fic: Absent Friends by Tielan [Missing Persons Challenge]
Title: Absent Friends
Author: tielan
Summary: The next time he calls Rodney, he'll ask if any of the lights in Earth's sky come from Pegasus stars.
Characters: John
Rating: G
Spoilers: 3.10 - The Return I
Length: ~1,000
John wakes in the morning to the bleak darkness of the SGC guest-room and thinks that he should really look into finding somewhere off-base to live. They gave him six weeks to find somewhere else; four of those weeks are up. He just can't bring himself to do it. Not yet.
Not while he thinks he can go back.
--
Around 1100 hours, John goes for a walk. It's a habit when he's not off world or overseeing something, both a stretch of his legs and a chance to observe what's going on around the base.
The R&D department is often abuzz with the chatter of voices and the clatter of computer keys. John drifts past the open doors, nodding at the personnel who pass him in the corridor and listening to the conversations that faintly echo out into the corridors.
In her lab, Sam Carter is arguing a pet theory with someone, but the cadences are wrong. Rather than taking a confrontational stance, her tones are smooth and reasonable as she presents her case. There's no audible frustration in her voice, no impatience. She could argue this all day and probably will have to - in fact, the dubious noises of her audience suggest it's going to take a lot to change their mind.
Carter is patient, though. She has time. She's not going to try to hurry this through. It's going to be a thorough job.
He listens for a while, then walks on.
When John returns to his desk, it's only 1121.
He contemplates the speed dial on his phone, then shakes his head and returns to his paperwork.
--
"Permission to get my team out there, sir."
He knows the answer even before Landry shakes his head. "Permission denied, Colonel."
Carter gives him a look - the same one that he sees on Mitchell, standing behind the General. It's nothing more than a shake of the head, but John can interpret the meaning as if Carter and Mitchell were speaking into his ear: Don't push this. Not now.
John pushes because it's what he does. It's what he's used to doing. "Sir, we've got eight men out there--"
"Who are probably already dead." Landry's pronouncement is heavy. "You heard the Lieutenant's report, Colonel. I'm not going to throw live men after dead ones."
"Sir--"
Landry's eyebrows rise and fall as his eyes narrow. "Colonel, this is not Atlantis and this is not a discussion. You're not going in after them."
He doesn't have a choice. Not here.
In his office, John sits and stares, narrow-eyed, at the header of a two-line email that's nearly four weeks old and doesn't send another reply to follow the one he sent four weeks ago and for which he still hasn't received an answer.
--
Another group of SFs are already in the gym at 1730 hours when John comes in. Some are on the treadmills, a few are on the bench, pumping iron. Most are watching a particularly muscular pair sparring against each other on the mats in the centre of the room. Lean bodies gleam with sweat as they circle without gloves or staves, only their fists held up in defence as they lash out at each other.
John takes a machine in the corner, climbs on and starts jogging.
Foot after foot, his steady breathing grows ragged. Blood pumps through his legs and throbs in his temples as John pounds away at the treadmill, step after unending step.
On his iPod, 'We Are The Champions' gives way to 'Welcome To The Jungle', which in turn gives way to 'Cocaine', 'Ring Of Fire' and 'Jump', before 'Where Are We Running?' starts playing. John shuffles that song on. He slows the treadmill down to an easy jog for another ten minutes before he stops and climbs off.
The SFs are gone, headed home for the day; it's just John in the now-deserted gym.
His quads ache as the splash of hot water echoes in the empty locker room, and John ignores the way his brain tells him that he hasn't been running - not really.
--
This is a bar for quiet drinkers, military and paramilitary - people who see enough trouble at work and don't want trouble when they get out of it. John occasionally turns up with several other SG-team leaders, sits back with a beer, and exchanges the war-stories he's allowed to tell.
However, nobody lets the newcomers know that this isn't a bar for fights, and sometimes fights begin.
Tonight, bar security is assisted by a man and a woman from the next table. The two were brought into the situation when one of the fighters landed in her lap, care of an impressive right hook. With fluid grace, the petite woman picks up the perp, and has him kissing the floor in one smooth movement, while her partner deals with the man who'd thrown the punch with professional cool.
"Check out the legs on that one," Carl Romarov says to John as security steps in and the fight dries up.
The legs are nice, John admits, but the whole package is breathtaking. "You won't get lucky there, Romarov."
"No? Why not?"
Her partner comes up beside her, and she turns and smiles at him, easy and assured. And the guy doesn't quite smile back, but takes a step closer, so she's sheltered by the angle of his chest. It's probably all the 'protection' she allows him to give - someone to watch her back as she's no doubt watching his.
John doesn't look away as the other man's eyes rake the room. "That's why."
--
Later that night, John leans against his car in the SGC parking lot, breathing air that verges on icy, and extremely thankful for his leather jacket.
The next time he calls Rodney, he'll ask if any of the lights in Earth's sky come from Pegasus stars.
