Ch014 - Story 03 - What Dreams
Title: What Dreams
Pairing: None (some one-sided John/Rodney)
Rating: PG
Plot: John's mind is a jumbled mess at the best of times, and, on Atlantis, it's rarely the best of times. He tries to keep track of everything that's thrown at him while things spiral completely out of his control.
Authors: aesc, darkmoore, oxoniensis and sardonicsmiley.
Artists: clear_as_blood, beet, and thisissirius.
What Dreams
John? John!
His brother shouting wakes him from a dream of -- of -- warm, he thinks. His body is a complication of tension and relaxation, anticipation buzzing in his stomach and along his thighs, but his bones don't want to do anything except sprawl in bed and stare up at the ceiling and try to figure his body out. Fingers trailing along his side raise goosebumps; when he turns his head, surprise, there's no one there, just blankets and sheets kicked over to the side of the bed.
For a moment, his mind steps aside and he's not quite there, his body belonging to someone else, not quite him, but the moment passes.
"Come on, dork." Dave's voice has come closer, somewhere down the hall. "Dad's in the car and he's going all copasetic."
"Copasetic doesn't mean that, moron." He blinks at his voice, his own voice that, like his body, doesn't belong to him. Despite wanting to just lie there, he pulls himself up; his head swims a moment, blood spinning away southward and his vision is grey-going-black at the edges.
Dave hollers for him again, and he gets himself together enough to swing his legs over the side of the bed. His toes have hair on them, and he can see practically every bone in his feet, and these are strange things to notice after... thirteen? Thirteen years of mid-digital hair and being told he's too skinny. Standing up turns into another exercise in idiosyncrasy, his legs long and awkward and not really wanting to shuffle into formal black slacks, his elbows catching pointily in the sleeves of his dress shirt.
Before he steps out, he glances around his room once more, familiar posters and airplane models, yesterday's clothes on the floor and one picture turned face-down on top of his dresser. Impulsively he goes to right it, and a woman with dark hair smiles out at him from her frame, although she's looking more down and to the side, as if shy of being photographed.
"Johnnnnnnn!" Dave's voice spikes upward on a whine.
"Hold your horses, geez," he mutters, walking out of his room and trying to manage his tie. He should know how by now, because of school and wearing ties and blazers Monday through Thursday, but his fingers have forgotten.
Dave's vanished, or maybe his annoying voice just seems loud, because he can't see Dave anywhere, the halls empty except for expensive furniture he half-remembers and his footsteps, family pictures on those walls not occupied by gigantic paintings. Maybe Dave's already outside; the downstairs echoes, tile with only statues and vases to soak up the click of his dress shoes, discarded napkins and cocktail plates and wineglasses the maid hasn't cleaned up yet, the curious desolation after a party. Empty, gaping and hugely empty, that's the house, dark despite the gigantic French doors that open out onto the stables and lawns.
He'd skipped out early last night because… because he'd been really pissed off. Anger flickers somewhere amid his uncertainty, lacing through the odd conviction that something is about to happen, except he can't remember precisely what.
The wooden door protests being opened, creaking on its hinges, all of its weight going into staying shut. He hauls at it anyway and a sliver of light spills across the tile, blazing and blinding even though he's pretty sure it's supposed to be early, and outside the light throws everything into stark relief - each blade of grass, the bark of the trees, the gravel paving the empty driveway.
Confused, he looks around. No way would his dad and Dave just leave, and he never heard the car drive off. Halfhearted birdsong transforms the silence into something oppressive, weighing as heavily as the light on his shoulders. Squinting, he looks up toward the barn and the horses there, back down the driveway.
The light's everywhere, bleaching out the sky, and it presses down on the world, on him, almost a sickness, and his head starts spinning again as he looks.
"Dad? Dave?" His voice falls away from him into the deafening nothingness, and he swallows. He's going to be late for - for - his mother - no, he's pretty sure she's still alive, he'd remember her dying. It's a dream, he decides, except each drop of sweat traces a distinct trail down his face and his breath tightens in his chest, all his body pulling at him to remind him of its presence.
He tries to call for his father again, walking down the driveway as he does. The walk quickens to a jog and then he's running with his heart racketing in his ears, faster and faster because he can't be late, he can catch them, Dad, wait!, and he loses his jacket, his tie, gravel dust all up his knees.
At the end of the drive a gigantic stone archway looms, rough-carved, symbols marking it all over. He knows what they mean, he's seen them before, but never here.
"Dad!" he shouts with his last breath, and stumbles through the arch.
* * * * * * *
Rodney McKay wakes up, heart in his throat and a strange taste in his mouth. He presses one hand to his chest, to make sure his heart goes back to where it's supposed to be; the other hand to the nearest solid thing to ground him.
'Well, if that wasn't the strangest out-of-body-experience ever, then I don't know what was', he thinks, trying to get his breathing under control. It's still early -- just after 4 am -- but Rodney knows he won't be able to go back to sleep. He sighs, deciding a hot shower can't hurt and might get the strange chill of loss out of his bones that the dream has brought with it. Rodney usually doesn't remember his dreams with this clarity, let alone dream himself into someone else's teenage body, and he has to admit, the feeling is more than slightly disturbing. He wonders briefly if John's childhood home really looks like he has envisioned it in the dream; he gives his subconscious bonus points for creativity, since he's never seen the actual thing.
Rodney strips, stepping under the hot spray of the shower, enjoying the way it soothes his frazzled nerves and washes away the cold sweat of panic. But when he reaches for the unscented shower gel and begins to soap himself, a tactile memory springs to life, foreign and unbidden. Fingers trailing along his side, raising goosebumps even though there is nothing there but blanket and sheets. God how he hates the lingering after-effects of dreams.
The mess hall is next. He needs coffee if he wants to get any work done today. To his surprise, John is sitting at one of the tables, the room empty save for him and a young woman. She's in the chair right across from John, but gets up hastily when Rodney approaches, looking guilty. It reminds him of the way most of his scientists look after he's yelled at them for stupidity. Rodney looks after her retreating figure for a moment but can't remember her name, Dr. Jones...Johnston…Jonaston maybe. Soft sciences for sure. Botanist or something. Doesn't really matter anyway. Somehow he knows she's just crawled out of Sheppard's bed -- and that has nothing to do with the way she's just hurriedly left. He gets that reaction from his scientists all the time -- the whole fleeing when he approaches thing. Rodney figures it's part of his charming personality. Not that it matters anyway. Rodney is glad she's gone and won't try to talk to him before he's had any coffee. John doesn't seem to mind her departure much, either, if the way he's slouched in his chair, looking tired and drawn, is anything to go by.
