The Race

The morning of the race and John was having a rather tricky time stomaching breakfast. He would have foregone it completely, but Jihenna wouldn't let him. Neither did she help the matter by spooning more of the cinnamon flavored porridge into his bowl.

“You need da energy. Canna mash'll give you lots of energy. It sticks hard to de ribs.”

Rodney prodded him lightly in the flanks with his elbow. “And you could always use a little more padding over your ribs.”

John paused in bringing the spoon to his mouth to turn his head and glare. “That's not what she meant, McKay.”

McKay was too busy shoveling mash into his mouth to speak, but managed to smirk around the spoon.

For John, the days of training, of going all Zen and becoming one with his mount, felt like studying hours for a test only to forget everything he'd learn. He didn't feel ready, but never felt ready at the moment of truth. Like all those moments, he shoved and wrestled doubt to the back, shoving it into his mental closet where he stored all anxiety, and locked it. But the closet had cracks and some anxiety always managed to ooze its way free. His stomach felt as though he swallowed several rocks, his back was starting to hurt from tension, and his heart rate was up a few miles per hour. He didn't think it an excessive reaction. Give him being blow out of the sky any day as it was quick and painless, but he'd already experienced being eaten alive and didn't wish a second experience thank you very much. This time it would involve teeth, and stomach acid.

John had always held the opinion – even before being eaten alive as a form of torture – that death by devouring had to be the worst way to go. He wasn't going to let that happen. It was a stupid race and there were probably rules about someone's mount eating another rider. The problem was, where gambling was involved, cheating was ever present. If he wasn't eaten, then he would probably be knocked from his saddle into a free-fall of death, his safety harness snapped. But, hey, at least he wouldn't be eaten if that happened.

John swirled his mash listlessly. He wasn't helping himself. All those years of telling Rodney to stay positive were coming back to bite him in the butt. John finally sat back, pushing the bowl away. “If I get any more of this stuck to my ribs, I won't be able to breathe.”

Jihenna finally got the blatant hint and took the bowl away. “You ready for dis, den, Colonel?” she asked.

“Nope,” John admitted, “but it never stopped me before.”

A hefty, spine jarring slap to the upper back almost planted John's face into the table. “Dat's de attitude ta have!” Joren bellowed, gimping past John to his chair on the other side. John winced and rubbed the assaulted space between his shoulder blades. There would be a bruise there, one Carson wasn't going to be happy about.

“Maybe you should let it stop you,” Rodney mumbled, “just this once.”

“Not helping, McKay,” John mumbled back.

“Then maybe you should let Jihenna dump a couple of spices on you, get you to bathe in whatever passes as marinating sauce around here, just to get you ready.”

John curled his lip in an annoyed sneer. “Shut up!”

“I'm just saying, is all,” was Rodney's innocent reply.

“McKay,” Ronon growled.

“You are not helping, Dr. McKay,” said Teyla. John smiled at the display of support. It didn't untie the knot that had formed in his stomach.

“We best get movin',” Jihenna announced. “De race starts soon.”

The table was quickly cleared, then everyone headed outside to help John fetch Lenny and get him saddled up. Ronon and Joren prepped Lenny with the numbered skins as Teyla and Rodney helped John slip into his own bracelets and number. When both were ready, John grabbed Lenny by the reins and took the lead up the road back into town.

The uproar was deafening. The laughter had been expected but it still made John's fake smile painful to maintain. It was made even worse by the snatches of wagers being tossed around in the streets concerning how long the 'skinny rider' and his 'skinny mount' would last. John let it all roll through one ear and out the other, standing tall with his chest puffed out more in defiance than actual pride.

The location of the starting line was outside the town; far, far, far out down a narrow dirt road winding up to a grassy cliff edge. The edge was wide, probably half a mile, and the starting line took up a quarter of it. John shrank a little at the sight of the beasts he'd be competing against.

