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“What’s that?” John asks as Rodney loudly clears gunk from his throat.

Four village guides glance at him warily, surreptitiously taking a few steps back.

“I said, I think I’m losing my voice,” Rodney finally manages.

“So you admit you’re sick?” John asks. 

“What? No.” 

“Maybe you should sit down?” John suggests, doing so himself before pulling an MRE out of his pack.

“No, no, I’m good.”

Rodney shivers. He brushes sweat away from his brow. He sneezes and coughs. 

Not good.

Rodney sneezes again. The locals take several more steps back before the tallest says, “It is also time for our meal. We will come back and check on you.” Then he and the three others dart away. Just outside the mouth of the cave, John can see the guide take each one of the villagers hands, whisper several words, then hand them each a special herb to eat. Apparently this is a way of warding away unsavory germs and viruses.

“Why is it freezing in here?” Rodney complains, burrowing into his jacket as he watches the readings from his laptop.

“It’s not. You’re sick.”

“We’ve been through this. I’m not sick! This place is just ridiculously cold. Hand me my pack.”

Rodney pulls out a hand warmer, shaking it until it becomes warm. He smiles, sighing in satisfaction as he holds the warmer up against his arm.

“Listen. I’m not saying you have to let these people practice their medicine on you. But you do need to sit down and rest. Whatever you’re working on can wait.”

Rodney nods. He opens his mouth to answer but coughs instead.

Then he coughs again.

And again.

“Why is it so hot in here?” he asks.

“You just said it was cold?”

“What? No. Well, okay, I did. But clearly I was wrong because now it’s sweltering.” He pulls off his jacket, tossing it to the side of the cave. Brushing the sweat away from his brow he continues to work, swaying in place.

John places down his half-eaten MRE. He comes by Rodney’s side, grabbing hold of his arm which is radiating unusual amounts of heat.

“What?” Rodney says, confused, looking at John’s hold as he continues to sway. John notes the green tinge on Rodney’s brow.

“Sit,” John orders, leading Rodney back to their packs and into a sitting position.

“I’m not sick,” Rodney insists.

“Sure you’re not.”

“I’m not. I just…Oh, I probably just need to eat. I haven’t done that in a while, have I?”

John holds out the rest of his MRE for Rodney to finish. Rodney takes one bite and gags. “On second thought, I’m good. I just need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down.”

“I am?”

“Yes, and you have a fever.” 

“Fever? You sure?”

“Yeah, fairly sure. Look, Ronon and Teyla should be back with the field guide soon and then we’ll set up camp.”

“I thought we were staying in the village?”

“We were. Something tells me they're not exactly anxious to be around you any more. Besides, if we go back, they’ll probably insist on their medicine guide looking at you.”

“Okay, yeah, camping sounds like a good plan then. I really have a fever? I feel fine.”

“Fine? You mean other than a crackly voice, your throat hurting, having chills, a radiating heat, and coughing?”

“Yes, uh, besides all that. Huh. Maybe I am sick.”

“You’re also not thinking right. Eat.” 

John holds the MRE back up but Rodney pushes it away, coughing once more. This time louder, longer. Too long. Rodney struggles to catch his breath through the coughs. Damn. This is progressing too fast.

“Yeah, that’s not good,” Rodney finally manages between shallow breaths.

“I’m sure you’re fine. Just a cold.”

“Oh, now you’re placating me.”

“I’m just saying that there’s no reason to panic yet.”

“Right. Don’t panic. Wait!  Should I be panicking? We have no idea what this is. I could have the Pegasus version of tuberculosis or… We gotta get back! I should be at the gate, see if I can speed up the recharging process. Who would have imagined a DHD that was solar powered?”

“Do you think you can?”

“Can what?”

“Speed up the recharging.”

“Oh. Hmmm... not really. The power crystals are all damaged beyond repair. If whoever set up the solar power hadn’t done so, this gate would never have been operable again. Makes you wonder who did it and why? It looks like it’s been the setup for a few thousand years at most. Wait. Are you just trying to get me to talk to distract me?”

“Something like that. You do need to eat. It’s been too long.”

“Yeah, okay. But not that. Whatever the hell that is supposed to be.” 

“Roast beef.”

