Perchance, to dream by kodiak bear
May. 2nd, 2008 09:04 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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sga_flashficTitle: Perchance, to dream
Author: kodiak bear
Cat: slash, kinda, not much going on though
Pairing: John/Rodney
Word Count: 5600 +
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Set in the nebulous time after season 5's premiere, deals with fall-out from The Last Man, vague attempts at guessing how Search and Rescue might go, ideas gleaned from JM's blog and a particular spoiler picture. Also, mention of a casting spoiler in season 5, again discussed on JM's blog.
Summary: A trade mission, a time of recovery.
AN: Thank you linzi for your quick beta!
Perchance, to dream
John reached for Rodney. It was compulsive, impulsive, and sitting near each other in John's quarters, the moment when he could resist had long since passed. Rodney's confusion drove him even faster, leaning in, capturing Rodney's mouth. Hail Mary.
~*~
Lida. That was the girl's name that had showed them to their guest house. Lida. With the beautiful brunette hair, slim hips, and youth in full bloom upon her rose-petal smooth skin. John slid his pack onto the straw-tick mattress, turning and gesturing for the rest of them to 'pick a spot'.
“Four days,” Rodney muttered, pushing mutinously against the mattress he had chosen, “my back will never be the same.”
“Better than the ground,” Ronon said.
“Dying of asphyxiation is better than burning alive, but they both end in the same, very-permanent result,” Rodney retorted.
Teyla looked upward, maybe asking the Ancestors for patience, John wasn't sure but she seemed to do it a lot more lately. Then she brought her chin back down and cast a wan smile at Rodney, reminding him, “Death is far more serious than a sore back, Rodney.”
“Says someone who has never endured back problems.”
“McKay,” John started.
“I'm serious! When I'm lying in my coffin, all I'll be able to think about is how bad my lumbar support is!”
John snorted, ducking away; he pulled his pistol from his holster and checked the safety, before tucking it under the feather pillow. Then he shoved his bag onto the floor and flopped down, stretching his legs as far as he could, crossing them over at the ankles and slipping his arms behind his head. God, it felt good. Just to lay down. He heard Rodney begin to say something, Teyla hush him, and then John gave in to the luxurious act of simply letting his eyes close and his mind drift.
~*~
Night on MX7-998 was gorgeous. Maybe not every night, but this night, surely. The sky – it wasn't black, it wasn't wholly dark, but a blue that was so blue it bordered on triple-dipped shades of violet. The same stars that blinked and winked in every other sky did so here, but with enthusiasm, young and playful, to match the people.
John sat beside his team, cross-legged, on a thick blanket of fur. A bonfire burned in the village center. To the left, a fountain gurgled merrily, water pouring from a ceramic pitcher clasped in a maiden's hand, emptying into a circular pool of marble. White flowers floated, darting here and there, glowing in the moonlight and firelight.
Earlier, Lida had given them each one of the flowers, tucked it in their hair. “It is the Amralüne; ever it grows in the valley of spirits.” Her smile had been for each of them, and only for John. “It is said to wear the white flower of the valley is to open one's heart and soul.”
“It is beautiful,” Teyla whispered.
Ronon bowed to receive his, then straightened, capturing Lida's hand as she stepped back. His eyes kept hers for a beat. “Thanks.”
“Oh, for--” Rodney took his flower and sniffed it experimentally, “are you sure --”
John scowled.
“--of course it's perfectly safe.” He tucked it back in place and forced a painful grimace that was meant to be a smile. Yet he couldn't quite keep from muttering out the side of his mouth to John, “Hives, Sheppard. If I get them, you will rue the day.”
But hives passed on the night. The air smelled of smoke, and roast meat and vegetables, and the fruit of many wines. Teyla had passed John a glass and promised it was better than the last. And every time, she was right. Rodney pressed against his side, laughing despite himself, at a child showing Ronon how to do a cartwheel.
Sparks wheeled into the air, disappearing from sight.
“Will you not dance, John Sheppard?” Lida laughed down at him.
“I'm a little...” Tired, worn, burned – John swallowed. “Full,” he said.
Her eyes shifted happily to Rodney and Teyla. “One of you then? The night is young! The music is beginning. Now is the time to release worries and let yourself free. Do you not feel the pull?”
The drums thrummed in John's bones; the flutes played so fast no single melody could be distinguished. John did feel the pull, yet, he waved them off. He heard Lida ask, “Why does he not dance? Why does he not let his soul be free?”
“Colonel Sheppard, he's --” Teyla struggled. “Not everything is as simple as it appears.”
Lida glanced back at him and he pretended interest in the puzzle Hala had given him earlier.
“He is wounded,” she breathed.
It was Rodney who said, “Aren't we all.”
Wine and music; firelight and starlight. John wasn't sure when night ended and day began, but he woke in his bed, his pistol by his hand. It was only the taste of fruit on his lips and a crushed flower by his head, that let him know it hadn't all been a dream.
~*~
Magrya passed the peace pipe, blowing thick ringlets of smoke from his mouth. His face was wizened, age-lined, yet somehow he looked young. John envied him. The hut was hot, sweat limed his scalp and trickled down his lip. “You do not partake of cleansing much I see, John Sheppard. The heat betrays you.” Magrya nodded his head at John's red face. “Illness must stalk your people.”
John smiled, coughed, smoke billowing from the sides of his mouth. Dear God, how did people do this and not die from...from... “We're careful to wash before every meal.”
“Words, you hide behind them.” The old man took back the pipe and set it on the curved and dimpled rock by his bare leg. He pushed himself up and, hunched over in the enclosed and limited space, moved across the tent to a wooden bucket. He scooped water and took it carefully to the center, where a pit burned and stones roasted; there he ladled water liberally, steam rising thick around them. “It is not good to begin trade when truth is hidden.” Magrya returned the ladle and took back his position on the tanned hide covering the ground.
“Look, Magrya, I'm not hiding anything. We're not hiding anything.” John sighed. Sweat beaded on his chest. The small garment fit tight around his belly and conformed to this thighs, accentuating every curve from his hips to beyond. “We're just --” he gestured expressively. “Not as open with our thoughts as you guys are.”
“You are recently injured.”
“Recently recovered,” John countered. He tried not to be self-conscious of the still-red scars.
“Truth, John.”
He blinked. His fingers curled in. “There was an accident --”
“Explosion.”
John blinked some more.
“We may seem carefree, but that is only because we choose which cares to take on. We do not idly go into deals with devils.”
“We're not devils --” John protested hotly.
Magrya sipped his drink, serenity clinging to him like a cloak of a second skin. “Do you dream, John?”
I dreamed for over seven hundred years, and then I dreamed for another day and night.
John fixed an ironic smile on his lips. “Doesn't everybody?”
“Dream, dream,” Magrya chanted. “Not the inconsequential pictures of fear or desire, but the fate of the universe, in your mind's eye.”
“No.” John inhaled. He breathed so deep the humid air almost choked him. “I don't.”
~*~
Teyla laughed. She grabbed for the tiara of vines, barely keeping it on her head as the children pulled her forward, proudly showing her their castle made of dirt, sticks and stones. Hala, a little boy barely tall enough to reach John's waist, tugged at Teyla's shirt. She glanced down at him, and her smile was softer and gentler than John had ever remembered seeing. She lifted him, and he wrapped himself around her, as natural as if he'd been born there, his head resting in the crook of her neck. Another girl took her hand and led her further away from the rest of the touring party.
