Originally Posted: February 9, 2007  (LiveJournal Link)
Length/Rating: 394 words, PG, Gen
Pairing/Warnings: none
Summary: Sometimes the old ways are best, or: Overwhelming proof. Reader’s choice. 😉 Written for sga_flashfic Sickness challenge.

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“So this how’sit ends,” John stared mournfully into an empty mug of what might have been rum. Not that he had paid much attention to the taste; as long as it numbed the headache he didn’t care if it tasted like puréed bratwurst. Now if it would only calm the shaking. And the fever. And the icy fingers of impending doom that spiraled out from his bones.

“I’m gon’to die of- of-, hey Carson,” he poked the snoozing doctor beside him with his mug, “Caaaarson, wake-up. I can’t ‘member what we’re dying of.” He frowned when Carson muttered something unintelligible in his sleep and rolled away from the prodding.

Rodney found him there five minutes later, watching in rapt wonder as Carson sloooooowly slid off the bench to puddle under the rough-hewn table. All without waking up.

“I tnk-thkn-think,” Rodney finally managed, “think he has too much to drink. Yes.” He sat down next to John very carefully and handed him a new mug, one miraculously still full of possibly-rum. “You, you have not too-much. You need more.”

“I’m dying.” John rolled his eyes mournfully in his best kicked-puppy expression, which had won him sympathy in the past. Not sympathy from Rodney of course, never sympathy from Rodney, but he was dying and he wanted sympathy from someone dammit. The floor beside Carson was starting to look very comfy.

“No-no-no,” Rodney waved a finger, “this’s get-better-juice, see?” He swung his other hand in the general direction of the other impressively drunk-but-not-dead members of the two infected gate teams. Sadly, this was the hand holding his own mostly-full mug, and the two of them had a moment of silence for the loss.

“No more,” John pushed his mug away, but the tremors turned the push into a shove, sending the mug bouncing off the table and into a kamakazi roll across the common room. “Whoops.”

“See? Need more.” Rodney pushed his slightly-full mug into John’s hands. “High prst-pest-priest muckymuck says when you catch tefta-telfnu-teckoi–flu you hafta drink, so you drink.”

“You know, this’why I like T’yla better.” John glared across the mug, but drank anyway because Teyla might threaten him with the glare-of-mothers, but Rodney was sibling-level evil.

Half an hour later the last semi-coherent thought John had before joining Rodney and Carson under the table was that the villagers made some damn good NyQuil.