SGA Fic - Blue Danube
Title: Blue Danube
Rating: PG
Characters: Sheppard, some McKay
Summary: "John was four, maybe five, when he first remembered going to the ocean." Written for artword, color challenge. Big thanks to karri_kln1671 for the beta.
Art: Blue by kilograph.
Blue Danube
John was four, maybe five, when he first remembered going to the ocean. Not his first visit - it had been an annual tradition since before he was born - but it might as well have been with no other memories to go by. And it was a pretty clear picture for a kid of four: rolling waves folding in on themselves, swallowed into crests of glittering foam; soft sand that sank to the ankles; seagulls that would snatch food from your hand if you gave them half a chance; his father - young and slender, in blue swim trunks; his mother, dark haired and wearing a black and white bathing suit; David, a year old and barely able to stand; all four of them building a sand castle (John building, David being a pain in the ass and destroying it).
There'd been other boys, older and stronger and more daring, cutting through the waves all the way to a pale stretch of coral reef in the distance. John had wanted to do that, to be like those boys. Dad had scowled about it, but mom...
Mom had always been a free spirit in a practical kind of way. She never discouraged, she urged caution and procrastination until the time was right. Before you could run, you had to first walk. Before you conquered the ocean, you had to learn how to swim. That was the day John had started his lessons, in the kiddie pool of a local resort.
John jiggled his leg in pent up impatience, crunching the sand that had ridden up the 'jumper's ramp on a salty breeze. He was sitting just within the shade of the 'jumper and still felt the sun's heat soak into his dark BDUs, coaxing sweat from his skin. It slithered down the indent of his spine creating a vague itch too small to scratch but not so small he could completely ignore it. He had to wear his sunglasses just to look at the ocean, flashing sapphire and invitingly cool.
It had also been a bunch of older boys that had piqued his interest in surfing. Dad definitely hadn't been happy about that. Nothing displeased the old man more than pursuits in activities that had the potential to kill the future heir of the Sheppard empire. It was a miracle he hadn't locked John in a concrete bunker when John had expressed an interest in flying. It was a bigger miracle he hadn't suffered an aneurysm when John had expressed an interest in the Air Force.
But for entirely different reasons, because Patrick Sheppard had come to disdain whatever veered his son from the path he'd chosen for him. Unfortunately for dad, humans weren't meant to live on a leash. You don't force someone to do what they don't want to do. It came with consequences - general rebellion, or ending up on a beach, waiting for rescue. John hadn't wanted to go, had better things, more important things to do than pick up a bunch of biologists deep in the mainland. So Carter had made it an order.
And was no doubt ordering someone to go pick up John.
John checked his watch. A whopping fifteen minutes had passed since he'd sent the distress call, and this mainland was a hell of a lot farther away than the last mainland. He pushed up and away from his seat, into the sand, dragging his feet to form trenches around the 'jumper. He wasn't being petulant, he was just that anxious to bleed off the energy that was making him hyper aware of every nerve ending he had. He'd been jittery before, being forced on this milk run. Now he felt capable of jumping out of his own skin.
Carter had thought he needed a break. That's what this was - a break, a little respite before he went back on the hunt; because picking up biologists who would doubtless be too enthralled in some damn weed to come when John called was so much more relaxing than a quick nap. But then he supposed Carter had caught on to the fact that the naps weren't doing squat. John had seen himself in the mirror, all angles and hollows and bags under his eyes - he wasn't fooling anyone.
John checked his watch. Four minutes gone. He contemplated briefly searching out the biologists on foot, pass the time, shed more of that energy that seemed to resurrect itself. Except they were still twenty minutes out by 'jumper and John didn't need to convert the time to know it would be one hell of a trek on foot. He returned to the 'jumper's interior instead, back to the open panel that hadn't offered any answers. He wasn't McKay and wished the lying bastard was here. McKay had promised to do maintenance on the 'jumper, said that he'd get right on it.