The dirt was warm around his feet; John had rolled his pants up, left his boots and socks in their house. He followed Rodney and Ronon and Lida and Janua down the row of crops. His hair felt bleached and it was only midday, his skin, sun-kissed.
“The Banasu,” Janua explained, “is good. Muscles, strong.” He flexed his bicep and grinned.
“Great,” Rodney drawled, “but for those of us not of the ilk of 'me Tarzan, you Jane', what else is there? Coffee, maybe? Black, bitter, packs a hell of a punch?”
Lida and Janua shared confused looks; Ronon grabbed Rodney's cup of morning brew that he'd made from the instant packs in the MREs. Not exactly coffee-house quality, but it'd do. “This is coffee.” He held it out to them. “If you have anything similar, McKay will worship you.” Ronon's mouth twitched. “Maybe I shouldn't have said that.”
Lida sniffed and pulled her face away, her nose wrinkling in surprise. Janua took the cup and tasted it, cautiously, then finished it off in a gulp and a surprised squawk from Rodney. “Hey! That stuff doesn't grow on trees!”
“Yes, it does,” Janua laughed. He wiped his mouth with his wrist and handed the cup to Ronon. “The Neet blossoms, Lida, it tastes just like the Neet!”
“But that's for --”
“So, you actually have something similar?” Rodney's outrage evaporated in the face of such fantastic news.
“Yes, we do.” Janua turned and gestured with open arms at the forests beyond the field. “An entire world of coffee, Rodney McKay. What say you?”
Rodney laughed, louder than Teyla did earlier. “Will you marry me?”
~*~
That night John dreamed. It wasn't the end of the galaxy. It wasn't everyone dying. It was inconsequential; not fear, but desire.
~*~
“Dreamers see many things, John.”
“Dreamers?”
Magrya spooned more water over the stones. He slumped back onto his hide seat. Magrya's skin was even more tanned than yesterday. His body was gaunt, but strong. John thought he kinda reminded him of Jack Palance.
“Some are born to see more than what exists in the waking world. Some see deep, see far, future and past.” Magrya lit his pipe and sucked air in with short puffs, kindling the embers, white tendrils drifting placidly to the side. “And some,” his blue eyes bored into John's, “see nothing at all, because they refuse their gift.”
“Maybe they're just seeing what they want to see. Or what they're afraid might happen.” John shrugged. “People dream about a lot of things.”
“What really brings you to Kaalanu, John?”
Steam soaked into John's skin, saturating his pores. His arm, still stiff, felt better here than it ever had since he'd been hurt. It almost made him want to stay here forever. “Trade,” he said.
“Your people look well fed, you have things beyond our abilities.”
John's jaw clenched. “Fortunes change.”
“Perhaps.” Magrya held the pipe out to John. “This time,” he cautioned with a grin, “do not inhale past your throat.”
~*~
Rodney crouched on his bed, hovering over his laptop. The click-clack set up a familiar and reassuring cadence in the back of John's mind while he did his own work on the field report. The grain could be used for a lot of dishes, replacing the Tava crops that were lost. The fruit so far checked out, nothing fatal or deadly in their initial exposures. Teyla had assured John that everything was safe. Teyla was also missing her baby. John frowned at his report. She shouldn't have come, yet – he glanced across the room where she was deep in conversation with Ronon. She, maybe, had even more reason to get away from it all, even if it was just a few days. Four days. And there probably wasn't another baby in two galaxies better cared for when momma was away.
John ducked back to his report, his hand unconsciously sliding to the pistol tucked away. He didn't even know who would be reading this report. Carter's upcoming departure...Christ. John rubbed his eyes, leaning back carefully against the rough wall. The planks weren't sanded or smooth; he'd already gotten a few slivers from them during the night.
A noise, or an absence of, alerted John. He opened his eyes and saw Rodney getting up, pulling on his fleece. It was a jolt when John realized it was the orange one, the same fleece he'd been wearing on that fateful day in Antarctica.
“Rodney --”
“I'm going for a walk,” he said.
Rodney looked tired. Here in their hut, the discovery of a coffee substitute, the fire and wine and music, it all faded, as if their gear and their reports and their responsibilities just wouldn't take the vacation that they'd come here to have. John should've known you couldn't ever mix the two; there was no killing two birds with one stone. Not for them.
A lake languished nearby; a path from the village led to the shore. John found Rodney there. He was sitting on a shaped-stone bench, a handful of pebbles in his hands, and every few seconds, he'd toss one into the water, and the moonlight bathed the ripples as they spread out from the point of the stone's disappearance.
He sat by Rodney.
A few more stones disappeared.
Somewhere a bird sang. It was lonely and sad, and it was the first thing on this planet that John had heard that even remotely came close to evoking melancholy. Tonight, the stars seemed subdued. The moon was still bright, but it burned with a different intensity.
“The theory of everything.”
John was thrown. “What?”
Rodney sighed. “Never mind.”
“Eartha Kitt.”
“What?”
John shrugged. “Just figured if we were tossing random things out there, she was a good one to start with.”
“Well she's not, and...I'm not.” Rodney cocked his head and studied John sideways. “So, how does it,” he waved vaguely at John's arm, “feel. Think this is the most you've done since--”
“Fine,” John lied. It hurt, actually. A lot. And often. “How's,” John gestured at his head.
Rodney nodded, turning back to the water. “Good. Only aches when Teyla's baby cries.”
“Which is...”
“...all the time.”
They chuckled.
“So, Jennifer.”
“You read the report?” John accused. Rodney tipped his head, again, but this time it telegraphed plainly 'duh'. “Right. Shoulda known you wouldn't just accept 'thrown into the future, holo-Rodney saves the day, I know where Teyla is' version.” John reached and stole some stones from Rodney's hand. He rubbed them in his palm, feeling the smoothness, the hardness – rocks. Unyielding, standing the test of time until eventually erosion claimed them, just like it did with everything else. Nothing lasts forever. Not even stars. He threw them all into the water. “Yep. Guess you needed someone and she needed someone. Hey. Match made in heaven.”
“Match made in desperation,” Rodney grumped.
“You were happy enough, for a while.”
“Right. Because it's just like me to give up.” Rodney's glib reply didn't mask the bitterness.
Ah. John rubbed his arm, unaware. The night was cool, and cold plus healing bones equaled a recipe for latent pain. Rodney shrugged out of his fleece, pulling it over his head and thrusting it at John before he could protest. “Wear it,” Rodney snapped.
“I'm fine.”
“Oh for God's sake, John, you almost died. You're going to fight me about this? Put the damn thing on.”
He did. Rodney's scent was thick in his nose. John regretted following Rodney here. When Rodney gathered more pebbles and plopped half his plunder into John's hands, he didn't argue.
~*~
“Do you know what it is to dream?”
John shook his head. He'd thought this would be about finalizing the trade agreement, or discussing their eventual return. He supposed he should've known. Magrya seemed hyper-focused on dreaming, dreams, dreamers, and John didn't know what the old man wanted from him.
