Somewhere Past Florin and Guilder
By Deirdre
June, 2006

Botanists, Radek thinks muzzily, throw the best parties.

He can still hear the steady, muted thumpthumpthump of the bass, though the rest of the music-if indeed it can be called that-escapes him, blocked by the greenhouse doors just to his left. It had thumped and rattled his very bones, good for shaking thoughts and inhibitions out of his head. Taylor had chosen this round of music, and while Radek appreciates the clever rhymes, it is so far removed from his life experiences it might as well be Athosian, or Ancient, for all that it touches him.

His head spins a little, and his brain floats on a mixture of some sort of alcoholic punch Brown had concocted, and the honeycakes laced by the pretty flowers Parrish had brought back from M89-836. Or was that 863? He can't remember, really. Were he sober, he'd never make such a mistake, but he's far enough from sober he doesn't care. He is, as Simpson puts it, stoned. Although why it's stoned, Radek's not sure, because he feels so un-stone-like, so light, as if he might float away in spite of the law of gravity.

They draw straws to see who stays sober and responsible and who doesn't for these quarterly parties, hosted by various science departments, and while he's drawn one of the short straws for the past several quarters, tonight, he didn't, and so he's flung himself with abandon into the bacchanal atmosphere. The responsible ones circulate to make certain that everything's completely consensual, that no one gets hurt, or does anything monumentally stupid, but otherwise, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, as Simpson says.

Simpson says the oddest things, he thinks.

He rubs a hand over his face and pauses, then brings his fingers back to his nose. Musk. Evidently at some point, he's made someone happy. And someone has made him equally happy in return; his body still has the low sweet hum beneath his skin, in muscle and nerves that only sex provides. He has a vague sense-memory of hands and a wet, greedy mouth and hot slick flesh, but he can't really put a face to it; he remembers laughing as he'd been tugged into a dim-ish corner by someone with a very friendly nature, but after that, it's pretty much a blur of semi-naked pleasure. It's an unspoken rule: hands and mouths and bodies sliding against one another, but no complete nakedness nor actual intercourse. They don't have many opportunities to vent, and there's far too much stomach-churning stress and fear, too much work and not enough hands that there's never any time to relax, to try and cultivate relationships so everyone obeys those rules, not wanting to be banned from attending future gatherings.

Radek's never been particularly fussy about the sex of his partners; pleasure is pleasure, regardless of gender. It's useful to hold such pragmatic views, given the ratio of women to men both in Antarctica and Atlantis. Most of the science contingent holds the same opinion; one does, after all, occasionally wish to have sex with another person instead of always with one's own hand. And Radek knows that given the choice between his short, soft body and the hard, fit, muscular one of a handsome Marine or Airman, he's not likely to be chosen by the women for a bit of stress-relieving sex. So he and most of the men choose practicality, and adapt to what is more readily available rather than go without. It's a system that works well for them.

The American military personnel never attend their parties, though Radek suspects that a great many of them would enjoy doing so. It is foolish and wasteful in the extreme to remove eighty percent of your options, but then in his opinion, the military has often done things most foolishly indeed.

The glassteel wall of the greenhouse feels cool against his back. His entire body feels too hot, and he rolls lazily to press his chest and cheek to the wall. Outside stretches what he knows is a gorgeous view of the city, the lights like fireflies in the dark, or the stars in the sky, but everything seems blurred, smudgy, like an Impressionist painting. Part of it is due to the effects of the flower-laced honeycakes-though he's been careful not to eat too many of them-and perhaps the punch, but part of it isn't. He raises a hand to adjust his glasses on his nose, and ah, no glasses. Little wonder things are blurry, then. Perhaps he should be worried about losing his glasses, but he isn't, really; someone will return them to him eventually. For the moment, he's perfectly happy just to float here, pressed to the cool glass.

After a few moments the greenhouse door slides open, and Radek's eyes open at the blast of loud music and laughter. He looks over his shoulder, and recognizes the pinwheel of long arms and legs tumbling in the door. Parrish, laughing; he has an oddly high, girlish giggle for such a tall man, and it makes Radek smile in return. He turns fully and leans back against the glass wall to watch Parrish.

Though their fields are widely divergent, Radek has worked with Parrish many times before, getting the greenhouses out of stasis, and the hydroponics bays back online, so he is a friendly, familiar face. Usually, Parrish is sober and solid and serious, only enthusiastic about his plants, and it's always amusing to watch him relax and let go. He grins when he spots Radek, his long face flushed and bright.

"Radek!"

Radek waves at him lazily, and evidently, it's enough encouragement. Parrish lopes over to him and stops only when he clearly miscalculates the proper rate of deceleration and bumps into Radek, hard enough to make Radek grunt. "Oops, sorry," he says, contrite for a split second, then grins again.

"Lundgren said for me to give you something," he says, and before Radek can ask just what it might be, Parrish has his face in both hands, tipping it up, pressing his mouth to Radek's.

It's a sloppy kiss, a little too wet, and when Radek opens to him, he can taste the burn of alcohol on his tongue. With Parrish sober, kissing might be quite nice; he has a wide, mobile mouth and apparently a great deal of enthusiasm, which Radek appreciates.

Radek works a hand up between them and gently eases Parrish away, and their mouths part with a soft, wet sound. Parrish's pale cheeks fairly burn with heat, and his blue eyes darken as Radek wipes at his own lower lip. Radek gives him a little push as Parrish ducks his head, angling for another kiss.

"Ne, ne," Radek says gently, turning his face away; Parrish's mouth slips along his cheekbone, and Radek shivers as he feels a warm tongue on his ear, on the soft, tender flesh just behind it. "Come now, I am not your age, and so quick to respond. Give me time, and perhaps later we might share."

Parrish sighs, and the warmth of his breath against Radek's neck almost makes him reconsider. But then Parrish shifts away, giving Radek some space. "Okay," he says, cheerfully agreeable. "Maybe later." Though Parrish towers over him and taller men sometimes make him nervous, he's never feared Parrish, who is too gentle and kind to ever press him into something he doesn't want. He watches as that wide mouth-so like Rodney's, after a fashion-curves upward. "Oh. Supposed to tell you that Mapanao wants his shirt back," Parrish says, and tugs at the front of Radek's own shirt.

