Come and Try 1/2 (SGA)
Come and Try 1/2
Author: tari_roo
Rating: PG13 (Gen)
Fandom: SGA
Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing
Summary: Aftermath fic. John returns to Atlantis after an ordeal offworld. Team comfort ensues as they try to come to terms with John.
AN: 3rd (and probably final) comment fic from kriadydragon 's gencomment fic exchange. Prompt below
*
“Are the restraints really necessary?”
The Infirmary was studded in stillness, the soft whisper of high tech equipment, nurses padding slowly about in unhurried labours, the breathless anticipation of a place of healing, where death too often waited to take its dues.
“I am afraid so, Rodney. He’s not in his right mind most of the time and it safeguards both the staff and him from further injury.”
If a hurricane has an eye of eerie stillness and calm, then John Sheppard’s corner of the Infirmary was an encapsulated bubble of artificial peace. Soft white privacy curtains shielded him from view, the hiss of oxygen and the beep of a heart monitor the only sounds permitted within its confines.
“Would that not perpetuate his condition, Carson? Being confined and alone?”
The narrow sliver of break in the curtains afforded anyone sitting in Carson’s office an intermittent view of Sheppard’s foot, as the curtains fluttered with the motion of nurses, and the open window in John’s room. The off beige of thick, padded restraint on his ankle made his skin seem translucent and fragile, dark hairs all the more vivid against the ghostly skin.
“Aye, lass, I am sure that it does. But I cannot afford him attacking anyone again and once the drugs have left his system, we can set him loose.”
The curtain breathed open, a rising ocean breeze giving it wings for a moment, and the clear blue Lantean sky outside splashed a flash of colour in the white morass, before falling closed. In that moment, like a half forgotten dream, John seemed to be merely resting, quietly gazing out of the window, at peace with the world. But as the curtain fell, closing that window of memory, the real memories intruded and the mind’s eye completed what was only glimpsed. Right arm encased in plaster, strapped to his chest, hand and feet trapped beneath leather bindings and the sickening glimpse of bandages beneath those self same restraints.
“Ronon back?”
“No, he’s still out beating trees and breaking rocks. Woolsey won’t let him back until he promises to stop trying to kill him.”
“Aye.”
*
It was late, or early, depending on whichever notion you preferred. Neither day or night, but somewhere in between, it was a time of promise and regret with yesterday fading and tomorrow still hours away.
Carson sat at his desk, an array of reports and charts scattered in organized chaos. His screen was flickering through images of sea life from Old and New Lantea, a strangely colourless display of sliver, white and black. His shift had ended hours ago, and Keller would be chasing him home soon. Yet, it was not the charts, or reports and monochrome sea life that held him in place.
The curtain directly facing him had been pulled back to let in the cool breeze of a hot summer night. A single, bright green plant from Athos, twisted in the breeze, three or so leaves bending on the long stalk top heavy with a bright red flower.
Rodney was in the chair closest to the window, his feet propped up on the military style, hospital standard, stereotypical bedside cabinet of drawers. The little flower was perched perilously close to his feet, its blossom kissing his boots occasionally.
An oversized tablet was propped up on his lap, the glow from its screen a mirrored promise to the brightening horizon. A thick, black stylus ran along the tablet, squiggling through complex equations, twirling through the complicated dance of the universe.
Occasionally the mad dance would pause, the equation solved or a hitch in his thinking bringing the figures to a standstill. Either a new equation would appear, or he’d clear the slate and start again. Over and over again the dance began, wound to climax and ended. Waltz, foxtrot, tango, quick step. On and on, a ballroom’s delight, deciphering and plumbing the mysterious of space and time.
It wasn’t the dance though that captivated Carson and motivated Rodney. Because, sometimes, just occasionally, erratically, Rodney would pause at some unheard note. And he’d lift the tablet so that John could see better, and a trembling finger would wave vaguely at some complicated twirl. Rodney would stare sometimes, shake his head more often than not, or on the odd occasion scratch out his workings and make corrections, fresh leaps and pirouettes completing the solution.
The peculiar dance of stylus corrected by the haphazard finger of a friend refusing to sleep gave the whole scene a dreamlike moment, like you could blink and think it a dream. Carson waited for each movement, for each glimmer of John Sheppard. But what had kept Carson glued to his seat, legs numb, charts forgotten, bed ignored, was the complete and utter silence that enveloped the scene.
Not a word, or murmur passed between them, the only sounds the ambient noise of pre-dawn life and the scratch of the stylus.
Part 2