There are no words.
That's the first thing that runs through his mind; there are no words. Just touch, sight, sound…but he cannot speak.
His fingers stroke the cool glass and his breath puffs in a cloud around his head.
He is aware of something buzzing around him and of people shouting. Someone grabs him and he's pulled away, his fingers squeaking over the thick pane. He fights them for a moment until some incoherent jumble of explanations let him know this isn't a goodbye or an illusion or a dream.
It's real. And they're coming back.
They're coming back and they're not leaving her behind again.
--\--
Nothing goes right; the stasis wasn't right and the nanites aren't right and it can't be fixed.
"Not yet, not yet," is all he hears until all the answers and all the faces look the same, speak the same, given him the same excuse.
To them, John says nothing.
--\--
There is time; there are still missions, still things to be done and pieces of Pegasus to put back together again. Every journey is different but every return the same: gateroom, his room, hers.
That stasis chamber is ironic, because he remembers it from years ago and now she sits there just the same, but different. Different in appearance, for the face behind the glass is younger and so heartbreakingly familiar, but the same in purpose as the old one was: sleeping.
Waiting.
Silent.
He says nothing.
--\--
The wraith almost grab him; but Teyla is sharp and Ronon is quick and he is determined that he won't lose, not like this.
The blade slits his throat anyhow. And now he can't speak, even if he wishes.
--\--
He remembers the woman before him. There are nightmares about her, too, though they don't tear at his heart because it's not exactly her face he sees, but that of a man, broken, whose eyes are scared but whose lips give consent.
The blue eyes are unchanged and the blonde hair curls the same, but her smile doesn't wear the same sparkle; that is the effect of knowing more than anyone should of worlds beyond worlds.
Rodney re-introduces them, though it's not necessary and he knows the only polite answer John is able to give is a smile and a nod.
Jeannie's eyes train on the bandage below his throat but she says nothing about it. He wonders why she's here.
Rodney answers for him.
"She's figured out a way to program hers. Now they can repair things. Organically. But…it's only been tried on non-essential parts of the body. Not…"
John wants him to finish. Rodney knows this but he offers no more. Silence is all he can give because that's where the hope lies and not the reality.
--\--
The chamber is quiet and dark. He moves up to the chamber, fingers tapping lightly on the glass. He wants to tell her that answers come tomorrow but it doesn't make sense to; he can't say it, she can't hear it, and neither is helped by it.
Tomorrow determines the length of the silence. He is scared senseless about what it might bring. But there is nothing more they can do and he already knows what life is like without her.
It is quiet.
--\--
Forty-eight hours in and Keller's face is pinched. Carson's clone studies the monitor once more, shaking his head and Jeannie is so exhausted the shine is gone from her eyes.
One, maybe two. That's all that's left.
Woolsey shakes his head.
"It's not enough. They want them all."
John feels the burning grown in his chest; Ronon has his arms crossed, watching the figure on the table with a blank expression.
"It might…she could be brain dead if we try to go deeper."
"All of them."
"It's enough," Rodney responds. "One or two, what difference does that make? No one has to know. She doesn't have to know. There are no more replicators. We took care of them, remember? It's enough."
Woolsey watches him in silence. Hesitates.
"No," John rasps hoarsely. The group turns to him. His voice has been forgotten, after nearly three months. "No."
"What? But…"
A hand goes up and he shakes his head. He trains eyes on Ronon, Teyla, Richard.
On Rodney.
He needs Rodney to agree. They've disagreed on how to handle this situation from day one, but right now, he needs Rodney to agree.
There is silence.
The replicators are gone. There's nothing left of them. It's not a threat.
But she would know. And I'd never hear her voice. Not her real voice.
There is no answer from Rodney, which they all realize is strange. He leaves them, retreating in silence.
He bows his head as Jennifer nods hers, understanding. Carson frowns at them through the glass, his hands starting to shake. He'll need his own stasis soon.
Neither of them needs to say what should be said. None of them watching need to hear it. It's a slim line; a thin hope.
A lifeline.
But he's been held by it for so long it doesn't matter how thin it's become.
At least it's there.
--/--
The heartbeat is steady; the monitor the only thing that fills the room with sound.
Teyla has left; Ronon didn't enter. Only he and Rodney, facing each other, across the rise and fall of the chest. And Jeannie, head in hand, her eyes weary.
No guarantees, is the answer. It may be never.
There never were guarantees. He and Rodney knew that.
So did she. From the very beginning.
--/--
The stasis chamber is empty.
His fingers brush the cool glass, leaving sweat trails across the clear surface. The lights are all down now; there is no need for them.
He puts his head on the chamber and a part of him wants to beat it with his fist until the glass shatters. Until it's broken and unusable so that no one else can lay where she once did, twice. So that no one can take her place.
But he can't do that; the voice that speaks reason speaks again and he won't abandon it. That is not who he is and she would not want that.
The door behind him slides open. Ronon walks in.
It has to be Ronon. Ronon says the least and truthfully there is not much to be said.
Alive.
Dead.
No more words.
--/--
The eyes follow him in silence though they speak in his head. Some are screaming, others crying. He wonders why.
Some just want to know what it's going to be like, now.
No one will ask.
They never have and they never will.
--/--
There is nothing that calls in the night, but the wind breaks the quiet. Below, in the inky blackness, the water laps with its rhythmic slap-slap-clap on the metal of the pier.
Her color is wrong. It's not red.
But the green is pretty. A new designation, for a diplomat.
When she turns to face him, he notices it matches her eyes.
She catches sight of him, her hair blowing back from her face. There is something surreal about the image; he's seen this several times in his mind but now it's real.
Her eyes trail down to his throat and there is a crease in her forehead, wrinkled and human and whole. There is nothing where she's looking; a scar matching the one on the other side. Two halves of an inhuman thing; first and last, beginning and end. He'd survived them both.
As he moves towards her she smiles nervously, the edges of her mouth crinkling slightly. He loves to see the crinkle; there is nothing artificial about it as there is nothing artificial about her.
She clears her throat; it hasn't been used in so long, the voice. But when she speaks it comes out, soft and clear and strong and exactly as he remembers.
"Hello, John."
He says nothing. He can speak, but he says nothing. He remembers a moment when she did the same, many years ago. He'd stammered a hello, but she'd said nothing.
He steps forward and wraps his arms around her, drawing her close. She is warm, and her heart beats against him. His eyes sting and his throat hurts and there are a million emotions flooding his chest: gladness, regret, apology, sorrow.
Joy.
A million things to say, but nothing can be said.
For there are no words.