John's never set out to do it on purpose, but on a few occasions he's fallen asleep in zero-G. It's not intentional, but sometimes he just lets it happen, doesn't fight it. It takes a hell of an ordeal for John to permit himself just to let go and drift. Simple physics, the motion of a body in space. It's harder to do than it seems it should be, for John. It takes relinquishing control of his limbs and just stopping. John's never been good at stopping. John's is a life in constant motion and that's how he prefers it. But sometimes there's nothing else that helps.
It takes giving in to the freefall, the balance of orbit and gravity that keeps him moving around the earth, and just letting himself drop into neutral. Physically, there's nothing more liberating than zero-G, if he can let himself slip sideways into it, into just existing. Drifting, not trying, in silence and stillness and just-just letting it all stop, for a while. It takes him by surprise sometimes, how badly he needs to do it. It's why he can't do it on purpose, the apathy of inertia is just too tempting. He loses hours of time, falls into dreamless sleep, and doesn't wake up until he bumps into something, and finds himself wedged against the ceiling, or caught on an interior bulkhead. It's the closest he thinks he's ever come to non-existence, and while it's peaceful and necessary, it's also a little bit terrifying.
He's never done it mentally before. That's what this feels like. And it's awful.
When he clicks back into himself the first time, he doesn't know where he is. It's dark and he's still tired. His face hurts and there's an odd, bitter aftertaste in his mouth again, and a glass on the bedside, half full of water, half full of moonlight. He watches it for a long time, though it's just still, just an object. He imagines the way it would float in zero-g, doing that instinctive mental calculation in his head, the motion of a body in space. He doesn't remember falling asleep, but then, just drifting, he never does.
The second time, John wakes up in a bed that makes him forget about gravity. A little. In John's (admittedly patchy) recent memory, it easily tops a GDF hospital bed. It's better than the lightly padded shelf he calls a bed aboard TB5. It doesn't beat zero-G, but then, nothing does.
He doesn't get blankets in zero-G, or pillows. They're impractical and unnecessary. Even with the gravity ring running aboard TB5, he sleeps pressed tight to his little shelf, and there's no need for a blanket in an environment that's temperature and pressure controlled.
There are probably about fifty pillows on this bed, and he's buried his face in about half of them.
Twenty-five of the fifty pillows, the half he's not pressed his face into, are not actually pillows at all, but a down comforter. White and plush and that paradoxical combination of heavy and soft. The sheets are cool and smooth and loose enough that he doesn't feel trapped, but tight enough not to tangle. The whole world around him is soft and white and yielding, and he breathes in the smell of crisp linen and fresh air and sunlight.
He stretches a little, without meaning to, and reflexively tries to catch himself before he falls off his shelf. But he's not on a shelf, and his long legs don't meet a hard plastic edge, even as he uncurls himself from an almost fetal position. His eyes are a little dry and blurry still, and he can't see beyond the bounds of the mattress, but the mattress seems like it goes for miles. John would have to throw himself out of this bed if he wanted to fall off, and that's not happening anytime soon.
The hospital gown's gone, but there's no one else around, and anyway, John's pretty sure it would take some serious excavation to get him out of bed at this point. His face still hurts and he doesn't know where he is, but these seem like concerns more than problems.
There are worse places to start to pull oneself back together in than in a corner suite, in a five star hotel in Zurich.
The glass of water is still by the bedside, but it's been filled, topped nearly to the brim. A pure, clear column of sunlight, refracting the light from the window beyond it. The window; a white bounded square of clear blue sky over bluer water, lush greenery, all the colours that aren't this vibrant from orbit. A city. Some city he doesn't recognize, though for some bizarre reason he's pretty sure it's Zurich.
John could do with a glass of water.
It means pushing himself up onto his elbows, shuffling sore, stiff limbs across cool sheets, and straining slightly to reach for it once he thinks he's gotten close enough. He hasn't, his depth perception is off, and the tips of his fingers brushing the curve of the glass are enough to knock it to the ground, and a high, splintering sound results.
This is the worst thing that's happened to him recently, if recently is only considered to be the last ten minutes, because now he really wants the glass of water.
But not quite badly enough not to sink back below the blankets with a sigh, and nuzzle up against a heap of pillows, closing his eyes again.