Magrya didn't seem bothered by John's negative reply. He leaned forward, wafting steam into his face; his eyes closed in the bliss that the humid air brought to his aged, papery skin. “It is to open one's heart and one's soul; to see that which has been done and that which must be done. Denying your dream is like denying your soul.” He opened one eye and stared at John. “It is not wise to deny your soul for long. It will shrivel, and die, and then all you have will be hollow.”
“I dream,” John protested, his mouth dry.
“I did not say you didn't.”
“Then what exactly are you saying?” John's breaths were harsh, ragged. It was the steam, he told himself. It made the air thick and close.
The old man lit his pipe. On the resting rock, ash dirtied one end and he absently rubbed it away with his thumb. He smiled and asked, “The pipe is good, yes?”
“No.” He didn't bother lying, Magrya would see right through him; in three days, he'd yet to teach John how to properly smoke it without choking and gagging like an adolescent sneaking his parent's cigarettes. “Tastes terrible,” he grunted honestly. But he took it and stuck it between his lips and sucked in air and smoke. It tasted minty today.
This time, he almost managed not to cough. Almost.
“Like every honest dream we have,” Magrya said, taking the pipe back. “Hard at first to accept, but then it grows and becomes more comfortable, and we see the truth of our mind.”
“We have dishonest dreams?” Why he was asking, John had no idea. In fact, between the heat and the smoke, he was really just wanting to leave.
“We have, perhaps, dreams that we wish to believe and dreams that we do not wish to believe. Which do you think are more honest?”
John's belly flipped. “I have a dream,” he found himself saying, defensively, before his mouth dried and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. It was one in which the Wraith were eviscerated, the galaxy saved, and he could – what?
Magrya sucked on his pipe and spoke around it, “The trade agreement is finalized. Your people are welcome to begin collecting the Neet and Banasu. We look forward to the medical supplies and irrigation methods. Our world is peaceful and we would give your people sanctuary here, when it is needed. If for nothing more than rest. We have all seen the weariness upon your souls.”
“That's a lot to offer without really getting to know us,” John protested, surprised by the sudden shift. Maybe even wary. Apples and trees. One bite and it's all over.
“I see much, John. Just as you do. Our eyes do not deceive, it is only our hearts that try.” He reached across and touched John's chest. “Do not let yours.”
“Who are you?”
His eyes crinkled. “I am Ashawa. I am the tribe Dreamer.” He gestured broadly at the hut. “This is my home, when I choose it.”
“A spirit guide?”
Magrya laughed. “I am no spirit.”
“Yet, you're their leader.”
“They have no leader. We need no leader. I guide many people through their dream worlds. You were brought to me because you need guidance. You do not see what your dream wants you to see.”
“But you finalized the trade agreement?” John's brow furrowed in concentration, irritation. “I thought all this time spent was getting to know each other so you'd feel --”
He poured more water over the stones; through the haze, John saw his smile grow even more oblique. “Have you even been here, John?”
~*~
When two people joined, their words, not John's, then the celebrations grew even bigger and longer. Lida met them at their house and explained the two-day party. Their expected roles. The first day would be one of fasting, the second, one of feasting.
“Fasting?” Rodney shook his head. “You see, that doesn't exactly work for me.”
Lida looked bereft. “It is tradition, Rodney McKay.”
“And traditions are meant to be brok --” He caught John's warning, his eyebrows going up in a 'do not fuck this up' way and quickly aborted, saying instead, “--adjusted. You know, adapt to the people. It's just, I have this thing, and if I don't eat regularly I get sick and --”
Ronon interrupted, “We don't like it when McKay gets sick.” Mild but blunt.
“I see,” she said. But didn't.
“What if I participate for my team,” John suggested.
“Well, it's...yes, I will tell the others. Our children are exempt, after all.”
When she had disappeared through the door, Rodney turned to John and wondered, “Did she just imply I'm childish?”
~*~
“It's kind of funny,” Rodney said.
“What?”
“That in the end, it came down to just us.”
John stared out across the water, not really sure what to say to that.
~*~
Fasting and steaming, probably not a good combination, John realized, light-headed. “Am I here?” he asked Magrya.
The old man's lips twitched; he sipped long on his drink.
“Okay, I get it. That's for me to figure out.”
The drink was lowered. “Tell me, John Sheppard, what do you love?”
Stooped over, sweat building in the creases of his knees and elbows, John figured that was a loaded question. And pretty personal for some alien mystic from another world. “Ferris wheels and fast --”
Through the mist, a soft, red glow kindled. The quiet hiss of burning leaf wheedled its way into the enclosed room. “Not things. No one can truly love a thing.”
John cleared his throat, really wishing he was better at this. “My team,” he said, feeling awkward. He took the proffered pipe and grew a little bolder. Hell, he'd probably never see this guy again; that was, if he was even real. “They mean everything to me.”
“And would you die for your team?”
“Are you asking me to?”
It was only later, when John touched the pistol under his pillow, restless in bed, that John realized Magrya hadn't mentioned dreaming. Not even once.
~*~
Teyla returned to John's side, breathless, a laugh still on her lips. “Do you see them, John?”
“I think they slipped Rodney something.” Because Rodney was dancing with a little girl. She stood on Rodney's feet, and they twirled around the bonfire in jerky, awkward steps.
Ronon was across the way, demonstrating his awesomeness with a knife. The teenagers had erected a hasty target made of cloth and dye and John was almost positive each time Ronon hit the colored center, some kind of currency was exchanging hands.
“I think it is the feeling of freedom here,” Teyla breathed. “It is as if we left all our burdens at the Stargate.”
John just kind of smiled. It wasn't entirely true.
“But not you.” Teyla touched his arm, demanding his attention. “It has not been easy.”
“You're the one that lost the most,” John deflected. He'd held her son as she buried the father of her child. It was after the funeral that they had returned to Atlantis, settled the baby with the host of babysitters, packed up, and left for MX7-998.
“I did not lose anymore than that which was already gone.” Her eyes had gone distant, her voice, husky. John didn't do anything for a moment, but then he felt compelled to reach for her hand. He patted it, hesitantly. She looked over at him; her eyes drifted to his arm, and his hidden wounds. “I am sorry,” she whispered. Then she pulled her hand from his, climbed lithely to her feet, and melted into the crowd dancing chaotically around the fountain.
Earlier, Lida had pressed a plate of bread and roast Terq, along with a glass of wine, into his hands. John drank the wine and nibbled on the bread. The air was thick with woodsmoke and John thought he'd be smelling it on his skin and his clothes for weeks to come.
Ronon dropped down next to him, snatched the Terq, and bit into it voraciously.
“Please, help yourself,” John cracked.
“Thanks,” Ronon said unabashedly, talking around a mouthful.
John rolled his eyes and stretched his legs, digging furrows into the soft dirt with the heels of his untied boots.
“Where'd Teyla go?”
“Not sure.” John finished off his wine with a gulp and sat the carved, wooden cup next to his knee. “That way.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
Ronon raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
He waited but Ronon could out-wait a rock. “It's not my fault.”
“She blames herself.” Ronon tossed his knife and caught it. “Have you told her about the...” Ronon fished helplessly over his head. “You know, the time thing.”
“What?”
“What the future was like.” Ronon aimed and sent the knife blade deep into the ground between them. “She should know that we risked dying for more than just her.”
John stared at Ronon, exasperated. “Did everyone read the 'highly classified' report?”
