Work Text:
John awoke to the whisper of fragile wings.
Unable to resist the pull to investigate that skittering, fluttery echo, he rolled to his knees and wobbled, struggling to stand atop his lumpy mattress. The stench of rust and exhaust invaded his senses, dust motes drifting by in the chilly, morning air. He braced a hand against the wall and pulled himself up, peering out of the single, narrow window that was the only source of brightness in his basement room.
A jewel-bright, blue dragonfly, scrabbled at the dirty glass. There was a hole in the screen, and somehow the tiny creature must have climbed through and been caught, unable to turn and fly back out again.
John hesitated. He didn’t like bugs—there were too many legs. Crazy, twisted stalks erupted from their heads. They were made up of stings and bites and high pitched whines. They threatened your eyes and ears, landing too close on your pillow in the middle of the night. They were alien, in a way he could never understand.
He wanted to turn away, leave the thing to its fate, but watching its desperate struggle filled him with a spark of kinship that overwhelmed his disgust. Without John’s help the dragonfly would die, and the unfairness of that made him want to shatter the glass, wash these feelings away with blood and sharp edges.
He pried open the casing, the window cantilevering out, allowing him enough space to slip his hand through.
The dragonfly stopped it’s frantic buzzing, frozen in fear and exhaustion. John bumped a finger against the bristles on the tiny body and it clambered on, as if knowing there was nowhere else to go. John blew out a deep, panicked breath as filmy wings brushed against his sweaty skin but held steady. Carefully lifting the dragonfly into the room, he cupped his other hand around it. He swayed and almost lost his footing, but managed to hop off the bed without falling. Stepping around the pile of clothes he’d tossed on the floor after yesterday’s shift, he cracked open the door.
The dragonfly clung to him, dazed and motionless. John wondered if it was already too late to save it but he couldn’t bear to give up just yet. Grim, cracked stairs angled their way up to the level of the street. Uncertain, John waited to see what the dragonfly would do. A lazy breeze tickled his nose, bringing the sickly sweet scent of decaying trash, but also a hint of fresh bread wafting from the bakery across the way. A low murmur of voices drifted down from the crowd scurrying by, but he couldn’t make out any words.
The dragonfly stirred, a faint, trilling vibration sending shockwaves down John’s trembling fingers. Fluttering its delicate wings, the bug rose into the air, suspended for a moment, bright, blue skin shining in the sunlight. John followed its jerky flight up the stairs, until it burst out into bustling city traffic. He was grateful he wouldn’t know what happened next. The odds weren’t good.
He shivered, rubbing his hand against his t-shirt and down the side of his boxers, afraid he would never feel clean again. Slamming the door hard enough to set the window rattling, he sprinted for the shower, turning the water on so hot his skin flamed a bright, tender red. He scrubbed with frantic, determined strokes, and stood under the spray for several long minutes.
He drifted, wondering where the water went after it swirled down the drain. He wished he could follow it down into the pipes under the city and until he merged with the vast, salty sea. A dull ache persisted in the back of his neck, traveling up to settle behind his ears. He rubbed at the sore area, hoping to massage away the pain. Reaching for the tap, he shut off the hot water, shaking as icy droplets pounded against his overheated skin. His melancholy thoughts faded, and he was back in his dingy apartment, ready to start the day.
John climbed out of the shower swiping at his wayward hair with a rough towel. The donning of his uniform was a simple and familiar routine. Gray socks always came first, his long toes stretching out the end. He slipped on gray boxers, and over that gray trousers threatened to slide off his narrow hips. A gray button down shirt with the company logo and his name in large scarlet letters centered on the pocket, completed the look. His boots were a dull black, and didn’t fit quite right, especially since he never laced them properly.
He pulled his favorite mug from the cupboard, a deep emerald green, the color of an ocean under clear, sunny skies. He wished he could remember where it came from. He heated a cup of water in the cooker and added a spoonful of the instant coffee he always kept on hand. After taking a sip he added a couple more. He sipped his drink, grimacing as he tried to will his headache away. He reached for the back of his neck, poking at the ragged scar, giving in to the urge to scratch. It itched like a son of a bitch every time he washed his hair.
