The first second half of 'Burning'. *g*
Apr. 9th, 2006 04:10 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stillane*******
It has to happen, and it does. Zelenka is off world with Stackhouse’s team when Ladon requests help to repair the Genii’s largest generating complex. When he specifically asks for Rodney, they can’t afford to explain why he’s unavailable. He’s the most qualified for the job, given his familiarity with their technology, and everyone knows it. It will be a long time before this is the type of alliance that allows weakness.
John and Teyla and Ronon are waiting at the gate, and Rodney is with them, and for just a moment it feels utterly right. The wormhole engages and they walk through to find the usual welcoming committee of Ladon and his armed guard. Leading an overthrow has made him very careful. The Atlantis team is searched, although it’s mostly for show and they keep their weapons. The whole thing is brisk and businesslike, and then the Genii scientists descend. Within a half hour they’re all ranged around the generator watching McKay work.
What kills John is that no one notices. Even Ladon - who is still a technician under the weight of office – misses the lack of the infamous Dr. McKay. Rodney is silent save when he needs a distant tool or clarification on the technology. At first, John thinks this last is proof, finally, that there was some loss of intelligence after all. Eventually, he realizes that Rodney would have asked, before; it just would have been hidden better in complaints about radioactive handling procedures and insults to their higher educational systems.
The Genii engineers answer him eagerly, proud of their expertise. Rodney doesn’t make them regret it. He doesn’t trade long-suffering looks with John, or huff just enough to make Teyla fight a smile. He acts as though these people are his equals, and they respond in kind, and John wants to tell them all just how wrong they are.
John almost wishes Cowen were here. He, at least, would have noticed.
Rodney has the main generator running within two hours and the outlying system functioning within four. The Genii engineers are ecstatic. They crow that the complex will be twice as productive as before, and Rodney doesn’t say a word about the accomplishment.
After the success with the Genii, they start going through as a team more frequently. The horrible thing is the Yolens were right. Rodney is more efficient now. Without wasting time for a personality, he can accomplish quite a lot in very short spans. On M3X-547, he restructures an aqueduct within a day and the locals adore him. On P4F-934, he suggests they offer fruit for trade instead of the medical supplies they’ve tried before, and the toothless Gerilans finally agree to share the fungus that powers their homes. On M2F-721, he advises them that the caves holding what might be an Ancient weapon are too unstable to enter, calmly and without the slightest hint of regret. In Atlantis itself, the backlog of unclassified technology steadily dwindles.
Every post-mission check reveals that his brain scans are stable, and there is no indication that he’s anything but an asset to Atlantis. It’s only the rest of them that are out of synch.
John notices Teyla seems to be handling it best. She is polite and conciliatory. She remembers to give Rodney cues to rest and eat, and she’s taken up the slack of holding conversations with him. John has no idea how she manages it, given that she’s the only one with an opinion to contribute, but he’s grateful. She’s always with ‘Dr. McKay’, though, when he’s been mostly ‘Rodney’ for more than a year.
Ronon seems to be handling it worst. He’s openly suspicious, and when they’re off world he keeps Rodney in sight like he would an enemy. Since it’s really just another task, Rodney is fully capable of taking a watch when they choose to post one. The third time John wakes to take his own and finds Ronon sitting across from McKay, he realizes it’s a losing game.
John doesn’t seem to be handling it at all, and that’s taking more effort than he’ll ever admit. If he talks around Rodney, it’s only because Teyla is better at this than he is. If he usually splits the team with himself with Ronon, it’s just to give the man a break from his paranoia. He’s got the sneaking suspicion that he’s not nearly as covert as he wants, but no one calls him on it.
They limp along for more than a month. When it finally ends, the worst part is the sense of relief that John doesn’t quite feel.
They’re on a new planet, and they’ve managed to aggravate the locals through no real fault of their own. Later, they’ll find out it’s the result of a truly cosmic beaurocratic fuck-up, and these people just haven’t gotten the memo that the gene carriers are no longer wanted. Since they never quite got the original ‘alive’ portion of the message, the delay isn’t that surprising.
They’re speaking with the head of the village nearest the gate, and John’s just thinking that something feels off when Rodney steps in front of him almost casually. John never sees the knife. Rodney is in the way, and then Ronon, and then John has other concerns.
Rodney falls back against him without a sound. John’s arm goes instinctively around his chest, and the slick warmth on his palm tells him enough. He can’t afford to look, not until he’s made them safe again.
John doesn’t waste time checking on the village head. Ronon has him. Instead, John pulls his sidearm and fires on anyone who comes toward them, and behind him Teyla does the same. They retreat as fast as they can, John still dragging Rodney, and a minute later Ronon joins them with red hands.
Movement in a doorway brings John’s aim around. Rodney says no very quietly, and he pulls up just in time. The little girl blinks at him, wide-eyed, and John almost misses the village guard that charges from the alley to his right. Teyla doesn’t.
