Fic: Brilliant disguise
Title: Brilliant disguise
Pairing: John/Elizabeth
Rating: mild R
Spoilers: S2, The Long Goodbye
Music: Brilliant Disguise - Bruce Springsteen (yes I keep borrowing titles from that man.)
Disclaimer: I don't own SGA, or the song "Brilliant Disguise".
A/N: written for anr, who asked for S/W episode related fic. I never really tried my hand at writing something TLG related - this is my first try. The idea seemed original at the time I came up with it, but then my muse decided to pull ADD (is there a treatment for muses suffering ADD?) Anyway, stubborn the way I am, I decided to finish this to best of my abilities, instead leaving it sitting unfinished on my hard drive. I just hope this ficlet doesn't suck entirely. :)
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"Now you play the loving woman
I'll play the faithful man
But just don't look too close
into the palm of my hand"
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It hurts like a burn on her skin, where the flames licked it and left a scorched patch in their wake. It's not her, she knows, yet she still feels it, remembers it - Elizabeth feels like she hates, just like she did. It's not something, someone she wants to deal with, on the inside.
Phoebus.
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She needs to set herself apart from Phoebus. Not rationally, because she knows which part is her. The rationality is intact, it's not what Phoebus had rattled. The thoughts she can handle, but the emotions are the hard part - blind anger and the cruel, cold intent to kill.
Killing Thalen meant killing John, and in Phoebus'es frame of memory it makes sense, it feels like that, and it feels foreign, just like a sharp, hard torn in Elizabeth's shoe. She feels like there's still an intruder in her mind. The memory of aiming a gun at John is still a cold stone in her gut, and she can still feel herself screaming warnings, with nothing coming out of her mouth. She screamed for John not to trust her, but it didn't help. Phoebus used what Elizabeth relied on. It shouldn't make sense, because Elizabeth's world is order, not chaos. Order shouldn't be possible to manipulate like this.
John's hand is steady as he guides the jumper nearer the planet surface. He makes it look easy, just as he makes everything easy. Carrying a gun and walking into a foreign field looks effortless, and Elizabeth knows she isn't being fair. He would walk into the fire, if she sent him, without a complain, and that is something she can't afford to contemplate every time she sends him out to unknown - that he trusts her judgment, sometimes more than his own; that is why her world must be order.
Her planet is deserted and the woods are taking over the ghost cities. Emptiness wins over the war and destruction; destruction never brings victorious fulfilling. One can't control the hatred, eventually it consumes itself, until nothing is left. She, Phoebus, knew that, she only chose not to accept it.
Elizabeth leans forward slightly, bracing the handles of the co pilot chair. She doesn't look at John, but she hears him breathe next to her. Being with him isn't as easy as it used to be; there are jagged edges, sharp and rusty things after Phoebus had left. Elizabeth wipes her forehead with the back of her palm, and John glances up at her in concern.
She realizes it 's making her just slightly uncomfortable - not his concern, but the fact that he knows her so well, and notices things she doesn't want other people to notice.
There is a reason why Phoebus picked him.
A phantom of the feeling wakes in Elizabeth's chest as they fly further. She recognizes the massive shadow of the mountains stretching mighty and wide in front of them, and they pass them in silence.
They fly, and Elizabeth thinks; trust is fragile, but it can also be undivided. If John was wise enough to doubt, he would have never agreed to Phoebus'es ploy, but he has learned, or perhaps she allowed him to think trusting her is safe.
She sighs and thinks about the fine line where their dynamics crosses the thin line of professional, where she decides and he accepts. If Phoebus played him, he was completely willing.
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The town is just a shell, empty houses barely resisting the tide of time. John walks silently after her; follows her, and for a moment she wants to turn around and tell him to go. She doesn't. Phoebus wanted to do just that, and she did, but he wouldn't leave, and telling John to leave would be equally futile. This has to be for both of them.
Street opens into a small square and Elizabeth recognizes a house, stops in her tracks. There's a sharp pain in her chest this time. Behind her, John stops, barely few steps away as Elizabeth contemplates going inside.
"It's there," says John, and yes, he remembers, but she remembers more. Phoebus was always more stubborn, even in her attempt to keep the invisible treads of memory and scorching treads of hate.