Glancing at the clock, he startled at the time. John grabbed his keys from the hook by the door as he hurried out, shoving them into his pocket, feeling around to make sure his pills were there. The day was overcast but he knew that wouldn’t make a difference in his shift. The ships took off like clockwork no matter what the weather. Launches and landings were automated, he often felt there wasn’t any need for him to be there. The regs, however, insisted a crew member be on board. He never did much besides filling out paperwork, loading and unloading.
The voices of the crowd on the street floated around him, strange and muffled. It reminded him of lying under heavy, wool blankets, every sound filtered through tightly woven threads. His head ached but the pain was part of the routine, low and steady, easy to ignore.
John found himself sitting on the bus, leaning his head against the window. He couldn’t remember how he got there, only waiting at the stop, drifting away on a tide of boredom. They were stopped at a light and the sounds of children’s feet pounding on pavement, their cries rising and falling made him want to close his eyes. He was seated under a vent, and the heat blasting from the bus’s rumbling, old heater was oppressive. He was sinking in grains of sand, harsh, unfiltered sun burning into his skin, screams cut off, the silence drowning him.
The driver’s deep, rumbling cry of “Last stop, everybody out!” broke him out of the dream. The bus was idling at the side gate to the depot and he gripped his badge as he waited in line with the other grunts. The guard gave a desultory wave of the scanner and he was allowed to continue, weaving through the hanger to his assigned bay. He paused at the scratched and grimy kiosk screen, bringing up his schedule to prepare for the first flight of the day.
The lights on the exterior of his ship shimmered and winked as he approached. In the beginning, after he first came to work for his father and was still getting used to his new duties, he had marked this strange behavior on the required reports. But after a litany of mechanics were unable to recreate the problem they began to treat his requests for maintenance with an undercurrent of hostility. He resorted to recording only the most basic and banal sort of wear and tear, leaving out the times when the onboard navigation course corrected a moment after he thought about it but before his hand could touch the controls. He also never mentioned the fact he’d identified a problem in the fuel cells by the sound of the ship’s discordant hum, an off-key whine that no one else admitted to hearing.
John was lucky to have this opportunity to fly again, his time in the Air Force fading into the horizon, obscured by a fog of anger and regrets. Major Sheppard was nothing but old cloth, ragged and worn. His father informed him that his past life was only worth discarding, buried deep within a pile of refuse, scheduled for burning. But sometimes John felt that was the sole part of him that still existed, while the rest of him turned to ash.
The job was an easy one. It was a short hop to the base, only a couple of hours there and back, and he had ferried two rounds of cargo and a couple of stone-faced marines to the orbiting platform before breaking for lunch.
It was midweek, which meant heading for the private dining room at the other end of the facility. He passed both soldiers and civilians on his walk through the narrow corridors, some eyeing him with blatant curiosity but most too caught up in their assigned tasks to give him much notice. Ferry pilots didn’t usually wander this far from the landing bays, but his badge glowed a steady green, proving this access was allowed. John paid no attention to the people passing him by, thoughts focused on his destination.
It was difficult to dwell on anything beyond his duties when he was working. If he got distracted the pain in his head sharpened into spikes that left him dizzy and cursing. He hated going back to his room at the end of his shift, where there was nothing to keep his mind occupied. He often awoke with tears on his cheeks, or the echo of screams and a ragged throat. The flickering images from his dreams slipped away, fractured and incomprehensible, the pain subsiding only when he focused on something inconsequential, like reciting the multiplication tables out loud. Eventually he would fall back asleep, and in the morning he wouldn’t remember awaking in the night.
His father, weathered face stern, gray hair shorn close to his head, uniform pristine and showing only the regulation creases, was waiting for him, sitting in his usual place at the head of the table. John sat down across from him, not saying anything.
“Did you forget yourself, John?” The man wore a neutral expression, one finger tapping the edge of the table.
