somedaybitch | my first foray into SGA fic. i'm glarin' at the pimps

Title: Stand Up Eight
Pairing: Sheppard/OC, Sheppard-Himself, Sheppard-Weir. Gen.
Rating: mature, for language and theme-y-ness
Spoilers: through Season 2, and Sheppard backstory
Disclaimer: not mine, don’t own them, very bitter about that. Don’t cut the hair.
Length: 6000 words and change.
Notes: ain't no happy fluffy here. i blame

samdonne fully and completely. and

cofax7, because she's a pimp.

normally i don't use a beta in the strictest sense of the word. i simply run it by

themonkeycabal since she's my writing partner, and she'll tell me when it sucks. sometimes she even does a little dance, but we aren't gonna talk about that. this time, on accounta i was so bloody nervous about this fic, i tapped some other bits of brain and a google thanks goes out to

starsgoblue,

boofadil and

thevaliumsofa. all mistakes, sadly, are still mine.

archiving is fine as long as you tell me where the wild boy goes.

Summary: Intellect makes a lousy ghost repellant.

x-posted to

john_elizabeth and

sga_noticeboard

*************************************************************************************

John Sheppard never wanted to do anything but fly. He was 6 years old when his father had taken them to Edwards to see the Thunderbirds defy gravity and death. The fumes from the jet fuel had made his mother sick. He’d thought it smelled like heaven. Sitting on the edge of his bed now, John stared at the pilot wings in his hands. His wings. He’d only had them a year. 2nd Lieutenant John Sheppard. Pilot. For the first time in his life that word left him hollow; almost as hollow as the sound of her voice.

"I’m not leaving without an answer."

His stomach was doing its best to climb out his throat, his skin cold and tingly from shock. She’d asked him to choose; to choose between the food for his soul and the blood in his veins. He didn’t even know which one she was. Both. Neither. He hated intuitive flashes of truth.

John squeezed a hand tightly around his wings, feeling the metal bite into his skin. He looked up at her finally – "up" being a relative term given that she was wedged in the corner behind the door, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. "Mag," he said. The nickname drawled on his tongue out of habit, but broke at the end.

Her eyes were red-rimmed and she ignored the fresh tears running down her face. "Sucks, doesn’t it? To want something so badly and know you can’t have it."

"Don’t do this, Maggie," John pleaded quietly. She was going to make him hate her. She was going to be understanding, and gentle, tell him she still loved him. She was going to push him to hate her because she knew he couldn’t hate himself and still function, still fly. And he was going to let her. She was going to make him choose, knowing he couldn’t choose her because he didn’t know how. And she was going to let him.

"I thought I could handle it, Shep. I did. I mean, I got it, you know? The flying? I get the freedom...I understand the solitude. I know what it means." She paused to wipe her face, sniffling softly. "I just…" She stopped then, got up and walked to the window beside his bed. He watched her in his peripheral vision, waited without pushing. "I started having nightmares a couple months ago. Air Force cars in the driveway, you going up in flames…your funeral, over and over." She stopped again, an almost puzzled look in her eyes. "I never say anything. I never cry....I don’t feel anything. I just stare at your body--"

John stopped her, reaching back blindly with a hand to pull her to him. She let herself be drawn against the bed, braced between his legs. She ran a hand tenderly through his hair when he wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his head against her stomach. "I’m not gonna die, Maggie." He felt her deep breath at that, felt it hitch and he pulled more tightly. She kept talking like he’d hadn’t said a word.

"I have this one…in slow-motion. It’s morning." She paused, dropping her head to rest gently on his. "Why is it always morning?" The child-like confusion in her voice dragged a soft whimper from his throat. She pushed away from him at that and he watched her take refuge again in the corner, body sliding slowly down the wall. His vision was blurring and some distant part of his brain recognized tears. "The sun is so bright. It’s clear…blue…ocean blue…I’m walking out of the house, down the front steps, and I find out you’re dead from the press. They're jamming microphones and cameras in my face asking me how I feel."

"Jesus," he whispered brokenly.

"I can’t do this, John. I can’t be a widow waiting to happen. I thought I could, that I was strong enough, but I…" She’d started crying again. She was destroying him because he was destroying her, and he knew he deserved it.

