FIC: Ecce Machina, or The Postmodern Prometheus
Title: Ecce Machina, or The Postmodern Prometheus
Author: dmchoi87
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard, past McKay/Lorne
Rating: Hard PG-13 (for language)
Word Count: 3186
Warnings: Past Character Death
Author's Notes: Complete AU with a liberal interpretation of the Terminator universe. Unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: No characters or concepts are original in this not-for-profit document. All rights are reserved by respective owners, no infringement intended, &c. &c. &c.
Summary: "The Lord Shiva must burn that which he once created."
Ecce Machina, or The Postmodern Prometheus
Twenty seconds and counting down. I've programmed the detonator to give us just enough time to run to the safe zone. If we don't make it, we won't just be incinerated-we'll be vaporized by the blast. Despite knowing all of this, I just stand there, staring as the red digits climb down to t=0. A strong grip on my shoulder drags me out of my trance and towards the open window where our transporter is waiting. As I'm running along, hearing the clattering of falling equipment and the rumbling of the foundation, I calculate in my head the lag time behind the engine burn up and the acceleration-we can't possibly make it. I've allotted us too little time. There was no way that I could've added more time to the countdown without compromising the detonation itself, but the idea that I would be coming back from this mission is ludicrous and I knew it going in. But no way could I have thought at the time that I would actually face death and fear it. I thought I had made peace with it when Evan had gone, but now...
“Jump!” screams John as we fly through the open window into the cruiser. Ten seconds. “Go! Go! Go!” he yells at Mitchell, who then burns the thrusters to critical point. Five seconds. The engines scream and John's grip on my shoulder presses me down with more force than the several g's piling on our bodies as we attempt to break the sound barrier. I look back at the city, swarming with the machines that had turned on us. And to think that I helped build this nexus.
Three... two... one...
I close my eyes against the blast and wait for the wind to reach us. We're still accelerating, but I can't feel the turbulence. I pry open my right eye and see the mushroom cloud disappearing quickly beyond the horizon, though there are many buildings collapsing behind us, being swept away by the blast.
Mitchell then decelerates the cruiser and we finally hear a faint boom. We just did it. I did it. My modifications had the cruiser at supersonic speed in less than five seconds.
Slowly, the boom echoes out and I can hear the celebration around me. Ronon has Ford in a headlock. Teyla's laughing at the two, tears streaming down her face. By the way Mitchell is whooping at the controls, I can tell that he's in need of a change of pants. I glance at John, stoically sitting on a bench, averting his eyes from the clear metallopolyglass window at the back of the cruiser, avoiding my eyes as well. I don't know why I looked at him or why I feel extremely annoyed at his refusal to acknowledge my presence, so I just stare back out the window. I bring out the dogtags from underneath my shirt and see Evan's vital information gleaming at me. I've never cried in front of military before-not even when the two officers were standing at my door. But now, nothing can stop the raw heat in my eyes from falling down my cheeks. I kiss the tags and gently caress them against my face. “Evan, buddy,” I whisper to all that is left of him, “this one is for you.”
Debrief is always a painful process, but luckily for me (and the rest of the crew), General O' Neill looks more than proud upon our arrival, granting us a reprieve and dismissing us to celebrate our first victory in months. He does, however, want to talk to John in private, so as I walk towards the quarters, I see John sitting rigidly at O' Neill's desk.
The first thing I need to do is take a shower. I did not receive any overt injuries, save some superficial cuts, bruising, and a killer backache, so there's no need for me to head out to the medical bay, and I'm not so keen on facing Dr. Beckett's replacement. When I enter my quarters, I rip off the tactical gear and uniform, throwing them carelessly to the floor, and step into the shower unit.
