The More Things Change, by ReySolo (ancient history challenge)
Title: The More Things Change
Author: ReySolo aka ezazahaz
Characters: John and Rodney. Sort of.
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,643 (but hey, it’s within the limit if you pretend it’s 5 stories...)
Notes: AU—sort of, John's POV—sort of. Also, maybe a hint of McShep—sort of.
Summary: John and Rodney have been in the habit of saving each other’s lives since long before they were John and Rodney...


My first flashfic! Hope you like it! Thanks to Tori for the quick beta. :)


The More Things Change


**Seventh Century BC Assyria**

The sounds of battle are coming closer, and he’s still looking through the damn library.

“For the last time, we have to get going,” I stress.

“But... all of this...” he waves his arms at the innumerous tablets spread about the large hall. “Years of research—no small part of it being my research, if you recall—we can’t just leave them here to be destroyed!”

“Right, so instead I’ll just leave you here to be destroyed with them?” As a royal guard, technically my duties are to King Sin-shar-ishkun and to the city. But some of the others had taken the king off through a secret passageway out of the palace, and right now, I am focused only on protecting the Empire’s best astronomer—and, coincidentally, my friend.

He looks up, as though he really hadn’t heard the approaching danger until now. Now panic is really showing on his face, and yet, there’s still indecision. “I—we—”

“Have to go,” I grit out, finally just grabbing his arm and hauling him out of the room. Desperately, he reaches out, grabbing a couple of the tablets—I don’t think he even notices which ones—and clutching them to his chest.

We are forced to turn around several times when the sounds of the siege come a little too close, but we manage to make it out of the palace without being seen.

The devastation of the city when we make it outside is horrifying. Chariots flashing through the streets, people screaming, soldiers clad in blood-red armor and brandishing large spears, torches, other instruments of destruction. I feel a moment’s guilt for my plans to abandon the city, for not standing with my countrymen to hold my homeland against the invaders. But then my charge whimpers beside me, and I know I have to get him to safety.

“Come on,” I tell him, again gripping his arm to drag him towards the city wall, crouching behind cover wherever I can.

“There’s not going to be anything left, is there?” he mutters, as he follows me in a daze.

“We can’t do anything against an entire army—” I stop, throwing him to the ground and shielding him with my body as a chariot comes charging past. I wince as the spear grazes my shoulder, but despite the searing pain, I don’t think it’s too bad. I stand, lifting him up and quickly moving us out of sight once again.

He notices my injury and suddenly worry is added in to the panic and shock displayed across his face. “Are you—?”

“It’s fine,” I tell him, hoping I’m not lying. “But we really, really have to get out of here...”

And somehow, we do. Through the chaos and wanton destruction, the soldiers and horses and screaming townsfolk and fires and even looters, we manage to make it out of Nineveh.

Only once we’re a good distance away, far enough that to any attackers we’re simply specks on the landscape, do we stop and look back at the ruins of the city.

“It’s gone.” His eyes are wide with shock and grief, his arms still miraculously clutching those two tablets he managed to rescue from the doomed library.

“But we made it.” It’s a cold comfort, but at least it’s something.

And with that, I pass out.



**First Century Rome**

As I approach my chariot, I see a man I don’t recognize leaning down to see under it.

“Hey!” I shout, jogging up, ready to catch him if he tries to run.

He stands, and I realize he looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place him. “This axle is about ten seconds from splitting.”

My eyes narrow. “Did you sabotage it?”

“What? No!” He looks shocked and offended by my question—which means either he didn’t do it or, of course, he’s lying. “I merely observed the faulty construction. You go out there in this thing, you’re going to die.”

I grin morbidly. “There’s a good chance I’ll die every time I go out there anyway.”

He looks disgusted. “I know. But you can decrease those chances from one hundred percent to... well, something significantly less than that, if you let me fix this. I am one of the best engineers in the Empire, after all.”

“Uh-huh,” I say skeptically. “And why should I believe you’ll help me? And not just rig it to give out at the first turn? Do you have money riding on the Greens?”

He throws up his arms. “Fine! Don’t trust me! Get yourself killed! Or,” he says condescendingly, holding up a finger as though he just came up with an idea, the only idea which could possibly have any merit, “You could let me work on it and fix it up even better than any of your opponents’ chariots, because I’ve got more money than your freedom would cost bet on your team, and I don’t want to lose it because some idiotic excuse for an engineer couldn’t figure out how to stick two pieces of wood together to save his life! ...Or, in this case, yours.”

It still sounds a little too good to be true, but for some reason, I want to trust him.

Besides, the engineers who usually work on the chariots did already complete their “inspections” today, so there’s no one else to do the work. And really, what I said about my chances was true—so I don’t really have much to lose. Plus, the winnings from this particular race could get me a lot closer to my eventual freedom.

