TEAM ANGST: Finest Hour, "Moments, Coming and Going"
Title: Moments, Coming and Going
Author: gothphyle ( interview)
Team: Angst
Prompt: Finest Hour
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: PG-13 (language, non-explicit sexual content)
Warnings: none
Summary: Their place in the universe brought him here, to this moment, to the thousand and one that came before.
Once you've read the story, please take a moment to vote in the poll below. Ratings go from 1 (low) to 9 (high), so all you need to do is enter a single number in that range into each text entry box. You'll be able to see the Prompt and Team (Genre) information in the header above.
More details about the voting procedure can be found here.
*****************************
The bike was dark blue, all sleek lines and the promise of speed.
When John saw it, he had a heart-stopping moment when John feared that if he blinked, if he even breathed, this beautiful sight would be torn from his reality. Finally, the burn of eyes and lungs couldn't be denied, and he gasped, air sucked quickly in as his eyelids jerked to complete their reflex.
It was, amazingly, still there.
He reached out, running his hand over the handles and down the smooth, curved metal between. The chrome hummed beneath his touch, soft ripples tingling up his fingers and arms. John smiled, then laughed out loud at the sensation.
"So, I guess you like it?" There was humor in his dad's voice, something he'd not heard nearly enough the last few months, and he nodded his head vigorously in approval of its presence as much as in agreement.
"Yes, sir! It's awesome!" and it totally, completely was.
John stroked his hand over the seat, testing the springs beneath and the give, imagining how far, how fast, he could ride. If like the wind, blowing dark tumbleweeds across the arid fields just beyond their cul-de-sac, he could leave the brown grass and squat houses behind. Just for a moment.
"Well, aren't you going to try it out?"
It would have been polite to answer, to offer thanks for this wonder, but he was filled with the need to go, go, go. John hopped on the bike, hands firm on the handles as his feet found the pedals. Momentum built quickly, flat terrain no match for his excitement and energy, and he was racing flat-out down the two-lane road before his father's urgings for caution left the yard.
"Reckless, crazy, of all the... You probably never wore a bike helmet, either. Just goes to show-- Colonel? Sheppard? John!"
He was flying, or as close as earth-bound legs could take him, and he felt free. The wind whistled beside, roused by his passing, and he tilted his head up to the sun. He was certain that life couldn't get any better that this: his own bike, an open sky, and the long, clear road of summer stretched out before him.
When November rolled around, he watched regretfully as his bike was packed away, bound for storage with an odd assortment of items deemed unnecessary for this move. Not much use for it in Minnesota in the winter, anyway.
*****************************
June in Barksdale was ten degrees south of Hell, with thirty percent more humidity than the Gulf itself. The heat was suffocating, wet air clinging to his skin and throat like liquid barnacles while sweat trailed in ever-changing topography down his face and beneath his collar. Stripped to the bare minimum that the school dress code would allow, John joined his classmates under the meager, static shade of the oak tree.
"He’s burning up! Someone get a - "
"Hey, Johnny."
He hated that name, hated the little-boy sound of it, but somehow he didn't mind hearing it in Suzy Brockman's sugared drawl. Three more syllables than the phrase should have had, her voice made it into something rich and sweet, and hotter than the weather.
"Hey yourself, Suzy-Q."
She giggled, head ducked and hands fluttering about her face. He wondered sometimes if she could be for real, if the gestures that should look so practiced on the surface could be as genuine, as natural as they seemed. He thought, uncharitably, that she might not be clever enough to fake them.
John dropped to sit beside her, close enough to brush against her long, tanned legs by accident and far enough away that Mrs. Dineman, roaming the grounds of the school, had no cause to single them out for "lewd and lascivious behavior." Having experienced that particular humiliation his second week at BHS he was in no hurry for a repeat performance. He leaned back against the tree, eyes closed, and let the conversation flow around him.
"So, Johnny, you have a date for the dance?" Suzy’s husky voice filtered through his near doze, barely audible as she stared down at her skirt, absently plucking a blade of grass from its folds.
"I don’t know. Do I?"
She laughed, and John smiled at the blush that crept across her cheeks as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Yeah, I think you do."
