A/N: Yes, it's late. Really, insanely, superbly late. But in my defense, life is busy and between the horror of SGA's impending cancellation and Michael's character development in the show, I can't help feeling that this story is somewhat obsolete. I don't intend to just quit, but... I really can't assure anyone that the next chapter will come soon. I do want to finish it; that just seems difficult. So, on that note, I am willing to freely offer spoilers to anyone who does not wish to wait for my ponderous updating.

Many apologies for my wishy-washiness. I do love this story dearly, but it's a weary love. I wish now that I had written more of it sooner, before Michael went crazy-hybrid-happy and started obsessing over genetically unique infants.

Chapter Five: Little Annoyances

"Y'know what else I miss?" the soldier drawled, leaning back on his heels. "Homemade salsa. I may not be from west Texas, but I know good Tex-mex when I eat it. Better than real Mexican food, I'll give you that. 'Course, up north they consider Taco Bell to be real Mexican. I don't mean to insult northerners, but come on! That's fast food if I ever heard of it."

Michael grit his teeth and focused on the distant wall. It was not very interesting, but staring at it could almost allow him to pretend this man was not chattering in his ear.

"And what is with that stereotype that we all ride horses everywhere? My niece comes to visit me and tells me that some Chinese exchange student was surprised to see the cars. And that's not even getting into the assumption that we have prairie dogs and tumbleweeds all over the state, but for crying out loud, it's called the Piney Woods region for a reason."

A nurse in pink scrubs passed the spot on the wall he had been staring at. She was certainly more interesting. Without any conscious prompting, his eyes followed her appreciatively. She was not as muscular as most of the human females he had encountered on Atlantis, but that was obviously because she was no warrior. She was just a little bit plump without being unattractive in the human sense, her wheat-colored hair pulled back in a bun, her too-painted face deep in concentration as she looked over a clipboard.

"Now, I will admit that we may be a little bit arrogant, but most Texans you meet aren't real bad about it. Except in Dallas, but maybe I just had a bad experience."

The nurse stiffened suddenly and whipped her head around. Michael's eyes widened for a moment and he averted his eyes, his heart thudding suddenly in his chest. What was wrong with him? Giving into human instincts, allowing himself to admire one of them so openly… A sour taste filled his mouth, and try as he might, he could not rid himself of it.

"But if you lived in Texas even a year, you've been to San Antonio. Everyone's been to San Antonio. Hell, my uncle went, and he-"

"I don't know what San Antonio is," Michael growled, his eyes darting up to his guard. "And I don't know why you think I would particularly care."

"Well," the man said rather sheepishly. "I just figured that, well, since we told you last time that that was where you were from, I just figured-"

"I don't care any more now than I did a minute ago," Michael snapped.

The soldier snorted and turned away, but Michael caught the mischievous glimmer in his eye. One of Sheppard's men, without a doubt. He could just hear the military commander now. 'I'm not saying you should try to force him to memorize the state motto or anything but, you know, if you could brag on Texas just a bit when it's your turn to guard him…'

He clenched his jaw. Half the city was able to see past the Colonel's immaturity because they regarded him as some sort of savior. Humans were prone to hero worship. Like younglings, all of them.

Beckett suddenly stepped in front of him, an ever-present clipboard in his hands.

"Well, Michael, you're doing very well," the doctor said carefully. "But I'm not sure how much I like your hypothalamus."

Michael furrowed his brows. Catching his confusion, Beckett hurried to fill in the blank.

"Right, I suppose the wraith wouldn't know our word for that. It's the part of your brain that regulates body temperature. I'm not going to discourage you from physical activity, but I'll have to ask that you not go overboard, eh? So that means no eye contact with Ronon."

Beckett chuckled at what he evidently thought was humor. Michael could only scowl in response. Beckett faltered and, sheepishly, cleared his throat.

"Right, ah, well then. I'm going to advise daily check ups, all right?."

