Finding out that you had about two weeks to live tended to do that to a body. Carson could feel the stress that always lingered in the back of his mind come to the forefront, dragging its not-inconsiderable bulk down and onto his shoulders. The water running down his face stung his eyes, but Carson was unwilling to close them. Every time he did, images of his scores of friends and coworkers flashed on the insides of his eyelids. The ones who weren't broken and bloody from fighting were drained of life and all were beyond repair.

He felt utterly useless in that moment, and he raged against that feeling. What had he done since arriving to make their situation more secure? Yes, he'd found out some interesting things about the Wraith and designed the ATA gene therapy, but neither project was useful in solving their current crisis. What was far worse was that there was nothing Carson could do now. Not one damned thing.

Rodney could build a weapon, or maybe find a ZedPM and start up the shield. Major Sheppard could kill something--as could Teyla. They were all survivors and warriors. What was he but a geneticist rocked by the depths of his own cowardice?

Sighing at his moment of self-pity and shaking it off immediately thereafter, Carson shut off the water and reached for his towel. Ruminating over the consequences of his decisions would get him nowhere but in a deep funk, and that was certainly no way to contribute to their chances of defeating the Wraith.

He drew on some clean, nearly worn-out jeans and an equally ratty shirt and was pondering whether to make tea or read the book he'd borrowed from Dr. Weir when his door chimed.

Upon opening it, he found Rodney leaned against the far wall, a container of something in one hand and a stack of papers in the other. "Come on in, then," Carson murmured, stepping to one side. "Unless you're just stopping by to bother my door."

Rodney smirked and pushed off the wall. "I thought you might want something to drink. It seems like the thing to do after finding out you're about to die." He walked into Carson's quarters and set the pot and the papers on a small table.

Carson shut the door after Rodney, laughing softly at the man's commentary. "Ah, to think I ever thought I missed your unique worldview, Rodney. Incisive yet eternally optimistic."

"Just drink the tea," Rodney said, unearthing two mugs from Carson's collection of dishware. "It's the last of my Welsh morning, so you'd better damn well appreciate it."

Carson blinked. He knew that while Rodney was a professional coffee addict, he also enjoyed tea--and guarded his stash of the stuff quite jealously. When they'd both been stationed in Antarctica, he and Rodney had played various games, chess and poker mostly, and he'd never managed to win any of Rodney's tea. Rodney was even more willing to lose chocolate than tea, and Carson still thought Rodney cheated when he played those games. No one was that good at anything they didn't do professionally.

Rodney handed Carson a mug of tea made up just as he liked it, excepting the milk. The only equivalent they had was some dehydrated stuff that would've rendered the tea undrinkable, so Carson made do without it. He sipped the tea experimentally and found it perfectly brewed--as per Rodney's very particular tastes--and so he let himself sink into a chair and just enjoy the drink...and wait for Rodney to say whatever he'd come to say.

"I don't think we're gonna make it out of this one," Rodney murmured over the rim of his mug.

Carson frowned, drawing his eyebrows close together. "Don't you think it's a bit soon to make that judgment? From what I've heard, Stargate Command's been in worse positions and with less time to deal with them, and they've always come through."

"With more supplies, more people, more allies and more..." Rodney said, his voice almost shaky.

"More what?" Carson asked curiously. "True, there aren't that many of us, and we don't have a planet full of people to draw from. And no, we don't have the Asgard looking over our shoulders. But we do have this city, and the people in it--and I seem to recall that at least one of those people is a self-described genius."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Ten of me won't be able to figure this out, Carson."

"Which is precisely what you said when we were standing 'round that chair in Antarctica and you'd just shocked yourself with that thingy that never did work right," Carson reminded him. "Rodney, for as long as I've known you, you've talked disaster. You've never meant it before, so don't tell me you're about to buy into it now."

That statement elicited a dry grin. "I don't know, Carson. I'm doing a pretty good job of convincing myself I'm going to die."

