He remembers that it's Christmas four or five days into their incarceration.
It's only the two of them -- him and Elizabeth -- in the dark, cold cave that doubles as a Tolarian cell. He still isn't sure how they managed to get separated from the rest of his team after the negotiations Elizabeth came to mediate between the two nations of this planet went explosively sour. He's had plenty of time to think about it since being captured and tossed in here, brought out only for the occasional interrogation session. He can only hope the rest of his team made it to the Stargate in one piece.
Elizabeth hasn't stopped worrying about Atlantis, about what the city will do without them. He worries about that too, distantly, but is a lot more afraid that the next time their captors show up to drag Elizabeth away they'll execute her -- or worse. There isn't enough light to see, but he thinks he can smell the way one of the guards looks at her. Though he has screamed himself raw insisting that she doesn't know anything, that he's the one with the tactical information about the other side and extensive weapons knowledge, the Tolarians still seem to prefer dealing with her.
"I'm okay," she always tells him, gripping his hand. He can feel stickiness on her fingers that has to be blood. It's pitch black in their cell, deep underground and without any source of artificial light, so he can only evaluate her injuries by touch and by the strength of her voice. She has taken the worst of it, and he's pretty sure her ribs are badly broken by the way she screams whenever two Tolarians hold him down and a third forces her to her feet. He doesn't think he'll ever get that sound out of his head, and he forces himself to focus on how her breath doesn't have the sick whistle of a punctured lung and that she isn't in immediate danger of dying. At least, not from injury.
"Think they'll wait for us to throw the party?" he asks to distract her from what hurts and keep her awake -- he can't tell in the dark, but he worries she's got a concussion by the tired way her words sometimes slur.
He's never letting her off of Atlantis again. If they make it through this, he doesn't care how much rank she tries to pull on him or what kind of benefits they might get from a successful off-world negotiation. She's going to sit and rot in her office whether she likes it or not, and the closest she's ever going to get to this kind of danger again is when she stands on her balcony to watch them come home through the Stargate.
She whimpers. He thinks it's meant to be a laugh. "I'd hope so. You're the only one who knows where we hide the alcohol."
He brushes her hair back, careful to avoid the places he knows are hurt, and gently kisses her forehead. "We're getting out of this," he promises.
They do. It seems like everyone in the expedition who knows how to point a gun is part of the rescue mission -- a dangerous concentration of manpower resources that neither he nor Elizabeth would have condoned -- and they're back in Atlantis by New Year's.
Elizabeth is still laid up in the medical bay the night of the belated holiday party. A stream of well-wishers, human and Athosian, stop by until Doctor Beckett throws a fit about her need to rest and locks the doors.
John's injuries were a lot less severe and he's been up on his feet for a day already, but he has become such a fixture at her bedside that Beckett forgot to kick him out with everyone else.
"You can go to the party," she tells him. "I'm pretty tired."
Instead, he offers to watch over her so that Carson can go. There's a series of threats about not touching any of the equipment and a promise to return in no more than half an hour, and the doctor is gone.
"Are you feeling okay?" He eyes the drip of painkillers that's been making her a bit loopy.
"Carson said not to play with that," she reminds him with a smile.
He's holding her hand. He isn't sure he's let go of it at all since returning home.
He doesn't say I love you, but he thinks it. "Merry Christmas."
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