SGA fic: These Pages Are Burning

[unadrift]

Dear brain,

I clearly remember the two of us explaining just recently that we usually write happy things — no death fics and other dark stuff. Granted, we were being sarcastic, making our point by strongly claiming the opposite to be true. But still.
And now I find myself waking up one morning with you throwing this at me? There's death. (In a manner of speaking.) And it's dark. That's two out of two. You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?

With a heartfelt *wtf*,
me

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In other words:
McKay/Sheppard, PG-13, 1400 words. Angst, sort of death fic, kind of dark. Title from Sting's "The Book of My Life". Beta'd by the fabulous trystings.

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There was an unpleasant sound when his knees connected with the metal floor. It probably hurt, but John didn't feel any pain. His whole world consisted of the face that swam in and out of focus above him, the pale skin, the countless sharp teeth, the undisguised look of hunger directed at him. The only coherent thought afloat on the chaos in John's mind was, No.

He had sworn to himself that he wouldn't die like this. Anything but this. A bullet to the chest. A knife to the heart. A rock to his head. A nuclear explosion. A jumper crash. An alien virus. Explosive decompression. Poison. Anything. But not this, not again.

The Wraith queen lowered her hand, running a finger down the side of his face. "Be assured, John Sheppard," she hissed, her voice echoing as clearly in his head as it rang in his ears. "You have never died like this before."

Her tight grip on his mind, the relentless pressure that constricted his consciousness, lessened somewhat. The cat wanted to play with her prey.

With great effort John managed to speak. "And what-- makes you-- so special?"

The queen's lips stretched across her teeth in what could probably, on a human face, have been interpreted as a nasty smile.

"Other--" John said, then sucked in a breath as she gripped his jaw tightly, digging her nails into his skin. "Other than-- the hair-do."

Her hair was black. It was the first thing John had noticed about her. That, and the fact that she was kind of sneaky. Wraith weren't supposed to be sneaky. Wraith were supposed to strut down hallways with an air of disdain, not lurk around corners to catch John unawares.

"Let me show you," the queen said, in a hundred voices at once, each one vibrating in his teeth like the sound of nails on a chalk board.

John closed his eyes, so he wouldn't have to see her hand descending on him. Her mental order felt like an icepick driving through his skull from the inside out. "Open."

It was more reflex than conscious decision, but he obeyed. She was so close he could smell her foul breath. Her eyes were as dark as black holes, and with the same gravitational pull. He couldn't look away.

In the end, when it started, her feeding hand didn't hit him in the chest with the force of a jackhammer. John didn't even feel it creep up on him.

Then, it felt the same. But not.

He still wanted to scream until his lungs burned, but his body refused to offer even that small comfort. He wanted to slither from his skin, out of her grasp, escape; he wanted a big fucking weapon to kill this fucking bitch of a Wraith queen a hundred fucking times dead; he wanted his rescue to turn up in time; he wanted his team to stay the hell away from this queen.

And then--

At first, he thought it was his life flashing in front of his eyes, like it was said to when you were dying. Places, people, voices. But something was-- wrong. This wasn't life as he'd known it.


--A beach. Sand between his toes. A striped sunshade above him, with an IV bag dangling from it. His arm, heavy as lead, wrinkly and oddly colored. His breath coming in labored gasps. Waves crashing in the background. Weariness drawing him under. No regrets--

--A battered paperback edition of 'Lord of the Rings' lying open on his knees. Shaky hands trying to turn the pages. Torren turning them for him--

--His face in the mirror. Gray hair. Wrinkles. Bone-deep exhaustion--

--Rodney's Nobel, taken off the livingroom wall and carefully put away--

--A house full of people he hadn't invited. A table full of gifts he wouldn't unwrap. A glass of scotch and solitude in the kitchen. A photo of him and Rodney pinned to the fridge. Teyla sneaking up on him and pulling him into a surprise hug--

--White wine and fish on a restaurant table. Radek, white-haired and bearded, talking too much about Rodney. John talking too little and eating even less--

--A flight in his Cessna, to forget for a couple of hours, high above the ground--

--Having breakfast at Rodney's favorite place. Still avoiding orange juice--

--General Lorne's phone call, trying to persuade him to come back to the SGC. John firmly declining the job offer--

--Hong Kong, loud and busy. The Great Wall of China; impressive, but crawling with too many people. The beautiful beaches of the Côte d'Azur. The ocean, far too blue. Hiking in the Alps. Spectacular views. Quiet. But no rest, not anywhere. No peace, no nothing--

--Their house, empty--

--A funeral. A tombstone. Rodney there, but not, anymore--

--Rodney's feet in his lap. Star Trek XXXI up on the beamer. No popcorn, because Rodney had eaten it all. A tickle to Rodney's foot. Laughing and making out on the sofa, almost like teenagers. Going to bed. Waking up to complete and utter silence. Two bodies, one heartbeat--


Abruptly, the blinding pain, the sensory overload-- It stopped. John sagged, panting, filled with an unspeakable sadness. Only the queen's force of will held him upright. She looked pleased with herself, but far from sated. Her hand was still pressed lightly to his chest. "You see now," she said, obviously savoring the intense mix of terror and grief that was spreading through him like wildfire.

"You're taking my future," he answered in a raspy voice.

"Why consume the Now if you can have the Then with all its possibilities?" she said, as if it all made perfect sense.

"How--"

"In a way, I am-- everywhen," she said, her fingers tightening on his jaw.

Strangely enough, John thought he understood.

She leaned even closer. "Now, John Sheppard, let us see what else could have been."

He would have steeled himself for what was about to come, if he had known how. This was so far beyond the imaginable, so far beyond horrifying, that not even his darkest nightmares could compete.

The queen's hand started to push forward. John considered screaming, as long as he still could.

"Stop!" someone yelled. "Stop right now!"

Intense relief washed through him, but only for an instant. Then he recognized the voice. God, that was Rodney. Where the hell were Ronon and Teyla?

The queen hissed in anger and showered John with stinking spittle in the process. She didn't turn away, her eyes still fixed on his.

"What you've taken from him, give it back!" Rodney ordered, his voice a little shaky, but determined.

This time the queen did draw her feeding hand back to gain momentum. Before she could slam it into John, a stunner blast hit her in the side of the head. John could feel the electricity crackling; he was that close. Ah, he thought dazedly, so that was where Ronon had been hiding.

The queen stumbled backwards and lost her physical and mental grip on him. John toppled over to the floor, face first. He heard someone, probably Teyla, fire a few rounds, and Ronon's stunner joining in again, and Rodney yelling, "Are you out of your minds? Don't kill her! She has to-- to restore--"

And then Rodney was turning John over on his back, frantically running his hands over John's body, touching his face, shoving his vest and shirt out of the way. John just stared at Rodney, who was alive and would be for years to come.

"Ow," John said when Rodney ran his fingers over the raw feeding mark. "Stop that. It hurts." It hurt a lot less than his head did, but he wasn't going to tell Rodney that.

"You-- Did she-- You don't look older," Rodney said, looking terrified. He searched John's eyes for confirmation. "She didn't--" He gestured at the feeding mark, then, in a not-so-subtle move, let his hand drop to rest on top of John's, "--take anything?"

The touch of Rodney's palm on the back of his hand felt warm and real. John looked at him — just looked, grateful that Rodney was there, that they both were. The silence lasted long enough for Rodney to get nervous. "John? What did she--"

"Nothing." John turned his hand underneath Rodney's and entwined their fingers. "Nothing I can't live without."


- end -