Lenny was a horse – a pony – and his competition were elephants and a couple of whales. The winged monstrosities were all thick skinned, or thick furred, and every one solid, bulging muscles. A young man, probably an official, guided John to where he needed to be when the race started. He felt the reins tug at Lenny's reluctance toward squeezing in between to the mountain of teeth, claws, and strength. John slowed to bring Lenny's head into his peripheral and pat the equine-like snout.

“Easy pal,” he breathed. “You'll fly circles around these suckers.” He had complete sympathy for the smaller beast. He was starting to feel a little like a mouse in a den of cats himself.

The laughter wasn't so bad at the starting line, but the comments were beginning to grate John like nails on a chalkboard.

“T'ain't no joyride this. Why don't you take your beasty back home ta your little lady so she can go on a picnic.”

“Come now! Dainty fellow like him needs a dainty beast.”

“See what happens when you wait too long to get a proper mount? No such thing as savin' the best for last.”

“That thing couldn't even pull a plow.”

“You and that rock-scratcher'll be chow, boy!”

John's pride wasn't going to last the constant pummeling. He forced nonchalance and a deaf ear toward the taunts, but if his spine went any stiffer it was going to shatter. He tried to distract himself by checking the straps of the saddle and harness one more time. The real distraction came when he glanced at the cliff edge and the people lined up looking down. Curiosity shoved its way in and forced him to take a little peek of his own.

John Sheppard had never been one to balk at heights. He was balking now. The river – the Mississippi-during-flood-time river – was a thin ribbon of blue-silver cutting through a carpet of deep, solid emerald.

“Holy crap!” he heard McKay breathe out beside him. “Holy freakin' crap!”

John winced. “Probably a lot less worse than it looks.”

“Like hell!” Rodney squeaked. “I highly advise considering backing out now if I were you.”

John winced and looked over at Rodney. McKay was white-faced and wide-eyed staring down the miles and miles between them and the land below.

“Kind of not going to happen, McKay,” John said.

McKay's eyes narrowed. “You're machoism is going to be the death of you one of these days, if not today. Sheppard, it's one damn jumper. I doubt Malak will be starting a revolution with one damn jumper. And he knows better than to kidnap someone from a highly advanced society.”

John rolled his eyes. “Malak's an opportunist who I'm not taking chances with. And that's not what I'm talking about. Malak tossed in a few extras to the wager. I drop out before the race starts, then he gets the jumper, me, and you to keep me in line though he puts it as keeping someone with your intelligence around as intelligence comes in handy.”

That got Rodney to tear his gaze away and plant it, wide-eyed and horrified, on John. “What!” McKay could reach new levels of high-pitched when he was panicked.

“I can't back out, Rodney,” John said. “Malak made sure of that. Besides, the guy's a frickin' snake. Every molecule in me right now is screaming that he isn't going to be taking that jumper for a joyride if he wins it. I'm doing this, McKay. So you'd better start thinking positive because I can sure as hell use all the positive I can get right now.”

With that said, and before McKay could say anything else, John turned and headed back to a fidgeting Lenny. He climbed into the saddle, even though it was still ten minutes to race time. He didn't care. Getting into the saddle and strapping it sealed the matter, not for McKay but for himself. He admitted to being a little freaked. He wasn't in a puddle jumper, and he wasn't going to be blasting wraith darts out of the sky. It was a stupid race and people weren't supposed to die in stupid races. Except, sometimes, people did. He had to remind himself that this would be worth it in the long run, but the whole probability of death wouldn't butt out.

He could do this. Lenny could do this. They just needed to stay out of range of all those teeth and claws, as well as hope no one was brandishing any whips. Weapons weren't allowed except knives for emergency extraction if one needed to get out of the saddle fast. John had a knife in his boot courtesy of Ronon, and his knife in its sheath on his belt. He had a right to defend himself from any claws descending toward him. The notary that had drawn up the wager had said so when reciting the rules.

A trumpet eventually sounded announcing the two minute mark before the race started. John's team, Jihenna, and Joren gathered around on Lenny's right side. Teyla reached up and clasped John's leg since he was too busy trying to keep Lenny in check for him to give her his hand.