The bell rang, announcing the end of lunch and the beginning of his afternoon sentence of economics and calculus. He sat through another lecture on the dangers of rampant Capitalism, thoughts drifting. Why had he asked Suzy to the dance? He knew she wanted to go, knew she wanted him to take her, but while she was sweet, and pretty, and all the things he knew he should want, she was just … temporary. John would leave, probably sooner rather than later, and she would stay in her hometown with her parents and her brother, and her forty-three first-name-basis cousins.
"-- this will only be for a minute, John. I need you to stay with me, okay? Stay with me!"
Two weeks later found him at the dance with Suzy, a vision of blonde and pink. The punch was lousy and the music wasn’t much better, but the soft, warm weight of Suzy’s curves snug against his body was nearly perfect. That night after the band packed it in, they gave the chaperones the slip and he drove them over to the Kinman’s field where the stars hung low over the tree-line and the soft sounds of the southern summer filtered through their open windows.
He was surprised when Suzy made the first move, body sliding across the seat as she pressed her mouth to his. Soft and wet, her tongue brushed against his lips as her arms drew him closer. It was good, the heat and the pressure and the rising lust, and John thought he’d finally found a use for the brutal Louisiana June, the perfect backdrop for teenage hormones.
But Suzy pulled away, laughing breathlessly even as she drew his hands forward, cupping them over her breasts. There wasn't much light in the car, but there was more than enough to see the sweet, intense expression on her face. John shivered, drawing back against the door and folding his hands over the wheel. He knew what this was, a night of simple pleasure and warm bodies, but somehow he got the impression that Suzy saw something a lot more permanent.
Something impossible.
Clearing his throat he started the car, studiously ignoring Suzy's confusion as he headed back into town. One night wasn't worth the regret, not for him and certainly not for her, even if what she offered was sweetly tempting.
*****************************
Sliding into the cockpit and taking flight in Uncle Sam's sleek, humming steel took John as close to heaven as he ever planned to go. Drills, maneuvers, landing jumps: it was all a chance to see the ground from above and watch the clouds drift by, too slow to join him.
"Too slow! Damnit, hurry up! Where are the-"
He waded through the classroom work, the officer’s training, the daily politics of base life and military tradition for this, this feeling of utter freedom from the tether of gravity. It wasn't adrenaline, or thrill-seeking, or any one of the hundred accusations that had been hurled his way from disgruntled friends or distrustful peers. It was peace. Even in the midst of engine noise and sonic boom and the gritty reality of practice turned to battle, he could think in ways that being land-bound didn’t allow.
He dreamed of days when he could ride far enough away to leave earth behind altogether. Foolish pipe dreams, made and named and never fully put away, they kept him sane when nothing else could. In the air name and rank counted for less than skill and precision, and there was always a need for the latter.
Once, he'd believed that made him lucky.
He soon learned otherwise.
Rescues were tricky things under the best of circumstances, even moreso when brass and tactics made decisions while expecting loyalty and duty to follow blindly. Brutal realization, that the flight he loved so dearly weighed responsibility more heavily around his neck than any other burden, and warred with friendship all the while. He could follow orders and serve his country, or follow duty and save his comrades.
"You will stay awake! I’m telling you-that's an order! Where the hell-"
Some orders were hard to obey, and others were never meant to be followed. When the whole thing went to hell and back, John took comfort in the fact that he made the only choice he could and wondered if that would be enough if they clipped his wings.
*****************************
When the preliminary explosion came, rocking the pier and sending aftershocks rippling beneath the pier, John hadn't at first realized what was happening. Stabilizers or not, Atlantis was still a floating city and a certain amount of movement and shift was to be expected as the planetary current swirled and eddied about. It was a fact that had become bitterly apparent to some of the more motion-sickness prone members of the expedition and something that Rodney, spared from that ailment by some miracle of genetics, found much cause to complain about regarding its impact on structural calibration and lost manpower hours.