Maybe she didn't give him such a good time after all, Rodney thinks, but then catches himself, resolutely stomping down on the jealousy that rises in his chest. It would be a very, very bad idea to let John see even the tiniest bit of what Rodney feels for him. Rodney forces himself to act like he would on any other day, ignoring the lingering feeling of uneasiness in his gut. Dreaming of being in John's body has done strange things to him. With a gesture that signals that he'll join John in a minute, Rodney makes his way to pick up his food and coffee.
After getting some donuts, Powerbars and a big mug of coffee, Rodney sits down opposite John, taking his measure of him. His hair is as gravity-defying as ever and the tight back t-shirt and dark grey BDUs he's wearing are nothing but his usual attire. There really is nothing about him that would explain why Rodney can't seem to take his eyes off him or why he's feeling a strange sort of…connection to him. John lifts his cup and takes a sip of his coffee, throat working, and Rodney stares, his own mouth going dry. What the hell? Since when does he get all hot and bothered just by watching John drink? If this goes on, he'll never be able to hide his feelings, no matter how hard he tries. Then John tips his cup again and Rodney's focus shifts from his throat to the mug, mesmerized by the way John's long fingers curl around it. Another memory from his dream comes to life, along with the peculiar feeling of somehow being in the wrong body. Unable to take his eyes off the dusting of hair on the back of John's fingers, Rodney desperately tries to get himself under control. Maybe it's the unusual dream, a dream that scares him yet makes him feel so close to John; maybe it's just the sleep deprivation, but today his reaction to John's presence is so much worse than on other days.
"You're up early," John finally says, green eyes tired but curious.
"Yeah, didn't sleep too well. I figured that I might as well get a headstart on the simulations I want to run. You know…" Rodney breaks off when he realizes that John isn't really listening, but staring absentmindedly into his coffee. "And what about you, Sheppard? Fell out of bed? Or do you have something 'special' to do today that you're up this early?" Rodney knows his voice is sharp and sarcastic and he enjoys the way John flinches slightly at his question.
"Nah, just not tired any more. Thought I'd get up and get some coffee. Lorne and I are gonna take the two new gate-teams to M4Y-731 for a little training, later today. You know, simulate some situations, play through a few scenarios, that kind of thing. None of them were part of an SG team before and it's a good way to get some team building going. I need them to rely on each other. I really don't want those teams to end up the way Henrikson's team did last week. We've already organized for some Marines to go there a few hours before us, taking the roles of refugees, hostile villagers or Wraith. Do some role-playing. Gonna be a lot of fun." John grins the smug little grin that always manages to make Rodney's insides flip.
Enough is enough, Rodney decides. He really can't take this kind of emotional upheaval today. "Good, good. You have fun torturing your grunts, but make sure to leave my scientists in one piece. Even though they're morons, I'd rather not have to go and search for new ones. It's annoying." Rodney stuffs the remaining Powerbars into the pockets of his pants before getting up to put his tray away.
"I'll try to not break them, McKay," John replies, a grin appearing on his face.
Rodney decides this comment doesn't deserve a reply.
* * * * * * *
"We're going down!" Sgt. Langrest's voice, controlled but with an underlying edge of panic, makes John's heart beat faster. His sight is blurry and his fingers don't seem to obey him like they should. His whole body feels strange - somehow off and the landscape he can see through the Jumper's window changes from grass, trees and a deserted village to sand-dunes and an endless desert. How did he get here? Why is he in the Jumper? John knows he wasn't the one to fly it. And what's wrong with the pilot? Dr…Dr…something. He can't remember. His brain is foggy, as if his head is stuffed with cotton wool, but John knows it's important to remember. He needs to recall what he came to do in here in the first place.
The room around him begins to spin and John stumbles, closing his eyes for a moment. He feels nauseated and completely off balance as he looks around the old Russian helicopter and frowns. Helicopter? Wasn't he somewhere else just a second ago? John is sure he's missing something important here, but he can't for the life of him remember, what. His thoughts seem to get more and more hazy by the minute, but John is determined to get out and see to Captain Holland, who has to be somewhere around here. John looks down at himself, surprised to see a black tac vest and dark gray BDUs instead of the sand colored ones he expected. Huh? What's going on here?
He manages to take a few steps forward, eying his surroundings suspiciously. He knows there are Taliban in this area and he really needs to find Holland, soon. Suddenly Lorne steps into his field of vision, and for a moment John is puzzled as to what he's doing here. Shouldn't he be in…well, somewhere else? It's hard to concentrate through the throbbing pain that suddenly starts to pound behind his forehead; the blood rushing in his ears makes it hard to focus on what Lorne is saying.
Fragments of words that make no sense penetrate the white noise, but all John really wants to do is to give in to the whisper of the Jumper at the back of his mind, soothing and so much stronger than he's used to. He stumbles, his body still unfamiliar and just plain wrong. The height is off, the feel of his muscles, too, and the blinding pain that is splitting his skull is almost unbearable by now.
Lorne's hand comes to rest on John's elbow, squeezing, demanding his attention, and John does his very best to follow what he's saying while around him the landscape keeps changing. "Colonel Sheppard, are you alright, sir? What happened to you? Your head is bleeding. Did you find the others? How badly are they injured? Sir? Sir? John?"
John blinks. Others? What others? There's only Holland, isn't there? "I'm fine. Small arms fire hit my tail rotor. So I went to look after Captain Holland. He's hurt. Where's your…helicopter?" Even as John asks the question he knows something isn't quite right. Helicopter. Helicopter? It feels wrong on his tongue and John frowns again, deciding that he doesn't have the time to figure this one out right now.
"Sir?" Lorne's voice sounds strained now and the grip on John's arm tightens. "Sir, I think you should sit down. Dr. Louis thinks the logs the team you supervised used to build the fires were drenched in some sort of drug. People are having hallucinations left and right and you seem to be effected, too. The group I was with is all right, but I don't have enough men to see to the wounded and keep people from harming themselves or others. I'll send someone to look at your head-wound and help here, but I need to go back to Davies. I put him in charge of getting the other team out of the Jumper. Sgt. Langrest lost control and they crashed, just like Dr. Kiono. That's one of the men you wanted to check up on, remember? He's the one who was flying that Jumper that's right behind you. Sir, do you understand what I'm saying? Will you be all right? Can I leave you alone for a moment?"