~*~
He wasn't sleeping. The house was dark except for the dim, orange light emanating from a glow stick hanging from Rodney's hand, dangled over the side of his bed. Rodney's laptop was pushed against the wall, between Rodney's back and the splinter-giving planks. John blinked and wondered how Rodney could possibly sleep with his neck turned at that angle.
Ronon snored. Teyla snored. No, really, she did. Probably what kept waking her kid up in the middle of the night.
When he looked up and saw Maygra leaning over him, he asked sleepily, “Am I dreaming?”
“We are always dreaming, John.” He slipped a leathery-hand under John's shoulder. “Come, before you go, there is one more thing to do.”
John let himself be guided to his feet and trudged after the stooped, old man. It was the hour before dawn. The air was chilled and smelled of coming rain. He recognized the path to the lake and followed silently. A calm fog hung just over the water; the moon, shrouded in its own halo, cast a pale light on everything below.
“After the cleansing, we bathe in the lake, shocks the system back into the present.” Magrya wore only the skimpy undergarment they had worn in the sweat hut. He smiled mischievously, then dove into the murky depths, leaping from the mossy bank with far more agility than seemed possible for his age.
“Are you nuts?” John muttered, but he shucked his boots, pants and his t-shirt. “I'm going to regret this.” But he surged forward before he could question his sanity further.
Son of a bitch! The shock hit his system with the impact of a million flying bricks. He gasped, inhaling brackish water that left a tang of copper on his tongue. It was hard to breathe, what, with the water fighting for space that oxygen normally occupied in his lungs. He flailed and cursed.
“Remember, John, listen to your dreams,” Magrya's voice floated around him. “Remember!”
John reached, desperate for the surface, his arm thrust upward. When the strong grip pulled back, he was almost frantic.
“Sheppard, easy...easy,” Rodney murmured, “it's alright, you're fine, we've got you.”
“-- the hell?” He felt cold all over; his arm ached with a ferocity that made his teeth clench. His senses were slowly returning. Pain flooded every nerve ending in his body. The metallic taste in his mouth was warm and salty, blood, and he couldn't move. Every breath felt like his last.
Rodney peered down at him, as if he were lying above him; John tried to see through the grit in his eyes and their refusal to stay open. Rodney was lying above him, perched haphazardly across the rubble, his hand threaded through a gap in the fallen metal girders, reaching and holding on to John's one free hand that must have been flailing in his unconscious struggle to get free. “Michael had it rigged, but you're going to be okay, I promise. We're going to get you out of here.”
John just groaned and imagined the taste of wine in his mouth. A dream. It'd just been a dream.
~*~
“John!” He was rocked mercilessly. “God damn it, Sheppard, wake up!”
He didn't listen to many people, didn't take orders from just anyone – but Rodney, that was a different story altogether. John woke up, staring blearily at the face frowning down at him. The relief that flooded across those familiar blue eyes confused him.
“Oh, thank God. I was having flashes of being four and listening to Jeannie read me Rip Van Winkle all over again.”
Teyla pulled Rodney to the side. She looked good. Rested. Not so weary and hurt. How was that possible -- The feeling of being buried alive was slowly fading from John's mind – had it ever happened? The pain in his body told him it had. His memory was slowly catching up. She sat down by his side and he became aware of the straw poking into him through the thin linen cover on the mattress. The sweet smell of recently sun-dried hay. She lifted his hand and felt his pulse, checking his eyes and pressing her palm against his forehead. “Do you remember?”
His mouth was dry, like fall leaves before the storm. “Remember?”
“You volunteered to be the pig,” Ronon rumbled.
John craned his head back; Ronon was leaning against the wall behind him. “I did?”
“Guinea pig,” Rodney corrected, irritably. “And yes, you did. Don't do that again.”
Lida stepped into view, older now than he remembered. Youth had left her behind many years ago, yet beauty still remained, if nothing more than a memory etched within the lines of her face. “I am sorry, John, but we must know the truth of those who come to our world.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “If it helps, the memories you experienced, they were as real as anything can be. What exists there, exists here. Let that be some comfort.”
“Magrya?” he rasped.
“My father. He passed into shadow but walks still in our dreams.”
“Why did you make me relive being trapped?” John's arm still ached from the sharpness of the renewed memory. It had been a cruel thing. “Why those dreams?” How much of it was real?
A boy entered the house and he looked familiar. Lida smiled and took the clay canister, “Thank you, Hala, please, go prepare the cart. I do not want John walking to the circle in his condition.” She gave the canister to Teyla. “Here are herbs to ease his recovery from the dreaming. It will dull the pain he feels. He should need no more than three doses over the next day and night.”
“You didn't answer my question?”
Her eyes made him wish to take it back. She glanced at his team, then back to him. “I think the answer you seek is within yourself.” She leaned over John, brushing her lips across his clammy forehead. “We will trade, John Sheppard. Father has judged you worthy.” She smiled, deeper. “I, too, judge you worthy.”
Then she was gone. John could still smell the white flowers floating on the water. He rolled away from his team's prying eyes, sliding his hand under his pillow, oblivious to the need that had him seeking the reassuring touch of cold metal.
~*~
The Gate Room was mostly empty; the standard guards stood silent on night watch. Atlantis was quiet, but for the silent hum of her in the back of his mind. Or maybe him. It. Whatever. The city had something that he felt when he was there, and something he didn't when he wasn't, and trying to define that was like trying to box water.
His arm ached; he told himself it was what had driven him from bed. Unconsciously he cradled it, the file clasped securely against his chest, and walked on down the empty corridor.
Well, you won't feel a thing – but basically... you just won't wake up.
But he had, hadn't he?
He carried the report in his hands. When he knocked softly on Teyla's door, he almost hoped for no answer. It stayed shut. Good. He quickly opened the door, being head of military had some advantages, after all, then quietly placed the folder on her desk. On the front, a post-it with a hastily scribbled Ronon thinks you should read this. He's probably right. John tiptoed back towards the door, glancing over, pausing just long enough to drink in the picture of Teyla sleeping in bed, her son, swaddled and peaceful by her side.
Some nightmares, they were worth it.
~*~
Rodney's heart hammered in his chest. He stared, searching hazel eyes for some clue as to what to do, how to react, but John just licked his lips after he'd broken the kiss, as if waiting for the executioner to swing the axe, felling the hope held within.
Rodney swallowed and asked, “Am I dreaming?”
“Do you want to be?” John asked, slightly breathless.
Then Rodney reached for him, holding John's head between his hands, his hair soft between Rodney's fingers, and claimed a kiss longer and harder than John had dared. “If I am, I don't ever want to wake up.”
Author: kodiak bear
Cat: slash, kinda, not much going on though
Pairing: John/Rodney
Word Count: 5600 +
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Set in the nebulous time after season 5's premiere, deals with fall-out from The Last Man, vague attempts at guessing how Search and Rescue might go, ideas gleaned from JM's blog and a particular spoiler picture. Also, mention of a casting spoiler in season 5, again discussed on JM's blog.
Summary: A trade mission, a time of recovery.
AN: Thank you linzi for your quick beta!
John reached for Rodney. It was compulsive, impulsive, and sitting near each other in John's quarters, the moment when he could resist had long since passed. Rodney's confusion drove him even faster, leaning in, capturing Rodney's mouth. Hail Mary.