To John the slight sway and dip of the city, growing more pronounced with proximity to the piers that spread out around them like giant water wings, was something to enjoy. Like slow, gliding nights spent in a hammock under the stars, he found the city's gentle motions soothing. Of course, sea changes and tide flows weren't the only thing to occupy John's mind and body at night, and other, far sweeter distractions shielded him from the arriving danger until it was almost too late.
How long had it been since this began? Rationally, he knew the time could be measured in months and weeks, even in hours should he examine it objectively, but it was hard to apply rules of time and logic to this reality. His reality. Time and space were nothing more than increments of an entirely new life, and Rodney the hands and arms of his clock, pacing his days in fits and starts.
Rodney's opening words, "Try to think about where we are in the universe," became the mantra that kept him going when the deadly minutiae threatened to overwhelm. Last hope of Pegasus, last defense against the Wraith, last guard on the road to Earth, their position seemed to be one of desperate hope, and yet…
And yet.
Their place in the universe brought him here, to this moment, to the thousand and one that came before. Rodney, stretched beside him, luxurious and sated, the drying sweat at his hairline still dewed above his flushed skin. Rodney was warm, and solid, and he sprawled across John’s bed and body like he knew he owned them both.
John huffed a sigh against Rodney’s neck, grinning at the disgruntled hmph and light swat to the back of his thigh that followed. As satisfying as the sex was, as many times as Rodney had almost literally killed him with the sharp rush of lust, knowing all the secret irritations made the intimacy seem more solid, more real, more permanent than nights limited to pleasure and discovery. John smiled, and blew another puff of air below Rodney's ear.
"Bastard!" A harder swat this time, enough to really sting, and John fought the urge to laugh.
"What, Rodney?" As attempts at innocence went, John knew his face was far off the mark.
"Oh, right! Like we haven't had this discussion, I don't know, maybe seven hundred times! You know I can't stand-"
"Seven hundred? I didn't know you were keeping track. That's just so... sweet." Nearly grinning in Rodney's face, John made an attempt at sincerity before gracefully conceding the battle to laughter.
Rodney narrowed his eyes, mouth opened and poised for scathing retaliation, when the bed and the floor below shifted beneath them. They both froze, waiting with the hushed breath of experience to see if this new strength to the city's shifting was random, or something more sinister. Several seconds followed quietly, and John had begun to relax when the alarms sounded.
Short work to shrug into pants and shirt, boots tugged over bare feet as he half-hopped to the door grabbing comm and sidearm on the way. Rodney followed suit, grim efficiency in his movements, and they were out the door just as the second wave rocked Atlantis.
Afterwards, John couldn't have said how many minutes it took to reach the west pier, or how many solutions were suggested and discarded as the city tried to tear itself apart from the inside out. But what he would always remember clearly was the furious shout that followed him as Rodney lunged after the closing doors.
"Sheppard! Don't you fucking dare-Sheppard!"
The door sealed shut behind him, fusing in a softened seal of molten heat, and he fought his way through the acrid smoke and wavering flames to reach the detachment valve. The metal burned into his palm and he choked back a scream as the fire surged all around, the crackling interference almost blocking the radio communication entirely.
John's vision grayed to black as Rodney's voice echoed in his head.
*****************************
He was lost in his own mind and missing landmarks had never been so sweetly forgot. There was warmth and hush, and the sweet swell of beautiful oblivion.
He walked to the edge of the pier, glass-smooth water spiraling in all directions. There was a breeze, it ruffled slow-stroking fingers through the hair at his nape, but the ocean remained immutable. He listened to the secret whispers of the city, of the mysteries below, and did not regret that their language escaped him.
Here, in this calm un-knowing, he was free.
"We almost have you free, just another minute. Can you hear me? I need you to answer me, okay?"
The sky was beautiful, crystal clear and painted with aquamarine and sapphire. He watched a distant bird circle lazy designs against the snowy clouds, and wished, in passing, to join him in his aerial stroll. He shaded his eyes against the sun’s glow, and followed the curves of wing and tail until they disappeared into the distance.
A soft sound lapped into his awareness, water tonguing the underbelly of the platform with tiny, liquid sweeps as a faint current formed before his eyes. He frowned in puzzlement, seeking the cause of the disturbance, but found only building white-capped crests and peaks, returning the symphony of ocean to his quiet haze. He shook his head, wincing as the murmur swelled, buzzing, in his ears.
