As per the subject line, this is my first ever fanfic, although I've had a couple of bunnies in my head for a fair while. I always expected my first to be LotR, or the Immortals quartet, but hey ho- this one wouldn't let go! So here you are.

It was partly my own random musings about how terrible things could have been for him (have you noticed how much we love to torture our favourite characters?) but was mostly inspired by a quote RC made, something about aliens and floating in a blue tank, I think. (although this story only lightly touches on that, much is left to interpretation. Can you make the connection?) Or maybe I just imagined it. Entirely possible...

There are many references to things that are only in my head. If this goes well, I'll gleefully elaborate, and explain all the little tidbits I've scattered throughout. Hmmm, even if this doesn't go well, I might just do that anyway. I think the bunnies won't let me sleep till I do.

All errors are my own. Format was correct at time of upload :)

Any comments, queries, corrections, chocolate, wine and ponies are welcome.

No copy-write intended. SGU and the characters are not mine, and, unfortunately for me, I hear RC is most happily married. Oh well.

He had been too quiet.

From a distance, she watched him sleep, curled on his side, lost in the deep, dreamless sleep of the utterly exhausted. He would need it, she reflected sadly. He would find little peace in the coming weeks.

She was still trying to put her finger on what was wrong, besides the obvious, and foremost in her mind was the quiet. Oh, he had bitched, certainly, when they found him, somewhere between dying and dead on a beautiful world five weeks after they had lost him. His heart hadn't really been in it, though; it was more 'by rote' than anything else. He hadn't cared. That was something else, but again, not the whole problem. It wasn't his 'your opinion is ridiculous and therefore meaningless' not-caring, but something deeper, something unsettling. More that he didn't care about anything, like he'd given up. She shuddered away from that thought. He survived, she told herself sternly. He cares about something. She refused to think that maybe it was just habit, that he'd been surviving so long he hadn't been able to do anything else.

He'd protested little as he'd been taken back aboard, and not at all since they'd reached the infirmary. She'd set to work in the suffocating silence, swabbing, disinfecting, stitching gashes, salving burns.

Setting bones.

No protest, the occasional noise, quickly stifled; he'd just stared at her, through her, past the bulkhead, beyond the hull, to a place that she couldn't reach, couldn't follow. Not that you really want to. Treacherous voice. She stamped on it. Shock, she'd told the Colonel as Dr. Rush gradually shut down on the way back. Adrenaline wearing off. True, so very true, and yet not the truth at all. Not even half of it. Again, that feeling that she was missing something, that she was out of step and couldn't catch up. She did have something, though. She turned her mind firmly away from the blood works she'd run. She wouldn't think about that. Not yet. Not here in the silence and the half-light. It was too much.

Soft footfalls drew her from her reverie. She straightened, knowing who it would be, even as her senses jarred and she braced herself. That's not fair, she scolded herself, and forced taunt muscles to relax.

"Has he said anything?" A ripple in the stillness. Stone in the pool. How deep does it go?

Too deep.

Not deep enough...

Wearily, she scrubbed her face with the heels of her hands.

"Very little, Sir. Not a lot that made sense." Truth, fortunately. Too tired to lie. Just don't ask… shhh... He'd been fairly coherent planetside. Confused, admittedly. No shit, really? Even as she'd dropped to her knees beside him, she'd witnessed Eli's jubilation, he's excitement, as though he could barely keep himself from throwing his arms about the older man.

Glad to have him back; it's not like they've coped without him. Destiny's falling apart, and they're all clueless. Damn it, TJ, that's uncharitable. Stop it.

No, Eli had genuinely missed him. His question had thrown Dr. Rush, though. She couldn't imagine why. Missing something again. Perhaps the initial event had been too long ago.

'You're alive! How'd you survive it? Talk about lucky!' He'd clarified when Dr. Rush stared blankly at him; 'The landslide! We all thought you were dead!'