"I can’t stop flyin’, Mag. It’s…what I am."

She smiled sadly at him then. "I know. I’d hate you if you did."

*************************************************************************************

He pulled in the driveway, killed the engine, and then sat motionless for what felt like days. Captain John Sheppard, United States Air Force, still terrified of his old man. Stellar. John shook his head and let out a steadying breath. He knew what it was, had all the shrink-speak memorized. John Sheppard craved his father’s approval and knew he was never going to get it. Not that his father didn’t love him, or even approve of him. Intellectually, he understood that. His dad just didn’t know how to say it, how to mean it in words that didn’t cut and leave scars; an ironically fucked up defense mechanism against getting abandoned, John would tell himself over shots and chasers. Push them away and they can’t leave you first. Emotionally, though? Intellect makes a lousy ghost repellant.

John pulled his gaze from a study of dashboard dust motes and looked at the configuration of lights on inside the house. He knew his mother wasn't home. It was half the reason he came when he did. If he and Dad were gonna go at it, he didn't want his mother around to hear it. Ironically, he'd learned that protective instinct from his father. His mother was the strongest woman John knew, had to be to put up with the old man all this time, but men didn’t raise their voices in front of women. It just wasn't done.

He rang the doorbell. After about a minute, he rang it again. Frowning, he dug the key out of his pocket and let himself in. Not hearing anything inside, he went to the garage using the door off the kitchen to double check that his father's car was there. God, he hoped the old man wasn't drunk. John stopped in the middle of the formal living room and listened. The house was quiet but something was making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. His body started to tense, battle-hardened instincts engaging a heightened alert level; he cocked his head slightly to one side and listened again, listened like he was in the field. He heard it then, the clinking of glass in the den upstairs. Shit.

John climbed the stairs slowly, hugging the wall because he couldn't stop himself. The door to the den was closed but he could see the light leaking out from under it. Quietly, he crossed the landing and opened the door. What he saw stopped him dead in his tracks.

His father was sitting behind his massive desk, a bottle of single malt Scotch half-empty beside him, a glass half-empty next to the bottle. Beside those was his father's service weapon. John could see that the safety was off. More chilling than the loaded .45 were the tears streaming down his father's face.

"Dad?"

His father said nothing at first, scrubbed his face with one hand while the other moved to rest on the gun. John recognized the action for what it was; a warning. His stomach clenched and he could feel the blood leaving the tips of his fingers. He'd done this before, talked guys down, talked them back from the edge of Hell, but this was his father. A man he barely understood, and didn't know at all.

"I thought they were dead, John."

Oh God. The blood loss was replaced by a tingling sensation all over his body as his brain started to calculate distance, force and speed, body weight and angles, how much pressure the windows behind the desk would take before they gave.

"Who, Dad?" He tried to keep his voice low, calm but not knowing; maybe get his dad talking long enough, hoping his mother would come home soon and her presence would stop what he was terrified that he couldn't.

"The op got burned. We were in Prague. Nobody knew our double was a triple."

Fuck. He watched his father take a slow drink, noticed the envelope on the desk for the first time, edges of photographs sticking out.

"You were 17. It was two days after your birthday."

Fuck, Dad. Not now. Don't do this now. Don't tell me you fucking feel guilty about my life and then blow your fucking head off. John shook those thoughts off. He knew it wasn't that, wasn't him. Not in a bitter way, but with a surety that threatened to render him helpless. His father was a Cold Warrior, a principled man that put duty and honor before family and love. John hated him for that, and loved him just as fiercely. For a split second, John thought of Maggie.

"They told us to pull out. We had 30 minutes to pack it up and make egress. If we were late, we'd be left behind." Colonel Sheppard looked his son in the eyes. "Disavow all knowledge."

John met his father's gaze squarely, knowing how the story would go. He took a deep breath and swallowed hard against tears. Pity would end badly.

"They weren't dead." John made it a statement, soft and understanding.

His father shook his head, blinked through tears and took another drink before speaking. "I could have checked. Should have. You don't leave assets behind if you don't have to. There was time....maybe."

John was dangerously close to throwing up. "How long?"

"Six months ago." His father's voice broke finally.

