Two Birds, Two Stones
Chapter 15
Revolving Door
Maneuvering his arms underneath her, he balances her back against his chest. Ran up an entire flight of stairs and didn't even feel it in the balmy temperature. Slid across the bathroom floor, twisting his knee a little to the left, because when she popped out of the tub screaming three hours earlier, neither of them bothered to clean up the water and melting ice from the floor—Aeryn usually did that.
He can't even feel his knee—knows he will later, after all this isn't the days of the challenger anymore, and the adventures in space have only worked against his aging body—but for right now, he's trying to keep her face out of the direct stream of water—not lukewarm—pure freezing water, that barely tingles as it showers down on them.
Holds her limp form like a puppet and just wills the water to cool her down, to wake her up. Doesn't know what the hell happened—she just dropped that bag of frozen peas and the chicken nugget she was half done eating and ragdolled in the hallway. Luckily, the space adventures have honed his keen reflexes and he managed to snatch the woman wearing his wife before she smashed Aeryn's beautiful face off the ground.
Man, does he ever want this to be over.
It seems like it's lasting longer than their usual space adventures, the usual foibles they accidentally get wrapped up in because every single thing in the galaxy—and other galaxies now—wants to frell with them. Wants to drag him, and his beautiful, unconscious wife, and his screaming, wailing, possibly colicky, possibly heat deliriumed son, and the whole rowdy crew on Moya into their dren, and he's done with it.
He's so done with it.
"Come on."
Speaks with his chin on the top of her head, long black hair running slick under the water, dripping icicle drops down his shirt and arms.
Her head falls slack against his throat, then rolls to his shoulder, and he moves to straighten her again, tilts her head up with a thumb under each side of her chin, so he doesn't accidentally drown her—ignoring the fact that he can't really feel a pulse.
"Come on."
It is so still as he waits.
He stands, a grown man in a shower, in a bathroom, in a mountain, storeys underground.
A bump on a log.
He holds everything in his hands.
It's so silent. The soft sound of falling water, echoing through the bathroom because he never shut the door to the shower, and it reminds him of Australia, of a storm lapping at their window and his tongue lapping at her neck.
She was so perfect then, so absolutely perfect that he couldn't bring himself to place doubt in the situation. She was there, and he was there, and then he was inside her, and she was shuddering—a blush flushing over white skin glowing against overcast skies from outside—and then they had a son. A perfect son, that as far as he's concerned, was conceived during her first thunderstorm, and he was the first person to hold him. He caught the kid and cut the cord during the middle of the blitzkrieg.
"Come on!"
And maybe she's finally listening to him, because her lifeless body tenses, she sucks in an awful big breath that bursts her forward, her eyes opening up under a stream of shower water, and the sight of their leaky shampoo bottles welcomes her back.
He wraps an arm around her chest, pinning her shoulders to him, and one around her forehead, just so she doesn't lurch forward too much and smash that beautiful face off the dial, and he laughs into her ice cold hair—not knowing which woman it is—just happy that there's some form of life in her body.
"Oh, God you scared me."
She takes four breaths in quick succession, her back pressing against his chest, his soaked t-shirt licking at the soaked tank top she's in and he should really be letting go, but that was too much. He's all for living dangerously, and playing on the edge, but that was too damn much,
Her head tilts one way, then another against the restriction of his arm, and her body tenses for a different reason—not shock anymore—but fear because he's got her held down.
"Sorry." He releases her, finally feeling the full effect of the coldest water a mountain can offer, goosebumps widespread over his body. "You just—who are you?"
She turns to him, and he knows it even before she says it. It's something about her eyes, something about the way they soften when they see him because maybe she's remembering that room in Sydney where she drank her first beer.
"It's me, John."
"It's you," he agrees, snatching her up—this time, facing him—his cold cheek piling against the top of her still drenched hair—she smells like her again. "It's you."
