Sometimes the glass shattered; the walls caved in. The water rose, the snow was too deep, the rain swept everything away, they were too fast and he was too slow and a thousand other ways he didn't make it in time.
Sometimes he just didn't make it in time.
Rodney complained that he kicked in his sleep. John suggested that Rodney was projecting his own sleeplessness, since he was the last person who should have any idea as to what anyone else did in their sleep. Once Rodney closed his eyes, he was well and truly dead to the world. Sometimes John amused himself by testing this theory--so far, Rodney stayed asleep through singing, shouting, pinching and nudging. He was saving rolling him out of bed for another night.
Rodney didn't know about the dreams. They were just bad dreams. Everyone had bad dreams.
Sometimes he was the one waiting to be rescued.
Sometimes there was a bomb. One time he fell (was thrown?) into the ocean. Sometimes there was a knife, a gun, a needle waiting to slide him into oblivion.
Sometimes he just waited. And nobody came.
He suspected that part of the reason Kate chose this particular office was because of the lighting. No matter what time of day, there was always a soft light filtering in through the windows. She was always glowing, even at night. Or maybe that was just Kate--he wouldn't know.
Sometimes she reminded him of Chaya. Never getting angry. Not able to be a threat. And then there was the glowing thing.
Telling her he wasn't getting enough sleep just led to a suggestion of sedatives. Get a full night's rest, John. You've got shadows under your eyes, John. You need your sleep, John.
He just smiled. And went running instead.
Sometimes no one made it.
Sometimes the bomb was a really big bomb. Sometimes there was a really big gun, or a really big storm.
Sometimes there wasn't a Hail Mary.
There was always tea waiting in Elizabeth's office. It wasn't the same as the stuff they served in the mess, and he didn't ask where she got it. It was warm and it was hot and that was good enough for him. They'd talk about reports and data and tactics. Or they talked about popcorn and television and music.
There were times they sipped their tea in complete silence. He'd never tell her, but he liked those times the best.
Sometimes he knew the moment before he died.
The glass always shattered first. When he was awake, he never felt it--the trembling that started beneath his feet; the shaking of the walls. In his dreams, the glass always shattered, slivers flying, then falling.
And that's when he knew that it was too late.
And then the tower started to fall.