Lida. That was the girl's name that had showed them to their guest house. Lida. With the beautiful brunette hair, slim hips, and youth in full bloom upon her rose-petal smooth skin. John slid his pack onto the straw-tick mattress, turning and gesturing for the rest of them to 'pick a spot'.
“Four days,” Rodney muttered, pushing mutinously against the mattress he had chosen, “my back will never be the same.”
“Better than the ground,” Ronon said.
“Dying of asphyxiation is better than burning alive, but they both end in the same, very-permanent result,” Rodney retorted.
Teyla looked upward, maybe asking the Ancestors for patience, John wasn't sure but she seemed to do it a lot more lately. Then she brought her chin back down and cast a wan smile at Rodney, reminding him, “Death is far more serious than a sore back, Rodney.”
“Says someone who has never endured back problems.”
“McKay,” John started.
“I'm serious! When I'm lying in my coffin, all I'll be able to think about is how bad my lumbar support is!”
John snorted, ducking away; he pulled his pistol from his holster and checked the safety, before tucking it under the feather pillow. Then he shoved his bag onto the floor and flopped down, stretching his legs as far as he could, crossing them over at the ankles and slipping his arms behind his head. God, it felt good. Just to lay down. He heard Rodney begin to say something, Teyla hush him, and then John gave in to the luxurious act of simply letting his eyes close and his mind drift.
Night on MX7-998 was gorgeous. Maybe not every night, but this night, surely. The sky – it wasn't black, it wasn't wholly dark, but a blue that was so blue it bordered on triple-dipped shades of violet. The same stars that blinked and winked in every other sky did so here, but with enthusiasm, young and playful, to match the people.
John sat beside his team, cross-legged, on a thick blanket of fur. A bonfire burned in the village center. To the left, a fountain gurgled merrily, water pouring from a ceramic pitcher clasped in a maiden's hand, emptying into a circular pool of marble. White flowers floated, darting here and there, glowing in the moonlight and firelight.
Earlier, Lida had given them each one of the flowers, tucked it in their hair. “It is the Amralüne; ever it grows in the valley of spirits.” Her smile had been for each of them, and only for John. “It is said to wear the white flower of the valley is to open one's heart and soul.”
“It is beautiful,” Teyla whispered.
Ronon bowed to receive his, then straightened, capturing Lida's hand as she stepped back. His eyes kept hers for a beat. “Thanks.”
“Oh, for--” Rodney took his flower and sniffed it experimentally, “are you sure --”
John scowled.
“--of course it's perfectly safe.” He tucked it back in place and forced a painful grimace that was meant to be a smile. Yet he couldn't quite keep from muttering out the side of his mouth to John, “Hives, Sheppard. If I get them, you will rue the day.”
But hives passed on the night. The air smelled of smoke, and roast meat and vegetables, and the fruit of many wines. Teyla had passed John a glass and promised it was better than the last. And every time, she was right. Rodney pressed against his side, laughing despite himself, at a child showing Ronon how to do a cartwheel.
Sparks wheeled into the air, disappearing from sight.
“Will you not dance, John Sheppard?” Lida laughed down at him.
“I'm a little...” Tired, worn, burned – John swallowed. “Full,” he said.
Her eyes shifted happily to Rodney and Teyla. “One of you then? The night is young! The music is beginning. Now is the time to release worries and let yourself free. Do you not feel the pull?”
The drums thrummed in John's bones; the flutes played so fast no single melody could be distinguished. John did feel the pull, yet, he waved them off. He heard Lida ask, “Why does he not dance? Why does he not let his soul be free?”
“Colonel Sheppard, he's --” Teyla struggled. “Not everything is as simple as it appears.”
Lida glanced back at him and he pretended interest in the puzzle Hala had given him earlier.
“He is wounded,” she breathed.
It was Rodney who said, “Aren't we all.”
Wine and music; firelight and starlight. John wasn't sure when night ended and day began, but he woke in his bed, his pistol by his hand. It was only the taste of fruit on his lips and a crushed flower by his head, that let him know it hadn't all been a dream.
Magrya passed the peace pipe, blowing thick ringlets of smoke from his mouth. His face was wizened, age-lined, yet somehow he looked young. John envied him. The hut was hot, sweat limed his scalp and trickled down his lip. “You do not partake of cleansing much I see, John Sheppard. The heat betrays you.” Magrya nodded his head at John's red face. “Illness must stalk your people.”
John smiled, coughed, smoke billowing from the sides of his mouth. Dear God, how did people do this and not die from...from... “We're careful to wash before every meal.”
“Words, you hide behind them.” The old man took back the pipe and set it on the curved and dimpled rock by his bare leg. He pushed himself up and, hunched over in the enclosed and limited space, moved across the tent to a wooden bucket. He scooped water and took it carefully to the center, where a pit burned and stones roasted; there he ladled water liberally, steam rising thick around them. “It is not good to begin trade when truth is hidden.” Magrya returned the ladle and took back his position on the tanned hide covering the ground.
“Look, Magrya, I'm not hiding anything. We're not hiding anything.” John sighed. Sweat beaded on his chest. The small garment fit tight around his belly and conformed to this thighs, accentuating every curve from his hips to beyond. “We're just --” he gestured expressively. “Not as open with our thoughts as you guys are.”
“You are recently injured.”
“Recently recovered,” John countered. He tried not to be self-conscious of the still-red scars.
“Truth, John.”
He blinked. His fingers curled in. “There was an accident --”
“Explosion.”
John blinked some more.
“We may seem carefree, but that is only because we choose which cares to take on. We do not idly go into deals with devils.”
“We're not devils --” John protested hotly.
Magrya sipped his drink, serenity clinging to him like a cloak of a second skin. “Do you dream, John?”
I dreamed for over seven hundred years, and then I dreamed for another day and night.
John fixed an ironic smile on his lips. “Doesn't everybody?”
“Dream, dream,” Magrya chanted. “Not the inconsequential pictures of fear or desire, but the fate of the universe, in your mind's eye.”
“No.” John inhaled. He breathed so deep the humid air almost choked him. “I don't.”
Teyla laughed. She grabbed for the tiara of vines, barely keeping it on her head as the children pulled her forward, proudly showing her their castle made of dirt, sticks and stones. Hala, a little boy barely tall enough to reach John's waist, tugged at Teyla's shirt. She glanced down at him, and her smile was softer and gentler than John had ever remembered seeing. She lifted him, and he wrapped himself around her, as natural as if he'd been born there, his head resting in the crook of her neck. Another girl took her hand and led her further away from the rest of the touring party.
The dirt was warm around his feet; John had rolled his pants up, left his boots and socks in their house. He followed Rodney and Ronon and Lida and Janua down the row of crops. His hair felt bleached and it was only midday, his skin, sun-kissed.
“The Banasu,” Janua explained, “is good. Muscles, strong.” He flexed his bicep and grinned.
“Great,” Rodney drawled, “but for those of us not of the ilk of 'me Tarzan, you Jane', what else is there? Coffee, maybe? Black, bitter, packs a hell of a punch?”
Lida and Janua shared confused looks; Ronon grabbed Rodney's cup of morning brew that he'd made from the instant packs in the MREs. Not exactly coffee-house quality, but it'd do. “This is coffee.” He held it out to them. “If you have anything similar, McKay will worship you.” Ronon's mouth twitched. “Maybe I shouldn't have said that.”