"Lorne, the place is crawling with Taliban, I don't think you should go out there right now," John replies, ignoring Lorne's talk of hallucinations until the meaning of Lorne's words sinks in. Hallucinations. Oh, please, not again. The memory of what happened the last time he hallucinated about Holland is sharp and sudden. Rodney. He shot Rodney, almost killed him. The pain at the thought of Rodney dying is so overwhelming, so all-encompassing it even overpowers the throbbing, stinging pain in his head. He can't lose Rodney. He just can't. He doesn't know what he'd do if Rodney died.
"Hallucination?" John asks weakly. He feels even more disoriented than before with Lorne his only anchor point in the constantly changing surroundings. He hates that it's always this scenario, always Holland, the desert, the destroyed helicopters. It's never anything else; not in his hallucinations, not in his ever-recurring nightmares. Just Holland and the helpless feeling of not being able to save him. "I'm…um…gonna stay here," John finally says, dazed. "You should…take my gun. I might be a danger if I mistake one of our men for a Taliban again." John fumbles a moment with the holster, hands uncoordinated and slow, before he manages to hand over his handgun to his 2CO.
Lorne accepts the weapon and nods sharply. "All right, sir. Just…sit down and relax. Don't go anywhere. I'll send someone to the gate to dial Atlantis. We need backup with hazmat suits and a medical team. Sir, do you understand me? Just…just sit tight, all right?" Then he runs off. John thinks that maybe he should have made it an order for Lorne to stay, but then he remembers it's not real. Right. Hallucinations. Not real. No Taliban. The dizziness comes back full force and John decides sitting down might be a good idea after all. He lowers himself onto the open ramp of the Jumper, willing the world around him to stop spinning. A sharp pain rushes through his head and for a moment he glimpses the strange stone archway again. The one that looks like a rougher version of the…the Stargate? But it doesn't belong there. It's wrong, all wrong. Pulling together his last strength, John gets up and walks towards the arch as his world explodes into blinding white light.
* * * * * * *
Rodney startles awake, his heart racing, body drenched in cold sweat. He rubs his face, feeling imprints of the keyboard he'd fallen asleep on beneath his fingers as he does so. He's trying to get rid of the cobwebs of his…dream. Only it wasn't a dream. It was…what exactly? It had held the same strange out-of-body quality as the dream from the night before, only it hadn't felt as much like a dream as…real. Like... like it was happening right now. He'd seen the archway again; the archway their team had walked though on yesterday's mission. But the planet was someplace else, he's sure. It had looked more like…like…
Realization hits like a bucket of ice-water, and Rodney jumps out of his chair, running towards Sam's office. John and the others are in danger, he just knows it. Somehow, during their last mission, John and he must have switched something on, touched something, built a connection. Because Rodney suddenly knows with absolute clarity that what he's seen is no dream at all, but a look through John Sheppard's eyes.
* * * * * * *
To her credit, Sam doesn't waste time asking if he's sure, or telling him it's impossible, or any of the other ridiculous things certain people Rodney won't name might have said or asked.
"What exactly did you see?" is her first question.
"It was confusing," Rodney starts. An understatement. "I was stumbling around, injured, a head injury I think, and everything kept changing, from a grassy plain to a desert and back again, and Lorne was there which is how I knew the desert wasn't real, it was a hallucination. Except of course it wasn't my hallucination, it was Sheppard's, I was just seeing it, everything he was seeing. And then everything exploded and I woke up and --" Rodney can't finish that sentence.
Rodney knows he's babbling, and he knows why. It's Sheppard. Sheppard's out there, injured and confused or worse, and Rodney has no idea what happened when he woke up, what made him wake up, whether the explosion was part of the hallucination, or if something really happened to cut this connection between them and wake Rodney up.
He doesn't know if Sheppard is unconscious.
Or if he's dead.
He's concerned about everyone, obviously. He might forget their names, or ignore them, or shout at them when they're idiots -- which is most of the time -- it doesn't mean he doesn't care. But it's Sheppard in danger, and that's the worst thing, that's what makes him stutter and stammer until Sam's shouting his name and he realizes he's spaced out or maybe muttering to himself. Not helping. He needs to hold it together.
"Okay, Rodney, just calm down," she says, and he nods his head at her to show her he's understood because he doesn't entirely trust his voice right now. He paces around her office, frustrated with the way the details of the not-dream are fading already when he needs to remember as much as possible so they can go in prepared.
"Every team going there will need a hazmat suit," he tells her. "Lorne said something about hallucinogens on the firewood -- everyone handling it was effected."
He pinches the bridge of his nose -- he's getting a headache, the sort that throbs behind his eyes and makes lights uncomfortable. The lights in Sam's office are glaring, far too bright, and Rodney wonders how strong this connection is. He's feeling dizzy too, and the room is too warm, and --
"Rodney?" Sam asks quietly. She sounds concerned.
"I'm fine," he says. "I just, this connection --" He hesitates. If he tells Sam how he's feeling, he isn't going to be on the team sent to M4Y-731 and he has to go. Even if he's effected, it has to be to far less an extent than Sheppard, so he can just pull himself together and hold it off. "We've got to get moving," he says.
Sam nods. "When you get back, we're going to have to work out what's caused this connection between the two of you."
Rodney just hopes they both come back.
* * * * * * *
Rodney hadn't been on the team that scouted out the planet originally, and he'd shoved the report at the bottom of the pile of reports he considered a waste of his time, so he speed-reads through it now while he waits in the gate room, ignoring the pounding in his head. He notes the bullet points. Bare of any type of life forms higher than small mammals. Signs of past life, but nothing more than ruined villages left. Likely culled by the Wraith. Nothing interesting enough to warrant further research. Designated suitable for training purposes.
Ronon paces the room impatiently while Rodney reads, but Teyla comes and stands beside him, the head covering of the hazmat suit under her arm. He expects her to have some words of reassurance, but all she says is, "I hope--" which tails off into nothing. Rodney just nods. He knows what she means.
"The hallucinogens," he begins as soon as Sam appears in the gate room. "There are two possibilities."
She interrupts. "Either they're a natural part of the tree's defense mechanism, or--"
"Or there are hostiles, not native to the planet. Probably gated in as we'd have seen signs of a ship."
"In which case what you saw was likely just the first wave of an attack."
Rodney likes working with someone on the same wavelength as him, even if she does have a tendency to steal his thunder. Saves wasting time explaining things.
