by Temaris

"Stupid, backwards, moronic--"

"You're repressing again," Lorne said, and coughed, tried to smother it with a hand, "you know it's bad--" He had to stop, his coughs were deep and tearing and wet sounding, and he -- Rodney put a hand over Nick's mouth.

"Shut up, dammit, you're almost as stupid as they are--" but his other hand was gentle, carefully wiping a damp cloth over his face, and then over his wrists, leaving coolness out of all proportion to the touch. He sighed cautiously, shallowly, trying not to set it off again. "Better?"

Nick nodded. He didn't mean to fall asleep again, but his eyes just slid shut, and the last thing he was aware of was a low level of grumbling comforting him into sleep with its familiarity.

When he woke, Rodney was talking to someone else, arguing in clipped, terse tones that said better than the words that Nick couldn't hear through the swimmy sound of his blocked ears that he was dealing with Sheppard. It was like this pretty much all the time between them now, and Nick hated it. It was just fucked up. He'd thought that Sheppard was casual about McKay; the colonel had been happy enough to bed women on other planets, it hadn't occurred to Nick that Sheppard would be bothered. But when Sheppard had walked in on Nick and Rodney together he'd stopped dead, face rigid -- since then they'd been at daggers drawn.

He sniffed, and wished he hadn't when the argument stopped dead. A moment later Rodney was back by him, sitting on the side of the bed.

"Hey."

Nick smiled, and coughed, the breath in to speak catching in his throat.

Rodney just cocked a smile oddly torn between indulgence and irritation at him. "I said shut up, Major." He leaned down and brushed his lips over Nick's forehead. "Don't you dare sneeze till I'm at least three feet away," he muttered, but Nick understood the affection behind the words.

"If you haven't caught it by now, I'm betting you're not going to," Sheppard's voice was raw, and Nick winced. Sheppard was a hot mass at his back, the bed supplied by the Aisae too small to allow them the kind of space they needed. At least they had a bed though. Rodney was sleeping on a bundle of blankets provided by Atlantis. The quarantine shelter was tiny, not intended for double much less triple occupancy, but nothing they or Atlantis could do or say had convinced the Aisae that it was safe to let them out of the shelter even to just return through the Gate to Atlantis. Worse, the Aisae refused to let any more Atlanteans through, in case they brought more infection with them. So they were stuck with Nurse McKay, and him and Sheppard sharing a bed, the last thing his CO wanted.

He sighed a little. He'd kind of hoped, when McKay had smirked back at him that first evening, that it had meant he would be getting both of them, but apparently Sheppard was a one-man man, and McKay was it.


"Come on, you've got to drink something, even if it's me giving it," Rodney's voice woke him, and he tried to open his eyes. They were sandy and his lashes pulled at his lower lid. He rubbed them clear, and looked up. Rodney wasn't in sight, and he vaguely realised that he must be talking to Sheppard.

He pushed the covers away, too warm, and shifted restlessly, trying to find a way to move that didn't make his body hurt. He ached, just so, so tired, too much to do much more than twist over and hope that there would be a cool patch of bed. He fetched up against Sheppard, who was roasting hot, and shivering so violently that Nick started to wake up more thoroughly.

"John, please--" Rodney sounded split open, whispering in a voice that Nick didn't think he was meant to hear, and oh, that hurt more than his aching joints or the raw soreness of his throat. He swallowed against a hard lump and that hurt too.

Sheppard turned over, away from Rodney, and came face to face with Nick. His eyes weren't hard and shut off any more, they were wet and miserable, and he had clearly forgotten that Nick was sharing the bed with him, judging by the sudden flinch and the painful coughing fit that followed. Rodney carefully pulled Sheppard up into a sitting position, his chin over Rodney's shoulder, Rodney's hands rubbing his back firmly, murmuring, "That's it, it's okay, it's okay, come on, shhh--" until the hacking stopped, and then held him still, rocking gently until the tension slid out of Sheppard's back, and Rodney laid him gently back on the pillows and folded blankets.

Nick looked away. But even with his eyes shut, all Nick could see was the anxiety in McKay's face, and the careful, soft touches of his hands on Sheppard's sweating face. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter, but, oh shit, it did.

Shit. He didn't *want** to stop. Oh, *hell**.

The room was dark, and the bed was shaking, he was shaking, and dizzy, so dizzy, god, he was going -- and then he was sick, leaning helplessly towards the edge of the bed, mess spattering onto the floor, bile burning his throat, making him cough harder, so cold, so cold, it was in his nose, in his mouth, choking he couldn't breath, hurt, god, hurt so bad, so cold--

--someone warm against his back, holding onto him, and he moaned, hurt to move, so warm, so cold, someone's voice in his ear, saying, saying, couldn't hear it, but there were hands, someone holding him, choking, he tried to breathe in, a whistling whooping sound, and coughed again, explosively, his brain aching as it rattled in his skull, pounding him into pieces, wishing he was dead, dead would be easier, dead wouldn't hurt so, hitting his face hard enough that the plug of pain in his nose, his sinuses should be dislodged but it wasn't, and he could feel the tears running down his face, and he didn't -- oh, that *hurt*, but the sharp blow to his back knocked something free even as it rolled through his body, hitting every last nerve, and he coughed, coughed, spat, coughed, and then hung, breathing harshly, huddled into someone's body, arms and legs wrapped around him, hands petting his hair, wiping his face clean, cool cloth, blissful...