“Roast beef? Really? Tastes like skunk roadkill?”

Rodney pulls out one of his bars from his tac vest, managing a few bites before pocketing the rest. 

“I don’t feel so good,” Rodney mutters, his voice breaking and hardly audible.

“Yeah, I noticed.”

Rodney is most assuredly not sick. True, his voice is a bit gravely. He does also keep coughing and coughing and coughing. He can’t decide whether the planet is a hot sauna or a freezing cold tundra. The climate seems to him to change from minute to minute, which John assures him several times is not the actual case but rather the result of a fever. 

The thing is, when Rodney’s off-world, he refuses to get sick. Local healers have threatened to stab him with needles or meditate his ills away. One time, a group offered to use their fancy green, slimy centipede-like bugs to leach the contaminants from his blood. He's been given the strangest concoctions without any way to verify whether there was lemon or anything citrus in it, and, even if there wasn't, they smelled and looked disgusting. Some of them even steamed this horrible, putrid smelling green and black gunk that just made him want to puke.

Speaking of puking, his stomach thinks that might be the best plan right now. He swallows back bile. He gives up on studying the carvings and takes a seat on the cave floor, cradling his head into his sweaty palms. Yeah, John’s right, he’s sick and it’s totally time to panic. He’s going to die here, isn’t he?

It takes too much work to keep his eyes open so he finally lets them close.

Somehow he’s in Antarctica, alone, shivering on the ice, his whole body aching in pain. 

He wakes up to find Ronon, Teyla, and Shepherd ‘s emergency blankets on him. He feels awful.

His team is setting up camp, discussing who will take the first watch. Rodney wants to help, but his muscles refuse to listen. He’s getting so sick so fast and it’s hard to think. With all the new Pegasus germs, it feels like someone is always catching something, and it’s almost always him. Stupid piece of crap immune system.

“Rodney?” Teyla says, noticing him stir. His team surrounds him in worry. 

Ronon smiles at him, probably to be reassuring. Rodney remembers a time when Ronon rarely smiled, and now, every time he does, it’s warming and nice. A reminder that Ronon’s come to find happiness with his found family—they all have. He takes a place by Rodney’s side and begins rubbing his back. 

Rodney leans into the touch. Ronon always knows exactly where and how to press. 

“You should let their healer look at you,” Ronon says.

“Uh, no. That is not happening. I don’t know what that quack meant by ‘expel the inner demons’ exactly, but there’s no chance it will help anything and it’s guaranteed to make things worse.”

Teyla’s right nostril twitches slightly, almost unnoticeable. Rodney knows her well enough to see she’s fuming at his words. Insulted. He always manages to put his foot in his mouth.

“Well, I’m sorry,” he says defensively. “It’s not like these people have even invented the lightbulb, much less developed any reasonable medical knowledge.”

“Melena was a nurse. She helped many people,” Ronon says.

“And Sateda was more advanced.” 

He doesn’t say the real problem here. That Sateda paid heavily for its technology. That so many cultures in Pegasus were held back from gaining knowledge because the Wraith feared their advancing.

In the end, it’s not the reason that matters, just that Rodney won’t let them touch him. He barely accepts medicine as a science back home, too many hospital visits as a child coloring his expectations. In Pegasus it’s worse because so many must rely on anecdotal evidence. The plural of anecdotal is not data.

“Just let them look at you,” John says. 

He’s pacing the cave, trying not to look worried but his hazel eyes are darting back and forth and his hands are stuffed deep into his pockets. It’s dizzying and makes Rodney want to puke that much more. Not that he will. Not here. Not on this backwards planet.

Ronon presses in harder than necessary, glowering, as though he can hear Rodney’s thoughts. He never likes it when Rodney refers to the locals as ‘primitives’ or ‘backward’ and Rodney knows he has a point, but he somehow finds himself struggling to rid those words from his vocabulary.

“I just need to sleep,” Rodney groans. 

Teyla takes a seat next to him, beckoning him to use her as a pillow. He leans against her, his eyes already closing. She turns a bit, settling so they both can be comfortable.

“You’re burning up,” John says, touching his frozen hand to Rodney’s forehead.

“Yes, we already established that.”

“It’s getting worse.” 