As the hot water scours off the grime and blood I'd accumulated during the mission, I start planning the next steps in our war, now that the main node is out. There are still secondary and tertiary servers (all built as a precaution to a blackout like one we've just created), and there are also several supply depots that act as a phantom node in case these servers are demolished. I cannot blame anyone other than my fellow engineers and scientists who'd developed the scale-free network for these command centers, back when we believed ourselves to be in control of Skynet. Well, to say that is an exaggeration, considering Weinberg and Malcolm had been vocal opponents of outsourcing all of the military systems to the machines. I was only seventeen at the time they begged the board of Cyberdyne Systems to cease mechanization of what would be the entire global economy, but I was still on the board, Deputy Research Director. Wunderkind engineer who lacked a pound of wisdom for every ounce of brilliance. I sided in negation to their injunction merely out of the sheer curiosity of awakening Skynet. And now? Skynet awoke, but only halfway, a child blinded to madness by the very sun it turned its eyes to. In attempting to understand the human, it realized the existential threat of humanity, a mortal god created by imperfect beings. They struck us. They took our lives away from us. They took our fire away from us. They had killed Prometheus with the very fire he brought to them. They took Evan from me.
But all of this is numb now. I have gotten used to living in the darkness, as my eyes and my vision had adapted to the bleakness of our future. Though Evan is gone now, I can still live on, knowing that if we are to meet again, it won't be in a hellhole like this. Because I'm going to blow it all to fucking pieces if I get my way. The Lord Shiva must burn that which he had once created.
I step out of the shower, barely drying my hair out and walk out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist. I look down at the stretch marks from a time in which I was actually larger than I am, even though I can still stretch 34-inch waist pants. I observe my face in the stand-free mirror-a wooden antique to offset the chrome and concrete of the Second General Command-and wonder what exactly it was that Evan saw in me when we first met. Would he be able to recognize me now? Would he be able to whisper his confessions to a face so plain and creased by years of strained concentration?
“You look fine, Doc.” I snap around to find John's large frame leaning against the door post, a posture I'm sure the military was supposed to kick you out of.
“Thank you, Major,” I curtly reply. I just can't deal with this right now. “To what do I owe your graceful company?”
Even in the dim light, I can tell John is smirking, a look so common on him but never quite genuine. “I just wanted to let you know that O' Neill promoted me to Colonel, full-bird.” Ah. So he's come to gloat.
“I guess congratulations are in order, Colonel. And you make this announcement to me at this hour for what reason? I doubt I am your favorite person on base, especially considering my decision to terminate Sergeant Teller's reconnaissance mission, and you surely have your share of wenches and buddies to celebrate with, so why don't you saunter off?” As I finish my tirade, I feel John's eyes locking onto me and the entire room feels as if the barometer has raised its readings by another atm.
“You really don't like me, do you, McKay?” he grates out. My heart jumps up to my throat and I feel the walls caving in.
“Colonel, my dealings with you, as with anybody on this base or in The Resistance is strictly professional. Any harboring of favor or prejudice is simply out of the scope of our mission to knock out Skynet, as you well know.”
He takes a step towards me and I can see that he has taken off his battle dress jacket, exposing the outlines of his broad shoulders and protruding deltoids stretching out the dirty white tee smudged with God knows what. “Professional? Professional, McKay?” He takes another step forward.
I swallow hardly, feeling my hands sweating and my heart thumping, constricting my chest cavity and denying it to expand for deeper breaths. “As you've witnessed for yourself, Colonel, Sergeant Teller's rescue would've put our entire squadron at system risk, not withholding revealing the location of the SGC. The only way to survive was to maintain group cohesion and discipline.”
He takes another step forward and I eye the veins on his thick arms pulsing with some strong emotion I cannot identify as they web down to his hands, gripping fists that I once saw bend metal. “So what you're saying is that you're always professional and never let your personal emotions impede your performance.”
Fearing the fists I retreat back several steps. “I'm a scientist, Colonel. I find it quite insulting that you are questioning my objective judgment and my capacity to make the most pragmatic decisions necessary for survival. Yes, we are at war, so your military tactics are necessary, but know that our enemy is not keen on reenacting the Peloponnesian War, so your heroics and swashbuckling need to sacrifice yourself in the name of some greater moral authority is not only naïve, but extremely dangerous to our mission of survival.” I take another step back, only the find the wall. John approaches, crowding me into the wall, a hand on either side of my head. Feeling emboldened by my apologetics, I stare defiantly at him, only that this time, I actually see him. As he is.
