Spoilers for "Common Ground".
Touched
by Jules
The others don't touch him at first. Don't get within arm's reach. There's dirt and sweat and something stale that followed him from underground. And worse, his bladder cut loose sometime during the first feeding. He's got the traditional pre-mission whiz to thank for the fact that there hadn't been much in it. John stinks. He knows he does.
But it's not the smell that keeps them at a distance and he knows that, too.
He understands the feeling. He's gone after guys he was sure were dead or fucked beyond recognition and had them turn up neither. It's like seeing a ghost, even if you haven't witnessed the carnage beforehand. It's just weird. John glances at Ronon, who hasn't said a word to him since they started walking. They'll get over it.
The rest is harder to explain and it's got less to do with him and more to do with what the marines are lugging. That feeling he doesn't understand at all. And he's pretty sure no one else does, either.
But please God, they'll get over that, too. He's not proud of everything he's done, but he's not sorry. He'll think about it
later
and put things in perspective
much later
and deal with it
maybe
the way he does all the other things that will drive him directly out of his fucking mind if he thinks about it too hard. Right now, though: "Anybody have something to eat?"
And just like that, McKay breaks orbit and falls into step with him, almost close enough to brush shoulders. He's got on his determined face, like he's doing something brave. A weak smile filters through as he fishes a PowerBar out of his vest and hands it over.
"Of course you'd look at me when you asked that."
John hadn't been looking anywhere in particular, but it doesn't matter. He knows what this is. He tears open the wrapper and crams half the bar into his mouth. Doesn't care even a little that it tastes like apple cinnamon-flavored cardboard.
"Didn't they feed you?"
Around a mouthful: "No."
"You've been gone for over a day! How could they..?"
John chokes out a burst of laughter and Beckett makes a sharp, flustered sound.
"Rodney, honestly!"
"What? Oh."
Teyla drifts up on his right, still watching him with wide, suspicious eyes. He can't blame her. Generations worth of knowledge about the wraith among her people and no one knew about this. He's in no hurry to tell her the rest. She holds out her canteen without a word. John takes it with a quiet "thanks" and focuses to keep his hand from shaking as he lifts it to his mouth. Three long swallows before water goes down the wrong way and he coughs half of it back up.
"Are you all right?"
Not remotely.
"I'm fine."
She looks skeptical. She should. John is wound. So tight he's damn near vibrating. He feels better than he has any right to, and that doesn't help. Because he knows where it came from and he has no idea how long it'll last and he's waiting for the other shoe. And Christ, if the crash that comes with it is as serious as the high, they'll have to clean him off the deck with a wet-vac.
"Fine." She says the word slowly, like she's trying to taste it on the way out. They all move in just a little closer. Maybe taking in the odor of his complete and utter bullshit. Because it's got to smell better than he does.
The marines keep their eyes on their charge, while the others alternate between staring at John and pointedly Not Looking. He wonders if they saw. If they watched it all. And if the Earth-based personnel had seen the irony of a guy who'd flown in Afghanistan coming all the way to another galaxy to wind up bound and gagged on camera while some terrorist asshole ranted in the foreground.
"Fine" turns into a knot in his stomach, twists and tightens and doubles him over as the cinnamon apple-flavored cardboard comes back. Acid burns its way up. Recalls a ghost of pain that blooms in his chest and traces hot trails over each nerve before it fades. He coughs hard, sucks in air and leans into the hands that steady him.
Small favor; he managed to miss his boots.
He wipes his mouth with the back of one sleeve and straightens. Beckett hovers, but it's Teyla who has a hold of him. She lets go and hands back the canteen. Waits patiently while he swishes water around his mouth and spits.
"Better?" Teyla watches him. Gives him a tight smile, polite and curious. It makes his chest hurt in a whole new way.
"Yeah. Sorry."
She nudges him gently toward the jumper. "It is understandable."
"I'm glad something is."
John shuffles up the ramp and drops onto the bench in the rear compartment. He leans his head against the wall. Closes his eyes and listens to his heart hammer and waits for the others to pass. He cracks an eyelid too soon and catches what looks like concern. And confusion. And pity. He knows there'll be more of all of it when they get home. He's not sure if that bothers him more or less than the look of bald curiosity Beckett fixes on him as he makes his way to the cockpit.
Ronon pauses to glare down at the wraith that John has decided not to call Sue. He drums his fingers on the butt of his weapon and John wonders which one of them he's thinking about ventilating. Then Ronon takes the hand away from the pistol and claps him on the shoulder. Softly, like he might break.
"Good to have you back."
The engines fire up as the rest of his team retreats to the forward section. At least they don't close the bulkhead door.