(no subject)
It's het! OMG! Apologies to my McShep friends (only I'm not really sorry...diversity is *good* for you) but this is a special case. Ho, ho, ho! (Also, it was *really* hard not to make this about Rodney *g*)
Title: War Zones
Fandom:: Stargate: Atlantis
Category: Weir/ Sheppard
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “you refuse to be surprised by the person you’ve become.”
Author’s notes: A very merry christmas to krazykitkat - she knows why. Hope you enjoy.
His name was Isaac. He was helping you move into your first apartment, carrying an open box up two flights of stairs and into a living space barely larger than your dorm room.
Isaac was a freelance journalist who traveled frequently, landing in war zones and villages afflicted with disease and disaster, armed only with a camera and a film crew. He told you, "dying for a cause is obsolete. The world doesn't have room for more martyrs. " You were wondering whether to put your desk next to the only window in the room so you could look down at the street while writing about the Baltic secessions and the UN status of dependent states.
You told Isaac you thought the cumulative effect of peaceful protest had a certain tragedy to it and you still think causes are worth dying for. You thought peace was worth dying for and that it's worth asking before demanding so maybe no one need die in the first place. It was 1989 - after the Libyan crisis and after glasnost - and with talk of disarmament you realised maybe you weren’t going to die in a nuclear holocaust after all.
Isaac placed the box on the floor. You have few belongings. You're not a hoarder and you’re not sentimental. You don't keep anything frivolous. You're on the opposite side of the country to the rest of your family and you think maybe you'll try Europe when you're looking for a summer project. It seems all your friends have gone to Geneva or the Hague and you find the idea of getting even further away from your roots appealing. Isaac will leave you in November for two months filming ghettos in Sao Paulo and Rio de Janeiro and you don’t want to spend your summer waiting for him to return.
Isaac helped you shift your desk while he talked about the terminology of war and how sometimes it’s difficult to distinguish between the freedom fighters and the terrorists.
“No government provides for its entire citizenry,” he said. “No government even tries - and the neglected minority will always resist.”
You remembered this six years later as you were escorted by UN soldiers through the Gaza Strip. You mediated Palestinian and Israeli peace talks from the safety of the United Nations Office in Geneva but you always believed resistance had to be seen up close before you negotiating a truce.
“Then why do you do it?” you asked him. “What are you hoping for?’
He settled himself on your couch, the one you had left in the centre of the room because you hadn’t found a place for it yet. He stretched his arms along the backrest, leaned his head back.
“I want a record,” he said simply.
You joined him on the couch, rested your head on his shoulder, allowing him to drop his arm to your shoulders. “A record of what?”
“What we’re willing to die for,” he said. “Maybe one day, many years in the future, it will tell us something.”
“And we won’t need to do it anymore,” you said.
“Maybe.”
Many years later you heard about his death on CNN. He was killed by a sniper in downtown Sarajevo. You wondered if he found the truth he was seeking. Whether it was worth dying for.
*
Isaac would have liked John Sheppard. He would have liked his nonchalance and the way he believes in the military even if he doesn’t always respect its hierarchies. The way he always does what’s necessary even if it’s not necessarily right.
You never though you’d share Isaac’s admiration of men and women like John, but you never believed in aliens either so you refuse to be surprised by the person you’ve become
It turns out you know a thing or two about doing what is necessary and that would have surprised Isaac. It would have surprised Simon too - Simon who insisted you accompany him to AIDS ravaged hospitals in Uganda so that you wouldn’t negotiate the future of Africa without knowledge of how its inhabitants live. It’s funny how the men in your life have often underestimated you, but then you underestimate yourself so it’s understandable. But you’ve survived and you’re quite possibly holding the Atlantis expedition together with your bare hands. You’re not sure how long your grip will last but you’ve held on this long and you swear you’re not letting go until someone’s there to catch it.
On the day you send the data-burst through the gate to Earth you’re feeling the tension in your fingers in your forehead. Rodney confirms the burst has gone through with a crooked smile and you realise that even Rodney knows you’re not confident enough in your leadership to see this achievement as a victory of sorts. He knows not to patronise you, to tell you you’re doing fine when you’re not, and you’re grateful for that.
You’re on your way back to your office when John takes your arm and says, “come with me.”
