In Restless Dreams I Walk Alone12
Pain.
He had never felt pain like this. It was worse than any torture. Any accident or injury. Worse than when his body had rejected a massive dose of the enzyme as it tore him up on the insides. Worse than having a Wraith feed on him, draining his life force and his vitality.
He bucked on the table. Only the restraints were holding him in place. Locking his ankles, his wrists into immobility. His writhing body a furious agony as the serum spread through his veins. Invaded his blood stream. His heart was racing. Breath shallow. He was sweating. Shivering. Mind a confusion of images, thoughts, all seared away by the pain. The endless pain.
He briefly wondered if Moira was trying to kill him.
He gritted his teeth, clamping his lips tightly so as not to let the scream escape him. Grunting in rage, in hurt. He fell back onto the bed. Muscles going slack as a wave of coldness swept through him. Chilling him. Beads of sweat turning to ice all over his body. He breathed deeply, grateful for the respite. Kept his eyes closed lest his tears be seen. His weakness.
He would have killed for a glass of water.
But then the pain flared again. The hot agony coursing along him. Changing him. He could feel it. Or curing him. He couldn't tell. He felt his skin shifting. As if pieces were falling off him. Scales dropping. Blueness fading. His fingers curled into his palm. The bump was gone. He felt relief at that. But it was short-lived as another convulsion rocked him. Again he wondered if he was being cured. Or killed. His thoughts shattered into incoherency once more.
Only time would tell.
Voices. John could hear them through a miasma of pain, fog, memory. Moira. He honed in on hers. Felt her tone of assurance. Defiance. She sounded exhausted, but unharmed. No. He detected a tissue of pain under her voice. Worry for him. Love for him. For their sons. He wondered at his sudden perspicacity just from her voice. As if he was inside her. He opened his eyes. Blinked at the lights above him.
"The treatments were wrong, because this wasn't the retro-virus," Moira explained as she stood in the cell. "It presented in a similar fashion, but the Iratus bug cells only exacerbated the initial infection and transformed it. Inhibited the switches and activated others. Dormant cells were interrupted, and the ATA couldn't handle the overload."
"And if we had left him alone the mutations wouldn't have been so severe." Carson sighed, standing outside the cell. He ran a hand over his stubbly face. "I'm so sorry, love! I should have realized, should have listened! It's not Wraith at all, is it?"
"No. It is, but not the Wraith we know now. It's the ATA that is different too." She glanced at John. Saw he was awake. Listening. Eyes on her. As if he could see into her. Through her. She moved to him. Touched his arm. "John, relax. It's nearly over now."
"My...my evolution?" he asked. Quirked a brow.
She briefly smiled. "Yes, colonel."
"How?"
"What? Oh." She briefly touched the purplish bruise under her eye. "An accident. Don't you worry, sweetie. The boys are fussing all over me and they actually cleaned their room without me asking for once!"
He smiled. Grew somber. "Who?"
"I don't know. It was so fast and an accident. Rest easy, John." She turned away, stepped to a table.
John could tell she was lying. She knew. He stared at her. Concentrating. Saw the briefest flash of memory. The man who had hit her. The name surfaced as John recognized him.
Moira looked back at him, rubbing her temple as a pain sparked, was gone. John had closed his eyes. She shrugged, attributing the brief headache to fatigue or hunger. She turned to Carson. "I say an hour. Or two. I will stay with him. Then we will see."
Someone was touching him. Soft, gentle touches on his face, his jaw. A damp cloth on his skin. It was wet. Warm. Gently tugging at his skin. He shifted on the bed. He opened his eyes. Blearily stared at the indistinct form of a woman. "Moira?" he asked. His voice sounded old. Cracked. Her face came into view. Her smile. Love in her brown eyes.
"John. Easy now." She stroked his hair. "I...I'm sorry, John. So sorry..." Tears.
"Huh? It...huh?"
"I'm sorry." She brushed her lips along his.
"Moy? What? Huh? Did it work? Did it..."
"Yes."
"Yes? Yes? Then why..." He stared at her. Puzzled. Tensing. He watched her as she undid each restraint. Movements deliberate. Slow. A swarm of emotion on her face, but she was silent. He flexed sore arms, sore legs. Sat. Swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Was surprised to find himself still in the holding cell. He eyed his hands. Stared.
The mutations were minimal now. Fading, like a bad dream. His hand was almost back to normal. Human. He looked up at her, questions on his lips. Moira wordlessly handed him a mirror. He took it. Fingers brushing hers. Lifted it to his face. Looked at himself in the clear reflection. Braced himself for what he might see. He stared.