So, technically, this was all McKay's fault. Not Carter's.
A small part of him whispered timidly that he was being unfair. It hadn't been that long ago they'd found Carson - sort-of - only to discover that he might die. So it wasn't that long ago they'd put him in stasis, alive but not there, as though they'd never found him at all. And there was no way that didn't make for one massive distraction; John more often than not found McKay parked in front of the chamber, typing as he talked to a man that couldn't hear him.
John pulled crystals, checking each one closer than the last time, then putting them back. So this was 's fault: coming back from the dead just to go away again. So many people were gone - Carson, , the Athosians... his own dad... now Teyla. And just when they thought they were getting one back...
The timid voice whispered that John was being unfair again. couldn't help what happened to him, what may happen to him again. No matter how much the prospect of losing someone a second time hurt, John wouldn't let himself be an ass and place the blame on Beckett.
Shifting position over to the console, John moved aside the panel knocked free on impact (thankfully the only thing knocked free. John had bumps and bruises but an angled landing at the last minute on soft sand had spared him from worse). He crouched and rummaged through bundles of wires glossy as metallic innards.
Michael. John could sure as hell blame Michael: for bringing back, for creating the potential for to die, for distracting McKay.
For taking Teyla, resulting in exhaustive searches and sleepless nights. For the perpetual ache in John's chest that made it hard to sleep, sometimes to eat, sometimes to breathe because they had lost so many already.
It was all Michael's fault. And all our fault for creating him.
John's finger slipped, landing on a live wire. Electric numb danced up the nerves of his arm, into his body all the way to his feet. His heart jumped and his body with it on a yelp. John stood, sucking on his burned fingers. He glared at the console and its exposed guts, narrowing all blame to its inability to stay functioning just a little longer. With a grunt, John kicked the panel. The panel flipped around clattering against the floor and the seat but remained upright, undented - smug little bastard.
John checked his watch and ground his teeth to see only another pathetic fifteen minutes had gone by. Another fifteen he was stuck here, away from the 'gate and another fifteen that could have dredged up results on Teyla's whereabouts if they'd just let him go back out there already. A quick nap, a bite to eat - that was all he needed. Sending him on a milk run wasn't a respite, it was damn torture.
Every fifteen minutes that passed was another fifteen Michael could be doing who the hell knew what to Teyla. She was out there, alone, waiting for them. Waiting to be found, rescued. Waiting to remember what it was like to be safe.
Waiting for her team.
John gave another cruel kick to the panel then stomped out, heart hammering fit to bruise. He'd taken off his shades to work on the panel and outside was glaring bright and hot. He squinted, raising his hand to shield his eyes as he stared in the general direction of the horizon, straining his eyes for that distant flash of an approaching 'jumper while sweat tickled his ribs and soaked both shirts.
Instead his gaze caught the pale scar of a coral reef. Not far, an easy enough distance to swim. John didn't think about it. He dropped himself to the ground, yanking off his boots. He stood, and while moving toward the surf, stripped off both shirts, letting them pool on the sand. Because he wasn't thinking, he left his BDU pants on, kicking through sapphire waves until he reached a part deep enough for him to dive.
The day John learned to swim was the day John also learned why the sea was blue. It reflected the sky, his father had told him, in the way adults will after growing impatient with their children's far-fetched explanations for everything. John had loved that explanation. It had made the sea and the sky one. It had made swimming like flying.
John opened his eyes, keeping his gaze straight, surrounding him in liquid sky. He pulled his arms forward, stretching his full length, then pulled them back, pushing his body forward. It wasn't the wild speed of a jet or the smooth flow of a chopper, but it was still like freedom. You could still go anywhere, everywhere - up and down instead of just left and right. When his lungs screamed for air, John arched up until his head broke the surface, gasped in air to the limit of how far his ribcage could expand, then went back under. He pushed his lungs' ability not to breathe until there was no demanding, only screaming. A distant pain that, cliché as it was to say, let him know just how much alive he was.
