Author:
Fandom: SGA
Beta: monanotlisa
Pairing: mentions of Chaya/Sheppard and hints at Sheppard/everybody else.
Rating: NC17.
Setting: Post-"Conversion."
Words: 1503.
Summary: John was on forced vacation, which he didn't mind, but was kind of bored.
The bed sheets felt scratchy compared to the ones on Atlantis. John was on vacation. He hadn't argued with them. He'd needed it and stepped through the Gate willingly. Now, he regretted it, had regretted it ever since his hand had touched the cold doorknob of the hotel.
Room service sat untouched on a table, as unexciting as Dr. Jackson’s reminder that the government would be paying for his meager expenses. John had though about going swimming, but then it had started to rain.
Instead, he tried to sleep. But the noise of Earth kept distracting him. He put on his headphones and tried to drown it out with steel guitar. The room felt chilly, but he didn’t want to move. No, moving sounded like too much work.
John needed a bigger distraction to lull him into sleep. To not hear every honk of a horn, every footstep, every shout of the children in the pool who didn’t care about the rain, and the static from the TV next door. John remembered why he'd loved Antarctica and how, in the deserts of Afghanistan, all he'd wanted was women laughing and the smell of greasy hamburgers; somewhere in between, John had changed.
Somewhere was a lie. John knew exactly when the change had happened. When he’d given his superior officer the finger and took off to save Mitch and Dex. To fail to save them. John should’ve died back there too.
He should’ve died many times over again. In fact, he did die, but Beckett had brought him back. There always seemed to be a doctor to fix him, or an extra rabbit's foot of luck. Luck that only served John and rarely others. He had to force it on them; maybe that was what had happened with Ellia. He’d saved Beckett and McKay and sacrificed himself. His trademark luck had pulled through at the last minute.
John shook his head. He looked over at the sleeping pills Beckett had given him and rolled onto to his back. Yes, he been given time off to think, to cool down, not to feel sorry for himself that he’d barely survived dozens of Wraith attacks only to turn into some sort of proto-Wraith.
John was bored for the first time since stepping through the Atlantis Gate. He'd only been back to Earth once, for the original debriefing, which had been busy and work. Bored. John wasn't sure that he remembered how to do that. To not write reports, spar with Teyla, argue with Rodney, or fly a puddle jumper. He'd wanted to test the jumpers underwater for his vacation, but Weird had vetoed that plan. Boredom felt wrong, but grabbing his laptop felt blasphemous against the idea of vacation.
Of course, now that he was alone, John wanted someone to talk to or someone to talk to him. Not a session with Heightmeyer, just someone to chat with.
Like the time on P7R-377, where McKay had talked halfway into the early morning about the ridiculousness of having to climb up a snowy mountain in order to lay almost dead flowers on a supposed deity’s altar, and how next time, John needed to check the customs of the local inhabitants and take Marines with him for these kind of rituals. John had fallen asleep in their shared tent before McKay had even finished half his rant. Lulled by the rhythms of McKay’s familiar outrage.
Or to listen to Teyla tell one of her people’s folktales and stories. John had been intrigued by the one that sounded like Sleeping Beauty but ended with the Princess slaying the dragon-like monster herself. Ford had tried to correct her, but that had only confused her. Maybe John would buy her a book of fairy tales. Though she might have second thoughts about their morals considering how sadistic some of Earth fairy tales were. Still better than the Disney versions.
Even the smallest familiarity in the room would’ve been enough to distract John. Like the silence of Ronon when he sharpened his knives or watching the small smiles on Weir’s face as she read over reports of new technology and new alliances. Or to feel Atlantis awaken under his fingertips. But this room was cold, dead, and controlled by switches. John had never known the power of electricity until having countless bolts of it go through his chest.
He shivered and sat up. His hand ran over his face, across the sharp stubble. He hated how he looked with a beard. Old, he looked old.
John decided that he'd go swimming anyway. Screw the rain. It couldn't be any more depressing than being trapped with his own thoughts.
He jumped in the deep end. But his hair still peaked out of water as hotels never bothered going over six feet with their pools. John wished it was deeper, that he could fall and dive into the pool. He might've loved football, but he'd been a swimmer and a track star when the weather warmed up. Jumping off the high dive had felt like flying, and that had been before he joined the Air Force. Flying was the perfect mix between running and diving.
Surfacing, John leaned back and floated. The kids were busy at the other end of the pool, standing chest-deep in shallow water. They were laughing and splashing each other. It made John smile; he'd definitely needed to get off his ass, even if the raindrops kept hitting his face, which was kind of annoying.
He rolled over and swam downward until his belly almost scraped the bottom. The chlorine stung his eyes; it'd been too long since he'd swum. But he kept going until the sky darkened and the children's mother called them in for bedtime.
The swimming had made him tired and relaxed. Instead of cleaning up to go out, John walked back to his room and decided watch a movie or even go to sleep. It seemed like more of a luxury than going out to a bar and drinking.
He rinsed off in the shower; he'd never forgotten the routines he'd learned after swim practice. And he decided not to shave, finding that he didn't want to look into the mirror. He'd just remember that he wasn't the boy who'd won every high dive competition and think of the scales itching as they'd fallen from his skin only a week ago.
The room still felt empty as John climbed between the sheets and turned on the tv. He'd never been one to watch a lot of it. His mother had always had it on during his childhood; so John had learned to tune it out while he worked on his multiplication tables. Maybe he'd catch up on some show he'd overheard his co-workers talking about, something about some housewives. But the only thing his remote seemed to find was Law & Order reruns and televangelists.
Sighing, John turned it off and rolled on his side. It was only 9 p.m. Hours before he'd even consider going to bed. He could still pull on a pair of pants and a shirt and head to a bar. To sit outside the world looking in.
John had always been able to smile and order an extra beer for the woman sitting next to him. A blonde, brunette, redhead, flicking her long black hair over her shoulder, it didn't matter. He'd ask her about her work, her hopes and dreams, and her favorite drink. They'd go back to her place as John casually explained about living on base and its rules. She never questioned anything.
They'd drink another beer, and he'd undo her bra before even pulling off her shirt. John shifted on the bed. He hadn't had sex since stepping through the Gate that first time. His hand touched his half-hard cock, and he started thinking about her again, the mythical woman.
Mythical woman. John thought about kissing Chaya. She'd been more eager than John ever expected an Ancient to be, a lot warmer and softer, too. Chaya was pretty, not in the space woman of the future way, but in a girl next door way. His hand sped up.
John couldn't find the words to explain what'd happened with her, and he probably never would. He'd felt everything, everything about her and the universe and Atlantis. She'd surrounded and dove into him. John knew that having sex with her would never compare to what they had shared.
But Chaya had become the woman he was imagining thrusting into, pressing his chest against hers and feeling her breasts move between them. The women he wanted now. He thought about kissing her and feeling her moan as he rubbed her clit. His own groan on his lips, John came.
He relaxed into the bed, warm and good from his orgasm, before reaching for the tissues to wipe himself off. He was starting to feel alive again. Human. And that made John smile.
Even if the sheets were still too scratchy.