Fic: Elements
Title: Elements
Pairing: John/Elizabeth friendship
Rating: G
Beta: miera_c
It's not Atlantis.
--
The phone rings.
Before you can stop yourself, your hand rises to the ear where your headset used to rest, piping your command staff directly into your brain with only the insignificant tap of a button.
You'd give just about anything to hear their voices right now. You'd even take a caffeine-deprived Rodney McKay mid-crisis if it meant you were back there, where you were supposed to be. But even those same voices here on Earth are wrong, slightly off, and you’re not sure why but somehow knowing that it might be one of them on the line makes it even worse.
The handset to your landline continues to fuss on the far side of the room, its tone sharp and rankling.
You burrow deeper into the couch cushions and sigh.
--
You decide to write your memoirs - stories you can never tell, secrets you can never reveal. You pour your heart into your pen and onto the page, only to tuck it neatly away again before the ink can dry. You store it in a box on a shelf to let it gather dust.
This is something you'll never be able to share with anyone, something you’ll have to keep inside. You understand that; you know the reasons.
But the more you box it in the more it swells inside you, and you're worried that it won't be long now before you burst.
--
You wind up at a coffee shop in downtown Colorado Springs. You think maybe you'll work better, more efficiently, in the center of things.
You don't work at all.
Instead, you watch the people come and go - business men in suits and polished shoes, women with strollers and crying babies, teenagers laughing. The music over the speakers is only audible when the espresso machine ceases whirring and the din of conversation has died down.
It's almost like you're in your office, elbow deep in paperwork while the rest of the expedition goes about their business across the gangway - footsteps echoing, voices chattering, Ancient doors hissing open and closed.
The only difference you can see is that there is no glass wall separating you from everyone here on Earth. You're in the middle of it now, surrounded by people that are close enough to touch.
You feel isolated.
--
The atmosphere is heavy, thick. It smells like dirt and grease and exhaust. You can feel it on your skin, like some sort of foreign body, a cloud of pollution trailing its fingers along your arm as it brushes past you.
You know you need to shake it - the feeling and the pressure. And you try. You pull yourself upright and grab your keys. The tourist train is something you would usually avoid, but you’re certain that when the halting little convoy reaches the peak of the mountain you’ll finally get some air.
At the summit you practically trip over yourself trying to reach the viewpoint, but when you arrive you don’t feel any of the release you had hoped for. The tips of skyscrapers float bodiless above the blanket of Denver smog and a little boy breathes into one of the courtesy oxygen masks.
Your lungs burn just as they had below.
--
You visit the Garden of the Gods in an attempt to find some spiritual connection - something that can mend this ever-expanding hole in your chest. Something that will patch you up, if not put you back together.
Red rock formations litter the skyline, sharp and severe, like they just punctured the evergreen blanket of trees that nestles at their feet. It's beautiful, majestic.
You imagine the towers of Atlantis, piercing the surface of the ocean as the city takes its first breath in 10,000 years. You take that image and try and to place it over the view in front of you, try to weave them together like some sort of patchwork quilt.
But the pieces won't align, won't adhere, and Atlantis crumbles before you, leaving red earth and dust as far as the eye can see.
--
You usually make it a policy not to open the door to anyone who isn't carrying your dinner, but when you look through the peep hole and see John, you’re at a loss. You’ve been trying to turn Earth into Atlantis for weeks now, but you have yet to allow any Atlantis into your Earth. You weigh the odds that this breach will make things better, but think the stronger possibility is that it might just make it all worse.
You almost aren’t consciously aware of your hand pulling open the door, but it does.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"Got a minute?"
You think about saying no. But then you remember it's John, and if anyone is allowed to see your darkest moments, has seen your darkest moments, it's him. So you nod. "Sure." You open the door wider and take a step back to let him inside.
He doesn't follow. Instead, you watch as his lips quirk into something that could be the beginnings of a smile. "Great. Grab your coat."