He leads you into the corridor, past the cafeteria and into a storage room. You recognise it although you don’t go there often. It’s the armoury.
John takes a gun from the nearest rack, holds it in both hands, displaying it for you. "This is a P90... " he says.
"I know," you say. You've been with the Stargate project for over a year now and knowledge of standard issue weaponry in the armed services is just something else you never expected to see on your resume.
He nods, says "It's light and it's accurate." He holds it in an 'aimed' position. "You can fire six or seven shots off and you'll barely feel it." He touches his shoulder indicating the point where the recoil impacts.
It’s not like you’ve never seen a gun before. UN negotiators don’t carry guns but weapons research is an important part of the disarmament process, and you’ve always been ‘hands on.’ "And you're telling me this because...?"
"Elizabeth, when the wraith come - “ He pauses to remind you of the gravity of your situation. You fold your arms. “ - I can protect this city better if I know everyone here has the capacity to defend themselves."
You say, "I can't carry a gun, John."
"You can," he says. "And you will." He holds it toward you. You wonder if he thinks an order will overcome your hesitation, like it's insecurity holding you back.
"No," you tell him. "I'm a civilian leader in charge of a team of explorers. I'm not here to wage war."
"Well, someone should have told the Wraith," he says. "Because they sure as hell intend to start a war with us."
“Our allies demanded the non-militarisation of Atlantis in exchange for their discretion. If I take up arms it changes everything.”
“I think our allies will understand when you tell them you were only saving yourself from having the life sucked out of your chest.” He’s angry with you. He finds your methods exasperating at the best of times, and at the worst of times he simply walks over you. You wish you didn’t remember that.
“I won’t,” you say. “When I take up arms this expedition becomes a military one - and I’m not qualified to run a military expedition.”
He lowers the gun as your words sink in. “But I am.”
“Yes.”
“Elizabeth…”
You think, not for the first time, you should have made them call you Dr Weir. “Arm the scientists, John,” you say. “Train them if you have to, but I won’t carry a gun.”
You’re about to leave when he takes your arm again. When you turn around you’re eye to eye. “Then do it for me,” he says.
He’s holding your arm just above your elbow. He’s pressing too hard and it hurts. “I can’t,” you say. You pull your arm out of his grip and walk away.
*
When he disappears up the stairs to the ‘jumper bay you wish you’d promised him that. Maybe you never would have held a gun, but would it have been so hard to say you would have done it for him? You realise then that a political decision is a luxury, the sole purview of those who don’t have to watch people they love die.
You realise as you watch the puddle jumper rise toward the hive ship, one blinking light immersing itself in a sea of lights before disappearing forever, that you wanted to win. You wanted to defeat the Wraith, obliterate them from the sky. You want revenge for John’s life, for every life the Wraith have taken from you. You want them to pay for the loss of John and for this world without him. Depleted. Dark.
Turns out, you have luck on your side. Or perhaps it’s the bizarre confluence of minds and personalities comprising the Atlantis expedition that makes your luck? Weren’t they handpicked to deal with anything the Pegasus Galaxy could throw at them? Their resourcefulness amazes you but you’re starting to rely on it. And you envisage a future here for them. For you.
Three days after the Wraith have gone and it’s a calm and quiet night on Atlantis, the Daedulus hovering overhead. You’re drinking wine in the mess hall because repair teams have been working all night and day to make the city function again and it’s finally time to celebrate your survival.
You sit at a table next to Rodney who is counting the number of times he’s thought himself dead since coming to Atlantis.
“… And that’s not counting the number of times an alien civilisation has tried to serve me some citrus smelling fruit or beverage,” he says. “It seems there’s no end of cultures unfamiliar with the concept of anaphylactic shock in the Pegasus Galaxy. Or there used to be...“ He looks away as if he’s already revealed too much of himself. “You don’t get used to it, though. You would think you’d get used to it after the second or third time, but you don’t.”
You tell him you understand. It’s three nights since the Wraith ships left and you still can’t sleep.
Across the table you see John lean back in his chair and stretch and you think he looks comfortable, like he was born into this way of life. Maybe this isn’t what he signed on for when he joined the military but you suspect he takes everything he encounters in his stride: snow, desert, vampire aliens.
