QUIET DIGNITY

oooOOOooo

A/N - just to address a little confusion here up front - McKay is getting names wrong here, not me. It does all pan out, but - my bad, basically, if it doesn't come across via internal monologue.

%-} - my apologetic face as well as my squiffy face...

Written for Sidhartinas aka Steve Austin aka John's Cat. Prompt at end.

Enjoy!

oooOOOooo

Quiet Dignity

Shafts of insipid, purple moonlight briefly speared John Sheppard, turning him into a macabre, silent parody of a ghost train exhibit. Little Mer had always hated those things. Not because they were beyond belief creepy, but because they were so fake. This was real. Big Mer aka Rodney couldn't rant and prattle as usual to mask his terror, so instead he lost himself in a maze of his own thoughts…

Rodney's darling mother had often - nay, endlessly - nagged her only, not so adoring son to make sure his whitey tighties were clean on every morning in case he should ever end up in hospital after a car crash or something equally dire. What she failed to tell him was to make sure his underwear was pristine if not ironed and starched to a crisp in case he should ever end up stripped and intimidated in front of liquored-up hillbillies who threatened to beat you senseless. Or rather, your best friend in two galaxies, one Lt. Col. John Sheppard. And for what? Ammoless weapons. The biggest Hollywood cliché of all time. At least, that was how he remembered it, hangover notwithstanding. He had a sinking feeling that there was more to it than that, but he couldn't quite recall, having passed out from not so manly inebriation.

Rodney sighed, and Sheppard moaned in tandem. They had been given no food or water, no bedding, and in Sheppard's case, no medical assistance. With their captors being the source of Sheppard's injuries, medical assistance was highly unlikely anyway, unless they wanted him healed enough to begin all over again. There was nothing Rodney could do but wring his cold-numbed hands, scrub his grimy face, stare skywards through the holes in the roof of their prison, and contemplate his exposed navel until the bad guys came for Sheppard again.

Rodney lay there in the gloom, itchy all over from a straw-induced rash, and struggled not to scratch his body raw. He tried to think back to happier times, but he just couldn't manage it. He tried to think of Jennifer, but the ghost of his mother loomed instead, a reproachful expression on her sour puss.

Nonononono, he thought. Not ready to die! The afterlife can wait! Begone, foul beast! I refuse to cross the River Styx with you! I have Nobel prizes to win! Sheppards to patch up and haul home…

He made the sign of the cross with his forefingers, felt idiotic for doing so, then despite himself looked down guiltily at his underwear. Spongebob boxers. A faded, grimy Spongebob right over his crotch sported a gash on his yellow forehead and a tear in his square pants. Lucky for Spongebob that he wasn't a McKay, or he'd incur the Wrath of the Matriarch. For Rodney to display grubby, unbleached underwear with brown skid marks and slash or suspicious yellow patches to all and sundry would have been of the utmost embarrassment to the late Mrs McKay. It was 'simply not done', like not placing a doily on a plate before serving hors d'oevres, or failing to mind one's Ps and Qs in some unspecified manner that made little Mer quake in heartfelt agitation. Ps and Qs? Pieds et queues. 'Tops' and tails, for crying out loud. What the hell was that supposed to mean? Seriously, what was the woman thinking? Like he should understand etiquette by osmosis? By virtue of it being in French? The late Mrs McKay - may she rest in peace and quit haunting him - had lived to keep up appearances; being at Death's door took second place to 'what would the neighbors think?'

Wehell, just look at me now, Mommie Dearest, he mused. If you hadn't already shuffled off this mortal coil, I'm sure you'd've dropped dead from shock by now.

"Sheppard?" No response. Dare he just reach out and touch… touch a frozen corpse and discover that he was finally alone in this miserable, backwater hamlet? No! I'm not ready to say goodbye! Not to you, John. And what about Xena? Conan? Jen? He and Jen had only just… and what about Jeannie? Jeannie…

Rodney was painfully aware that he and his sister, Jeannie, were mere trophies to displayed like objets d'art, (more French,) their photos and certificates bandied about in brag books over tea and petit fours, (even more French,) false niceties and a simpering 'You simply must come over sometime.' He wondered how they had ever come out so normal and well-adjusted. Well, Jeannie wasn't entirely normal. How could she be? She gave up everything to marry Kevin. Kevin? No matter. The man was an abject moron - he was an English major. Hello? And beneath her. But Madeline was reasonably tolerable. For a rugrat. He'd gotten used to rugrats after his experience on M7G-667, the children's planet. How come he could always remember figures and never names? Hm. Go figure. Anyway, once he had switched to 'disseminate chocolate' mode, the little brats pretty much worshipped him. Which is as it should be. Zelenka, take note.