Lida sniffed and pulled her face away, her nose wrinkling in surprise. Janua took the cup and tasted it, cautiously, then finished it off in a gulp and a surprised squawk from Rodney. “Hey! That stuff doesn't grow on trees!”
“Yes, it does,” Janua laughed. He wiped his mouth with his wrist and handed the cup to Ronon. “The Neet blossoms, Lida, it tastes just like the Neet!”
“But that's for --”
“So, you actually have something similar?” Rodney's outrage evaporated in the face of such fantastic news.
“Yes, we do.” Janua turned and gestured with open arms at the forests beyond the field. “An entire world of coffee, Rodney McKay. What say you?”
Rodney laughed, louder than Teyla did earlier. “Will you marry me?”
That night John dreamed. It wasn't the end of the galaxy. It wasn't everyone dying. It was inconsequential; not fear, but desire.
“Dreamers see many things, John.”
“Dreamers?”
Magrya spooned more water over the stones. He slumped back onto his hide seat. Magrya's skin was even more tanned than yesterday. His body was gaunt, but strong. John thought he kinda reminded him of Jack Palance.
“Some are born to see more than what exists in the waking world. Some see deep, see far, future and past.” Magrya lit his pipe and sucked air in with short puffs, kindling the embers, white tendrils drifting placidly to the side. “And some,” his blue eyes bored into John's, “see nothing at all, because they refuse their gift.”
“Maybe they're just seeing what they want to see. Or what they're afraid might happen.” John shrugged. “People dream about a lot of things.”
“What really brings you to Kaalanu, John?”
Steam soaked into John's skin, saturating his pores. His arm, still stiff, felt better here than it ever had since he'd been hurt. It almost made him want to stay here forever. “Trade,” he said.
“Your people look well fed, you have things beyond our abilities.”
John's jaw clenched. “Fortunes change.”
“Perhaps.” Magrya held the pipe out to John. “This time,” he cautioned with a grin, “do not inhale past your throat.”
Rodney crouched on his bed, hovering over his laptop. The click-clack set up a familiar and reassuring cadence in the back of John's mind while he did his own work on the field report. The grain could be used for a lot of dishes, replacing the Tava crops that were lost. The fruit so far checked out, nothing fatal or deadly in their initial exposures. Teyla had assured John that everything was safe. Teyla was also missing her baby. John frowned at his report. She shouldn't have come, yet – he glanced across the room where she was deep in conversation with Ronon. She, maybe, had even more reason to get away from it all, even if it was just a few days. Four days. And there probably wasn't another baby in two galaxies better cared for when momma was away.
John ducked back to his report, his hand unconsciously sliding to the pistol tucked away. He didn't even know who would be reading this report. Carter's upcoming departure...Christ. John rubbed his eyes, leaning back carefully against the rough wall. The planks weren't sanded or smooth; he'd already gotten a few slivers from them during the night.
A noise, or an absence of, alerted John. He opened his eyes and saw Rodney getting up, pulling on his fleece. It was a jolt when John realized it was the orange one, the same fleece he'd been wearing on that fateful day in Antarctica.
“Rodney --”
“I'm going for a walk,” he said.
Rodney looked tired. Here in their hut, the discovery of a coffee substitute, the fire and wine and music, it all faded, as if their gear and their reports and their responsibilities just wouldn't take the vacation that they'd come here to have. John should've known you couldn't ever mix the two; there was no killing two birds with one stone. Not for them.
A lake languished nearby; a path from the village led to the shore. John found Rodney there. He was sitting on a shaped-stone bench, a handful of pebbles in his hands, and every few seconds, he'd toss one into the water, and the moonlight bathed the ripples as they spread out from the point of the stone's disappearance.
He sat by Rodney.
A few more stones disappeared.
Somewhere a bird sang. It was lonely and sad, and it was the first thing on this planet that John had heard that even remotely came close to evoking melancholy. Tonight, the stars seemed subdued. The moon was still bright, but it burned with a different intensity.
“The theory of everything.”
John was thrown. “What?”
Rodney sighed. “Never mind.”
“Eartha Kitt.”
“What?”
John shrugged. “Just figured if we were tossing random things out there, she was a good one to start with.”
“Well she's not, and...I'm not.” Rodney cocked his head and studied John sideways. “So, how does it,” he waved vaguely at John's arm, “feel. Think this is the most you've done since--”
“Fine,” John lied. It hurt, actually. A lot. And often. “How's,” John gestured at his head.
Rodney nodded, turning back to the water. “Good. Only aches when Teyla's baby cries.”
“Which is...”
“...all the time.”
They chuckled.
“So, Jennifer.”
“You read the report?” John accused. Rodney tipped his head, again, but this time it telegraphed plainly 'duh'. “Right. Shoulda known you wouldn't just accept 'thrown into the future, holo-Rodney saves the day, I know where Teyla is' version.” John reached and stole some stones from Rodney's hand. He rubbed them in his palm, feeling the smoothness, the hardness – rocks. Unyielding, standing the test of time until eventually erosion claimed them, just like it did with everything else. Nothing lasts forever. Not even stars. He threw them all into the water. “Yep. Guess you needed someone and she needed someone. Hey. Match made in heaven.”
“Match made in desperation,” Rodney grumped.
“You were happy enough, for a while.”
“Right. Because it's just like me to give up.” Rodney's glib reply didn't mask the bitterness.
Ah. John rubbed his arm, unaware. The night was cool, and cold plus healing bones equaled a recipe for latent pain. Rodney shrugged out of his fleece, pulling it over his head and thrusting it at John before he could protest. “Wear it,” Rodney snapped.
“I'm fine.”
“Oh for God's sake, John, you almost died. You're going to fight me about this? Put the damn thing on.”
He did. Rodney's scent was thick in his nose. John regretted following Rodney here. When Rodney gathered more pebbles and plopped half his plunder into John's hands, he didn't argue.
“Do you know what it is to dream?”
John shook his head. He'd thought this would be about finalizing the trade agreement, or discussing their eventual return. He supposed he should've known. Magrya seemed hyper-focused on dreaming, dreams, dreamers, and John didn't know what the old man wanted from him.
Magrya didn't seem bothered by John's negative reply. He leaned forward, wafting steam into his face; his eyes closed in the bliss that the humid air brought to his aged, papery skin. “It is to open one's heart and one's soul; to see that which has been done and that which must be done. Denying your dream is like denying your soul.” He opened one eye and stared at John. “It is not wise to deny your soul for long. It will shrivel, and die, and then all you have will be hollow.”
“I dream,” John protested, his mouth dry.
“I did not say you didn't.”
“Then what exactly are you saying?” John's breaths were harsh, ragged. It was the steam, he told himself. It made the air thick and close.
The old man lit his pipe. On the resting rock, ash dirtied one end and he absently rubbed it away with his thumb. He smiled and asked, “The pipe is good, yes?”
“No.” He didn't bother lying, Magrya would see right through him; in three days, he'd yet to teach John how to properly smoke it without choking and gagging like an adolescent sneaking his parent's cigarettes. “Tastes terrible,” he grunted honestly. But he took it and stuck it between his lips and sucked in air and smoke. It tasted minty today.