"Fuck." After a moment John realized he'd said that out loud. His father had put the glass down and was running a hand over the photographs and the envelope. The other had gone back to the gun. Jesus, Mom. Hurry the fuck up.

"They never let them go. Over 10 years and they never let them go."

"Dad," John whispered. He'd taken a cautious step towards the desk, started to risk another when his father's hand tightened on the gun.

"You want to see the pictures? They sent 'em to us. Sadistic fucks."

He took a steadying breath, slow and easy. "Give me the gun, Dad." He knew he was screwed. There was no way he'd make the desk in time.

"His daughter was your age. 8 when I first met her."

John watched the hand, stared at it because he couldn't look away; watched knuckles slowly going white with the force of his father's grip. He took another step forward. "Dad. Please look at me." John forced his eyes away from the gun and onto his father's face. The eyes he saw were already dead.

"I love you, you know."

John choked back a sob.

*************************************************************************************

"Dial the gate!" Sheppard screamed over the firefight. He had Teyla pulled tightly against him behind a tree that wasn't big enough, one hand trying to stem the bleeding from her neck, the other making his P90 sing. John risked a glance at Ronon, suddenly grateful for the sheer breadth of the man, as a palm the size of a small car was jammed against McKay's right hip.

"Atlantis, this is Lorne. We have wounded and we're coming in hot." Major Lorne checked his targets and re-adjusted. "Colonel, let's go!"

With a quick apology to Teyla as he hauled her over his shoulder, John broke cover and ran for the gate. "Ronon, go. Go!" He watched Ronon carry McKay through before he and Lorne went, the Major covering their retreat as John dove through the glimmering blue liquid.

Landing badly on the other side, he felt Teyla being taken from him, heard the alien rounds wounding his city. His. John rolled over, trying to catch his breath as medical personnel swarmed over him looking for the source of the blood he was covered in. He brushed them away, grateful but impatient to be left alone, his eyes still closed. "It's not mine. I'm not hit," he said softly, pausing at the sharp pang of guilt that brought him. "I’m not hit."

"John."

Elizabeth's voice was quiet amidst the chaos. He felt her at his shoulder, could smell the clean scent of her over the copper tang of blood. Taking a deep breath, John tried to will his body still, stop the shaking that had started the second they made it home. Home.

She moved to help him sit up and he let her, finally opening his eyes. He slammed them shut again when his vision blurred and his stomach started to pitch.

"Easy. Take your time."

"Sheppard," Ronon rumbled quietly.

John hadn't heard him approach, rarely did. He turned his head slowly and opened his eyes. Ronon was crouched down on the other side of John, waiting, a data storage device in his hand. It was smeared with Rodney's blood.

"Surveillance on the Wraith," John said hoarsely, his eyes shining and a little bit wild. He saw Elizabeth's hand reach across and take the device from Ronon. Her hands were so small, so fragile to be bathed in blood. So much blood. John drew in a careful breath. Space. He needed space. He really wasn't up for hurling in public.

"Beckett's prepping for surgery."

John looked at Ronon, saw the quiet reassurance and nodded once. The movement made him pale visibly.

"John."

Elizabeth again. Calm and steady.

"Clean up. We'll do this later."

She got up, stepped aside to let his teammate help him stand. Ronon held firmly to John's forearm, waiting for him to steady his feet. John gave a quick squeeze in thanks and let go, didn’t trust himself to nod again or he really would lose it all over the floor. Not so macho military commander pukes. Film at eleven.

He took another slow breath and started walking. He focused on his feet, one after the other, step following step until he was at the entrance to his quarters. He barely made it to his bathroom before he was sick, his body paying the price for the battle with his mind. His face was flushed and dripping with sweat as he tried to catch his breath and keep the panic at bay. His stomach seized again and he threw up, kept throwing up until all that came out was bile.

John slid to the floor finally, pressing his face against the cool tile. He felt the city hum. He wasn't sure how long he'd lain there before he heard his door open. He tried to will it shut and failed. He hoped it was because he was too weak, but knowing the only person dumb enough, or brave enough, to override his locks, Atlantis probably ignored him. Stupid city. He thought he heard its laughter right before the water went on and he felt a cool, sure hand on his forehead.

"Go away, Elizabeth," he mumbled miserably.

"Shut up." Her voice was low and mildly annoyed.

