Chapter 24 – The end of the tunnel
Spoiler for the Lost Boys and The Hive.
When they disappear and throughout the ordeal of first not knowing where they are and then believing there's a chance of a snowball in hell they might come back at all, lest uninjured, she works incessantly in the kitchen, barely resting, never leaving the perimeter of the mess hall and control room.
At one point, Elizabeth has to order her back to her quarters and post a guard at her door so she might at least relax in the shower and feel tempted to rest. She doesn't, feeling like a lion in a cage. The thoughts swirl in her head incessantly – remorse and regrets alike at what she could have said or done before it was seemingly too late.
She's worried sick for all of them but at least, she's at peace with the others. With John, it's a different matter. She's never told him what she must – that she's sorry she started the whole thing because she was too proud to confess to him her shortcomings and risk losing his respect. If she could go back... The thought becomes an obsession and gives her a terrible migraine. She pleads with Elizabeth to let her leave her quarters. Weir agrees, feeling no good will come out of it as it seems, but only on the condition she won't go back to work right away.
She dons on a train suit and running shoes and decides John's way of dealing with stress and worry is worth the try. He's tried countless times to lure her into coming with him on his morning run but she never took the time to humor him. Now it feels like it's the only thing that allows her to feel close to him. Her feet pounding the corridors, she finds her pace and falls into a trance, her obsessive thought setting the rhythm. If I could go back, if I could go back, if I could...
She runs to the west pier where she knows was their point of no return and sits there, nibbling at sugar cubes and a cookie to restore her blood sugar level before she can head back to her quarters and shower.
She then sits at her desk and opens the copybook that is already half full with her own recipes. She shakes her head. It's not right. It's not how she wants to tell her stories. Because each recipe is not merely a list of ingredients and instructions but a reminder of how important and unique each person she's met or will ever meet is to her – alive or dead, friends, families and foes alike.
Cooking is my way of connecting to people, if any. I'm not a brilliant scientist like Rodney, I don't save lives like Carson. I will never save the world like John. I don't know how to bring people to the negociation table and keep them there until they agree with my point of view, like Dr Weir. I've never felt useful in my whole life until when I started making people happy with what I fed them. I'm awkward in many ways – not the kind of person you want to meet, not the kind you see in a crowd. But when I cook, I connect to people. Food is not just sustenance, it's me telling them I love them – though not in so many words.
She takes a new copybook. A pretty one she has kept for a very long time. It's the exact copy of her grandmother's. She's always surmised her granny had bought two for the time she would finish the first one. She smiles fondly, caressing the leather-bound book then flips it open. "Seasoned with Love", she writes on the first page. That's what her life feels like, in spite of everything. That's what she hopes she'll one day be remembered for.
She sighs, seeing how uneven her letters are, not at all like her grandmother's. She shrugs, smiling. She'll be remembered for that too. So be it. The left-handed awkward penmanship is part of her too, after all. Her granny had fought her first-grade teacher on that, not letting her force the shy child she was then to write with her right hand because it was "more convenient for everyone".
"The child is left-handed. That's who she is. Do not dare try to change her into something she's not." The tone had been firm and final. Louise had been the only one in the school to be allowed to have it her way.
She owes so much to her granny. For teaching her simple things like ironing or sewing a button or cooking a decent meal. For reading her bedtime stories and telling her about her roots. For simply taking the time to play with her.
There are plenty of stories and recipes that suddenly come to mind, be they linked to her or not, but first, she takes the time to write a foreword about how it all started and her granny had saved her life by giving her the love of hard work and dedication – values that she'd remembered at a time when she was letting fate drag her down to the bottom of her despair, at a time when all that seemed to be of any worth was the thought that she didn't really care if she relapsed because there was nothing worth in her life saving.
There wasn't much she had packed in her two suitcases to New Brunswick except for the bare necessities, as she'd come to the point where objects were just that. She had loved having knicknacks at home but that was when. The pleasure of owning things, apart from books of course, had come and gone, but when she had looked around and gathered what she was going to take with her to her new life, she had packed the two copybooks without a moment's hesitation. It just made sense to take them, along with the photo now resting on her desk – the only reminder of times gone by.
"Like my grandmother before me," she writes, "there is no greater way for me but to tell people how much they mean to me, not through words, but through the food I make for them. Food was the way she would make everyone special, knowing what they liked. I still remember every first time she made me taste something new, the wondrous smell of her cakes as they cooled on the racks, the sight of the table, laden with food at birthdays and Christmases. She was the fairy of my childhood, her cooking as mysterious as magic spells. And no matter how many hours I now spend in the kitchen, I still believe cooking is magical."
