beginning of a veela!john thing
For lim, who doesn't mind badfic at ALL!
(this is Veela!John)
John was hanging around outside the main med lab, going over his words again and again to get them right. He usually wasn't nervous like this, but he didn't know Keller that well and, well, this was a *personal* thing. It was embarrassing and weird and in the past he'd only felt comfortable talking to Carson about it, but now necessity was forcing the issue.
"Colonel?" Keller asked when he appeared. There wasn't anyone else loitering around, but John still felt exposed enough to ask to talk to her in her office. That's where he always talked to Carson about it, there and (sometimes) in his own quarters.
Keller listened, and John got more and more uncomfortable as he spoke. It was ... difficult, to say the least. This wasn't something he even liked to *think* about, let alone admit out loud.
"There's nothing in your file, Colonel, I'm pretty sure I'd remember something like this," Keller said. Great, maybe she thought he was making it up. Next she'd be doing brain scans or sending him to Heightmeyer. Although part of her did seem to believe him, because she was leaning farther away from him now, as if that would help at all while they were *in the same room*.
He tried not to roll his eyes when he continued. "I asked Carson not to, uh. Make a note or anything. But I know he kept files on it, if not in my name then a ... I don't know, a number or something?"
Keller nodded slowly. "There are a number of files I haven't been able to access. Passwords, encryptions -” I asked one of the network engineers for help but they didn't get very far with it. I haven't really *needed* anything else, but they seemed like maybe they were Dr. Beckett's personal files and since I didn't really know for sure ..." She trailed off.
John took a deep breath. Okay. Okay, if Keller couldn't get into the files, at least that meant no one else had seen, know one else *knew*.
"Carson was working on an inhibitor," John said slowly. "He'd *made* an inhibitor. It works -- well, not completely, it doesn't stop everything, but I can control it better. He made several batches as needed, and right before -- Six months ago he gave me a year's supply."
Keller nodded. "Okay, I can work with that. If you can give me a sample, I'm sure I can test it and try to reverse engineer it by the time you need it again."
John shook his head. "No, you don't understand. I-" Shit, shit, shit, *this* was the hard part. "It stopped being as effective and I had to start doubling up on my doses."
"When? How long-"
"That's the thing," John said wryly. "I have less than two weeks left."
***
It started when John was sixteen -- the moment he turned sixteen, actually. He can't remember that night or what followed, though, just has vague memories of screaming (his own, he thinks) and a haze of pain that just went on and on.
He has a short memory of a ... well, a 'specialist', he guessed, but the strange old woman who came and called herself a Healer was nothing like any doctor John had ever seen. But she gave him strange, colorful bottles of medicine to drink that took the soreness away and she explained that he needed to learn to control it, and that it would be hard to do, and she wished she could just take it away because his kind really shouldn't have to deal with this sort of thing.
He was never the same after that night, but he *had* learned to control it. And for some time, the strange little old woman had sent him medicine. At first, it was only once a year that the little blue bottles came, and he had to take the (horrible tasting) medicine for two weeks. No matter where he was - college, flight school, the middle of a war zone - a pallet of blue bottles showed up beside his bed with a strange parchment with old-fashioned handwriting detailing the proper instructions. He didn't understand the system but he didn't have many problems with his 'condition' so he knew the system *worked*.
Until Antarctica.
***
He'd only been in Antarctica for two days when he started feeling out of control. It wasn't a slow, eventual thing; it hit him all at once. He'd gone to bed one night and woke at 0200 sweaty and feverish and unbearably horny. He'd barely gotten dressed when he was pacing outside, looking for something he knew he *had* to find.
The night was clear and sharp. It was like -- he still didn't know exactly how to describe it, but he could see in the *dark*. Not like the night vision goggles the military equipped them with, either; this was like night turning to day just for him. And the *scents* -- he could smell things he'd never noticed before. He knew, for example, that a soldier had taken a piss at the corner of his building less than four hours before. He knew which direction the soldier had come from, and where he'd gone after. He knew he was a *soldier* because he smelled the way John's own fatigues smelled, that vaguely sour smell that never quite went away no matter how many times he'd wash them.
