The Doors of Perception, by Loligo

[loligo.livejournal.com]

Title: The Doors of Perception
Author: Loligo
Rating: PG-13
Characters: John, Rodney, etc.
Disclaimers: (1) No recognizable character or person in here belongs to me. (2) Yes, I love dream sequences -- wanna make something of it?
Summary: "Not trite, darling," Tim Curry said. "Archetypal."

"So what, exactly, are we going back there to find? The report I read made their selection of trade goods sound pretty pathetic," McKay said from the co-pilot's chair.

"Entheogens," Parrish replied, certain that McKay wouldn't know the term and wondering whether he'd actually break down and ask. Parrish could see the corner of McKay's eye twitching a bit and his mouth start to quiver in indecision. He smiled.

But then Kelsey had to go take pity on McKay. Kelsey was new. "That's any sort of psychoactive biological material used for spiritual purposes," she explained.

"Wait, we're going there for magic mushrooms?" McKay scoffed.

"We are," Parrish said. "I'm not sure what you're doing here."

"Flight practice!"

Parrish looked pointedly toward the pilot's chair, where Colonel Sheppard sat with a little smile on his face. "On the way back!" McKay said with wounded dignity. "You know, frankly, Parrish, I'm not at all surprised. You do realize, don't you, that the incense you use in your little meditation classes lingers in the lounge for hours, and makes me sneeze? Now you're planning drug-addled vision quests -- what's next? Faith healing?"

"You really shouldn't lump insight meditation in with those other two," Parrish said cheerfully. "Buddhism is actually an enormously empirical spiritual path. It's all about setting aside false assumptions and emotional considerations, to see the world as it really is. Einstein himself said, 'If there is any religion that would cope with modern scientific needs it would be Buddhism.'"

"Oh, well, if Einstein said it, it must be true." McKay rolled his eyes. "He's the only physicist you people have ever heard of, isn't he?"

Sheppard was obviously trying to keep a straight face, and so was Parrish. He took it as a measure of his spiritual development that McKay's extreme dickitude was starting to become endearing. Or maybe he'd just been in the Pegasus galaxy way too long. Kelsey, on the other hand, was looking kind of consternated.

"I'm sure that ritual hallucinogens are a valid and important topic of study in xenobotany," Sheppard said, baiting McKay further. And clearly McKay knew he was being baited, and was happy to be baited, so they all relaxed and had fun with sarcasm and hyperbole for a good ten minutes.

After a lull in the snark, Sheppard volunteered, "I tried peyote once. Legally," he said, forestalling McKay's next comment. "Went to a Native American Church service with a friend from college. It was... really interesting. Found out my subconscious never met a cliche it didn't like, though."

"So will you tell us what you saw?" Kelsey asked, leaning forward and smiling intently. Parrish didn't know if she'd been warned about the futility of flirting with Sheppard or not.

Sheppard just pulled out a deflecting grin and shook his head, and then it was time to prepare for landing.

*******

Having survived a super-hurricane under less than pleasant circumstances the year before, John wasn't too impressed with the Marmolan's storm of the century (or as they put it, "The biggest storm since the ebullas last fruited!"). But that didn't mean he was real eager to fly in it, either. The Marmolans had given the Atlantis party a cabin all to themselves; the thatched roof was surprisingly waterproof and the blankets on the beds were surprisingly fluffy. Could be worse.

"Do I look like a meteorologist to you?" Kelsey said with her teeth clenched. "I don't know why we can't compute weather forecasts in advance of our missions!" Twelve hours trapped in a storm-drenched cabin with Rodney -- kind of a trial by fire for the newbie.

The wind howled at the eaves and rattled the shutters. It whistled through the shutters' slats and kept the candles flickering. It drove the pounding rain at different angles against the roof. Given that it was same wind gusts doing all of it, you'd think it would be sort of synchronized. It wasn't. John found the effect pleasantly hypnotic, but he could see how it might scrape at the nerves of someone less mellow than himself.

Rodney went back to pacing in front of the empty fireplace.

Parrish held up the canvas bag he'd obtained from the Marmolans after their ceremony yesterday. "So who wants to do some research?"

"It's really sad to see people using their PhDs as an excuse to get stoned," Rodney said.

"No, I'm serious. This isn't a bad research situation at all. For the Marmolans, auspicious timing is the main consideration in using the korat leaves, but for other cultures, unfamiliar surroundings or intense natural phenonmena can be key parts of the entheogenic experience. I think it's important to approach these substances with respect, and to give them appropriate conditions to work as they're intended to work. That's what separates research from mere recreation. Well, that, and taking a buttload of notes afterwards. So, anyone up for a close encounter with the sacred? I don't think more than one or two of us should do this at a time."

A close encounter with the sacred. Not exactly how John would describe his peyote experience -- more like a Warner Brothers cartoon as written by Freud. It sure hadn't made a believer out of him. Still, he found himself thinking about the vision at the weirdest times....