Her fingertips run up the back of his neck and into his hair, scratch like she's holding on to him, like he's anchoring her there and if she lets go she'll poof back to Moya, so he holds her tighter because under the right circumstances, three hours is a frelling lifetime.
"It's you," says it one more time as confirmation—not for her—but for himself, so he can let go of the veritable nightmare of someone not Sebacean driving his Sebacean wife's heat delirium prone body through what feels like the Florida keys during rainy season.
Drops a kiss to her neck, and the taste is cold—of course it is—but a comfort, familiar, the same as that first experimental peck beside her on the bed. Her hand sways up to hold the side of his head as her frozen lips press a kiss into his temple, and if he could describe perfection—after describing her and Deke—he'd talk about this, and the feeling of ultimate relief.
"Why am I in the shower?" She pulls her head back with a disgusted expression on her face, her finger traveling to her mouth to pick out bits of nugget still stuck to her gums. "Why do I have breaded poultry in my mouth?"
Forgot that she hates chicken.
"The girl in your body fell slack while eating a chicken nugget." He reaches across her, the water droplets dancing across his skin in the light and turns the shower off. The pipe groans in resistance but then there's only drip of the random drops of water from their bodies. "I thought it was a heat delirium thing."
"No, our time possessing each other merely expired," she shudders—the droplets starting to slow now—and wraps her arms around her body, like she did when she came back, the first time he actually lost her, the time he killed—"Did she not feel?—"
Bows his forehead against hers—despite the temperature, the confusion, the taste of subpar reheated frozen chicken nugget in her mouth—she embraces the stance, closing her eyes along with him, breathing in the same air he does, feeling the same comfort he does, nuzzling a little into him.
"I love you," murmurs it against her skin and feels at home a galaxy away.
"I love you too."
Snaps out of 'what-if' mode, because although it sure as hell may sell comic books, it only gives him another reason to lose sleep. Cups a hand over her cheek, watching her eyelashes clump together with water as she blinks up at him. "Let's get you dry."
Still staring at her, he moves to push the shower door open, only he forgot he never closed it—due to thinking he somehow killed her again—and he stumbles backwards, slipping on the floor again, trying to catch himself with a knocked knee—that he definitely feels now—and falls flat on his ass in the bathroom floor marshland.
Figures she's going to ask what the frell happened to the bathroom in the three hours that she was gone, but instead she grins down at him, stepping gracefully from inside the shower, her arms wrapped around her, until she offers him one to help him stand.
As he takes it she smiles, "I saw Deke."
"Is he—"
"He's perfectly fine. Content. Our counterparts are caring for him well."
"I miss him."
"He misses you."
He grins, accepting her words, knowing an almost five-week-old baby can't really miss him, especially when he wasn't there for the first week—or this last week. All he can hope is that in the long run of things, his kid doesn't remember all the sick days he took.
"Colonel Mitchell, your counterpart, is a gentleman."
"Vala, yours, is feisty."
He grabs the last towel from inside the cupboard, and takes careful steps, back to her, wrapping it around her shoulders, pulling her hair out from beneath it with a slap. His hand wring through it, squeezing out the extra water.
"Our son is in good hands, until we return."
He nods, his lips pressing and staying against her forehead as he embraces her again, before remembering, "hey, the last thing Vala said before her ass got booted from your body was something about a pinch in your pelvis."
"What?" She stiffens ducking her head back to observe him.
"Yeah, she said it didn't hurt, more like it felt like a distraction?" His fingers lightly touch the sliver of skin escaping from between her top and her shorts—across from the scar, like she said. "You okay?"
"Yes." She steps away from him now, which makes him think she's lying. Which makes him think the opposite is true, and it's like he told the good old doc, she is his only investment here, and if she doesn't make it back with him— "I'm sure it's just a reaction to eating the processed poultry."
"Well, I think this was happening before she—"
"Remember when we went to your Earth, how ill I was after eating Wackdonalds?" She pulls the towel tighter around her, leaning back into the counter, still shivering under the layer of cotton.