He rushes over to the medkit, pulling out some of the supplies. He returns with pills in hand and water to wash them down with. 

Rodney does so but then starts coughing again, over and over, his breath catching in his chest. He sits up, still coughing, gasping between, his lungs desperate for more air. Teyla lays a hand on his shoulder, gently talking him through the fit.

“I’m getting a healer,” Ronon announces. 

He’s out the door in an instant, or at least Rodney thinks he is. He’s too busy coughing to be sure.

Chapter Text

The coughing fit finally stops. Rodney concentrates on breathing as Teyla rubs his back with a calming, circular motion. She speaks soft words to him that he can’t really process as the stars clear from his eyes. His progression is terrifying and fast. He’s not sure how many more fits his body can take. He’s not even mad at Ronon for fetching a healer because at this point what else can Rodney do? Turn blue, pass out, and die before they can get back?

Or is he just being melodramatic again? He never can tell.

A healer arrives quickly as though Ronon carried her on his shoulders and raced her here. Rodney wouldn't put it past him and the healer doesn’t even look out of breath. Her black hair is tied back in a tight knot, decorated with a tall mahogany crown. She kneels down, draping her long violet robes all around her.

Her deep brown eyes lock with his. He despises all eye contact and always has. He usually can fake it by looking at the bridge of the nose right between the eyes, but she somehow guides him to actually look at her. She places her open palm on his chest, drawing in a deep breath. He must be hallucinating because he can see the glow emanating from him, passing into her.

“It is the inrimare ,” she declares without a trace of doubt. “His pupils bear the starry mark. Many Azulalians are sick with the same. Nasty, nasty creature. We used to lose many to this terror long long ago.”

“You have a cure then?” John asks.

“Yes and no. I am sorry to say it has reached his habria . There is only so much I can do this late into the illness. Without treatment, the inrimare will steal his breath until he is no more. If I am able to strengthen his habria , he may be able to fight it off. It will not be pleasant.”

Rodney’s not sure what she means by habria , but he’s still recovering from his fit and does not ask. Neither do the others. His best guess is aura or spirit? Either way, he doesn't find it a reassuring sign that she might be competent.

The healer stands up, reaching into her leather pouch. She pulls out a fist full of yellow herbs and dried fruits, handing them to everyone but Rodney. 

“Chew on these, leaving them in your mouth for no less than a half incense time. Then spit them out into the forest as an offering to the inrimare . If you do, the inrimare will crawl past you without doing harm.”

Teyla chews without question, but John stares at the leaves in his hands while Ronon sniffs them.

The medicine guide gesticulates with circular motions. 

“Chew! Quickly! You have been around him too long already.”

“What of Rodney?” John asks, before stuffing the leaves and fruit in his mouth.

The healer continues, “These fruits will work for you three just fine. But he cannot have them.” 

It’s Ronon who answers.

“Citrus.”

Great. So now citrus has found another way to kill him by simply letting this damn virus suffocate him. And how the hell did she know of his allergy? How ridiculous! Surely there was an explanation. He just couldn't think of it yet. She’ll probably say something stupid like sensing his aura.

His head is aching. His stomach is spasming. His nose is running. Shit, he’s going to cough again.

His chest screams as he coughs again and again and again. He’s vaguely aware of the healer rubbing something on him. It’s warm and soothing, much like the vapor rub Rodney’s mom used to give him when he felt so awful. His nose opens up, allowing him to take in the mint aroma. His coughs lessen. He breathes freely.

“I will stay by him until the inrimare passes,” the healer says. “Start a fire outside and boil all the water you can carry. You,” she points to someone, but Rodney’s eyes are closing so he’s not sure who. “We will need clean cloths.  Now, which one of you gave him something for the fever? Let me see it. Now.”

“You can cure him then?” Teyla asks.

“Cure? No. But there are methods to calm this beast. I do not intend to allow it victory.”

Rodney’s eyes remain closed, his body exhausted and aching. This feels worse than any flu. Sleep sounds good so he allows himself to drift off.

He’s on fire on an iceburg that’s melting into the sea. He hears soft voices, soothing him. He feels gentle hands caress his forehead. There are replicator bots dancing around him, laughing at him. His stomach roils. He’s shivering.