But he couldn't pick up the scent he *wanted* to pick up. He didn't know what it was he was looking for, exactly, just knew he had to find it. It was out there somewhere and he *was* going to find it. He needed it. To take it and touch it and--
After that, the memory goes blurry. The next thing John remembers is waking up in bed next to a very content lieutenant who informed John that he'd never been fucked like that in his *life* and that if John ever found himself at loose ends he could always, *always* return.
The strangest thing to John had not been the memory loss or the raging hormones or even the strangely enhanced senses. At the time, John's only thought was, 'But I'm a bottom.'
***
From the time John was sixteen, he was ... charming. He could disarm most people with just a smile or a 'push'. That's what he thought of it as, a little mental push he'd give to get his way. He didn't use it too often, though, because it seemed *wrong*. He shouldn't be able to influence people so strongly, really. Unless he was in serious legal trouble or if his team was in danger, he held back. Sometimes it was harder to hold back than give in to it. Because, for all that it *seemed* wrong, it *felt* right. Natural. Like he should just do it all the time, and if someone couldn't resist then it was their own fault and not worthy of his time. Again, that seemed wrong. He only wished he could stop thinking those stray *wrong* thoughts.
So, when he was seventeen, he charmed his teacher into giving him extra-extra credit work in his English class, and when he was eighteen he charmed his way through college interviews until he had his choice of schools. He used charm (and a fair amount of intelligence) to get where he wanted to be in life: the sky. Sometimes he 'pushed', but more often than not John just gave a lazy smile.
The way he asks Atlantis for things isn't like that. Sure, Atlantis loves him, he can feel that in his *bones*. But it isn't like she's changing her mind for him at all, it's more like she's been waiting for him for millennia and wants to do everything for him *anyway*. It's a sort of 'push' when he asks her for things -- for his lights to dim, for the hard floor to warm under his bare feet, for the shower to rain on him in just the right pressure and temperature -- but she gives him everything without a fuss. He likes that about her, and wonders sometimes if that is what love might be like. He can't really be sure, because he's never been in love with someone who wasn't susceptible to that part of him he could control, usually, but sometimes let slip.
It made relationships slippery. It made him slightly paranoid, too. His marriage hadn't lasted long because he'd always been second guessing whether she actually *loved* him, or if he'd just wished hard enough, pushed a little harder than he should have, and that was why she'd fallen into his arms to begin with. In the end, he'd left because he couldn't be sure.
***
The city seemed different. Atlantis herself appeared brighter and sharper and smelled like a cross between clean, clear ocean and fresh baked bread. Her reds and yellows were warmer and more vivid, and her blues and greens were deeper and more inviting. The presence of Atlantis, that nonstop hum in the back of his head, was not more pronounced, but there was something else there now. Another ... something. Awareness that was like Atlantis magnified, a song in the place of a hum. Something beautiful and perfect and just out of reach.
As he walked through the corridors on his way to the mess, he noticed something else. People were friendlier. The citizens of Atlantis were usually pleasant enough, considering all the life threatening situations they were exposed to on a regular basis and the insanely odd working conditions and hours they had to keep at times. But now they seemed to like John even more. That wouldn't be strange if it was just one or two people here and there -- he's well liked in Atlantis, after all -- but it wasn't. It was, well, *everyone*. The Marines stood at attention as he walked by, as if they were trying to impress him. Random scientists looked up from their datapads and nearly tripped over themselves to smile and greet him.
By the time John made it into the mess, he was running late. Several people stopped to make small talk, smiling wide enough at him that he was thinking of asking Keller if they should check the water supply.
As soon as he walked in, though, that *something*, the awareness in the back of his head, suddenly seemed to go on high-alert. He scanned the room, not seeing anything particularly dangerous or suspicious, but as soon as his eyes fell on Rodney everything else fell away.
Rodney looked good. His hair was shiny and it looked so soft, like something John just wanted to run his fingers through for hours. His face was scrunched with concentration as he poked at a laptop, and John suddenly realized that it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen in his life. Rodney was so smart, and beautiful when he was frustrated or excited or happy or sad -- but John didn't want to see him sad and just the thought made his stomach clench.