"Could you at least try to speed this up? I could get through faster with a hacksaw and a -"
The noise receded, and he was once more left in perfect calm. It was a novel experience, watching the water etch secret messages and formations on its glittering face with no thought, no worry, for what might rip the timeless symbols apart and paint the scene in blood-hued battle. He counted heartbeats, his own and that of the magic surrounding him, tirelessly ticking away day and night and dawn again.
He drowsed in the late morning, the sun's tread soft on his skin. He smiled as a something broke the surface of the water to his right, the wet-hollow plop reminding him of summer fishing trips and carefree days when a packed away bike or teenage forays into self-denial offered his greatest pangs of regret.
"I know I'll regret this later, but just blow it. Yes! Now! Do I have to do everything-"
The days blended together, a haze of comfort. It wasn't real, it couldn't possibly be, but the thought that this peace had found Atlantis, had found them all in the midst of Pegasus warmed him more surely than the phantom sun. A dream, a beautiful lie, and yet... not perfect. Not entirely. Sweet indeed to believe that they were all safe and protected, cocooned in this space out of time with him, his friends and family and the ever-younger faces chained around his heart with the weight of command, but still lonely.
Still separated.
An existence shielded from everything, a half-life lived in perfect days but without Rodney, and it was just imperfect enough that he could believe it true. The city was safe, they were all safe, but he was left alone.
"I'm not leaving him here alone. Yes, yes, fine, there's someone on duty, monitors, blah, blah, blah. I'm not going."
He wondered how time was measured here, if there were such things as hours in this neverland of too far and not quite there. He knew he should feel hunger, should thirst for water, but instead found the moist evening breezes all he needed. Perhaps this was his reward for a job well done, a life sacrificed to save all that he held most dear. Perhaps it was his penance. Soon even that ceased to matter, his concept of time grown as hazy as the measure itself.
"You've been sleeping long enough. We need you to... Well, we need a lot of things. But mostly... Sheppard. John. I need you."
When he opened his eyes to find the dusk creeping over the water, he wasn’t alarmed. It was slow and rich, like all the elements of this place, and his lips curled in contentment as the low-flying bird glided across his gaze. It circled above him, closer than before, its movements smooth and precise as it circumscribed a clock above him. This cloud the six, and that the nine, long crane-legs bisecting his eyes over and over, beak and neck and trailing tail returning to northstar, to apex, to twelve.
"-more superstitious nonsense, but I'm sure that won't stop him from trying it. If there is any sense left in that thick skull of yours you'll wake up before-"
Slumber anchored him, tugging him deeper into carefree rest. He could stay, here in this phantom land, could sacrifice his awareness to save his dream. They could be safe forever, safe within him. The bird called, strangely shrill as it flew its path once more. It dipped low, feathers skimming his cheek, one left fluttering away as it disappeared into the horizon. He reached for the feather, heart chiming the hour’s count as his fingers grasped. One. Two. Three. Four.
"Four days. Four fucking days! Even for you that's-"
Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.
"-lost nine, but it could have been so much worse. The thing that gets me, though, is that if we'd-"
Ten.
"It was almost eleven, and we really didn't know what was-"
Eleven.
The feather brushed his skin and he inhaled sharply as the tingling spread up his arm, his chest, filling him with something he couldn't contain. He sat up, arms hugged tight to his torso, the tingling transmuting into warmth, then unbearable heat. He cried out, the sun's glow reignited, blistering, water steaming against the molten deck. His eyes teared in protest, vision blurring as the bird returned once more to skim the surface of the sea with clawed hands. He hesitated, finding limbs loose-muscled and weak from so long spent unmoving, but there was really no choice.
Twelve
He jumped.
"-hoping that the new infrastructure will stay sound long enough for us to revise-John?"
Rodney's face was an indistinct blur, layered onto the dull ache from his body. John blinked, trying to bring it into focus. Rodney's hands, so careful against his arm, were completely at odds and totally congruous with his frantic demands for medical personnel.