She wiped his face and neck with cold water and brushed unruly hair from his eyes, not saying another word. He tried to protest when she started to pull his shirt off, but his body was busy betraying him, and she wouldn't listen anyway. Elizabeth gently cleaned the blood from his skin - his arms and hands were coated with it - going back to the water as needed to rinse the cloth she used. Her quiet ministrations stopped after several minutes and he heard her walk away. He listened while she hunted through his dresser and forced himself not to think about how completely exposed he was in a way that had nothing to do with clothes. John was at once grateful and terrified that she was there, that she should see him this way. He felt her hand on his shoulder then and tried to sit up, help her with the shirt she’d found, but mostly he just leaned. Elizabeth tugged it in place then guided his body back to the floor, rinsed the cloth again and pressed it against his forehead. He closed his eyes.

##

Consciousness came slowly. Vague awareness was followed by place recognition. Atlantis. John had a split second of peace before his body reminded him why he was curled on the floor of his bathroom. "How long was I out?" His throat felt like shattered concrete.

"Couple of hours," Elizabeth replied. When he tried to sit up, she reached a hand out to stop him. "Stay down. You’re going to be—"

"Whoa, dizzy." He let his body slump. "I’ll just be here on the floor if you need me."

He heard the smile in her voice as she activated her earpiece.

"Weir," she paused, listening. "Thank you…no, he’s fine…in his quarters…I will."

He watched her click it off. "Beckett?" His stomach threatened to revolt as the fear pounded him again.

She nodded. "Teyla’s out of surgery. She’s stable." Elizabeth paused as John closed his eyes and breathed deeply with relief. "Rodney’s yelling at nurses already."

John managed a slight grin at that, scrubbing a hand over his face. The amusement faded as he thought of his teammates and how close he’d just come to losing them, to being responsible for getting them killed. Again. Unconsciously, he curled his body tighter.

"I don’t know if I can do this anymore," he whispered.

Elizabeth was quiet for so long that he wasn’t sure she’d heard him. Or maybe she had. The thought that she might…he shoved that away but not fast enough. He felt his skin growing clammy again and his vision started to narrow. John pulled himself tightly into a ball, breath coming quicker as he focused desperately on not throwing up.

"John."

She gave his name a quiet reassurance and said nothing else. He knew what she was doing, knew what was coming. It was so fucking her, but right this minute if she told him that she couldn't do this without him, he might just hit her. Assuming of course he could find the energy. Part of him just wanted her gone, wanted to wallow in his guilt and his fear in peace. Peace. You're a funny guy. When he was sure that his stomach wouldn't betray him in front of her, he rolled over onto his back. He didn't trust himself to speak so he just stared at the ceiling, running a hand tiredly through his hair. He knew she'd recognize it for what it was.

"Tell me what happened." The order was gently spoken.

He had to take several deep, slow breaths before he could answer. "Kolya," John said thickly. "I should have taken that bastard out on Dagan."

"That isn’t who you are."

"Who I am gets people killed," he snapped, overcome by a fatigue that was bone deep.

Elizabeth said nothing for several long moments. When she spoke, it was carefully, as if working the thoughts out as she voiced them. "When the Wraith attacked…when you, took the jumper…you did it knowing it might not even work. Part of me hated you." Her voice was soft, an odd singsong quality to it.

Ignoring his protesting muscles, John sat up and slid across the floor of the small room to lean against the opposite wall. "Elizabeth."

"I know there were no other choices." She paused, closing her eyes, let her own fatigue show. "It was suicide, John. Maybe for nothing...and you knew it."

He dropped his head back against the wall, closed his eyes as his own memories washed over him. "I wasn't running."

"I know," she said softly, nodding but not looking at him. "I almost envied you the freedom."

"Elizabeth...I..." He stopped, not even knowing where to start, how to explain why he'd done it. How to explain being connected to Atlantis and having every option proposed and discounted in the blink of an eye, feeling the city, a living thing pulsing through his veins; seeing everything everywhere all at once. Every fight, every death. And having the image of Sumner come back to him, knowing that's what would happen to the people that had become his family. There. He'd said it. Thought it. Whatever. Fuck.

"You couldn't just stand there and watch us die. You’ve done it too many times."