"You're doing a fair job of convincing me I'm going to die," Carson admitted. "That doesn't mean we are, though. Going to die, that is. You're going to find a way out of this mess."

"Me?" Rodney whined. "Why does it always have to be me?"

Carson laughed, happy to be back on the familiar ground of pointless banter. "You'd rather leave it up to me? After seeing the way I run Ancient technology? The Wraith won't have to attack Atlantis; I'll have the city in ruins long before they get here."

Rodney nodded sagely, pouring himself a second mug of tea. "If only we could turn your interface with the technology into a weapon. It wouldn't exactly protect us, but it would confuse the Wraith to the point they just gave up and left us alone."

"Hey!" Carson said, faking indignation. "I'm not so bad as all that."

Rodney's face grew serious. "I know," He whispered, leaning forward. "Did you ever imagine, when we were in Antarctica, that we'd be sitting in a dead city, drinking tea a fortnight before our deaths?"

"Waxing melodramatic again, are we?" Carson replied. "And no, I didn't. Most of the time I was thinking about whether I could convince my mum to ship me decent food, or maybe a tape of the last season's football matches." He'd thought about many other things as well, but they were just as soon not mentioned. Rodney wasn't in any mood to listen to Carson whine about things he couldn't have.

"Yeah," Rodney muttered, putting his mug down. He stood, waving Carson away when he made to stand also. "Enjoy the rest of the tea, Carson. I've got to get back to work."

Carson watched Rodney go, tamping down his slight disappointment and hurt. Before, Rodney would've stayed all night, talking and laughing, until he finally staggered back to his own quarters. Now he whisked in and back out, and when he left it was to do more work and never to rest. Carson knew Rodney was working himself too hard, but there was nothing to be done about it. Rodney thought he was responsible for everyone in the city and no amount of argument would change his mind.

Rodney hadn't always been that way. In Antarctica he studied what he was there to study and left it at that. Carson understood the change; now that they were on their own someone had to take charge. Dr. Weir was their leader, true, but the qualities that made her a good politician also made her a poor choice to actually make things work. She dealt with the human interface, but it was himself, Rodney and John who made things happen in the city. John protected them, Rodney made the city function and he kept everyone healthy. He hadn't really considered whether Rodney was ready for that job when he'd first come over here, but now that Carson had seen Rodney tackle the challenge, he knew it was what the man was born to do.

Still, Rodney could do with a lesson in balance. If they survived the Wraith coming to visit, Carson thought perhaps he'd pull the man aside and have a chat. Nothing so formal as seeing Kate, as Rodney despised psychiatrists, but instead a conversation between friends about the value of decompression.

Carson knew Rodney needed it desperately, or he was going to work himself to death. That was not going to happen, though, because Carson refused to lose a good friend to something so stupidly preventable.

•••

"Are we supposed to drink this?"

Rodney glanced down at the small bowl of murky liquid Lt. Ford was holding gingerly. "Maybe it's a finger bowl?" He hoped it was; the stuff looked vile and he wasn't about to take a chance on his already suspect health just so that Major Sheppard could make time with the pretty diplomatic twit of the week.

Both men were about to give up and ask for assistance when Teyla took pity on them. "It is a ceremonial balm," She murmured in her normal, mellifluous voice. "For the feet," She added helpfully. "It is actually quite soothing and is well-known for its antiseptic qualities."

"Foot-washing," Ford huffed. "Ok, I can get behind foot-washing... unless we're supposed to be washing each other's feet. That...that I'm not into."

Rodney rolled his eyes and unlaced his boots. The others were doing the same; the locals were untying what passed for sandals, chattering happily with the more personable members of the team. A small cloth appeared next to him, courtesy of Teyla, and Rodney used it to blot the ceremonial stuff on his admittedly aching feet. He took an experimental sniff and found the aroma to be not-unpleasant; it had an almost anonymously astringent herbal smell. It certainly wasn't any worse than what the Air Force called soap, so he finished his foot-anointing without complaint.