When it’s late and the celebration has died down, John joins you on the balcony overlooking the sea. You look out across the vast expanse of darkness and you trade war stories you’ve heard and some you’ve actually experienced.
He tells you he read Hard Times in Kabul and The Plague in Riyadh and it seems like he’s got a book for every posting he’s ever had. He says he got the idea to read War and Peace from Peanuts but he doesn’t elaborate. You don’t ask.
Eventually he walks you back to your quarters and you find yourself talking about Isaac and the way he always wanted to be closer to the people he filmed. How he would immerse himself in a refugee camp outside Algeria, spend six months in a tent being constantly moved on if he thought it would help him better understand the lives these people lived. You wonder out loud if the sniper’s bullet wasn’t what Isaac was really looking for. Whether he knew, at that moment, what it was like to have it all disappear in an instant.
John is silent for a moment. And then he says, “Do you think I have a death wish?”
You turn toward him. You’re just outside your quarters, standing in front of the open door. “You’re so willing to die for us,” you say. “You scare me sometimes.”
“If we’re playing the self-sacrifice game then 10 000 years is a long time to devote to a cause. I think you’re one up on me there.”
That wasn’t you. You can’t tell him that but you never made that decision in this life and you don’t understand how you did it then. In your darker moments you wonder if the Elizabeth in that reality had something you don’t, something in her childhood that was different, that gave her a resolve you never had. You doubt yourself all the time. She knew that, but she had hindsight to tell her otherwise.
“You’re worth a lot more to us alive than dead,” you say. “Don’t forget that.”
“Right back at you,” he says.
For a moment he looks like he’s going to say something else and you wait noticing the way his eyes dart to the floor occasionally. Instead he puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his feet.
“Good night, John,” you say. You’re tired. You think you might actually sleep tonight.
You’re about to turn around when he says, “Wait - Elizabeth.”
You lean your head to the side, and fold your arms across your chest instinctively, like you’re in need of protection. When he hesitates, you say, “Is everything okay, John?”
“I thought - I was thinking…” He looks at the floor again. You wonder how it is that a man of nearly forty years still manages to look boyish. “I could - come in?”
A part of you knew he would ask. If not tonight then a night in the future. A part of you wants to say yes because he’s bright and he’s beautiful and he’s seen you at your best and worst and he still thinks you’re worth it. He believes in you and you find that incredible and unsettling. And frightening.
“I can’t,” you say.
He nods, looks angry with himself. “I understand,” he says. “I’m sorry…”
“No,” you say. “No, you don’t understand. I can’t do this. Not with you.”
“It doesn’t look right.” He shrugs. “It’s okay - I get it.”
“Yes, I suppose,” you say, because getting in bed with the military would look worse than taking up arms, but you’d work it out if you had to. You’re a negotiator after all. You know how to bring people around to your point of view. If it were that simple. “There’s more to it, John.”
“What?”
You remember what if felt like when you thought he was dead. You remember your anger, the dark thoughts that rose from somewhere deep inside where they’d been buried through your career as a pacifier. You remember what it was like to feel vengeful. You think; I would kill for you.
“You’re you,” you say. “And I’m me. We’re too different. We have different ideals.” It sounds lame. You’re not sure he buys it.
He looks at you, frowning. He rubs his hand across his chin. “We have different ideals?”
“We do,” you say, nodding.
“Ideals,” he repeats.
“It’s late,” you say, you look down the hallway as though you’re expecting someone. Thankfully, there’s no one there. “I can’t - can we talk about this some other time?”
“It’s okay,” he says. He holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m done.”
He turns around and walks away. For a moment you consider calling after him, but the thought disappears quickly as your rational self takes over.
Inside your quarters you find your hands are shaking. Adrenaline courses through your blood and your heart pounds against your ribcage. You take a deep breath and tell yourself you’ll be fine. Tomorrow it will be like it never happened. You’ll walk into the control room, smile at the marines guarding the gate, and ask the night shift for a report as you walk to your office without slowing your step. You’ve been to war zones, witnessed poverty, famine and disease. You’ve survived tidal waves, nano-diseases and wraith attacks. You’ll survive John Sheppard.
