First Post!
*waves tentatively* Hello! My first post on this community, and my first SGA fic. I’m somewhat worried about how it turned out, but this bunny, she bit hard.
Author: 20thCenturyVole
Rating: PG (for naughty language)
Genre: Gen
Beta: none. Don’t go blaming other people, now!
Challenge: ESP/telepathy
Summary: Atlantis was grateful to him.
~*~
Okay, so maybe it wasn’t Zelenka’s stupid moonshine; when John got up the next morning, hungover and deeply regretting the cheese, it was still there, like a chunk of living foreign tissue planted in the base of his skull. That morning, and the morning after that, and the morning after that…
At first it interfered with his concentration, freaked him the fuck out, but he still didn’t go to Beckett or even tell anyone, because how would they understand? What could they do about it anyway? And besides, it was kind of useful, now that he was getting used to it - instead of starcharts and maps appearing in holograms when he called them up, they began to appear in his head, right in his visual cortex and then straight to his long-term memory, instantly remembered and there, just for him. Piloting the puddle-jumper began to feel like coordinating his own body - thoughtless, second nature. He was beginning to wonder if he could override Rodney’s codes and commands just by wanting to, and that, right there, was probably the biggest, most shameful, secret reason for his reluctance to tell.
Atlantis was talking to him. Not anyone else, as far as he knew - just him. And he was selfishly afraid of that being taken away.
It worried, in a bewildered, sleepy way, like a waking leviathan that was still too groggy to know quite what the hell was going on, and he felt thrilled and secretly proud to be the one to reassure it, to tell it that they meant no harm and he hoped (he really, really hoped) that it didn’t mind them exploring it and using its long-dormant instruments for their own use. Nobody here but us humans, just passin’ through…
Still, the place was reluctant, and very tired, drained, a little confused. Their quest for more naquada became more personal for him; every bit brought back felt like an offering, like medicine for a sick loved one, or something equally urgent and necessary. Maybe he was getting a little ruthless, maybe he was taking a little less compromise than he used to push for, but dammit, they had to get it, Atlantis needed it, and there was only so much you could do in the name of diplomacy before that old self-preservation kicked in.
Atlantis was grateful to him.
One day Weir was struck down in her office by some alien poison they’d managed to bring back with them, and it was him that persuaded Atlantis to open the door so they could get her out, not Rodney and his coterie of goggling scientists, or the dumb fuck Marines armed with crowbars that Rodney spent half an hour yelling at for trying useless things and wasting everyone else’s time; he was the one that Atlantis told about the devices that would save her life and how to use them. Him. Not anyone else.
And if Rodney was giving him more and more suspicious looks, kept trying to corner him and ask what was going on, John could avoid him easily; he knew all the places to go, and Atlantis could seal the door behind him if he wanted it to. When the time came for them to leave this place - when Atlantis had had enough of them - when the Wraith destroyed them or the sea swallowed them, and the last ship had left for earth again and gone back to where they belonged - John would find a room, and lock the door, and he would keep Atlantis company as she slid once again into sleep, until he died. He’d never be alone again, and he wanted to return the favour.
It was good to have a place where he belonged.
END