His eyes open for a moment to see Teyla watching over him, placing a wet cloth on his head. Ronon’s holding his hand, caressing Rodney’s palm with his thumb. The healer is saying words as though casting a spell, rubbing more of the blessed mint on his chest. 

He’s back on the ice, the fire burning burning burning. The replicator bots morph into Wraith, taunting him with their feeding hands. He coughs. Once. Twice. Three times. 

He’s sitting up, leaning now against Ronon while Sheppard massages the ointment onto his feet. The healer presses a finger into his forearm, holding it there, and somehow he knows it’s helping the coughing even though it makes no sense. Sweat blankets his body, musty and disturbing. He feels so awful. Time is clearly passing but he’s not sure how much except its daylight now and everyone looks so exhausted and disheveled.

“There now,” the healer says. “You will not give up. You will defeat this creature.”

He’s not sure how he feels about her metaphor, but he’s too weak to complain. He doesn’t want to fall asleep again. He doesn’t want to go back to the fire and the ice and the taunting.

John’s worried gaze darts around the cave. Rodney’s only seen him look that terrified three times before. 

When Rodney nearly ascended. 

When Rodney offered to feed himself to a Wraith. 

When Rodney nearly died from Second Childhood. 

Wow, is it really that bad? Why the hell does he stay in this awful galaxy that seems so desperate to kill him? 

And why does John always feel it so deeply when Rodney is hurt? Sometimes Rodney wonders…But, no, he stops himself from hoping because it's too painful to want John only to find out he's understood things all wrong…

Metal glistens from the sun lowering along the cave’s mouth. Rodney shuffles back, but he’s too weak to go far. The healer orders the others to hold him still as she drives three needles into his neck. Oh, god, she’s going to paralyze him, isn’t she? He knew better than to let her touch him.

He tries to move his legs then arms, but nothing budges. He tries to speak but words won’t come.

“It is necessary to give him a fighting chance,” she says. 

Is it Rodney’s imagination or does she sound less sure than before? The needles smell of antiseptic and something like chloroform. He struggles to stay awake. He’s afraid that if he slips further into sleep he may never wake up, lost to nothingness either due to the virus or her awful medicine.

He wakes up still in the cave, thankful to not have felt the fire or the ice. Whatever she did to him, he didn’t dream. As he swims toward consciousness he hears something new, a string instrument, graceful and beautiful. His team comes into view. Teyla’s tending to a fire just outside the cave’s mouth. John’s shuffling through their packs looking for something. Ronon’s still acting as Rodney’s pillow but snoring softly.

In the corner sits a man he’s never seen before, dressed in sparkling silver robes. A tall, pine-like crown in the shape of a bird adorns the loose bun on his head. His slender fingers are wrapped in a white glove. They strum a stringed, circular harp-like instrument. The melody is enchanting, soothing. He can feel  the music caressing his mind, massaging his body. And, yes, he knows that’s ridiculous but the feeling is persistent.

A light shines around the musician, the same as the aura shining from the healer onto Rodney’s stomach as she holds her hand above his and mutters some incantation. Whatever this is, it can’t be medicine. He’s so going to die.

“Hush,” she tells him, his first hint that he’s been speaking aloud again. He tests his arms and legs, relieved to feel them wiggle.

Something about her calms not just his words but his thoughts. Or maybe it’s the needles in his freaking spine. Or the fever. He’s still drenched in sweat. It’s still burning.

He hates how time moves so differently when sick. He can hardly tell when he’s awake or asleep. There’s movement all around him. He hears concerned whispers, but he’s losing the ability to understand them. He’s surely covered in frost.

John’s freaking out. Rodney’s lost in his feverish world, drifting in and out of sleep. The gate’s not working yet and it’s looking more and more likely this cave will become a tomb.

“His habria is deeply damaged,” the medicine guide says, her voice wavering for the first time since her arrival. She holds out a finger above Rodney’s chest. Glowing strands of blue and silver dance from her fingernail into Rodney, joining strands from the musician.

“Music is the greatest healing power known to our people,” she says.

John can’t believe saving Rodney’s life has come to this. He knows he shouldn’t discount their culture, but the risk seems so high to not have more definitive help.

“It will work,” Ronon says, cracking open one eye, truly confident and not just putting on a positive air.