Half an hour later, Rodney wished he still had some of that ceremonial stuff, because there was a chance it was poisonous and he could put himself out of his misery. This planet had no technology other than the stargate, no useful memories of the Ancients, no weaponry more advanced than mid-bronze age weaponry, and their food was deplorable. If they traded for any of the withered vegetables and stringy meat, Atlantis would be dead of food poisoning within a month. Not that they had a month; they had less than two weeks before the Wraith arrived. Somehow that information made petty niceties just that--petty.

Of course, the fact that this mission was a waste of time in terms of procuring the items necessary to their collective survival mattered not one whit to Major Sheppard, who was not only in charge of this fiasco, but was greatly enjoying himself. The various women hanging off his arms seemed to be enjoying themselves also. Rodney wondered if Sheppard was modeling his intergalactic adventure on Star Trek. His behavior certainly shared many characteristics with those of Captain Kirk. Both men were interstellar bed bunnies.

Rodney knew that he'd be more charitable about the Major's escapades if he was included in such activities occasionally. Precious few people actually paid Rodney any attention, and he'd learned a long time ago to be suspicious of them. Rodney didn't wonder what it was like to be used for one's body; he left that up to people like Sheppard, who seemed to enjoy being objectified. People went after Rodney's brain. They wanted what was in it, not what was underneath his clothes. When they made physical gestures Rodney knew what they were really after, so he made it clear that they could simply ask what they were there for and skip the self-denigration.

Of course, John seemed to have the standards of a crack whore. After all, he'd gone after Chaya, and wasn't that a slap to Rodney's face? He'd never trusted her, never liked her and never wanted her around. He'd not been wrong, either, but what did the good Major do? Or, who did he do, was more like it. Rodney shook his head in disgust. He'd just about... well, maybe almost gotten over the fact that John was terminally straight. He was, at least, past denial and was well into acceptance. At this point, most of Rodney's disgust was focused on the fact that the Major's partner selection criteria seemed to begin and end with 'breathing'.

He checked across the crowded circle of people that had gathered and found John looping his arms around three--three--barely-adult young women. They were, Rodney had to admit, quite beautiful; long brown hair fell well past mid-back and liquid dark eyes stared up at the Major in undisguised admiration. John, of course, was lapping it up like the cocksure flyboy he was. The whole scene was just tacky and tasteless, and Rodney couldn't help falling back on his upbringing when he let himself feel wholehearted revulsion. Civilized people showed more restraint, particularly in public.

Ok, maybe he wasn't as over it as he'd thought. He knew he should get over his crush, but every time he decided that the Major was the most revolting creature not directly aligned with evil and destruction, he'd do something fucking perfect and Rodney would be infatuated once again. Once, he'd saved Rodney's life. Then there was the time he showed a glimpse of the surprisingly sharp mind he kept under lock and key. Rodney knew and accepted that the reason he and the Major railed and argued as much as they did was because Rodney couldn't get a real grasp on the man. Without a good understanding of what he was dealing with Rodney found himself constantly intrigued--attracted and repulsed. The whole thing was driving him crazy. Rodney turned away from the rest of his team and went in search of something stronger to drink. This was obviously going to be a long night.

Fortunately for Rodney, as well as those around him, the locals took pity on him and gave him a surprisingly comfortable pallet in one of their homes. After checking with Teyla to make sure he wasn't violating some weird custom that would result in him married to an alien goat, Rodney lay down and dozed off, thankful he was away from the boisterous gathering and the rest of the team.

It was nearly daybreak before Lt. Ford roused him, poking at Rodney's head with a bottle of water. "Come on, we're about to leave," He said, voice gruff. Rodney peered up and quickly surmised that Ford hadn't yet slept, which definitely explained his shortness.

Rodney eased himself up and drank some of the water Ford left before gathering his belongings and heading for the 'gate. The others were already there; Major Sheppard looked utterly exhausted and smelled strongly of things Rodney wasn't going to think about. Teyla, of course, was her usual poised self. "Shall we?" He murmured, dialing Atlantis.