"As you wish," Michael replied lowly.

o-o-o

Michael had curled up on the benches that surrounded the training room, staring sullenly at the door. Teyla was late. It was unlike her. She'd never tarried when it came to his physical therapy before.

Of course, before he'd been human, naïve, non-threatening. She'd had the power before, because she'd known what was going on. Did it frighten her that she no longer had that power over him? The thought sent an unexpected pain through his chest.

He hadn't seen her since their argument on the balcony a week ago and, as a result, he'd had no company but for his own bitter memories, which chose to relive his time as a human over and over. Though he knew now that it had all been a lie, he couldn't escape the agony of betrayal he'd felt then.

"Michael?"

He started and nearly fell off the bench. Teyla stood only a few feet away, barefoot and catlike, dressed for training. Neither surprised nor evidently displeased, she wore a neutral expression as she surveyed him.

"You did not sense my entrance?" she asked gently.

Michael took a deep breath and swallowed the unplaced revulsion that had risen in his stomach.

"No," he answered, rising from his seat on the bench. "I was… I was thinking."

"You still should have been able to detect my presence. Are your senses not working properly? Perhaps you should visit Carson-"

"I am fine," he growled uncertainly. Of course, she was right. Even a human should have been able to notice the moment she entered, deep thoughts or no. Still, he was in no mood to return to the infirmary. Swiftly, he changed the subject. "Why were you late?"

Teyla peered at him oddly.

"Why are you concerned?"

"Because I had to wait," he answered instantly.

Teyla lifted her chin and, a moment later, a bare hint of a grin touched her lips.

"I will tell you," she challenged. "If you can beat me even once."

Michael snorted.

"Only once?"

"Only once."

Inclining his head, Michael slipped into a ready position. He had little true interest in the true reason behind her tardiness. More likely than not, Ronon had caught her in the hallway and given her a long-winded and harsh warning about the treacherous of their hybrid captive. But he wanted to hear it nonetheless. Maybe it was for the sake of power. He couldn't maintain any control over a situation if he couldn't manage to make her answer a simple question. He hoped that was the reason, because it was the only one he could fathom.

Teyla slipped into her own position and stared at him with an even expression.

He lunged at her, prepared to block any offense she might throw at him. Instead of attacking or defending, however, Teyla dodged. The next thing Michael knew, pain erupted between his shoulder blades, sending him flat on the ground. Teyla padded around the room, watching him like a mountain cat.

With a groan, Michael pulled himself back up onto his feet. Teyla attacked. He blocked, but suddenly felt his legs pulled out from under him.

This time he landed on his back. Teyla stood over him, calm but prepared to fight him off if he attempted to grab at her ankles. He let out a shallow breath. All too clearly, he was reminded that Teyla was a warrior who had spent her entire life fighting, and he was a scientist.

For the next fifteen minutes, Michael became well acquainted with the training room floor while Teyla politely beat the living tar out of him. Finally, after perhaps the dozenth time he'd been thrown to the ground, Michael couldn't find it in him to stand.

He lay there, gasping for breath and wincing each time one of his many bruises twinged. Teyla knelt down beside him, her hands folded across her knees.

"Michael?" she asked. "Are you all right?"

"That… is not a question that you… should be asking me," he wheezed, grimacing up at the ceiling.

"Very well," Teyla said, unruffled by his rude response. "Has Dr. Beckett found anything that might suggest your inability to pose a challenge?"

He glared at her.

"Are you genuinely interested in my health or is this the Athosian way to start a conversation?" he snapped.

Fire flared up in her eyes for a moment before she stood lithely, offering him a hand up. Her left hand, he noticed. So, even she was bothered by his right hand, despite the fact that it bore only a small, puckered scar to suggest that he had ever been able to feed with it.

Even so, he accepted her hand and grunted as she pulled him up, wincing at the painful pull of muscle and bone in his back. He was going to regret choosing sparring as his physical therapy. Perhaps running would be better… if his guards would permit him such extended use of the city.