John listened to Rodney's voice, counting the spoken minutes that guided him back home.
**
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Author: gothphyle ( interview)
Team: Angst
Prompt: Finest Hour
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard
Rating: PG-13 (language, non-explicit sexual content)
Warnings: none
Summary: Their place in the universe brought him here, to this moment, to the thousand and one that came before.
Once you've read the story, please take a moment to vote in the poll below. Ratings go from 1 (low) to 9 (high), so all you need to do is enter a single number in that range into each text entry box. You'll be able to see the Prompt and Team (Genre) information in the header above.
More details about the voting procedure can be found here.
*****************************
The bike was dark blue, all sleek lines and the promise of speed.
When John saw it, he had a heart-stopping moment when John feared that if he blinked, if he even breathed, this beautiful sight would be torn from his reality. Finally, the burn of eyes and lungs couldn't be denied, and he gasped, air sucked quickly in as his eyelids jerked to complete their reflex.
It was, amazingly, still there.
He reached out, running his hand over the handles and down the smooth, curved metal between. The chrome hummed beneath his touch, soft ripples tingling up his fingers and arms. John smiled, then laughed out loud at the sensation.
"So, I guess you like it?" There was humor in his dad's voice, something he'd not heard nearly enough the last few months, and he nodded his head vigorously in approval of its presence as much as in agreement.
"Yes, sir! It's awesome!" and it totally, completely was.
John stroked his hand over the seat, testing the springs beneath and the give, imagining how far, how fast, he could ride. If like the wind, blowing dark tumbleweeds across the arid fields just beyond their cul-de-sac, he could leave the brown grass and squat houses behind. Just for a moment.
"Well, aren't you going to try it out?"
It would have been polite to answer, to offer thanks for this wonder, but he was filled with the need to go, go, go. John hopped on the bike, hands firm on the handles as his feet found the pedals. Momentum built quickly, flat terrain no match for his excitement and energy, and he was racing flat-out down the two-lane road before his father's urgings for caution left the yard.
"Reckless, crazy, of all the... You probably never wore a bike helmet, either. Just goes to show-- Colonel? Sheppard? John!"
He was flying, or as close as earth-bound legs could take him, and he felt free. The wind whistled beside, roused by his passing, and he tilted his head up to the sun. He was certain that life couldn't get any better that this: his own bike, an open sky, and the long, clear road of summer stretched out before him.
When November rolled around, he watched regretfully as his bike was packed away, bound for storage with an odd assortment of items deemed unnecessary for this move. Not much use for it in Minnesota in the winter, anyway.
*****************************
June in Barksdale was ten degrees south of Hell, with thirty percent more humidity than the Gulf itself. The heat was suffocating, wet air clinging to his skin and throat like liquid barnacles while sweat trailed in ever-changing topography down his face and beneath his collar. Stripped to the bare minimum that the school dress code would allow, John joined his classmates under the meager, static shade of the oak tree.
"He’s burning up! Someone get a - "
"Hey, Johnny."
He hated that name, hated the little-boy sound of it, but somehow he didn't mind hearing it in Suzy Brockman's sugared drawl. Three more syllables than the phrase should have had, her voice made it into something rich and sweet, and hotter than the weather.
"Hey yourself, Suzy-Q."
She giggled, head ducked and hands fluttering about her face. He wondered sometimes if she could be for real, if the gestures that should look so practiced on the surface could be as genuine, as natural as they seemed. He thought, uncharitably, that she might not be clever enough to fake them.
John dropped to sit beside her, close enough to brush against her long, tanned legs by accident and far enough away that Mrs. Dineman, roaming the grounds of the school, had no cause to single them out for "lewd and lascivious behavior." Having experienced that particular humiliation his second week at BHS he was in no hurry for a repeat performance. He leaned back against the tree, eyes closed, and let the conversation flow around him.
"So, Johnny, you have a date for the dance?" Suzy’s husky voice filtered through his near doze, barely audible as she stared down at her skirt, absently plucking a blade of grass from its folds.
"I don’t know. Do I?"
She laughed, and John smiled at the blush that crept across her cheeks as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Yeah, I think you do."