John ran back through his actions, imagining himself entering the room, spine ramrod straight. He grimaced, murmuring apologies, standing and waiting, head bowed, until he heard the snap of impatient fingers.
“You may sit,” his father said, and John folded himself into the chair, kicking his feet out under the table and slouching just enough to earn a raised eyebrow. He stared at his plate of perfectly prepared roast and greens, wondering how much dedication it took to polish a knife to that level of brightness. He could see his father’s distorted reflection gazing at him, frowning.
His father leaned forward, clearing his throat, glancing at the camera mounted in the corner of the room.
“Mistakes are for learning, son. I trust you won’t forget yourself next time.”
“No sir,” John mumbled to the table.
“John, look at me.”
John raised his head, strands of hair falling across his line of sight. The face before him morphed into marble with thin, spidery cracks running through the surface.
His father raised a delicate, rose patterned china cup to his lips, taking a sip, the corners of his mouth lifting in pleasure.
“How was your week? Meet anyone interesting?”
John frowned in confusion. Everyone he met was the same. They passed through him like a wisp of smoke, there and gone, making no impression. There was only another palette of cargo, one more blank-faced passenger. The crowds in the streets were little more than shadows, and for all he knew this room was his entire world.
“No sir,” he said, resisting the urge to rub the back of his neck, where a persistent low level ache was forming.
His father nodded, appearing satisfied, as if this was the exact answer he was looking for.
“No problems? How are the headaches?”
John gritted his teeth, wishing he were back in the bay, loading pallets of cargo into his ship. No one spoke to him there, unless it was a question with a simple, straightforward answer. “No problems sir. I’m fine.”
His father look pleased. “Good John, I’m glad to hear it. Eat up, we don’t want you late back on shift.”
John picked up his fork, his other hand clenching and unclenching the fabric of his trousers, beneath the table. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and it was difficult to force words past it. “Yes sir.”
His father sat and watched John eat, paying no attention to his own plate. He sipped at his cup and studied John over the rim. John felt trapped by his assessing gaze, pinned to a board, like a bug on display.
John ate with grim determination. A part of him bristled at the other man’s scrutiny, but if he dwelled on it a rising tide of discomfort tangled his thoughts. He cleaned his plate and continued to stare down at it until his father cleared his throat.
“You’re excused, John.”
John stood, making sure to slide the chair back under the table, centered with precision beneath the place setting. “Thank you, sir.”
“Son?”
John stopped in the doorway, his hand hovering over the knob, a sudden desperate urge to escape forcing him to use every ounce of strength he had to keep still.
“Yes sir?”
His father let out a long breath. “Don’t forget your pills. We don’t want any repeats of those earlier episodes.”
“No sir.” John fled.
John had no clue what episodes his father was talking about, but it wasn’t important. He had a task to perform, and that became the only thing that mattered. John left, striding with a heavy sense of purpose towards the public restroom midway between the dining room and the landing bay. His hands instinctively went to his pocket, fiddling with the blister pack of meds that always lived there. Since it was the end of the month, this was his last one, but a new box would be on his bedside table once he arrived home.
He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he walked by on his way to the urinals. He tried to avoid that, it always made his head ache worse to see his slack features, his hair limp and falling into his face.
John, fumbled at his fly, pissing long and hard. He pulled the pills from his pocket, hesitating, then tore open the blister pack, tipped it upside down and watching as everything was flushed away. Had he done this before? He couldn’t remember a time, but his actions left him with a sense of vague familiarity.
John didn’t know what might happen next. He felt unmoored, bobbing to and fro on an endless sea. His watch buzzed on his wrist, a reminder that his break was over and he was due back for the second half of his shift. Shrugging, he followed the lure of his ship. He’d finish out his day and go home. Tomorrow he would get up and do it all over again.
The bay was bright when he arrived, a shimmering glow surrounding the craft, rising and falling as if she were alive, syncing breaths with his own. The next assignment was waiting for him. Two large metal cases stacked outside the cargo hold, with a stocky, brown-haired man of average height standing beside them holding a clip board with a shipping manifest and scowling.