When we first took him into the SGC, he was gangly, almost even skinny. But now his shoulders and arms are connected to a very powerful chest, broad and perfectly symmetric. The grime on his white shirt highlights the contours of his torso, heaving up and down and expanding circumferentially with his ragged inhalations. Even though his pectoral muscles draw his shirt up his body, the fabric has enough elastic memory to snugly fit his waist and stomach, projecting the texture of his abdominal muscles. Yet for a man built to kill, he has such a gentle face: lightly tanned skin and rich lips that are moistened by his tongue every so often. Despite his large nose, angular jaw peppered with stubble, and black cowlicks that refuse to follow any stable configuration state, his face is capable of so many emotions expressed through his hazel eyes that change color according to his moods. For eyes so clear, there is a murky confusion to them hidden behind a defiant glare as they survey me up and down. When they lock onto mine again, I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, though I know that I shouldn't stand down.
“Scientist,” he drawls out slowly. “Always making objective judgments.” My breath hitches again as I realize that I'm immobilized. The heat radiating from my face is nothing compared to what is radiating off of him and what doesn't reach inside of me bounces off my skin, oversaturating me with his presence.
He speaks again. “Tell me, Doc, when we were about the leave the server nexus, do you recall me dragging you to the window?”
I carefully nod my head. He licks his lips and continues.
“Do you admit that if it weren't for me dragging you out of there, you would be smoldering ash bathing in radioactivity instead of enjoying this conversation with me?”
I nod again in the affirmative.
“Would you consider this situation, where we're talking instead of you scattering in the wind, more preferable? It is the optimum of the two?”
“Yes, Colonel,” I reply, “I do.”
“Then tell me why you froze.”
My hands clutch at my chest for Evan's tags, only they aren't there. Panicking, I duck under John's left arm to escape his grip and start digging through the discarded uniform on the floor.
“Looking for these?” I hear a faint jiggling and turn to face John, Evan's dogtags dangling in his hands. The bathroom light bounces off of them, blinding me for a second.
“Colonel,” I request in a shaky voice, “I would greatly appreciate it if you would return my personal effects to me.”
John glances down at the tags. “These? But Doc, they don't seem to have your name on them.”
“They belonged to my husband, thank you very much, and the sooner you return them to me, the sooner you can have your ick! moment to yourself.” I approach John with an outstretched hand, but he responds by dangling the tags out of my reach.
“Not until you reveal to me why you looked ready to go down with the building.” His voice teeters on a dangerous border between teasing and threatening.
I jump to grab them out of his hands, only he dodges me with practiced ease. I sigh, exasperated. “I don't know what the hell your problem is, but we're both two grown men, even if you refuse to acknowledge my sexuality and I your emotional maturity, so can we just finish this game so I can retire for the night?”
John stiffens at that. “You may have gotten the wrong impression, McKay, but I could hardly give a fuck who you sleep with. I just want to know why you were so ready to die until I snapped you out of it.”
“Colonel, it is none of your business as to why I froze today. You are not a psychologist and are therefore unqualified to make such assessments.”
“It is very well my damn business as one of my team members were fucking suicidal! Is it professional for you scientists to be suicidal? Willing to off yourselves, thinking 'oh well, if I don't invent it, someone else will, so why don't I go out with a bang'?”
He's yelling at this point, so I yell back. “I'm every bit afraid of death as young child who saw his mother die in a freak accident, but yes! I needed to make sure that the detonation was successful to ensure that all of my research had not gone to waste!”
“You're full of shit, McKay! You're not expendable and you know that! The facts and logic state that we need you alive and functioning in order to win this war, so obviously that's not what was behind your channeling of the kamikaze. What was it?”
“I don't have to deal with this bullshit.” I turn to leave the room.
“Does this have something to do with Captain Lorne?”
I freeze.
“Do you have a death wish so you can see him again?” John continues recklessly. “You used to be one of the biggest hypochondriacs I'd ever met.”
I gather all of my strength to utter quietly, “Get out.”
He steps into my face. “Are you headed towards the afterlife with him? Or is it that you're punishing yourself because you believe yourself responsible for his death?”
I swallow. A little louder, “Get out!”
He dangles the tags in my face. “So your professional opinion is that because of your actions, your husband had died and therefore you must suffer, taking the whole world down with you and your self-pity?”