"It might be heat activated," he theorizes. "If it's a natural chemical. Something in the sap." They're just waiting for the medics to arrive now, so he runs through possibilities.
"But why?" It's one of the Marines, one Rodney doesn't recognize.
Rodney glares at her. "Do I look like a botanist to you?" The Marine opens her mouth as though she's about to answer. Rodney forestalls her. "That was a rhetorical question. Meaning you don't have to answer it," he adds with an extra glare. The Marine moves to the other side of the gate room.
He turns back to Sam, and suddenly realizes she isn't suited up.
"You're not coming?"
She looks frustrated, but shakes her head. "Not with both Sheppard and Lorne off-world, I can't."
Rodney has a sudden flash of relief that he didn't get her job.
There are no Jumpers available to send on the rescue mission, all on M4Y-731 already save for one under repair. Rodney wants nothing more than to head straight through the gate anyway, but Sam orders a MALP through first. He hovers impatiently over the display waiting for it to send information back.
The MALP doesn't tell them anything initially as it trundles through. A gloomy day, tall grass and long shadows that might be trees.
Sam nods at everyone assembled and signals them to move out.
Rodney turns away from the display and heads towards the gate, fixing his headgear in place as he walks. He's halfway across the room when there's the sound of a shot, explosions, and when he turns he can see the reflected glare from the screen on Sam's face. Then silence. The MALP is dead.
"Be careful," Sam orders.
Everyone's faces become that little bit grimmer, and the Marines on point surge forward, weapons ready.
* * * * * * *
The first thing Rodney notices is the silence. No birds, barely any breeze. The rest of the team are all quiet, looking around warily, Marines in a protective circle. Rodney hurries over to the MALP and examines it. It's been shot at, multiple times. By human weapons.
He stands up. No answers here, just more questions.
Ronon puts a hand on Rodney's arm. He points towards the trees. There's a thin coil of smoke, barely darker than the gray of the sky.
They head in that direction. There are patches of trampled grass and as they get closer to the wood, there are scorch marks on a fallen log. They circle it at a distance despite the protection of the suits - no doubt Rodney's heat activated chemical theory has gotten spread around already.
They're nearly at the cover of the woods when the gunfire starts up, first shot in front of them, then answering fire behind. P-90s, both lots of fire -- Rodney's heard the sound often enough to recognize it even without the looks of dismay all around him. Their own people, shooting at them or at each other, Rodney doesn't know which. Both are bad.
"Down, everyone down," Teyla shouts, and Ronon's pushing Rodney down. Too hard, and Rodney grunts as his head hits the ground.
And then he's off-balance, not sure where he is, and everything feels wrong, his head spinning and the whole world spinning until he finally opens his eyes to the heat of a desert sun, the unmistakable stickiness of blood on his hands and searing pain.
He's under fire, and he gave his weapon away -- he remembers that, but he doesn't remember why, and it makes no sense. Why would he give his weapon away? He can hear his men behind him, calling his name, so he crawls towards them, low to the ground, ignoring the spike of pain the movement causes.
"It's an ambush, Sir," Sgt. Langrest calls out, and throws him a weapon.
Sheppard lifts it and fires.
* * * * * * *
“John! Stop it!”
John sits bolt upright, breathing hard, wild-eyed. Rodney squints across at him, barely awake and fiercely unhappy about it. He really wants nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep, but John looks like he’s about to have a coronary, and John’s fidgeting even worse now that he’s awake. That seems unfair.
It takes a moment for Rodney to work his leg around in the sleeping bag enough to kick his toe against John’s shin. John proceeds to nearly jump out of his skin, cursing and focusing on Rodney with huge, wide eyes.
Rodney raises his eyebrows, not impressed, and grumbles, “What? Did we feed you after midnight, or something?” Maybe he should be more patient, but it’s been a long day. Hell, it’s been a long mission, tramping around this planet running errands in the hope that it might get them a ZedPM and, the icing on the cake, sleeping outside every damn night. John screaming like a little girl in his sleep is the last thing Rodney feels like dealing with right now. They should have made John sleep with Lorne’s team.
Beside him, John shifts around, sitting up and rubbing both his hands over his face. His voice is gravelly when he says, “I dreamed I was you dreaming you were me.” He laughs on the end of the words, shaking his head a little and rubbing a hand around the back of his neck. “There was other stuff too.” For a second John stares off into space, before shaking his head hard and snorting softly, “A lot of other stuff. It was…confusing.” John blinks, scrunching his nose up, “Dave was there.”
Rodney blinks at John, looks across at the still blissfully sleeping Ronon and Teyla, at Lorne’s happily snoozing team, down at his own pillow. He says, carefully, “Uh, okay,” because as far as he’s aware, sitting around and talking about your dreams is more of a slumber party pastime than anything else.
John doesn’t appear to notice or care that he’s turned into a thirteen-year-old girl; he blows out a hard breath and mumbles, “Yeah,” before reaching down into his sleeping bag to draw his side-arm, checking it and then holstering it again, rubbing a hand up over his face one more time.
Then John is skipping subjects completely, nodding in the general direction of Rodney’s chest and asking, “How’s the -- you know? Where I?” And it’s a good thing that Rodney has years of experience decoding John’s particular brand of talking in circles.
Rodney grumbles, as he lowers himself back down to his sleeping bag, “It’s great. I’m counting on the scar as all the cred I’ll need if I ever decide to get started on my rap career.”
John snorts, settling down himself, and managing to make a hellacious amount of noise as he does. Next time, Rodney is making Ronon sleep beside John. At least Teyla only snores when she sleeps on her side.
When John speaks again, his voice is already thickening up with sleep, “Oh, hey, the fire is still burning.” Rodney just rolls his eyes, and rolls onto his side. This mission is obviously never going to be over, no matter how many times he wishes for it to be.
Beside him, John’s breathing is going slow and easy again, and Rodney shifts around in his sleeping bag, feeling like there’s something he needs to do and not quite knowing what. Finally, he sighs heavily, and kicks at John’s leg again, waiting until John mumbles something sleepily at him to say, “Hey, sleep well, okay?”
John makes a small, humming sound, and pats just once at Rodney’s hip.
He doesn’t have another nightmare.
Click on thumb
Authors:
Artists:
R1: clear_as_blood
R2: beet
R3: thisissirius
R4: No round 4 as ola_sw went awol. :(
Pairing: None (some one-sided John/Rodney)
Rating: PG
Plot: John's mind is a jumbled mess at the best of times, and, on Atlantis, it's rarely the best of times. He tries to keep track of everything that's thrown at him while things spiral completely out of his control.