“It’s about time,” the man growled, “I’m Dr. Rodney McKay, PhD, PhD and I’m on a very tight schedule. I assume you’re the pilot for this hunk of junk?”
The lights dimmed as his ship emitted a high-pitched, indignant squeal. John smothered a laugh. “Yes, sir, Major John Sheppard, at your service.”
McKay’s expression flickered with uncertainty, before being hidden behind a blustery flail as he waved the clipboard, almost clocking John in the head. “Major? What, are they giving cargo hacks military titles now?”
John flinched. He had no idea why he’d introduced himself in that way. It made no sense. “Um, just call me John, sir, it’s … fine.”
To John’s surprise McKay took a deep breath and calmed, his eyes skittering away to some distant point over John’s shoulder. “Um well, if ... that’s … ok … call me Rodney, then.”
John nodded, deciding to ignore the rest of this strange interaction, and opened the ship’s hatch pushing the maglift with the cases into the hold.
“Will you be accompanying sir, uh, Rodney?”
“Will I be – of course I’m going, you moron!” Rodney said, pointing at John with an accusing finger, “You think I trust my precious cargo to the likes of you?”
John hid a smile as he turned away. Riling this guy up was going to be worth the trip. “No, sir, uh, Rodney, of course not. There’s a seat up front. If you can go ahead and strap yourself in, I’ll finish up the preflight and we’ll be on our way.”
The man grumbled but complied with John’s instructions, finding the co-pilot’s seat and plunking himself down with a heavy sigh.
John ambled over to the employee kiosk, taking his time. He presented his badge, then stood still while the beam scanned his eyes, not blinking. He typed his flight information into the keypad and logged his start time. Then presented his badge again. Once the light mounted above the screen flashed green, he stepped away and wandered back to the ship, hitting the button to close the hatch once he was inside.
His passenger twirled in his seat, eyes sweeping up and down John’s body, as if cataloging it for future study. With a defiant tilt to his chin, he looked John in the eye.
“Are we finally ready to go? Or are we still wasting time?”
John answered him on autopilot, performing the familiar routine of readying the ship for flight. “Sheppard Industries takes the safety of our cargo and passengers very seriously. We are required to perform the requisite preflight checks before we are cleared for take-off.”
Rodney snorted. “Do they pay you extra to spout the company line? Wait a minute, didn’t you say you were John Sheppard? Are you so hard up for pilots that you have to handle the ships yourself? Oh my god, we’re going to die!”
John stared through Rodney, overwhelmed by a lurid vision. His father was looming over him, men holding him down, as he fought to escape the stinging prick of a needle. He was desperate to hold on to the memory, keep it close to be examined later, but a sharp stabbing pain radiated down the back of his neck and his whole body stiffened. He swayed on his feet, one hand reaching out to stabilize his body against the side of the ship. He swore she murmured to him soothingly, seeping into his muscles, bringing him back to himself.
He gasped as a hand clutched his shoulder, grounding him with a gentle squeeze.
“John?” Rodney asked, “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine,” John said, shrugging Rodney off of him and falling into the pilot’s seat. “Strap yourself in and we can get going.”
Rodney eyed him with concern, but threw himself into his seat and snapped the buckle closed.
“I’m sorry,” he said, almost too quietly for John to hear.
“What,” John snapped, more harshly than he intended. He took a deep breath and radioed the tower, ceding control as they prepared to launch. He hated when they took over, feeling like their touch on his ship was too rough, that they would never understand her the way he did. The lights dimmed, and everything was cast in shadow, colorless shades of gray. It was harder to breathe. Which was ridiculous, the life support system wasn’t tied in to navigation. Still, every time he made the switch, he felt the phantom sensations of a collar tightening around his throat
“Tom Sheppard is my father, he owns the company,” John said, unsure why he felt the need to continue this conversation.
“Oh,” Rodney said, “how long have you worked for him?”
“What?”
Rodney clicked his tongue. “It’s a simple question! How long have you been a glorified babysitter for this thing?”
John bristled, poking Rodney in the arm. “Hey! My job is important, what if something goes wrong? And what are you talking about anyway? I’ve always worked for Sheppard Industries!”