Only this time there's the creak of a door, and he's not permitted just to drop back off again, because there's a salt-and-pepper head peeking in through the doorframe, and-
"Good morning, Master John. Back in the world again?"
The first time John had met Parker, he'd been giving Lady Penelope a tour of the MIT campus. He'd agreed to do it as a favour to his father, who'd been entertaining her father, whilst some business deal between them was completed. It was the first time John had ever met anybody with a bodyguard, and the older man had been vaguely intimidating, serious and no-nonsense, with hooded eyes and a smile that only seemed to extend to the lovely young blonde woman who was his charge. By the end of the tour, John had managed to get on the Englishman's good side, and been relieved for it. He's never had anything but respect for Parker, and not for the first time, he's glad to see him.
John hasn't seen Parker in half a decade, and he looks older than John remembers. Shorter, too, compact and wiry. But no worse for that, his bright blue eyes crinkle with a genuine smile and that nose of his is always more astonishing that memory serves. His voice is surprisingly soft, and as he opens the door wider to cross the room, he's not wearing his trademark leather jacket, nor his leather gloves. Instead, just a smart green turtleneck and a shoulder holster, with a a neat, compact little pistol tucked against his chest.
Turning over and pushing himself up, John leans back against the pillows and says the first thing that comes into his head, "Have you shot anybody with that?"
The question only surprises one of them and it isn't Parker. Apparently the part of John's brain that's responsible for tact hasn't quite returned to normal operating parameters, but Parker just chuckles. "Not recently, Master John. Have someone in mind?"
That's a better question. John's got several people in mind, but he isn't sure how much of what he remembers is really reliable.
Ned Tedford, though it seems more doubtful than ever that this is actually the man's name. The Hood, or the image of him anyway. It's really hard to say. "I don't know. Should I?"
Parker shrugs, and enters the room properly, crossing the floor to stand next to the bed. He looks John over, doesn't bother to hide the fact that he's doing so. "I'm not the one what was knocked about by some brute in a hospital basement."
John's fingertips go gingerly to his cheek, his jaw, his throat. Every single burst of violence is a memory written into him now, indelible. There's still a numbing buzz of shock in his system, insulating each moment, but it's almost entirely faded, and there's a truth that won't be diminished. "...this could've been a lot worse."
Parker nods, and claps a hand on his shoulder. "Quite right. Best not to dwell on it."
Easier said than done, but John tries his best. The world's been rendered down into this one single room, all bright light and white softness and the sound of birdsong and the smell of the breeze. He aches all through, but he feels sharper and realer than he has in days. And there's Parker. God, but he is glad to see Parker. John has the impression that Parker's the only reason why he's here and safe and sane right now, but he's not entirely sure why. Probably it's about time he started to work on that. "I should get up."
"In your own time, Master John," the older man agrees mildly.
"I haven't got any pants."
"Her Ladyship had sent you a robe, and I've had it laundered and pressed. It's across the end of the bed. I shan't look, Master John." Parker smiles slightly and turns his back with a smart snap of his heels.
Well. It seems rude to stay lying down, now that he has company, so John carefully pulls the sheets and blankets off and reaches out to retrieve the robe. He remembers it from the hospital, but the anti-bacterial, chemical scent has been washed out of it. Out of habit, reads the label-100% cashmere, soft and yielding in his hands. Deep, charcoal grey. Made in England. Monogrammed across the pocket, JGT. So utterly typical of the sort of thing Penelope does, that John finds himself remembering just how many years they've been friends. It brings a funny, warm feeling to the center of his chest as he shrugs the robe on.
Getting out of bed is a dizzying affair, but though he'd kept his word and kept his back turned, Parker's there in what seems like an instant, with a hand at John's elbow and the other at the small of his back.
"Steady on," Parker cautions gently, though he has to take less of John's weight than either of them expect. He's dizzy for only a few moments, solved with closed eyes and a few deep breaths. Eventually John nods and Parker lets him go, steps back and looks up at John with a slight narrowing of his eyes. "Blimey, lad. Have you grown, or am I shrinking in me old age?"
This gets the first real smile from John since the last time he was aboard Thunderbird 5. "Realistically speaking, probably a bit of both. Microgravity. I get taller."
"Sign me up for the next jaunt into orbit. There's cans in the kitchen I can't reach lately."
This gets the first real laugh.