I feel something click from somewhere deep inside of me and it slowly rumbles through my entire body. Feeling the momentum from my explosion, I yell at the top of my lungs to release all of that energy. I lunge at John, tackling him down to the bed, punching at him, trying to hurt him in any possible way I can. We wrestle for dominance, struggling to stay on top, despite the slick sweat on our limbs, and in my case, the undried shower water still clinging onto my bare torso. Of course, John has the superior build and strength, pinning both of my hands at either side of my head, breathing heavily. I struggle some more, snapping at him, but he holds me down tight.
His face opens up to reveal an unfiltered fear and concern as he eyes the various injuries I sustained during the mission. He looks me in the eye. They're a terrified green.
“You're not expendable,” he hoarsely whispers to me. “Without you, the research can't go on, The Resistance can't continue, and I...” He falls silent.
“Colonel...?” I tentatively ask.
“Look, Doc... today... when I saw you so focused on the bomb... staring at the thing as if it were the fucking face of your husband... and to think...” He loosens his grip on my wrists. “Look, I know that I'm not Captain Lorne, and even if you don't... I... I just don't know what else I could be fighting for without you...”
He rolls off of me and covers his eyes with his arm, sighing with both relief and resignation.
I don't know how to take all of this. Usually when other men approach me, I'm reminded of Evan, sometimes through the most inconspicuous of things, and I lose myself in my memory of him, but John... John has always been just John to me. I turn my head to stare at him laying next to me, arm shielding his eyes, jaws grinding down, lips almost quivering. I sigh again. “Colonel?” No response. “John?” He takes his arm off of his eyes, which are suspiciously red, and turns on his side to face me. I roll onto my side as well. “Evan is the only other person I've ever called G.I. Joe.”
He slowly recognizes the invitation. Crawling back on top of me, he relieves himself of his tattered shirt to reveal a beauty beneath that the uniform only masked and hinted at. With his left hand, he pins both of my wrists above my head, leaving his right hand to explore my face. The heat I felt emanating from him before was nothing compared to what I'm feeling now as I gasp with every stroke of his fingers.
Closing his eyes, his face descends onto mine, sealing my lips with a gentle chaste kiss. Whispering my name against my lips, John begins to show me what there is left in this world that is worth fighting for.
Author: dmchoi87
Pairing: McKay/Sheppard, past McKay/Lorne
Rating: Hard PG-13 (for language)
Word Count: 3186
Warnings: Past Character Death
Author's Notes: Complete AU with a liberal interpretation of the Terminator universe. Unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine.
Disclaimer: No characters or concepts are original in this not-for-profit document. All rights are reserved by respective owners, no infringement intended, &c. &c. &c.
Summary: "The Lord Shiva must burn that which he once created."
Ecce Machina, or The Postmodern Prometheus
Twenty seconds and counting down. I've programmed the detonator to give us just enough time to run to the safe zone. If we don't make it, we won't just be incinerated-we'll be vaporized by the blast. Despite knowing all of this, I just stand there, staring as the red digits climb down to t=0. A strong grip on my shoulder drags me out of my trance and towards the open window where our transporter is waiting. As I'm running along, hearing the clattering of falling equipment and the rumbling of the foundation, I calculate in my head the lag time behind the engine burn up and the acceleration-we can't possibly make it. I've allotted us too little time. There was no way that I could've added more time to the countdown without compromising the detonation itself, but the idea that I would be coming back from this mission is ludicrous and I knew it going in. But no way could I have thought at the time that I would actually face death and fear it. I thought I had made peace with it when Evan had gone, but now...
“Jump!” screams John as we fly through the open window into the cruiser. Ten seconds. “Go! Go! Go!” he yells at Mitchell, who then burns the thrusters to critical point. Five seconds. The engines scream and John's grip on my shoulder presses me down with more force than the several g's piling on our bodies as we attempt to break the sound barrier. I look back at the city, swarming with the machines that had turned on us. And to think that I helped build this nexus.
Three... two... one...
I close my eyes against the blast and wait for the wind to reach us. We're still accelerating, but I can't feel the turbulence. I pry open my right eye and see the mushroom cloud disappearing quickly beyond the horizon, though there are many buildings collapsing behind us, being swept away by the blast.
Mitchell then decelerates the cruiser and we finally hear a faint boom. We just did it. I did it. My modifications had the cruiser at supersonic speed in less than five seconds.