He dropped clumsily back on the bench before he even realized that Teyla had been herding him in that direction and, silently, he was grateful for it.

"You are not well," Teyla informed him as she curled up several feet away, hands folded in her lap.

Michael grimaced and tried to summon a cynical sneer, but found that he hadn't the energy after the floor-wiping session.

"Tell me, Teyla," he sighed, weariness seeping into his voice. "Why is it always you whom I must spar with and speak to? I can see in your eyes the disdain you feel. You hate seeing that I cannot become human like you. So why do you bother?"

Teyla's eyes widened and she opened her mouth once, closed it, then opened it again.

"When I look at you," she admitted slowly, choosing her words with the utmost care. "I see someone that I once wanted to consider to be my friend. I accept that you are not the same Michael I befriended, as I am not the same Teyla."

"Why not?" he asked, bitterness seeping into his tone without any conscious intention.

"Because those people did not exist," she said firmly. "However, in the memory of what was almost a friendship, I will continue to be a companion for you."

"You use the term 'companion' loosely," he remarked, looking her over, despite the ache that built in his chest. "You wish to save me from the 'evils' of the wraith. That was your original intent, was it not?"

"I wish what is best for those who would be my friends."

She was so composed all the time. How he wished she could let her guard down around him, not in anger or resentment, but in joy or even sadness. He wanted what he saw among the humans. That ease, that comfort. It reminded him of the single-mindedness of the hive, formed from emotion rather than the collective consciousness of the wraith. Just once, he wanted the caramel corners of her mouth to curl up in a true smile around him, as it did around her team members, to feed this hunger he had only developed as a human.

He needed to give her something she wanted.

"Dr. Beckett says my body is not regulating temperature as well as he had hoped." The words fell from his lips before he had the chance to truly consider them. "Wraith are not warm blooded, but it seems that I must be in order to be a true hybrid. I expect other such problems have occurred as a result of this halfway state."

For just a moment, Teyla's mask slipped. Not in the way he had hoped, but not in the way he had dreaded, either. She was surprised.

"You should… inform Dr. Beckett," she instructed. "Perhaps he can work out a solution."

Michael paused, teetering on the edge of saying… something. But what? He had nothing to say. He settled, instead, for a nod.

"Perhaps."

o-o-o

As it was, the solution that presented itself was more to Michael's liking than he could have ever dreamed. Dr. Beckett, being the chief medical officer, could not continue to spend the bulk of his time tending to Michael's solitary condition. He had patients to tend, wraith/humans to check up on, and, occasionally, a chance to sleep. And, of course, there was only one individual with equal or superior experience in genetics who could possibly pick the research up where the doctor had left it off, and that was Michael himself.

The chance to research the retrovirus for himself was an eerie sort of relief, compared to the gut-wrenching anxiety that came from his dependency on another person's calculations. He occasionally had to pretend that the changes he researched weren't specifically intended for him, lest he lose his taste for the whole project and subject himself once more to the haphazard experiments of the humans.

His only true complaint was the presence of his guards. They interrupted him frequently; checking to ensure that he was indeed performing his research, instructing him to take meals at the most inopportune and crucial moments, even threatening to stun him if he did not agree to sleep when they thought it necessary. Most unpleasant of all were the daily reminders that he needed to waste time sitting in the infirmary, waiting for some hapless nurse to play pincushion with his arm for an hour or so and 'tut-tut' about the evident problems with the retrovirus before he was permitted to go back to work. After these sessions, the guards knew better than to tempt his ire, for they knew full and well that they were the first he would unleash it on.

No doubt they were just doing their jobs and seeing to it that they weren't reprimanded for permitting him to work himself beyond his new, semi-human limits, but there were times when he felt he could shoot any and all of them with no remorse whatsoever.

Perhaps the only thing that stopped him was their occasional usefulness. His mind wandered easily and more often with each day, his limbs growing sluggish as he worked long hours. When the symptoms grew so severe that he would sit or pace silently, mindlessly, lost in some distant memory or thought, the guards would hesitantly rouse him and guide him back to his research. He thanked them awkwardly and, with equal discomfort, they told him not to mention it.