When they returned, Rodney left Teyla and Sheppard to explain their new, albeit modest, trade agreement and headed for the infirmary. The sooner he got checked out by Carson, the sooner he could be back in his lab, figuring out a way to keep them alive long enough for Major Sheppard and Lt. Ford to continue attempting to contract every sexually transmitted disease this strange new galaxy had to offer.

"Where are you hurt?" Carson asked as Rodney walked into the infirmary. "Dr. Weir didn't mention any casualties."

Rodney shook his head and sighed. "No one tried to kill us, for a change. This is just the usual check-up."

Carson nodded and gestured towards one of the exam areas. "Go on, then."

Rodney stepped behind a curtain and stripped down, wishing for the days of the early missions, before Ford had picked up a stray insect in his clothing that had led to a nasty, though temporary, case of dermatitis. From then on all team members had to go through a complete check-up, and were required to change clothes and have their used garments cleaned and sanitized immediately. Atlantis didn't have the resources that Cheyenne Mountain did, at least not at the moment, and Dr. Weir didn't want some strange disease knocking everyone out because someone didn't want to change their underwear. Rodney found the entire process slightly absurd but suitably paranoid, given the situation.

It wasn't until he got around to taking off his socks that Rodney noticed anything odd. His feet were a rich, dark brown. "Fuck," He muttered, rubbing at his skin with one of his socks. That ceremonial stuff must've stained. Great, just great. Rodney was sure he was going to have stained feet for the rest of his pitifully short life.

"Carson?" Rodney shouted, pulling on the exam gown. "You'd better take a look at this."

Carson came over quickly enough. "What is it?" He asked, worry creasing his brow.

"Look!" Rodney said, pointing at his feet. "They're brown."

"Yes, yes they are," Carson said slowly, peering at Rodney's feet. "Did you happen to put anything on them?"

"There was this ceremony, with foot-washing. A muddy brown infusion of local herbs," Rodney summarized. "But my feet weren't brown when I put my shoes back on!"

Carson bit back a smile and examined Rodney's feet. "Any itching?"

"No," Rodney replied.

"Pain when you walk?"

Rodney shook his head.

"Any blistering you haven't shown me? Discharge? Swelling anywhere?" Carson continued.

"Nothing like that, no," Rodney admitted.

"I think you'll be fine," Carson decided, stepping back. "It'll fade on its own."

"You're sure?"

Carson grinned wryly. "I'm not spending any more time peering at your feet, Rodney. There's no sign of adverse reaction."

"But they're...brown," Rodney protested, wriggling his feet around. They were the precise color that his skin had turned when he got spattered with potassium permanganate that one time back in university.

The resulting sigh was more for show than anything else. "Rodney, you doused your feet with a, and I'm quoting you here, 'muddy brown infusion of local herbs' so it isn't surprising that it contained elements that might temporarily stain your skin. From the look of it, I'd say the native equivalent of henna, and there's nothing in your file to suggest that you're allergic to such things."

"Oh," Rodney murmured, looking sheepish. He stepped behind the curtain and got dressed, still listening to Carson chide him. He knew he was aggravating the doctor, but wasn't exactly sure what he could do about it.

"And as we've established that you're not exhibiting any discomfort, itching, discharge, blistering or any sign at all that your body has reacted badly to the stuff you put on it, I'd say that you're fine," He snapped, handing Rodney his shoes. Rodney took them and slid them on quickly, feeling as though he was annoying Carson more than usual. He was well aware that he could get on anyone's nerves, but usually Carson had plenty of patience. Lately, though, he'd run Rodney off as soon as he could. It made Rodney sad, but he had no idea what could be done. After all, they were all stressed about being stuck in such a dangerous situation. Rodney took a last glance at Carson's back and then left the infirmary.

Carson knew that this round of complaints was nothing more than Rodney's usual routine, but he didn't have the patience today to endure it. Most days he actually enjoyed Rodney's mildly hypochondriac musings. Those days tended to be ones where Rodney wasn't unhappy that Major Sheppard had once again gotten overly familiar with whoever they'd been visiting. Something told Carson that John hadn't been particularly discreet on this mission.