Radek frowns, puzzled, and looks down. Ah. The garment he wears now is not the plain grey tee shirt he left his quarters wearing; this is some garish affair splashed with brightly-colored palm trees and parrots and flamingoes, a shirt that would make a sober man dizzy. Radek smoothes a hand down his chest. It's also mis-buttoned, which oddly, disturbs his innate sense of order. While he doesn't particularly worry about his glasses, he can't leave wearing this; if Rodney should happen to catch a glimpse of him, a thousand lifetimes would not see an end to the mockery he would endure.

"It looks better on you," Parrish says, and grins broadly.

"Such a liar you are, Parrish," Radek replies, and his floaty head makes his words sound more fond than reproving. He rubs his cheek, trying to think how he acquired the shirt, and guesses that perhaps Mapanao was the friendly one who dragged him into a corner earlier. If he concentrates, he can remember brown skin and black hair, and the flash of white, white teeth. Definitely Mapanao. "Ah. He must then have my shirt," Radek says, pleased at the resolution to the problem. "I should like my own back, I think."

"Easy fix," Parrish says with a grand sweep of his long arm that barely misses Radek's nose. "I can help you. It's like…a quest."

"You are very drunk," Radek replies, and dismisses blithely the fact that it is most likely hypocritical for him to make such an accusation, given his own free-flowing state.

"Yes I am," he agrees cheerfully. "But I bet I can find your shirt. Or Mapanao. Who is probably wearing it. Unless he gave it to someone else. But that just makes the quest better. What do I get as a reward?"

Radek blinks at him. "A reward?"

"Sure. A knight on a quest always gets a reward at the end of it. Usually the hand of the lady fair."

Radek grins and gestures at his flat chest, the spray of hair peeking out from the V of his shirt. "I am fairly certain that the last time I looked, I was not a lady fair. Or a lady at all."

Parrish waves away his words with a flap of his big hands. "No, no, but it's the spirit of the whole idea. I go on a quest to find your shirt, taken by the Dread Pirate Mapanao, and you, in return, grant me a boon. C'mon. It's traditional."

Radek closes one eye and squints up at him. "You do not look so much like a farmboy," he says, though that's not entirely true; Parrish does have a somewhat wholesome, provincial air about him that is curiously appealing, though Radek would not admit it aloud. "I think, though, Mapanao would like being a Dread Pirate, as he is an oceanographer."

"There you go," Parrish says with the air of someone whose argument has been substantiated.

And because he absolutely cannot help himself, Radek says, "As you wish," and Parrish's face blooms with delight.

Parrish slides a hand over Radek's cheek, long fingers curling into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, and tugs gently. "I'd say I'll be back, but that's a whole 'nother movie," he says. "Stay here. Don't go wandering off into the rest of the greenhouse-we've only explored about a fourth of it. No telling what's in here that might want to munch on you."

"And that is yet another movie," Radek says; the variety of movies people had squirreled away on their laptops was immense, and in that first year, they'd managed to watch all of them at one point or another. "I have developed a taste for appalling American movies."

Parrish laughs, and the little tug of hair becomes a caress of the back of his neck, and it makes him shiver before Parrish's hand leaves him.

Then Parrish turns and makes his way back to the door, carefully, evidently making a concerted effort to keep his path straight. Radek blinks at the blast of sound when the door opens, then relaxes when the door slides closed again, leaving him in blissful silence save for the quiet shush of air through the vents, the drip of water, and the almost subliminal hum of Atlantis, herself.

Radek thinks of the curve of Parrish's mouth, which tugs his mind back to Rodney again. Rodney never comes to these parties, and though Rodney probably needs some sort of stress relief more than anyone else in Atlantis, Radek fully understands why he never makes an appearance. He is their supervisor, their leader, and although they as a group are not as fixated on ranking and hierarchy as the military contingent, some sort of decorum must be maintained, after all. He is a part of them, but distant from them at the same time, and the latter is as much Rodney's nature as it is his position.

Rodney is not an easy person; he is arrogant, condescending, smug, almost entirely without any of the social niceties that make living and working together in such close quarters less abrasive, and Radek has had days where he has almost lost his voice in arguments that have escalated to the screaming stage. Some days, he hates the very sight of him.

But most days, he does not.

Most days, working together with Rodney is a joy, like lines and lines of crisp, beautiful equations leading to the perfect, elegant solution. Sometimes, it is as if they share one mind between them, and answers simply slot into place, chinkchinkchink, smoothly and effortlessly. On those days they fly, they soar.

Radek lives for those days.

But it is more than the brilliant mind, the synergy. As hard as Rodney is to the ear, he is a treat to the eye, and Radek is not blind to the undeniable appeal of broad shoulders and brilliant blue eyes. Rodney is such a presence that he draws Radek's attention; he is a sun, and Radek a satellite in his orbit, helpless to break away. He would give much to taste that wide, crooked mouth, to feel the touch of those big, deft hands, to know the sweaty, slick pleasure of skin sliding against skin.

But such things are not to be. His face can still burn hotly if he remembers late one night when the lines had blurred, no doubt due to unrelenting exhaustion and terror, when his defenses had dropped, and he'd given into long-held desire and offered himself. As he'd watched Rodney's blue eyes grow wide and startled, as he'd heard Rodney, usually so witty, so articulate, begin to stammer, he'd known it had been exactly the wrong thing to do.

It had taken weeks to regain what he'd lost in one weak moment, and they never speak of it. He considers himself an intelligent, logical man, but the desires of the body? They have little to do with either of those two traits. He knows what he feels is unattainable, foolish. Best to concentrate on friendship, on the best working relationship he's ever had, instead of the hunger of his skin, the useless wash of hormones in his bloodstream. If he cannot have what he wants, he takes what he's offered, and makes it work for him.

