Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this.

A/N: written for the hc_bingo square - prostitution. No graphic details of sex. Rodney is ooc because of the nature of his 'retraining'. He's not the same, sarcastic Dr. McKay that we all know and love, he's changed. This is quite different than other stories that I've written, and it's my first Stargate: Altantis story. No set season.

By the time that John returned for him, Rodney didn't even remember the name of the planet (its gate number is lost to him as well) he was left behind on. As it was, he barely remembered his name, where he was from, and what his life used to be like before it became this. He'd forgotten that he used to be a self-proclaimed genius. He couldn't remember most of the math and the physics of his former life. He'd chosen instead to learn the skills he'd needed to survive.

Rodney wasn't quite a shell of the man he used to be– he'd flourished in his new life. He'd been well-fed and cared for. As horrific as it was, his 'training' had not been wholly unpleasant. It had had its perks.

Life on the nameless planet hadn't exactly been a picnic, but it hadn't been as terrible as Rodney had first feared it would. Once he got used to his new lot in life, and stopped fighting it, things got easier. When his masters were pleased, he was treated well.

In the end, Rodney's obedience was what led to his rescue. Because he'd earned the right to 'entertain' the honored visitors, it placed him in John's room. He hadn't recognized his friend, not even when John started shooting his way out of the brothel where he'd found Rodney.

It wasn't until months later (well after he'd been returned to Atlantis and had undergone mandatory psych sessions with Dr. Heightmeyer) that he started to recognize his friends: John, Teyla, Ronon, Carson, Radek, and Elizabeth. The memory of them, and what they meant to him, didn't come all at once, but in small bursts of memory which often startled him and left him questioning which of his two lives was real – that of Dr. Rodney McKay, or that of prostitute Roman Kay.

According to Heightmeyer, the colony of people who had taken Rodney in had kept some semblance of his real name so that he would be less likely to reject the new one they gave him. Their reprogramming techniques, according to the psychiatrist, were phenomenal, and worth studying.

Apparently they had deconstructed and reconstructed Rodney without using traditional, brainwashing methods, and all within just a few weeks' time. He'd been with them for almost a full year by the time that John happened upon him, but his reconstruction had taken place within the first few weeks of his being left behind, and seamlessly, without causing too much trauma to Rodney.

Rodney's outburst of, "I'm not a lab rat, Dr. Heightmeyer," was met with a bright smile and had been recorded as a breakthrough. It hadn't helped him to feel any more comfortable on Atlantis. The place was cold and clinical; his former home had been warm and down-to-earth – homey.

The supposed breakthrough hadn't kept him from making social faux pas, either. Rodney still solicited sex with the various occupants of this strange place. Only a few of them had taken him into their chambers, paid him in food or small favors, and had sworn him to secrecy.

"But," Rodney had argued with John one night when the Lieutenant Colonel had turned him down for what felt like the hundredth time, "I don't understand what the problem is. You're stressed. Sex is a good way to relieve stress. I'm a trained vessel of sex. Take me to your bed chambers and use me. I can guarantee that you'll feel better afterwards. I've got a host of happy customers who can vouch for my skills. Some even among the much-feared Wraith."

John had given him an unreadable look, and shook his head. "Rodney, you're my friend. Friends don't . . . use each other that way."

"Even friends have needs, and a shared bed is a warm bed," Rodney had called after the man.

Ronon, too, had rebuffed his offers of sex. The big man was always doing things for him, and Rodney had done nothing in return. It didn't feel right, but Ronon had said, "That's what friends are for," and left it at that.

Radek hadn't even looked him in the eye when he'd proposed the exchange – the man's knowledge of Rodney's former life, and Rodney's body to warm his bed at night. He'd thought it was a fair exchange, had even thought it over before bringing it to the Czech.

Radek had also cited friendship as the reason for not sleeping with him. "You are friend. Friends don't take advantage like that."

Dr. Beckett had been no different. He'd treated Rodney's slight injuries (his last actual client, before returning to Atlantis with John, hadn't been gentle) and inoculated him for diseases which had apparently been endemic on the foreign planet. He'd asked for nothing in return.

"Rodney, you're my friend, pull your pants up; I'll not be wanting that in payment for my services. I'm a doctor, you're my patient, and furthermore, you're my friend. I can't, won't, ask that of you, not for doing my job, not for taking care of a friend."

"It's just sex," Rodney had said.

He really didn't understand the hang-up that most of the Atlantians seemed to have about sex. Where he was from, or where he thought he was from, sex was something to be bartered. It wasn't a big deal.

Even if he hadn't had masters who sold his services, he'd have engaged in sex with whomever, in exchange for whatever goods were needed. It was the way of life. Only those who had bargaining chips, like his masters, never had to engage in sexual acts in return for goods or services.

Elizabeth had smiled a sad smile and appeared to be keeping tears at bay when Rodney had asked if she wanted sex in exchange for his upkeep. Room and board weren't free commodities. They came at a price, and the only thing that Rodney had to offer was sex.