Rodney could vaguely make out a Sheppard-shaped lump in the gloom of twilight. The doom and gloom of twilight. The doom and gloom and despair and despondency of twilight. (Okay, so he wasn't after the Nobel Prize for Literature or Poetry or whatever it was.) His and Sheppard's zero-star accommodation comprised one dismal, unheated leaky stone outhouse with an equally leaky thatched roof. He'd seen farmers treat their livestock better than this. Just when he finally plucked up the courage to feel for him, the Sheppard-shaped lump stirred, rustling the straw bedding and causing untold numbers of no doubt rabid rodent-like creatures to scurry to safer, Sheppard-free holdouts. Rodney snatched his hand back, and chewed his fingernails further to the quick.

"Sheppard? You awake? Yes? No? Maybe?" Rodney sighed once more. How are you even still alive?

"Spongebob boxers, McKay?" Sheppard quipped, his voice quieter and gruffer than usual.

Oh, thank the stars. Still here. Rodney snapped out of his paralyzing fugue, and scrabbled a little closer. He could vaguely make out a sly smile cross his battered friend's face. That was a relatively good thing. Sheppard was clearly feeling a little chipper, despite their predicament. Well, perhaps not clearly, as he could barely see him in the gloom, and perhaps chipper wasn't quite the right word, but at least he wasn't morose. Okay, snappy comeback time. Genial banter and verbal sparring often kept his friend entertained and thereby halfway decent, alert company and thereby not dying company whenever they were in dire straits, which was sadly all too often these days. No, not dying. They would come out of this in one piece.

One Dr Meredith Rodney McKay, PhD, etc, etc was at least prepared to meet his purported Maker with a clear conscience - apart from the whole trivial blowing up five-sixths of an uninhabited if not uninhabitable galaxy thing - but just not anytime soon. Yet, with the latter-day, badass, bad luck Sheppard in tow, who was to say today was not that day? Maker? Meet Sheppard. Sheppard? Maker. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Rotgut…? Rodney heard a groan, and snapped back to the here and now. Cue the genial banter and verbal sparring.

"Girlie pink and lilac-striped boxers, Sheppard? With a 'kick me' sign on the back? How about 'Kick me, I'm the biggest martyr in two galaxies'? Hm?" Rodney snorted with a wince.

"My sore ass hears ya. Yeah, dumb choice for days like this," growled Sheppard as he nestled into a Sheppard-shaped indentation. They had tucked themselves into a shadowed corner of their prison, away from draughts. Sheppard tugged more stinking, matted straw over himself for warmth, and gingerly wrapped his arms around his bare midriff.

"Seriously, do you really want to be grubbing in the mire like that, Sheppard? Our… bedding is only fit for fertilizing rose bushes."

"I'm cold, McKay. And it's getting colder. We're half-naked. Got a better idea? I'm all ears."

"As a matter of fact, I - don't… " Rodney could hear Sheppard's teeth chattering, and felt a frown cross his face. He huffed. And changed the subject. "Little wonder you're frozen. You have no padding and you're just plain gangly." Rodney heard a derisive snort, but chose to ignore it. "I, however, am built for wintry climes. Like Canada. And just about every other planet we've ever visited in the Pegasus galaxy. Wait - 'days like this'? Like this is normal? Are you freaking nuts?"

Sheppard flashed his sorely missed, patent lop-sided grin of yesteryear, which morphed into a grimace as his dark head sank against the dank wall. As the single, watery moon finally retreated behind a cloud bank, his pained expression faded with it. What you can't see won't hurt you, Rodney thought. Except in nightmares. And this was a nightmare. A living one. The stuff of nightmares. And all those other clichés that are only clichés until you have to actually live them. Or study Shakespeare.

There was a sudden, vicious draught coming in from loosened and missing stones. Rodney was sure his neck would be stiff by daybreak, if not snapped by goons beforehand. Rodney curled in on himself, and shivered. He was cold after all, despite his body type. Then he had a brilliant idea.

"Sheppard?" he cried, but his best friend in all the universe was already snoring. Not wheezing. Definitely not wheezing. Rodney scrambled over to him, and despite his sense of outrage and indecency at cuddling a frozen, hirsute male with bony protuberances, he snuggled up, imparting his own failing body heat, hoping to avoid coming in contact with Sheppard's growing collection of grazes and bruises and lacerations.

"No-one's looking," he told himself firmly, ignoring Sheppard's moans. "Think clear blue skies and Jen's softly rounded br- soft curves. And light, flowery perfume, not rank eau-de-locker room ." As he drifted off into restless sleep, he pondered upon the events of the last few days, and wondered quite how they had both ended up so monumentally screwed…

oooOOOooo