Her communicator wakes her up with a start. "Ms Léger, this is the Control Room. Come in."
She blinks and rubs her eyes, taking in her surroundings. She's fallen asleep at her desk. "Yes, what is it?"
"Report to the Control Room. Chuck out."
The voice is hurried but the tone is light. Dare she hope to think they've returned? She's afraid of being misled so she just leaves at a run towards the nearest transporter, not taking the time to get more intel.
Ronon and Teyla are being taken to the infirmary as she arrives but they're on their feet so she knows they're gonna be OK. She waves at them and they wave back. Teyla looks at her intently then gives one last look towards where John is standing in the middle of the gate room, talking to Elizabeth. Louise hesitantly walks down the stairs, not knowing what to do. There are way too many people around them.
She remembers being told by Rodney how Elizabeth had not thought twice and hugged him tight in front of everyone after fearing he'd died, but that was Elizabeth. Even though he cannot confess it, probably not even to himself, she's close to his heart. Only she has the right to disclose such affection in public.
She stops in her tracks and wavers. She feels awkward. She obviously does not belong here, she tells herself, and decides to leave before things get very uncomfortable for them both.
That's when he looks up and sees her. A smile slowly spreads on his face, that smile he used to have for her when he would see her in the morning in the mess hall. He's sent so many contradictory signals to her recently – and truth be told, she has too – that she doesn't know what to expect anymore. But she is rooted to the spot, taking him all in, burning the sight of him alive and well into her memory.
Elizabeth elbows him with a smile. He opens his arms and waits, hoping she won't turn tail and rebuke him in front of everyone.
Her feet start walking again of their accord and she closes the distance at a run, only stopping when she's toe to toe with him. Elizabeth smiles and makes her exit quietly. They don't see her leaving, lost in each other's eyes. "I thought you were dead," she whispers, choking on her tears. She hates it when she gets emotional, especially around him, because he seems so cool after yet another brush with death.
"I'm not," he says matter-of-fact and shrugs. "Ain't you gonna give me a hug? Everyone's looking at us, you know, and I have a reputation, lady!" The sarcasm is only there to hide his emotions and by now she knows it. She humors him and slowly steps into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his middle. He wraps his around her shoulders and kisses the top of her head.
They stay like this for who knows how long. When they finally look around, the place is deserted except for Chuck who's discreetly manning the computers in the Control Room above. John smiles at her. "I think we've spaced out," he chuckles. She smiles too and remains quiet, too emotional to utter a word. "Ain't you going to talk to me? Lost your tongue? That would be a first!" He tickles her, seeing how sad she looks, making her jump and scoot back. "Come on, Louise! Say something."
She gulps. "Would I'm sorry do?" she offers.
He sighs. "Listen. I don't want to hear of it, OK, or I'll have to start apologizing too and it will take months. Can we agree that we were two fools who listened too much to their pride and not enough to their hearts and then be done with it? I don't want to lose time anymore, sweetie." He levels his gaze with hers, waiting. She nods and is rewarded with a kiss on her forehead. "Now, let's check on the rest of the team. I'm surprised Beckett hasn't called me yet to get my butt to his infirmary asap," he chuckles, knowing Elizabeth has probably told him to give them time to themselves before he reads him the riot act.
He folds his hand around her much smaller one and leads the way, not letting go even as they come across people and enter Beckett's realm.
Ronon and Teyla are still in hospital whites. Beckett is checking on them. Elizabeth gives John a smile as she sees him enter with Louise by his side. Louise flinches when they talk about Ford going MIA again. John holds onto her hand more tightly. "As I said, sweetie, I'm sure we'll hear from him again. The kid is pretty resilient," he tries to appease her fears. He knows it's a forbidden subject around her. She cringes every time someone mentions him and has stubbornly refused to bake the kid's favorite fruit pies ever since he's fled the City.
"Well, you know," Rodney butts in, "given the amount of enzyme he's taken, by the time we get our hands on some intel about him, he might already be dead. It's a pretty strong addiction he has. It'll end up killing him sooner than later."
Louise gasps and turns to him angrily. "You should be ashamed, Rodney. The kid is obviously under the influence of that thing. He just needs a chance at being found and treated. I'm sure Carson can help him get it out of his system for good. You've all been lucky. Let's hope the same for him."
Rodney looks ashamed seeing how sad she looks but plods on. "Yeah, well, that might not be as simple as advertised."
"I know it won't but he'll beat it if he's got enough incentive to live," she reasons.
"Yeah, because you're such an expert at addictions, right?" Rodney hates it when she does that, being the optimist, seeing the doughnut and not the hole, because he knows deep inside, she's deluding herself.