There is a reason why she chose John, or perhaps, more than one reason. She wanted a worthy opponent, yes, but Thalen needed someone whose heart could be equally broken. The very last chance for him to kill her with her own curse, for her to hurt him yet again.
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Elizabeth threads through the door slowly, not knowing what to expect. The sound of the wooden floor creaking under her boots is familiar, almost comforting. There's an instrument similar to piano in the back of the room. Phoebus knew how to play before she knew how to kill.
She loved Thalen, but loved her pride even more. He seduced her and she seduced him back, and it was quick and consuming, but felt completely effortless, like a breath. He wouldn't leave his people, and she wouldn't leave her own, and they went down that road, unable to pull back, unwilling to stay together. She loved him and hated herself for it; but eventually hating him seemed easier.
Elizabeth's fingers are cold against the wooden keys of the instrument. The melody sounds hollow somehow as her fingers stretch to reach the right keys. She presses them like she knows, but she can't mend it back. Phoebus and Thalen can't be helped any more. What of her and John? Even if he was willing, Elizabeth feels what she knows about him was like serving him on a platter, for Phoebus to use. Elizabeth looks at him over the shoulder where he stands, silent and waiting. Their eyes meet and she feels like she had betrayed him.
In a way, she did.
John comes closer his fingers touch the keys lightly. The melody flows smoother this time, because he remembers it too. She looks at their hands, watches as their fingers overlap on the keys. John can play, while Thalen only remembered. John's body is a solid wall of comfort she is counting on. It's John who follows her, and she trusts him, but it's more than trust. Phoebus almost took ...
She doesn't realize she speaks out loud. John's fingers stop playing and settle on top of hers instead, and she breathes. His hand feels safe and warm, heavy but not pressing her down; and wordlessly she counts all of the things she expects him to do.
The truth isn't always convenient. Elizabeth knows this, because she is an expert in telling the truths which aren't convenient, and getting people to agree with her. The problem arises when she has to convince herself to agree.
This time, she's not alone, though, as she lets John do the convincing part.
Phoebus couldn't take something what wasn't hers to begin with, even if she didn't want it, or - in this case - denied herself having.
It takes just an inch - it's so little and at the same time so much. John's breath washes down Elizabeth's neck, his body close, arm wrapping around her lightly. Phoebus believed she could kill what was between Thalen and her, but it flipped instead, like a rusty coin and became something else, dark and ugly, so incredibly dangerous in her hands.
Denying is not killing, but sometimes, the results are the same.
Elizabeth doesn't want Phoebuses memories, nor does she want memories of Thalen, mixed with John's face, the taste of him in her mouth and the feel of the gun, solid and cold in her hand. John's mouth is soft and warm, gentle pressure against her lips, and she is tired of resisting. His hands are quick and she arches into his touch, even as her mind puts in a protest. It's not wise, but it's there, and John's lips do the decision for her. She pulls his shirt out of his pants, and he lets her, so she could run her palms across his chest and trace the scar on his upper arm with her fingers.
“I'm sorry,” she says, remembering the shot which did that. He doesn't want her apologies, though.
“I'll live,” he looks comfortable as he proceeds to get himself naked as if to make a point, make her look. He is handsome, completely gorgeous and naked, but she doesn't reach out to touch him immediately, although she wants. John, however, doesn't seem willing to waste more time.
“You agreed,” she says between the kisses, finally running her fingers down his bare back. “In front of people.”
He pulls away slightly and looks at her. She thinks how people can manipulate you only with the things you're trying to hide about yourself.
“Because at the time I thought you were asking,” he says determinately. To him, that makes all the difference. John can be awkward and tongue tied about what he feels, but he usually isn't confused about the things he wants. She can see the frustration surfacing in his eyes as he stands bare before her, both literally and symbolically. “Not like I can take it back now,” he reminds her, pulling her closer to work her shirt over her shoulders, and she allows him. It's not right, but she is unwilling to stop him.
The truth will set you free, she thinks. Ultimately, that's how the things work. It means the battle she fought over her own desires and needs is - lost, and ironically that means winning something entirely else. John's lips claim victory on the skin of her neck and she sighs.
“Life isn't fair, Elizabeth,” he says and pulls her clothes off, and it's only fair to be bared herself.
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