It's strange, he thinks. He would never have believed it possible to feel such emptiness. He'd never been one to allow much room for emotions, or so he'd thought. He'd always been horrible at expressing feelings, at acting on them, in certain ways. People knew he was passionate, that anger was not something he shied away from but still… His emotions were like primary colors on him, if one cared to look; basic, simple, clear. Anger, happiness, shame, fear, but the softer ones, the shades and myriads of combinations that turned the world into those infinite variations of light always escaped him, or rather never showed through, like he was some sort of filter, allowing only the base of what he felt to bleed through.
It was like taste without smell, being able to tell someone only if life was sweet, bitter, salty or acidic. It's not that important until you discover just how wonderful it all can be.
Yet now…
Now, he knows better. Watching the sun fade and the funeral pyre burn bright over the coming night sky, watching all the colors bathe the world, he knows what emptiness means. He watches until nothing is left but ash and darkness and still, nothing comes.
He knows why.
All the light in the world, all the feelings in the world have died with her, burned to sterile cinders where nothing will ever grow from again.
He's lost her, and with her his light had died and would never shine again.
The gun in his hand is heavy, cold. He lifts it up, eyes dry, his hand sure.
The shot echoes sharply, the muzzle flash bright, tearing the night. He knows nothing more, his blood pooling swiftly into her ashes.
They are together now and nothing, not even time, can take them apart.
He wakes with a strangled shout, his heart hammering harder than any other time he can remember, all other nightmares aside. He swallows hard around the lump in his throat, the tears in his eyes falling down his cheeks in swift rivers.
He doesn't cry, doesn't do tears. It's just not like him. He's… shed tears before but not like this. He can't fight them this time; the depth of the feeling of despair the dream left behind is… indescribable, like an ocean swelling with the incoming tide. There's nothing he can do but let himself be swept away. Still, he fights.
He sits up and buries his head in his hands, trying to get himself under control but he just can't and wonders why he bothers at all. He doesn't cry, he thinks again. Usually. There's no harm in it and maybe he'll feel better, maybe it will wash away the black he can still feel in his soul and leave softer shades behind.
He gives in and after a minute, he has to grab his pillow and bury his face into it, afraid to draw attention of passers-by, even through the soundproofed door. He shouldn't be surprised; his emotions, his primary colors, are vibrant, never shaded, fierce. He's cried before, shed tears, grieved for dead friends but there have been so many, lately. And close. Too close. Maybe he's just reached his breaking point.
He doesn't think he's depressed, certainly not badly enough to want to kill himself. The idea isn't something he's ever entertained. Self-sacrifice aside, he's not suicidal, never has been. In a perverse way, he thinks he's meant to live his life even if it means going through a whole lot of pain, whether it be his punishment or just the way it's meant to be. The feelings the dream left behind, the fear, the despair, the emptiness, terrify him.
Maybe he's just… mourning, because this is what it feels like to him. He's not sure. He's not thinking particularly straight at the moment, too caught up in the storm. There is one thought at the edge of his mind, one he's chosen to ignore; the other image in his dream, the woman on the pyre. Teyla.
He doesn't know how long it takes but the sobs eventually die down and the tears slow. He sniffs loudly and just lets himself fall back, rolling to his side. He turns his pillow over to the dry side, eyes drooping, worn to the bone, soul raw as if it could bleed.
He can see the light of dawn through his half-shut eyes but exhaustion is pulling him down inexorably. He surrenders and sleeps, dreamless.
He wakes, hours later, the sun shining brightly. His body is stiff, but his mind is rested, clearer than it has been in a long time. He wastes no time.
The chimes on her door chime softly and she's standing there a second later, peering up at him, her expression a mix of different shades of concern, worry and something that is uniquely her.
"John? Are you all right? You look…"
He shakes his head, cutting off her words with a hand. "Teyla. Just…" he sighs. "I really am no good at this," he says, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. In his mind, he can still see blood and ashes, taste them on the wind.
"I am certain you will make yourself understood, John," she says softly, her voice like a caress on his soul.
And suddenly, he doesn't need to speak. He moves closer, slowly, like the sun across the sky, his arms encircling her and drawing her close. She doesn't resist, really.
"I… Can't pretend I don't… feel… anymore. If… If I ever lost you, I'd lose myself. You're the light in my world. You… make me make sense. Like… geez, I suck at this," he rages, letting her go.
She follows him, placing her hands flat on his chest. "I do not need your words to understand, John," she repeats.
"Yes, you do. I need to…"
A finger to his lips stills him as she leans close, a soft hand at his nape drawing him down to her.
"I love you too, John," she murmurs softly to his ear, her breath like a warm summer breeze, like the caress of a dove's feather on his wounded soul.
He doesn't know why, in his mind's eye, his love for her has always been a soft dove's feather grey; soft, a warmth of pink and a shadow of steel, like the woman it represents.
He doesn't say a word, just holds her close, feeling his heart slow as she rests her head over it.
Dreams may come, he thinks, but he'll hold on to this moment for as long as breath he has.
FIN.