John gives him a warning look. "Louise is just trying to remain positive. Of course she doesn't know about addictions, with the exception of green tea and chocolate chip cookies," he banters, trying to lighten the mood.
She gives him a knowing look and laughs humorlessly.
"You, Louise?" he snorts. "Miss all work and no play? I don't imagine you having a wild youth!"
"You know so much about me, John, and yet, so little," she whispers.
Elizabeth sees something is coming and knowing the reserved little cook, that might not be meant for everyone yet. She claps her hands and looks around. "All right everyone. Get some rest, all of you and that means also you, Ms Léger, as we both know you've barely slept since these daredevils have been missing," she points out, making John know about the situation. "We'll see each other for debriefing at 17:00. That will be all." She discreetly motions for John to leave with Louise so he grabs her hand once more.
"Have fun, kids," he banters lightly, abandoning the rest of the team in the infirmary.
They walk in silence, both lost in their thoughts, both reveling in the touch of their hands joined and their friendship on the mend. "Do you mind if we drop by at my quarters? I'm bone tired and need a shower," he says.
She smiles, feeling at odds. "Go ahead. Have a shower. Rest. We'll talk later."
He stops and turns to her but doesn't let go of her hand, afraid she might once more retreat into her shell. "Oh, no, lady. I finally have you where I wanted you. You're not scurrying away!"
She shakes her head and smiles. "I know you're tired, that's all. Come to see me when you've rested. I'll be waiting for you."
"Promise?" He looks her in the eyes. She nods in agreement and bids him goodnight before relunctantly letting go of his hand and walking away, not to her quarters, as he surmises, but to the kitchens where she was supposed to start her shift ten minutes ago.
Buckley barks at her when she arrives. The prick knows exactly how and when to push her buttons. She's so tired she doesn't reply and simply sets to work, ignoring his snarky remarks. When she's done with the midday meal and hasn't heard from John yet, she decides to prepare him a special treat. Knowing his love for anything breakfasty, she opts for banana pancakes, adds a scoop of butter on top and a tiny pitcher of warmed maple syrup. She's prepared a fresh pot of coffee and adds a steaming mug to the tray that she carries to his quarters, ignoring the stare of her boss as she passes him on her way out.
He doesn't answer right away though it's already 3:30 p.m. and the meeting is due in an hour or so. The door finally whooshes open, revealing a very sleepy John with his hair in more disarray than usual.
"Sorry," he apologizes. "I slept in." She smiles at him fondly and offers him the tray, making him hum with pleasure. "I see you have not forgotten how much I like these." He sets the tray next to his bed and plops down back on it, offering her to sit in the armchair next to him.
"I thought you might like breakfast since it's the beginning of your day, after all," she apologizes.
"Hey. That was a great idea. No need to make amends all the time..." he chides her.
She remains silent and watches him as he sits cross-legged on his bed, the tray balanced on his lap, and eats his plateful of pancakes and downs his coffee in no time. He smiles at her and puts the tray back on the bedside table. "Much better! You know how to warm a man's heart and fill him with content," he banters, making her giggle.
She falls silent and endeavors to tear at one of the paper napkins she's taken from the tray.
"Hey, what is it?" he says, laying back on his bed, his hands under his head, feeling content with having her here by his side. He sees her discomfort but thinks it's just about spending time together after such a long time. "If it's Ford, I promise you I'll do everything I can to find him."
"I know you will, don't need to promise it." She looks intently at the shreds of napkin and puts them back on the tray. "Look, I should leave you to whatever you have to do," she says, standing.
Here goes, he thinks and stops her with a hand on her arm, making her sit back. "I know something's on your mind. I know you want to tell me something important. You've hinted at things back there in the infirmary and I let you off the hook because we both needed to rest, though from the dark circles I see under your eyes, I can tell only one of us did. We'll come to that later but right now, I'm all ears. I won't let you leave this room until you've spilled the beans, Louise." He turns to face her, his head propped on his hand and waits.
After that, the words just start flowing. Not all of them though. Not the whys, just the hows. She's not ready for the whole story yet.
At one point in her story, he props himself back up in his bed. She bends and helps him, adding a pillow behind his back, her hand supporting him. They both shiver at the touch. The awkwardness is gone now she's allowed him in, trusting him with more than her life. He thanks her with a smile and doesn't let her sit back in the chair, taking hold of her hands so she sits on the side of his bed and finishes her story there. In the end, John's recent brushes with death have done more than any therapy would have for any of them. Like the silver lining in the proverbial cloud.