--
He takes you about ten minutes south of your apartment to a residential neighborhood lined with bare-branched maple trees. The lawns are brown and dry, silent victims of the chill of winter.
He pulls his car to the curb in front of a two-story colonial. There's a "for sale" sign staked in the grass and the clear plastic tray has a lone cigarette butt in it where flyers used to be.
"What are we..." You trail off, not quite knowing what to make of the destination.
He opens the car door. "Come on, I'll show you."
You stay where you are, fingers hooked on the handle as John leans in to grab a paper bag from the back seat. It’s clear to you now that he's on some sort of mission - you can tell by the look of determination and the evidence that for some reason he’s planned all of this. There's a goal he's working toward and you envy him for it. You're also terribly curious.
You open your door and join him as he makes his way to the porch, and then watch as he fiddles with the temporary lockbox. He looks up and you raise an eyebrow. "Are you a realtor by night?"
He scoffs.
"Using your superior grasp of numbers to break and enter?" you guess again.
"It's not breaking if you use the key."
"Is it your key?"
"Nope."
"Are we burgling?"
He laughs at that. "Not burgling, no."
You feel something warm and familiar begin to seep into your chest. You smile and find yourself bouncing a little on your toes. "What's in the bag?" you ask as he unlocks the door and swings it open.
"You have no patience for surprises."
"You know this about me."
"True. But I still enjoy surprising you."
He leads you inside. The place is empty - no furniture, no art, nothing on the hardwood floors save a few dust bunnies. A handful of business cards tossed on the marble counter that separates the living room from the kitchen are the only evidence that human life has crossed this threshold in quite a while.
"This way," John prompts, heading to the staircase opposite the door.
You follow him up the stairs and down the hall, through what must have been the master bedroom. He slides open the glass door on the far wall and leads you onto a balcony.
You step outside and are hit by a burst of cold wind. You pull your jacket tighter.
The balcony is small - just the width of the door - with an iron railing that comes up to your waist. Without thinking, you step up to it and wrap your fingers around the top rail. The metal is smaller and colder than you expect, than fits naturally in your hands, but it still feels comfortable.
You look out on the backyard and smile. "A pool?"
John nods. "Complete with maple leaves and dead bugs."
"Inviting."
"Well, I wasn't thinking you'd want to go for a swim."
The wind picks up and you shiver. "Maybe in a few months." You nod toward the bag he's toting. "Do I get to find out what's in there now?"
"You do," he confirms, reaching inside and pulling out -
"A stuffed sheep?"
He looks entirely too proud of himself when he notices your confused frown. "Not just any stuffed sheep." He hands it to you. "Turn it on."
You take the proffered animal and after some searching locate the switch. When you press it, a garbled, rhythmical whooshing sound comes from somewhere deep within the fuzzy creature. It's familiar, but you have trouble placing it. You look to John. "And that would be?"
He frowns. "Womb, I think. Press it again."
You laugh and squeeze the sheep's foot again. This time you can confidently identify the effect. "Rain?"
"Press it again."
You hear something along the lines of whale mating sounds.
"Again," he instructs.
You press the button again and your heart flutters a little in your chest. "The ocean."
His smile is crooked and gentle, but the playfulness has vanished. "That's the one." He turns to the railing and rests the palms of his hands flat against the metal. He doesn't look at you when he says, "I thought maybe you could use a little reminder."
Your fingers clutch the animal in your hands and the crashing waves rumble against your stomach. You look out across the pool and stare at the water just barely rippling in the Colorado wind. You step up to the rail again and for a moment, just a fraction of a second, everything shifts. You're in Atlantis, on your balcony, the wind tangling your hair, the smell of salt thick as you inhale. The waves roll against the pier and John stands beside you, sturdy and comforting and constant.
Then the ocean fades, the salty air dissipates and you're back on Earth on the second story of a foreclosed house with a child's toy clutched to your chest.
But John is still there.
You shift closer to him, just enough so that your shoulder brushes against his.
It's not Atlantis; it's Earth. You decide it's worth exploring.
