Numb (Atlantis)
Title: Numb
Author: Trill
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: none
spoilers: none
Rating: T, PG 13, something in there
Summary: Already it’s been five minutes and he’s sure that he’s doing this all wrong.
Notes: An older fic of mine, I meant to finish it but the muse left me. Obviously, it's set in season one. I'd really like to see someone else finish this.
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
With every movement, he prays that he’s doing it right. That he’s timing it right, that the compressions are deep enough, that Teyla is breathing right.
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
Because it’s not like this has ever come up before. Not at Area 51, not in Russia, certainly not in Antarctica.
He’s relying on a two hour group lesson and cursing himself for nearly falling asleep during it. He should have been taking notes, should have paid more attention…
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
And as he goes he’s remembering things.
They should have taken off his shirt, not just his jacket, but there’s not time for that now.
Compressions should be one to two inches…
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
In the back of his mind he starts to wonder where the hell Beckett is, if Ford even made it back to Atlantis yet. Already it’s been five minutes and he’s sure that he’s doing this all wrong.
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
The distance to the puddle jumper makes him bitter.
Stupid Sheppard and his stupid precautions. Next time he went off world he would demand that they fly the jumper right to the goddamned villager’s front doors.
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
He grunts out a number with every compression. Aside from that repetition, the world is eerily silent. He hears no wildlife but can’t remember if he did before all this started, either.
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
He sees the puddle jumper land out of the corner of his eye but doesn’t look up. It isn’t important that he watch the medical team spill out and rush to them, all that is required of him is that he keep this up until they take over.
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
And then they’re there, someone pulling him away while Carson takes his place. John’s shirt being cut off and little white tabs connecting him to the monitor.
Suddenly it’s all too real.
More than anything else he feels Ford follow him when he runs to the jumper. He falls to his knees beside it and vomits.
It’s several long moments later, as he rests his forehead against the cool metal of the jumper, that Ford reaches out and lays a hand on his back.
He wants to scream and cry and laugh all at the same time, but he’s too drained to even move right now so he just stays there, the acrid taste of his last meal burning his throat.
Next thing he knows he’s being pulled up by his arms and following a somewhat steady beeping into the jumper. He’s led to one of the real seats at the front, behind the pilot’s seat, as he’d grown accustomed to.
Teyla kneels beside him and wipes his face with a damp rag. Her lips move soundlessly, a frown crosses her face, and it doesn’t even register to him that he still hears nothing but his own breathing and the beeping.
He sees her call for Carson and mistakes it for hearing. The doctor appears in front of him and asks him questions that he can’t force his mouth to answer.
Something between a laugh and a choked sob escapes his lips and suddenly it hurts to breath.
Then there’s a needle in his arm and Teyla’s warm hand on his cold cheek, both assuring him that several hours of dreamless sleep are on their way.
Author: Trill
Fandom: SGA
Pairing: none
spoilers: none
Rating: T, PG 13, something in there
Summary: Already it’s been five minutes and he’s sure that he’s doing this all wrong.
Notes: An older fic of mine, I meant to finish it but the muse left me. Obviously, it's set in season one. I'd really like to see someone else finish this.
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
With every movement, he prays that he’s doing it right. That he’s timing it right, that the compressions are deep enough, that Teyla is breathing right.
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
Because it’s not like this has ever come up before. Not at Area 51, not in Russia, certainly not in Antarctica.
He’s relying on a two hour group lesson and cursing himself for nearly falling asleep during it. He should have been taking notes, should have paid more attention…
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
And as he goes he’s remembering things.
They should have taken off his shirt, not just his jacket, but there’s not time for that now.
Compressions should be one to two inches…
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
In the back of his mind he starts to wonder where the hell Beckett is, if Ford even made it back to Atlantis yet. Already it’s been five minutes and he’s sure that he’s doing this all wrong.
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
The distance to the puddle jumper makes him bitter.
Stupid Sheppard and his stupid precautions. Next time he went off world he would demand that they fly the jumper right to the goddamned villager’s front doors.
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
He grunts out a number with every compression. Aside from that repetition, the world is eerily silent. He hears no wildlife but can’t remember if he did before all this started, either.
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
He sees the puddle jumper land out of the corner of his eye but doesn’t look up. It isn’t important that he watch the medical team spill out and rush to them, all that is required of him is that he keep this up until they take over.
1...
2...
3...
4...
5...
And then they’re there, someone pulling him away while Carson takes his place. John’s shirt being cut off and little white tabs connecting him to the monitor.
Suddenly it’s all too real.
More than anything else he feels Ford follow him when he runs to the jumper. He falls to his knees beside it and vomits.
It’s several long moments later, as he rests his forehead against the cool metal of the jumper, that Ford reaches out and lays a hand on his back.
He wants to scream and cry and laugh all at the same time, but he’s too drained to even move right now so he just stays there, the acrid taste of his last meal burning his throat.
Next thing he knows he’s being pulled up by his arms and following a somewhat steady beeping into the jumper. He’s led to one of the real seats at the front, behind the pilot’s seat, as he’d grown accustomed to.
Teyla kneels beside him and wipes his face with a damp rag. Her lips move soundlessly, a frown crosses her face, and it doesn’t even register to him that he still hears nothing but his own breathing and the beeping.
He sees her call for Carson and mistakes it for hearing. The doctor appears in front of him and asks him questions that he can’t force his mouth to answer.
Something between a laugh and a choked sob escapes his lips and suddenly it hurts to breath.
Then there’s a needle in his arm and Teyla’s warm hand on his cold cheek, both assuring him that several hours of dreamless sleep are on their way.