"Oh, Rodney," Elizabeth had said, she'd held a hand up to her mouth and patted him on the arm, "you don't need to pay for your room here, not like that. You're an asset to Atlantis, and," she'd looked at him as she'd spoken, her eyes shining with unshed tears, "you're a friend."

Teyla had laughed, and smiled warmly, which had been far easier to accept than Elizabeth's tears. "Rodney, you are my friend. You do not need to give me anything in return for what I teach you. Besides, you have taught me a lot over the years, I am merely returning the favor." She'd squeezed his arm, and then continued instructing him as though nothing had happened.

Rodney was getting tired of hearing the word, friend. When he told that to Heightmeyer, she tilted her head to the side and narrowed her eyes and asked him why.

"I've studied the word, and it puzzles me. I don't remember these people, and yet they help me, and they don't let me return the favor. Instead, they treat my proposals as though they are . . . unclean or wrong in some fashion. A friend is someone who gives assistance or is attached to someone else by feelings of affection or personal regard. Isn't what I'm offering them good enough?"

"In our society, an offer of sex in exchange for something else is considered taboo. We call it prostitution," Heightmeyer explained.

"Prostitution." Rodney mulled the word over.

It left a strange taste in his mouth, and felt odd on his tongue – didn't roll off of it like the word, friendship did.

"Yes," Heightmeyer said. "And, while it might have been common practice where you used to live, many people are uncomfortable with it here."

Rodney frowned and nodded. Suddenly self-conscious, he wrapped his arms around himself and thought about the first time his masters had 'prostituted' him. His first time had been with the local baker. In exchange for a week's worth of bread, a chocolate cake (of which he'd had a delectable piece), and a dozen muffins, Rodney had knelt on the stone floor of the baker's bedroom. He'd been naked, and he remembered that the stones had dug into his knees, and torn the soft flesh of his hands – making them bleed – as the baker fucked him. He'd cried during and afterwards.

"And how did that make you feel?" Heightmeyer asked, breaking through his reverie.

Rodney hadn't realized that he'd spoken his thoughts aloud, and he blinked at the psychiatrist. Shrugging, he looked out the window.

"He gave me a biscuit," Rodney said in a small voice. "I felt sick, and I couldn't eat it." He stood and started pacing the length of the cozy room. "I was collected by my masters, and, after I was cleaned up, I slept."

Heightmeyer followed him with her eyes. "And, the next time?"

"It was easier," Rodney said. "I wasn't as nervous. I knew what to expect – what it would feel like when someone entered me. My second and third time was with the blacksmith. He likes to fuck standing up, against the wall. Says that it makes him feel strong and virile, like the horses he shoes." Rodney laughed and ran a hand through his hair. "The splinters were a bitch to get out of my hands."

Heightmeyer drew in a sharp breath and blinked. She chewed on the end of her pen, and looked down at the pad of paper she held in her lap. Rodney thought she could do with a good fingering, or a good fuck, but he knew better than to ask.

The psychiatrist cleared her throat. "Uh, did you frequent the blacksmith's shop often?"

Rodney nodded. "My masters have a lot of horses. The blacksmith prefers to barter for sex."

"Were there other goods or services which could've been used in exchange, other than sex?"

"Yes, but sex is the easiest, the most profitable and useful service to offer," Rodney said. He stopped pacing and stood in front of Heightmeyer. "It's a highly valued commodity. It helped keep the colony from being culled by the Wraith, and saved us from being murdered by a group of intergalactic pirates who were passing through."

"With the hedonistic society that took you captive," Heightmeyer said, sounding slightly horrified at what he'd admitted, "sex might have been a valuable commodity, but here, on Atlantis, you are much more valued for your intellect."

"Captive?" Rodney threw his hands up in the air. "They didn't take me captive. As I recall, I was left behind on a planet that we knew little to nothing about, and this 'hedonistic society' took me in, out of kindness. They were compassionate and they…"

"They bartered you for goods and services, Rodney," Heightmeyer's voice was filled with anger, "used you, and others, to keep from having to go to war with other factions. They did not take you in out of the goodness of their hearts. They took you in because they wanted to make you into a sex slave, and they did. They sold you time and time again, Rodney, and what did you get in return for it?"

"I got hot food, a bed, a place to call home," Rodney shouted. "I was left behind by these same people who are claiming to be my friends, and, you know what?" Rodney was in Heightmeyer's face.

She shrunk back against her chair, and Rodney eased up a little. He felt lightheaded and out of breath, but he kept going.

"I would rather be back with my masters, because at least I know where I stand with them. They provide me with shelter and love. Maybe not as you Atlantians define the word, but I understood it here," Rodney pounded at his chest, "and here," a hand flew to his head.

