Chapter Text
On the fifth day, John stumbled out of the woods into a snow-dappled clearing surrounding a sizable village. He swayed, dizzy with relief. He'd finally found McKay.
Apparently heedless of the cold, McKay knelt, coat-less, next to what looked like a big machine. Although John couldn't tell what the machine was supposed to do, he assumed it was broken. McKay was busy picking through a selection of tools on a cloth in front of him.
John found some cover behind the partial concealment of a stump and its accompanying clump of straggly brown weeds. "McKay!" he called softly. His breath blew a cloud of water vapor into the air, and he covered his mouth with his fist. His admittedly sketchy and superficial survey of the village indicated that the place was deserted, but he wasn't taking unnecessary chances at this point. For all he knew, McKay was a prisoner, doing forced labor.
McKay's head came up like a hunting dog's scenting prey. He scanned the edge of the woods, shading his eyes against the glare from the snow.
John called again, a little bit louder, popping his head up slightly so McKay could see him.
McKay stood up and whooped, "My God, Sheppard ! I'd know that hair anywhere!"
"I guess not a prisoner then," John muttered to himself.
No use being sneaky now. He used the stump to lever himself to his feet. McKay quickly donned a garment that John had mistaken for a pile of fallen leaves on the ground. John managed to stand, wobbling a little woozily. He was upright just in time for the bizarrely-dressed McKay to barrel into him, grabbing him by the shoulders.
"You're alive!" McKay shouted, the warm fog of his breath blasting into John's face.
"Yep," John said, with exaggerated patience. "Here I am." For some odd reason, the warmth from McKay's hands was making him shiver with cold.
"You crazy, lucky—" McKay said, shaking John's shoulders slightly in his grip. "We were afraid— Well, I was afraid— We thought you were dead. But you're not." McKay shook his head, eyes shining, a startled grin stretching his mouth wide. "You're alive!"
John was about to make another fond, sarcastic comment. His body had other ideas, and decided that this would be a good time to pass out.
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When he regained consciousness, it was to the sound of McKay's voice saying, "Be careful with him! I don't know if he's hit his head. He could have spinal injuries. Or hypothermia, with just that light jacket. Or— Welcome to the land of the living, Colonel. When is the last time you had anything to eat?"
"Uh. Mnng," John managed to get out, coming to the realization that a Very Large Someone was carrying him….
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The next time he regained consciousness, he was lying on a firm, padded surface. McKay was removing John's pants. McKay was naked. McKay was making him naked as well. These realizations caused his brow to furrow.
"Mmng. Ah." He coughed to clear his throat. "R'dney?"
"Oh, thank God!" McKay dropped the ankle he'd been holding up. John felt his leg flop down distantly, as if it belonged to someone else.
McKay knelt near John's head, reaching for something behind him. "Here, drink this." McKay supported John's head carefully with one hand and a cup full of warm liquid with the other. John curled his hands around both the cup and McKay's hand. Gratefully, he drank the steaming, fragrant, sweet stuff. It slid down his parched throat like ambrosia.
"Hey, that's enough for now! I don't want you to puke on me." McKay pulled the cup from John's grasping fingers. John made a half-strangled sound of frustration and reached for the cup again.
"I know, I know. You'll have more as soon as we're sure you'll keep that much down." That McKay was able to keep the cup away from him so effortlessly said a lot about how weak John was. McKay waved a trio of fingers in front of John's face. "Now. How many fingers?"
John batted McKay's hand away. "Three. Rodney, why are we naked?"
"Well, I didn't want to get our clothes wet when I got you in the bath," McKay huffed, and went back to tugging John's pants off. John noted that his vest, jacket, shirt and tee shirt were already sitting in a neatly folded stack near his boots and weapons, socks waving cheerfully out of the tops of his boots.
They were in a large building, with dim, indirect lighting, and moisture-laden air. And he was damned cold, he realized, as McKay finally got the pants off, exposing more of his skin to the air. He trembled violently with the cold, curling up into a miserable pitiful ball.
"Hey, come on. This way. Let's get you into the water." McKay tugged and levered him forward.
"Jeez, Rodney! C-c-cold!" John complained as McKay dragged him toward a pool lined with dark-colored ceramic tile. As McKay slid him into the shallow pool, John hissed as the water burned his chilled flesh. McKay got in with him and kept John from crawling back out of the pool.
"It's okay. You'll be okay soon. It's good that you're trembling. I think you were flirting with hypothermia there for awhile," McKay said. Pitilessly, he poured more water onto John's shoulders. "Luckily, you don't seem to have gotten frostbite. You'll get to keep all your fingers and toes!"
"Damnit! Water's h-hot! B-burning me!" John shoved at McKay, trying to get out of the water again.
"No it isn't. The water's just barely warm in this pool, I promise you, Colonel. It just feels like it's burning because you're chilled all the way through. It will feel better soon. Hang on." McKay, both soothing and merciless, continued to pour more water on him.
John drooped. He'd kept going so long on pure will and stubbornness. Maybe, maybe they were safe, now? He allowed himself to lean against McKay as he suddenly realized McKay was warm. He tried not to whimper as he trembled and burrowed in closer to McKay's side.
"Hey! You're like an icicle. Okay, fine, yes, I'll be your personal electric blanket. Can you possibly get any more frozen? What did you do, sit in a snowdrift for hours?" McKay's voice was fond and irritated in habitual and comforting complaint.
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