up? He's kidding, right? I can barely think straight.

"Major." A hand taps my cheek insistently, and pain bursts across my temple. "Listen to me. As much as I'd like to sit here while you have a nice, long, leisurely get up, hit the snooze button, make some coffee, the usual - we have to get out of here. Now."

Some of the urgency in McKay's voice manages to penetrate the haze. "Alright," I mutter. "Help me up."

McKay slips an arm around my waist and I lean into his support, managing to pull my legs under me. The ground beneath my feet lists suddenly and I stumble, falling heavily against him.

That's not right. That's not – that's not right. Dammit, I can't think straight. Don't remember – oh, wait. There was a Wraith ship and…

"We crashed?"

"Yes, Major, we did. The jumper crashed, you hit your head and now, ah, now we really have to get out here." McKay jostles me forward, forcing me to take several shambling steps.

The floor seems at odds with my feet. I reach out with my free arm and touch the side of the jumper for support. "We crashed," I repeat.

"Oh, you hit your head really hard." He pulls me forward another couple of steps. I'm suddenly aware of a cold breeze on my face, and the distant sound of branches creaking. "That's it, Major. Another couple of steps. Wait…" His voice raises sharply in alarm, and he tugs hard on my arm. "Not there. To your left. There. Okay."

He wraps his hand around mine and pulls it forward, his skin clammy with sweat. Slowly I lean forward, and my hand touches something rough and uneven, dusty beneath my fingertips.

McKay leans forward so his weight is against my back, pressing me up against the uneven surface. I can feel his chest moving in sharp stutters, his breath hot against my cheek.

"McKay," I drawl, "people will talk."

"Shut up," he hisses. "Just stay still, hold on and don't…"

Whatever he was about to say is suddenly lost in an avalanche of noise. I can hear what sound like branches creaking then tearing, snapping, the rustle of leaves and a great groan of something large and heavy sliding against the rebellious ground. The thing we lean against starts to vibrate, and McKay presses himself even closer against me as the groan turns into a shriek, and there is the sound of earth moving against earth and…

And a strange pause, as though the world is holding its breath…

Then the air against my cheek suddenly shifts, the thing stops vibrating, and there is the sound of something falling through the air. Branches continue to break and I can hear the alarmed cries of birds growing dimmer, getting further away. For a second there is nothing but the sound of McKay panting into my ear, and then a distant, hideous, crashing.

"What was that?" I ask, not daring to raise my voice above a whisper.

"The jumper," he breathes back, slowly levering himself off me. "Falling into that deep… deep… ah…" His words dry up.

"McKay?"

"You – ah – you did see that, didn't you Major?"

"Well," I allow a trace of exasperation to enter my voice, to cover the fear, "that would be a little hard, wouldn't it? Given that I seem to be blind."

---------------------------------------------

"Stop it."

I wave my fingers in front of Sheppard's face one more time, but his eyes don't even flicker.

"Stop it," he growls again. "One more time, I swear, and I will bite your fingers off."

I jerk my hand back quickly. "Right. Sorry, just checking."

"Checking what? That I'm suddenly less blind than I was five minutes ago?"

"Well, it could be temporary," I offer.

"It is temporary, Rodney," he says fiercely. "It's a side-effect of the head wound, that's all."

"Oh. Right. Swelling of the temporal lobe, or, ah –"

"Or something like that, yes." He lifts his fingers up to probe gently at the gash in his hairline, and winces.

John looks – hell, he looks as bad as he did in the jumper, and back then I would have sworn, for a second anyway, that he was dead. Far too pale than any healthy person should be, blood streaked down his face, his breathing shallow and strange. That, thankfully, seems to have sorted itself out now that he's conscious, but there's still the head wound and the paleness – and oh, let's not forget the fact that he still can't see anything, shall we?

Like I said, the universe hates me.

He's still fingering the wound. I knock his hand away more roughly than I intend to, pressing the wadded cloth against his head, causing him to hiss sharply in pain.