He chuckles, shaking his head, the image of Aeryn thrown over the porcelain throne making the most carnal sounds he's ever head coming into his head. The guys at IASA thought that she was having a reaction to the atmosphere or something and it turns out that some teenager just didn't cook the nuggets all the way. "That's not the name, but yeah, you threw up for a whole day."
"The twinge she felt was a reaction from masticating so many nougats in such a short time."
"Nuggets, and if that's the case, then why aren't—"
"What's that?"
"Nugget is the word, not—"
"No, John." She bolts from the counter, padding across the ice rink of a floor that's claimed him twice, back to the shower, not slipping up her footing even once. "Look."
Think it's the old diversion tactic—maybe there is something wrong with her, doesn't know about the prolonged exposure of Sebaceans to heat other than how she looked when he broke her out of Katratzi, doesn't know if it can start fooling with her internal organs, cause a gallbladder stone or something—but then he looks and sees what she sees.
There's something in the bottom of the shower.
He squints as he approaches, trying to make it out, thinking it's a piece of clothing, maybe a sock or something. "What is that?"
She holds it up for him to see. A pouch as big as her hand, once full, now empty, the familiar disgusting green slime leaking from the top of it.
She hands it to him, a grin on her face. "It's the Peacekeeper infant formula I was feeding to Deke."
She doesn't wake back up right away, which is not what he expected, and it sort of gets to him.
Could deal with the fainting because he was a little forewarned by Officer Sun's words—her actions—finally listened to her, laid Deke back on table where they found him—and caught her just before the back of her head bounced off the ground.
Thought she would wake back up as Vala, just snap back to it like going through a revolving door—only she didn't. He stood there holding her lifeless body for a good solid two minutes, before he realized something might be wrong and he screamed for Pilot, panicking, not thinking straight.
The baby started to cry.
Finally, the old woman woke up from her eight-hour nap, and shuffled into command, took one look at unconscious Vala, and scoffed that she would be fine, that she was just lost in between worlds.
He argued that sounded pretty fucking not fine.
But Noranti didn't hear him, or didn't answer, just took the baby and told him they would be with Chiana, to go there when Vala woke back up.
So he lugged her back to their room—lugged is the wrong word, despite how she packs her food back, she still weighs next to nothing—and laid her out on the bed and sat in a nearby chair. Didn't want to plan scenarios, but that's what he does, he's a leader, he has a contingency plan, and a contingency plan for his contingency plan.
Just sat with his fingers steepled, pleading that he didn't have to continue on—or worse—go home alone.
When she wakes, it doesn't happen immediately. Not the snap back he thought would happen from seeing her leave Jackson and seeing her return from the Ori galaxy. Her fingers twitch and her eyes move just slightly under still closed lids. She groans somewhere in the back of her throat and it's hoarse, but her head falls to the side, her hand coming to rest on her forehead.
Then she yelps and that quickness he was searching for kicks in. She flips to her side, the healthy one—he completely forgot about her injury. When he carried her, she wasn't conscious and couldn't shout in pain, but his fingers definitely dug into acid blistered skin.
Her body tenses, her hand flapping in the air from pain, her eyes wrenched shut a she grunts, "Cameron?"
It might be because her voice sounds so weak, so she's in obvious pain, but he thinks it's the first time in a long time she's called him Cameron instead of Mitchell, or some other nickname.
His shoots out his hand, snatching hers up. "I'm here."
She grunts again, her face growing sweaty and red. "This really hurts."
"Here. Here." He's panicking again because she's back and hurt and he can't think straight, he always takes action, he always tries to stay calm, but he can't because—he grabs the ointment—what's left of it, and he hopes the old woman doesn't charge by the ounce. "Put this on—"
"I can't."
"Yes, you can." He pets the back of her hand, trying to talk calmingly even though his heart is about to burst through his ears. "Just slather it—"
"I can't move my arm."