Authors: aesc, darkmoore, oxoniensis and sardonicsmiley.
Artists: clear_as_blood, beet, and thisissirius.
What Dreams
John? John!
His brother shouting wakes him from a dream of -- of -- warm, he thinks. His body is a complication of tension and relaxation, anticipation buzzing in his stomach and along his thighs, but his bones don't want to do anything except sprawl in bed and stare up at the ceiling and try to figure his body out. Fingers trailing along his side raise goosebumps; when he turns his head, surprise, there's no one there, just blankets and sheets kicked over to the side of the bed.
For a moment, his mind steps aside and he's not quite there, his body belonging to someone else, not quite him, but the moment passes.
"Come on, dork." Dave's voice has come closer, somewhere down the hall. "Dad's in the car and he's going all copasetic."
"Copasetic doesn't mean that, moron." He blinks at his voice, his own voice that, like his body, doesn't belong to him. Despite wanting to just lie there, he pulls himself up; his head swims a moment, blood spinning away southward and his vision is grey-going-black at the edges.
Dave hollers for him again, and he gets himself together enough to swing his legs over the side of the bed. His toes have hair on them, and he can see practically every bone in his feet, and these are strange things to notice after... thirteen? Thirteen years of mid-digital hair and being told he's too skinny. Standing up turns into another exercise in idiosyncrasy, his legs long and awkward and not really wanting to shuffle into formal black slacks, his elbows catching pointily in the sleeves of his dress shirt.
Before he steps out, he glances around his room once more, familiar posters and airplane models, yesterday's clothes on the floor and one picture turned face-down on top of his dresser. Impulsively he goes to right it, and a woman with dark hair smiles out at him from her frame, although she's looking more down and to the side, as if shy of being photographed.
"Johnnnnnnn!" Dave's voice spikes upward on a whine.
"Hold your horses, geez," he mutters, walking out of his room and trying to manage his tie. He should know how by now, because of school and wearing ties and blazers Monday through Thursday, but his fingers have forgotten.
Dave's vanished, or maybe his annoying voice just seems loud, because he can't see Dave anywhere, the halls empty except for expensive furniture he half-remembers and his footsteps, family pictures on those walls not occupied by gigantic paintings. Maybe Dave's already outside; the downstairs echoes, tile with only statues and vases to soak up the click of his dress shoes, discarded napkins and cocktail plates and wineglasses the maid hasn't cleaned up yet, the curious desolation after a party. Empty, gaping and hugely empty, that's the house, dark despite the gigantic French doors that open out onto the stables and lawns.
He'd skipped out early last night because… because he'd been really pissed off. Anger flickers somewhere amid his uncertainty, lacing through the odd conviction that something is about to happen, except he can't remember precisely what.
The wooden door protests being opened, creaking on its hinges, all of its weight going into staying shut. He hauls at it anyway and a sliver of light spills across the tile, blazing and blinding even though he's pretty sure it's supposed to be early, and outside the light throws everything into stark relief - each blade of grass, the bark of the trees, the gravel paving the empty driveway.
Confused, he looks around. No way would his dad and Dave just leave, and he never heard the car drive off. Halfhearted birdsong transforms the silence into something oppressive, weighing as heavily as the light on his shoulders. Squinting, he looks up toward the barn and the horses there, back down the driveway.
The light's everywhere, bleaching out the sky, and it presses down on the world, on him, almost a sickness, and his head starts spinning again as he looks.
"Dad? Dave?" His voice falls away from him into the deafening nothingness, and he swallows. He's going to be late for - for - his mother - no, he's pretty sure she's still alive, he'd remember her dying. It's a dream, he decides, except each drop of sweat traces a distinct trail down his face and his breath tightens in his chest, all his body pulling at him to remind him of its presence.
He tries to call for his father again, walking down the driveway as he does. The walk quickens to a jog and then he's running with his heart racketing in his ears, faster and faster because he can't be late, he can catch them, Dad, wait!, and he loses his jacket, his tie, gravel dust all up his knees.
At the end of the drive a gigantic stone archway looms, rough-carved, symbols marking it all over. He knows what they mean, he's seen them before, but never here.
"Dad!" he shouts with his last breath, and stumbles through the arch.
* * * * * * *
Rodney McKay wakes up, heart in his throat and a strange taste in his mouth. He presses one hand to his chest, to make sure his heart goes back to where it's supposed to be; the other hand to the nearest solid thing to ground him.
'Well, if that wasn't the strangest out-of-body-experience ever, then I don't know what was', he thinks, trying to get his breathing under control. It's still early -- just after 4 am -- but Rodney knows he won't be able to go back to sleep. He sighs, deciding a hot shower can't hurt and might get the strange chill of loss out of his bones that the dream has brought with it. Rodney usually doesn't remember his dreams with this clarity, let alone dream himself into someone else's teenage body, and he has to admit, the feeling is more than slightly disturbing. He wonders briefly if John's childhood home really looks like he has envisioned it in the dream; he gives his subconscious bonus points for creativity, since he's never seen the actual thing.
Rodney strips, stepping under the hot spray of the shower, enjoying the way it soothes his frazzled nerves and washes away the cold sweat of panic. But when he reaches for the unscented shower gel and begins to soap himself, a tactile memory springs to life, foreign and unbidden. Fingers trailing along his side, raising goosebumps even though there is nothing there but blanket and sheets. God how he hates the lingering after-effects of dreams.
The mess hall is next. He needs coffee if he wants to get any work done today. To his surprise, John is sitting at one of the tables, the room empty save for him and a young woman. She's in the chair right across from John, but gets up hastily when Rodney approaches, looking guilty. It reminds him of the way most of his scientists look after he's yelled at them for stupidity. Rodney looks after her retreating figure for a moment but can't remember her name, Dr. Jones...Johnston…Jonaston maybe. Soft sciences for sure. Botanist or something. Doesn't really matter anyway. Somehow he knows she's just crawled out of Sheppard's bed -- and that has nothing to do with the way she's just hurriedly left. He gets that reaction from his scientists all the time -- the whole fleeing when he approaches thing. Rodney figures it's part of his charming personality. Not that it matters anyway. Rodney is glad she's gone and won't try to talk to him before he's had any coffee. John doesn't seem to mind her departure much, either, if the way he's slouched in his chair, looking tired and drawn, is anything to go by.