John swallowed hard, didn’t trust himself to meet her eyes. He still had nightmares. Nightmares about his father, about Sumner; about finding Rodney and Elizabeth dead at the hands of the Wraith, of finding all of their bodies shriveled and left for trash; about Rangers betrayed when they suddenly got inconvenient.

Sumner. John knew he’d done the right thing, had burned in his memory the look in the man's eyes, but that knowledge did little to ease the weight of his guilt. Those nightmares came rarely now, but somewhere in the back of his mind, shoved under the infinite layers, locked behind the endless compartments where John put his pain and his fear and his uncertainties, that voice in his head never fully stayed quiet. You took too long. You should have brought more men. Sumner wouldn’t have fucked it up. He would have gotten you out. Maybe.

Elizabeth brought her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. She watched him until the weight of her gaze forced him to look at her. "You still think the Wraith are your fault."

He hated her non-questions. "I woke them up," he whispered tightly.

"Yes you did," she agreed. "But I let you go." She let him chew on that for a moment before continuing. "And what would have happened if you hadn't killed Colonel Sumner?" She paused when he flinched at her word choice and looked away. "What did you tell me? Our people in the hands of the enemy." She stopped, waiting again for his eyes, leaning forward to emphasize her words. "You know she would have broken him. You do, or you wouldn't have shot him. And then they would have the Stargate. Billions of lives, John. Hundreds of planets. Not just Earth."

He looked away, unwilling to accept the understanding in her eyes. He had a moment alone with the guilt he refused to let go of before she leaned forward, taking his jaw in her hand and forcing him to look at her. He tried to pull away, didn't want her to see the tears trying to fall, but she only gripped more tightly.

"You are no good to me like this."

John jerked his head free at that, wiped angrily at his eyes. He drew his knees up and dropped his forehead on them, away from her penetrating gaze. It wasn't just Sumner. It wasn't just the damned mission. It was all of it. What if it starts getting easy? He knew what she meant, knew there was a balance somewhere between living with his choices and shutting down completely but he couldn’t see his way through. Maybe he didn't think he deserved it...or maybe he didn't want it; the balance, maybe he didn’t want it. What if he didn’t want it? What if it stops hurting?

"Your job is the hard choices. And those choices are not always right, but no one's ever are. Hindsight is so easy." She paused, running a hand through her hair in a rare sign of frustration. "My God, John...I let Rodney destroy half a solar system. You think I know what I'm doing?"

"5/6ths," John mumbled.

"What?"

He looked up, a ghost of his lazy smile reaching his lips. "5/6ths of a solar system."

"Don't be an ass."

The smile solidified a bit more. "You say that like I can help it."

Elizabeth gave him a withering look, and then chuckled softly when it bounced harmlessly off his smile.

"So they don't teach you about life-sucking space vampires in diplomacy school, huh?"

"Not so much."

They lapsed into silence again, John hoping she'd leave it be and content to say nothing. God, you're a bastard. But he knew better, knew her better, and wasn't surprised that she didn't wait very long.

"Why Antarctica?"

He frowned, having expected more prodding but not from that direction. "What?"

Elizabeth was leaned against the wall, legs now stretched out in front of her, crossed at the ankles, her hands resting comfortably on her lap. He was reminded how truly irritating his own body language could be.

"After Afghanistan. Why Antarctica?"

He shrugged slightly. "It was quiet." Her raised eyebrow spoke volumes.

"I've read the transcripts, the affadavit --." She paused as he looked up sharply at that. "You could have discharged honorably but you didn't. Why?"

"Elizabeth --" he started, letting his fatigue and irritation bleed through. How the hell did you? John sighed audibly. Fucking O'neill. Nice of them to share. He'd had about all the shrinking he could handle for one day but she cut him off with a hard stare.

"No place else to go," he answered after a long moment. He looked away, closing his eyes as the sounds of death and battle replayed in his mind. John felt his face burn, the frustrated anger and shame back like it happened that morning, knowing that his actions were right, and somehow still wrong. He'd stayed to pay for his sins, and to keep the sky, but he wasn't going there. Not even with her.

"And Atlantis?"

"You asked," he replied, trying to pull his game face back together.

She tilted her head at that. "You said no when I asked."

"Well, yeah," he drawled. "At first."