“Good luck, John,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Ronon. “Don't fall.”

John smiled at Ronon's way of keeping things simple.

Rodney's mouth worked silently for a moment. He was obviously working out what to say, and John was surprised by the difficulty it seemed to be causing. At long last (which had to be a record) Rodney cleared his throat.

“Good luck,” he blurted. “You can do it... Don't die.”

John smiled again. He had to hand it to the man, he did try. “Thanks McKay.”

“Keep above if you can,” said Joren. “Never under. Dey will try ta take you out first.”

John grimaced. “Yeah, kind of figured that out already.”

Joren patted John's ankle. “Good fortune ta ya.”

The trumpet blared again. Those not mounted were told to move away from the starting line. Those mounted were told to bring their beats to the cliff's edge. With snorts and protesting rumbles, the beasts moved forward. John hunkered down in preparation for the dive. Light flashed off the silver but tarnished surfaces of transports lined up in rows and columns on either side, marking the race's path. A beast could go up and down as far as it wanted, but never left and right beyond the transports.

“You won't last da first stretch, skinny!” someone crowed.

“Ya won't last de dive!”

Lenny snorted and John patted his neck. “Let's prove 'em wrong pal. Make them eat our dust.”

“Riders ready!”

John tightened his grip on the reins. The beast next to him – huge and cat-like – pawed the ground.

The trumpet blasted one long, rattling peel. The winged beasts roared, trumpeted, shrieked, or howled, then pushed off from the precipice into a dive. The wind roared passed John, buffeting his body and shrieking by his ears. Wings unfurled all round him catching the thermals. Lenny's wings burst out and he leveled off, angling to avoid the larger wings of the creatures on either side. John pulled back on the reins forcing Lenny to ease off toward the rear. The plan was to hold back for a time and conserve energy for when it would really be needed.

Which was actually now. Something like a cross between a dragon and a rhino with a single horn on its broad snout veered in toward Lenny fast. John pulled the reins steering Lenny upward for the rhino-drake to zip past harmlessly beneath them.

“Playing dirty all ready you son of a bitch!” John hollered. Lenny suddenly dropped on his own accord just as something massive and heavily taloned tried to clip John from above. Lenny kept diving and John had to pull with everything he had to bring him out of it. Glancing up, John's heart sank to see himself right where Joren told him not to be – under everyone else.

“Ah crap!”

Too many beasts to count started dropping out of the sky to make a go at him, or at least John assumed that's what they were doing. In a situation like this, it was safe to assume.

In any given situation, the element of surprise always worked. “Bet they won't see this coming.” John steered Lenny upward straight at a hairy looking eagle that was descending in a manner that would drop the eagle right on top of John. Lenny chirped in agitation, but John kept him pointed at the beast. The rider was probably laughing at him, thinking he had this race in the bag. In this game of chicken, when a VW Bug went up against a Mack ruck, the truck won, and that eagle was the truck.

Except this wasn't a game of chicken. As soon as John was close enough to see the flecks of dirt on the eagle's talons, he pulled a hard right. Lenny angled to move away then flipped onto his side, ripping past the eagle's wing with only scant inches in between. Lenny flipped onto his other side, nearly side-swiping a two-legged winged lizard. He leveled off when they were at level with those beasts whose riders had known better than to dive. Everyone below either steered back up or were clipped off the trail to be disqualified. Every time someone ended up on the other side of the line of transports, there was a sound like a foghorn. John didn't take the chance to see what happened next.

The beasts whipped around the winding path marked by the small transports, following the ribbon of silver blue miles below. It seemed almost choreographed the way they all moved as one at the turns, until someone altered course to clip someone else. What looked to be a hairless black wolf with with green stripes and bat wings flapped hard rising above what could only be termed as a griffin, and dropped down snapping one feathered wing and smashing the rider. The griffin shrieked and spiraled down toward the solid green below, until two-transports darted out with a net between them to catch the thing. The last John saw of the rider, he was lifting his head, and fell out of the saddle into the net.