Slowly, the boom echoes out and I can hear the celebration around me. Ronon has Ford in a headlock. Teyla's laughing at the two, tears streaming down her face. By the way Mitchell is whooping at the controls, I can tell that he's in need of a change of pants. I glance at John, stoically sitting on a bench, averting his eyes from the clear metallopolyglass window at the back of the cruiser, avoiding my eyes as well. I don't know why I looked at him or why I feel extremely annoyed at his refusal to acknowledge my presence, so I just stare back out the window. I bring out the dogtags from underneath my shirt and see Evan's vital information gleaming at me. I've never cried in front of military before-not even when the two officers were standing at my door. But now, nothing can stop the raw heat in my eyes from falling down my cheeks. I kiss the tags and gently caress them against my face. “Evan, buddy,” I whisper to all that is left of him, “this one is for you.”
Debrief is always a painful process, but luckily for me (and the rest of the crew), General O' Neill looks more than proud upon our arrival, granting us a reprieve and dismissing us to celebrate our first victory in months. He does, however, want to talk to John in private, so as I walk towards the quarters, I see John sitting rigidly at O' Neill's desk.
The first thing I need to do is take a shower. I did not receive any overt injuries, save some superficial cuts, bruising, and a killer backache, so there's no need for me to head out to the medical bay, and I'm not so keen on facing Dr. Beckett's replacement. When I enter my quarters, I rip off the tactical gear and uniform, throwing them carelessly to the floor, and step into the shower unit.
As the hot water scours off the grime and blood I'd accumulated during the mission, I start planning the next steps in our war, now that the main node is out. There are still secondary and tertiary servers (all built as a precaution to a blackout like one we've just created), and there are also several supply depots that act as a phantom node in case these servers are demolished. I cannot blame anyone other than my fellow engineers and scientists who'd developed the scale-free network for these command centers, back when we believed ourselves to be in control of Skynet. Well, to say that is an exaggeration, considering Weinberg and Malcolm had been vocal opponents of outsourcing all of the military systems to the machines. I was only seventeen at the time they begged the board of Cyberdyne Systems to cease mechanization of what would be the entire global economy, but I was still on the board, Deputy Research Director. Wunderkind engineer who lacked a pound of wisdom for every ounce of brilliance. I sided in negation to their injunction merely out of the sheer curiosity of awakening Skynet. And now? Skynet awoke, but only halfway, a child blinded to madness by the very sun it turned its eyes to. In attempting to understand the human, it realized the existential threat of humanity, a mortal god created by imperfect beings. They struck us. They took our lives away from us. They took our fire away from us. They had killed Prometheus with the very fire he brought to them. They took Evan from me.
But all of this is numb now. I have gotten used to living in the darkness, as my eyes and my vision had adapted to the bleakness of our future. Though Evan is gone now, I can still live on, knowing that if we are to meet again, it won't be in a hellhole like this. Because I'm going to blow it all to fucking pieces if I get my way. The Lord Shiva must burn that which he had once created.
I step out of the shower, barely drying my hair out and walk out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my waist. I look down at the stretch marks from a time in which I was actually larger than I am, even though I can still stretch 34-inch waist pants. I observe my face in the stand-free mirror-a wooden antique to offset the chrome and concrete of the Second General Command-and wonder what exactly it was that Evan saw in me when we first met. Would he be able to recognize me now? Would he be able to whisper his confessions to a face so plain and creased by years of strained concentration?
“You look fine, Doc.” I snap around to find John's large frame leaning against the door post, a posture I'm sure the military was supposed to kick you out of.
“Thank you, Major,” I curtly reply. I just can't deal with this right now. “To what do I owe your graceful company?”
Even in the dim light, I can tell John is smirking, a look so common on him but never quite genuine. “I just wanted to let you know that O' Neill promoted me to Colonel, full-bird.” Ah. So he's come to gloat.
“I guess congratulations are in order, Colonel. And you make this announcement to me at this hour for what reason? I doubt I am your favorite person on base, especially considering my decision to terminate Sergeant Teller's reconnaissance mission, and you surely have your share of wenches and buddies to celebrate with, so why don't you saunter off?” As I finish my tirade, I feel John's eyes locking onto me and the entire room feels as if the barometer has raised its readings by another atm.