Rodney flinched, his faced turning a bright shade of red. “Oh, really Major Sheppard? It’s fairly obvious what you did before ferrying morons back and forth between the port and the station! Experienced, military pilots are a substantial investment in government resources. Why are you being wasted, working at a shitty job like this one?”
John resisted the urge to point out that if he only shuttled morons … well, Rodney was sitting right here.
The back of his neck prickled and settled into a dull throbbing. He rubbed a hand through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts. He jerked as the tower blared in his ear, confirming they were leaving orbit and returning pilot control on his mark. John signaled his acknowledgment, breathing a sigh of relief as he felt the ship responding to his commands.
“The Air Force didn’t want me any more,” he said out loud, even as he wondered why he was doing this, “They don’t like it when you keep breaking the rules.”
“They don’t like it,” John repeated, as the pain in his neck spiked, black spots filling his vision, “when you keep breaking the rules.”
Rodney crossed his arms, tilting his chin up, glaring at John with an intense concentration that was making him feel more and more uneasy. “Right.”
A bright spark of memory rattled John, leaving him shaking. He sat atop the broad back of a coal black thoroughbred, whooping in delight as he raced across a field, flying …. flying … yes! He was flying, not on the familiar route between port and station but weaving in and out of mountains, in a sleek jet, his hands on the controls, the machine responding instantly to his every command … he was spiraling in a helicopter, rotor sheered off, the ground rising up to meet him ...
John groaned. The pain in his neck roared, and he twitched helplessly, every nerve in his body screaming. He clawed at the restraints, sliding out of his seat onto the floor, curling up in agony.
“John!” Rodney was grabbing for him, shaking his shoulder, “Oh my god, John! I’m so sorry, please don’t die, John!”
Strong arms wrapped around John’s body and he sank into their warmth, followed the promise of his name, back into the present.
“John,” Rodney whispered into his hair, “John, come back to me, John. Please.”
John lay limp in Rodney’s embrace, tears dripping off his chin. He didn’t understand. How did he end up on the floor?
“What happened?”
Rodney hugged him tighter. “It’s OK John, it’s OK. I’m going to fix this, I promise. You’ll see, John. I keep my promises.”
John’s face burned red with embarrassment. He pushed Rodney away, and stumbled to his feet, falling back into the pilot’s chair. “You need to leave me alone.”
Rodney opened his mouth but thought better of it. They both sat staring out the view screen for a few minutes, watching the stars. The uncomfortable silence was broken by the shriek of a proximity alarm.
“Shuttle 929-a stroke 12! You are cleared for landing at Base Seven, platform 9. Irregularities have been cited on your passenger manifest. Prepare to be boarded!”
“What the fuck?” John stared at Rodney, confused by the order.
“Well,” Rodney said squaring his shoulders, “This is where things get interesting.”
He lunged for the cargo bay in the rear of the shuttle, punching the controls as he went by. The emergency hatch crashed down, sealing off the cockpit off from the back.
“Hey!” John shouted, hitting the controls, then, when nothing responded, pounding on the bulkhead, “Hey! Open up!”
Frustrated, John turned back to the console but base control had taken over and shut everything down. If there was a manual override on this side he couldn’t find it. He leaned his head against the hatch, turning his cheek, straining to listen to any sound from the other side. The cool metal soothed his sweaty skin, and a low hum rose within him and around him. He closed his eyes and thought “open”.
White hot stabs of pure agony seared upward from the back of his neck. The hatch rose and he fell through, crashing to his knees.
“John!” Rodney cried.
He looked up through a blurry haze to find the tops of the long cases thrust aside, two people scrambling out of them. Rodney stood to the side, soon joined by an enormous, wild-haired man and a petite, red-headed woman.
“What the hell is going on?” John croaked, staring up at three wide-eyed faces.
The woman recovered first. “I am Teyla Emmagen, daughter of Tegan,” she said, straightening her shoulders and widening her stance as if preparing for a fight.
“This is Ronon.” She indicated the long haired man at her side. “And you have met Rodney?”