But such thoughts are counterproductive, and if he continues along those lines, with the amount of mood-altering substances skittering along his neural pathways, he will become depressingly maudlin. He waves a hand, as if he can sweep the thoughts from his head, and pushes away from the greenhouse wall.

The haziness in his head has lessened, the sweet, fuzzy feeling sliding away, but if he walks, he might be able to clear it even further. He knows he should go back to the party, and through that room, to the hallways beyond and then to his quarters, but the thought of facing the sheer volume of the noise they call music is daunting, so instead of turning that way, his feet move him off down the path that snakes through the thick greenery.

It's warm and moist, ferociously alive here, and so rich with oxygen that it almost makes him dizzy. The green arches above him, stories high, and Radek staggers a bit to catch himself as he almost overbalances looking straight up to the shadowed glassteel roof. He has never been one to spend much time out in nature, but he's not certain that even if he were, he'd recognize the trees he sees. They look vaguely familiar, but he's not sure if it's just because it's something he might have seen in some rainforest documentary. The entire place-at least as far as he is able to see, which is not far, without his glasses-is beautiful in a hushed, eerie sort of way. It should be pitch-black, but it isn't, not with the soft glow of lights set regularly along the path. It's rather like a long, slow twilight, dim, but light enough he can see his feet before him, see the rise of a thousand trunks all around him.

Something strikes him on the forehead, on his cheek, his mouth. He brings up a hand and wipes at it; water. Blinking, he realizes that the increasing drops are caused by the humidity precipitating out from the roof; once released from stasis, the greenhouse had proven to be a self-sustaining ecosystem. The drops patter down steadily on his head, his shoulders, on the path, make the leaves rustle and move. The rich scent of mulch, of growing things, of greenness is almost overwhelming.

He isn't that far along the path, and he sees the stake with the yellow ribbon. Belatedly remembers Parrish's warning to not go beyond that point. Here there be dragons, he thinks, and laughs softly because in Pegasus, such a thing is not so far-fetched, if Rodney's stories of fieldwork are to be believed.

The ridiculous shirt is wet, and clings clammily to his skin, and his hair feels plastered to his head. Water drips off the end of his nose and chin. It occurs to him that he's standing out in the open getting very wet, when he could be sheltering under a tree's canopy until the worst of this passes. He remembers his grandmother fussing at him when he was very young, roughly towelling him off and telling him he hadn't the sense to come in out of the rain, and yes, he thinks, she was right, even years later. He could walk back to the front of the greenhouse and into the warmth of the party, but it seems too much effort when he can just sit down and wait it out. It shouldn't take that long.

Radek steps off the path and over some low-growing flowering shrubs blooming in a most startling shade of electric blue, beneath the sheltering canopy of tree limbs, and wipes the water from his face, pushes his hair off his forehead and out of his eyes. The leaves stop most of the wetness, though occasionally a drop plinks on his head or shoulders, bounces off the leaves around.

He shivers; he's wet, and chilled. During the day, it's too warm, too humid-he's worked long hours on this with Parrish, but most of his work had been on the systems, not specifically in the greenhouse itself. That work he'd been glad to leave with the botanists. He'd thought the hydroponics bays a much more practical application of the department's time, but it had been worthwhile to see the expressions on their faces when he'd pulled this place out of stasis. Parrish's long, plain face had lit with an awed joy that had made Radek smile in return, and Parrish's enthusiastic hug had lifted him off the floor.

Radek rubs the back of his neck. He's less fuzzy than before; evidently, movement and drenching have helped sober him up a bit. No more honeycakes, he decides, and no more of Katie Brown's punch, at least not for a long time.

He shifts, and steps on a vine, staggers to catch his balance, then moves it out of the way with the toe of his trainers; the botanists would be irate if he damaged one of their specimens through a clumsy misstep. The tree trunk behind him is slim and smooth-barked, and looks like an ideal place to rest. He leans against it and closes his eyes. Just a moment, and then he'll be on his way; already the precipitation has slowed.

A soft rustling sound makes his eyes pop open. The botanists hadn't found any traces of animal life-though really, how could they be certain, if their specialty is plants and not things that scurry about on many legs? Radek is absolutely sure he doesn't want to be the one to discover something, particularly a hungry something equipped with sharp teeth and claws, or an awful insect such as the one that almost killed Colonel Sheppard. A quick scan of the undergrowth shows nothing, not even the Pegasus equivalent of a mouse, and although his heart patters in his chest, he begins to relax a little. Foolishness.

But then he hears it again, much closer, and he peers cautiously around the edge of the tree. "Oh," he says, and feels stupid. The noise is the opening of blossoms, huge trumpet-shaped blooms that are surely twenty centimetres across, glistening luminous white with streaks of purple on the petals that lead down into the throat of the flower. Even with his limited appreciation of flora-how can a flower compare with the spin of stars above, or the cold, clear beauty of numbers or a perfect schematic?-he thinks these are very lovely. As he watches, another bud the size of his fist shakes, then unfurls with a snap. Some sort of night-blooming specimen on long, snaky vines; the scent is heavy and redolent with musk and spices.

They smell really…wonderful, actually. Radek has the insane desire to go over and bury his face in one or more of them, and he actually pushes away from the tree trunk to do so, when reason stamps through the murk in his mind with big spiky boots. In the Pegasus galaxy, there is nothing innocuous, nothing harmless, and the man who makes that mistake often ends up dead. The fact that he wants to do such a foolhardy thing is warning enough that he should not.

Radek rubs a hand over his eyes and decides that precipitation or not, it would be wise to return to the front of the greenhouse where Parrish had first found him. In fact, he'd best leave entirely, find his own bed, and sleep it off. He's suddenly very tired, and his arms and legs feel as if they've been hollowed out and filled with lead. A little part of his mind notes how odd this sudden sleepiness is, but the drowsiness washes over that thought like a warm wave. It would be very easy to give in, but Radek has not gotten as far as he has by giving in too easily, and time working with Rodney has honed that stubbornness to a fine edge.