Maybe she didn't give him such a good time after all, Rodney thinks, but then catches himself, resolutely stomping down on the jealousy that rises in his chest. It would be a very, very bad idea to let John see even the tiniest bit of what Rodney feels for him. Rodney forces himself to act like he would on any other day, ignoring the lingering feeling of uneasiness in his gut. Dreaming of being in John's body has done strange things to him. With a gesture that signals that he'll join John in a minute, Rodney makes his way to pick up his food and coffee.
After getting some donuts, Powerbars and a big mug of coffee, Rodney sits down opposite John, taking his measure of him. His hair is as gravity-defying as ever and the tight back t-shirt and dark grey BDUs he's wearing are nothing but his usual attire. There really is nothing about him that would explain why Rodney can't seem to take his eyes off him or why he's feeling a strange sort of…connection to him. John lifts his cup and takes a sip of his coffee, throat working, and Rodney stares, his own mouth going dry. What the hell? Since when does he get all hot and bothered just by watching John drink? If this goes on, he'll never be able to hide his feelings, no matter how hard he tries. Then John tips his cup again and Rodney's focus shifts from his throat to the mug, mesmerized by the way John's long fingers curl around it. Another memory from his dream comes to life, along with the peculiar feeling of somehow being in the wrong body. Unable to take his eyes off the dusting of hair on the back of John's fingers, Rodney desperately tries to get himself under control. Maybe it's the unusual dream, a dream that scares him yet makes him feel so close to John; maybe it's just the sleep deprivation, but today his reaction to John's presence is so much worse than on other days.
"You're up early," John finally says, green eyes tired but curious.
"Yeah, didn't sleep too well. I figured that I might as well get a headstart on the simulations I want to run. You know…" Rodney breaks off when he realizes that John isn't really listening, but staring absentmindedly into his coffee. "And what about you, Sheppard? Fell out of bed? Or do you have something 'special' to do today that you're up this early?" Rodney knows his voice is sharp and sarcastic and he enjoys the way John flinches slightly at his question.
"Nah, just not tired any more. Thought I'd get up and get some coffee. Lorne and I are gonna take the two new gate-teams to M4Y-731 for a little training, later today. You know, simulate some situations, play through a few scenarios, that kind of thing. None of them were part of an SG team before and it's a good way to get some team building going. I need them to rely on each other. I really don't want those teams to end up the way Henrikson's team did last week. We've already organized for some Marines to go there a few hours before us, taking the roles of refugees, hostile villagers or Wraith. Do some role-playing. Gonna be a lot of fun." John grins the smug little grin that always manages to make Rodney's insides flip.
Enough is enough, Rodney decides. He really can't take this kind of emotional upheaval today. "Good, good. You have fun torturing your grunts, but make sure to leave my scientists in one piece. Even though they're morons, I'd rather not have to go and search for new ones. It's annoying." Rodney stuffs the remaining Powerbars into the pockets of his pants before getting up to put his tray away.
"I'll try to not break them, McKay," John replies, a grin appearing on his face.
Rodney decides this comment doesn't deserve a reply.
* * * * * * *
"We're going down!" Sgt. Langrest's voice, controlled but with an underlying edge of panic, makes John's heart beat faster. His sight is blurry and his fingers don't seem to obey him like they should. His whole body feels strange - somehow off and the landscape he can see through the Jumper's window changes from grass, trees and a deserted village to sand-dunes and an endless desert. How did he get here? Why is he in the Jumper? John knows he wasn't the one to fly it. And what's wrong with the pilot? Dr…Dr…something. He can't remember. His brain is foggy, as if his head is stuffed with cotton wool, but John knows it's important to remember. He needs to recall what he came to do in here in the first place.
The room around him begins to spin and John stumbles, closing his eyes for a moment. He feels nauseated and completely off balance as he looks around the old Russian helicopter and frowns. Helicopter? Wasn't he somewhere else just a second ago? John is sure he's missing something important here, but he can't for the life of him remember, what. His thoughts seem to get more and more hazy by the minute, but John is determined to get out and see to Captain Holland, who has to be somewhere around here. John looks down at himself, surprised to see a black tac vest and dark gray BDUs instead of the sand colored ones he expected. Huh? What's going on here?
He manages to take a few steps forward, eying his surroundings suspiciously. He knows there are Taliban in this area and he really needs to find Holland, soon. Suddenly Lorne steps into his field of vision, and for a moment John is puzzled as to what he's doing here. Shouldn't he be in…well, somewhere else? It's hard to concentrate through the throbbing pain that suddenly starts to pound behind his forehead; the blood rushing in his ears makes it hard to focus on what Lorne is saying.
Fragments of words that make no sense penetrate the white noise, but all John really wants to do is to give in to the whisper of the Jumper at the back of his mind, soothing and so much stronger than he's used to. He stumbles, his body still unfamiliar and just plain wrong. The height is off, the feel of his muscles, too, and the blinding pain that is splitting his skull is almost unbearable by now.
Lorne's hand comes to rest on John's elbow, squeezing, demanding his attention, and John does his very best to follow what he's saying while around him the landscape keeps changing. "Colonel Sheppard, are you alright, sir? What happened to you? Your head is bleeding. Did you find the others? How badly are they injured? Sir? Sir? John?"
John blinks. Others? What others? There's only Holland, isn't there? "I'm fine. Small arms fire hit my tail rotor. So I went to look after Captain Holland. He's hurt. Where's your…helicopter?" Even as John asks the question he knows something isn't quite right. Helicopter. Helicopter? It feels wrong on his tongue and John frowns again, deciding that he doesn't have the time to figure this one out right now.
"Sir?" Lorne's voice sounds strained now and the grip on John's arm tightens. "Sir, I think you should sit down. Dr. Louis thinks the logs the team you supervised used to build the fires were drenched in some sort of drug. People are having hallucinations left and right and you seem to be effected, too. The group I was with is all right, but I don't have enough men to see to the wounded and keep people from harming themselves or others. I'll send someone to look at your head-wound and help here, but I need to go back to Davies. I put him in charge of getting the other team out of the Jumper. Sgt. Langrest lost control and they crashed, just like Dr. Kiono. That's one of the men you wanted to check up on, remember? He's the one who was flying that Jumper that's right behind you. Sir, do you understand what I'm saying? Will you be all right? Can I leave you alone for a moment?"