Carson couldn't help but note the relationship between the Major's extracurricular activities and Rodney's mood. After all, he was their doctor, the one who was invariably in charge of clearing them after missions. One of the standard, although sometimes embarrassing, questions involved sexual contact. Apparently an early mission back on Earth had resulted in an easily-contained but awkward outbreak of a foreign sexually transmitted disease. Now it was standard protocol to ask, administer prophylactic antibiotics and antivirals, and quietly quarantine potential carriers from the rest of the staff.

Needless to say, Major Sheppard was almost always the only person on that particular list. Carson couldn't have cared less, except that it bothered Rodney so much--and his caring was a rather personal issue itself, seeing as how he'd rather Rodney be worried about Carson's proclivities, as opposed to those of the Major.

Carson had decided that Rodney was unhappy about Major Sheppard's promiscuity for one of two reasons. If Rodney was straight, then he was envious of the Major's obvious success at procuring partners. If Rodney was gay, then he was jealous of the Major's partners, since he wanted Sheppard for himself. What Carson had heard about Rodney, as well as what the rather private man had said during some personal conversations, led Carson to believe it was the latter.

The reasons for Carson caring about the situation at all were complicated. By all accounts, he was a good friend to Rodney--the man had said so himself once. Despite their current bout of tension, Carson continued to think of Rodney as a friend, both professionally and personally. As such, he felt concern when Rodney was unhappy, as Rodney so obviously was.

But there was also the fact that Carson was attracted to Rodney, and that was the part that was making Carson so very miserable. He wasn't so gone on himself to think that he'd be good for Rodney as opposed to others, but he couldn't help but wish that Rodney saw in him what he seemed to see in John. Carson couldn't quite make himself feel any jealousy towards John, since he never saw any indication that John was leading Rodney on--or that Rodney had actually done anything about whatever feelings he might have for John.

Mostly, Carson was a very minor emotional mess--something that wouldn't have occurred if they'd been in an environment less stressful than Atlantis. Back on Earth, Carson would've been able to work through this on his own, in his alone time that would have been far away from everyone else. As it was, he was stuck here, jammed up with everyone else like a sardine. He wished things were different, all the way around.

Carson also knew what wishing would get him. At the moment, all it was doing was straining his friendship with Rodney. It was both of them, in truth, but he could control his own dyspepsia and Rodney would eventually become accustomed to the Major's behavior.

In the meantime, though, Carson couldn't help but wish a temporary and ultimately benign but still very annoying rash on Major Sheppard.

•••

John stared at page 249 of War and Peace, absently intrigued by the way its small print flowed together when his eyes crossed. He'd given up actually reading the words several minutes ago, after he found himself rereading the same paragraph over and over again. He'd brought the book with him because it was calming--his version of meditation. The actual copy he held was his fifth, having worn out the first four over the course of his adult life.

He knew he was hard on stuff like that, but there wasn't much he could do; they just didn't make books like they used to. Maybe there was a civilization in the Pegasus Galaxy that had perfected the art of bookbinding, so that even the cheapest paperbacks held together through multiple readings and happenstance usage as a prop or stepladder. When John realized what he'd just thought, he decided it was time to set the book aside and try to sleep. It was glaringly obvious, even to his fuzzy consciousness, that he was well below functional status.

The last mission had been exhausting, although not in a life-threatening way. The humans in this galaxy seemed to greet him one of three ways: they tried to kill him, tried to bore him to death, or tried very hard to entertain him. This time it had been the entertainment option, which John appreciated. Really, he did. The leaders were generous with their fun and John easily admitted that he enjoyed the attention of the local pretty young things. It was getting a little old, though, and yeah he definitely needed sleep if he was thinking that half-naked women were boring and repetitive.

