Of Mirrors and friends
He lay face up, on the bed. A deep, penetrating tiredness had enveloped him; his body ached and moaned each time he willed it to move. A sigh escaped his swollen lips, which only made his face sting some more. He stared up at the dark ceiling. The lights were off, as usual, in his musty smelling room. He'd been in here for days; locked away from prying eyes and concerned friends. Sure, they'd knock, bang, kick; scream bloody murder, at his door, but every time, he refused them. He didn't want sympathy, nor condolences or empty hopes. They could take their compassion, empathy and pity and shove it up their... BANG!
"Go away!" he shouted though clenched teeth at the offending person pummelling on his door- again.
"Not until you come out of there!" The voice was muffled, etched with worry.
"I said get lost!" the words were growled as if by some wild beast; wounded, hiding, waiting to die.
"Not today, you ungrateful miscreant! You will come out of there and see us or I'll break in!" with that, there was more pounding on the door and the distinct sound of the control panel being opened.
He ignored it. He knew they'd break in sooner or later, to drag him from his gloom. He almost wished they done it days ago, but they've been busy respecting his privacy.
He stretched, yawned and rose from the bed. He stumbled slightly and steadied himself on the bedside table. Painkillers and his medication from Keller, sat next to an empty glass. He pressed a few pills out of each packet, grabbed the glass and made his way precariously toward the bathroom.
The explosion had been weeks ago, now. There was no discernable cause, a few panels just exploded in the corridor outside the mess hall. Well, the technology is ancient, it's bound to experience a few wiring problems now and again. He was thrown ten feet across the hallway, knocked out instantly. He woke up three days later in the infirmary to find the hearing on his right side was gone, and his body looked like someone had tried to spit roast it. He was lucky. Apparently. Except his right ear wasn't just damaged- it was non-existent. So was his inner ear, hence the balance problems. Amazing how such a small piece of your body can affect you so much. Without his inner ear working properly he experienced vertigo lying down. The meds helped some. He could do his job, nearly as well as he'd done it before. Of course looking like someone put your head in an oven probably wasn't going to help his diplomacy skills any. But he doubted anyone had ever though those were that good to start with.
He let the tap run for a moment before filling that glass, popping the pills and taking a long, refreshing gulp. He set the glass down and looked with remorse at the figure in the mirror. The bandaged were off; the scar tissue red and puffy, around the right side of his head. His hair line now skewed beyond recognition. The ugly scaring stretched from his crown, around his head until it reached his nose. He could give the phantom of the opera a run for his money. His eyes, thankfully, were intact, although the same could not be said for his eyebrows. His cheek bone was an undefined mass of mangled flesh below his right eye, his lips now permanently parted where his upper lip had been blown off. His nose, once straight and central, leaned towards the damage, sympathetically, as if offering shadow would help. He turned his back on the mirror. He hated to look at himself now. He'd never considered himself to be vain or bothered by his looks, but then he'd always been graced with pretty good ones- until now.
The banging and shouting, outside his door, was back again. He ignored it and went to lie down on the bed again.
"For God sake, let us in!" were they ever going to leave him the hell alone?
He didn't want to talk or eat or… hell anything. His entire reason for being had been taken away. His face, while a tragedy, he could cope with in time. His balance was a whole different ball game. With no balance he couldn't fly. No sir. Not even the perfectly balanced jumpers. Being a pilot was all he'd ever wanted; now he'd lost it. He'd never again feel the hum of the jumper or the gees in a chopper. His life as he knew it was over.
"Sheppard! You'd better be dead in there, making me re-route so many systems to get in! I know Atlantis loves you, but this is ridiculous!" Rodney was cursing again.
He swung his feet of the bed and mentally commanded the door to open. The lights he kept off.
Rodney fell into the room, having been crouched, leaning on the doors. "What the… ouch!"
"I will say this once, and only once. GET LOST! I will come out, when I'm good and ready and not before. Do you understand?" He stood, pulled Rodney to his feet and avoiding his gaze, unceremoniously threw him back into the hallway.
"John… please, we… I'm just worried about you." McKay sat on the floor looking like a kicked puppy.
"I know." Sheppard walked back into his room and sat on the bed.
McKay took, the 'invitation' to enter the lair and promptly sat on the chair by the door.
"You can't stay in here forever. I know it's hard for you…" John cut him off, mid-sentence.
"Hard for me?! You have no idea do you! My face is ruined and I will NEVER FLY AGAIN!" He roared the last with such venom and passion Rodney felt a chill up his spine.
"I know that there is nothing I can say to comfort you. I'm sorry for that… Will you at least eat something with me?" he implored.
"I'm not going to the mess hall."
"You don't have to. I brought food with me." Rodney eased himself out of the chair, picked up his rucksack from outside and set a turkey sandwich in front of John. For the first time, Sheppard caught his eye and wanted to weep his gratitude for his friend. Rodney's face held no fear in it. No horror or disgust. No repulsion or pity; just friendship, warmth and apprehension.
John took the proffered food and quietly whispered, "Thank you, Rodney."
"You're welcome John."