this is not the post you're looking for.
(Shh. This isn't actually a ficlet. This is just a rejected little slice of something from the 'verse where John's a reluctant poet. It doesn't even have a title. Or a point, really. It's just what I think is going on in the background, behind the poetry.)
Most days begin something like this: John wakes up, and he keeps his eyes closed. The headaches and double vision still bother him and they're worse first thing in the morning. So he grabs his glasses off the nightstand, puts them on, and hopes that when he opens his eyes, he'll only see one of everything. Sometimes he even does.
("Really, you're doing wonderfully," the optometrist assures him every time he visits. "Either you're learning to suppress the diplopia, or it's lessening on its own. I fully expect the effects to disappear entirely, with time."
"That's great," John says. "Just great," and he goes home and reaches for a bottle of Johnny Walker that's slightly up and to the left of the one on the shelf.)
John goes running in the mornings; he does a quick three mile loop out to the boardwalk and back, and on his way home he sticks his head in the coffee shop on the corner as Laura opens it at six-thirty.
"Hey, Cadman," he waves. "Morning."
Laura blinks sleepily and says, "You stink, Sheppard. Get out." A yawn nearly cracks her face in two.
"I have no idea why you own a coffee shop," he says.
"Shut up," she says. "Go shower. Put on clothes that aren't disgusting. Make your hair do that thing."
"I want a muffin today," he says, ignoring the hair remark, just like he does every day. "The carrot-raisin kind."
"Sir, yes, sir," Laura says, and he tries to keep his face still and smiling. She doesn't mean anything by it, and he's mostly doing okay now, anyway. Kate's been helping, and so has scribbling in his notebook. "Peppermint tea and a carrot-raisin muffin. You're practically a soccer mom."
"Go to hell," he says, and turns to leave.
"See you in a couple hours," she calls after him. "Don't forget to put on deodorant."
It's a stupid ritual, their early morning back-and-forth, but John's come to appreciate routine. He likes being able to predict his life on an hourly basis, now. No one is going to wind up dead or legless or choking on sand if he's sitting down, freshly showered, with his laptop and a mug of tea and a muffin at the corner table in Laura's coffee shop at eight-thirty every morning.
John usually manages to sneak a few hours of work in between his obsessive refreshing of I Can Has Cheezburger and Go Fug Yourself, but sometimes his eyes are worse than usual and the schematics blur into an indistinct electric blue. And sometimes his head buzzes and his stomach turns for no reason at all, except for how the guy walking down the street is Mitch, must be, even though what is left of Mitch is underground at Arlington. On days like that, he closes his laptop and puts his head down on the cool table until the urge to throw up passes. The tea helps, and Laura's good about quietly changing the music to something soft and inoffensive if she sees John look shocky.
Most days begin something like this: John wakes up, and he keeps his eyes closed. The headaches and double vision still bother him and they're worse first thing in the morning. So he grabs his glasses off the nightstand, puts them on, and hopes that when he opens his eyes, he'll only see one of everything. Sometimes he even does.
("Really, you're doing wonderfully," the optometrist assures him every time he visits. "Either you're learning to suppress the diplopia, or it's lessening on its own. I fully expect the effects to disappear entirely, with time."
"That's great," John says. "Just great," and he goes home and reaches for a bottle of Johnny Walker that's slightly up and to the left of the one on the shelf.)
John goes running in the mornings; he does a quick three mile loop out to the boardwalk and back, and on his way home he sticks his head in the coffee shop on the corner as Laura opens it at six-thirty.
"Hey, Cadman," he waves. "Morning."
Laura blinks sleepily and says, "You stink, Sheppard. Get out." A yawn nearly cracks her face in two.
"I have no idea why you own a coffee shop," he says.
"Shut up," she says. "Go shower. Put on clothes that aren't disgusting. Make your hair do that thing."
"I want a muffin today," he says, ignoring the hair remark, just like he does every day. "The carrot-raisin kind."
"Sir, yes, sir," Laura says, and he tries to keep his face still and smiling. She doesn't mean anything by it, and he's mostly doing okay now, anyway. Kate's been helping, and so has scribbling in his notebook. "Peppermint tea and a carrot-raisin muffin. You're practically a soccer mom."
"Go to hell," he says, and turns to leave.
"See you in a couple hours," she calls after him. "Don't forget to put on deodorant."
It's a stupid ritual, their early morning back-and-forth, but John's come to appreciate routine. He likes being able to predict his life on an hourly basis, now. No one is going to wind up dead or legless or choking on sand if he's sitting down, freshly showered, with his laptop and a mug of tea and a muffin at the corner table in Laura's coffee shop at eight-thirty every morning.
John usually manages to sneak a few hours of work in between his obsessive refreshing of I Can Has Cheezburger and Go Fug Yourself, but sometimes his eyes are worse than usual and the schematics blur into an indistinct electric blue. And sometimes his head buzzes and his stomach turns for no reason at all, except for how the guy walking down the street is Mitch, must be, even though what is left of Mitch is underground at Arlington. On days like that, he closes his laptop and puts his head down on the cool table until the urge to throw up passes. The tea helps, and Laura's good about quietly changing the music to something soft and inoffensive if she sees John look shocky.