"No thanks," Rodney was saying. "When I choose to alter my brain chemistry I prefer to stick to well-studied substances manufactured in sterile laboratory conditions. I don't chew on muddy leaves."

John came back from the haze he'd started to drift in. "Sterile? Have you seen Zelenka's still?"

"Yes, I've seen it! It looks a little... unorthodox, but believe me, he autoclaves all the fixtures after every batch. It's clean."

"Well, I'm in," said Kelsey. "At this point I don't even care if it's a bad trip. I just want out of here."

"Very professional," Rodney muttered as his pacing brought him back to the end of the bed where John sat. The dichotomy of Rodney McKay was something you could marvel at over and over again. Catch him in one of his fussy old lady moods, and it was easy to forget he was such a... a guy. But have him standing right next to you with the candlelight glinting off the hair on his forearms and the shadows defining his biceps, and you couldn't ignore it. John couldn't ignore it. And maybe if McKay would stop fidgeting, John could stop staring at him.

The cabin was starting to feel uncomfortably small. He had a limit on how long he could nonchalantly ignore Rodney; most missions went past the limit, but Ronon and Teyla didn't seem to think there was anything weird about the way his eyes followed Rodney, or the way they were always standing closer to each other by the time they went home than when they set out. It was all harmless, anyway. But no way was he spending the next however many hours stuck in a hut with two botanists watching him watch McKay.

"I'll do it," he said. Rodney rolled his eyes. John gave him a look that meant "It's all the fault of you and your biceps, anyways," but unsurprisingly Rodney wasn't able to translate it as such. Someday Rodney was going to decipher the code of the various squints, and John was going to be really embarrassed.

"Thank you both," Parrish said, "and I'll expect detailed reports." He folded up two small packages of leaves, a pale one on the inside and a dark, leathery one on the outside. "I can't vouch for the taste, but the Marmolans don't find it unpleasant."

It wasn't. A little bitter, maybe, but minty. John lay back on the bed and settled into the blankets. Rodney came and sat on the foot of his bed, the sour look replaced by earnest concern. John had to close his eyes.

He forced himself to keep them closed as he listened to the drumming rain. After a few minutes he stopped straining to feel every shift of movement at the end of the bed. He relaxed. Just like falling asleep....

*********

You never can catch the start of a dream, John thinks. He's standing in front of one of the common rooms, and he knows he was coming from somewhere, doing something. The lights are out. They're not following his steps, not welcoming him. When he enters the room he sees a figure against the tall, narrow window and green seawater beyond the glass. He wills the lights on, but they only respond in strobe flashes. The person at the window is all light and shadow in the uneven flashes: dark hair, pale skin, silver and black wrapped around him. John thinks harder, and the lights stay on.

Oh, for fuck's sake....

The man at the window is Tim Curry in full-on Rocky Horror drag.

"I guess my imagination is just as trite as it was when I was nineteen."

"Not trite, darling," Tim Curry says. "Archetypal." He opens his cloak at the throat and removes it in a swirl. He saunters forward in all his transvestite glory, and suddenly John wants to ward him off. It's like doom coming at him, and John raises a hand, but hitting him would be unthinkable. Tim (or possibly Frank) veers to the side and begins to circle him, spiralling closer: fey, feral, prophetic. He stops.

"Let's take a walk," he says, tucking his hand into the crook of John's elbow. John tries not to feel the touch.

Frank (or possibly Tim, but John thinks this is no actor) leads him to the transporter, but it's a square cage of an elevator now. "Come on up to my lab." And although this cannot end well, John has to follow.

Frank slouches in the corner of the elevator, arms outstretched on the railings, hips canted to the side. John would like to keep his eyes front, but instead he's watching the play of muscles in Frank's thighs, just behind the garters, as Frank taps his foot in impatience. I guess that's a vision for you, he thinks. You have to look at what it wants you to see.

He would like to say that his mouth is not dry and his palms are not damp.

The elevator opens, and John clutches at the side in sudden fear. There's nothing but a ledge before them. They're atop the highest pinnacle of Atlantis, far above the ocean's surface. Frank draws him out onto the ledge. His make-up and corset ought to look cheap and sad by daylight. They don't. They look....

And Frank whispers in his ear, tangling his fingers in John's: "If thou be the son of the Ancestors, cast thyself down from hence. For it is written, They shall give their angels charge over thee, to keep thee. And in their hands they shall bear thee up, lest at any time thou dash thy foot against a stone."

The sun is so bright, and the sea winds so warm, and John wants so badly to run away. He steps off the edge.

He forgets to let go of Frank, though. They're plummeting together, until something metal slams into them from below.

John's clinging to the wing of a blue F/A-18 Hornet. Frank is sitting astride it like a horse, as best he can -- the jet's pretty wide. He makes it look obscene. "They're Navy, dumbass, not Air Force," John says.