So far no one had died. Didn't mean it didn't happen.

John kept Lenny either at level or above the rest of the beasts. Another winged cat came at him. John pulled and twisted the reins in a manner that instead of dropping, Lenny flapped hard to shoot upward enough to initiate a barrel roll that slapped one wing into the rider, knocking him off balance and nearly out of the saddle. The rider pulled a hard left on the reins trying to hold on and ended up steering his mount out of bounds.

John hadn't even realized he was capable of getting Lenny to pull off such moves, or maybe Lenny liked showing off. Either way, John couldn't help laughing.

Then things got complicated. The path led them into a canyon where transports weren't needed to mark the boundary. They were walled in, with nowhere to push or drive anyone to get them disqualified. Lenny flapped hard, pushing himself up like a shot, just as the striped lizard-wolf whipped from out of nowhere below at a velocity that sent it slamming into the canyon wall, tumbling down. The transports barely arrived in time to catch it.

“Ah crap!” John snarled. “This really starting to...” a large shadow enveloped him and wind from a beating wing pushed him down, “suck!” John pulled a hard left just as the giant winged – was that a bear? - dropped harmlessly past him. He steered Lenny in a wild weave between massive flying monsters that kept coming out of nowhere, snapping at them or swiping claws. A giant feathered wing slammed down hard on John, shoving him against Lenny and shoving the kita below what John now termed as the 'kill zone'. John sat up wincing against an uncomfortable pull in his back. He steered Lenny to climb upward, only to have a rider move his beast in to block it.

John tried again in a different direction, only to be blocked by slashing talons and a snapping beak. Apparently, the rest of the riders had come to a unspoken agreement that 'skinny' and his runt of a mount must be eliminated.

John soon realized how they planned to do that when he saw the opening to a very massive tunnel, just not massive enough to include him being on the bottom. John swallowed and hunkered down close to Lenny's back. “All right, pal,” he said. “Guess this is where we play catch-up.”

John dug his heels into Lenny's flanks, pulling the reins down to bring Lenny into a dive. Lenny tucked his wings and dropped like a descending arrow at an angle toward the thin thread of blue far below, letting gravity handle the rest. John gritted his teeth turning his head away from wind speeds increasing to a strength that could snap his neck. John managed to roll his eyes up to see the rest of the beasts blur by as Lenny whipped past them. Here was the advantage of a 'scrawny' mount with a slim, light, and less wind-resistant body. Lenny cut through the air like that metaphorical arrow, slowly unfurling his wings, angling upward abruptly when John gave the reins a small tug. Lenny increased altitude in time to shoot into the darkness of the cave leaving the rest of the beasts behind while still maintaining that almost break-neck rate.

John let rip a lung-shattering, adrenaline drenched howl. His heart was beating hard enough to possibly explode, and he loved it! The tunnel was massive enough to let the Daedalus through without a scratch, and marked by massive pale green glow lamps. John steered Lenny in close to tree-sized stalactites and jagged stalagmites pasty green and amber in the lamplight. The other beasts were forced to say to the wider areas, but Lenny and those creatures agile enough took narrower paths that kept anyone from trying to slam them down or run them off. Lenny weaved around the great rock pillars close enough for John to reach out and touch the slick surfaces if he wanted to.

The end of the tunnel was a blinding white hole. John continued to have Lenny weave up until the last minute, then angled him to burst out ahead right next to a dragon, huge with scales various shades of red. John glanced over to see familiar looking red hair whipping in the wind. Hin, which made that beast that could swallow John whole Gevalin.

Hin's head kept glancing to and from John.

“Oh son of a...” the expletive wasn't allowed to be finished when Gevalin lurched toward Lenny. Lenny dropped in an act of instinct and John steered him away from Gevalin's underside. But Gevalin was quick, and his rider crafty. Gevalin shifted course just as John had Lenny moving out, then dropped.