"Great bedside manner, McKay."

"Sorry, sorry." It's not bleeding as much as it was, but the area around the gash is swollen and pink. With my free hand I take his, and lift it up to press his fingers against the cloth. "Hold that there," I instruct him, before turning away to the pack.

I didn't entirely panic during our last minute rush from the jumper before it careened into the bottom of a crevasse. As well as manhandling the groggy Major I did manage to pull one pack out with us. One pack, containing one first aid kit, four MREs, six powerbars – it was my pack – a torch, and not enough water. Not much, but adequate supplies for a driving lesson, a quick 'trip around the block,' as Ford had casually dubbed it.

I should have known then the journey was jinxed.

I pull a roll of bandages from the kit and start to wrap the material around the Major's head, holding the wadding in place.

"You're messing up the 'do, McKay," he jokes, but I can see fine lines of pain around his eyes, and a vein throbbing in his neck.

"Carson may have to shave it," I threaten him, tying off the knot clumsily.

"He wouldn't dare."

"Mm, maybe not. You might be lucky. We wouldn't want to spoil that pretty boy image."

He pokes a finger towards me. "Jealous?"

"Hardly."

"Denial. So what's the plan?"

I sit back and stretch out my right leg, grimacing at the pain. The cloth around my thigh is wet with blood, but for the moment it seems to have stopped spreading. "Ah."

"What?" He struggles to sit up straighter. "That's a bad sound, McKay."

"Yes, well…" I stop, biting my lip as I peel back the torn cloth of my trouser leg. "The dual suns of this system combined with the unusual make-up of the atmosphere meant the dart couldn't track the jumper's movements. Unfortunately, it also means that when Atlantis send a rescue party they won't be able to scan the surface for life-signs without having to adjust the system to compensate and…"

"Sum it up, Rodney," he says, sounding tired.

"Right. Sorry, I tend to panic after near death experiences." I take a deep breath, tightening the bandage around my thigh. Sharp pain runs up my leg, past my hip and presses into my chest.

"McKay?"

"It…" I take a short, uneven breath, then start again, forcing my voice to remain level. "It means it's going to take a little longer for Atlantis to get to us than it would normally, that's all."

"Right. No panicking."

"No, no." I lean forward a little to tie off the bandage.

"What else?"

"Hmm?"

"What else, McKay?"

"Oh." Carefully I get to my feet, ignoring the protest from my thigh. "Well, ah, there's the Wraith."

He instantly stiffens, his eyes darting about the forest. As though it makes a difference. "I thought we lost it."

"Yes, well, apparently not."

"I think…" he pauses, "we hit it."

"Yes. And it went down. But, I…" Pausing, I recall the curl of smoke rising from a distant mountain. "I'm not sure it was entirely destroyed."

"So," and he takes a breath, "If we're lucky, it survived the crash and is now hunting down the nearest food source – us - and if we're unlucky, it sent a distress signal out to the nearest fleet for a pick-up."

"That about sums it up."

"Okay. Great." He shifts, reaching out blindly towards me. "Help me up."

"What? Why?"

"Rule number one of avoiding capture, McKay. Keep moving. Plus," and he licks his lips, "I don't hear any water around here, do you?"

"Ah." A horrible pit opens in my stomach. "Well, we have – we have enough." I glance at the two bottles and suddenly wish I'd been more careful when packing. Four MREs, six powerbars, and only two bottles of water? What the hell was I thinking! "It's fine. Atlantis will be here soon."

"Right," he agrees, and waves his arm at me. "Help me up. We should move to lower ground."

"Okay. You're the, ah, field guy." I take his hand and help him to his feet, ready to catch him if he should falter. After swaying briefly, his free hand shooting to touch the wound on his head, he straightens, and extricates himself from my hold.

"So how's best to do this?"

"I, um…" I hesitate, and consider the problem. "Put your hand on my back," I instruct. "Just follow me."

"Okay. Warn me if there are any branches or holes, okay? I don't want to fall on my face."