The bell rang, announcing the end of lunch and the beginning of his afternoon sentence of economics and calculus. He sat through another lecture on the dangers of rampant Capitalism, thoughts drifting. Why had he asked Suzy to the dance? He knew she wanted to go, knew she wanted him to take her, but while she was sweet, and pretty, and all the things he knew he should want, she was just … temporary. John would leave, probably sooner rather than later, and she would stay in her hometown with her parents and her brother, and her forty-three first-name-basis cousins.
"-- this will only be for a minute, John. I need you to stay with me, okay? Stay with me!"
Two weeks later found him at the dance with Suzy, a vision of blonde and pink. The punch was lousy and the music wasn’t much better, but the soft, warm weight of Suzy’s curves snug against his body was nearly perfect. That night after the band packed it in, they gave the chaperones the slip and he drove them over to the Kinman’s field where the stars hung low over the tree-line and the soft sounds of the southern summer filtered through their open windows.
He was surprised when Suzy made the first move, body sliding across the seat as she pressed her mouth to his. Soft and wet, her tongue brushed against his lips as her arms drew him closer. It was good, the heat and the pressure and the rising lust, and John thought he’d finally found a use for the brutal Louisiana June, the perfect backdrop for teenage hormones.
But Suzy pulled away, laughing breathlessly even as she drew his hands forward, cupping them over her breasts. There wasn't much light in the car, but there was more than enough to see the sweet, intense expression on her face. John shivered, drawing back against the door and folding his hands over the wheel. He knew what this was, a night of simple pleasure and warm bodies, but somehow he got the impression that Suzy saw something a lot more permanent.
Something impossible.
Clearing his throat he started the car, studiously ignoring Suzy's confusion as he headed back into town. One night wasn't worth the regret, not for him and certainly not for her, even if what she offered was sweetly tempting.
*****************************
Sliding into the cockpit and taking flight in Uncle Sam's sleek, humming steel took John as close to heaven as he ever planned to go. Drills, maneuvers, landing jumps: it was all a chance to see the ground from above and watch the clouds drift by, too slow to join him.
"Too slow! Damnit, hurry up! Where are the-"
He waded through the classroom work, the officer’s training, the daily politics of base life and military tradition for this, this feeling of utter freedom from the tether of gravity. It wasn't adrenaline, or thrill-seeking, or any one of the hundred accusations that had been hurled his way from disgruntled friends or distrustful peers. It was peace. Even in the midst of engine noise and sonic boom and the gritty reality of practice turned to battle, he could think in ways that being land-bound didn’t allow.
He dreamed of days when he could ride far enough away to leave earth behind altogether. Foolish pipe dreams, made and named and never fully put away, they kept him sane when nothing else could. In the air name and rank counted for less than skill and precision, and there was always a need for the latter.
Once, he'd believed that made him lucky.
He soon learned otherwise.
Rescues were tricky things under the best of circumstances, even moreso when brass and tactics made decisions while expecting loyalty and duty to follow blindly. Brutal realization, that the flight he loved so dearly weighed responsibility more heavily around his neck than any other burden, and warred with friendship all the while. He could follow orders and serve his country, or follow duty and save his comrades.
"You will stay awake! I’m telling you-that's an order! Where the hell-"
Some orders were hard to obey, and others were never meant to be followed. When the whole thing went to hell and back, John took comfort in the fact that he made the only choice he could and wondered if that would be enough if they clipped his wings.
*****************************
When the preliminary explosion came, rocking the pier and sending aftershocks rippling beneath the pier, John hadn't at first realized what was happening. Stabilizers or not, Atlantis was still a floating city and a certain amount of movement and shift was to be expected as the planetary current swirled and eddied about. It was a fact that had become bitterly apparent to some of the more motion-sickness prone members of the expedition and something that Rodney, spared from that ailment by some miracle of genetics, found much cause to complain about regarding its impact on structural calibration and lost manpower hours.
To John the slight sway and dip of the city, growing more pronounced with proximity to the piers that spread out around them like giant water wings, was something to enjoy. Like slow, gliding nights spent in a hammock under the stars, he found the city's gentle motions soothing. Of course, sea changes and tide flows weren't the only thing to occupy John's mind and body at night, and other, far sweeter distractions shielded him from the arriving danger until it was almost too late.