Crouched behind an outbuilding waiting for Ronon’s reconnaissance, John puts his mouth against Rodney’s ear and keeps his voice low. “Hey. Almost home. Just a little longer.”
“I’ll be fine.” It’s barely there, no pain or fear in it, and it doesn’t even ring like a lie.
By the time they fight their way to the gate, John’s hands are too slick to hold anything but a P-90 steady, Teyla is covering them, and Rodney is slung over Ronon’s shoulders.
The three of them sit in the hallway outside the infirmary, not making eye contact. John scrapes flakes of dried blood off of his hands until they are more pale than rust. At some point, Teyla’s hand reaches into his field of vision to offer one of the alcohol wipes from their first aid supplies. He contemplates using it to remove the dark smears on his boots, but decides they’re too far away. In the end, he tears the cloth into small, methodical strips.
Eventually, Beckett comes to tell them what they already know. Massive blood loss and very probable internal injuries are winning. He won’t know the full extent until he operates, but the fact that he’s proposing visitation beforehand says everything they need to know.
*******
He’s not there when it happens.
He isn’t surprised when Ronon follows him, and even less so when Teyla stays. He says something stupid and light about looking after McKay until he gets back, and she nods gravely.
He looks past her to Rodney; she turns her back tactfully. There is no real privacy in the infirmary. He settles for slipping his hand under Rodney’s and stroking his fingertips over the inside of his wrist. He says what he can inside his head, leans down to whisper, and breaks just enough to feel skin against his closed lips as he pulls away.
He leaves quickly and doesn’t look for who might have seen. He pulls off his headset and takes a transporter to the farthest portion of the city they’ve explored. The rooms here are empty, doors wide open, and the lighting is dim. There’s a thick layer of dust on the floor. John follow the faint footprints of the exploration team, counts them until he loses track. It’s a four hour walk back, and somewhere in the middle of the second Ronon freezes with his hand pressed to his own earpiece.
The bed is empty by the time he gets to the infirmary.
John leaves before anyone notices him.
He goes to his room, spends the next few hours staring at the walls, and waits for word on the autopsy. He keeps his headset on this time, and there’s some part of him that’s still expecting to hear that they’ve made a mistake. The chime of his door tells him all he needs to know, but he answers anyway.
John makes it easier for her and looks away. He nods.
Her voice is too steady. “As
“He’s done?”
She goes very still. “Yes.” A long breath. “John –“
“Service tomorrow, right?” His nails are digging into his palms. He presses a little harder.
“Yes.” Her hands are twisting around each other, and he can’t stop watching them.
“I’ll see you there.”
She sighs, reaches out tentatively and rests a hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t move away, which is all he can manage. He’s glad there’s no I’m sorry. He doesn’t want to sort the things he does regret from those he can’t.
*******
Their first week in Atlantis, they’d set aside a room three doors down from the infirmary and lowered the climate controls. John hasn’t been in it since.
It’s the middle of the night, his best chance at avoiding Ronon, because he really doesn’t want company for this. Really doesn’t want witnesses.
He’s not all that surprised, then, to find Teyla already there. It’s been that kind of life. Her head is bowed to her chest, and he knows she’s been aware of his approach for a while by how slowly she looks up. When her eyes do meet his, they’re solemn and clear.
There’s incense burning somewhere, smoky and almost rich enough to hide the sterility of this place, and he takes in the objects that don’t fit the purpose of the room. They all look very old and very well used. Anything that she values enough to keep so well must be important, and maybe some day he’ll ask what the small stone box holds, or what the carvings on the staff at her side mean. Not tonight, though.
His look must say something he doesn’t intend. “It was not his way,” she says. “It is mine, however, and I believe he would allow me this.”
Her chin lifts just slightly in defiance and maybe she’s always done that, but right now they’re bleeding into each other and the movement is too familiar. He looks away.
“Yeah.” His throat is dry, and he coughs to clear it, too loud. “Yeah.” He stops. Everything else begins with the past tense.
She’s silent, and when he flicks his eyes over to her he sees the top of her head again. “How long…”
She doesn’t look up. “It is customary to sit one night. We say that it takes this time for the soul to find peace, but…” She trails off, and John understands. Funerals are always for the living.
He finds a chair along a wall, and sits. He’s far enough from the table that he can’t see much aside from the woven blanket draped over the shape there, muted Athosian patterns curling around and through each other. It’s not quite long enough, although it touches the floor on either side. The hem ends at the ankles, and John wants to laugh a little at the bare, graceless toes. His fingers itch to pull the cloth down.
Hours later, Teyla quietly stands. She lays one hand on either side of the cloth at the top of the table, then bows her head to touch the form under it. John can see the muscles in her lower back flex as she breathes slow and deep. She straightens and turns to John, and it’s all he can do not to run. He can’t make his legs work long enough to stand, though, and then she’s laying her hands over his ears and pressing her forehead to his. Neither of them closes their eyes, and from this distance he can see the tears she isn’t crying. He doesn’t want to know what she sees.