John kicked Lenny's flanks hard. “Go!” Lenny shot forward just as a talon came down to snag John in the shoulder, piercing through his vest, jacket, and skin; slicing down and scraping bone as Lenny pulled away. John threw his head back and howled against the burning agony. Lenny trumpeted with him. John's lungs emptied of air and he slumped against Lenny's back. The safety harness flapped uselessly in the wind. John didn't really notice between the pain, the dizziness, and hot blood soaking into his shirt, gluing it to his back.

“Oh man,” he whimpered. “Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap...” He gritted his teeth, hissing, trembling, as he tried to push himself up, only to drop back down when the pain screamed at him the futility of his action. He blinked away the tears blurring his vision. Hin was ahead. The canyon curved around and suddenly ended into open sky and transports marking the way. They were coming up on the home stretch. The finish line wasn't that far off. Lenny suddenly darted when another beast tried to ram him, bringing him in close to the boundary. John gritted his teeth and refused the luxury of slowly straightening to bolt up fast: like pulling off a band-aid. Unlike pulling off a band-aid, he almost dropped from the onslaught of dizziness. He shook it off with a twitch of his head, took up the reins, and pulled to steer Lenny up and over their attacker.

“This is it, buddy,” John said between clenched teeth. “Let's go for two, shall we?”

He nudged Lenny's flanks. Lenny folded his wings for another arrow-shot descent, increasing speed then spreading his wings to ride the drafts upward until he was neck to neck with Gevalin. Gevalin lurched toward them for another plow. John tried to steer Lenny up. Instead, Lenny lurched toward Gevalin and latched onto the monster's neck, biting and clawing. Gevalin swung his neck from side to side trying to dislodge Lenny, encouraging Lenny to dig his claws and teeth in deeper. Gevalin, in his thrashing, began to veer. Hin cried out pulling in futility at the reins. John just hung on tight, chuckling a little drunkenly.

One more swing and Lenny let go, letting that good old law of things in motion tending to stay in motion do the rest. He shot out ahead, spreading his wings for a fast glide. John's chuckling turned into wild, howling laughter.

“Woooooooooooooo! Cowboy freakin' up!”

The race trail swung around heading back way they had come to the finish line. John chanced a glance back to see Gevalin trying to catch up. He was closing in on Lenny's tail, trying to snap at it, getting close but not close enough.

Then Gevalin latched on, right as Lenny shot over the start/finish line. Lenny twisted around to swipe at Gevalin's nose, forcing him to release with a furious bellow. Then the kita twisted again with the intent to continue on, until John pulled hard on the reins with everything he had, bringing Lenny to a flapping halt until he finally dropped to the ground. A horn blasted one long peel, and people came running, shouting and cheering to surround Lenny and John.

John slumped onto Lenny's back, panting and numb. Somewhere, something in the back of his mind kept nudging him, telling him that he won. He should have been elated, whooping and what not, but he was feeling a little too dizzy and light headed to so much as give a thumbs up. He did feel happy, though, in a distant, detached sort of way.

Also in a distant, detached sort of way, he felt someone unbuckling him from the saddle.

“John, you won! You won!” That was Teyla's voice.

“Sheppard... You're freakin' bleeding!” McKay's.

“No duh, McKay,” John rasped, uncertain if Rodney heard. When the buckles were undone, John felt himself start to list. Lacking the strength to stop it, he slid falling from the saddle, only to have numerous hands stop the fall and lower him gently to the ground. His last sight was open blue sky, and it was beautiful. Then blurred faces obscured it and darkness slapped itself over his eyes.

SGA

John was aware off and on, in bits and pieces. Sound was always first and the constant urgency in every voice he heard roused him enough to get his eyes open. The effort rewarded him with shapes that were fuzzy but familiar thanks to the voices. He was being carried, he could tell by the numerous hands helping him to fly. Then pain ripped through his back, making him cry out and go under again. When he next awoke, the voices were still urgent, but controlled, and he was someplace else, on something soft, lying on his stomach. He shivered when a breeze tickled across his back and, with a start, he finally realized that he was shirtless.