---------------------------------------------

There were painkillers in the first aid kit. Rodney gave me a couple after first pulling me from the jumper. They took the edge off, enough to allow me to think straight and to preserve my equilibrium. When we last stopped he offered me another two, but I turned him down. This is going to get worse before it gets better, and I'm not sure what words Carson would have to say on mixing a concussion with drugs.

McKay's not saying much, and it has me worried. As long as he's babbling, even in panic, he's okay. When he's silent – that's when he's terrified.

Not that I blame him. Trapped on a planet without water, a Wraith on our trail, and rescue a long way off…

And I'm trying really hard not to think about the fact that I'm…

Oh god. I'm a pilot. You don't get blind pilots. Not even with Ancient technology. I'm a pilot, and I'm a soldier, and if I can't see I'm no longer any of those things. I – I don't know what…

"Major, duck."

I dip my head obediently and feel a branch brush my hair. McKay's shoulder shifts beneath my touch. If he can feel my fingers pressing deep into his back, he hasn't said anything.

If this is permanent…

"I wonder what damage Kavanagh is doing in my absence?"

I tear my thoughts away from the nightmares lurking beneath the surface. "Afraid he's going to usurp you?" I ask, playing the game. I know I'm not the only one on the brink.

"Oh, Zelenka will keep him in check, and it's not as though he has many fans. But he insists on doing everything his own way – outdated and wrong – and undoes all the work of others before he starts to work." He sighs. "I'll come back to find he's re-filed all the reports under alphabetical order."

"Oh." I frown. "What's wrong about that?"

"He'll have done it backwards. Root."

I pick up my feet to avoid tripping.

"We should stop for a break," he says, conversationally.

"I'm fine," I insist. Okay, sure, I'm parched, my head feels three times its usual size, it's difficult to breathe, I can't stop from trembling and – oh yeah, I'm still blind – but I can keep putting one foot in front of another.

"Major…"

"Really, McKay. Besides, if we stop, I'm not so sure I'll be able to get up again." I follow the comment with a laugh, but it isn't returned. In the silence I lick my lips, and venture: "How long do you think it'll take for Zelenka to rig a Jumper's sensors?"

He pauses before answering. "Depends on the variance. Could be a couple of hours, could be, ah, longer. Of course, if Radek doesn't…" He cuts off suddenly and comes to an abrupt halt, so I almost knock into him.

"McKay!"

"Sorry."

There is cold air on my face, and hard rock beneath my feet. When I speak, my words echo distantly. "What is it?"

"Well, ah... there's no river bed." He takes a deep breath. "It's a ravine, Major."

"Oh. How…"

"Grand Canyon sized."

"So we won't be abseiling anytime soon," I joke.

Another joke falls flat. He gives a deep sigh, then takes my hand and replaces it on his shoulder. "We'll just have to find another way down."

---------------------------------------------

"McKay?"

"Hmm?" I listen with only half an ear, concentrating on where I'm putting my feet, and giving John enough warning to avoid an accident. We've been walking for what seems like hours, stopping occasionally so I can allow Sheppard a snatch of water. So far there have only been two near-disasters. The first when I stepped over a protruding root without giving it much thought, only for Sheppard to trip and fall flat on his face a few seconds later. The second time I was pushing too energetically through a dense patch of undergrowth, and a stray branch was flung back into his face.

He forgave me for the first but after the second he railed at me. God dammit, McKay, and why the hell don't you watch what you're doing?

After that it's been… quiet. Tense and quiet.

Which isn't a situation I'm terribly happy with. Not that being yelled at - quite unfairly, I might add - is my idea of fun, but at least it took my mind off - oh yeah, that we're running out of water, that it could be days before Atlantis finds us, that the Major has a serious head injury and I'm only torn between the pain from my thigh and the ache in my shoulder from where John's grip threatens to cut off circulation to my arm…

"McKay, you - you with me?"