This time, he almost managed not to cough. Almost.
“Like every honest dream we have,” Magrya said, taking the pipe back. “Hard at first to accept, but then it grows and becomes more comfortable, and we see the truth of our mind.”
“We have dishonest dreams?” Why he was asking, John had no idea. In fact, between the heat and the smoke, he was really just wanting to leave.
“We have, perhaps, dreams that we wish to believe and dreams that we do not wish to believe. Which do you think are more honest?”
John's belly flipped. “I have a dream,” he found himself saying, defensively, before his mouth dried and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. It was one in which the Wraith were eviscerated, the galaxy saved, and he could – what?
Magrya sucked on his pipe and spoke around it, “The trade agreement is finalized. Your people are welcome to begin collecting the Neet and Banasu. We look forward to the medical supplies and irrigation methods. Our world is peaceful and we would give your people sanctuary here, when it is needed. If for nothing more than rest. We have all seen the weariness upon your souls.”
“That's a lot to offer without really getting to know us,” John protested, surprised by the sudden shift. Maybe even wary. Apples and trees. One bite and it's all over.
“I see much, John. Just as you do. Our eyes do not deceive, it is only our hearts that try.” He reached across and touched John's chest. “Do not let yours.”
“Who are you?”
His eyes crinkled. “I am Ashawa. I am the tribe Dreamer.” He gestured broadly at the hut. “This is my home, when I choose it.”
“A spirit guide?”
Magrya laughed. “I am no spirit.”
“Yet, you're their leader.”
“They have no leader. We need no leader. I guide many people through their dream worlds. You were brought to me because you need guidance. You do not see what your dream wants you to see.”
“But you finalized the trade agreement?” John's brow furrowed in concentration, irritation. “I thought all this time spent was getting to know each other so you'd feel --”
He poured more water over the stones; through the haze, John saw his smile grow even more oblique. “Have you even been here, John?”
When two people joined, their words, not John's, then the celebrations grew even bigger and longer. Lida met them at their house and explained the two-day party. Their expected roles. The first day would be one of fasting, the second, one of feasting.
“Fasting?” Rodney shook his head. “You see, that doesn't exactly work for me.”
Lida looked bereft. “It is tradition, Rodney McKay.”
“And traditions are meant to be brok --” He caught John's warning, his eyebrows going up in a 'do not fuck this up' way and quickly aborted, saying instead, “--adjusted. You know, adapt to the people. It's just, I have this thing, and if I don't eat regularly I get sick and --”
Ronon interrupted, “We don't like it when McKay gets sick.” Mild but blunt.
“I see,” she said. But didn't.
“What if I participate for my team,” John suggested.
“Well, it's...yes, I will tell the others. Our children are exempt, after all.”
When she had disappeared through the door, Rodney turned to John and wondered, “Did she just imply I'm childish?”
“It's kind of funny,” Rodney said.
“What?”
“That in the end, it came down to just us.”
John stared out across the water, not really sure what to say to that.
Fasting and steaming, probably not a good combination, John realized, light-headed. “Am I here?” he asked Magrya.
The old man's lips twitched; he sipped long on his drink.
“Okay, I get it. That's for me to figure out.”
The drink was lowered. “Tell me, John Sheppard, what do you love?”
Stooped over, sweat building in the creases of his knees and elbows, John figured that was a loaded question. And pretty personal for some alien mystic from another world. “Ferris wheels and fast --”
Through the mist, a soft, red glow kindled. The quiet hiss of burning leaf wheedled its way into the enclosed room. “Not things. No one can truly love a thing.”
John cleared his throat, really wishing he was better at this. “My team,” he said, feeling awkward. He took the proffered pipe and grew a little bolder. Hell, he'd probably never see this guy again; that was, if he was even real. “They mean everything to me.”
“And would you die for your team?”
“Are you asking me to?”
It was only later, when John touched the pistol under his pillow, restless in bed, that John realized Magrya hadn't mentioned dreaming. Not even once.
Teyla returned to John's side, breathless, a laugh still on her lips. “Do you see them, John?”
“I think they slipped Rodney something.” Because Rodney was dancing with a little girl. She stood on Rodney's feet, and they twirled around the bonfire in jerky, awkward steps.
Ronon was across the way, demonstrating his awesomeness with a knife. The teenagers had erected a hasty target made of cloth and dye and John was almost positive each time Ronon hit the colored center, some kind of currency was exchanging hands.
“I think it is the feeling of freedom here,” Teyla breathed. “It is as if we left all our burdens at the Stargate.”
John just kind of smiled. It wasn't entirely true.
“But not you.” Teyla touched his arm, demanding his attention. “It has not been easy.”
“You're the one that lost the most,” John deflected. He'd held her son as she buried the father of her child. It was after the funeral that they had returned to Atlantis, settled the baby with the host of babysitters, packed up, and left for MX7-998.
“I did not lose anymore than that which was already gone.” Her eyes had gone distant, her voice, husky. John didn't do anything for a moment, but then he felt compelled to reach for her hand. He patted it, hesitantly. She looked over at him; her eyes drifted to his arm, and his hidden wounds. “I am sorry,” she whispered. Then she pulled her hand from his, climbed lithely to her feet, and melted into the crowd dancing chaotically around the fountain.
Earlier, Lida had pressed a plate of bread and roast Terq, along with a glass of wine, into his hands. John drank the wine and nibbled on the bread. The air was thick with woodsmoke and John thought he'd be smelling it on his skin and his clothes for weeks to come.
Ronon dropped down next to him, snatched the Terq, and bit into it voraciously.
“Please, help yourself,” John cracked.
“Thanks,” Ronon said unabashedly, talking around a mouthful.
John rolled his eyes and stretched his legs, digging furrows into the soft dirt with the heels of his untied boots.
“Where'd Teyla go?”
“Not sure.” John finished off his wine with a gulp and sat the carved, wooden cup next to his knee. “That way.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
Ronon raised an eyebrow and shrugged.
He waited but Ronon could out-wait a rock. “It's not my fault.”
“She blames herself.” Ronon tossed his knife and caught it. “Have you told her about the...” Ronon fished helplessly over his head. “You know, the time thing.”
“What?”
“What the future was like.” Ronon aimed and sent the knife blade deep into the ground between them. “She should know that we risked dying for more than just her.”
John stared at Ronon, exasperated. “Did everyone read the 'highly classified' report?”
He wasn't sleeping. The house was dark except for the dim, orange light emanating from a glow stick hanging from Rodney's hand, dangled over the side of his bed. Rodney's laptop was pushed against the wall, between Rodney's back and the splinter-giving planks. John blinked and wondered how Rodney could possibly sleep with his neck turned at that angle.
Ronon snored. Teyla snored. No, really, she did. Probably what kept waking her kid up in the middle of the night.
When he looked up and saw Maygra leaning over him, he asked sleepily, “Am I dreaming?”
“We are always dreaming, John.” He slipped a leathery-hand under John's shoulder. “Come, before you go, there is one more thing to do.”
John let himself be guided to his feet and trudged after the stooped, old man. It was the hour before dawn. The air was chilled and smelled of coming rain. He recognized the path to the lake and followed silently. A calm fog hung just over the water; the moon, shrouded in its own halo, cast a pale light on everything below.