“You really don't like me, do you, McKay?” he grates out. My heart jumps up to my throat and I feel the walls caving in.
“Colonel, my dealings with you, as with anybody on this base or in The Resistance is strictly professional. Any harboring of favor or prejudice is simply out of the scope of our mission to knock out Skynet, as you well know.”
He takes a step towards me and I can see that he has taken off his battle dress jacket, exposing the outlines of his broad shoulders and protruding deltoids stretching out the dirty white tee smudged with God knows what. “Professional? Professional, McKay?” He takes another step forward.
I swallow hardly, feeling my hands sweating and my heart thumping, constricting my chest cavity and denying it to expand for deeper breaths. “As you've witnessed for yourself, Colonel, Sergeant Teller's rescue would've put our entire squadron at system risk, not withholding revealing the location of the SGC. The only way to survive was to maintain group cohesion and discipline.”
He takes another step forward and I eye the veins on his thick arms pulsing with some strong emotion I cannot identify as they web down to his hands, gripping fists that I once saw bend metal. “So what you're saying is that you're always professional and never let your personal emotions impede your performance.”
Fearing the fists I retreat back several steps. “I'm a scientist, Colonel. I find it quite insulting that you are questioning my objective judgment and my capacity to make the most pragmatic decisions necessary for survival. Yes, we are at war, so your military tactics are necessary, but know that our enemy is not keen on reenacting the Peloponnesian War, so your heroics and swashbuckling need to sacrifice yourself in the name of some greater moral authority is not only naïve, but extremely dangerous to our mission of survival.” I take another step back, only the find the wall. John approaches, crowding me into the wall, a hand on either side of my head. Feeling emboldened by my apologetics, I stare defiantly at him, only that this time, I actually see him. As he is.
When we first took him into the SGC, he was gangly, almost even skinny. But now his shoulders and arms are connected to a very powerful chest, broad and perfectly symmetric. The grime on his white shirt highlights the contours of his torso, heaving up and down and expanding circumferentially with his ragged inhalations. Even though his pectoral muscles draw his shirt up his body, the fabric has enough elastic memory to snugly fit his waist and stomach, projecting the texture of his abdominal muscles. Yet for a man built to kill, he has such a gentle face: lightly tanned skin and rich lips that are moistened by his tongue every so often. Despite his large nose, angular jaw peppered with stubble, and black cowlicks that refuse to follow any stable configuration state, his face is capable of so many emotions expressed through his hazel eyes that change color according to his moods. For eyes so clear, there is a murky confusion to them hidden behind a defiant glare as they survey me up and down. When they lock onto mine again, I feel the blood rush to my cheeks, though I know that I shouldn't stand down.
“Scientist,” he drawls out slowly. “Always making objective judgments.” My breath hitches again as I realize that I'm immobilized. The heat radiating from my face is nothing compared to what is radiating off of him and what doesn't reach inside of me bounces off my skin, oversaturating me with his presence.
He speaks again. “Tell me, Doc, when we were about the leave the server nexus, do you recall me dragging you to the window?”
I carefully nod my head. He licks his lips and continues.
“Do you admit that if it weren't for me dragging you out of there, you would be smoldering ash bathing in radioactivity instead of enjoying this conversation with me?”
I nod again in the affirmative.
“Would you consider this situation, where we're talking instead of you scattering in the wind, more preferable? It is the optimum of the two?”
“Yes, Colonel,” I reply, “I do.”
“Then tell me why you froze.”
My hands clutch at my chest for Evan's tags, only they aren't there. Panicking, I duck under John's left arm to escape his grip and start digging through the discarded uniform on the floor.
“Looking for these?” I hear a faint jiggling and turn to face John, Evan's dogtags dangling in his hands. The bathroom light bounces off of them, blinding me for a second.
“Colonel,” I request in a shaky voice, “I would greatly appreciate it if you would return my personal effects to me.”
John glances down at the tags. “These? But Doc, they don't seem to have your name on them.”
“They belonged to my husband, thank you very much, and the sooner you return them to me, the sooner you can have your ick! moment to yourself.” I approach John with an outstretched hand, but he responds by dangling the tags out of my reach.