"Huh?" I mentally shake myself and resume my concentration on the ground. "Sorry."

"I was… thinking." He's gasping softly.

God, I wish Carson was here.

"About?"

"The Wraith."

Oh. That.

"It's probably dead," I reason. "And even if it survived, the crash site could be hundreds of miles from here."

"Or not," he points out.

Or not, I agree, silently. It's not something I'm particularly keen on focusing on. "So?"

"You should take my… gun."

"In case you haven't noticed, my hands are a little busy, Major."

"Then go on without me."

I stop abruptly, and he stumbles into me. "Sit," I order him, and probably more from surprise than anything, he obeys, allowing me to place a guiding hand under his elbow.

I pull the water out of my pack and press it into his hands. He needs both to hold it without shaking.

"In case you haven't noticed," I begin, watching him take a draft, "I don't do the outdoors, Major." I place a hand over my stomach, forgetting for a moment that he can't see. "I prefer my lab - or my bed. The couch is good too. And cable television. Endless Star Trek repeats and the Shopping Network."

He snorts, and lowers the bottle to rest in his lap. There is barely an inch left in the bottom. "Not that the idea isn't appealing to… to me too, but I think you're missing the point." Now he's sitting, the time between each shallow gasps has lengthened, and I allow myself to relax a fraction.

"No, I don't think so." I take the bottle from his hands carefully and replace the lid. "I'm not good at this, Major. As much as it kills me to admit this but - for once, this isn't something I can get us out of."

And it's true. Give me an engineering problem, a shield to fix, a power generator to rebuild, any theoretical physics question or stanza on wormhole technology and I'm your man. Best in my field, and best in the Pegasus Galaxy. Probably second best back on Earth, but Major Carter looks good on a pedestal.

"I'm slowing you down."

"Please," I scoff, "your sense of direction might leave a little to be desired but even in your, ah, current state, you are still helping me to move in a direction that is not almost entirely circular."

"McKay." He folds one hand under his arm, and lifts the other tentatively to the bandage on his head. "If the Wraith comes…"

"Then we will all be glad I had at least some weapons training before being allowed off-world."

"I'm a target."

"Yes," I say, locking up the bottle back into the bag, "you are. We both are. We're the only food the Wraith has for miles, unless it wants to stoop to sucking the life out of the odd bird or field mouse, and I suspect that would involve a lot of mice. It might even give my cat a run for its money."

"McKay."

He's giving me his best growl, but given his current condition it's less than effective. "Your Scottish terrier impression isn't fooling anybody, Major, so give it up. I'm not ready to incur Elizabeth's wrath - which will be inevitable if I don't bring you home, even if I can't manage in one piece. And don't pout," I warn him, shouldering the bag, "it undermines your less than staggering masculinity. Now," I grab his hand, and haul him to his feet, "one foot in front of the other and no more stupidily misplaced heroics. They bore me."

He blinks foolishly for several long seconds, then shifts his hand back to its resting place on my back. I twist back around and face the front, giving a satisfied nod.

"Good boy."

"Don't push it."

---------------------------------------------

"The Wraith needs a name," I declare suddenly.

Rodney takes a moment to answer, and when he does there is a definite non-plussed tone to his voice. "You want to name it?"

"We can't just keep referring to it as the Wraith. It gets confusing." I feel, I realize, just a little drunk.

McKay heaves a thoughtful sigh. "Fine. What do you suggest? Nosferatu? Hellboy? Frankenstein's monster? All of the above would seem appropriate."

"Carl," I muse, running over names in my head. "Mark. Clive."

"Clive? Hardly the stuff of nightmares, is it?"

"That's kind of the point." Thoughts shift through my mind too quickly, like sand between fingers. "What's Kavanagh's first name?"

"David," he says, grimly.

"Dave." I grin.

"Nice," he drawls. "I'm sure Kavanagh will be so pleased. Dave the Wraith."

"Yup."

"Are you feeling alright, Major?"

