Don't Let the Wormhole Hit You On the Way Out
Summary: John is whumped, Elizabeth angsts, and pondering is performed. No specific time period.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Although I want it. Really, really badly…especially Rodney. And Carson's yummy accent.
Dr. Elizabeth Weir is standing on the balcony, fingers gripping the railing until her knuckles and the ends of her fingers turn white, and for the first time in her life she is honestly wondering if it's all worth it. She's relieved, of course, as the jumper flies in, Rodney not John at the controls—she's not really surprised that the Lieutenant Colonel isn't up to flying right now, and she almost laughs hysterically, then stops herself. It wouldn't be good for moral to have the 'gate room staff see the leader of the Atlantis expedition losing her grip. No, she's relieved more than she had ever believed possible, going lightheaded and almost dizzy with the waves of it—but there is almost a kind of despair, behind it, because she's honestly not sure how much longer she can take this. Take the drain; take the all-encompassing fear that sometimes makes black spots dance giddily in front of her eyes. She's not sure how many more times she can see him hurt before she simply goes mad.
And she knows it's selfish, knows in the rational part of her mind that it isn't true, but she can't help thinking that for her, maybe, it's the worst. Because she has to take care of all of them, everyone, she is commander and confidante and controller all wrapped up in a brown-haired package that's thinner than it used to be, and she doesn't think she was made for this. John was, anyone can see the simple fact that he was born to lead people glinting through his hazel eyes if they look, and Carson has that same natural urge to step up when people are hurt, that knowledge of what to do—apply a tourniquet, fall back, shoot or surrender. Even Rodney has it, she thinks—there has not been a single time when he hasn't spun a solution out of thin air like sugar-fragile cotton candy, and saved their respective asses with it. But her—she is just a pale woman who decided to be a diplomat when she was 16 and ridiculously idealistic, then stuck with it because it was something she thought she would maybe be okay at, and it didn't involve math in any way, shape, or poly-sided form. She doesn't have that drive, that ability to simply know what can be done and what can't. All she can do is the best she can, and then pray.
If John could hear her right now—and he can't, he's barely conscious in the back of the jumper—he would shake his head in disbelief, or maybe scoff. He might even, no, would most likely of all jump up, ignoring the pain ripping through his body, and protest that with every fiber currently working—because he thinks she's wrong. He thinks that Elizabeth is the strongest, most charismatic, smartest—sorry, Rodney—most damn fantastic person he's ever seen in his entire life, and hearing her think of herself a somehow lesser would drive him nuts. Because he sees her a different way, maybe the right one, or maybe what's right and wrong has always been, is, and always will be open to interpretation—he sees her as ridiculously, incredibly capable and clever and calm except when balls are asking to busted, and then she's the scariest person he's ever seen. John knows that if he tried to do what she's doing, he would simply go insane—after the thirty-third complaint and the fourth hour of paperwork and the fifteenth heart-stopping worry, he would excuse himself, get up, and take a long walk off a short balcony. But Elizabeth—he does know something of her low self-esteem, if not all of it, and oh, how he wishes she could see herself as he sees her. Walking about her city like she knows she owns it, eyes glowing and soft Ancient light glinting off her hair—she could be an artist's portrait of power and capability and self-control. He wishes she could feel that presence, the one that will make anyone, he doesn't give a damn who they are, sit up and take notice, and note the smile on her face when she talks to him, sometimes, that makes his heart and brain do a little skipping thump in unison. He wishes, when he feels a little better than he does now, and not like a little kid is pulling his guts up through his mouth for jump-roping, that he was better at making her see it.
He loves her, you know. Or maybe it's not love, not the kind that's mushy and with flowers and candlelight, but whatever it can be called, it's there—like a deep, burning need. It's like he requires her for existence, like without her he's just…nothing. Like, no matter what else is going on, no matter what has happened, if he can turn his head and see her drawn face everything will be—not all right, but bearable. Good enough. He doesn't fit right without her there; he skitters across things instead of touching them, and blinks instead of making eyes contact, and she is the one who grabs his collar and makes him stay put and be human. And he knows he does the same for her—it's not arrogance, although he does know he might have that, but just another fact of the various universes. Just as she makes him stop, he makes her go—go sit with his team and watch the sci-fi movie Rodney picked out and Teyla wanted to experience, and laugh at the truly horrible special effects while the scientist sputters that it's a classic, go fly in a jumper up until the planet is just a dot approximately the size of a quarter and breath sounds loud in the silence that could, if there was no-one else there, make you go deaf. And she needs that—it's ironic, really, that the problem is not, as she thinks, her lack of competence, but rather the fact that her cup of it is running over. He thinks it could drown her, if they both weren't careful. Which neither of them really are—but sometimes John thinks that here in the Pegasus Galaxy, just a little—ideas, brains, care and guts and blind bravado and crazy ideas—is enough. God, he hopes so.
Elizabeth stands on the balcony, refusing to rub the lines of lost circulation across her fingers, and watches Rodney anxiously as he lowers the Jumper, for a nod or a wide-eyed grimace or something that can keep her going for just now, as Carson races behind her and down the stairs, his team trailing behind in their flashes of yellow. And the man, whose eyes are, indeed, and little frantic, looks at her with that keenly sharp intelligence and nods, a little. He'll be fine. It's enough. And she sags, just a little, because there can't be even a fraction lower moral than there already or everything will go to pieces, and closes her eyes and allows herself five seconds of prayer.
Let it be enough. Let everything—me and him and the whole beautiful city—let us be enough to do something more than survive. Please, God, Buddha, Krishna, Jesus…let it be enough.