“Why is that?” John asks.

“Melena healed with music,” he says.

John wants to ask more. It’s rare for Ronon to share much of anything from his previous life on Sateda, but Ronon’s attention is back on Rodney, whose mumbling nonsense words in his sleep.

“Shhhh. We’re here,” Ronon says. 

Under his breath, he starts whispering. No, not whispering. Singing. His voice in harmony with the harp.

John’s unsure what to make of this turn of events. He feels not unlike a voyeur so he steps away and paces outside the cave’s mouth. He can’t believe he’s here again, already, watching Rodney duel with death once more. It hasn’t been so long since their last bout. He’s scared the day will come sooner rather than later when Rodney will lose that fight. Then what will John do?

He can handle loss. He has before. He will again. But not his team. Not his family. And most definitely not Rodney.

“John!” Teyla calls. 

His heart jumps. He bolts back into the cave. Rodney’s sitting up, coughing, blood oozing down his chin and onto the emergency blankets. Ronon’s talking him through the pain and panic.

“His habria is releasing the bad blood,” the healer says. 

John’s still not sure what a habria ’s supposed to be, but there’s no way this can be good.

“It is not enough,” she says. “There is still too much damage.”

Rodney leans back against Ronon, already asleep.

John checks his watch. Just a few more hours. “Hold on, Rodney,” he says, grabbing hold of Rodney’s hand despite the many witnesses. 

He closes his eyes and imagines sharing his strength with Rodney, much like the waves of light emanating from the healer and the harp. 

Chapter Text

Rodney’s in Ronon’s arms, the trees sweeping past them in green and blue blurs. The gate whooshes open and more frenzied voices join the cacophony of sounds and movement. The medicine guide’s holding onto his hand and the silver robed man is still playing his strange harp. Most definitely a hallucination.

He’s in the infirmary, tied to so many machines. He’s not coughing anymore, though, and there’s no tube down his throat like he worried there might be. IV lines tug from both his forearm and his foot. Oh shit, IVs in feet are never a good sign. 

The music is still playing. John’s pacing. Teyla’s napping. Ronon’s whittling away with a new knife. The healer is there, strands of hair now loosened from her tight knot, black circles under her eyes. She looks as exhausted as he feels.

She talks to Carson. Words are starting to make sense again. 

“We use this for the quickening of the heart,” she tells Carson. “And this for lightening the habria .”

They talk more but Rodney’s too tired to focus much. 

“Thank you, lass, for saving our Rodney. I know he’s not the kindest but there’s a good man behind his words.”

“I believe that is true,” she tells him. “His friends care for him deeply. His habria is just and courageous. He is someone who puts the well being of others above his own. This made it possible to defeat the inrimare . But his habria is also troubled, wounded from many failings. This made defeating the inrimare most difficult. ”

No one seems to realize Rodney is awake and he’s too weak to tell them so he drifts again.

“You with us, Rodney?” Carson asks. 

Rodney opens his eyes, sure only a minute has passed, but now Ronon’s asleep while Teyla bounces Torren. John’s on his feet, by Rodney’s side, a discarded game magazine on the chair behind him.

“Yeah,” Rodney says, though he feels like he took an unfortunate trip through a clothes dryer.

At the sound of his voice, the team stirs. They surround him with relieved smiles. This tells him all he needs to know. He’ll be fine. He’s pulled through. Somehow not dead.

The stranger continues to play, making no move to acknowledge Rodney. The healer packs a set of needles back into her pouch. She follows his gaze to the strange instrument and nods at him.

“My medicine was taught to me by my mother who was taught from her mother. We have learned through lived experiences what works and what does not. You are lucky our primitive ways are not petty.”

“Yeah..uh…huh. Sorry about that? Thanks?” he manages.

“The music of healing comes from the habrias of those bestowed its power. His music gave your habria the strength you needed to heal. Without it, you would be dead.”

Rodney nods. He’s not exactly taking any of this in. He was so sure he was hallucinating, but the evidence contradicts all that is possible. Perhaps the truth is somewhere between.

“He will continue to play for you,” she explains. “Until your habria is settled.”