Rodney waved at Radek with a muffin and said something, and then Radek was standing and looking at Rodney's laptop, his hand on Rodney's shoulder.
John snarled. Jealousy like he'd never felt in his life seemed to swamp over him like a thick cloud, and he had the urge to absolutely trounce Zelenka for touching Rodney.
Instead, he took some deep breaths, counted to three hundred by threes, and slowly the room seemed to come back into a focus that included more than Rodney.
He should have left. He should have turned around and went straight to the infimary and informed Keller of this new ... symptom. But even as he thought that, he was walking forward, drawn to Rodney like a moth to a ... moon. Yes, luna moths, moon, Rodney was the moon and the sun and stars and the entire universe and John had to touch him or he was going to crawl out of his skin and howl.
"Hey, buddy," John said. He patted Rodney on the shoulder but somehow his hand got stuck there. Not totally stuck, though, because he started rubbing a little bit and fuck, John could feel the warmth of Rodney's skin through his uniform shirt and he wanted to claw the material away and touchtouchtouch.
"Hmm," Rodney said, not even looking up from his computer.
"You ... uh, doing alright?" That was totally safe to say and not creepy or 'can I carry you back to my room right now and fuck you' at ALL.
Rodney looked up, finally, scowl in place. But then his face seemed to go through a transformation, suddenly smiling and pleased and it made John want to do everything in the world to make Rodney smile at him like that again. Again and again. Forever.
"Just work," Rodney said, a little dreamily. "Not as important as you." He shifted into John's touch a bit and beamed. "How are you? Can I do something for you?"
John snatched his hand back and blushed at the thoughts he was having. Hell yes, Rodney could do things for him. Lots of dirty, amazing things that involved body fluids and naked skin and-- Holy shit, he had to get out of the mess.
"I ... uh, no, no, you're fine, I'm fine, I just. Just remembered I have to go to the infirmary!" John said frantically, scrambling away.
Rodney stared after him for a few minutes with a dopey smile until he frowned and shook his head. "That was ... strange."
***
(tbc, just wanted to throw this up here for my lim to read and giggle at my insanity)
(this is Veela!John)
John was hanging around outside the main med lab, going over his words again and again to get them right. He usually wasn't nervous like this, but he didn't know Keller that well and, well, this was a *personal* thing. It was embarrassing and weird and in the past he'd only felt comfortable talking to Carson about it, but now necessity was forcing the issue.
"Colonel?" Keller asked when he appeared. There wasn't anyone else loitering around, but John still felt exposed enough to ask to talk to her in her office. That's where he always talked to Carson about it, there and (sometimes) in his own quarters.
Keller listened, and John got more and more uncomfortable as he spoke. It was ... difficult, to say the least. This wasn't something he even liked to *think* about, let alone admit out loud.
"There's nothing in your file, Colonel, I'm pretty sure I'd remember something like this," Keller said. Great, maybe she thought he was making it up. Next she'd be doing brain scans or sending him to Heightmeyer. Although part of her did seem to believe him, because she was leaning farther away from him now, as if that would help at all while they were *in the same room*.
He tried not to roll his eyes when he continued. "I asked Carson not to, uh. Make a note or anything. But I know he kept files on it, if not in my name then a ... I don't know, a number or something?"
Keller nodded slowly. "There are a number of files I haven't been able to access. Passwords, encryptions -” I asked one of the network engineers for help but they didn't get very far with it. I haven't really *needed* anything else, but they seemed like maybe they were Dr. Beckett's personal files and since I didn't really know for sure ..." She trailed off.
John took a deep breath. Okay. Okay, if Keller couldn't get into the files, at least that meant no one else had seen, know one else *knew*.
"Carson was working on an inhibitor," John said slowly. "He'd *made* an inhibitor. It works -- well, not completely, it doesn't stop everything, but I can control it better. He made several batches as needed, and right before -- Six months ago he gave me a year's supply."
Keller nodded. "Okay, I can work with that. If you can give me a sample, I'm sure I can test it and try to reverse engineer it by the time you need it again."
John shook his head. "No, you don't understand. I-" Shit, shit, shit, *this* was the hard part. "It stopped being as effective and I had to start doubling up on my doses."