Fini
ETA: Whoops! Forgot to thank my amazing beta and long time partner in crime and angstfic, babylil, for her usual talent in spotting my waffle.
Title: War Zones
Fandom:: Stargate: Atlantis
Category: Weir/ Sheppard
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “you refuse to be surprised by the person you’ve become.”
Author’s notes: A very merry christmas to krazykitkat - she knows why. Hope you enjoy.
His name was Isaac. He was helping you move into your first apartment, carrying an open box up two flights of stairs and into a living space barely larger than your dorm room.
Isaac was a freelance journalist who traveled frequently, landing in war zones and villages afflicted with disease and disaster, armed only with a camera and a film crew. He told you, "dying for a cause is obsolete. The world doesn't have room for more martyrs. " You were wondering whether to put your desk next to the only window in the room so you could look down at the street while writing about the Baltic secessions and the UN status of dependent states.
You told Isaac you thought the cumulative effect of peaceful protest had a certain tragedy to it and you still think causes are worth dying for. You thought peace was worth dying for and that it's worth asking before demanding so maybe no one need die in the first place. It was 1989 - after the Libyan crisis and after glasnost - and with talk of disarmament you realised maybe you weren’t going to die in a nuclear holocaust after all.
Isaac placed the box on the floor. You have few belongings. You're not a hoarder and you’re not sentimental. You don't keep anything frivolous. You're on the opposite side of the country to the rest of your family and you think maybe you'll try Europe when you're looking for a summer project. It seems all your friends have gone to Geneva or the Hague and you find the idea of getting even further away from your roots appealing. Isaac will leave you in November for two months filming ghettos in Sao Paulo and Rio de Janeiro and you don’t want to spend your summer waiting for him to return.
Isaac helped you shift your desk while he talked about the terminology of war and how sometimes it’s difficult to distinguish between the freedom fighters and the terrorists.
“No government provides for its entire citizenry,” he said. “No government even tries - and the neglected minority will always resist.”
You remembered this six years later as you were escorted by UN soldiers through the Gaza Strip. You mediated Palestinian and Israeli peace talks from the safety of the United Nations Office in Geneva but you always believed resistance had to be seen up close before you negotiating a truce.
“Then why do you do it?” you asked him. “What are you hoping for?’
He settled himself on your couch, the one you had left in the centre of the room because you hadn’t found a place for it yet. He stretched his arms along the backrest, leaned his head back.
“I want a record,” he said simply.
You joined him on the couch, rested your head on his shoulder, allowing him to drop his arm to your shoulders. “A record of what?”
“What we’re willing to die for,” he said. “Maybe one day, many years in the future, it will tell us something.”
“And we won’t need to do it anymore,” you said.
“Maybe.”
Many years later you heard about his death on CNN. He was killed by a sniper in downtown Sarajevo. You wondered if he found the truth he was seeking. Whether it was worth dying for.
*
Isaac would have liked John Sheppard. He would have liked his nonchalance and the way he believes in the military even if he doesn’t always respect its hierarchies. The way he always does what’s necessary even if it’s not necessarily right.
You never though you’d share Isaac’s admiration of men and women like John, but you never believed in aliens either so you refuse to be surprised by the person you’ve become
It turns out you know a thing or two about doing what is necessary and that would have surprised Isaac. It would have surprised Simon too - Simon who insisted you accompany him to AIDS ravaged hospitals in Uganda so that you wouldn’t negotiate the future of Africa without knowledge of how its inhabitants live. It’s funny how the men in your life have often underestimated you, but then you underestimate yourself so it’s understandable. But you’ve survived and you’re quite possibly holding the Atlantis expedition together with your bare hands. You’re not sure how long your grip will last but you’ve held on this long and you swear you’re not letting go until someone’s there to catch it.
On the day you send the data-burst through the gate to Earth you’re feeling the tension in your fingers in your forehead. Rodney confirms the burst has gone through with a crooked smile and you realise that even Rodney knows you’re not confident enough in your leadership to see this achievement as a victory of sorts. He knows not to patronise you, to tell you you’re doing fine when you’re not, and you’re grateful for that.
You’re on your way back to your office when John takes your arm and says, “come with me.”
He leads you into the corridor, past the cafeteria and into a storage room. You recognise it although you don’t go there often. It’s the armoury.