He takes a step forward toward the path and trips over vines. A second of freefall, and he hits the ground hard enough to force an "oof" out of him, just barely missing the flowering bushes, which is fortunate, as they seem to bristle with thorns. It doesn't really hurt; the leaf mold is thick. In fact, it's almost comfortable, and he could lie here on his stomach, cheek on his forearm, and sleep for a bit. But, no. Up, up. His feet seem to be tangled in something, and he kicks idly at it, then tries to pull his leg away.

Resistance. Something's snagged around his ankle, and he rolls to one hip to see what he's caught in. Radek swears under his breath as he sees a vine wrapped around his foot and lower leg. He's not sure how he could have gotten so tangled up. Or where so many vines came from; he's almost certain that he'd seen only one, before. Sitting up too quickly makes his head swim and he closes his eyes a moment to make the foliage all around him quit squirming.

No, no, eyes open; it would be too easy to sleep.

And then as one of the vines snakes up his leg, twining slowly around his thigh, Radek realizes that it isn't his fuzzy head that's making everything squirm-it's because things really are moving around him.

The screech that escapes him is embarrassingly shrill, if he cared enough to notice, but completely justified. There are moving vines all about him, and those moving vines seem intent on crawling up his leg.

This is so very not good that he doesn't have a word large enough to encompass the sheer badness of it. Unfortunately he remembers Audrey, from Little Shop of Horrors and immediately wishes he hadn't. An electric coldness spangles down his spine and along all his limbs; his fingertips feel numb even as his breath catches and his blood rushes in his ears. He feels the pulled-thin sensation of imminent panic and shakes his head to clear it-panic will kill him faster than anything else.

"Parrish! Parrish!" Adrenaline does much to wipe away the sleepiness, but it's still there, prowling around the edges of his mind, waiting to pounce. It's the flowers, he suddenly realizes, their perfume lulling him to sleep while the vines are like a rabbit trap.

Or more like an anaconda; his leg is rapidly going numb from the crushing pressure. The vine around his left leg is as thick and tough as a coaxial cable, and tenacious. He stops it as it reaches his groin, the tip of the vine probing between his legs, trying to wind around his hip, and it's like wrestling a snake. It wants to curl around his arm as well, and if it does, then he has no way to fight back. It's hard work just holding it at bay-the tensile strength is formidable.

There's another one trying to wrap around his right leg, and Radek kicks at it, attempting to keep it from gaining a hold, while at the same time trying to scuttle backwards, away from the thing. He doesn't have his ear comm, and even if he did, he's not sure he could let go of the questing vine long enough to key it to an open channel.

"Parrish! Now would be good time to come back!"

Suddenly, the vine jerks, and Radek loses his precarious balance and advantage, slamming backwards into the ground with a "yah!" He loses his grip on the vine, and it immediately wraps around his left forearm, pulling it taut with a yank that threatens dislocation. Radek scrambles to get away, but only has his right arm free, and won't have that soon enough; he can see other tendrils moving in out of the corner of his eye.

If he weren't terrified, it would be almost laughable. To survive the siege by the Wraith, only to be eaten by the Pegasus galaxy's real life version of an American musical? The irony is almost too much to bear.

The tendrils jerk again, and Radek's pulled half a meter along the leaf-mold ground. He yells again as he's pulled over a knobby protruding tree root, the loose shirt riding up, exposing his back, and losing several layers of skin from the waist of his jeans to his shoulder blades. He twists enough to work the elbow of his free arm over the root and hangs on, throwing his weight forward, shouting for help that he's afraid will not come in time. Panic makes his voice high and thin, and although he tries to think his way free, to come up with some sort of escape plan, there is nothing he can do, and the thought that he might be eaten alive is horrific.

"Holy shit!" The voice is familiar, though shock sends it up half an octave. Radek squints and sees a long pair of legs disappear again into the gloom.

"Parrish, I swear I'll haunt you for the rest of your life if you don't come back!" The vine gives another convulsive pull, and Radek almost loses his precarious grip. He digs in, driving bark under his nails, and his left arm throbs at the shoulder; he can't feel his hand any more.

Parrish clears the blooming shrubs with the ease of a hurdler. Radek sees a flash of silver then hears several loud, meaty chokchokchok sounds, and the pressure, the tension on his arms and legs abruptly disappears. Radek heaves himself to his right knee and almost falls face-first on the ground, his left leg completely numb and useless, his left arm little better. Then Parrish is there, long arm looping around his waist, supporting him, dragging him through the bushes and onto the path mostly by a brute strength that Radek would never have suspected, given his lankiness. "C´mon, move move move!"

Then suddenly they're at the front of the greenhouse, and Radek doesn't remember getting there. Parrish has a death-grip on the waistband of his jeans as he drags him over to the deep sinks they use for washing-up. He props up Radek up against it, and Radek leans gratefully against its cool surface, gasping for air, his heart slamming against his ribs.

A clatter on the tiles makes Radek turn his head. A meter-long machete lies on the floor, sticky with a pinkish sap all along the blade. It looks almost like thin blood, and Radek's stomach rolls just a little. He looks up at Parrish, who breathes as hard as he does.

"I lived in the Amazon for a year. You learn how to use them if you want to get anywhere in the undergrowth," Parrish says with a dismissive shrug. The sap dots his arms and hands, and Parrish looks down at them with a frown. As Parrish moves to wash his hands and arms in one section of the huge sink, Radek thinks that perhaps they should not tease the botanists so much, if they all have machetes like that lying about. "Are you okay?" Parrish shakes the water from his hands, and reaches out toward Radek's scraped cheek, but stops before he actually touches it, long fingers curling into a fist that drops by his side.

Parrish looks as sober as Radek now feels. "I'm alive. I think that's okay." Away from the narcotic blossoms, Radek's head clears. Feeling comes back to his arm and leg in a painful, tingling rush, and he balances on his right foot, most of his weight against the sinks. His shoulder feels wrenched, though not dislocated, and his back is a solid mass of hot, stinging pain. But he's alive, and that's all that matters. "What was that thing? Why would they have it in a greenhouse? It makes no sense to have something that dangerous growing where it could be a hazard to people."