Then came the coral reef, sunset pinks and violets splashed on gray and blue rock, a rainbow array of alien fish spooked into a synchronized frenzy. John broke surface and pulled himself up on trembling arms. His whole body trembled with too much exertion on little oxygen. He sat, hunched over his drawn up legs, shivering and feeding his pissed-off lungs while a breeze cooled and dried his skin.
John smiled. It felt friggin' awesome; the good kind of exhaustion of a hard day's work, or something having been accomplished, even if it was utterly trivial. It had been so long since John had gone for a really good swim; cutting through waves and conquering the ocean. He looked back the way he had come and a distance covered that looked farther than he had anticipated.
He then looked to the horizon where sea became sky.
After a moment, when his lungs were satisfied and his muscles stopped trembling, John slipped back into the water. This time, he gave his body respite, his pace leisurely and his breaks for air more frequent. When his arms and legs couldn't take it any more, he rolled onto his back, floating lazily while he stared into the sky. Even then, when he eventually drifted to shore, he could barely stand. He stripped out of his BDUs - leaving his boxers on, just in case - and laid them out to dry. He wrapped in an emergency blanket, stretched out on the floor and fell asleep within seconds.
A garbled hail over the barely functioning comm woke him in time to dress before the arrival of two 'jumpers. McKay met John on approach, babbling a thousand apologies.
“I meant to check them, I did but...”
John clapped him on the shoulder. “Don't worry about it.” He continued on to the working 'jumper where one of Keller's medics checked him over. They weren't happy when John had to explain why his BDUs were a little moist, but John didn't care. He was too tired to care. Not wanting to hitch a ride home on a 'jumper full of - no doubt - biologists babbling excitedly over some weed (and not comfortable about leaving Rodney behind as he worked on the 'jumper, even with two marines present), he curled up on the 'jumper bench and dozed.
He wondered if his mom would be proud.
The End
Rating: PG
Characters: Sheppard, some McKay
Summary: "John was four, maybe five, when he first remembered going to the ocean." Written for artword, color challenge. Big thanks to karri_kln1671 for the beta.
Art: Blue by kilograph.
Blue Danube
John was four, maybe five, when he first remembered going to the ocean. Not his first visit - it had been an annual tradition since before he was born - but it might as well have been with no other memories to go by. And it was a pretty clear picture for a kid of four: rolling waves folding in on themselves, swallowed into crests of glittering foam; soft sand that sank to the ankles; seagulls that would snatch food from your hand if you gave them half a chance; his father - young and slender, in blue swim trunks; his mother, dark haired and wearing a black and white bathing suit; David, a year old and barely able to stand; all four of them building a sand castle (John building, David being a pain in the ass and destroying it).
There'd been other boys, older and stronger and more daring, cutting through the waves all the way to a pale stretch of coral reef in the distance. John had wanted to do that, to be like those boys. Dad had scowled about it, but mom...
Mom had always been a free spirit in a practical kind of way. She never discouraged, she urged caution and procrastination until the time was right. Before you could run, you had to first walk. Before you conquered the ocean, you had to learn how to swim. That was the day John had started his lessons, in the kiddie pool of a local resort.
John jiggled his leg in pent up impatience, crunching the sand that had ridden up the 'jumper's ramp on a salty breeze. He was sitting just within the shade of the 'jumper and still felt the sun's heat soak into his dark BDUs, coaxing sweat from his skin. It slithered down the indent of his spine creating a vague itch too small to scratch but not so small he could completely ignore it. He had to wear his sunglasses just to look at the ocean, flashing sapphire and invitingly cool.
It had also been a bunch of older boys that had piqued his interest in surfing. Dad definitely hadn't been happy about that. Nothing displeased the old man more than pursuits in activities that had the potential to kill the future heir of the Sheppard empire. It was a miracle he hadn't locked John in a concrete bunker when John had expressed an interest in flying. It was a bigger miracle he hadn't suffered an aneurysm when John had expressed an interest in the Air Force.