For the first time he notices her left arm seized against her chest. Bent in and held firm while the hand he just let go of flails around like a chicken with it's head cut off.
"Cameron, it hurts so badly I can barely see."
"Okay, okay, I'm going to have to—"
"If you have to shoot me, I don't care, but do something already."
Just remembers how he was with Sam when she took an Ori staff blast to the gut. He stitched up Sam no problem, he took care of Sam and he's proud of that.
He can do it again.
Sets the ointment container on his bad thigh—which is jostling everywhere—uncapping it and reaches his free hand, the hand not ensnared in hers again, forward to tug up the side of her shirt. The skin underneath has decomposed more in the last three hours and he can see the specific spots where his fingers burned into her.
Keeps tugging the shirt up until he sees the bottom of her bra, and the blisters run underneath the material, trailing fully up her side now. Pulls at the collar of her shirt, slipping it around her shoulder where the injury continues halfway towards her elbow. The skin is bubbled and irritated bright red, liquid seeping out from the wounds, running to untainted skin and infecting it.
"Shit."
"Cameron!"
"Okay, do exactly what I say."
She nods as he leans over her body, directing the back of her t-shirt over her head, but leaving it pillowed at her chest. Releasing her grip, which definitely cracked a few of his knuckles, he guides her good arm to hug across her chest, keeping her top in place. He swallows hard, reaching back, trying not to skim her skin as he pops the clasp on her bra, letting it sink against her waiting arm.
It might be a few seconds wasted, but it's something that he needs to do. Not for him, not to keep the balance between them, but because she deserves that modesty. They may be here for a lot longer than they intended and this can't be something she thinks he's going to lord over her. This can't be something that changes the dynamics between them.
Scooping up the salve, he rubs it against her side, down the curves of her body until the dip of her hip, which yes, does look exactly like what he dreams it does—without the blisters that is. Rubs in the peppermint smelling lotion until her rapid breathing begins to calm, slides it over the still clean skin on her naval because it might be infected. Uncoils her injured arm from her body, and circles his thumbs massaging the ointment in.
Slowly, just as she woke, she settles, her chest no longer accordioning with each painful breath, her body no longer shaking from the pain, her arm no longer seizing to her chest.
His hands grow numb, the ointment absorbing into his skin too, and in an afterthought, he takes his still moist hands and rubs them over the still biting wound on his own shoulder.
After minutes of her light breathing through her mouth, and before he thinks to leave her to sleep off the pain, he asks, "how you doing?"
With a deep inhalation, her brows soften, "better."
"Good."
"Cold," she adds with a shiver that is too well timed not to be theatrical—he doesn't care, he sort of missed it over the stoic gruffness of Officer Sun. Vala was only gone for a few hours, but he really did miss her, and that—that makes him think.
The shiver trembles her arm, her good arm, and before anything else happens, he reaches behind her for what's become her favorite fur blanket. Only he might stretch over a bit too low, and it seems stupid, but over the lingering peppermint, she smells like her again. Like autumn leaves and a bit like cinnamon.
Tries not to notice how his closeness affects her. But it does. Sees the goosebumps spread over the pale, smooth skin on her neck.
He lets the blanket fall over her gently, careful not to aggravate any of the rash. Her eyes are closed, and though he wants to, he decides against tucking the blanket in. About to leave—to go get the old woman because maybe she has to do some evaluation, maybe this sort of thing happens all the time in this part of this galaxy—when she questions, her voice sounding a little far away, but not 'other galaxy' far away.
"Does this stuff heal the injury, or just numb it?"
"You know—" he yanks at his own shirt collar trying to get a good picture of his own blistered up shoulder. It doesn't look any worse for the wear, but it doesn't look like it's healing either, granted they were shot with some form of acid, so maybe the healing's always going to be slow, maybe they're always going to have scars. "I didn't think to ask. The old woman just gave me a potion that took away the pain and I jumped at the thought."