“Not until you reveal to me why you looked ready to go down with the building.” His voice teeters on a dangerous border between teasing and threatening.
I jump to grab them out of his hands, only he dodges me with practiced ease. I sigh, exasperated. “I don't know what the hell your problem is, but we're both two grown men, even if you refuse to acknowledge my sexuality and I your emotional maturity, so can we just finish this game so I can retire for the night?”
John stiffens at that. “You may have gotten the wrong impression, McKay, but I could hardly give a fuck who you sleep with. I just want to know why you were so ready to die until I snapped you out of it.”
“Colonel, it is none of your business as to why I froze today. You are not a psychologist and are therefore unqualified to make such assessments.”
“It is very well my damn business as one of my team members were fucking suicidal! Is it professional for you scientists to be suicidal? Willing to off yourselves, thinking 'oh well, if I don't invent it, someone else will, so why don't I go out with a bang'?”
He's yelling at this point, so I yell back. “I'm every bit afraid of death as young child who saw his mother die in a freak accident, but yes! I needed to make sure that the detonation was successful to ensure that all of my research had not gone to waste!”
“You're full of shit, McKay! You're not expendable and you know that! The facts and logic state that we need you alive and functioning in order to win this war, so obviously that's not what was behind your channeling of the kamikaze. What was it?”
“I don't have to deal with this bullshit.” I turn to leave the room.
“Does this have something to do with Captain Lorne?”
I freeze.
“Do you have a death wish so you can see him again?” John continues recklessly. “You used to be one of the biggest hypochondriacs I'd ever met.”
I gather all of my strength to utter quietly, “Get out.”
He steps into my face. “Are you headed towards the afterlife with him? Or is it that you're punishing yourself because you believe yourself responsible for his death?”
I swallow. A little louder, “Get out!”
He dangles the tags in my face. “So your professional opinion is that because of your actions, your husband had died and therefore you must suffer, taking the whole world down with you and your self-pity?”
I feel something click from somewhere deep inside of me and it slowly rumbles through my entire body. Feeling the momentum from my explosion, I yell at the top of my lungs to release all of that energy. I lunge at John, tackling him down to the bed, punching at him, trying to hurt him in any possible way I can. We wrestle for dominance, struggling to stay on top, despite the slick sweat on our limbs, and in my case, the undried shower water still clinging onto my bare torso. Of course, John has the superior build and strength, pinning both of my hands at either side of my head, breathing heavily. I struggle some more, snapping at him, but he holds me down tight.
His face opens up to reveal an unfiltered fear and concern as he eyes the various injuries I sustained during the mission. He looks me in the eye. They're a terrified green.
“You're not expendable,” he hoarsely whispers to me. “Without you, the research can't go on, The Resistance can't continue, and I...” He falls silent.
“Colonel...?” I tentatively ask.
“Look, Doc... today... when I saw you so focused on the bomb... staring at the thing as if it were the fucking face of your husband... and to think...” He loosens his grip on my wrists. “Look, I know that I'm not Captain Lorne, and even if you don't... I... I just don't know what else I could be fighting for without you...”
He rolls off of me and covers his eyes with his arm, sighing with both relief and resignation.
I don't know how to take all of this. Usually when other men approach me, I'm reminded of Evan, sometimes through the most inconspicuous of things, and I lose myself in my memory of him, but John... John has always been just John to me. I turn my head to stare at him laying next to me, arm shielding his eyes, jaws grinding down, lips almost quivering. I sigh again. “Colonel?” No response. “John?” He takes his arm off of his eyes, which are suspiciously red, and turns on his side to face me. I roll onto my side as well. “Evan is the only other person I've ever called G.I. Joe.”
He slowly recognizes the invitation. Crawling back on top of me, he relieves himself of his tattered shirt to reveal a beauty beneath that the uniform only masked and hinted at. With his left hand, he pins both of my wrists above my head, leaving his right hand to explore my face. The heat I felt emanating from him before was nothing compared to what I'm feeling now as I gasp with every stroke of his fingers.
Closing his eyes, his face descends onto mine, sealing my lips with a gentle chaste kiss. Whispering my name against my lips, John begins to show me what there is left in this world that is worth fighting for.