"And after we went back to Earth?"

"Orders," he dodged, slightly averting his eyes. You fought for me. Only one other person had ever fought for him, and he didn't understand it then either. He remembered his stunned silence in Landry's office, pretty sure the Old Man had been doing his best to hide a smile. Why did you fight for me?

"Hmm hmmm," she murmured, not bothering to hide her disbelief.

He wasn't willing to tell her that Atlantis was the first place that he felt he truly belonged, a belonging he'd fight to keep. It was all too raw, wounds still seeping. "You called it Earth."

She frowned at that, and then slowly started to smile. "I did," she said with a slight laugh. "That is what it's called, John."

"And that's not what I meant, Elizabeth."

She smiled again. "I know what you meant."

"Then answer your own damned question," he growled petulantly. Shrink that. His stomach had finally settled, and though still weak, the room was becoming claustrophobic for him and he had to get out. John pulled himself up slowly, waving off her attempt to help him, and he put his head in the sink and hit the cold water. The shock to his system disoriented him for a few seconds but then the water was refreshing and he took several moments to soak his head. When the lightheadedness passed, he rinsed his mouth and washed his face. Elizabeth was leaning in the doorway holding a towel.

"Thank you," he said gruffly, taking the towel and moving passed her out of the room. He scrubbed rather viciously at his hair and sat down on the edge of his bed. He could just feel the beginnings of a headache pressing behind his eyes.

Elizabeth had followed him and was now leaning against his desk, apparently content to wait him out. How many of his habits was he teaching these people?

"You were wrong before," John whispered into the silence.

"About?" Her face was so open, curious and non-threatening.

"When you said that wasn't the kind of man I am."

"John --".

"Elizabeth, just...listen. Please," he pleaded.

"Okay," she replied slowly. She pulled the chair out from under the desk and sat down.

"-728 had a Genii listening post stashed in the hills. We got tipped off in town. These guys weren't exactly friendly to the locals." He pulled a face, conveying everything he thought of the Genii. "Teyla met up with an old trading partner and he told us about stuff they'd overheard in the tavern. Over a few months they'd pieced together what the Genii were doing there." John paused, running a hand through his still damp hair.

"They were tracking the Wraith," Elizabeth said softly. "Like Ford's...team."

The two made eye contact at that, sharing the unspoken. John nodded, then continued, his voice still low, resonating with his conflicted emotions. "Ronon tracked a Genii back to the outpost and we moved in. They had a tight perimeter and pretty solid defenses, but we had surprise and plenty of C-4." He grinned fiercely and then it was gone. "Rodney got a lock on some heavy energy readings about a klik beyond the outpost, and then picked up radiation." John met her eyes again. "They had a nuke, Elizabeth."

She paled slightly. "They were using the planet as bait."

He nodded again, his eyes flashing with anger. "The guard we took out confirmed it after a little help." John got up and started pacing, trying to bleed off the nervous energy pounding through his system. "The bastards were going to let those people get slaughtered to collect their damned intel." He stopped, having caught himself clenching and unclenching his hands, and took a steadying breath. How am I any different? John brought a hand up to his face, rubbing at the tension behind his eyes, then moved back to the bed and sat down. He dropped his head into his hands, drawn inward by his own demons.

"How did Rodney and Teyla get hurt?" Elizabeth prodded gently.

John didn't look up. "We needed a distraction to get inside the outpost and we had to secure the nuke. Rodney rigged a charge to blow it without detonating the plutonium and we used the explosion for cover. It worked for about two minutes and then the place was crawling with bad guys. We got pinned down. That left the outpost looking empty, which would have been great except for the pinned down part. I ordered Rodney in with Teyla to cover him. He was the only one who would know what to look for..." His voice trailed off at that.

"You did your job, John."

"I didn't even hesitate, Elizabeth. I just sent them in." He looked up. "Rodney's no soldier, but I did the math and he was the answer. We needed that intel so I gave the order...and they almost died."

"I give that order every time I send a team through the Stargate," Elizabeth countered, her voice full of understanding. "And every time there's a chance that someone won't come back, but I can't let that stop me. It's not why we're here."

"I could have gone in, done it myself. A year ago I would have," he replied stubbornly.