"Hell if I know," Parrish says, and glances back toward the heavy growth. "It's obviously nocturnal-blooming and the blossoms release substances that reduce the prey's struggles. It was pretty strong-I got dizzy, and I was only there a minute or so. You were there a lot longer, probably. Amazing that you resisted it as well as you did." His blue eyes settle on Radek again, speculative.

"I am very stubborn," Radek says, and tries his weight on his left leg, then swears as it's too painful to bear. He tries flexing his left hand, but it's slow to respond, and tingles madly.

"Well, obviously, since you work with McKay daily," Parrish says, and Radek cannot disagree. "It's all

very interesting. Usually, a carnivorous plant, such as the more familiar Earth specimens like Venus fly traps and sundews, require a stimulus to set them into action. Though really, strictly speaking, sundews don't actually actively move," he adds thoughtfully. "There are, however, certain species of Dactylaria, a fungus which forms a loop which serves as an animal trap-when their prey, nematodes slither into the loop, it touches the fungus, and the loop tightens to capture the nematode…"

"I stepped on one of the vines," Radek replies, breaking into what sounds like the beginning of a lengthy lecture. He turns on the water, cold, and splashes his face, wets the back of his neck. It helps, a bit. His hands shake, but he knows it's simply a post-stress reaction. His right forearm and palm is terribly scraped, and he has splinters in his fingers that begin to throb as he notices them. "Then the blooms opened, and released the narcotic."

Parrish is never fazed by interruptions, and flows into the next topic without pause. "Hmm. How's your head? Do you feel any better? Any residual effects you notice?"

"No. I think not." Radek puts more weight on his left leg, and his knee doesn't buckle. "Though perhaps I should see Dr. Beckett to be certain, yes?"

"Yes. I was going to insist on it, in fact." Parrish runs a hand through his thick brown hair, rubs the back of his neck, and looks faintly guilty. "After all, it's my fault I left you here by yourself."

"And did you make me disregard your warnings? I think not. We can stand here all day and each one try to claim all the blame, which is pointless," Radek waves a dismissive hand.

"Do you need for me to call the infirmary for a stretcher? I mean, I can, if you want."

"No, no. I think I can walk now," Radek says, and stamps his foot. "The feeling has returned. I will be slow, but I'll get there."

Radek pushes away from the sink, and Parrish hovers, looking worried. When Radek's first few steps falter, Parrish sidles up to him, and slides a long arm around him to help support his weight. Radek hisses and pulls away when Parrish's arm presses against his back, and Parrish releases him as if he'd been burned.

"Sorry, sorry," Parrish says, and looks guilty again. His face is as open and easily read as a book. "What's wrong?"

"Abrasions," Radek answers, and tries to lift the back of his shirt away from the skin. He wishes he could see it; it feels raw.

Parrish ducks behind him, gently pushes his hand away and lifts the shirt. He lets out a low whistle. "Wow. That's some road rash."

Radek snorts. "I can verify there was certainly no road involved. But a root, yes."

"Somehow, 'root rash' doesn't have quite the same ring, now does it?" Parrish replies, and Radek glances back to see his wide mouth quirked in a rueful smile. Parrish gently eases down the shirt and returns to Radek's side.

"I suppose not," Radek concedes, even though it is more accurate. "Here. Come closer, and I will use you as a very tall crutch."

Instantly Parrish is there, and Radek slowly eases an arm around Parrish's narrow waist. After a moment, Parrish gingerly settles his arm around Radek's shoulders, clearly fearful of hurting him more. Parrish is very warm against his chilled body, and smells of alcohol, of sweat, of pungent sap, and beneath all that, of clean earth. The last is a smell familiar to him from working long hours with Parrish, and oddly comforting.

The trip seems to take forever even using two transporters, and by the time they get to the infirmary, all the adrenaline has ebbed away, leaving Radek weak and shaky and in pain. Parrish hovers around behind the closed curtain and frets as Dr. Singh, the physician on duty, examines him. He hisses as Dr. Singh manipulates his arm to determine the extent of damage to the shoulder, but is relieved when the doctor pronounces it as wrenched, not dislocated, and then leaves him in the care of the nurse for cleanup and medication. Although he had not wished it, Parrish calls Rodney and Colonel Sheppard to report what has happened. Radek knows little good can come of it, and braces for the storm that is Rodney to enter the infirmary.

He can hear them easily through the curtain, and Parrish's low, easy tones are a direct contrast to Rodney's fierce, spiky cadences as he explains what's happened. It's not an easy task as Rodney's firstly annoyed that Parrish woke him up out of the first decent sleep he's had all week, and secondly, worried that Radek's been hurt. Of course, Rodney would never say as much directly, and so couches it in terms such as "unnecessary damage to the only semi-intelligent personnel in Atlantis beyond myself." Such a soft heart you have, Rodney, Radek thinks, amused.

Radek bites his lower lip to keep in a laugh as Rodney wants to take C-4 up to the greenhouse and "take care of that overgrown weed once and for all," because that is so very Rodney. Parrish immediately starts protesting loudly about the loss of a valuable if unfortunately carnivorous specimen, and Colonel Sheppard, who'd arrived a few moments after Rodney, breaks into their argument and says they absolutely will not get any explosives from him, and if they don't shut up right now, he'll toss both of them in with the thing and lock the door behind them. The entire conversation is so surreal that Radek's not certain if he actually hears it, or perhaps misunderstands due to the chemicals still in his system.

What he is almost certain of, however, is Rodney's threat to the greenhouse, and he has worked far too long and hard to allow that. "Rodney, you will do no such thing," Radek says loudly, and Rodney jerks open the curtain a little to glare at him. Rachael, the nurse, says, "Dr. McKay, you cannot…" but Rodney ignores her, as usual, his fair cheeks flushed with argument, his blue eyes vivid in contrast.

"Oh, and just who is chief scientist on this…oh my god, what the hell is that thing you were wearing? I have never seen anything so atrocious in my entire life, and given the extremely wide variety of spectacularly horrific things I've seen and experienced here, that's saying a lot."