His face was nearly back to normal. Nearly human. The scales were gone from his neck, his jaw. Only a faint bluish tinge remained. A hint of his metamorphosis. He touched his cheek, his throat. His dark brown hair was a mess, a riot sticking up every which way. Stubble lined his jaw and he wondered how long he had been in the cell. But his features were his own. Handsome. The strong lines of his face intact. His own. His lips full and perfect. His eyes were green. A vivid green so startling he stared in wonder for a moment. The pupils slitted, then resumed their normal human roundness. He swallowed. Opened his mouth to see his teeth. They were normal. No longer sharp or pointed. He closed his mouth.
Wondered about the rest of him.
He set the mirror aside. Curious at her evident consternation. "Moy?" he asked gently. Moved to his feet. He touched her arm. "Moira? Sweetheart?"
She moved into his arms, hugging him. Silent. Suppressing a sob. His arms encircled her, not certain if her emotion was relief or sorrow. Or both. He was sore, hungry, but felt fine. More like himself than he had in months. He felt the press of her soft curves into him. Yielding to his long, lean frame. His hard lines. He nuzzled her earlobe. Kissed along her throat. She tasted warm, soft. He could sense her sorrow and regret and relief on her skin. "Moira."
She drew back from him. Touched his chest. "How do you feel, John?"
"Fine. Well..." he caved under her stare. "Sore. Sore as hell, actually. And ravenous. But fine otherwise. So? What aren't you telling me, Moira? 'Cause from where I'm standing I look pretty good. More like me than an monster now. Ah. The real story is inside me, isn't it?"
She nodded. Caught for a moment by his beauty. The feel of him. Solid. Warm. "Yes. You...you may feel the same, but you are not the same. Not, not anymore, John."
He was silent, assessing. Thinking. Watching her. "Do you still love me?" he asked at last.
"What? Of course, John! That will never change!" she declared.
"Then that's all that matters." He kissed her. Guiding her mouth to his, her body to his again. He drew back to look past her. "They're coming. Four. Beckett. Lorne. Two marines. Ah. One of the changes?"
"Yes. It's...John...you..." She whirled, but there was no one there. Not yet. She didn't doubt his words. H is observations. John slid his arm around her waist, drawing her to him again.
"It's all right, Moy. Don't you worry," he soothed into her hair.
"Moira! You missed your call-in and we were...oh." Carson paused, then resumed heading into the room. Evan followed with the marines.
"We're done here." Moira extricated herself, moved to the cell door. "You can let us out."
"I can let you out," Evan temporized. "Let's give it another twenty-four. Sir? You'd do the same in my place."
John nodded. "Of course I would, major. Another twenty-four. Just to be certain. Then we can reassess our positions here. Moira, go."
She turned to him. "John? Are you sure? I mean, I mean you are fine now. You are more than fine, aren't you? You–"
"Go, sweetheart. If you need me I will know. Go on. See to our sons. Get some dinner."
She hesitated. Moved back to him. Kissed him. "I'll be back first thing tomorrow, John."
"I know. Go now."
She nodded. Moved to the door. Evan deactivated the force field. She stepped out of the cell, turned to look at John who was standing there. Impassive. Calm. The force field resumed. She glanced at Evan. At the two marines. "He's fine now. There's really no need for this."
"Just a precaution, Moira. Go see to the boys now. I'll take it from here." Once she was gone Evan stepped closer to the cell. "I'm leaving these two guards here, sir. Just in case. You understand, don't you? Carson will take a full blood spectrum just to be absolutely certain you are cured. We can't take any chances, now can we?"
"Of course we can't, major," John amiably agreed.
"It may several days before you are out of there, and can resume any kind of duty," Evan continued. "Then there's the whole murder charge to explore and explain. I'm not sure what Mr. Woolsey is going to do, actually. Moira's visits may be curtailed because of that."
"We'll see. Bring me something to eat. I'm starving."
"Of course, sir. I'll have something brought to you. You're not going to try anything, are you?"
John smiled. Spread his empty hands in front of him. "Me? Nah. I'm fine now. Just bring me dinner and I'll be a perfect gentleman." He stepped to the door, voice lowering. "Just keep the hell away from my wife and my sons."
Evan smiled. "Can't do that, sir. They are under my care at the moment. Johnson! Bring the colonel here something to eat. And if he tries anything, anything at all shoot him. To stun, of course."
"Of course," John agreed. He stepped back from the door. Folded his arms across his chest and waited. Waited. Having all the time in the world now.