I frown deeply, my forehead scrunching. "Yes. Fine."

"We should stop."

"I'm fine."

"We need a break," he persists.

"I'm good. Up and at 'em!"

It's then that McKay takes two quick, short steps and I stumble into him. We fall to the floor in a tangle of limbs, the ground knocking the breath out of me.

"We stop," he pants, extricating himself from under me.

"Okay," I agree, pulling myself into a sitting position. With a firm hand on my shoulder, McKay guides me in a scuffle backwards until my back is resting against something rough and uneven – I guess it's a tree trunk. "What time is it?"

There is a slight pause, then he snorts. "Not a clue. My watch has cracked."

Typical. "Then tell me what the sun is doing, McKay."

"Suns."

I heave a deliberately loud sigh. "McKay."

"Right. Okay, well – they're low. And, uh, dropping fast."

"We should camp for the night."

"Camp?" he squeaks. "But, ah, we don't have – don't we need tents to camp?"

"Did you bring a tent you forgot to tell me about?"

He pauses.

"I'm guessing you're giving me your patented glare of death, right now. Waste of time, McKay."

"Oh." There is the sound of something being dragged through leaves, and then suddenly I'm aware of him sitting in front of me, of his hands touching my forehead. "Glare of death, huh?"

I try not to wince when he undoes the bandage, but I can't stop a grimace when he peels the cloth from the wound. "Ask Zelenka. He'll agree with me. If looks could kill you'd have laser beams shooting out of your eyes."

"Useful, but it's been done."

"Really?" I drawl.

"Cyclops." He finishes replacing the bandage and I hear him sit back.

"X-Men was never my thing."

"Let me guess. Superman?"

"The best."

"Because he could fly."

"And he got the girl. Eventually."

McKay snorts. "Typical." He rummages in something to the side of me, then presses something cold into my right hand. "Water."

I lift the bottle to my lips cautiously, but when my teeth don't hit plastic I take a draft.

"Major…"

The water is cold, refreshing, easing the pain in my head and soothing my swollen tongue. It's only when the bottle jerks out of my grasp that I stop, trying to catch the last drops with my tongue.

"Sorry," McKay apologises, his voice quiet. "We have to save it."

"Right, right." I swallow. It's still hard to think straight, the injury filling my head with sawdust.

"So…" he hesitates, "what do I do now? Camping's never been my thing, Major."

"We need a fire."

"Oh." There is another pause. "Won't that attract the Wraith?"

"Dual suns, McKay. When they drop this planet is going to get pretty cold pretty damn quickly. It's either light a fire or freeze to death."

"Nice choice."

"We don't even know if the Wraith survived the crash."

"No," he admits, cautiously, but there's still reluctance in his voice.

"What?"

"Ah, Major – how exactly do you make a camp fire?"

I raise my eyebrows. "Never been camping, McKay?"

"Well of course," he huffed. "My father took me. But it was quite some time ago, Major." He hesitates. "I remember the basics. Dry leaves underneath…"

"Larger stuff above," I tell him. "And try and get branches from the trees, not the ground. They won't be damp."

"Right, right. I'll be back in a minute." He gets to his feet, and I can hear his footsteps moving away from me.

I sit, and wait, fingering the wound on my head gently. It seems to have stopped bleeding but my head feels light and empty, and aside from the obvious blindness I'm struggling to concentrate. My thoughts are scattered, rambling, and I suspect I should feel more tense than I am. For the past hour I've felt a tingling sensation in my legs, but I haven't told Rodney. There's nothing he can do that he hasn't already.

If he left me here, he could move quicker. Despite all his posturing McKay has proved he's a survivor, and Atlantis will be here soon. He could avoid the Wraith on our tail, find water, and be sitting pretty when Ford and Zelenka arrive for the inevitable rescue.

But our progress has been slow, dehydration is a real possibility, and despite this – I can't…

I can't ask him. Not yet.