“Dis will help ta stop de bleeding. He lost a lot of blood, and there may be infection. You'd do best ta get him back home. We have good healers but ya can't trust dat Malak not ta do something. I'll deal wit him if he tries ta squelch on de wager. Not dat he can wit you gone.”

John heard a heavy sigh, like one of relief. “Thank you, Jihenna.” Teyla.

John wanted to voice his own thanks, but couldn't even lift his head. Darkness slid back over his vision, this time because he let it. He was too damn tired to fight.

The next time John awoke it was to beeping, lying on something soft on his stomach, and that overly clean and rather chemical scent that came only with the infirmary. He cracked his eyes open a slit to a blurry world, and blinked a few times to clear his vision.

“Wha...?” he croaked, because he wanted to say something but his brain wasn't up to figuring out what to say.

“Colonel Sheppard?”

Ah, the ever inevitable Scottish accent. Beckett's body covered in a white lab coat drifted into sight. John coughed to clear his throat.

“H-he-ey, doc,” he rasped. “Wuz up?”

Beckett's hands went up to his neck, pulling down the stethoscope. John followed their movement.

“You, apparently,” he said. “Your team briefed us on what happened.” Beckett had the stethoscope in his ears and placed a hand on John's shoulder. “Think you could roll onto your side, lad?”

John did so and gnashed his teeth when the skin of his back pulled and stung. Carson quickly slid the bell of the scope down John's scrub front, sliding it to the back after a listen to the heart for a listen to the lungs. Carson clucked his tongue. “Quite a bit of a tale they had to tell.”

“Try living it,” John whispered. Beckett eased him back onto his chest with a hand on the arm. John felt the light tug of his hospital gown, then tugging on his skin. He shivered at the cooler air brushing his back.

Beckett clucked again and he didn't sound amused. “Looks inflamed. What the bloody hell happened to you? You've got a gash from the top of your shoulder blade to the bottom of your ribcage, inches from your spine... It was so deep you could see bone.”

John sighed wearily. “For some... The key to victory was cheating. And picking off the little guy. My ride was the little guy, but I got the brunt.” He finished on a dry cough. Beckett leaned to the side and produced a cup of water with a straw. John took the straw into his mouth and got in as much water as he could before Beckett pulled it away.

“How thoughtfully succinct of you. Rodney's explanation went on a wee bit longer. Full rant mode so I barely understood a bloody lick of it.”

John sucked in a deep, slow breath, stretching the stiff muscles of his ribs. He shifted in preparation to stretch his back when a hand on his shoulder quickly reminded him of how it was a bad idea. “Well, he did keep pointing out, in a not-so-subtle way, that this would happen. Not that I didn't listen.” He grinned, snickering softly. “Actually, I was a little too busy worrying about getting bit in half. Being clawed hadn't really crossed my mind all that much.”

“Well, as long as you were somewhat aware of what you were getting into. Actually, Rodney seemed quite impressed by the fact you were quite 'morbidly realistic', as he put it, about the whole thing rather than holding onto any form of macho pride.”

“I wasn't in it for the thrills, although I will not deny that it was the coolest ride I've ever taken, and I've flown jets and an F-302.” John shivered and hissed at the cold touch of saline solution being squirted directly on his wound. The initial contact was both a shock and a pain, but after a moment the itching and burning diminished, allowing him a sigh of relief. “It was... Crap, I don't how to describe it... Real. Like how flying is supposed to be, all open air with the wind in your face and nothing closing you in. It was freakin' awesome.”

The saline was mopped away along the edges of the gash by a soft cloth. “And bloody dangerous.”

“Well, yeah, but that's kind of a given.” John fell silent for a moment. “But it was worth it, right? We got the jumper back? The agreement was honored?”