Radek glances over at the shirt crumpled on the bed beside him, and then leans forward at the direction of Rachael smoothing ointment over his back. Her touch is gentle, but still, he shudders; it feels as if he's scraped off half his skin. "Yes, yes, feel free to mock my wardrobe when I am not in a position to fight back."

He looks up to see Rodney's mouth curl up on one side. "As if I need permission to mock," he says with a roll of his eyes. "It's practically the only compensation I have for being forced to work with a group of half-witted hairless apes."

Colonel Sheppard peers over Rodney's shoulder. "Hey, now, I think it's a cool shirt, McKay," he says in those lazy, drawling tones that seldom fail to wind up Rodney into a rage. "I used to have one almost identical to it."

"You would, and why am I not surprised?" Rodney's chin lifts in a pugnacious tilt.

"Aw, Rodney, I'm crushed." Sheppard grins at Radek. "Hey Doc. Good to see you with all limbs intact and not eaten."

"It is good not to be eaten," Radek replies. He moves slowly as Rachael eases him into a hospital gown. "Colonel, I ask that you please do not allow Rodney near the C-4. I spent far too much time working on the greenhouse to see very large holes blown in it. And also, it would upset Dr. Parrish and the rest of the botanists."

"Well, maybe if they'd decide to become real scientists, I might be persuaded to care," Rodney says, and when Radek glances at Parrish, he has the long-suffering look all the soft sciences wear when around Rodney. They have long ago learned to ignore his opinion of them, because it is unlikely ever to change; Radek has ceased trying.

"Dr. Parrish," Sheppard says pleasantly, "would you care to accompany me to the greenhouse in question? I'd sorta like to take a look at this botanical wonder."

"Um, certainly, Colonel." Parrish glances in Radek's direction, and he looks tired, and torn between going and staying. "Do you want me to stay?"

"No, no, go. I'll be fine." Radek offers him a half-smile, and Parrish's worried expression softens a little. His long hands move indecisively for a moment, and then he nods.

"I'll be back later to check on you," Parrish says, then turns to the Colonel. "I'm ready if you are."

Sheppard waves at Radek. "Later, Doc. Hope you feel better soon," he says. He turns and Parrish falls into step with him, talking, and Radek hears "Now, the Dactylaria…" before their voices fade.

Rachael eases his left arm into a sling, adjusting it until he's comfortable, and Radek has to admit that it feels much better afterward. She asks if he needs anything, and after he declines, she leaves, smiling at him, but scowling at Rodney, who returns the expression.

Rodney steps in and crosses his arms over his chest. "My first impulse is to ban these little intradepartmental parties. I'm simply surprised that this is the first incident that's happened."

"That's not a good idea, Rodney," Radek says, and rubs at his forehead. The gauze wrapped around his fingers and hand scratches his skin. "If you ban them, they'll simply go underground, and we'll have no supervision at all, then. At least now, we can keep an eye on things."

"Yes, well, I can see that worked so very well tonight." Rodney's hand flaps, indicating Radek's injured state. He's virtually seething with irritation; it crackles around him, an almost visible field of energy.

"This is entirely my fault," Radek says. "I take full responsibility for my own actions."

Rodney steps closer. "Are you wilfully stupid? You could've been killed. This is not just some little bumps-and-bruises incident. From what that idiot Parrish told me, you could've died." Rodney's voice rises high and tight on the last word, and Radek peers at him. He's flushed again, practically vibrating in place.

"But I did not, Rodney," he says gently.

"We've lost so many through accidents and cullings and the siege and away missions that to lose someone to a stupid, moronic lack of good judgement…it's so…unnecessary, so incredibly wasteful."

Rodney's hands move as quickly as his mouth, sharp angry gestures that come close enough to his face that Radek sits back a little, though every muscle in his body protests the too-quick movement. "I don't even have enough comparisons to the concept of 'stupid' to tell you…did you not think of the possible ramifications? If I d-die on an away mission, and believe me, the possibilities of that are calculable and far too great to bear much thought, who will take over? Who has enough experience, enough intelligence to keep everyone else alive? Just who the hell…"

"Rodney." Radek reaches out and catches one arm and stops the wild motions, tightening his fingers when Rodney would jerk out of his grasp. Normally, he'd not allow Rodney to berate him, would shout back at equal volume, but this…is different. This runs deeper than mere temper, and makes Radek reconsider the rise of his own ire, makes him soften. "Stop, now. I understand."

"You have to be here. I have to know that if, god forbid, something should happen to me, that things will go on. That Atlantis will survive." His voice sounds raspy, and he looks down and away, too-expressive eyes hidden by the sweep of long lashes. "It's not just because you bitch and moan so fucking loudly about going offworld that I mostly keep you here."

Radek slides his hand down Rodney's arm, covers the big hand with his own smaller one. He ducks his head to catch Rodney's eyes. "Rodney. I will be here. I will take care of Atlantis, I swear."

"Then stop doing stupid things," Rodney replies, but it lacks his usual zestful venom.

"I shall try," Radek promises. Rodney's hand turns in his own, squeezes Radek's gently, and then slides away. Radek knows it is as far as Rodney can extend himself, and is more than he ever expected from Rodney. It is all he will ever receive, and surprisingly, it is enough.

"I know it's difficult, but see that you do." Rodney clears his throat. He suddenly looks very tired, as if only irritation has kept him on his feet. "Now that all the excitement's done, I'm going to try and sleep, because three hours? It's not exactly conducive to clear mental processes. I think we can wait until morning to tell Elizabeth about this little fiasco."

He turns and is halfway through the opening in the curtain when Radek says softly, "Rodney. I would miss you, as well."

Rodney's head tilts, acknowledging Radek's words, but he doesn't look back. "Of course you would," he says briskly. "Now shut up and get some sleep. Don't think you're getting out of work tomorrow. I'm sure I can rig up voice-activated computer commands without any problems, and if nothing else, that idiot Cabrera can type for you. He might as well be useful for something besides taking up oxygen and space."