"It's completely understandable," she agrees, her voice more of a mumble, and something makes him stay, makes him keep the excuse to leave he's concocted up in his throat.
He relaxes into the chair, crossing his nonstop bouncing legs because he's waiting for something to happen, for the other shoe to drop. The solution to the old switcharoo, the cure for her debilitating wound, all came a little too easy.
"A lot has happened in a few hours, I figured, I'd just accept the win."
She adjusts, her good arm sliding from beneath the blanket, cushioning underneath her head as she nuzzles into the pillow. "Sometimes things just happen for a reason."
He smiles. He knows she doesn't see it. But he still does it.
"Did you get to meet Officer Sun?" Her brows raise as she asks the question, but her eyes don't open, He figures she has another five minutes of chat in her before she falls asleep.
"I did."
"Was she as terrifying as all accounts have provided her to be?"
"Sort of," he yawns, balling a fist over his mouth and shimmying into the chair to get comfortable. "She was more just happy to see her kid."
That makes her smile, and maybe she thinks that he won't see it, because it's the same smile she gave to Deke once. "Did she seem like a good mother?"
"She didn't put the kid down until she knew she was getting sucked back to the SGC."
"She knew?"
"You didn't?"
"No." She nods her head lightly, her lips pursing together with a long pause before she continues, like she forgot what they were talking about. Oh yeah, the sleep is coming. "One moment I was eating chicken nuggets in the hallway behind the commissary with Crichton, and the next moment I'm roiling in pain in front of you."
"That's quite the change of pace."
"That's nothing. Officer Sun has a weakness to the heat—"
"Weakness?"
"Yes, like heatstroke but a hundred times more powerful. I've never felt that physically ill in all my life."
"At least you were only there for three hours."
"Crichton had to drag me to a walk-in refrigerator in order to reconstitute me. Not to mention I awoke in an ice bath."
"Ice bath?"
"The less said the better."
"Oh, I think it's going to have to be one of those bedtime stories you promised to tell me." He reaches forward, snagging another blanket off the ground and tossing it over himself, because the room is cold, and if what Vala said about Officer Sun is true, it makes perfect sense.
"I'll add it to the list."
They're quiet for a bit. He thinks she's asleep and he keeps trying to fall asleep, shifting on his side, following her queue and using his hands for a pillow. But he feels guilty because he wasn't there, because some guy who looks like him had to help her instead. They've been here less than a week, but it feels like this is their thing, like they're in this alone but together and he wonders if she and Jackson felt this way when they came back the first time.
After all, being burned alive together has to cement some for of relationship.
But he's seen the way they act together. She tries to play with Jackson, and he shoots her down, how she has ideas that might actually make sense, and he ignores her—and he played off that for so long too.
Sure she's Vala—flighty, flirty Vala who took care of herself first unless someone needed to be sacrificed—but now she's different. He's seen her care for him, for Deke, for Chiana. He's seen her sit with Pilot and fall asleep at the foot of his console while talking with him. He's watched her take the baby to view the stars, pointing and whispering things while his little face lights up.
She's different now.
Maybe she was always this way.
Maybe he's different now.
Different because the mood Jackson had when they came back from the Ori galaxy, was that he could have accomplished more if he was alone. That she was the hindrance who got herself set on fire because she couldn't follow a few simple social cues—but he was there in that room, he barely knew her and he watched her flatline, and it changed him then too, made him a little more susceptible to saying yes to her, like when she wanted to go to Auburn.
He's different because he wouldn't pick anyone else to be stuck with here. Not Sam, or Teal'c, or Jackson. Not even Amy, who he's going to have to reschedule his date with for the fourth time. He's glad that if he has to be here, that he's here with her.
"Vala?"
"Yes, Darling?"
He reaches forward, taking the blanket that's tumbled from her bare shoulder, skin still as red as ever, blisters still bubbled, and tugs it back up, tucking it in like he wanted to.
"I'm glad you came back."
"Me too."