The blank stare shifted, she couldn't read him, his gaze flicking somewhere over her shoulder. 'Oh. Luck, as you say.' Luck. He didn't look 'lucky'. In fact, he looked like he'd rather not have been lucky.

His ability to articulate had diminished as exhaustion had finally been allowed to set in, and there'd been, as she now explained to the Colonel, little of sense in the infirmary

"I did try, Sir, but he hasn't really responded. He's too exhausted. I'll try again when he wakes, but I honestly doubt I'll get anything out of him. If we were on Earth, Sir, I'd recommend that he see a counselor, or at least have a psych evaluation-" at the questioning glance she clarified, "he has been tortured. That'll be difficult for anyone, even him. Truthfully, though, I doubt he'd pass one of those at the best of times." Young snorted in amusement, wordlessly agreeing. They watched the subject of their conversation for a while. She'd rather study the Doctor than think about the man beside her. He raised too many questions, stirred too much confusion and pain. Another truth. No, best to just watch Dr. Rush.

Eventually, she broke the silence, "what happened to the Ancient device?"

The Orb

"Eli and Brody are drooling over it," he said with a wry smile. "Not been able to do much with it, yet. Volker and Reilly are studying the weapons; they've had more luck."

'It's damaged. Plasma burst. Dunna know how bad.' Had been the only explanation as Dr. Rush had passed it off to the eager young mathematician. Only Rush. Only he could turn up ahead of them looking like hell, in possession of alien technology both unknown –presumably stolen from those who'd captured him– and Ancient –no doubt 'liberated' from the same source. Only Rush…

She studied the Colonel as he continued to watch the sleeping man. She didn't know that expression. Did she really know him at all?

"You couldn't have known, Sir." He turned to look at her. "That he was alive. It wasn't your fault." He continued to stare at her, impassive.

"Let me know when he wakes up," he ordered, and abruptly left. She blinked. Stupid. Of course he'd blame himself. He was that sort of man. She sighed.

Tortured. It was blindingly obvious, even without the medical systems telling her. The selfish part of her mind whispered that she knew more than she would ever have wished to. Guilty, she pushed it aside. The systems were truly a marvel, and she had been so proud of her achievement, exultant; the acute, crushing disappointment she'd felt when Dr. Rush had said nothing was tempered with the realisation that he was in no condition to notice where he was, let alone any see any changes, however remarkable. 'Share it with him later.' She told herself firmly. 'He'll need something to look forward to. He'll enjoy this.'

He'd be pleased to know his efforts hadn't been wasted. How long ago was it?

She'd found him in the infirmary late one night- or was it early one morning? Time often lost meaning- buried in one of the consoles. She couldn't sleep, and apparently neither could he. Don't startle him.

'What are you doing?' Quietly, softly. He'd still jumped.

'What you wanted.' Defensive. Tense.

It was true. She'd gone to the scientists, huddled –sans Dr. Rush- round 'their' table in the mess hall, and asked for their help in figuring out the various medical devices. Volker's reply had been succinct and typical and completely infuriating; 'we'll have to run it by the Colonel, first. It can probably go on the list.' She'd left, and her anger hadn't dissipated. Was probably the reason for her lack of sleep. So short-sighted. Idiots. There were times she could understand Dr. Rush's attitude towards them. Jobsworths, the lot. Truth.

'Careful,' she grinned, 'wouldn't want to get yourself in trouble.' He'd relaxed, rolled his eyes.

'Lieutenant, when am I ever out of trouble?!' She laughed.

'Any luck?'

Not then. Several nights he spent there- how he managed the hours, she'd never know- and she'd joined him, observant, quiet. Not entirely welcome, but definitely not dismissed. Witnessed the first breakthrough, shared his triumph. The smile had been full, unrestrained. He should smile like that more often. It changed him.