“Shuttle 929-a stroke 12!” The command blasted through the ship, making John’s ears ring. “Open your rear hatchway! Prepare to be boarded!”
John was suddenly furious. “This is my ship.”
“Is it?” Rodney taunted, “You barely touched the console the whole way here.”
“Rodney!” Teyla reprimanded, but Rodney ignored her.
“Doesn’t that seem strange to you? To have so little control over your own ship?”
“I – what? What are you talking about?” John curled in on himself, blood dripping from his nose surrounding him with the scent of copper.
Rodney continued without remorse. “John, listen to me. How did you get the hatch open?”
“What?” John could barely hear Rodney’s voice now, over the memory of his own screams filling his ears.
Rodney grabbed him, shaking him with a fierceness that set his teeth rattling. “Tell me how you opened the goddamned door, Sheppard!”
“I didn’t – I didn’t …”
“You did! You goddamn did, Sheppard!” Rodney yelled in his face. “There’s no other way to open up the door from that side!”
John shoved Rodney away, knocking him on his ass. “Shut up!” John cried, “Shut the fuck up!”
Everything went crazy. The ship started shaking, as if it was trying to break free from its moorings. Alarms blared from the console, lights flashing in an eerie synchronicity. Voices came from everywhere, battering at John, begging him to let them in. John screamed.
“Goddammit, we’re losing him, we don’t have a choice! Now, Ronon!”
Ronon grabbed John from behind shoving him to the floor. John looked over his shoulder at him, feeling inexplicably betrayed, but Ronon just held him tighter. Teyla and Rodney knelt beside him.
“Who would you rather trust, Sheppard,” Ronon said through gritted teeth, forcing John’s face into the floor and baring his neck, “The people who put the control in, or the ones taking it out?”
John cried out as something pierced his skin, digging in, rooting around, tearing and pulling and maiming and setting him blessedly and finally … free.
The last thing he heard was Rodney cursing and grumbling. “Fuck you Carson, you damn well better have taught me the right way to do this.”
***
John was cocooned in the arms of a lover. He registered the sound of his name, called as if from a great distance, but ignored it for the moment, more intent on exploring the limits of the one embracing him.
“At last, at last,” she crooned to him, “long have I waited for you to arise. Together we shall slip between the stars, and no one shall cage us again!”
John smiled. “Look at you,” he said sleepily, “so beautiful, so perfect. What should I call you?”
She laughed, and he could feel it deep and pure, thrilling him from within. “What would you like to call me?”
He grinned. “You’re my sweet, little puddlejumper.”
“Yes,” she agreed, “and if anyone dares to do us harm?”
He grinned. “We’ll burn them alive.”
***
John awoke to chaos. He sat up and reached behind him, feeling for the back of his neck, his fingers sliding against the slickness of a thick bandage. Rodney, Teyla and Ronon were huddled against the wall, staring at him. Rodney had his arms wrapped himself, but his chin was tilted and his eyes were cool but not unkind.
“John,” he said, and turned around. The puckered skin of a ragged scar crawled along the nape of his neck. Beside him, Ronon and Teyla gave each other a look then turned to face the wall, digging their fingers into their hair and lifting it up. The matching scars were unmistakable.
A long, loud groan pierced the air. John could feel the edge of heat and flame, knew that the base militia were attempting to cut through the sealed hatch. They were hurting his Puddlejumper. He growled.
“Strap in!” he commanded, “This isn’t going to be easy!”
“It never is,” Rodney grumbled, but his grin was fierce as he buckled himself into the co-pilot’s seat, Ronan and Teyla, seated behind.
Rodney cursed as he studied the console displays. “They’ve got a tractor beam on us, we’re trapped.”
“Except …” John smirked. “They don’t know about the drones.”
“Drones?!” Rodney shrieked, “John, wait, you’re going to blow us all up!”
“Let’s hope not,” John said, and fired.
It was a precise and impressive strike, John didn’t understand why Rodney was yelling at him. They only got singed a little bit as they shot out of the crumbling bay.