Carson recovered John's wound. “Seeing as how you came back in the jumper, I can safely say that you got the jumper back. Elizabeth was a mite livid about you entering a race for the sake of a ship, until your team explained your reasoning. You've got sound logic, lad, even if your methods are a bit questionable.” The halves of the gown were closed over John's back and tied. John turned his head to see Carson injecting two syringes of contents into the I.V.

“One for the pain, the other to help against the infection,” Beckett said. He shifted positioned to pull the blanket up to John's shoulders. “You rest up now. The sooner this infection is gone, the sooner you can go back to Calatra.”

John furrowed his brow. “Why do I need to go back?”

Carson shrugged. “Beats me. Teyla said it was important. Personally I'd rather wait until you were fully healed, but the lass is quite persuasive.” Then he left to allow Sheppard that much needed rest. John burrowed his head into the pillow and closed his eyes. Of course he needed to go back to Calatra. He'd almost forgotten; there was still a matter of the wager.

--

John should have seen it coming, and blamed it on the pain meds that he hadn't. Lorne was doing the piloting and had been instructed by the watch-post at the gate that the jumper was to land in the town square. They were suspicious, but complied. Lorne set the jumper down and the bay doors whined open. John stood, and the moment he did, he was almost knocked back down by the ocean roar of cheering blasting his way. The villagers had them surrounded and a phalanx of them rushed in to start hustling him out of the jumper. Not one of his team made a move to stop them. They just stood there, grinning, though Carson followed close behind looking a little panicked and shouting politely for the masses to please be careful of the Colonel's back, which was the reason he'd come along in the first place.

John was taken to the starting line of the race where Jihenna stood holding Lenny's reins. She handed the reins over, then someone flashed a picture using a very complicated looking camera. John blinked, dazed and temporarily blinded. A young woman in a flowery yellow dress placed a ribbon with a medal around his neck, kissed his cheek, then placed a wreath of flowers around Lenny's neck. Another picture was taken and John had enough sense to flinch at the flash. A pot-bellied man in navy blue robes trimmed in gold lifted John's arm, almost wrenching it from the socket.

“Good people. I give you our winner!”

The roar that went up pressed against John, vibrating his bones and making his head ring. The next thing he knew, he was being hustled along again, still gripping Lenny's reins with the kita ambling behind, to the first of many long wooden tables set up throughout the field next to the cliff. He was pushed into the seat, wincing when his back hit the padded rest. His team sat on either side of him, with Jihenna and Joren next to Teyla.

“What is this?” John asked. He was feeling a little disoriented and light headed from all the sudden attention.

“The victory dinner,” Teyla explained. “Postponed until you were well enough to attend.”

“People have been waitin' days for it,” Jihenna said. “We like doin' things offical around here, and there was to be no handin' you your prizes until you were ready to get 'em.”

“Aye, well I wished they'd be a bit less enthusiastic about it,” Carson said. “How's your back, lad?”

“Itches,” John said. “But I'll live.”

Jihenna leaned in over the table to get Beckett in her sights. “That be an interestin' way of talkin' you have, healer. Where be ya from?”

Carson blushed slightly, smiling shyly. “Oh well...”

The official, seated across from John, rose, lifting a glass and tapping it. For such a tiny chime, it had impact enough to elicit perfect silence.

The official held out one hand to be handed a scroll that he promptly unrolled. “Colonel John Sheppard of the 'Lantean people, you are here-by awarded that which was termed in the official proclamation of your wager. Adding to that is the prize basket of victory.”

A large basket of fruit and wrapped meats was set down on the table by the girl in the yellow dress.

“And free access to the great Temple of the Ancestors.”

The girl gave John a card the length and width of his palm. He promptly passed it to McKay.

“Terms of the wager will be upheld to the fullest,” the official continued. “Copies of the wager will be secured in the hall of records, never to be altered except should future wagers be conducted requiring alterations in the former wager...”

Yadda, yadda, yadda. John snuck a piece of fruit from the basket and tossed it over his shoulder to Lenny who caught it with a smack and gulp.

“...When all parties are in agreement,” the official finished. Then he rolled up the scroll, handed it to an aide, and clapped his hands. “Let the meal commence.”