She wondered if he'd ever smile again

'Show me how. Teach me.' A demand. His expression had been dubious, his gaze heavy. She'd simply stared back, calm, sincere. And he'd agreed. Whether it was her commitment, the moment, a belief that she could learn, or simply that she had asked she'd never know, but those nights became a permanent fixture, and he'd taught as they'd worked 'vocational training' he'd joked. On the job. What else was there? It had been funny, though, in that moment, and she'd laughed. And learned. He really was a good teacher. Surprisingly patient. Not all lessons had been hands on; indeed, a number of nights had been spent at a desk, as he wrote out page after page of concise, meticulous note for her, explaining as he went. Other times he'd bring them with him, already written, and they'd go through them together.

And then he was gone.

The papers had lain buried on the desk for days, at first forgotten, and then, as the shock had worn off and they'd come to light, untouched on purpose. She just couldn't. The realisation that he would have been seriously pissed at her for wallowing when she had a job to do hit her all of a sudden, and she threw herself into deciphering the Ancient technology, focusing on the second machine they'd worked on together, unravelling it's secrets, rewiring, soldering, replacing crystals and circuitry. Fixing it; understanding it.

She remembered with a flush of guilty pleasure the reactions of the scientists to her successful forays into the Ancient systems, and her own response to them. Really, to hear the words that came out of her mouth she could only conclude that she'd spent way too much time in the acerbic scientist's company. Yep. Happily, too.

Truth.

That was the first time that his absence had merely ached, rather than stabbed. She no longer bled when she turned to share something with him, or ask a question, and remembered all over again that he was dead. They hadn't been friends per se, but they could have been. They got on well, and she'd never been as critical of him as many others, had respected his space and his frequent need for quiet, hadn't been fazed by the dry humour or snapping temper. These factors were most likely the reasons for their perculiar relationship, or the main reasons, at least.

How much lost?

And goodness; when the others had found out about the notes... she'd share that with him too. He'd have been proud of her, that's for sure...

And now her instruments, all her hard work, all her pride –pride goeth first, after all- mocked her, taunted her, laid bare before her his suffering in exquisite detail. The scanners didn't lie, the sensors were impossibly accurate, and she couldn't deny this truth. Please lie...she could not ignore the high levels of degrading radioactive isotopes, an accurate indication of massive forced cellular regeneration. Not completed, though. The images tracked precisely the tell-tale ridge on bones that indicated a healed break. The swollen, irritated muscle and sinew baring faded scar tissue. No fillings, now; no age related degeneration in his vision. 20/20? Why not. He did everything else irritatingly well. All that healed, and still so much left for her, so much done after. Was it just the once? She'd never know, not unless he told her. The bloods had told her so much, too, particularly the DNA sampling she'd done. Beyond her comprehension; it was too horrific. Why would they do that? Why would they modi-

She stood, refusing the thought, denying it. If I ignore it, it'll go away.

There are no monsters under the bed, Tamara-sweet. See? Sleep, now.

No. All the monsters are out here...

Moving to the bed, she gently brushed back a wing of lank, dark hair. No reaction, no flinch. It'll come, she knew. How could it not? She prayed she'd be able to help him, that she'd have strength enough for him. That she could catch him when he fell.

And knew that she couldn't. Who could?

Restless, moving again; a console this time. Shifting so she could still see him, bone-thin frame blurry through the display, she bought up an image- bone structure; radius, metacarpals, phalanges. Several bones, badly broken.

Broken...

Something stirred within her, a dawning comprehension. She remained still, not reaching for it, knowing it would come in time, knew better than to try and force it. The image, and through it, out of focus, the man in the background, curled on his side, lost in the deep, dreamless sleep of the utterly exhausted...

And in the quiet she made the connection, felt it reverberate through her soul. Knew beyond doubt what she had been missing, knew what had left her disquiet, wrong footed, as the pieces fell into place. And she didn't want them to. Wanted to remain ignorant. Wanted to scream and shout and beat against it. Deny it. Refuse it. Anything but accept that. She looked away.

Bitter truth. Too late, the door's open.

Take it back. Please...

She raised her head to stare at him, not wanting to, but unable to refrain. Not him.

How great the depths of sorrow?

Broken.