SGA AU fic
Title: Gently to sleep
Fandom: SGA
Prompt: au100 #30 Death (005/100)
Words: 536
A/N: Content some readers may find disturbing. I blame Nifra. She gave me "sweet whiskey Jesus", and told me to write. I warned her that was Firefly music, and... this is what I got. Now, Scrunchy hates me.
Gently to sleep
The sun was low in the sky, and John couldn't decide if it was the sunset or the blood that made the ground so red. Thin tendrils of smoke corkscrewed into the darkening sky, the wrecked darts still burning somewhere in the woods; a single star shone brightly just above the tree line. Soon it would be dark, and cold. He clenched his empty hands into fists, blinking into the dying light, waiting for something to happen, to force him to turn around.
Minutes passed, maybe hours. He couldn't be sure how long he stood there, unmoving, watching the sky fill up with unfamiliar stars, but at some point, he realized he wasn't alone. Ronon, it had to be Ronon, was crouched perfectly, silently still at the edge of the clearing, like a statue, or a gravestone. John could hear each measured breath; he could almost hear Ronon's heartbeat.
There was a voice somewhere behind him, and finally John remembered. Teyla on her side in the dirt, blood caked thick and dark on her temple. Rodney halfway inside the jumper, his jaw swollen purple, his leg bent at an obscene angle. John thought of yelling, of kicking someone's ass; he thought of piling them all into the jumper and getting the hell off this planet. He kept staring.
Ronon must have heard the voice, too, because he was moving suddenly, crossing the ground fast, like it wasn't too dark to see. John heard the cloak disengage. He heard Ronon's steps up the ramp, through the jumper, and the low rumbling of Ronon's voice. The radio, their rescue. John closed his eyes and, yes, he could hear the sliding hum of another jumper.
A flood of yellow light spilled from their jumper, casting odd shadows on the surrounding trees. Something clattered to the floor inside, metal on metal. John stepped backwards, one hand out, hovering over the shining skin of the ship. Black soot spread from the ruptured hull like an infection.
It wasn't until he heard their muffled voices that he realized they must still be alive, inside the jumper. When had that happened? Teyla's voice sounded serene, calm as always; Rodney sounded disturbingly subdued, but thank God, alive. Alive. John didn't know how long he'd been holding his breath, but he tilted his head back and watched the steam rise from him like a smokestack. His knees folded under him, the ground lurching up. He let himself fall.
His face to the soil, it should have cool and gritty against his skin. He felt nothing. The blanket had shifted, maybe when Ronon passed by. John stared ahead into his own glassy eyes, his own slack face. It probably should have bothered him, but in the dark, John could almost ignore his pale skin, or the hole in his neck, or the blood that had splattered his jacket and pooled thick under his hair.
The other jumper was closer, almost through the atmosphere. John closed his eyes, willing himself up to meet it, or down into the ground. He wondered if Ronon had told them yet, what words he'd use when he did. He wondered if they would bury him here or take him home to Atlantis.
He stopped wondering.
***
Table is here.
Fandom: SGA
Prompt: au100 #30 Death (005/100)
Words: 536
A/N: Content some readers may find disturbing. I blame Nifra. She gave me "sweet whiskey Jesus", and told me to write. I warned her that was Firefly music, and... this is what I got. Now, Scrunchy hates me.
Gently to sleep
The sun was low in the sky, and John couldn't decide if it was the sunset or the blood that made the ground so red. Thin tendrils of smoke corkscrewed into the darkening sky, the wrecked darts still burning somewhere in the woods; a single star shone brightly just above the tree line. Soon it would be dark, and cold. He clenched his empty hands into fists, blinking into the dying light, waiting for something to happen, to force him to turn around.
Minutes passed, maybe hours. He couldn't be sure how long he stood there, unmoving, watching the sky fill up with unfamiliar stars, but at some point, he realized he wasn't alone. Ronon, it had to be Ronon, was crouched perfectly, silently still at the edge of the clearing, like a statue, or a gravestone. John could hear each measured breath; he could almost hear Ronon's heartbeat.
There was a voice somewhere behind him, and finally John remembered. Teyla on her side in the dirt, blood caked thick and dark on her temple. Rodney halfway inside the jumper, his jaw swollen purple, his leg bent at an obscene angle. John thought of yelling, of kicking someone's ass; he thought of piling them all into the jumper and getting the hell off this planet. He kept staring.
Ronon must have heard the voice, too, because he was moving suddenly, crossing the ground fast, like it wasn't too dark to see. John heard the cloak disengage. He heard Ronon's steps up the ramp, through the jumper, and the low rumbling of Ronon's voice. The radio, their rescue. John closed his eyes and, yes, he could hear the sliding hum of another jumper.
A flood of yellow light spilled from their jumper, casting odd shadows on the surrounding trees. Something clattered to the floor inside, metal on metal. John stepped backwards, one hand out, hovering over the shining skin of the ship. Black soot spread from the ruptured hull like an infection.
It wasn't until he heard their muffled voices that he realized they must still be alive, inside the jumper. When had that happened? Teyla's voice sounded serene, calm as always; Rodney sounded disturbingly subdued, but thank God, alive. Alive. John didn't know how long he'd been holding his breath, but he tilted his head back and watched the steam rise from him like a smokestack. His knees folded under him, the ground lurching up. He let himself fall.
His face to the soil, it should have cool and gritty against his skin. He felt nothing. The blanket had shifted, maybe when Ronon passed by. John stared ahead into his own glassy eyes, his own slack face. It probably should have bothered him, but in the dark, John could almost ignore his pale skin, or the hole in his neck, or the blood that had splattered his jacket and pooled thick under his hair.
The other jumper was closer, almost through the atmosphere. John closed his eyes, willing himself up to meet it, or down into the ground. He wondered if Ronon had told them yet, what words he'd use when he did. He wondered if they would bury him here or take him home to Atlantis.
He stopped wondering.
***
Table is here.