Title: "Better Left Unspoken"
Author: Kristen999
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Characters: John,Rodney,Teyla,Ronon
Archive: Anywhere, just ask.
Rating: PG
Length: 2200 words
Summary: John doesn't need to explain his actions. He has his reasons.
Disclaimer: None our mine, this is just for fun. Please don't sue.
Notes: Written for the "Folklore and Superstitions" challenge. This is my first SGA fic, so any feedback would be greatly welcomed.
Still working on my newest CSI project for my regular readers.
John traces his fingertips over the metal, skin skittering over bumps and indentions. Each silver tag is his subconscious worry stone; no matter how long he rubs, they will never become even and smooth. His ear piece chatters, the voices of the people below indicate the team is arriving. Nothing sounds suspicious; the incoming message gives the all clear. He doesn't hold his breath as the gate glistens, a pool of liquid light expands the ring, and the boots of the returning soldiers pad along the metal landing. Though he's above it all, he can hear the pattern of marching feet. It's a rhythm, a cadence, and all six pairs of leather crunch steel with the left foot first, then the right. It's instinct, training ingrained from the days of basic. No one notices, but he does.
His thumb glides over the chain, then twists it around his forefinger, the ID clinking inside his shirt. Lorne's men debrief quickly, efficiently with Elizabeth before heading away to unload their gear. He sees the major peer up at the office with keen understanding.
John doesn't startle when someone enters; even though his focus is centered inside the gate room, it doesn't mean he stops being a solider. There are four guards shuffling away after the expedition members are dismissed. Zelenka is still arguing with someone on the far left bridge about the contents of his data pad. The cute redhead who just transferred to communications is combing through piles of off world transmissions. There are twenty people involved in their daily tasks; four armed, the rest are civilians. He doesn't know everyone's name.
Teyla is beside him now; he knows because he heard her as she ascended the stairs- her foot steps are instantly recognizable.
"Do you wish to spar later?"
She's not going for the direct approach.
"You think I need to vent some steam?" He cocks his head and gives her a crooked smile.
She returns the grin. "I think perhaps the workout will do you some good."
Teyla doesn't use the words like stress or anxiety; those will be reserved for later. By someone less tactful.
"I haven't practiced very much this week," he admits. Plus he's not really in the mood to have his ass mop the floor right now.
"Then I think it's a good idea." She steps closer, the grace with which she moves does not conceal that softer tenderness she exudes when concerned about him. "Releasing built up tension is good for the body."
She didn't mention mind or soul, but he's good at reading hidden meanings. "Stick fighting is also great at leaving me covered in bruises and I just got over the last set from a few weeks ago." His voice is thick with sarcasm; not bitter, but warm.
"Might be better than smashing a camera to pieces," she warns.
"I'm not a fan of having my picture taken." He raises his eyebrows at her, then settles his attention in front of him. Away from prying eyes that might encourage the truth.
Again he's relieved that the words over reaction are absent from this conversation. Now Rodney's 'are you nuts?' still echoes in his head.
"Very well, perhaps tomorrow then."
He's about to remind her of the mission to P3M-778 that's going to take twelve hours to complete, but then again, that's if he's on the duty roster tomorrow. His hands begin to slide down the chain again, brushing over the letters of his name just before rank and serial number.
He doesn't know how long he stands there; for some reason he doesn't want to take a seat, to offer an explanation that's he is not willing to share. Elizabeth has to go over new protocols with Rodney, who hasn't stop stealing glances up then quickly looking away. John doesn't need his skills of observation to note Ronon heading his way. The Satedan's a flash of raw energy and blurring muscles. John turns around to greet him.
Ronon is not shy when he talks. "There weren't any problems during the mission."
Within two long strides Ronon is not quite in his personal space but more like sensory mode. Sometimes he wonders if the other man can just perceive emotions and that's why he tends to hide his behind neutral expressions. John can still pick up tells by how much Ronon's eyes pierce the air. Perhaps he's just as easy a read, but he thinks he's pretty successful at being indecipherable when he wants to be.
"You ordered us not to go."
The accusation is there in that gravelly voice, but Ronon is respectful enough to tread a line.
"I did," and that's all he's going to say about the matter.
"There were no hostiles."
He knows McKay is watching their exchange and he will not give him anything to add to the fire. John rarely pulls the chain of command card. "Are you questioning my decision?"
It's a little dirty, playing with loyalties, especially when both men hold it in the highest regard. Ronon breathes heavier through his nostrils and it'll be the only indicator that he does indeed disagree, but that'll be last of it. There is no scene to dissect for inquisitive minds below and without a dismissal Ronon stalks away.
He can leave; John has not been sequestered in Elizabeth's office. With the other Team back safely he's not going to fan flames of rumor. He'll apologize to Ciprian, or was it Ciprion? The tech was Romanian or something; he'd ask Radek about the best way to soothe ruffled feathers.
And the camera. Let's not forget that, John.
He skips a few of the steps, almost down the stairwell before too many people notice and quickly passes the two people he is really trying to avoid.
Damn. Rodney is faster on his feet then he looks, Elizabeth is allowing his escape, which means there's going to be a conversation out on the landing in the near future. At least he can breathe in the ocean while he gets analyzed.
"Hey."
Keep ignoring him and maybe he'll go away.
"Hey, Sheppard!"