"Don't blame me, it's your vision." Now Frank's wearing a dress uniform cap, and for some reason this is the last straw. John still won't hit him, but he wants to knock the cap off his head. He stands on the wing of the jet as it hurtles through the air, fearless in his James Bond stunt.

Frank stands, too, and they circle each other in some sort of fucked-up wrestling match that just won't start. The jet beneath them turns into a Wraith dart. The skies darken. John finally slaps at the cap. It tumbles off. "Now you've done it," Frank warns with a smirk, and they slide from the dart, falling through storm clouds, landing harmlessly on granite steps.

John looks around, then buries his face in his hands. "Do other people hate their subconsciouses this much?" He was trying for humor, but it comes out plaintive. They're in Arlington Cemetary, in front of the Tomb of the Unknowns. He dreads what Frank can do here, but he still can't keep his eyes closed.

Frank vaults to the top of the marble crypt. He sits on the edge, kicking his heels against the side. Black clouds boil in the sky behind him. His legs are spread far wider than they need to be, and John's gaze follows them up to where they join.

The honor guard breaks his stare, passing between steps and crypt on his unchanging path. Finally, someone in this fucking vision besides Frank! John chases after the soldier, but when he turns at the end of the black rubber mat, John remembers: no talking, no eye contact. The guard might as well be a robot.

"It's all over for the unknown soldier," Frank says, and his kicking heels fall into rhythm with the marching guard. John can almost see the ghost of Jim Morrison writhing behind Frank, continuing on with the song. More soldiers arrive for the changing of the guard. Every movement is in rhythm. Frank smiles wider.

"Please, no," whispers John. "Not the gay floor show." It could happen. All the soldiers could start stripping off their uniforms and dancing like drugged puppets, and John does *not* want to be here. He scrambles backwards up the steps, not stopping until he crashes into something.

He looks up. It's Rodney. Rodney holds out his hand: "C'mon, let's get out of here." The curves of his arm look as cool and perfect as marble in the weird light. "Come on, come on!" He motions impatiently. "He's winding up for the blood, death, and rhetoric speech -- do you really want to stay for that?" So John gives him his hand and lets Rodney pull him up.

Rodney drags him around to a side arch into the Memorial Amphitheater. "Okay, I see what you meant about the lame cliches," he says. So McKay is still refreshingly McKay... except for the part where they're holding hands.

John drops his hand as soon as they stop walking, and Rodney gives another one of his always eloquent eye-rolls. "Do you really think that crap has anything to do with us? The kink and the death and the sad hidden things?" He shakes his head. "Come here, I want to show you something."

John steps closer. Rodney puts his hands on John's shoulders and turns him around. His hands stay there, thumbs just brushing over John's shoulder blades. "Look up."

The night sky above them is strangely bright and hollow, a crude planetarium with stage lights for stars. "Now, Major, think about where we are in the solar system."

He does. He gasps and leans back against Rodney as the motion of the sky leaves him almost too dizzy to stand. It expands, it twists, it dances, it populates itself with stars. It unfolds from a planetarium to the universe as seen from space. "Did we do that?" John asks.

"Of course."

"What does it mean?"

Rodney snorts. He tilts his head closer and lets the side of his face rest against John's. "Do I have to explain everything to you?"

"Apparently." It's nice to argue like this, skin against skin, feeling the ghost of Rodney's breath when he talks.

"Well, too bad. I have a city to save, if you hadn't noticed, so you're just going to have to work this one out for yourself."

John turns to smile and argue further, but the marble benches and pillars around them are disarranging, floating into the sky and becoming clouds, stars, galaxies. It's all breaking up. The feel of Rodney's hands is the last thing to go.

********

When John woke up, there was way too much spit in his mouth. "Here," Parrish said, and handed him a cup. John spit out the leaves and made a face.

"See, I told you!" Rodney said. He'd moved up the bed and was sitting even with John's waist now. One hand was resting on John's shoulder, but when John looked at it, Rodney pulled it back, like he was pretending it hadn't been there. "So...?" he said, looking into John's eyes.

"You were there," John said, and they only had a moment to exchange a wordless something before Parrish leaned in again with a notebook.

"Really? What else?" Parrish asked eagerly.

"And you -- and you -- you were all there!" John said with a perky voice and theatrical smile as they all crowded around the bed.

"Oh, can it, Dorothy," said Rodney. John caught Rodney's gaze again and moved his hand so that it rested, just barely, against the side of Rodney's leg. He hoped Rodney could figure out that he hadn't been kidding about the first part.

He turned to Parrish, who was waiting expectantly with pen poised over paper. "Forget it. You're getting nothing," John said.

Parrish threw up his hands in frustration. "She wouldn't tell me anything either!" he complained, pointing to Kelsey.

"Guess you'll just need your own close encounter with the... something," John said.

Comments

[loligo.livejournal.com]

Thanks! And yeah, that's what makes this story so self-indulgent: it's full of little references to stuff I love, just one line here or three words there, and probably no one but me gets all of them, but that's okay -- sometimes you just gotta write what you want to write!