"Rodney," Heightmeyer's voice caught in her throat, "John, Teyla and Ronon never meant to leave you behind, and they looked for you, searching through the entire galaxy, barely sleeping, until they found and recovered you. You were kidnapped and…"

"Reconstructed," Rodney said. His voice dripped with sarcasm. "Isn't that what you called it earlier?"

Heightmeyer nodded. "I'm sorry for what happened to you, but you've got to understand that John and the others never stopped searching for you, they never gave up on you."

Rodney slumped back into his seat. His whole body shook as he took in the psychiatrist's words. They didn't match what his head and heart were telling him, what his masters had confided to him.

"They told me that I had been left behind, that I was unwanted, that I had been traded, elected to stay behind." Rodney refused to look at Heightmeyer as he spoke. He could still remember the shame and fear he'd felt upon hearing that.

"I know," Heightmeyer said. "What happened to you, what they turned you into, Rodney," Heightmeyer's voice was filled with passion, and she reached over and squeezed his hand, "none of that was your fault. You did nothing wrong."

"But, if I believe what you're telling me," Rodney said slowly, "then that means that I broke."

"You were, like you said, reconstructed." Heightmeyer gave him a slight smile. "None of it was your fault. I can't even begin to imagine what you went through, Rodney, but don't you ever think of yourself as broken, or weak. If nothing else, this experience should show you just how strong you are. Under difficult, adverse circumstances, you not only adapted, but thrived."

Rodney smiled wryly, and shook his head. "Thrived?"

Heightmeyer nodded, standing by her words. "Your sense of self-confidence is still largely intact. We're still working on your self-concept and reminding you of what you used to do for a living. All of that will come back with time, though."

"I gather that I used to have a bit of a superiority complex," Rodney said after a pause, something that he'd overheard a couple of scientists talking about as he passed through the labs one day.

Heightmeyer laughed. "What makes you say that?"

"I figure that all of the Atlantis gossip can't be unfounded rumors," Rodney said with a shrug, "and this is something that I've overhead on a number of occasions. How different I am, how much more helpful, and calm and less of a pompous ass, I am after my 'ordeal'."

"How does that make you feel?"

Rodney wondered how many times Heightmeyer had asked him that question since his return to Atlantis over a month ago.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I don't know this pompous ass, Dr. Rodney McKay, that everyone is talking about. I don't know a John, Teyla and Ronon who didn't abandon me to a life of prostitution. I don't know which life I enjoy better – the life of friendship forged by circumstances, or that of prostitution, borne of necessity. There's a part of me that thinks I should be stripping for you, and another part of me which is appalled at the very thought of it."

"That's good."

At the dubious look that Rodney gave her, Heightmeyer added, "It shows that you are starting to remember more of your life on Atlantis. That you are, in a manner of speaking, going through the deconstruction and reconstruction process once again."

"And, afterwards," Rodney asked, "what will I be?"

"I suspect that you'll be a whole new man, Dr. McKay. One who has reconciled these two, separate lives of yours into a single entity."

"So, want to have sex?" Rodney couldn't resist posing the question, which was, at least partially, in jest.

Heightmeyer laughed and shook her head. "No, Dr. McKay, not today. I don't engage in sexual relationships with my patients."

Rodney smiled lopsidedly, and quirked an eyebrow at the pretty psychiatrist. "So, there might be a someday?"

"Maybe when we're just friends," Heightmeyer said.

"You mean after I'm cured?" Rodney asked skeptically.

Heightmeyer threw her head back and laughed. "To be honest, doctor, I don't know if there is a cure for you."

That was something that Rodney could live with. He didn't know if he would ever be the same Dr. Rodney McKay that he'd been before his reconstruction at the hands of aliens, but, something told him that, in the end, he'd become someone better and stronger.

What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger, he thought. Though Rodney couldn't recall where he'd heard that phrase before, it didn't matter, because the words themselves offered him comfort that his friends couldn't right now.

Sex, prostitution, friendship – all of it was a muddled mess in his head, and the emotions associated with those words were equally as messy. There wasn't an easy 'fix' for this, other than to go through it, and to reconcile the two dichotomous halves of himself into something whole.

Rodney wasn't sure that he wanted to go back to what he'd been before he lived to serve masters. Bartering his body for the benefit of others hadn't always been easy, but, in the end, he'd felt that he'd done something good, and right.

It would take some time to readjust to life in Atlantis, to work out how to barter his mind in exchange for 'friendship', as opposed to his body for whatever was needed. Friendship seemed like an important commodity to those who lived here. It would just be a small matter of getting to know the people he'd apparently called friends once upon a time, and learning how best to work with them.

He could swap intellect for sex, friendship for prostitution. Give others what it was that they so desperately needed. And maybe he'd even be able to work something out with Heightmeyer when she cleared him, declared him sane, or whatever it was that Elizabeth, and the others were waiting for the psychiatrist to do.

Rodney would be what he needed to be so that he could please others, because pleasing others was what pleased him. He was, after all, a trained expert in the art of pleasure.

Please review; I'd like some feedback on this. Thanks. :-)