The curtain swirls closed behind him, and Radek listens to his quick steps on the tile until they fade. He is suddenly tired to the bone, and this has nothing to do with flower-induced lethargy. When a different nurse, Akiko, comes through the curtain, he allows her to ease him down onto the bed, arrange his wires and IV lines, position pillows for comfort, and cover him to his chin. It's soothing; no one has fussed over him for years beyond counting.

He falls asleep to the muted beep of his heart monitor, and dreams of a picnic in the cool dark woods, a soft wet mouth on his own, and so much warm skin naked against his. A low sound of pleasure escapes him, and he closes his eyes at the touch of hands gliding over him gently, caressing, and he gives himself over to it until the fingers wrap around his wrists and tighten painfully. He opens his eyes and to his horror, the hands, once so gentle, have changed into a mass of writhing green vines, biting into his skin, and they jerk him toward a spiny green and scarlet maw. When the vine abruptly changes to a blue-white hissing Wraith who slams a clawed hand into his chest, Radek awakens with a gasping whoop, his heart pounding hard within his chest, eyes wide, his entire body throbbing with the urge to run, run, run.

"Shh, it's okay," soothes a low smooth voice, cracked at the edges with stress and weariness. "You're okay. You're in the infirmary. It was just a bad dream. You're safe here, nothing bad can happen, I promise."

"No more picnics," Radek says fuzzily, and feels the panic leach from his body as a hand smoothes over his head, combing through his hair, a gentle, repetitive motion that quickly calms him.

"No more picnics ever again," the voice murmurs, and Radek tumbles back into sleep, oddly comforted.

When he wakes again, it is to gummy eyes and a pounding headache. The soft beep of monitors, the hum of quiet voices, the vaguely cold, antiseptic scent all remind him that he is in the infirmary, the curtains drawn for privacy around him, and when he tries to move, the scream of abused muscles reminds him of why he's there. He decides that remaining unmoving on his right side is most likely the wisest decision.

He blinks until his vision is less blurry. A long, lanky body sprawls in a chair next to his bed, cheek resting on his fist. Not in science blue and khaki, but jeans and a green tee shirt with I don't just hug trees--I kiss them too emblazoned across the front in white. Parrish, then, for who else would wear something like that? He only knows the words because he'd seen them last night, and remembers almost everyone mocking him for them.

Radek starts to say his name, but his voice comes out a hoarse croak that would make a raven proud.

It's enough to wake Parrish, to make his eyes, smudged dark with exhaustion, fly open and focus on Radek. He scrambles to a sitting position, and leans in close.

"How are you feeling? Are you hurting? Oh, that's a stupid question, isn't it? Are you thirsty? Do you want some water? It's afternoon, and Dr. Beckett's on duty-do you want me to get him? Are you hungry? I don't know if you can have anything to eat, but I can ask…"

Radek reaches out with his bandaged hand and wraps it around Parrish's knobby wrist to get him to stop talking. "Water," he manages to say. "Thirsty."

"Okay, water coming up," Parrish says, and in a moment, he slips a straw between Radek's lips, and yes, blessedly cold water. He drinks until his tongue doesn't feel stuck to the roof of his mouth, until his throat loosens.

Even that small action makes him tired, and when Parrish takes away the glass, Radek closes his eyes. His entire body throbs with a dull ache. The flowers used in the honeycakes provide a gentle high without any residual unpleasantness, and he'd tried to dilute his drinks; thank god for small favors, because a hangover in addition to all this? It is not something he cares to even contemplate, much less experience.

"This plant," Radek says, after a moment. "I am convinced that it had a mallet in each of a thousand tentacles, and used all of them on me." He opens his eyes, and sees Parrish's mobile face fighting to decide upon amusement, or guilt. "What did you do with it?"

"Apparently it's dormant in the daylight hours, and so, harmless. Colonel Sheppard and several of his men helped me to dig it up and relocate it without incident this morning."

"In the ocean?" Radek asks hopefully.

Parrish laughs and rubs at one red-rimmed eye. "Sorry, no. But it won't be trying to eat any other expedition members, I can promise that. You're the only one."

"I am so very honored," Radek says drily.

"Yeah, I can see where you would be," Parrish replies. "But it's out of the way, and without the use of C-4. Much to McKay's very vocal displeasure, I might add." He pauses, thoughtful. "He seemed rather disturbingly attached to the whole explosion aspect of it all."

"All engineers are young boys at heart who like to blow things up," Radek says. "I myself am no different. But it was all bluff-he would never do anything to harm Atlantis."

"Well, I did wonder about it. I mean, the both of you spend so much time trying to get things working and online that it seemed rather counterproductive to want to blast holes in it."

Radek remembers the conversation with Rodney from last night. "He would not. He was just angry."

"You don't need to make excuses for him..."

"I make no excuses for Rodney at all," Radek replies. "I have worked with him since Antarctica. I know him better than anyone--as much as he allows himself to be known. Enough, please." He shifts, uncomfortable. "Would you help me raise my head? I am very tired of lying down."

Parrish raises the head of the bed, and after a dozen or so hissed expletives, Radek manages to roll to his back, and by the time he's finished moving about, he's sweaty and tired. It hurts to lie on his back, but at least it's a different position.

"You have really blue eyes," Parrish says, and then flushes a dull red. "Um. Sorry. I must be more tired than I thought." He shifts from one foot to another, and clears his throat. "Hey, I have something for you."

Radek watches at Parrish picks up an olive-green canvas messenger bag that has seen far better days, digs through it, and then emerges with something wrapped in a handkerchief. Carefully he untucks the edges of the handkerchief, and Radek sees the light glint off something silvery.

His glasses. Parrish cleans them on the cloth, and then gently eases them onto Radek's face, his long fingers tucking the earpieces over his ears, pushing his hair out of the way, adjusting them on Radek's nose. Blessedly, everything springs into sharp focus. Parrish smiles down at him, and Radek notices huge dimples in both cheeks that make him look surprisingly boyish. It's…charming. He has a smear of dirt high on one cheek, and Radek reaches up and rubs at it with his thumb.