But for entirely different reasons, because Patrick Sheppard had come to disdain whatever veered his son from the path he'd chosen for him. Unfortunately for dad, humans weren't meant to live on a leash. You don't force someone to do what they don't want to do. It came with consequences - general rebellion, or ending up on a beach, waiting for rescue. John hadn't wanted to go, had better things, more important things to do than pick up a bunch of biologists deep in the mainland. So Carter had made it an order.
And was no doubt ordering someone to go pick up John.
John checked his watch. A whopping fifteen minutes had passed since he'd sent the distress call, and this mainland was a hell of a lot farther away than the last mainland. He pushed up and away from his seat, into the sand, dragging his feet to form trenches around the 'jumper. He wasn't being petulant, he was just that anxious to bleed off the energy that was making him hyper aware of every nerve ending he had. He'd been jittery before, being forced on this milk run. Now he felt capable of jumping out of his own skin.
Carter had thought he needed a break. That's what this was - a break, a little respite before he went back on the hunt; because picking up biologists who would doubtless be too enthralled in some damn weed to come when John called was so much more relaxing than a quick nap. But then he supposed Carter had caught on to the fact that the naps weren't doing squat. John had seen himself in the mirror, all angles and hollows and bags under his eyes - he wasn't fooling anyone.
John checked his watch. Four minutes gone. He contemplated briefly searching out the biologists on foot, pass the time, shed more of that energy that seemed to resurrect itself. Except they were still twenty minutes out by 'jumper and John didn't need to convert the time to know it would be one hell of a trek on foot. He returned to the 'jumper's interior instead, back to the open panel that hadn't offered any answers. He wasn't McKay and wished the lying bastard was here. McKay had promised to do maintenance on the 'jumper, said that he'd get right on it.
So, technically, this was all McKay's fault. Not Carter's.
A small part of him whispered timidly that he was being unfair. It hadn't been that long ago they'd found Carson - sort-of - only to discover that he might die. So it wasn't that long ago they'd put him in stasis, alive but not there, as though they'd never found him at all. And there was no way that didn't make for one massive distraction; John more often than not found McKay parked in front of the chamber, typing as he talked to a man that couldn't hear him.
John pulled crystals, checking each one closer than the last time, then putting them back. So this was 's fault: coming back from the dead just to go away again. So many people were gone - Carson, , the Athosians... his own dad... now Teyla. And just when they thought they were getting one back...
The timid voice whispered that John was being unfair again. couldn't help what happened to him, what may happen to him again. No matter how much the prospect of losing someone a second time hurt, John wouldn't let himself be an ass and place the blame on Beckett.
Shifting position over to the console, John moved aside the panel knocked free on impact (thankfully the only thing knocked free. John had bumps and bruises but an angled landing at the last minute on soft sand had spared him from worse). He crouched and rummaged through bundles of wires glossy as metallic innards.
Michael. John could sure as hell blame Michael: for bringing back, for creating the potential for to die, for distracting McKay.
For taking Teyla, resulting in exhaustive searches and sleepless nights. For the perpetual ache in John's chest that made it hard to sleep, sometimes to eat, sometimes to breathe because they had lost so many already.
It was all Michael's fault. And all our fault for creating him.
John's finger slipped, landing on a live wire. Electric numb danced up the nerves of his arm, into his body all the way to his feet. His heart jumped and his body with it on a yelp. John stood, sucking on his burned fingers. He glared at the console and its exposed guts, narrowing all blame to its inability to stay functioning just a little longer. With a grunt, John kicked the panel. The panel flipped around clattering against the floor and the seat but remained upright, undented - smug little bastard.