"When? How long-"
"That's the thing," John said wryly. "I have less than two weeks left."
***
It started when John was sixteen -- the moment he turned sixteen, actually. He can't remember that night or what followed, though, just has vague memories of screaming (his own, he thinks) and a haze of pain that just went on and on.
He has a short memory of a ... well, a 'specialist', he guessed, but the strange old woman who came and called herself a Healer was nothing like any doctor John had ever seen. But she gave him strange, colorful bottles of medicine to drink that took the soreness away and she explained that he needed to learn to control it, and that it would be hard to do, and she wished she could just take it away because his kind really shouldn't have to deal with this sort of thing.
He was never the same after that night, but he *had* learned to control it. And for some time, the strange little old woman had sent him medicine. At first, it was only once a year that the little blue bottles came, and he had to take the (horrible tasting) medicine for two weeks. No matter where he was - college, flight school, the middle of a war zone - a pallet of blue bottles showed up beside his bed with a strange parchment with old-fashioned handwriting detailing the proper instructions. He didn't understand the system but he didn't have many problems with his 'condition' so he knew the system *worked*.
Until Antarctica.
***
He'd only been in Antarctica for two days when he started feeling out of control. It wasn't a slow, eventual thing; it hit him all at once. He'd gone to bed one night and woke at 0200 sweaty and feverish and unbearably horny. He'd barely gotten dressed when he was pacing outside, looking for something he knew he *had* to find.
The night was clear and sharp. It was like -- he still didn't know exactly how to describe it, but he could see in the *dark*. Not like the night vision goggles the military equipped them with, either; this was like night turning to day just for him. And the *scents* -- he could smell things he'd never noticed before. He knew, for example, that a soldier had taken a piss at the corner of his building less than four hours before. He knew which direction the soldier had come from, and where he'd gone after. He knew he was a *soldier* because he smelled the way John's own fatigues smelled, that vaguely sour smell that never quite went away no matter how many times he'd wash them.
But he couldn't pick up the scent he *wanted* to pick up. He didn't know what it was he was looking for, exactly, just knew he had to find it. It was out there somewhere and he *was* going to find it. He needed it. To take it and touch it and--
After that, the memory goes blurry. The next thing John remembers is waking up in bed next to a very content lieutenant who informed John that he'd never been fucked like that in his *life* and that if John ever found himself at loose ends he could always, *always* return.
The strangest thing to John had not been the memory loss or the raging hormones or even the strangely enhanced senses. At the time, John's only thought was, 'But I'm a bottom.'
***
From the time John was sixteen, he was ... charming. He could disarm most people with just a smile or a 'push'. That's what he thought of it as, a little mental push he'd give to get his way. He didn't use it too often, though, because it seemed *wrong*. He shouldn't be able to influence people so strongly, really. Unless he was in serious legal trouble or if his team was in danger, he held back. Sometimes it was harder to hold back than give in to it. Because, for all that it *seemed* wrong, it *felt* right. Natural. Like he should just do it all the time, and if someone couldn't resist then it was their own fault and not worthy of his time. Again, that seemed wrong. He only wished he could stop thinking those stray *wrong* thoughts.
So, when he was seventeen, he charmed his teacher into giving him extra-extra credit work in his English class, and when he was eighteen he charmed his way through college interviews until he had his choice of schools. He used charm (and a fair amount of intelligence) to get where he wanted to be in life: the sky. Sometimes he 'pushed', but more often than not John just gave a lazy smile.
The way he asks Atlantis for things isn't like that. Sure, Atlantis loves him, he can feel that in his *bones*. But it isn't like she's changing her mind for him at all, it's more like she's been waiting for him for millennia and wants to do everything for him *anyway*. It's a sort of 'push' when he asks her for things -- for his lights to dim, for the hard floor to warm under his bare feet, for the shower to rain on him in just the right pressure and temperature -- but she gives him everything without a fuss. He likes that about her, and wonders sometimes if that is what love might be like. He can't really be sure, because he's never been in love with someone who wasn't susceptible to that part of him he could control, usually, but sometimes let slip.