John takes a gun from the nearest rack, holds it in both hands, displaying it for you. "This is a P90... " he says.
"I know," you say. You've been with the Stargate project for over a year now and knowledge of standard issue weaponry in the armed services is just something else you never expected to see on your resume.
He nods, says "It's light and it's accurate." He holds it in an 'aimed' position. "You can fire six or seven shots off and you'll barely feel it." He touches his shoulder indicating the point where the recoil impacts.
It’s not like you’ve never seen a gun before. UN negotiators don’t carry guns but weapons research is an important part of the disarmament process, and you’ve always been ‘hands on.’ "And you're telling me this because...?"
"Elizabeth, when the wraith come - “ He pauses to remind you of the gravity of your situation. You fold your arms. “ - I can protect this city better if I know everyone here has the capacity to defend themselves."
You say, "I can't carry a gun, John."
"You can," he says. "And you will." He holds it toward you. You wonder if he thinks an order will overcome your hesitation, like it's insecurity holding you back.
"No," you tell him. "I'm a civilian leader in charge of a team of explorers. I'm not here to wage war."
"Well, someone should have told the Wraith," he says. "Because they sure as hell intend to start a war with us."
“Our allies demanded the non-militarisation of Atlantis in exchange for their discretion. If I take up arms it changes everything.”
“I think our allies will understand when you tell them you were only saving yourself from having the life sucked out of your chest.” He’s angry with you. He finds your methods exasperating at the best of times, and at the worst of times he simply walks over you. You wish you didn’t remember that.
“I won’t,” you say. “When I take up arms this expedition becomes a military one - and I’m not qualified to run a military expedition.”
He lowers the gun as your words sink in. “But I am.”
“Yes.”
“Elizabeth…”
You think, not for the first time, you should have made them call you Dr Weir. “Arm the scientists, John,” you say. “Train them if you have to, but I won’t carry a gun.”
You’re about to leave when he takes your arm again. When you turn around you’re eye to eye. “Then do it for me,” he says.
He’s holding your arm just above your elbow. He’s pressing too hard and it hurts. “I can’t,” you say. You pull your arm out of his grip and walk away.
*
When he disappears up the stairs to the ‘jumper bay you wish you’d promised him that. Maybe you never would have held a gun, but would it have been so hard to say you would have done it for him? You realise then that a political decision is a luxury, the sole purview of those who don’t have to watch people they love die.
You realise as you watch the puddle jumper rise toward the hive ship, one blinking light immersing itself in a sea of lights before disappearing forever, that you wanted to win. You wanted to defeat the Wraith, obliterate them from the sky. You want revenge for John’s life, for every life the Wraith have taken from you. You want them to pay for the loss of John and for this world without him. Depleted. Dark.
Turns out, you have luck on your side. Or perhaps it’s the bizarre confluence of minds and personalities comprising the Atlantis expedition that makes your luck? Weren’t they handpicked to deal with anything the Pegasus Galaxy could throw at them? Their resourcefulness amazes you but you’re starting to rely on it. And you envisage a future here for them. For you.
Three days after the Wraith have gone and it’s a calm and quiet night on Atlantis, the Daedulus hovering overhead. You’re drinking wine in the mess hall because repair teams have been working all night and day to make the city function again and it’s finally time to celebrate your survival.
You sit at a table next to Rodney who is counting the number of times he’s thought himself dead since coming to Atlantis.
“… And that’s not counting the number of times an alien civilisation has tried to serve me some citrus smelling fruit or beverage,” he says. “It seems there’s no end of cultures unfamiliar with the concept of anaphylactic shock in the Pegasus Galaxy. Or there used to be...“ He looks away as if he’s already revealed too much of himself. “You don’t get used to it, though. You would think you’d get used to it after the second or third time, but you don’t.”
You tell him you understand. It’s three nights since the Wraith ships left and you still can’t sleep.
Across the table you see John lean back in his chair and stretch and you think he looks comfortable, like he was born into this way of life. Maybe this isn’t what he signed on for when he joined the military but you suspect he takes everything he encounters in his stride: snow, desert, vampire aliens.