John checked his watch and ground his teeth to see only another pathetic fifteen minutes had gone by. Another fifteen he was stuck here, away from the 'gate and another fifteen that could have dredged up results on Teyla's whereabouts if they'd just let him go back out there already. A quick nap, a bite to eat - that was all he needed. Sending him on a milk run wasn't a respite, it was damn torture.
Every fifteen minutes that passed was another fifteen Michael could be doing who the hell knew what to Teyla. She was out there, alone, waiting for them. Waiting to be found, rescued. Waiting to remember what it was like to be safe.
Waiting for her team.
John gave another cruel kick to the panel then stomped out, heart hammering fit to bruise. He'd taken off his shades to work on the panel and outside was glaring bright and hot. He squinted, raising his hand to shield his eyes as he stared in the general direction of the horizon, straining his eyes for that distant flash of an approaching 'jumper while sweat tickled his ribs and soaked both shirts.
Instead his gaze caught the pale scar of a coral reef. Not far, an easy enough distance to swim. John didn't think about it. He dropped himself to the ground, yanking off his boots. He stood, and while moving toward the surf, stripped off both shirts, letting them pool on the sand. Because he wasn't thinking, he left his BDU pants on, kicking through sapphire waves until he reached a part deep enough for him to dive.
The day John learned to swim was the day John also learned why the sea was blue. It reflected the sky, his father had told him, in the way adults will after growing impatient with their children's far-fetched explanations for everything. John had loved that explanation. It had made the sea and the sky one. It had made swimming like flying.
John opened his eyes, keeping his gaze straight, surrounding him in liquid sky. He pulled his arms forward, stretching his full length, then pulled them back, pushing his body forward. It wasn't the wild speed of a jet or the smooth flow of a chopper, but it was still like freedom. You could still go anywhere, everywhere - up and down instead of just left and right. When his lungs screamed for air, John arched up until his head broke the surface, gasped in air to the limit of how far his ribcage could expand, then went back under. He pushed his lungs' ability not to breathe until there was no demanding, only screaming. A distant pain that, cliché as it was to say, let him know just how much alive he was.
Then came the coral reef, sunset pinks and violets splashed on gray and blue rock, a rainbow array of alien fish spooked into a synchronized frenzy. John broke surface and pulled himself up on trembling arms. His whole body trembled with too much exertion on little oxygen. He sat, hunched over his drawn up legs, shivering and feeding his pissed-off lungs while a breeze cooled and dried his skin.
John smiled. It felt friggin' awesome; the good kind of exhaustion of a hard day's work, or something having been accomplished, even if it was utterly trivial. It had been so long since John had gone for a really good swim; cutting through waves and conquering the ocean. He looked back the way he had come and a distance covered that looked farther than he had anticipated.
He then looked to the horizon where sea became sky.
After a moment, when his lungs were satisfied and his muscles stopped trembling, John slipped back into the water. This time, he gave his body respite, his pace leisurely and his breaks for air more frequent. When his arms and legs couldn't take it any more, he rolled onto his back, floating lazily while he stared into the sky. Even then, when he eventually drifted to shore, he could barely stand. He stripped out of his BDUs - leaving his boxers on, just in case - and laid them out to dry. He wrapped in an emergency blanket, stretched out on the floor and fell asleep within seconds.
A garbled hail over the barely functioning comm woke him in time to dress before the arrival of two 'jumpers. McKay met John on approach, babbling a thousand apologies.
“I meant to check them, I did but...”
John clapped him on the shoulder. “Don't worry about it.” He continued on to the working 'jumper where one of Keller's medics checked him over. They weren't happy when John had to explain why his BDUs were a little moist, but John didn't care. He was too tired to care. Not wanting to hitch a ride home on a 'jumper full of - no doubt - biologists babbling excitedly over some weed (and not comfortable about leaving Rodney behind as he worked on the 'jumper, even with two marines present), he curled up on the 'jumper bench and dozed.
He wondered if his mom would be proud.
The End