"Lorne, the place is crawling with Taliban, I don't think you should go out there right now," John replies, ignoring Lorne's talk of hallucinations until the meaning of Lorne's words sinks in. Hallucinations. Oh, please, not again. The memory of what happened the last time he hallucinated about Holland is sharp and sudden. Rodney. He shot Rodney, almost killed him. The pain at the thought of Rodney dying is so overwhelming, so all-encompassing it even overpowers the throbbing, stinging pain in his head. He can't lose Rodney. He just can't. He doesn't know what he'd do if Rodney died.
"Hallucination?" John asks weakly. He feels even more disoriented than before with Lorne his only anchor point in the constantly changing surroundings. He hates that it's always this scenario, always Holland, the desert, the destroyed helicopters. It's never anything else; not in his hallucinations, not in his ever-recurring nightmares. Just Holland and the helpless feeling of not being able to save him. "I'm…um…gonna stay here," John finally says, dazed. "You should…take my gun. I might be a danger if I mistake one of our men for a Taliban again." John fumbles a moment with the holster, hands uncoordinated and slow, before he manages to hand over his handgun to his 2CO.
Lorne accepts the weapon and nods sharply. "All right, sir. Just…sit down and relax. Don't go anywhere. I'll send someone to the gate to dial Atlantis. We need backup with hazmat suits and a medical team. Sir, do you understand me? Just…just sit tight, all right?" Then he runs off. John thinks that maybe he should have made it an order for Lorne to stay, but then he remembers it's not real. Right. Hallucinations. Not real. No Taliban. The dizziness comes back full force and John decides sitting down might be a good idea after all. He lowers himself onto the open ramp of the Jumper, willing the world around him to stop spinning. A sharp pain rushes through his head and for a moment he glimpses the strange stone archway again. The one that looks like a rougher version of the…the Stargate? But it doesn't belong there. It's wrong, all wrong. Pulling together his last strength, John gets up and walks towards the arch as his world explodes into blinding white light.
* * * * * * *
Rodney startles awake, his heart racing, body drenched in cold sweat. He rubs his face, feeling imprints of the keyboard he'd fallen asleep on beneath his fingers as he does so. He's trying to get rid of the cobwebs of his…dream. Only it wasn't a dream. It was…what exactly? It had held the same strange out-of-body quality as the dream from the night before, only it hadn't felt as much like a dream as…real. Like... like it was happening right now. He'd seen the archway again; the archway their team had walked though on yesterday's mission. But the planet was someplace else, he's sure. It had looked more like…like…
Realization hits like a bucket of ice-water, and Rodney jumps out of his chair, running towards Sam's office. John and the others are in danger, he just knows it. Somehow, during their last mission, John and he must have switched something on, touched something, built a connection. Because Rodney suddenly knows with absolute clarity that what he's seen is no dream at all, but a look through John Sheppard's eyes.
* * * * * * *
To her credit, Sam doesn't waste time asking if he's sure, or telling him it's impossible, or any of the other ridiculous things certain people Rodney won't name might have said or asked.
"What exactly did you see?" is her first question.
"It was confusing," Rodney starts. An understatement. "I was stumbling around, injured, a head injury I think, and everything kept changing, from a grassy plain to a desert and back again, and Lorne was there which is how I knew the desert wasn't real, it was a hallucination. Except of course it wasn't my hallucination, it was Sheppard's, I was just seeing it, everything he was seeing. And then everything exploded and I woke up and --" Rodney can't finish that sentence.
Rodney knows he's babbling, and he knows why. It's Sheppard. Sheppard's out there, injured and confused or worse, and Rodney has no idea what happened when he woke up, what made him wake up, whether the explosion was part of the hallucination, or if something really happened to cut this connection between them and wake Rodney up.
He doesn't know if Sheppard is unconscious.
Or if he's dead.
He's concerned about everyone, obviously. He might forget their names, or ignore them, or shout at them when they're idiots -- which is most of the time -- it doesn't mean he doesn't care. But it's Sheppard in danger, and that's the worst thing, that's what makes him stutter and stammer until Sam's shouting his name and he realizes he's spaced out or maybe muttering to himself. Not helping. He needs to hold it together.
"Okay, Rodney, just calm down," she says, and he nods his head at her to show her he's understood because he doesn't entirely trust his voice right now. He paces around her office, frustrated with the way the details of the not-dream are fading already when he needs to remember as much as possible so they can go in prepared.
"Every team going there will need a hazmat suit," he tells her. "Lorne said something about hallucinogens on the firewood -- everyone handling it was effected."
He pinches the bridge of his nose -- he's getting a headache, the sort that throbs behind his eyes and makes lights uncomfortable. The lights in Sam's office are glaring, far too bright, and Rodney wonders how strong this connection is. He's feeling dizzy too, and the room is too warm, and --
"Rodney?" Sam asks quietly. She sounds concerned.
"I'm fine," he says. "I just, this connection --" He hesitates. If he tells Sam how he's feeling, he isn't going to be on the team sent to M4Y-731 and he has to go. Even if he's effected, it has to be to far less an extent than Sheppard, so he can just pull himself together and hold it off. "We've got to get moving," he says.
Sam nods. "When you get back, we're going to have to work out what's caused this connection between the two of you."
Rodney just hopes they both come back.
* * * * * * *
Rodney hadn't been on the team that scouted out the planet originally, and he'd shoved the report at the bottom of the pile of reports he considered a waste of his time, so he speed-reads through it now while he waits in the gate room, ignoring the pounding in his head. He notes the bullet points. Bare of any type of life forms higher than small mammals. Signs of past life, but nothing more than ruined villages left. Likely culled by the Wraith. Nothing interesting enough to warrant further research. Designated suitable for training purposes.
Ronon paces the room impatiently while Rodney reads, but Teyla comes and stands beside him, the head covering of the hazmat suit under her arm. He expects her to have some words of reassurance, but all she says is, "I hope--" which tails off into nothing. Rodney just nods. He knows what she means.
"The hallucinogens," he begins as soon as Sam appears in the gate room. "There are two possibilities."
She interrupts. "Either they're a natural part of the tree's defense mechanism, or--"
"Or there are hostiles, not native to the planet. Probably gated in as we'd have seen signs of a ship."
"In which case what you saw was likely just the first wave of an attack."
Rodney likes working with someone on the same wavelength as him, even if she does have a tendency to steal his thunder. Saves wasting time explaining things.
"It might be heat activated," he theorizes. "If it's a natural chemical. Something in the sap." They're just waiting for the medics to arrive now, so he runs through possibilities.
"But why?" It's one of the Marines, one Rodney doesn't recognize.
