"small time shot away"
title: Reversion
with: Carson, Michael
rated: R; gen
herein: missing scene from 3.02, “Misbegotten”
disclaim: not mine in any universe
Carson’s eyes burn, but he keeps them open and trained on the canvas ceiling. Michael looms in his peripheral vision and in the hum at the base of his skull. Carson’s molars ache, and he tries to relax his jaw.
Another wraith appears at the door and Michael moves away. The pressure in Carson’s head lightens until he feels hollow.
Michael long since stripped the location of the naquadah bomb from Carson’s mind. Then information on Atlantis, Earth, the SGC, the retrovirus.
Every memory he has of the Pegasus Galaxy pinned down and dissected.
The restraints bite his wrists. Carson relaxes his hands, his arms. The fingertips of his right hand are a bit sticky. His palms burn.
They both know the long range sensors on Atlantis will likely detect the approaching hive. They both know the Deadalus can’t arrive for at least another eighteen hours.
The muscles in his neck refuse to unknot.
Eighteen hours. The specificity surprises Carson. The time he’s spent in restraints has blurred into a featureless plateau. It must be a touch of Michael’s knowledge slipping back through the telepathic assault. Eighteen hours. Perhaps twenty. However this ends-the Deadalus or a hive-Carson’s time on his own exam table is approximately half over.
At the mouth of the tent Michael speaks with several other wraith. Their voices rumble in and against Carson’s bones.
Perhaps twenty hours more. However this ends.
The roof of Carson’s mouth is dry, faintly acrid. Tongue raw. Michael has twice allowed him some water but refused to remove the restraints at any point. His pants chafe where his urine dried.
“Shall we continue?” Michael’s words are a low echo that Carson feels in the pit of his stomach more than he hears. Like the concussion of distant bombs.
A sharp arc of pain through his skull and Carson is nine, walking home from school with a scraped knee and salt on his tongue.
“This would hurt less if you’d stop resising.” They both know this is true, and he hears it again anyway, the purr of Michael’s voice that is no longer a voice.
Body shaking, and Carson is twenty-six, on holiday in Baltimore, Maryland, America, on holiday to give a paper at Johns Hopkins. Fourteen and on holiday and the sun sparks off the water.
The canvas ceiling swims back into focus. They both know that Carson has no more tactical information to share. He stares at the blank lines of the ceiling until stars shoot through his field of vision.
Knives through his eyes and Carson is twenty-one, wired on amphetemines and the thrill of acing the MCATs, and who needs sleep when his girlfriend has legs that could wrap around the whole bloody world. The sun hurts his eyes.
And Carson is thirty-one, sitting in his mum’s kitchen as she fusses over Christmas Eve dinner. He might as well be five, fifteen, twenty-five, or, or- Morning light streaks through the window at a bright angle. The smell of mince meat is so strong it heaves into nausea, and Carson gags. He spits, hot and slick down his cheek, forces air into his lungs.
And Carson is six, a frog soft and squirming in his hands. He pulls off its back legs and waits. He waits, and waits, and it doesn’t move. At school they have a newt that grew back its tail, but the frog doesn’t move. Carson hides until he’s sure he won’t cry anymore, but it takes a long time. He has a big lump in his throat, and he keeps the frog in his hands, watching for if it wakes up. He leaves the frog in the shelter of a rock. No one knew this. No one knew this.
Michael’s amusement washes back through him, and Carson’s too exhaused to be sick again. Shadows float along the ceiling, and he greys out.
………
thanks for reading; feedback always appreciated
with: Carson, Michael
rated: R; gen
herein: missing scene from 3.02, “Misbegotten”
disclaim: not mine in any universe
Carson’s eyes burn, but he keeps them open and trained on the canvas ceiling. Michael looms in his peripheral vision and in the hum at the base of his skull. Carson’s molars ache, and he tries to relax his jaw.
Another wraith appears at the door and Michael moves away. The pressure in Carson’s head lightens until he feels hollow.
Michael long since stripped the location of the naquadah bomb from Carson’s mind. Then information on Atlantis, Earth, the SGC, the retrovirus.
Every memory he has of the Pegasus Galaxy pinned down and dissected.
The restraints bite his wrists. Carson relaxes his hands, his arms. The fingertips of his right hand are a bit sticky. His palms burn.
They both know the long range sensors on Atlantis will likely detect the approaching hive. They both know the Deadalus can’t arrive for at least another eighteen hours.
The muscles in his neck refuse to unknot.
Eighteen hours. The specificity surprises Carson. The time he’s spent in restraints has blurred into a featureless plateau. It must be a touch of Michael’s knowledge slipping back through the telepathic assault. Eighteen hours. Perhaps twenty. However this ends-the Deadalus or a hive-Carson’s time on his own exam table is approximately half over.
At the mouth of the tent Michael speaks with several other wraith. Their voices rumble in and against Carson’s bones.
Perhaps twenty hours more. However this ends.
The roof of Carson’s mouth is dry, faintly acrid. Tongue raw. Michael has twice allowed him some water but refused to remove the restraints at any point. His pants chafe where his urine dried.
“Shall we continue?” Michael’s words are a low echo that Carson feels in the pit of his stomach more than he hears. Like the concussion of distant bombs.
A sharp arc of pain through his skull and Carson is nine, walking home from school with a scraped knee and salt on his tongue.
“This would hurt less if you’d stop resising.” They both know this is true, and he hears it again anyway, the purr of Michael’s voice that is no longer a voice.
Body shaking, and Carson is twenty-six, on holiday in Baltimore, Maryland, America, on holiday to give a paper at Johns Hopkins. Fourteen and on holiday and the sun sparks off the water.
The canvas ceiling swims back into focus. They both know that Carson has no more tactical information to share. He stares at the blank lines of the ceiling until stars shoot through his field of vision.
Knives through his eyes and Carson is twenty-one, wired on amphetemines and the thrill of acing the MCATs, and who needs sleep when his girlfriend has legs that could wrap around the whole bloody world. The sun hurts his eyes.
And Carson is thirty-one, sitting in his mum’s kitchen as she fusses over Christmas Eve dinner. He might as well be five, fifteen, twenty-five, or, or- Morning light streaks through the window at a bright angle. The smell of mince meat is so strong it heaves into nausea, and Carson gags. He spits, hot and slick down his cheek, forces air into his lungs.
And Carson is six, a frog soft and squirming in his hands. He pulls off its back legs and waits. He waits, and waits, and it doesn’t move. At school they have a newt that grew back its tail, but the frog doesn’t move. Carson hides until he’s sure he won’t cry anymore, but it takes a long time. He has a big lump in his throat, and he keeps the frog in his hands, watching for if it wakes up. He leaves the frog in the shelter of a rock. No one knew this. No one knew this.
Michael’s amusement washes back through him, and Carson’s too exhaused to be sick again. Shadows float along the ceiling, and he greys out.
………
thanks for reading; feedback always appreciated