"I was afraid I would lose your friendship and respect if you knew," she concludes. "I pushed you away so you wouldn't." She falls silent, waiting for him to decide of what may come next.
"Never," he replies, kissing her forehead. "I don't love easily, Léger, but when I do, I'm not fickle about it. What your story tells me is that you're even stronger than I thought." He smiles then looks into the distance, lost in his thoughts. "Do you ever..." he doesn't know how to put it without offending her.
"Think about allowing myself one little drink?" she finishes his sentence. "Oh yeah. Not often but it happens. When a certain friend of mine goes missing and is presumed dead, for instance..." she says, pouting, making him feel like wrapping his arms around her tightly to make the hurt go away.
He caresses her hand instead with his thumb because, honestly, if he starts, he doesn't know if he'll ever let her go. "So how do you cope with it then?"
She shrugs then laughs. "I do what makes me happy, John. I put my apron on and I cook till I drop. I open my grandmother's cookbook, pick a recipe and try making it over and over again until it's perfect. Or I experiment and write my own." He laughs too. He can picture her, head bent over whatever she's preparing, her mind so intent on what she's doing she slides into her own alternate universe.
"Are there other things that make you want to relapse?" he asks. He can't help her when he's not there but he can make sure someone will be. And when he is, well, he needs to know what to expect.
She ponders it. "My past. Nightmares from my old life," she answers honestly, praying to God he won't prod some more though because she sure is not ready to talk about that yet.
He nods quietly. "You know you can call me or drop by day and night whenever that happens if I'm around," he offers. He's hinted at it once, telling her they were almost neighbors but she's never come unannounced to his quarters before. She gives him a shy smile. He doesn't know if he's overstepped the boundaries. "I have nightmares too," he confesses, looking sheepish. She's always amazed at how fast he can go from confident to sheepish to even goofy sometimes.
"What do you do then? I guess you don't call Beckett, right?" she says, making him laugh humorlessly.
"Obviously not. The less medication, the better. I go running."
"In the middle of the night?"
"Yeah, sometimes. If I stay in bed, I can't stop thinking and I never get back to sleep."
"I went running this morning," she confesses.
He looks surprised. She's not the sports-minded kind. She complied with the training and he knows she exercises but it surprises him she would go running when she's always told him no. "You did, didn't you?" He rewards her with one of those blinding smiles of his. "That's my girl!" She blushes at the compliment. "Who went with you?" He's almost jealous of the one who's convinced her when he couldn't.
She shakes her head. "No one. I went on my own to the pier and back," she announces proudly, only to get a reproving look.
"Sweetie, that's so not a good idea! You don't go running alone. Safety first!" he chides her.
She pouts. "You do it all the time when Ronon is not there," she protests, offended.
"That's me and then there's you! I've got years of training. You don't. Plus you're diabetic and a woman." His words make sense, well, most of them, but she growls all the same.
"You're calling me fragile. I'm not!"
"I said diabetic and woman. Don't twist my words." He rolls his eyes.
"Same, same! John, I'm not weak. I might be breakable but so are you. Look at how many times you end up in the infirmary," she reminds him.
He pouts. "Louise, sweetie, stop it. I don't want to belittle you, just instill some sense in that thick head of yours," he says, tapping her forehead gently with his knuckle. "Promise me you won't go running around the city on your own and I promise to respect your decisions, if they're sound, that is," he adds, knowing how bullheaded she can get sometimes.
"I don't have a running partner. What if I say I keep my communicator at all times? Will that satisfy your majesty?" she teases him, tickling his side, making him squirm.
"Nope, my lady, but if you want a running partner, there's me, right here. Shall I remind you I offered countless times and you always rebuked me..." He acts hurt but she knows he's only mocking her.
"I won't be able to keep up," she counters.
"I'll train you," he offers.
She pouts. "John... I'm not sure you understand how useless I am. I'll only delay you."
He rolls his eyes. "I'm offering, silly. Why do you always find the need to belittle yourself?"
She knows that's something he hates. Hell, that's something that got her into trouble countless times. Another way of pushing people away, telling them you're not worth the time they're ready to spend with you.
"OK. Tell you what – we try it once and if we can't find our pace, we call it a day," she offers.
"Twice," he bargains, extending his hand for her to shake.
She laughs out loud, knowing he likes to have the upper hand in everything he does. "All right," she says, shaking his hand and is rewarded with a kiss on her hand.
"You won't regret it, my lady," he says, winking.
She doesn't counter him though she can still vividly remember the last time he trained her and the subsequent painful morning. She makes a mental note of being ready this time with painkillers and Beckett's miracle balm.
TBC