When it’s late and the celebration has died down, John joins you on the balcony overlooking the sea. You look out across the vast expanse of darkness and you trade war stories you’ve heard and some you’ve actually experienced.
He tells you he read Hard Times in Kabul and The Plague in Riyadh and it seems like he’s got a book for every posting he’s ever had. He says he got the idea to read War and Peace from Peanuts but he doesn’t elaborate. You don’t ask.
Eventually he walks you back to your quarters and you find yourself talking about Isaac and the way he always wanted to be closer to the people he filmed. How he would immerse himself in a refugee camp outside Algeria, spend six months in a tent being constantly moved on if he thought it would help him better understand the lives these people lived. You wonder out loud if the sniper’s bullet wasn’t what Isaac was really looking for. Whether he knew, at that moment, what it was like to have it all disappear in an instant.
John is silent for a moment. And then he says, “Do you think I have a death wish?”
You turn toward him. You’re just outside your quarters, standing in front of the open door. “You’re so willing to die for us,” you say. “You scare me sometimes.”
“If we’re playing the self-sacrifice game then 10 000 years is a long time to devote to a cause. I think you’re one up on me there.”
That wasn’t you. You can’t tell him that but you never made that decision in this life and you don’t understand how you did it then. In your darker moments you wonder if the Elizabeth in that reality had something you don’t, something in her childhood that was different, that gave her a resolve you never had. You doubt yourself all the time. She knew that, but she had hindsight to tell her otherwise.
“You’re worth a lot more to us alive than dead,” you say. “Don’t forget that.”
“Right back at you,” he says.
For a moment he looks like he’s going to say something else and you wait noticing the way his eyes dart to the floor occasionally. Instead he puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his feet.
“Good night, John,” you say. You’re tired. You think you might actually sleep tonight.
You’re about to turn around when he says, “Wait - Elizabeth.”
You lean your head to the side, and fold your arms across your chest instinctively, like you’re in need of protection. When he hesitates, you say, “Is everything okay, John?”
“I thought - I was thinking…” He looks at the floor again. You wonder how it is that a man of nearly forty years still manages to look boyish. “I could - come in?”
A part of you knew he would ask. If not tonight then a night in the future. A part of you wants to say yes because he’s bright and he’s beautiful and he’s seen you at your best and worst and he still thinks you’re worth it. He believes in you and you find that incredible and unsettling. And frightening.
“I can’t,” you say.
He nods, looks angry with himself. “I understand,” he says. “I’m sorry…”
“No,” you say. “No, you don’t understand. I can’t do this. Not with you.”
“It doesn’t look right.” He shrugs. “It’s okay - I get it.”
“Yes, I suppose,” you say, because getting in bed with the military would look worse than taking up arms, but you’d work it out if you had to. You’re a negotiator after all. You know how to bring people around to your point of view. If it were that simple. “There’s more to it, John.”
“What?”
You remember what if felt like when you thought he was dead. You remember your anger, the dark thoughts that rose from somewhere deep inside where they’d been buried through your career as a pacifier. You remember what it was like to feel vengeful. You think; I would kill for you.
“You’re you,” you say. “And I’m me. We’re too different. We have different ideals.” It sounds lame. You’re not sure he buys it.
He looks at you, frowning. He rubs his hand across his chin. “We have different ideals?”
“We do,” you say, nodding.
“Ideals,” he repeats.
“It’s late,” you say, you look down the hallway as though you’re expecting someone. Thankfully, there’s no one there. “I can’t - can we talk about this some other time?”
“It’s okay,” he says. He holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m done.”
He turns around and walks away. For a moment you consider calling after him, but the thought disappears quickly as your rational self takes over.
Inside your quarters you find your hands are shaking. Adrenaline courses through your blood and your heart pounds against your ribcage. You take a deep breath and tell yourself you’ll be fine. Tomorrow it will be like it never happened. You’ll walk into the control room, smile at the marines guarding the gate, and ask the night shift for a report as you walk to your office without slowing your step. You’ve been to war zones, witnessed poverty, famine and disease. You’ve survived tidal waves, nano-diseases and wraith attacks. You’ll survive John Sheppard.
Fini
ETA: Whoops! Forgot to thank my amazing beta and long time partner in crime and angstfic, babylil, for her usual talent in spotting my waffle.