"And a year ago you would have been wrong." Elizabeth crossed the room, bringing the chair with her. She put herself right in front of him and sat down, waiting for him to look up. "Where is this coming from?"

Why did you fight for me? John swallowed hard before answering. "When I thought...when Kolya took Atlantis, and they got the 'gate open, putting the shield up was like... swatting a fly. I didn't feel anything. Not even later. I just...closed the shield and moved on to the next target."

"And your choices were what? Let reinforcements through?" Elizabeth shook her head. "Your base was under attack. The gateway to Earth was compromised. They'd already killed some of your people."

He watched her eyes narrow, her gaze focus as she studied his face. He could practically see her replay bits of their conversation in her head; examining each piece as a puzzle, looking for clues, discarding his verbal countermeasures, churning through data until she could understand what he was trying very hard not to tell her...probing at wounds to see which still bled.

"You think if our positions were reversed I wouldn't have done the same thing? Or Rodney?"

He shook his head. "No."

"You think what you did was wrong?"

His eyes flashed briefly in anger. "I wasn't wrong," the answer coming from deep in his throat.

Aaaand click. He could see the proverbial light bulb over her head.

Elizabeth leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "You're afraid it's getting easy."

John met her eyes, his own bright, his lips forcing a grim smile. He nodded his answer because it was all he could do.

She said nothing, for which he was extremely grateful. She just waited, letting him come to it in his own time.

"What if it stops hurting?" He whispered finally, eyes unfocused over her shoulder. "How many mistakes do I get to figure it out?"

Elizabeth smiled slightly, a smile of knowing the fear. "Fall down seven times. Stand up eight."

He raised an eyebrow at that. "Diplomacy school?"

She nodded, the smile reaching her eyes now. "It was on the door of my advisor's office. We used to think he put it there just to piss us off." She paused as they shared a soft chuckle. "He was so right. The bastard."

The other eyebrow came up and then he laughed fully, the tension finally beginning to ease. "It's the getting up, huh?"

"Something like that."

The companionable silence returned; in it, he let his thoughts drift until her voice brought him back.

"You aren't trapped, you know."

He frowned, a knot starting to re-form his stomach. "What?"

"Atlantis. You don't have to stay. You can go back if you want to."

"You want me to leave?" He winced at the needy 5 year old in his voice.

She gave him a Rodney laugh. "John Sheppard, you're a genius. I've been letting my ass get numb on your floor because I want you to go back to Earth."

He shifted uncomfortably and managed to look both apologetic and annoyed at the same time. "Can we not talk about your ass?"

Elizabeth looked over her shoulder and down, feigning offense. "What's wrong with my ass?"

"Nothing," he drawled lazily. "That's why we're not talking about it."

Whatever reply she had, designed no doubt for maximum John Sheppard discomfort, was interrupted by a hail on the comm.

"Weir," she answered crisply. Elizabeth listened for a moment, her eyes going slightly wide and then she laughed. "Radek. Radek, slow down. My Czech's not that good." She listened again, nodded and started to smile. "Good job. Colonel Sheppard and I will join you shortly." She smiled yet again and laughed softly. "Nice work."

John watched her click off and tilted his head, lifting an eyebrow by way of inquiry.

"They've finished some preliminary analysis on the intel your team retrieved. It backs up what we've been thinking about conflict among the Wraith."

John nodded, not missing her choice of words. "Nothing like a good turf war."

She smiled grimly and then it softened. "You up for this?"

"Now you ask?"

"I don't like no for an answer," she tossed back, all charming and steel.

"Do you mind if I take a shower first?" A genuine smile warmed his face, his eyes light and easy.

She wrinkled her nose playfully. "Now you ask?"

"Hey," he pretended insult. "Teach you to break into other people's quarters."

Elizabeth laughed softly and stood. As she pulled the chair back their eyes met and held. He nodded once after a long moment and she smiled and started to leave.

John's voice stopped her just as the door was opening. "Elizabeth?"

She turned.

He frowned, still sifting, processing, but no longer haunted. "What happens when you hit nine?"

Elizabeth grinned. "I'll let you know when I get there."

Huh.

--fin--

Current Mood: accomplished
Current Music: "Lately", David Gray; "Soul Meets Body", Deathcab for Cutie