Rodney glares at her. "Do I look like a botanist to you?" The Marine opens her mouth as though she's about to answer. Rodney forestalls her. "That was a rhetorical question. Meaning you don't have to answer it," he adds with an extra glare. The Marine moves to the other side of the gate room.
He turns back to Sam, and suddenly realizes she isn't suited up.
"You're not coming?"
She looks frustrated, but shakes her head. "Not with both Sheppard and Lorne off-world, I can't."
Rodney has a sudden flash of relief that he didn't get her job.
There are no Jumpers available to send on the rescue mission, all on M4Y-731 already save for one under repair. Rodney wants nothing more than to head straight through the gate anyway, but Sam orders a MALP through first. He hovers impatiently over the display waiting for it to send information back.
The MALP doesn't tell them anything initially as it trundles through. A gloomy day, tall grass and long shadows that might be trees.
Sam nods at everyone assembled and signals them to move out.
Rodney turns away from the display and heads towards the gate, fixing his headgear in place as he walks. He's halfway across the room when there's the sound of a shot, explosions, and when he turns he can see the reflected glare from the screen on Sam's face. Then silence. The MALP is dead.
"Be careful," Sam orders.
Everyone's faces become that little bit grimmer, and the Marines on point surge forward, weapons ready.
* * * * * * *
The first thing Rodney notices is the silence. No birds, barely any breeze. The rest of the team are all quiet, looking around warily, Marines in a protective circle. Rodney hurries over to the MALP and examines it. It's been shot at, multiple times. By human weapons.
He stands up. No answers here, just more questions.
Ronon puts a hand on Rodney's arm. He points towards the trees. There's a thin coil of smoke, barely darker than the gray of the sky.
They head in that direction. There are patches of trampled grass and as they get closer to the wood, there are scorch marks on a fallen log. They circle it at a distance despite the protection of the suits - no doubt Rodney's heat activated chemical theory has gotten spread around already.
They're nearly at the cover of the woods when the gunfire starts up, first shot in front of them, then answering fire behind. P-90s, both lots of fire -- Rodney's heard the sound often enough to recognize it even without the looks of dismay all around him. Their own people, shooting at them or at each other, Rodney doesn't know which. Both are bad.
"Down, everyone down," Teyla shouts, and Ronon's pushing Rodney down. Too hard, and Rodney grunts as his head hits the ground.
And then he's off-balance, not sure where he is, and everything feels wrong, his head spinning and the whole world spinning until he finally opens his eyes to the heat of a desert sun, the unmistakable stickiness of blood on his hands and searing pain.
He's under fire, and he gave his weapon away -- he remembers that, but he doesn't remember why, and it makes no sense. Why would he give his weapon away? He can hear his men behind him, calling his name, so he crawls towards them, low to the ground, ignoring the spike of pain the movement causes.
"It's an ambush, Sir," Sgt. Langrest calls out, and throws him a weapon.
Sheppard lifts it and fires.
* * * * * * *
“John! Stop it!”
John sits bolt upright, breathing hard, wild-eyed. Rodney squints across at him, barely awake and fiercely unhappy about it. He really wants nothing more than to roll over and go back to sleep, but John looks like he’s about to have a coronary, and John’s fidgeting even worse now that he’s awake. That seems unfair.
It takes a moment for Rodney to work his leg around in the sleeping bag enough to kick his toe against John’s shin. John proceeds to nearly jump out of his skin, cursing and focusing on Rodney with huge, wide eyes.
Rodney raises his eyebrows, not impressed, and grumbles, “What? Did we feed you after midnight, or something?” Maybe he should be more patient, but it’s been a long day. Hell, it’s been a long mission, tramping around this planet running errands in the hope that it might get them a ZedPM and, the icing on the cake, sleeping outside every damn night. John screaming like a little girl in his sleep is the last thing Rodney feels like dealing with right now. They should have made John sleep with Lorne’s team.
Beside him, John shifts around, sitting up and rubbing both his hands over his face. His voice is gravelly when he says, “I dreamed I was you dreaming you were me.” He laughs on the end of the words, shaking his head a little and rubbing a hand around the back of his neck. “There was other stuff too.” For a second John stares off into space, before shaking his head hard and snorting softly, “A lot of other stuff. It was…confusing.” John blinks, scrunching his nose up, “Dave was there.”
Rodney blinks at John, looks across at the still blissfully sleeping Ronon and Teyla, at Lorne’s happily snoozing team, down at his own pillow. He says, carefully, “Uh, okay,” because as far as he’s aware, sitting around and talking about your dreams is more of a slumber party pastime than anything else.
John doesn’t appear to notice or care that he’s turned into a thirteen-year-old girl; he blows out a hard breath and mumbles, “Yeah,” before reaching down into his sleeping bag to draw his side-arm, checking it and then holstering it again, rubbing a hand up over his face one more time.
Then John is skipping subjects completely, nodding in the general direction of Rodney’s chest and asking, “How’s the -- you know? Where I?” And it’s a good thing that Rodney has years of experience decoding John’s particular brand of talking in circles.
Rodney grumbles, as he lowers himself back down to his sleeping bag, “It’s great. I’m counting on the scar as all the cred I’ll need if I ever decide to get started on my rap career.”
John snorts, settling down himself, and managing to make a hellacious amount of noise as he does. Next time, Rodney is making Ronon sleep beside John. At least Teyla only snores when she sleeps on her side.
When John speaks again, his voice is already thickening up with sleep, “Oh, hey, the fire is still burning.” Rodney just rolls his eyes, and rolls onto his side. This mission is obviously never going to be over, no matter how many times he wishes for it to be.
Beside him, John’s breathing is going slow and easy again, and Rodney shifts around in his sleeping bag, feeling like there’s something he needs to do and not quite knowing what. Finally, he sighs heavily, and kicks at John’s leg again, waiting until John mumbles something sleepily at him to say, “Hey, sleep well, okay?”
John makes a small, humming sound, and pats just once at Rodney’s hip.
He doesn’t have another nightmare.
Click on thumb
Authors:
- Round 1 - aesc : "John? John! [...] solid thing to ground him."
- Round 2 - darkmoore : "'Well, if that wasn't the strangest [...] through John Sheppard's eyes."
- Round 3 - oxoniensis : "To her credit, Sam doesn't waste [...] Sheppard lifts it and fires."
- Round 4 - sardonicsmiley : "'John! Stop it!' [...] He doesn’t have another nightmare."
Artists:
R1: clear_as_blood
R2: beet
R3: thisissirius
R4: No round 4 as ola_sw went awol. :(