They probably meant that more literally than the words might usually intend.

It was during one of his dazed moments, when he stood in a corner of the small research lab and stared, unseeing, at a monitor, that someone else pulled him back.

"Um, Michael?"

The voice did not belong to one of his guards. Dimly, he searched his memory. The accent was too off to be Beckett. Teyla, perhaps? She was the only one who ever entered the lab with the intent of dragging him out- not that she ever succeeded.

No… the voice was male. Not Teyla, then… but who else would dare to interrupt him? He narrowed his eyes at the monitor, trying to discern the owner of the voice, but he couldn't quite shut out the rush of thought and dream that clouded his senses.

"Michael?"

A hand rested on his shoulder. At once, all the fuzz and static disintegrated and Michael started, once again painfully present and aware of his surroundings. The hand swiftly removed itself and Michael glanced around, wide-eyed, until at last his gaze landed on a nervous looking Dr. McKay.

Dr. Rodney… McKay.

What in all of existence could he possibly want?

"I, ah…" McKay, at a rare loss for words, held up his tablet for Michael to see. "Katie… I mean, some of the scientists on this planet have been complaining of some weird stuff going on. Like… stuff going missing or accidents in the middle of the night. It's an uninhabited planet, but it looks like what used to be a wraith facility in the mountains. Y'know, in case… in case that has anything to do with it."

Michael studied the tablet through the fuzz of his memories. It was… familiar. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brows. There was something important about this facility. Something useful.

"I swear, I wouldn't have come to you if you weren't literally the only guy in Atlantis who could tell me whether or not it's significant," McKay babbled. Unfortunately, it seemed he had overcome that loss for words. "I mean, it's not like you or I are the kind of guys who just ask one another for anything."

"I want to see this place for myself," Michael interrupted him fervidly.

"What?"

Michael shoved the tablet back at him, excitement bubbling up in his gut.

"That facility was used for wraith experimentation on humans. It could be useful for my research."

"You-you mean… actually go there?" McKay stammered. Michael glared at him.

"My mind wanders, Doctor," he growled. "It does not mean that I'm unaware of my own words. Yes. I intend to go there."

"I, uh…" McKay was grasping for straws now. "I dunno if Elizabeth'll go for that. She probably wants you, y'know… here. In Atlantis."

Michael's glare grew more intense and, despite his lack of sharp, impressive teeth, the sneer he gave the doctor was enough to cause the man's eyes to go as wide as dinner plates.

"But I'll ask anyway," he yelped.

o-o-o

"What do you mean okay?" Rodney protested.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, I think it's important that Michael doesn't feel like a prisoner this time around."

"But he is," Sheppard pointed out from the other side of the table.

Elizabeth sighed, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of her nose. She loved her people dearly, but John and Rodney had little habits of making her want to sit them down and explain things to them as though they were three year olds.

The impulse only grew stronger when she was caught in the same room as both of them in close proximity.

"It's important that he doesn't feel like a prisoner," she reiterated. "If we can gain his trust again, he could prove valuable to Atlantis. Moreso, if we don't keep anything hidden that could cause any loss of trust."

"I request permission to assign a team of marines to keep an eye on him," John insisted.

"And handcuffs or something," Rodney added. "And stunners."

Elizabeth shot Rodney a look, but she knew perfectly well that…

"Just a precaution," John pointed out.

Yes. That. Hopefully, being up front with him would be enough to keep him from going off the deep end this time.

"All right," she consented. "I'll give you that much."

Secretly, she was just glad that they had been the ones to suggest it. To play the bad guys for a change, because they all knew that there was no way, hell or high water, that Michael was going anywhere with anything less than a muzzle and a leash.

o-o-o

Almost there! Next chapter should actually be a little bit exciting.

R&R, as usual.