It’s so strange how he can feel the music. He knows it’s keeping a headache at bay. He knows it’s calming his nerves, telling them to lessen their flare, that he’s safe now. But how he can know that, or why it can even feel that way, makes no sense.

Carson orders the team out of the infirmary for showers, food, and rest. He’ll keep Rodney company for now. The healer and the musician remain. The stranger must be exhausted. Surely he hasn't been playing this whole time?  Rodney wonders how often he’s gone in and out, his brain still not at a hundred percent. Maybe not even twenty percent.

“You have the gift,” the healer tells him, and he wonders about her name. She hasn’t shared and he hasn’t asked. Now it seems awkward since she’s been by his bedside for days now.

“The gift?” he asks, his tone derisive despite his intentions. 

He should just be thankful they helped him, even if he can’t understand why their ways work.  He’s loath to admit how wrong he was about their medicine, but he’s starting to accept that maybe she knows what she's doing.

“The music gift. It is deep in your habria , longing to be released. He can teach you how to heal, comfort, and warm the spirit’s habria ,” she says, motioning toward the stranger who is now asleep in a chair, his instrument tipped against the nearest cot.

When Rodney considers the music, he is met with a sinking heart and painful memories. But sometimes he can hear the melody within, and he longs to play, to feel its warmth. His teacher called him a fine clinical player once but when Rodney put down the music from lessons and played what he felt, even though it was only when no one else was around, he could feel the notes soothe him, comfort him. They offered him peace and order in an otherwise conflicted world.

He’s awake an entire four hours in a row, time settling back into some normalcy as his slowed brain emerges from the haze. John’s in the chair nearby, updating Rodney on all the gossip he’s missed while held captive in the infirmary. He’s oddly holding Rodney’s hand. This is new. Ronon and Teyla? Sure. Not John. He’s never shown interest in any touch before, but he seems unlikely to let go any time soon. Rodney can hear his silent fears through their laced fingers. You almost died. Again. I almost lost you.

John will not give voice to those thoughts, but his slack shoulders and weary gaze says it all the same. Rodney’s too exhausted to call him out on any of it. Give him a night or two of rest and John will pretend they never did this. Maybe someday it will change. Rodney hopes it’ll be soon.

John must sense Rodney’s desires, because he gazes down at their hands, releasing his hold. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I…I should go.”

“Oh please, you need to stay. What else am I supposed to do? Carson’s not even letting me up for the restroom yet, much less giving me a computer.” 

He decides to be brave, braver than ever before, and he blames it on the recent dance with death and the strange melody coming from the mystical harp. He reaches over and rejoins their hands. John doesn’t pull away, though he shuffles his feet and finds sudden interest in the infirmary walls.

When John leaves an hour later, the musician drops a scroll on Rodney’s lap. “Read,” he commands.

“Sure, why not. Something to do right?”

The musician doesn’t answer, apparently a man of fewer words than even Ronon when he first came to Atlantis.

Rodney carefully removes the red bow, unwrapping the parchment. He has no idea what any of it says, but it looks like it might be musical notes.

“Here,” the stranger says, pointing to a top symbol and then to a string on his harp.

“And here,” he points to another note and another string.

The next morning, Rodney’s able to strum several tunes on the harp, but only manages a single blue wisp of light. The stranger responds with a tilt of the head and a slight smile. Rodney’s not sure what to think. None of this should be real. He’s probably still in a coma back in that awful cave.

The day after, their visitors depart, but Rodney has at least three more scrolls to go through. He finds himself excited at the prospect, even though his science brain questions his sanity.

Carson agrees to let him try the bathroom, but Rodney’s so weak he leans heavily on Ronon and the IV pole the entire way there and back. He’s left breathless, sweat dripping down his brow. His body is failing him and it sucks. He should be back in the labs by now, but he’s still stuck here for the foreseeable future.

Ronon settles him back onto the cot, tucking him in, trying and failing not to look worried at Rodney’s malaise. 

“Give it time,” he says.

“I hate this,” Rodney admits. He can’t even lift his arms to try more music so he falls back asleep.

Ronon’s still there when he wakes. He’s passing a wooden object from one hand to another. Rodney can see it has holes and a mouth piece, perhaps a type of flute or recorder.

“It’s called a calentonsa . It was Melena’s. When she played, people got better. They felt lighter.”

