He squinted at the sky, trying to gauge the sun’s position among the branches. Definitely past the zenith, declining toward sunset, but he’d hoped to get a little further while the light lasted.
“If you were thinking of going easy on me,” Rodney said, “I want you to know that I’m fine. Well, as fine as I’m going to be, hiking through an alien forest just waiting for something to trigger my allergies, but, as these things go, generally all right.”
If he didn’t look back, Ronon thought, it was unmistakably Rodney. Take a look, though, and it was a Wraith, a hungry Wraith, too close behind. The skin between his shoulder blades crawled at the idea.
“Maybe we ought to take a break?” Jennifer looked from one to the other. “You know, take a drink, maybe split a power bar?”
Ronon nodded reluctantly. Rest now, and maybe McKay could make it another faering before they camped for the night. “OK.”
He swung the improvised pack off his shoulder, offered Jennifer the container of water. She fumbled with the unfamiliar fastening for a moment, then drank deeply and handed it back. Ronon drank, too, and out of the corner of his eye saw Rodney settle onto the ground at the edge of the stream. He trailed his feeding hand in the cold water, his face tight and expressionless, and Jennifer took a breath.
“Rodney.”
“Yes?” McKay didn’t look at her.
“Rodney, I have to ask. When was the last time you fed?”
Rodney flinched, and Ronon looked away, unable to bear the picture that formed in his mind: Rodney in the feeding cells of a hive, choosing from among the bound humans that filled the niches, Rodney with his hand buried in a stranger’s flesh, drawing the life from their body in a single terrible rush of pain.
“It’s been a while,” Rodney said. He wouldn’t look at them, as though that made it easier. “Not since I — remembered who I was. Which makes it several weeks, at least, maybe as many as five.” He paused. “Too long. So if you’re going to shoot me, make it somewhere non-lethal, please. I’m not sure how well I’d regenerate.”
Ronon grinned at that, but Jennifer just nodded.
“So you can regenerate?” she asked. “We weren’t sure how — complete — the transformation had been.”
“Complete,” Rodney said. He paused. “At least — well, I can, could regenerate small things, cuts, bruises, minor burns. I didn’t get shot or anything like that.”
“Let me see your arm,” Jennifer said. Rodney hesitated, and she frowned. “Come on, Rodney, I’m going to have to examine you sometime.”
“I’d prefer it were in slightly more sterile surroundings,” Rodney said. “The chance of some weird alien infection seems way too high.”
He broke off, flushing, and Jennifer grinned in spite of herself. “That’s one thing you don’t have to worry about right now. Take your coat off.”
Rodney shrugged himself out of the supple leather, and Jennifer knelt beside him, her long hands moving deftly over his neck and shoulders. Ronon reached back, rested his hand on his blaster for reassurance. This was Rodney; there was no reason to think he’d snap, snap and spring, his feeding hand flashing up and out to fasten on Jennifer’s throat — The image was too clear, clear and true and shocking, and Ronon shook his head, trying to drive it away.
Jennifer was still talking as she worked. “— no bruising at the injection site, which I would have expected since I wasn’t, well, very careful about it? We were kind of in a hurry. So I’d say you still have some ability to heal yourself. Otherwise —” She had taken the notebook and pencil from the first aid kid, was jotting down information as she spoke. “Otherwise, I think you’re in pretty good shape. From what we’ve been able to figure out about the Wraith, anyway.”
She pushed herself to her feet, and Rodney looked up at her. “Which is how much?” he demanded.
“Enough,” Jennifer said. Her eyes flickered, but she plowed on anyway. “Enough to manage getting you back to yourself. You said there was a maintenance drug?”
“Yes.”
“When did you have your last dose of that?”
Rodney shrugged the coat back over his shoulders. “The morning of the attack. So that means I’ve missed one, almost two doses now.”
“OK.” Jennifer stared at the notebook, her hands still, and Ronon cleared his throat.
“You should eat. If you’re going to. And then we need to keep moving.”
“Right.” Jennifer’s voice was just a little off, and she turned hastily away to rummage in the makeshift pack. “Do you want half?”
“Yeah,” Ronon said. It wouldn’t do much for his hunger, but it would do until they made camp — there was a pair of coneys in the pack that he would cook then, solid protein to sustain them. Jennifer unwrapped the bar, broke it scrupulously into two sections. Ronon took his share, and she turned away, wandering a little way up the stream as she ate. Ronon watched her go, made himself finish the sweet sticky rectangle.
“Ronon,” Rodney said. He spoke softly, too quietly to be heard more than a foot away. “I wouldn’t — you know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.”
In spite of knowing better, the image came flooding back, Jennifer withering under a Wraith’s hands, and Ronon suppressed the desire to reach for his blaster. “Damn right you won’t,” he said, and stooped to collect the pack. “Come on, let’s get moving.”
They stopped at sunset in a small clearing beside the stream. Ronon set up the shelter and cleaned the coneys while the others collected wood for the fire, then spitted the coneys and set them to cook above the flames. The pinewood burned fierce and hot, sending up puffs of sparks when a particularly resinous branch caught, and the air smelled of burnt sugar and the roasting meat. Jennifer sat cross-legged by the fire, frowning over her notebook, pausing now and then to scribble something. Behind her, Rodney moved restlessly along the edge of the circle of firelight, still gathering wood as though that would take his mind off things. In the gathering dark, his shape was too familiar, white hair and black coat, and Ronon felt his shoulders twitch again. Wraith had circled outside his fires before.
“Hey, McKay.”
Rodney turned, too fast, and Ronon shuddered. “That’s enough wood for now. Come and sit down.”
“Yes, fine,” Rodney said, and stooped to pick up another branch.
Jennifer looked up, the firelight gleaming on her hair. “Ronon. Is there any way we could make, I don’t know, broth of some kind? Boil some of the meat?”
Ronon considered for a moment, running over his mental inventory. “Not unless — hey, McKay.”
“What now?” Rodney dropped his armload of wood on the pile they’d already gathered, dropped down on the far side of the fire. They were sitting at the three points of a triangle, Ronon realized, equidistant around the fire, each as far from the others as they could get.
“Is that carrier thing fireproof?”
“What?” Rodney frowned. “No. No, definitely not.”