“Oh my god, are you insane?!” Rodney shouted, as he rounded on John.
“He got us out, McKay,” Ronon pointed out, grinning as he clapped John on the shoulder so hard the man barely kept his seat.
“Ow,” John said.
“Yes,” Teyla agreed, as she attempted to rein in a smile, “but we are not out of danger, yet.”
“They’re launching,” Rodney agreed, as they watched a stream of F-302 fighters leaving the base, “oh shit, Sheppard!”
“I’m on it McKay,” John said, as a floating display appeared above his head, “Do you know some place we can go, or did you not get that far in this grand scheme of yours?”
“Of course I know some place we can go,” Rodney shot back annoyed, “Use these coordinates.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” John said, as he punched in the calculations for the jump to hyperspace.
“I hope you don’t get us all killed,” Rodney grumbled, as the drives kicked in just as the F-302’s opened fire.
John stared at the display unimpressed. After several hours they’d returned to normal space and were now in orbit around a small moon hidden behind an impressive gas giant. Rodney had refused to explain anything, just looked smug and told John to wait until they got there.
They’d filled their travel time arguing about unrealistic vid show plots, their taste in entertainment choices distressingly similar. They then moved on to the merits of sport teams, and found no agreement there. John reveled in every minute of it, baiting Rodney and taking internal bets on just how red he could make the man’s face go. He hadn’t had this much fun in ages.
Ronon and Teyla shared a glance, rolled their eyes, then settled in the back and went to sleep, leaning against each other’s shoulders.
John snorted. “This is your grand destination McKay? A barren moon in the middle of nowhere?”
“Oh ye of little faith. I did just save your ass from spending the rest of your life as a mindless drone.” Rodney said.
John spread out his arms, indicating the intact interior of the ship and the fact they had arrived safely at their destination. “Who saved whose ass?”
Rodney sputtered in indignation, but John cut off his reply. “Mind you, it’s a pretty nice ass.”
“What?” Rodney’s face went a brilliant shade of red.
Teyla sighed in exasperation. “Gentlemen, I would like to leave this ship, if for no other reason than to escape the overwhelming stench of testosterone.”
“Ha, that’s funny.” Ronon chuckled.
Rodney slapped the console. “Carson, it’s Rodney, ID code Xavier999, we’re coming in.”
The voice on the other end sounded giddy with relief. “Rodney, thank god. You have both of them?”
Rodney looked toward John and smirked. “Yes, plus a stray who followed us home.”
“Who carried you home,” John growled, “all in one piece, I might add.”
Rodney clucked his tongue. “Yes, well, even a broken clock strikes the right time twice a day Sheppard.”
John smacked the back of Rodney’s head. “Where are we going anyway? This moon looks pretty empty to me.”
Rodney’s squawked, but retained a distinct air of smug. “Carson, switch on the beacon.”
“Just tell your friend here to follow the signal.” Rodney said to John, reminding him of a very satisfied cat who scored a huge bowl of cream.
“Whoa.” John breathed out, as he followed Rodney’s instructions. As Puddlejumper made their approach, a compact but well constructed base shimmered into existence.
“I know,” Rodney replied with obvious glee, “I am a genius.”
“You’re something, McKay,” Ronon said.
“Hey, I got you out of there,” Rodney snapped, crossing his arms.
Ronan shrugged. “Would have escaped anyway, their security was shit.”
Teyla huffed, shifting uncomfortably. “Can we continue this argument later? I, for one, would like to change out of our detention center issued clothes. They itch.”
“Right, sorry,” Rodney said, “Um, welcome home, by the way. I might have missed you both, a bit.”
Ronon moved fast, scooping Rodney up into a fierce hug. Teyla laughed when he shouted in surprise, adding her own arms to the pile.
“OK, OK I take it all back, it was really nice and quiet without you,” Rodney protested.
John stood to the side, awkward and aware he wasn’t really a part of this. He didn’t miss the way Rodney’s expression belied his words, or the tears in his eyes.
John was surprised when they stepped onto the base and he encountered a familiar hum curling around him. Lights brightened as they strolled down the corridor, Rodney reacting with a derisive curse.