Not Colonel, not John. Yeah, he's in for the third degree. He is down the hall heading towards his quarters, when finally McKay catches up, huffing like he's run a mile and bound to complain about it too.
"What are you trying to do to me?" The man puffs like he smokes a pack a day.
"I thought I was being perfectly clear."
Rodney looks baffled long enough but soon recovers, his cheeks now a redder hue. "Oh. Oh! Well excuse me for wanting some type of explanation for your little meltdown from before."
He spins so fast on his heel that Rodney backs away and almost stumbles. He feels bad, but that doesn't come across at all judging by the way his friend looks at him with wide eyes. He must be doing it again; Teyla once told him that the fewer words he uses the more intense he becomes. John's glad there's not a mirror around though; he doesn't need one when he manages to silence a certain physicist. The quiet lasts only five brief seconds.
"You smashed a camera."
"I know."
Rodney blinks surprised before he recovers. "You do realize that it's an inanimate object, right?"
Maybe sparring with Teyla might be better than retreating.
"I told him no pictures."
Rodney has a vein that beats rapidly along one part of his forehead when he's all worked up. Carson likes to use the words 'stroke meter' to judge the state of agitation.
"Are you shy all of a sudden? Like you don't spend an hour to get your hair to do the spiky thing for Pete's sake. It's a picture. Simply light, captured on film, over time to create an image; nothing dangerous I assure you."
He's not going to discuss this.
Rodney has other ideas. "Zelenka had a wet behind the ears newbie who just wanted a simple memento of his first off world mission and you, our fearless leader, military commander of Atlantis, showed some lowly tech just how loony toons you really are!"
"He ignored me," he snaps.
Rodney threw his arms wide open just so he could gesture wildly to prove his point. "You ripped it out of his hands and smashed it to pieces. To top it all off, the poor guy wouldn't even go with Major Lorne-" He raised a finger to shush John's attempted interruption, "-not that you would have allowed him to go anyways after your orders denied... I dunno, the rest of us sane people to go."
Now John's breathing in short, rapid bursts, and he would much rather being running laps in a cool isolated part of the city. "My orders."
Rodney is processing something, dissecting him like a puzzle; it's the only time he's not chatting his ear off. "Why didn't you just remove the memory card?"
He inches over til their noses nearly touch and he understands that Rodney took a big leap there, grasping at illogical straws with something reasonable. "It was too late," he says simply.
There's a rare silence in which he can hear the rock tumbler inside Rodney's head debate the other questions, but his friend's eyes soften just enough and there's that look of concern. The he's just walked off the pier and finally let all the craziness in space get to him expression.
"You're still high strung about what happened last week, it's bound to cause...you know...doubts."
He doesn't need a reminder about the propulsion accident that killed four men. Not a Wraith attack, nothing as mundane as an ambush or any other type pf treachery. An accident.
"It was a gut feeling." Sighing, he gives Rodney the same look that's successful in talking Elizabeth into just about anything. "Just leave it alone."
Scientists don't believe in such things; Rodney would- could- never understand what had those warning signals cascading throughout his nervous system, making him break out in a cold sweat, just before the anger swept in when the tech snapped not one but two pictures. He can't share gut reactions. Instead, John clutches at his tags again, scratches the aluminum over the absent space where a religion is typically etched.
Rodney doesn't mention anything about forbidding any other members of the rest of the team to go with Major Lorne when he took over. His friend fiddles with his hands, all that extra energy burning away into full fledged fidgeting. "Well, as long as we talked about it."
John smiles. "Indeed we did."
The most brilliant man in Atlantis wanders away lost and confused about something that's really not in the same playing field as rational thought but it's hard to think of that when you're broadsided like he was with that stupid flash.
John enters his quarters, sheds his leather jacket and plops down on the bed. He glances at his guitar and desperately would like to get lost in strumming to something with harmony. Instead the metal of his chain grows heavy, gravity pulling way too harshly. He pulls a box out from under his bed and rummages through the small amount of stuff, the battered trunk too big for what little it protects. He doesn't have a lot of possessions; no reason to collect things when each new day isn't certain.
After flipping through a few files, and shifting around some newspaper clippings, his fingers curl around a tattered shoebox. Sighing and drawing his legs up Indian style, he sifts through the meager contents. The four by five snapshot is worn around the edges. The helicopter in the background had been his baby for little over a year at the time.
They all have their helmets on, five sets of aviator sunglasses reflect back the flashbulb, desert fatigues washed out in the barren landscape. Rogers, and Madison are giving the thumbs up sign, while his arm is slung around both of them. Capshaw isn't smiling, his finger pointing wildly at the stupid private thinking this will be good for some scrapbook moment. The Captain's distress is just a fuzzy blur in what was supposed to be something to send home to some of their girlfriends.
John traces the outline of the chopper blades and then down over the stripes of the two who didn't make it back.
He can still see the white flash and remember how the craft shuddered from rocket fire, feel the sudden drop of two hundred feet, the nose dipping wildly. The bird went out of control and the helm didn't react no matter how much he willed it to. The last thing he remembered was the smell of fuel, smoke and the instrument tray shooting out tiny blue sparks.
John rubs his thigh; the scar running along the bone is jagged and hard to see unless you know its there. He can feel it throb during bad storms, but not so much here at Atlantis.
His reaction from earlier today can be judged as reckless, or just insane. He knows otherwise and John won't risk another member of his team ever again.
No cameras, no photos, no tempting fate.