How long had it been since this began? Rationally, he knew the time could be measured in months and weeks, even in hours should he examine it objectively, but it was hard to apply rules of time and logic to this reality. His reality. Time and space were nothing more than increments of an entirely new life, and Rodney the hands and arms of his clock, pacing his days in fits and starts.
Rodney's opening words, "Try to think about where we are in the universe," became the mantra that kept him going when the deadly minutiae threatened to overwhelm. Last hope of Pegasus, last defense against the Wraith, last guard on the road to Earth, their position seemed to be one of desperate hope, and yet…
And yet.
Their place in the universe brought him here, to this moment, to the thousand and one that came before. Rodney, stretched beside him, luxurious and sated, the drying sweat at his hairline still dewed above his flushed skin. Rodney was warm, and solid, and he sprawled across John’s bed and body like he knew he owned them both.
John huffed a sigh against Rodney’s neck, grinning at the disgruntled hmph and light swat to the back of his thigh that followed. As satisfying as the sex was, as many times as Rodney had almost literally killed him with the sharp rush of lust, knowing all the secret irritations made the intimacy seem more solid, more real, more permanent than nights limited to pleasure and discovery. John smiled, and blew another puff of air below Rodney's ear.
"Bastard!" A harder swat this time, enough to really sting, and John fought the urge to laugh.
"What, Rodney?" As attempts at innocence went, John knew his face was far off the mark.
"Oh, right! Like we haven't had this discussion, I don't know, maybe seven hundred times! You know I can't stand-"
"Seven hundred? I didn't know you were keeping track. That's just so... sweet." Nearly grinning in Rodney's face, John made an attempt at sincerity before gracefully conceding the battle to laughter.
Rodney narrowed his eyes, mouth opened and poised for scathing retaliation, when the bed and the floor below shifted beneath them. They both froze, waiting with the hushed breath of experience to see if this new strength to the city's shifting was random, or something more sinister. Several seconds followed quietly, and John had begun to relax when the alarms sounded.
Short work to shrug into pants and shirt, boots tugged over bare feet as he half-hopped to the door grabbing comm and sidearm on the way. Rodney followed suit, grim efficiency in his movements, and they were out the door just as the second wave rocked Atlantis.
Afterwards, John couldn't have said how many minutes it took to reach the west pier, or how many solutions were suggested and discarded as the city tried to tear itself apart from the inside out. But what he would always remember clearly was the furious shout that followed him as Rodney lunged after the closing doors.
"Sheppard! Don't you fucking dare-Sheppard!"
The door sealed shut behind him, fusing in a softened seal of molten heat, and he fought his way through the acrid smoke and wavering flames to reach the detachment valve. The metal burned into his palm and he choked back a scream as the fire surged all around, the crackling interference almost blocking the radio communication entirely.
John's vision grayed to black as Rodney's voice echoed in his head.
*****************************
He was lost in his own mind and missing landmarks had never been so sweetly forgot. There was warmth and hush, and the sweet swell of beautiful oblivion.
He walked to the edge of the pier, glass-smooth water spiraling in all directions. There was a breeze, it ruffled slow-stroking fingers through the hair at his nape, but the ocean remained immutable. He listened to the secret whispers of the city, of the mysteries below, and did not regret that their language escaped him.
Here, in this calm un-knowing, he was free.
"We almost have you free, just another minute. Can you hear me? I need you to answer me, okay?"
The sky was beautiful, crystal clear and painted with aquamarine and sapphire. He watched a distant bird circle lazy designs against the snowy clouds, and wished, in passing, to join him in his aerial stroll. He shaded his eyes against the sun’s glow, and followed the curves of wing and tail until they disappeared into the distance.
A soft sound lapped into his awareness, water tonguing the underbelly of the platform with tiny, liquid sweeps as a faint current formed before his eyes. He frowned in puzzlement, seeking the cause of the disturbance, but found only building white-capped crests and peaks, returning the symphony of ocean to his quiet haze. He shook his head, wincing as the murmur swelled, buzzing, in his ears.