Parrish's face feels hot, and Radek lets his hand fall away. He no longer has drunkenness an excuse, and should not be so free to touch Parrish. "Thank you," Radek says. "You are very kind."

"Ouch," Parrish says, though Radek sees no reason for him to say such a thing. "That's sort of right up there with 'he has a good personality.'"

Radek blinks slowly. "I'm not sure I understand."

Parrish waves a hand and shrugs one shoulder. "Never mind. It doesn't matter. Oh. Something else for you, as well." He reaches into his bag again, and for a moment Radek has visions of tesseracts and tardispace before Parrish pulls out a piece of grey material, and shakes it out.

It is his tee shirt, the one he lost the night before, the one Parrish sought in his drunken quest.

"So you found it, then," Radek says, and he's somehow very pleased. He reaches out and takes the shirt from Parrish's hands; he does not have so many personal items of clothing that he can afford to lose anything. "Thank you," he says, rubbing the worn, soft cloth between fingers and thumb.

"It took a while to track it down. That's why I was gone for so long." Radek sees the self-recrimination begin to creep across Parrish's face, and he doesn't like it.

"Stop, stop," Radek says, a little impatiently. "We will say nothing more of that, ever." He peers out over the tops of his glasses. "Yes?"

Parrish blinks at him until Radek frowns. "Yes. I mean, no. Okay, I won't. Happy now?"

"Deliriously so," Radek replies. He lets his head fall back on the pillow, allows his eyes to close.

"Do you want me to get Dr. Beckett?"

"No, I think not," Radek replies. He's not certain he could eat, and something for pain would not be amiss, but he doesn't want to be prodded and poked at the moment.

Parrish's hand covers his own, gently, and Radek can feel the heat of his skin even through the covering of gauze on his own.

It is…nice. No one ever touches him, other than on the rare occasions when the pressure has gotten too great to bear, and he'd thought he would go even madder than he is without some sort of human contact, accepting and giving quick, furtive hand and blowjobs. Co-workers hand him tools or equipment, pull him from beneath consoles or jumpers, and military personnel correct his stance at the firing range, but it is no more than impersonal efficiency, not intimacy.

Last night with Mapanao had been the first time he'd freely touched bare skin in months. It's been more than two years since he's had actual sex in an actual bed. Always he is too busy, too stressed, too exhausted to try for more than the crumbs he allows himself.

He is little different from Rodney, who allows himself little physical comfort, or more likely, none at all. The walls that surround him are impenetrable; self-awareness might not be his forte, but he is easily intelligent enough to realize how poorly he interacts with others, but for whatever reason, chooses not to change his behavior, to allow others close. It is truly a pity; he has much so much passion within him, and Radek knows that if Rodney would give him but a tiny chance, he could unlock that fire.

But Rodney has clearly marked himself off-limits. Radek knows Rodney cares for him, deeply even, but he cannot or will not cross the line that separates good friends from lovers. Radek prides himself on his practicality, his pragmatism, and thinks it is long past the time when he should let go the hope that they could be more. And he wants more, wants the warmth of connection with another human being; he is tired of denying a part of himself.

Radek opens his eyes again. Parrish's wide mouth curls upward at the corners, and Radek thinks it a very nice smile, easy and friendly. His blue eyes are quick and intelligent, his nature self-possessed and relaxed, and if he is not as striking, as handsome as Rodney, he is still pleasant enough to the eye, his face quirky and expressive, that Radek thinks he will not quickly tire of looking.

"Parrish," Radek says, "You never did ask for your boon."

Parrish blinks, obviously taken by surprise, but it does not last long. "No, I never did ask, did I?"

"You completed your task, and even more, you saved my life. I think perhaps you are entitled to some sort of reward. What would you have?" From the way Parrish has looked at him, has touched him, has worried for him, Radek thinks he knows what Parrish wishes, and knows he wishes for it as well.

Parrish's eyes travel from the unruly mess of hair, to his eyes, and to his mouth, his gaze almost as palpable as a caress. It is enough to quicken Radek's blood, to make heat flush through him, to make his lips grow warm in anticipation. Last night he kissed Parrish while drunk; he wishes now very much to kiss him while sober, when he can fully appreciate the pleasure of it.

Color chases across Parrish's face, and then he leans in, tilting his head to avoid Radek's nose, his glasses. The kiss is light, teasing, a barely-there brush of his mouth against Radek's. It is just enough that Radek can feel how warm Parrish's lips are; they are softer and fuller than he expected.

When Parrish pulls back, Radek murmurs, "Ne, ne, I am not finished," and reaches up to curve his hand around the long nape of Parrish's neck. Beneath his fingertips, Parrish's skin is hot, his hair thick and soft-crisp, warm next to his scalp. He wishes he could use both arms, to wrap them around Parrish's broad shoulders, but he will do the best he can within his limitations.

Parrish doesn't need a second invitation. His big hands cup Radek's cheeks, his touch as gentle as if he were handling tiny seedlings. He leans in again, his mouth generous, giving, lips parting easily for Radek. Oh, so very, very good; he tastes a little of peppermint tea, a little of sleep, and much of want and longing. The kiss is soft and wet and warm, and Parrish knows how to kiss, knows how much tongue is enough without being too much; he is self-assured, skilful, and assertive enough that Radek feels his blood rushing hotly through his body, hears it hum in his ears.

Radek's fingers tighten on the nape of Parrish's neck, pulling him closer. He just wants to feel, to experience something good, something alive and vital; he is so weary of being alone and lonely. Parrish's thumbs rub along Radek's bristly jaws, a gentle scritch-scritch sound, his own fingers tangling in Radek's hair.

It is only when his chest grows heavy and his head spins from lack of air that his fingers loosen on Parrish's neck and he pulls back, their mouths parting wetly. His lips feel swollen, hot, and tingle sweetly. Parrish's eyes are hazy, his mouth wet and red; it is a good look for him, and one Radek wants to see often.

"David," he says breathlessly. "My name is David. I'd like it if you called me by my name."

"As you wish, David," Radek says with a smile, and watches David's eyes grow warm and pleased.