- fin -
Author: tielan
Summary: The next time he calls Rodney, he'll ask if any of the lights in Earth's sky come from Pegasus stars.
Characters: John
Rating: G
Spoilers: 3.10 - The Return I
Length: ~1,000
John wakes in the morning to the bleak darkness of the SGC guest-room and thinks that he should really look into finding somewhere off-base to live. They gave him six weeks to find somewhere else; four of those weeks are up. He just can't bring himself to do it. Not yet.
Not while he thinks he can go back.
--
Around 1100 hours, John goes for a walk. It's a habit when he's not off world or overseeing something, both a stretch of his legs and a chance to observe what's going on around the base.
The R&D department is often abuzz with the chatter of voices and the clatter of computer keys. John drifts past the open doors, nodding at the personnel who pass him in the corridor and listening to the conversations that faintly echo out into the corridors.
In her lab, Sam Carter is arguing a pet theory with someone, but the cadences are wrong. Rather than taking a confrontational stance, her tones are smooth and reasonable as she presents her case. There's no audible frustration in her voice, no impatience. She could argue this all day and probably will have to - in fact, the dubious noises of her audience suggest it's going to take a lot to change their mind.
Carter is patient, though. She has time. She's not going to try to hurry this through. It's going to be a thorough job.
He listens for a while, then walks on.
When John returns to his desk, it's only 1121.
He contemplates the speed dial on his phone, then shakes his head and returns to his paperwork.
--
"Permission to get my team out there, sir."
He knows the answer even before Landry shakes his head. "Permission denied, Colonel."
Carter gives him a look - the same one that he sees on Mitchell, standing behind the General. It's nothing more than a shake of the head, but John can interpret the meaning as if Carter and Mitchell were speaking into his ear: Don't push this. Not now.
John pushes because it's what he does. It's what he's used to doing. "Sir, we've got eight men out there--"
"Who are probably already dead." Landry's pronouncement is heavy. "You heard the Lieutenant's report, Colonel. I'm not going to throw live men after dead ones."
"Sir--"
Landry's eyebrows rise and fall as his eyes narrow. "Colonel, this is not Atlantis and this is not a discussion. You're not going in after them."
He doesn't have a choice. Not here.
In his office, John sits and stares, narrow-eyed, at the header of a two-line email that's nearly four weeks old and doesn't send another reply to follow the one he sent four weeks ago and for which he still hasn't received an answer.
--
Another group of SFs are already in the gym at 1730 hours when John comes in. Some are on the treadmills, a few are on the bench, pumping iron. Most are watching a particularly muscular pair sparring against each other on the mats in the centre of the room. Lean bodies gleam with sweat as they circle without gloves or staves, only their fists held up in defence as they lash out at each other.
John takes a machine in the corner, climbs on and starts jogging.
Foot after foot, his steady breathing grows ragged. Blood pumps through his legs and throbs in his temples as John pounds away at the treadmill, step after unending step.
On his iPod, 'We Are The Champions' gives way to 'Welcome To The Jungle', which in turn gives way to 'Cocaine', 'Ring Of Fire' and 'Jump', before 'Where Are We Running?' starts playing. John shuffles that song on. He slows the treadmill down to an easy jog for another ten minutes before he stops and climbs off.
The SFs are gone, headed home for the day; it's just John in the now-deserted gym.
His quads ache as the splash of hot water echoes in the empty locker room, and John ignores the way his brain tells him that he hasn't been running - not really.
--
This is a bar for quiet drinkers, military and paramilitary - people who see enough trouble at work and don't want trouble when they get out of it. John occasionally turns up with several other SG-team leaders, sits back with a beer, and exchanges the war-stories he's allowed to tell.
However, nobody lets the newcomers know that this isn't a bar for fights, and sometimes fights begin.
Tonight, bar security is assisted by a man and a woman from the next table. The two were brought into the situation when one of the fighters landed in her lap, care of an impressive right hook. With fluid grace, the petite woman picks up the perp, and has him kissing the floor in one smooth movement, while her partner deals with the man who'd thrown the punch with professional cool.
"Check out the legs on that one," Carl Romarov says to John as security steps in and the fight dries up.
The legs are nice, John admits, but the whole package is breathtaking. "You won't get lucky there, Romarov."
"No? Why not?"
Her partner comes up beside her, and she turns and smiles at him, easy and assured. And the guy doesn't quite smile back, but takes a step closer, so she's sheltered by the angle of his chest. It's probably all the 'protection' she allows him to give - someone to watch her back as she's no doubt watching his.
John doesn't look away as the other man's eyes rake the room. "That's why."
--
Later that night, John leans against his car in the SGC parking lot, breathing air that verges on icy, and extremely thankful for his leather jacket.
The next time he calls Rodney, he'll ask if any of the lights in Earth's sky come from Pegasus stars.
- fin -