Pairing: John/Elizabeth friendship
Rating: G
Beta: miera_c
It's not Atlantis.
--
The phone rings.
Before you can stop yourself, your hand rises to the ear where your headset used to rest, piping your command staff directly into your brain with only the insignificant tap of a button.
You'd give just about anything to hear their voices right now. You'd even take a caffeine-deprived Rodney McKay mid-crisis if it meant you were back there, where you were supposed to be. But even those same voices here on Earth are wrong, slightly off, and you’re not sure why but somehow knowing that it might be one of them on the line makes it even worse.
The handset to your landline continues to fuss on the far side of the room, its tone sharp and rankling.
You burrow deeper into the couch cushions and sigh.
--
You decide to write your memoirs - stories you can never tell, secrets you can never reveal. You pour your heart into your pen and onto the page, only to tuck it neatly away again before the ink can dry. You store it in a box on a shelf to let it gather dust.
This is something you'll never be able to share with anyone, something you’ll have to keep inside. You understand that; you know the reasons.
But the more you box it in the more it swells inside you, and you're worried that it won't be long now before you burst.
--
You wind up at a coffee shop in downtown Colorado Springs. You think maybe you'll work better, more efficiently, in the center of things.
You don't work at all.
Instead, you watch the people come and go - business men in suits and polished shoes, women with strollers and crying babies, teenagers laughing. The music over the speakers is only audible when the espresso machine ceases whirring and the din of conversation has died down.
It's almost like you're in your office, elbow deep in paperwork while the rest of the expedition goes about their business across the gangway - footsteps echoing, voices chattering, Ancient doors hissing open and closed.
The only difference you can see is that there is no glass wall separating you from everyone here on Earth. You're in the middle of it now, surrounded by people that are close enough to touch.
You feel isolated.
--
The atmosphere is heavy, thick. It smells like dirt and grease and exhaust. You can feel it on your skin, like some sort of foreign body, a cloud of pollution trailing its fingers along your arm as it brushes past you.
You know you need to shake it - the feeling and the pressure. And you try. You pull yourself upright and grab your keys. The tourist train is something you would usually avoid, but you’re certain that when the halting little convoy reaches the peak of the mountain you’ll finally get some air.
At the summit you practically trip over yourself trying to reach the viewpoint, but when you arrive you don’t feel any of the release you had hoped for. The tips of skyscrapers float bodiless above the blanket of Denver smog and a little boy breathes into one of the courtesy oxygen masks.
Your lungs burn just as they had below.
--
You visit the Garden of the Gods in an attempt to find some spiritual connection - something that can mend this ever-expanding hole in your chest. Something that will patch you up, if not put you back together.
Red rock formations litter the skyline, sharp and severe, like they just punctured the evergreen blanket of trees that nestles at their feet. It's beautiful, majestic.
You imagine the towers of Atlantis, piercing the surface of the ocean as the city takes its first breath in 10,000 years. You take that image and try and to place it over the view in front of you, try to weave them together like some sort of patchwork quilt.
But the pieces won't align, won't adhere, and Atlantis crumbles before you, leaving red earth and dust as far as the eye can see.
--
You usually make it a policy not to open the door to anyone who isn't carrying your dinner, but when you look through the peep hole and see John, you’re at a loss. You’ve been trying to turn Earth into Atlantis for weeks now, but you have yet to allow any Atlantis into your Earth. You weigh the odds that this breach will make things better, but think the stronger possibility is that it might just make it all worse.
You almost aren’t consciously aware of your hand pulling open the door, but it does.
"Hey."
"Hey."
"Got a minute?"
You think about saying no. But then you remember it's John, and if anyone is allowed to see your darkest moments, has seen your darkest moments, it's him. So you nod. "Sure." You open the door wider and take a step back to let him inside.
He doesn't follow. Instead, you watch as his lips quirk into something that could be the beginnings of a smile. "Great. Grab your coat."