"Could you at least try to speed this up? I could get through faster with a hacksaw and a -"
The noise receded, and he was once more left in perfect calm. It was a novel experience, watching the water etch secret messages and formations on its glittering face with no thought, no worry, for what might rip the timeless symbols apart and paint the scene in blood-hued battle. He counted heartbeats, his own and that of the magic surrounding him, tirelessly ticking away day and night and dawn again.
He drowsed in the late morning, the sun's tread soft on his skin. He smiled as a something broke the surface of the water to his right, the wet-hollow plop reminding him of summer fishing trips and carefree days when a packed away bike or teenage forays into self-denial offered his greatest pangs of regret.
"I know I'll regret this later, but just blow it. Yes! Now! Do I have to do everything-"
The days blended together, a haze of comfort. It wasn't real, it couldn't possibly be, but the thought that this peace had found Atlantis, had found them all in the midst of Pegasus warmed him more surely than the phantom sun. A dream, a beautiful lie, and yet... not perfect. Not entirely. Sweet indeed to believe that they were all safe and protected, cocooned in this space out of time with him, his friends and family and the ever-younger faces chained around his heart with the weight of command, but still lonely.
Still separated.
An existence shielded from everything, a half-life lived in perfect days but without Rodney, and it was just imperfect enough that he could believe it true. The city was safe, they were all safe, but he was left alone.
"I'm not leaving him here alone. Yes, yes, fine, there's someone on duty, monitors, blah, blah, blah. I'm not going."
He wondered how time was measured here, if there were such things as hours in this neverland of too far and not quite there. He knew he should feel hunger, should thirst for water, but instead found the moist evening breezes all he needed. Perhaps this was his reward for a job well done, a life sacrificed to save all that he held most dear. Perhaps it was his penance. Soon even that ceased to matter, his concept of time grown as hazy as the measure itself.
"You've been sleeping long enough. We need you to... Well, we need a lot of things. But mostly... Sheppard. John. I need you."
When he opened his eyes to find the dusk creeping over the water, he wasn’t alarmed. It was slow and rich, like all the elements of this place, and his lips curled in contentment as the low-flying bird glided across his gaze. It circled above him, closer than before, its movements smooth and precise as it circumscribed a clock above him. This cloud the six, and that the nine, long crane-legs bisecting his eyes over and over, beak and neck and trailing tail returning to northstar, to apex, to twelve.
"-more superstitious nonsense, but I'm sure that won't stop him from trying it. If there is any sense left in that thick skull of yours you'll wake up before-"
Slumber anchored him, tugging him deeper into carefree rest. He could stay, here in this phantom land, could sacrifice his awareness to save his dream. They could be safe forever, safe within him. The bird called, strangely shrill as it flew its path once more. It dipped low, feathers skimming his cheek, one left fluttering away as it disappeared into the horizon. He reached for the feather, heart chiming the hour’s count as his fingers grasped. One. Two. Three. Four.
"Four days. Four fucking days! Even for you that's-"
Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine.
"-lost nine, but it could have been so much worse. The thing that gets me, though, is that if we'd-"
Ten.
"It was almost eleven, and we really didn't know what was-"
Eleven.
The feather brushed his skin and he inhaled sharply as the tingling spread up his arm, his chest, filling him with something he couldn't contain. He sat up, arms hugged tight to his torso, the tingling transmuting into warmth, then unbearable heat. He cried out, the sun's glow reignited, blistering, water steaming against the molten deck. His eyes teared in protest, vision blurring as the bird returned once more to skim the surface of the sea with clawed hands. He hesitated, finding limbs loose-muscled and weak from so long spent unmoving, but there was really no choice.
Twelve
He jumped.
"-hoping that the new infrastructure will stay sound long enough for us to revise-John?"
Rodney's face was an indistinct blur, layered onto the dull ache from his body. John blinked, trying to bring it into focus. Rodney's hands, so careful against his arm, were completely at odds and totally congruous with his frantic demands for medical personnel.
John listened to Rodney's voice, counting the spoken minutes that guided him back home.
**
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