The noise resumed. Lids were pulled off pots and cloths off baskets. John's plate was taken from him and food ladled onto it by too many hands. It returned so heaped John was surprised anyone was able to hold it. He eyed the plate dubiously. Granted he could use the calories since the infection had shaved a little off him pound-wise, but this was just ridiculous.

Thank goodness for back up plans and growing up with a dog that actually liked vegetables. With one hand he shoveled food into his mouth, while with the other slipped excess food to Lenny.

All throughout the meal, people kept coming up to John, or Jihenna, or Teyla. Mostly Teyla, especially the vendors, including that vendor who'd gouged her in terms of prices. He had a small crate of seeds in his arms, way more than Teyla had asked for, and kept pouring out apologies along with pleas for Teyla to shop at his stall next year.

The basket of food and the sack of coins John pushed toward Jihenna.

“You guys deserve it,” he said, “for all your help.”

Jihenna took the meat and unwrapped it. “Oh, Colonel, no need but thank ya.” She nudged Ronon in the arm with her elbow and winked at him with yet another coquettish smile. “I make a fine roast with this meat, I do, dat I think ya'd most enjoy, Ronon.”

John mumbled 'Ronon and Jihenna sittin' in a tree.' Rodney hummed 'here comes the bride'. Ronon just glared daggers of fire at the both of them.

“So,” Rodney said, “that's it, then. A fruit basket, day pass, and we get to keep our own jumper.”

“Don't forget world peace,” John said.

“Yes, but we didn't even know if Malak was going to do anything that involved spiraling this world into a civil war. So I'm not sure if that really counts.”

“What else would you have, McKay?” said Ronon.

Rodney shrugged. “I don't know. It's just that Malak kept tossing in a few extra chips. Maybe we could have asked for one of those transports, or farmland, or beach front property or something.”

John grimaced and tossed down his fork. “That's what I should have asked for!”

“Yes, well, we probably could have gotten ownership of the temple or something. Just something to make it all interesting.”

“Rodney,” Carson admonished, “the Colonel wasn't doing this for fun.”

McKay rolled his eyes. “I know that. I'm just pining over a missed opportunity.”

John cleared his throat and blurted, “I wouldn't jump to conclusions.”

Rodney's head snapped in his direction. “What? What to you mean?”

“It means I know how to make a bet, McKay. Although I didn't think I'd actually win...”

Rodney balked. “Why? What did you do?”

John stood and searched the crowd for a certain group of familiar faces. He turned and saw those faces making their way toward the table. Seconds later the gentle hum of voices exploded into a cacophony of whistles, catcalls, and raucous laughter. Everyone turned. Rodney slapped his hand over his mouth and Jihenna threw her head back, cackling.

Malak and his band sauntered in, stiff, regal, and decked out in the finest women's dresses money could buy; heavy with frills, ribbons and bows with bonnets to match. They stopped two feet from John, Malak's smile tight, forced, and almost painful looking. He didn't say anything, just glared, then moved on parading through by the masses as stipulated in the wager should John be the winner of the race.

“Was that Hin?” Jihenna said breathlessly. “So Hin was Malak's champion? Oh dat be rich. I be buyin' the pictures when dey come.”

“So that was your victory spoils,” Rodney said. He nodded in approval. “Good choice, although I would have gone more the underwear-only route.”

John sat back down and patted Lenny's head. “A little vindication for the both of us.” He grinned. And how sweet it was. “We showed them,” he whispered. Willowy my ass.

--

Two weeks later...

Waves stretched high, rolling into themselves, crested in diamond white foam crashing onto the smooth beach. The kita dropped fast unfurling its wings at the last possible second to catch the air and skim over the choppy water. John leaned back and lifted his head in a howl of pure, heart-pounding joy.

He really, really liked this kind of flying.

The End

A/N: You like? I posted both chapters because the entire story was supposed to be a one-shot, but I felt it a little too overwhelmingly long so divided it.