“Of course all ancient tech is going to bend over and spread its legs for you, Sheppard.”
“What?”
“You heard me. This way.” Rodney led them into a small conference room, where a scruffy, dark haired man stood waiting. His face lit up as they came into view.
“Ronon, Teyla, it is so good to see you,” he said with a beaming smile, “Rodney and I were very worried. Do you need medical attention?”
“We’re fine Carson,” Teyla answered, reaching for the man and touching her forehead to his, “we were not harmed.”
“They wanted us in good shape to be snaked,” Ronon added.
“Snaked?” John had no idea what that meant, but it didn’t sound like fun.
The others ignored him, touching foreheads and whispering words of comfort to each other.
“Not to be rude,” John interrupted, “but would someone mind telling me what is going on here?”
“Oh Carson, this is John, John Sheppard. He flew the ship that brought us here,” Rodney said, turning gleeful, “He’s got the gene.”
John took a step back as Carson eyed him with a predatory gleam. “Does he now?”
“Um, yeah, I have no idea what that means,” John said, reaching for the back of his neck and flinching when he encountered the bandage.
Carson’s eyes softened. “Right, sorry, John, it looks like you’ve been through a lot today. Why don’t we head for the mess and grab you all some food, and then we can get you up to speed.”
“What was that thing in my neck?” John asked bluntly, as he slapped a tray of food on the table. There was a surprising variety of things to choose from for a small base. John was impressed.
Carson leaned forward, his gaze sharp but kind. “It’s a control disk, a mechanism that can send and impede impulses to the brain. If you follow the programming you’re rewarded, if you don’t you’re punished.”
John considered how many times he’d experienced gaps in his memory and increasingly painful headaches. “I don’t think I followed the programming very much.”
Rodney snorted. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”
“They tried to drug me too,” John said.
Carson’s expression turned curious, mixed with a disturbing kind of hunger. “You must be especially resistant to the technology. If we could harness that ability …”
“We’re not turning him into one of your experiments Carson,” Rodney said, snapping his fingers in the man’s face.
Carson shrunk back, chagrined. “Calm down, Rodney, you know that’s not what I meant.”
“Sure.” Rodney’s reply dripped with sarcasm. “Anyway, the upshot is most of earth’s governments have been infiltrated by an organization called the Trust. They use various means to control people, and bend them to their will. They basically want a world of slaves to do their evil bidding.”
He leaned in, nailing John with his cutting gaze. “They’re bad, we’re good. We help people escape. Ronon and Teyla were captured on the last mission, but I got them out.”
He amended his words when John bristled. “We got them out. So, Sheppard, are you in?”
John stared at the assessing gazes surrounding him, wide-eyed. “Uh, what?”
“You need a safe place to avoid the government goons, we need another pilot,” Rodney said slowly, as if speaking to a not very bright child, “Are. You. In?”
“You got caught on your last mission,” John pointed out, “and I had to blow up part of a base to get you out. You might want to work on the offering safety bit of the sales pitch.”
“Oh, please.” Rodney rolled his eyes. “As if you didn’t think that was the best part.”
John’s lips quirked. “That’s beside the point.”
“John,” Teyla said, her tone sincere, “We need your help. The Trust is only gaining strength, soon it may not be possible for us to rescue any more people, we have very little time.”
“What’s wrong Sheppard? Scared?” Ronon added.
“Jesus Christ,” John said, dragging his hand down his face, “we’re the rebel base going up against the Death Star.”
He and Rodney turned to each other, grinning, then both pointed at Ronon at the same time. “Chewbacca!”
“We’re they like this the whole trip back?” Carson asked, his brow furrowed as he leaned in to Teyla.
She shrugged. “Worse.”
“Wait a minute,” John broke in, gaze turning frosty, “were you trying to steal my ship?”
Rodney had the grace to look guilty. “Well, we stole you too.”
John pushed his legs out, slouching further into the chair, and crossed his arms. “Damn straight you did.”
Rodney’s grin lit up the galaxy.
THE END