“Okay,” I agree, and the engineer looks almost suspicious at my new lack of suspicion.

But then he nods once, bends down to grab a box of tools I hadn’t even realized was there, and gets to work.

I’ve been watching him mutter to himself about the shoddy workmanship for about ten minutes when my master approaches. The engineer, who had been retrieving a different tool, freezes, a look of panic on his face. He then throws himself behind the chariot, crouching in what must be an incredibly uncomfortable position.

“Don’t let him see me!” he hisses.

“What?” I look down at him skeptically, then back up at the master, who hasn’t seen him yet. “Why?”

“Just—don’t.” He waves his hands wildly in my direction, which I interpret to mean Quit looking at me, you imbecile!

“I repeat,” I say calmly, though I do give in and move my gaze away from him, just in case the engineer has a good explanation, “Why?” I look at the newly detached pole, wondering how to explain it.

“Well, I...” he begins nervously, “I may have unintentionally made a slightly inappropriate comment toward his wife.”

“Really,” I reply, smirking. Not the loveliest woman in the empire, that’s for sure.

“It’s just... her face, and her... well, how was I to know she wasn’t his manservant?” He whispers, managing to sound embarrassed and offended at the same time.

I snort, but dampen the smile I feel coming on, as my master is getting closer. He doesn’t look particularly happy, but then, he rarely does, except right after a race, when I’ve successfully beaten the Greens. He is, of course, a proud—and wealthy—supporter of the Blues.

“You are supposed to be practicing for the race,” my master chides me.

“Yes, sir.”

“Why is your chariot in pieces?” he demands.

“I—accidentally knocked the pole out of alignment, sir, but I think I’ve got it.”

He narrows his eyes.

I keep my eyes down, giving my best innocent face.

“I expect you to be ready, and to perform as well as you usually do,” he says gruffly.

“Yes, sir.”

With that, he leaves.

And the engineer collapses out from behind my chariot, sighing, “Oh, thank Minerva.”

I grin. “Well, are you going to get back to work now? I have a race to win.”



**Eleventh Century Byzantium**

I awaken slowly, not entirely certain where I am. I don't open my eyes at first; if I'm in enemy hands, I don't want to give away the fact that I'm awake. But the bed I'm lying in is relatively soft, and as my memory slowly returns, I recall that I made it far from the battlegrounds at Jerusalem. The last thing I remember, though, is collapsing in the middle of a road.

Slowly, I open my eyes a hair, taking in my surroundings. A small, dark room, lit only by a flickering lantern on a desk in the corner. The only other person in the room is sitting at the desk, writing something. He's wearing a brown robe, and I realize he's probably a monk or friar or something. Which explains the numerous manuscripts spread all around him—he's literate.

I start to sit up, then abruptly the pain in my side reminds me why I collapsed in the first place, and I fall back before I really manage to get anywhere. My groan alerts the man, who looks over at me.

“Finally awake, are you?” he asks, in a voice that sounds almost annoyed.

I don't have a response to that, so I don't say anything.

“You can talk, can’t you?” Only now does he start to sound a little worried, and he stands to come closer. He doesn’t give me a chance to prove I can speak yet, though. “I didn’t think you were injured anywhere else—apart from the gaping hole in your side, of course. What were you doing, letting yourself be gutted like a fish?”

I raise my eyebrows—a movement I can make without pain. “Fighting in the Holy War.” I wince as he begins prodding at my wound.

“Oh. Right. That ridiculous debacle. ‘Pilgrims,’ fighting to protect the Holy Land from infidels, because it is God’s will that thousands of people die in His name?”

He doesn’t sound like any religious figure I’ve known. Not that I’ve known too many, myself. Most of them seem to live off on their own—devoting their lives to God, or so I thought. “You don’t support the Pope’s call to take back Jerusalem?” Not that I do. Not anymore...

“Did I not just say that?” He makes an irritated sound. “I don’t think God’s up there telling us all to kill each other, no.”

I raise my eyebrows. “I’ve got to say, that seems like a rare attitude these days. Especially for—aren’t you a monk?”

He waves a hand dismissively. “Technically. It was the only way to get an education—my family couldn’t afford a tutor, so instead I joined the monastery, just so I could learn to read. Now that’s pretty much all I do all day. Read, copy manuscripts—fascinating, of course, but some of them have the most atrocious handwriting... Of course, I also apparently take the time out to nurse back to health the occasional soldier of Christ who somehow makes it all the way here before passing out bleeding in the middle of the road.”

“Sorry to interrupt your devout pursuit of knowledge,” I apologize dryly.

“No, really, it’s fine, I was just thinking my sheets needed more color anyway, but the Church tends toward the ascetic side.” The man’s tone suggests he’s annoyed with me, but his eyes—why do I feel so sure I can read those eyes?—his eyes suggest he’s actually enjoying the opportunity for discourse.