It came back again after an endless moment where all he could think about was the foul taste in his mouth, and how much he hurt, and huddle deeper into the arms around him, rocking him gently.

"Nick, drink this, it'll help." He shook his head moving it as little as possible, no, just gonna puke again.

"Come on, Nick, it'll help, I promise," and that wasn't Rodney, and he shifted a little, found dark eyes frowning at him, but kindly, kind as the hold on him, and the hands soothing him. "Try it, just a little." So he sipped at the bitter cup in Rodney's hands, his eyes closed, his head slumped against John's shoulder.


"You want something to eat?" More time had passed apparently, and he'd dozed off again while thinking. McKay was staring truculently down at him, a cup in one hand and the other fisted on his hip, daring Nick to say anything.

Nick shrugged. His stomach was so empty it felt that it was gnawing in on itself, but at the same time, he was more than half convinced that anything he ate was going to come straight back up.

"Drink this first," Rodney said and pushed the cup into his hands, and picked up a bowl from a table by the bed. The words woke a faint memory, of darkness and muffled pain, and fighting his own lungs and stomach to drag air into his lungs. and -- he frowned, glancing over the bed to Sheppard, but there was just a lump under the blue patterned comforter, snoring faintly. "Come on, you need to eat." He drank it down, and it was bitter and oddly familiar tasting.

He grimaced as he put the cup down and asked, "What's--" he stopped, there was no sound coming out, and Rodney's glare was deepening.

"Chicken soup. Kind of. Shut up." He helped Nick sit up, propping him on a mound of blankets that left him wondering what exactly Rodney was sleeping on. Sheppard shifted next to him, and he looked down at him, something pushing at his memory, a warm, hoarse voice, telling him, saying -- he couldn't nail it down, just fuzziness and pain and warmth.... To his astonishment, Sheppard wriggled closer as he watched, tucking himself into a small huddle against Nick's hip, only a shock of sweaty looking hair spiking up from under the blankets, and Nick blinked. He took another look at Rodney, and frowned. The man was grey and looked like he was about to fall over. He didn't look like he'd been sleeping at all.

"He's fine," Rodney said, misinterpreting Nick's look; Nick couldn't decide if it was deliberate or not, but before he could come to any conclusion, Rodney sat heavily on the bed, and dipped a spoon in the bowl. "Open. Swallow."

"Are you--" He winced at his raspy voice, but at least he had volume again, if not a lot.

"Don't say a fucking *word*, either of you. Open. Swallow." He paused while Nick coughed painfully, but although it was still deep and tearing, it didn't sound as wet. "Spit." Rodney held out a clump of tissues, and then bundled then up with a expression of extreme distaste and dropped them in the nearly full metal bin. "The things I do for you people." He leaned in and brushed a kiss over Nick's forehead, and Nick's jaw dropped. Rodney shoved the spoon in. "Shut up. Swallow."

Nick could feel faint shaking beside him and frowned. "And you can shut up too, Colonel," Rodney said mildly, and Nick's eyes opened wide, staring up at his lover --what --

"Rodney?" he asked hoarsely.

"Two of you, and you can't follow an order between you, if I wrote it on a cornflakes packet in little words and big letters, with smiley faces and footnotes for the complicated bits, and tied you down to make you read it." But he didn't sound pissed. He looked a little anxious, and Nick shifted in the bed. Looked over at Sheppard. The man had emerged from his huddle and was smiling faintly, nervously at him, and...

He blinked. That definitely wasn't *Rodney's* hand on his bare hip, stroking lightly. He looked back at Rodney, who was watching him with a matching anxiety, ill concealed by the threat of another spoonful of kind-of chicken soup, and a slow smile pulled at his aching face.

"Really?" he asked, and Rodney put the soup down and wrapped an arm around him, and Nick watched as his other hand reached for Sheppard, for *John**, who tangled his fingers with Rodney's, and nuzzled into Nick's side, a faint, contented smile on his lips.

He was too tired to do more than breathe, "Cool," and Rodney was helping him slide back under clean, cool covers, and when had that happened? He didn't remember the bedsheets getting changed, and John was tight against his back, and Rodney was scowling at them as John said, "You need to rest too," and Nick added, "You look like shit, McKay," and Rodney really did growl at them, but he kicked his shoes off and crawled in beside them.

The bed had felt too small for two people, but somehow, it was just the right size for three.

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Page last updated 03/01/2008 22:32:28.