--
He takes you about ten minutes south of your apartment to a residential neighborhood lined with bare-branched maple trees. The lawns are brown and dry, silent victims of the chill of winter.
He pulls his car to the curb in front of a two-story colonial. There's a "for sale" sign staked in the grass and the clear plastic tray has a lone cigarette butt in it where flyers used to be.
"What are we..." You trail off, not quite knowing what to make of the destination.
He opens the car door. "Come on, I'll show you."
You stay where you are, fingers hooked on the handle as John leans in to grab a paper bag from the back seat. It’s clear to you now that he's on some sort of mission - you can tell by the look of determination and the evidence that for some reason he’s planned all of this. There's a goal he's working toward and you envy him for it. You're also terribly curious.
You open your door and join him as he makes his way to the porch, and then watch as he fiddles with the temporary lockbox. He looks up and you raise an eyebrow. "Are you a realtor by night?"
He scoffs.
"Using your superior grasp of numbers to break and enter?" you guess again.
"It's not breaking if you use the key."
"Is it your key?"
"Nope."
"Are we burgling?"
He laughs at that. "Not burgling, no."
You feel something warm and familiar begin to seep into your chest. You smile and find yourself bouncing a little on your toes. "What's in the bag?" you ask as he unlocks the door and swings it open.
"You have no patience for surprises."
"You know this about me."
"True. But I still enjoy surprising you."
He leads you inside. The place is empty - no furniture, no art, nothing on the hardwood floors save a few dust bunnies. A handful of business cards tossed on the marble counter that separates the living room from the kitchen are the only evidence that human life has crossed this threshold in quite a while.
"This way," John prompts, heading to the staircase opposite the door.
You follow him up the stairs and down the hall, through what must have been the master bedroom. He slides open the glass door on the far wall and leads you onto a balcony.
You step outside and are hit by a burst of cold wind. You pull your jacket tighter.
The balcony is small - just the width of the door - with an iron railing that comes up to your waist. Without thinking, you step up to it and wrap your fingers around the top rail. The metal is smaller and colder than you expect, than fits naturally in your hands, but it still feels comfortable.
You look out on the backyard and smile. "A pool?"
John nods. "Complete with maple leaves and dead bugs."
"Inviting."
"Well, I wasn't thinking you'd want to go for a swim."
The wind picks up and you shiver. "Maybe in a few months." You nod toward the bag he's toting. "Do I get to find out what's in there now?"
"You do," he confirms, reaching inside and pulling out -
"A stuffed sheep?"
He looks entirely too proud of himself when he notices your confused frown. "Not just any stuffed sheep." He hands it to you. "Turn it on."
You take the proffered animal and after some searching locate the switch. When you press it, a garbled, rhythmical whooshing sound comes from somewhere deep within the fuzzy creature. It's familiar, but you have trouble placing it. You look to John. "And that would be?"
He frowns. "Womb, I think. Press it again."
You laugh and squeeze the sheep's foot again. This time you can confidently identify the effect. "Rain?"
"Press it again."
You hear something along the lines of whale mating sounds.
"Again," he instructs.
You press the button again and your heart flutters a little in your chest. "The ocean."
His smile is crooked and gentle, but the playfulness has vanished. "That's the one." He turns to the railing and rests the palms of his hands flat against the metal. He doesn't look at you when he says, "I thought maybe you could use a little reminder."
Your fingers clutch the animal in your hands and the crashing waves rumble against your stomach. You look out across the pool and stare at the water just barely rippling in the Colorado wind. You step up to the rail again and for a moment, just a fraction of a second, everything shifts. You're in Atlantis, on your balcony, the wind tangling your hair, the smell of salt thick as you inhale. The waves roll against the pier and John stands beside you, sturdy and comforting and constant.
Then the ocean fades, the salty air dissipates and you're back on Earth on the second story of a foreclosed house with a child's toy clutched to your chest.
But John is still there.
You shift closer to him, just enough so that your shoulder brushes against his.
It's not Atlantis; it's Earth. You decide it's worth exploring.