The forest suddenly feels very cold, and all I can hear is the sound of the wind, and the movement of the trees. I lift my hand and put my fingers to my eyes, but there's no change. Surrounded by darkness, I'm overcome by a wave of claustrophobia and a desperate sense of despair.

I'm not going to make it off the planet. And if Rodney stays with me, then neither will he.

"McKay?"

My voice quivers. Christ, I hope he didn't hear that.

"Major?"

Aw, crap. "Just – ah, checking."

Checking? Checking what? That he hasn't abandoned me, left me alone in the dark?

I feel like I'm three years old and need a night light.

Must be the head wound.

"Sat on your ass, as usual?"

Panic is not the word. I almost leap out of my skin, pressing back against the rock and looking in the direction of the voice, straining to see anything past black. Because this can't be real, this can't be – he's dead –

"Dad?" My voice barely rises above a whisper.

"Who did you think it was." The voice drops, moving closer. It sounds – it's perfect. My father died six years ago but I still hear his voice in my dreams – deep, a hint of gravel and steel beneath, warmth when he laughed – which was rarely with me. Not since I was a child.

Not since mom died.

My fingers find their way to my thigh and give a sharp, tight pinch.

"Ow."

"Checking something?"

"Oh," I say, and my own voice sounds a tad high-pitched, "just confirming something."

"Which is?"

"I hit my head harder than I thought."

"Hmpf." He moves again, coming closer, and I press myself sideways to escape him. "Doesn't look that bad to me."

Old, long buried feelings of resentment rise within me. "Well," I snap back, "in case you haven't noticed, I'm not seeing that well at the minute."

"And?"

"And! Dammit!" I curl my hand into the ground, feeling dirt beneath my fingers. "What do you expect me to do!"

"Get yourself up, find that Wraith, kill it, and then get out of here."

"You have got to be kidding me."

"You've still got two hands and two feet, right?"

"Dad." This is insane. "Forget it. I'm not arguing with you."

"Running away? That was always your forte."

"No," I hiss back. "It's just that I refuse to debate the merits of my injury with a figment of my own deluded imagination!"

"Major? I've got some wood." There is a sharp rustle and crack of undergrowth as Rodney makes his way towards me.

"Ah, good." I reach out with my right hand in the direction of my father, as though I can ward him off. Hesitantly: "You didn't see anything, anyone, while you were there?"

"Like who, Major?" He drops the wood to the floor. "Dave hasn't dropped in to say hi, no."

"Okay." It takes an effort on my part to level out my voice. "So you've got everything?"

"I know what I'm doing," he bites back. Then he pauses, and: "Sorry. Look, ah – it's small stuff at the bottom…"

"Larger stuff at the top."

"I remember."

"And don't…"

"Major," he snaps, "one more time and I will set that hair of yours on fire. We agreed you're in charge of being blind and I'm in charge of seeing. Anything I left out?"

I swallow whatever advice I was going to offer and drop my head. All the fear and panic I've been desperately trying to bury wells up and I feel flushed, my palms sweaty, my breath catching in my throat.

Christ. I am not - normally I have control. But this - I hate this…

McKay interrupts the silence with a loud, heavy sigh.

"Sorry. I – sorry."

Behind the apology there is fear of his own, barely restrained emotion serving to explain the tension. I lick my lips and manage: "It's okay. You're right, You know what you're doing. Your dad taught you."

"Yes." He lapses back into silence.

"So…" I prompt, not liking the topic but needing something to take my mind of the fact that now not only am I blind, I'm also doing a Hayley Joel Osmond – "where did he take you? Back yard, field…?"

"Oh, ah…" McKay hesitates. There is something off about his voice, but I can't place it. "There was a lake a few miles from the house. Pretty: trees, water, the usual. I'd wanted to go for months. On my eleventh birthday my mother packed up her sheets and a bag, and I waited out in the yard for him. He came home early and we spent the entire weekend out there."

"Nice."

"Yeah."

"You were close to your dad?"

"Well…" He coughs. "Actually, he left when I was thirteen."

