Title: Five Moments of a Life He Doesn't Let Himself Think About
Summary: John Sheppard isn't proud of the life he had with Nancy.
Characters: John Sheppard, Nancy Sheppard
Pairing: John/Nancy
Rating: PG-15

Thirty-Three Years Old

She slipped into bed behind him but their skin doesn't touch. He closed his eyes pretending he's asleep but he can't fool her. He felt her shift in the bed; could picture her trying to catch a glimpse of his face but he stayed still, forcing his breath even. He didn't want to talk to her; didn't think the time was right for that. So he waited, not-so-ignorant of her needs, until she sighed quietly and slipped back out of the bed. Cold air hit his back as the sheets wafted and when her footfall is quiet at the other end of the corridor, he flipped onto his back and opened his eyes.

Intermittent light flashed across the ceiling and he looked over to the partially open blinds and sighed. A cool, welcoming breeze slipped through the ajar window and he felt it wash over his face, cooling him. He shivered and pulled the sheets around his body. Since Afghanistan, he'd become accustomed to heat that even the Michigan summer heat could not compete with.

He heard the sound of water boiling in the kettle from down the hallway and he tilted his head to the door. Half tempted to join her, sit beside her as she wept, John closed his eyes against his own pain and stayed in bed.

Her pain – that of an expectant mother losing her child – he could not console, for it was a pain that symbolised his own. He felt her pain, though not in the way he knew he should. He had lashed out in anger for her loss, not for theirs. Because he knew it wasn't their loss and he couldn't comfort that.

He sat up, his warm feet shivering on the cool wooden floor and dropped his head into his hands.

Twenty-Eight Years Old

It was a decision he knew he shouldn't have made alone but her talk of babies and futures without the Air Force had frightened him. Her need to have something to attach him to her – their wedding vows not enough was tangible in its desperation. And he resented her for it. Resented that she couldn't understand why he didn't want that, why he didn't want to bring a child into their world. A world where all he had was the Air Force and their apartment, where she went to his father when things got tough, where his father tried to dominate without consent, reminding John at every turn that he had failed.

Driven as a last resort to a hospital three states away, her desperation clung to him even in its absence. He felt sick at the thought of what he was about to do; knew that it was wrong for them but right for him and he knew that it was possibly the most selfish thing he would ever do in his life; something for him, to keep them apart, to retain the sanctity of his sanity.

He looked around the quiet waiting room, the mothers and fathers, the septuagenarians cradling their ailing hearts in their chests and he wondered what the hell he was doing. He closed his eyes against the rainbow of posters in front of his eyes about families and babies and arthritis, diabetes and MMR vaccines, MRSA warnings and flu-jab reminders knowing that if he did this, no child of his would ever have to worry about anything like that again. That there wouldn't be any children.

Nancy's defeated face fluttered through his mind for a brief moment and he felt his stomach roll. He couldn't do this, not to her – not to them. He stood, ready to leave when he heard his name called. Half tempted to ignore the summons, he hesitated before turning.

When he answered his name with a quiet nod, he hated himself.

The child she had carried had not been John's and he couldn't find it in himself to comfort her for losing another man's baby. Because despite it all – despite the distance and the arguments and the vasectomy, he still loved her enough to stay. He had loved her enough to not give up. He sighed, scrubbing his hands through his hair in an attempt to claw the memory from his mind but it stayed, her tearful words ringing in his ears.

"I had a miscarriage John..." Her sob ricocheted off the walls and he felt a lump form in his throat, something akin to tears prickling the back of his eyes. "Our baby..."

The words were lost in a sob and she had folded into his arms, her tears soaking through his shirt. He gulped, his arms automatically wrapping around her but he knew the gesture lacked any emotion. She sobbed and wailed, her cries boring holes into his heart that he knew would never heal.

Below, a car horn blared and he looked up, feeling his breath hitch in his throat again. He could hear her moving about in the halls, her soft cries making their way to his ears. The sound ached, vibrating in his chest and he stood. As he padded down the hall, he thought about what he'd done, thought about telling her. If it had been wrong to make the decision without her, it wasn't right to tell her now so he slid quietly onto the sofa beside her, his arm rising only long enough for his fingers to ghost over her back before they fell back to his lap.

"I know..." she said, hiccupping slightly. "I know you've never been any good at this," she continued quietly, not looking at him as she fiddled with the tab of her tea bag, twisting the cup in her hands. "But please don't shut me out now."

He let out a breath, quick and loud, his finger rising to scratch at the side of his head. He rested his wrists on his teas, entwining his fingers as they dangled in the air. He saw her hand waver slightly, almost as though she was reaching out to him, but she pulled back, equally resistant to human contact.

"I can't grieve for a child I never wanted," he said and there was no lie to it. He had never wanted a child and he was sure that if the child had been his, he wouldn't have joined in her tears. If she was surprised by his words, she didn't vocalise it but John couldn't watch as more tears fell from her eyes. "I'm sorry."

She turned, her face contorted with bitterness. "For what?" She asked, angry and John knew she felt she had reason to be.

He thought again about telling her, about calling her on her indiscretion but he managed to recall the words before they slipped past his tongue and into the air. He knew she didn't need that and despite the knowledge that she'd betrayed their vows, he cared enough about her to let her grieve for their child.

"I know how much you wanted this."

She nodded, defeated and she looked away, to a point that John could not see. In the dim glow of the solitary lamp, her beauty was resonant, quiet – tainted. He didn't want to remember her like that.

He didn't say anything and she replied in kind. He could feel the distance growing, frayed bonds they'd tried to hold onto for too long unravelling in their loose grip. He dropped his head slightly and sighed, wishing the last year of his life away. Afghanistan had changed him; it had changed them and he knew they both knew it. He wished in that moment that he'd did the right thing all those years ago before any of this had happened. He wished he'd been strong enough back then to withstand the urges of his body. He wished he'd loved her better, that she'd loved him more.

He knew none of it would have mattered.

"It's over, isn't it?" She said sometime later when the gold rays of the only just retired sun spurted over the horizon, a thin wash over their faces.

She stood as he nodded, her long forgotten tea cup clinking as it touched the glass coffee table. He leaned forward, wished to touch her leg as she hovered in front of him but he didn't. He looked up and met her eyes; saw there the raw pain he knew she would see mirrored in his if only she wasn't already so consumed in grief. Perhaps not the best time to end it, John knew it was the only way.

She moved passed him, the moment of indecision past, and he didn't follow her. He heard the door to the bathroom click shut, the sound of rushing water moments later. An ache enveloped his chest but he fought passed it, pushed it down, quelled the waves of fear with knowledge that this time he was doing the right thing.

It was all that mattered.