It was the truth, though; they were exploring the galaxy with a purpose, and it seemed like every time they turned around, someone was throwing a big distraction at them. Sex, blood, oblique cultural mores that dictated that John got laid and Rodney got stuck chatting up dyspeptic merchants and backwards pseudoscientist hacks. John knew it pissed Rodney off that John got the attention he did, but there wasn't really anything he could do about it. Rodney treated people like he did knowing full well it ran them off. John had picked up tact and charm somewhere along the way and used it to his best advantage.

The fact that such an advantage appeared so frequently wasn't John's fault, and he sometimes resented the way Rodney acted in response to his good fortune. John wondered if Rodney ever considered that John didn't particularly like being thought of as a half-wit. He knew that Rodney didn't really think of him that way, but most of the people they encountered did, at least until he forcefully proved himself more intelligent. Everyone who met Rodney knew he was a genius, even on the rare occasions when the man didn't announce it himself. Brilliance fairly rolled off the man, and maybe John would've liked to have been seen as smart and good-looking, instead of just pretty. Pretty but dumb equaled boy-toy.

Once again, John found himself complaining about getting laid a lot. Well, it wasn't like General O'Neill had included that bit of information in his briefing. He hadn't exactly said anything about meeting up with things like the Wraith either. There'd been this offhand mention of evil parasitic snake things, and the dangers of artificial intelligence, but no one ever said 'You'll probably end up using guerrilla tactics against a much stronger enemy with only your wit and guts to keep you in the fight.'

Well, he had a little more than that--he had Rodney constantly improvising and devising and generally saving their collective asses on a regular basis. John suspected that O'Neill had put Rodney in the mission because underneath the cynicism and snark was a surprisingly versatile guy--which was true. He just happened to be amazingly frustrating and distracting and annoying all at the same time.

Rodney never would've made it in the military. The kind of anti-authoritarian free spiritedness he possessed either would've been crushed flat or gotten him court-martialed, if possible before making it out of basic training. John knew all too well the ways the military got its recruits to come around it its way of thinking; he'd simply seen it coming and managed to hide behind a well-manicured fuck-you façade. After all, John grew up in his father's shadow, so by the time he signed up he knew how to act. That part of the military was a game for John, and his troubles started when he got bored playing it. John never told his father that he'd joined the military because all he ever wanted to do in life was just that--what he wanted to do. He wanted to fly, so he joined up thinking he'd leave when it got old. Part of it did get old eventually, but by that point John had settled in and couldn't really see a way out. He figured he was just too old to walk away and start up another career, and for all his mistakes the military was home. It told him what to do and what not to do and left him free to fly things and surf and not worry about whether he was doing the right thing or not.

Even with his inertia keeping him going, John managed to find trouble. The rules he once enjoyed for their security no longer meant what they used to, at least not the ones that weren't about keeping people alive but rather covering up the administration's mistakes. John had gotten tired of being told not to think about the white bear standing in Arlington Cemetery holding yet another US flag in a pretty display case, and if it weren't for Carson Beckett's conveniently timed attempt to use Ancient technology, John would still be the acting taxi pilot at McMurdo.

John wondered how he should thank Carson for that little incident. Some days he was so grateful he could hug the doctor, while others he wanted to slug him for inadvertently getting him tangled up in this mess. John never gave in to the impulse because in the end he was thrilled to even have the opportunity to see another galaxy, even if he'd stumbled into a war zone along the way. More than that, it was impossible to hold a grudge against Carson; he was the kind of man whom no one could hate for very long. John had a suspicion that Beckett was the only reason John himself hadn't turned into one of his hated COs, with the empathy of a pickled herring and the mercy to match. Carson was far too honest and warmhearted for his own good and he shared generously of those traits with others. Carson even considered Rodney a friend and actively sought out time to spend with the Canadian. John decided that either made him a man of rare insight or a masochist. Then again, John himself enjoyed Rodney's company, at least sometimes, and he was neither masochist nor visionary. All John knew was that Rodney kept him thinking, much like how Carson kept him feeling.

As John drifted off to sleep, he decided he was kind of happy that people like Rodney and Carson never left him bored, but that he was too far gone to wonder what that meant in the grand scheme of things.