He quite possibly saved my life; I may as well repay him with some conversation. At least, that’s my plan, but my body insists on sleep instead. As I drift off, I hear him ask worriedly, “Hey, are you okay? You’re not dying on my bed, are you? You can sleep there, but there’s no way I’m dragging your decaying corpse...”



**Seventeenth Century England**

He sits slumped over some papers, a half-empty mug of ale beside him, and the smell alone is evidence it’s not his first.

“What have you been doing to yourself?”

He looks up at me, eyes narrowing as though he’s not entirely certain I’m here. “You...”

“Mind if I join you?”

“Li’l sooner might’ve b’n nice...” he slurs.

“Yeah, I’m getting that,” I tell him honestly. “I’m sorry.”

He waves a hand, nearly knocking over the ale, which I carefully set out of his reach. “You had... things there... people...”

I look down at the table. “I had things here, too. People. I never finished the revisions for you, did I?”

“’T’s right... From back when I was a respected man of the Society...”

“You still are.” Mostly. When he’s not alienating people even more than usual.

“I did great things,” he tells me, proudly and drunkenly.

“I know.”

“Developed brilliant models of mechanics and optics and mathematics...”

“I know.”

“Greatest mind of the century... Maybe ever...”

“I know.”

“But nobody appreciated my genius.”

“People did. I did.”

“Not that bumbling midget who doesn’t understand a thing about light, or that philosophaster Leibniz—He stole my work on fluxions, you know.”

“I know. I wrote to him about it.”

“You did?” he meets my eyes, as if finally realizing I’m actually here.

I nod. “Told him I knew you’d come up with his so-called ‘calculus’ first.”

“Hm.” He stares at me contemplatively, but I can’t tell if he’s thinking about Leibniz, or me, or gravitation, or just getting another drink.

After a moment’s silence, I say, “Your friends are worried about you.”

He looks truly bewildered. “Friends? I have friends?”

“You may try your hardest to scare everyone off, but yes, you have friends.”

“You?”

I swallow.

“Let’s get you to bed, shall we?” I put my arm around his shoulder and help him stand unsteadily.

“But I haven’t finished my...” He blinks at the chaos on the table, and it’s unclear whether he wants to finish the scribbled equations or the half-drunk mug of ale.

Regardless, I inform him firmly, “You’re done for tonight.”

“You’ll...?” he begins hopefully.

“I’ll take care of you,” I promise.

In thanks, he promptly vomits all over me.



**Twenty-First Century Pegasus Galaxy**

“McKay...!” I growl.

“Yes, yes, working on it...” comes his annoyed voice over my radio. “I just need—twenty more seconds.”

“I don’t know if I have twenty more seconds.” I eye the spikes, closing in on me from both sides of the room, like some booby-trapped entrance to a tomb in a—oh, wait, it is a booby-trapped entrance to a tomb, we just didn’t know that until I’d taken one step too far inside. “In case I wasn’t clear, I’m about to be impaled by a bunch of huge metal spikes like some—”

And then they stop.

I breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

“Sheppard?” He sounds worried.

“I’m good, Rodney. Though I’d appreciate it if you could also get the door—”

The door slides open to reveal my savior, looking characteristically smug.

I side-step out, not wanting to risk pricking myself on any of the spikes which, with my luck, would infect me with some deadly poison.

“Your turn next,” he says, waving a finger in my face.

I glare at him. “I can’t believe you’re seriously keeping track. Are you saying you wouldn’t have saved me if it hadn’t been your turn?”

He seems to ponder that for a moment, then shrugs. “I suppose I could have taken an IOU. With interest, of course.”

I roll my eyes. “Of cour—” My eyes widen, and I grab him, throwing us both to the ground as an arrow flies just over our heads.

“What the—!?” He shrieks, staring in alarm at the arrow that just missed us—then the next two, three, more that head our way.

As we quickly detangle ourselves and make our way toward cover, I cheerfully inform him, “Your turn next.”


The End. Until the next time, anyway.





Author’s Notes: I don’t actually believe Leibniz stole calculus from Newton; historians seem to agree now that they both developed it independently. But, well, Newton was sort of petty, arrogant, and bad with people. :) (Newton also had an “intimate friend,” Nicolas Fatio de Duillier. But when their friendship “cooled,” Newton went into a depressed slump for a year or two... Ah, Wikipedia, letting me follow slashy celebrity gossip from celebrities centuries dead...)

Also, forgive my focus on Western history—unfortunately, that’s really all they taught in school, and even though I did a fair amount of research for the particulars here, I needed to start with what I knew. Just pretend they were off in China inventing gunpowder and messing around elsewhere in the lives between. :)