“After the cleansing, we bathe in the lake, shocks the system back into the present.” Magrya wore only the skimpy undergarment they had worn in the sweat hut. He smiled mischievously, then dove into the murky depths, leaping from the mossy bank with far more agility than seemed possible for his age.
“Are you nuts?” John muttered, but he shucked his boots, pants and his t-shirt. “I'm going to regret this.” But he surged forward before he could question his sanity further.
Son of a bitch! The shock hit his system with the impact of a million flying bricks. He gasped, inhaling brackish water that left a tang of copper on his tongue. It was hard to breathe, what, with the water fighting for space that oxygen normally occupied in his lungs. He flailed and cursed.
“Remember, John, listen to your dreams,” Magrya's voice floated around him. “Remember!”
John reached, desperate for the surface, his arm thrust upward. When the strong grip pulled back, he was almost frantic.
“Sheppard, easy...easy,” Rodney murmured, “it's alright, you're fine, we've got you.”
“-- the hell?” He felt cold all over; his arm ached with a ferocity that made his teeth clench. His senses were slowly returning. Pain flooded every nerve ending in his body. The metallic taste in his mouth was warm and salty, blood, and he couldn't move. Every breath felt like his last.
Rodney peered down at him, as if he were lying above him; John tried to see through the grit in his eyes and their refusal to stay open. Rodney was lying above him, perched haphazardly across the rubble, his hand threaded through a gap in the fallen metal girders, reaching and holding on to John's one free hand that must have been flailing in his unconscious struggle to get free. “Michael had it rigged, but you're going to be okay, I promise. We're going to get you out of here.”
John just groaned and imagined the taste of wine in his mouth. A dream. It'd just been a dream.
“John!” He was rocked mercilessly. “God damn it, Sheppard, wake up!”
He didn't listen to many people, didn't take orders from just anyone – but Rodney, that was a different story altogether. John woke up, staring blearily at the face frowning down at him. The relief that flooded across those familiar blue eyes confused him.
“Oh, thank God. I was having flashes of being four and listening to Jeannie read me Rip Van Winkle all over again.”
Teyla pulled Rodney to the side. She looked good. Rested. Not so weary and hurt. How was that possible -- The feeling of being buried alive was slowly fading from John's mind – had it ever happened? The pain in his body told him it had. His memory was slowly catching up. She sat down by his side and he became aware of the straw poking into him through the thin linen cover on the mattress. The sweet smell of recently sun-dried hay. She lifted his hand and felt his pulse, checking his eyes and pressing her palm against his forehead. “Do you remember?”
His mouth was dry, like fall leaves before the storm. “Remember?”
“You volunteered to be the pig,” Ronon rumbled.
John craned his head back; Ronon was leaning against the wall behind him. “I did?”
“Guinea pig,” Rodney corrected, irritably. “And yes, you did. Don't do that again.”
Lida stepped into view, older now than he remembered. Youth had left her behind many years ago, yet beauty still remained, if nothing more than a memory etched within the lines of her face. “I am sorry, John, but we must know the truth of those who come to our world.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “If it helps, the memories you experienced, they were as real as anything can be. What exists there, exists here. Let that be some comfort.”
“Magrya?” he rasped.
“My father. He passed into shadow but walks still in our dreams.”
“Why did you make me relive being trapped?” John's arm still ached from the sharpness of the renewed memory. It had been a cruel thing. “Why those dreams?” How much of it was real?
A boy entered the house and he looked familiar. Lida smiled and took the clay canister, “Thank you, Hala, please, go prepare the cart. I do not want John walking to the circle in his condition.” She gave the canister to Teyla. “Here are herbs to ease his recovery from the dreaming. It will dull the pain he feels. He should need no more than three doses over the next day and night.”
“You didn't answer my question?”
Her eyes made him wish to take it back. She glanced at his team, then back to him. “I think the answer you seek is within yourself.” She leaned over John, brushing her lips across his clammy forehead. “We will trade, John Sheppard. Father has judged you worthy.” She smiled, deeper. “I, too, judge you worthy.”
Then she was gone. John could still smell the white flowers floating on the water. He rolled away from his team's prying eyes, sliding his hand under his pillow, oblivious to the need that had him seeking the reassuring touch of cold metal.
The Gate Room was mostly empty; the standard guards stood silent on night watch. Atlantis was quiet, but for the silent hum of her in the back of his mind. Or maybe him. It. Whatever. The city had something that he felt when he was there, and something he didn't when he wasn't, and trying to define that was like trying to box water.
His arm ached; he told himself it was what had driven him from bed. Unconsciously he cradled it, the file clasped securely against his chest, and walked on down the empty corridor.
Well, you won't feel a thing – but basically... you just won't wake up.
But he had, hadn't he?
He carried the report in his hands. When he knocked softly on Teyla's door, he almost hoped for no answer. It stayed shut. Good. He quickly opened the door, being head of military had some advantages, after all, then quietly placed the folder on her desk. On the front, a post-it with a hastily scribbled Ronon thinks you should read this. He's probably right. John tiptoed back towards the door, glancing over, pausing just long enough to drink in the picture of Teyla sleeping in bed, her son, swaddled and peaceful by her side.
Some nightmares, they were worth it.
Rodney's heart hammered in his chest. He stared, searching hazel eyes for some clue as to what to do, how to react, but John just licked his lips after he'd broken the kiss, as if waiting for the executioner to swing the axe, felling the hope held within.
Rodney swallowed and asked, “Am I dreaming?”
“Do you want to be?” John asked, slightly breathless.
Then Rodney reached for him, holding John's head between his hands, his hair soft between Rodney's fingers, and claimed a kiss longer and harder than John had dared. “If I am, I don't ever want to wake up.”
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-02 01:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-02 01:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-02 01:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2008-05-02 01:53 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-02 01:54 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2008-05-02 02:08 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-02 02:13 pm (UTC)::blinkblink::
Complex, layered, compelling.
I think it might take me a while to parse it all, and it will probably need multiple re-readings -- but my love for this story will only grow, of that I'm sure.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-02 02:19 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-02 02:21 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-02 02:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-02 02:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-02 02:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-02 03:08 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-02 03:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-02 07:13 pm (UTC)God, this actually brought tears to my eyes. I'm deperately praying that Teya and baby will be ok but... well, not sure that's going to happen.
Really beautiful fic. Complex and layered, just like Sheppard himself.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-03 12:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-02 10:25 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-03 12:38 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-03 01:03 am (UTC)This line really struck me: I dreamed for over seven hundred years, and then I dreamed for another day and night.
Is that from something or original?
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-03 02:17 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-03 01:56 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-03 02:19 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-03 07:42 am (UTC)I really enjoyed this story. Another Kodiak triumph! I do hope there'll be some more wonderful stories winging their way to me soon? Well, there's no harm in asking, is there? ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-03 01:09 pm (UTC)Joking aside -- *tackle hugs you* I've definitely got a writing bug whispering in my ear, just finding the time, that's the wall.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-03 07:07 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-03 10:44 am (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2008-05-03 12:27 pm (UTC)(no subject)
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Date: 2008-05-05 05:14 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-05 07:24 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-05-05 07:29 pm (UTC)And yes, the what took you so long Rodney is the best. All eager hands...
(no subject)
Date: 2010-02-05 08:26 pm (UTC)