Even Rodney knows better than to interrupt. So he waits, wondering if Ronon will share more. 

He doesn’t.

“It’s yours now,” Ronon says.

“Oh, wow, that’s…I don't think I should…I mean, It’s special, right? You should keep it.”

“I don’t have the gift,” Ronon admits. He closes Rodney's hand around the flute.

“I don’t know how to play,” Rodney confesses. “I failed hard at piano. I’ve never even tried wind instruments before. I’m usually the first to say I’m brilliant at everything, but not so much this.”

“I’ll teach you,” Ronon says.

“Okay, but—”

“Please. Honor her memory with me.”

Rodney’s unsure how he’s gone from proclaiming this is all primitive medicine to this . Whatever this is. But he can’t tell Ronon no. Not after that plea. Not with the knowledge music can literally heal. Maybe even help save his teammates one day.

“Okay, I’ll see what I can do. But don’t say I didn't warn you.”

It takes three solid days before Rodney manages a reasonable sound. Three more to play a simple melody. At least it passes the time in the infirmary.

He scans the scrolls, seeking simple songs at first and then more complex ones. They each have odd names. Peace . Kindness . Love . Health .

Rodney’s drawn toward Love , recognizing the melody as the one the stranger played when John held his hand. The scroll says that love cannot be created from nothing, but love already experienced can be brought to the surface.

“Carson let you free?” John asks as Rodney takes a seat next to him on the pier.

“Well, he was going to tomorrow, so I figured this counts. Why? You’re not planning to call him are you?”

“You know me better than that. Sit,” John says motioning beside him. 

Rodney does so. He pulls out the calentonsa, fidgeting with the finger holes.

“Next time you let us get a healer right away,” John orders. “We’re not doing that again.”

“Yeah. Okay. I get it. Lesson learned.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

Rodney reaches his free hand out, grabbing hold of John’s. He waits for the first sign of panic, but it doesn't come.

“You sure you want to do this?” John asks.

“Yeah, I’m sure. You?”

“Yeah.”

“This does mean we…you know…are admitting we like each other. Right? And not just in the way a friend loves another friend?”

“I got that.”

“Good.”

Rodney hates the silence but isn’t sure what else to say. He’s trying not to blush and to play it cool, but his insides feel like he’s jumped off a crazy high cliff with no landing in sight. He must be crazy because he’s lifting the calentonsa to his mouth and playing a few notes from Love .

John quirks an eyebrow.

“Ronon’s been giving me music lessons.”

“So I heard. You buy into this whole magical habria thing now?”

“Not sure. Ronon does. I’m not dead. Magic is just science we haven’t figured out yet.”

“You need to stop doing that,” John chokes.

“What?”

“Nearly dying. You scared Teyla.”

“Teyla, huh?”

“And Ronon.”

“Right.”

“And…others.”

“You?”

There’s a long pause as John freezes in place. Finally he licks his lips, draws a deep breath and says, “Yeah.”

“Is that really so hard to admit?”

John squeezes his hand. He nods. It’s taken them years to open up to this. Rodney wonders how much longer it will be before John is comfortable kissing. For now, at least, this is nice.

Rodney studies the wooden instrument. It’s handcrafted. Probably by Ronon himself. It’s small, requiring only one hand to play, but two for more complex songs. It’s precious and somehow feels like a part of him.

“I know it’s weird. I haven't really figured out what I think of all this. It’s a bit much, you know. But..I was thinking….I know it’s awkward and all, but do you mind if I play?”

John stares at Rodney as though sure he lost his mind to the inrimare . But he looks up at the stars and shrugs.  

“If you want to,” he answers.

Rodney’s heart quickens. He feels foolish, embarrassed. He plays anyway, allowing the music to fill him. Comfort him. Damn, it feels brilliant. Blue wisps travel from his fingers down to their interlocked hands, wrapping around them, holding them together in a warm glow.

Rodney feels the strength of the mystical band, warmth growing within him. He finally accepts that this isn’t the product of a delusional or fevered brain. He’s really here with John. With musical magic that defies all science. And perhaps, at least until he’s allowed back in his lab, he’s content not understanding how it all works. Clearly it does and that is enough.