Finally, she lets go and backs away. She doesn’t say a word as she gathers most of what she brought. She moves as quietly as ever, and it’s strange that she’s always been like a ghost when she’s the only one here who isn’t. She pauses at the door and looks back over her shoulder, and then she leaves.
Now it’s only John and the silence.
He thinks he can stay there, can sit until he decides to go. He thinks he can do that right up until the chair creaks under him and he realizes he’s standing. He wraps his arms around himself but he can't stop the chord around his chest from pulling him forward, shambling to the table. The force doesn’t let up, just twists instead of tugs, and he can’t quite draw a full breath.
His hands are clenched in the fabric under each of his arms. The right gives in first; the weave of the blanket is rough under his fingertips. He watches with horror movie fascination, instinct chanting not to open the door, not to look in the attic. It doesn’t work. His fingers are around the hem, pulling it slowly back, and this is worse.
There’s no blood. The body - he almost thinks a name, and doesn’t – is still and silent. A white sheet is drawn up to collarbones too stark with blue shadows. A single round stone rests in the hollow between them, painted with a mark John doesn’t know.
He’s grateful for the things he can’t see. The sheet covers incisions and obscene stitches. Most of all, he’s glad the hands are hidden.
There’s plenty that he can see. The closed eyelids are a last mercy, but the rest stings unkindly. Someone – probably Carson – shaved his face. There’s no quarter-inch patch of stubble under the left corner of his jaw, that last spot that distraction always saves. The hair is too neat, and the forehead is too smooth. The light in the room is low enough to hide the delicate stitching there.
John’s hands ache, but he won’t touch. He knows what a body feels like after, and he knows what this body felt like before, and he’s not going to let those two meet. He’ll keep that much.
He lays the blanket back in place very carefully. He straightens the hem, makes the line as precise as he can. He doesn’t think about hospital corners and folded flags.
He turns to go and sees
“Colonel, you -" He breaks off, sighs. There’s no surprise in his voice, just a bone-deep kind of tired. “John, don’t. You don’t need to do this.”
John nods and keeps his eyes on his feet. He leaves before Beckett can sort end from beginning.
*******
He’s not surprised to find Ronon in the hallway. His eyes flicker past John and drag away slowly. Without a word, John turns down the hall. If he had the energy, John might wonder what a funeral looked like on Sateda.
He’s got just enough left to get him to a room that isn’t his own and onto the bed, and not enough to take off his clothing or pull down the sheets. Just enough to let him notice that the pillow doesn’t smell like either of them, and not enough to follow the thought home. Just enough to sleep without dreams.
When he wakes, it’s with a sudden zero to sixty style of knowledge. He stands, and he’s on automatic pilot as he grabs his vest and holster from his room. He’s already in the armory before he understands, slipping rounds into his pockets and loading whatever he can reach. He leaves the standard bandages behind in favor of a few more shells.
Ronon watches him silently. John looks long and hard at him, and Ronon’s eyes go shadowed. He reaches for a box of concussion grenades, and doesn’t look at John as he says, “This won’t fix it.”
John doesn’t pause. “I know.”
Ronon nods and keeps loading.
Teyla is waiting in the hall outside the gateroom. She’s armed. She lets John walk past her and slips in beside Ronon, just behind John’s right shoulder.
He keeps his back straight and his gaze locked barely to her left. He doesn’t bother to speak. She knows what he’s not saying.
“Damnit, John.” She’s tired. She draws in a breath, squares her stance. “Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard, you will take your team back to P3X-438 and acquire intelligence. You will report daily and return in one week. Am I clear?”
He finally meets her eyes, and he can see that she knows they’ll find nothing. It’s the only reason she’s allowing this. She’s trying to minimize the damage, to hang on to what she can. She thinks he needs closure.
She’s wrong, but he doesn’t care. “Yes.”
She presses her lips together and nods. He turns away. He’s avoiding mirrors these days.
Ten minutes later they’re through the gate.
*******
It takes him three days to admit what he knew months ago.
The city is gone. The crater in its place is so deep and wide it takes a full day to skirt its edges. He knows because they’ve done it twice.
On the fourth day, he walks into the woods alone. He’s gotten just enough sleep to keep moving, and just little enough to give the air an odd haze. He makes his way to the crater edge and stares for a while. The sound behind him has him turning and firing with no conscious thought.
The animal is large and ungainly, like a deer in a funhouse mirror, and it watches him with wide brown eyes long after it stops breathing. He slips the safety back on with shaking hands, turns to find Ronon a few feet away.
John walks past him without a word. When he reaches camp, he pretends he doesn’t see the relief in Teyla’s eyes.
They’re back in Atlantis by nightfall.
(the rest)