It made relationships slippery. It made him slightly paranoid, too. His marriage hadn't lasted long because he'd always been second guessing whether she actually *loved* him, or if he'd just wished hard enough, pushed a little harder than he should have, and that was why she'd fallen into his arms to begin with. In the end, he'd left because he couldn't be sure.
***
The city seemed different. Atlantis herself appeared brighter and sharper and smelled like a cross between clean, clear ocean and fresh baked bread. Her reds and yellows were warmer and more vivid, and her blues and greens were deeper and more inviting. The presence of Atlantis, that nonstop hum in the back of his head, was not more pronounced, but there was something else there now. Another ... something. Awareness that was like Atlantis magnified, a song in the place of a hum. Something beautiful and perfect and just out of reach.
As he walked through the corridors on his way to the mess, he noticed something else. People were friendlier. The citizens of Atlantis were usually pleasant enough, considering all the life threatening situations they were exposed to on a regular basis and the insanely odd working conditions and hours they had to keep at times. But now they seemed to like John even more. That wouldn't be strange if it was just one or two people here and there -- he's well liked in Atlantis, after all -- but it wasn't. It was, well, *everyone*. The Marines stood at attention as he walked by, as if they were trying to impress him. Random scientists looked up from their datapads and nearly tripped over themselves to smile and greet him.
By the time John made it into the mess, he was running late. Several people stopped to make small talk, smiling wide enough at him that he was thinking of asking Keller if they should check the water supply.
As soon as he walked in, though, that *something*, the awareness in the back of his head, suddenly seemed to go on high-alert. He scanned the room, not seeing anything particularly dangerous or suspicious, but as soon as his eyes fell on Rodney everything else fell away.
Rodney looked good. His hair was shiny and it looked so soft, like something John just wanted to run his fingers through for hours. His face was scrunched with concentration as he poked at a laptop, and John suddenly realized that it was the cutest thing he'd ever seen in his life. Rodney was so smart, and beautiful when he was frustrated or excited or happy or sad -- but John didn't want to see him sad and just the thought made his stomach clench.
Rodney waved at Radek with a muffin and said something, and then Radek was standing and looking at Rodney's laptop, his hand on Rodney's shoulder.
John snarled. Jealousy like he'd never felt in his life seemed to swamp over him like a thick cloud, and he had the urge to absolutely trounce Zelenka for touching Rodney.
Instead, he took some deep breaths, counted to three hundred by threes, and slowly the room seemed to come back into a focus that included more than Rodney.
He should have left. He should have turned around and went straight to the infimary and informed Keller of this new ... symptom. But even as he thought that, he was walking forward, drawn to Rodney like a moth to a ... moon. Yes, luna moths, moon, Rodney was the moon and the sun and stars and the entire universe and John had to touch him or he was going to crawl out of his skin and howl.
"Hey, buddy," John said. He patted Rodney on the shoulder but somehow his hand got stuck there. Not totally stuck, though, because he started rubbing a little bit and fuck, John could feel the warmth of Rodney's skin through his uniform shirt and he wanted to claw the material away and touchtouchtouch.
"Hmm," Rodney said, not even looking up from his computer.
"You ... uh, doing alright?" That was totally safe to say and not creepy or 'can I carry you back to my room right now and fuck you' at ALL.
Rodney looked up, finally, scowl in place. But then his face seemed to go through a transformation, suddenly smiling and pleased and it made John want to do everything in the world to make Rodney smile at him like that again. Again and again. Forever.
"Just work," Rodney said, a little dreamily. "Not as important as you." He shifted into John's touch a bit and beamed. "How are you? Can I do something for you?"
John snatched his hand back and blushed at the thoughts he was having. Hell yes, Rodney could do things for him. Lots of dirty, amazing things that involved body fluids and naked skin and-- Holy shit, he had to get out of the mess.
"I ... uh, no, no, you're fine, I'm fine, I just. Just remembered I have to go to the infirmary!" John said frantically, scrambling away.
Rodney stared after him for a few minutes with a dopey smile until he frowned and shook his head. "That was ... strange."
***
(tbc, just wanted to throw this up here for my lim to read and giggle at my insanity)