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As soon as Elizabeth calls the briefing to a close, John seeks refuge on his favorite balcony. So far, he has tested out about twenty throughout the city, but he has climbed the many stairs to this one ever since he found it three weeks into the expedition, when he couldn't sleep after the Iratus incident.
Forty-one.
Legs drawn up high, chin resting on his knees, he wearily leans his forehead against a cool metal bar of the ancient balustrade. It's a long way down to the ocean, and the spire's minute swaying generates a close impression of flying – hovering – without being in the air.
Forty-one. Fuck.
He is not sure how much time has passed when Teyla finds him, sets down two mugs of tea and lowers herself to the ground gracefully. He shouldn't be surprised that she has come after him, and he isn't, not really. Thankfully, she seems to understand that he doesn't feel like talking, and after a simple "Major" seems content to enjoy the breeze and the view in silence.
Maybe she, too, can still feel the sentient vapor of the mist planet against her skin.
She doesn't ask questions, and so John doesn't have to explain about a war he has done his damnedest not to remember since he was sent to Antarctica. His worn out mind, which has been on overdrive ever since he realized something was wrong, doesn't have to put together words.
Words about how Mitch was the one who used to corrupt local children with knock-knock jokes, how it was Mitch who first encouraged John to engross them with horror movie plots. About how John had wanted to keep quiet about their encounter with the warlord, but the other two wouldn't stop bragging. About how Dex would carve notches into his bedpost and let people assume he'd got laid, but would really count every mission their entire squadron had come back from.
He doesn't have to fine the energy to say, "They were kinda idiots, but they were good pilots, and they were team."
Forty-one landings. The way Dex' tally looked when they stripped the beds, forever unfinished, never really left him alone. It's why he has done his damnedest to pay no attention to the number of missions he has been on with McKay, Ford and Teyla.
Teyla, who hasn't made him talk, who is sitting so close their shoulders almost brush, who is a reassuring, soothing presence at his side. The warmth of her body seeps through his now-dry BDUs, her quiet proximity combined with the spire's gentle swaying so calming he could almost nod off.
When he wakes up, McKay is sitting at a careful distance to the balustrade, holding John's mug of tea, talking to Teyla about the infinite evil that are shopping malls. When he manages to crane his neck without drawing attention to himself, Ford is listening from his place at the door, sipping a beer but clearly on guard duty.
I almost shot something that looked like you, John thinks, and he has made an effort to always call their unlikely quartet AR-1 in his head rather than –
"Seventeen," he says, not loud enough to be heard over McKay's stream of words, before turning to join a discussion with his new team.
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