"Oh." I pause, suddenly lost for words. "But he took you camping."

"Well, of course. All fathers do that."

I yawn and stretch out my legs, allowing my thoughts to drift. "I loved camping. My mom would make up this crate full of food, and my dad would load it into the back of the truck, and then we'd head up North. Do a little fishing, name the stars, tell ghost stories, toast marshmallows."

"Wish we'd brought some," McKay says, wistfully.

"I don't think the local 7-11 stocks them, McKay."

"No." His stomach growls audibly. "God, I'm hungry."

"You usually are. We have to save what we've got."

"I know, I know," he grumbles. I can hear him fumble with the fire, the sounds of branches being snapped and torn, and the scrape of a match against the rough side of a box. "Dammit, why won't this light?"

"You went camping but you've never built a fire?"

"Not since they threw me out of the Scouts, no."

I lean forward and shuffle towards McKay, feeling the damp earth beneath my fingers. "They threw you out of the Scouts? What did you do to deserve that?"

"There was a small issue with some missing fireworks that was blown out of all proportion."

"Literally speaking."

"Something like that." He reaches out and puts his hand on my wrist. "Far enough."

I stretch out a hand cautiously and bump into a rock. "Ow. Okay. Good start. You've got dry leaves, I hope?"

His tone is one of heavy exasperation. "No, Major, I thought I would scoop up the mulch from the bottom of a river. Yes, they're dry leaves."

"Good." I wrap my fingers over a thick tree branch and toss it behind me. "That one's too large."

"Okay, okay. I'm learning."

Carefully, I arrange the remaining firewood into a rough pyramid, then hold out my hand obediently. "Matches."

"Oh, right." There's a slight pause before he drops them into my open palm. "Be careful," he urges, as I struggle for a moment to find the right end.

"Is that better?" I ask, holding up the match.

"Yes. Yes, that's right." He places the matchbook carefully in my other hand. "Are you sure you can…"

I deftly flick the match against the rough side of the book and hear it ignite immediately. McKay shuts up, saying nothing as I drop the match into the firewood. Heat boils up through the air quickly and I move back, slipping the matches into my jacket pocket.

"Leave it to the expert," I say, smugly.

He huffs, but doesn't respond. There is another scuffle of leaves and then he presses something into my hand, cold and smooth and soft to the touch.

"Eat," he instructs.

"McKay…" Nausea roils in my stomach at the thought. "Not now."

"Eat," he repeats firmly, "before I have to put you on one of those charity posters."

"It's only been a few hours."

"Major."

Sighing, I take hold of the top corner of the packet and rip it carefully, making sure to put the trash in my pocket. "What is it?"

"Beef ravioli."

It's one that's the least salty and artificial tasting, and also one of McKay's favorites. "Thanks."

I can hear the distant rustle of him opening his own. "Do you think there are, ah…" He pauses, and clears his throat. "Um…"

"Spit it out." I take a mouthful of the ravioli and manage to swallow without gagging.

"Wolves."

"Wolves," I repeat, taking another bite.

"This being a forest, I'm just wondering, since, well, I'm more a cat person really, and…"

"McKay, I don't think wolves are high on my list of concerns right now."

"Okay. Good, good."

After five mouthfuls the ravioli is threatening to make a repeat appearance. I reseal the MRE packet and put it into a pocket.

"Not hungry?"

"I'll save it for later," I tell him, settling back against the rock. The warmth of the fire is soothing, the smell of the smoke carrying in the chill night air, and I realise how exhausted I feel. But it's nice - relaxing, to the extent that I can almost forget about the pounding of my head and the tingling in my legs. It's just a camping trip, a vacation, but one without beer or fishing.

"I'll have to wake you every couple of hours," McKay says suddenly, his voice quiet.

"I know," I reply, closing my eyes, and pulling my jacket closer about my body.

"Okay."

"We'll get the Wraith tomorrow," I tell him.

He hesitates before responding. "We'll see, Major."