Thank you so much for your comments. I'm glad the first chapter had the impact I'd intended.
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John was scrambling through the woods. Trees sped past him as his feet flew over uneven ground. He tripped on some scrub but kept going, darting from side to side and keeping his path uneven so he'd be less of a target. Feet pounding, heart racing, he was surrounded by the sounds of projectiles hitting trees, ripping away bark. He flinched at each hit.
He had no idea why talks had broken down so suddenly. Things seemed to be going fairly smoothly - the usual "I'll trade you this, if you trade us that" stuff. But broke down they did, quickly and violently. His team had managed to get away, only to be separated as they'd fled through these woods.
He'd been taking up the rear, and was now trying his damnedest to get back to the gate. Rodney was already through - he knew this from a hushed radio conversation with Teyla, held as he'd hidden behind a ridge. Teyla was now at the gate, waiting for them. Ford was somewhere in front of him. He could see occasional flashes of him through trees and shadow.
The projectile fire was getting closer. These guys were fast, and obviously well trained.
Shells were falling all around. They hit trees and earth, sending dirt flying violently up. One projectile whizzed nearby. It struck the earth somewhere behind him.
And that was when he smelled it, and he knew he was well and truly fucked. An odd, sharp odor, almost mustardy, just at the back of his awareness. He barely had time to process what it was before he felt himself lifted and he was flying through the air, the sky bright blue above him, trees coming at him in a blur. His last thought was "Shit" before he hit.
John woke with a start. Heart pounding, sheets twisted around his legs, he fell back onto his sweat-soaked pillow with a softly muttered swear.
In sleep, he could remember. His hand flew to his forehead, as if that would somehow help trap the memories there.
The dream was always the same, and always stopped just at the same point. He could recall his frantic run, and the near-panic he'd felt when he realised... When he... He remembered... No.
John let his arm fall onto his chest, almost growling his frustration. It was like he could feel the memories as they slipped away. Something about... there was a smell, or... It was like it was just out of reach. He simply remembered the feeling of flying, the sky bright above him.
He squinted but his vision didn't sharpen. He closed his eyes instead. Fumbling for the clock at the bedside, he placed fingers on its exposed dial, reading the time through touch. Nineteen hundred hours. Seven p.m. He must have dozed off. He rolled onto his side and pulled the sheet up over his shoulders. Shutting his eyes again, he tried to will himself back to sleep.
Ford must have seen or heard something. Maybe he'd called out when he'd been hit, or the explosion itself had caught Ford's attention, because someone had gotten him through the gate. He didn't remember.
He did recall some things from his time in the infirmary; mostly snatches and flashes of conversation. "Residual vision limited to..." that was Carson's voice. And another voice, from far off, "Severe visual impairment..." he assumed due to a head injury or some sort of damage to his eyes, or the optic nerve. He knew Carson had explained it all, several times in fact, but it was lost in a haze of memory and pain. He really should ask again. But he'd already spent enough time in the infirmary, and he didn't want to go back there unless he had to. Carson would probably think he was nuts, anyway, asking the same stupid question forty-seven times.
Maybe this lack of memory, being unable to recall what Carson had said, was a symptom of the head injury as well? John's smile flickered. Maybe Carson had told him that, too.
He knew - this he remembered - he was left with what sight he had. Carson had explained that there was little chance of improvement. John's smile twisted bitterly. He supposed that he should be grateful. He could get around somewhat, so long as there was enough distinction between dark and light. Still, when there wasn't enough contrast, he might as well close his eyes for all the good they did him.
Rodney, though - he'd recognise him even half blind. The man had a distinctive way of walking. And Teyla of course, small and lithe. And Ford, his movements still showing some of the awkwardness of youth. Each one, he could tell it was them even from far away, simply through their style of movement.
His team. He'd been a complete and total asshole to them. Purposefully. A complete and total ass. Still, he wasn't surprised that Ford and Teyla had continued to stop by, no matter how awkward and uncomfortable he managed to make those visits, especially at first. But Rodney - guess he expected, if he was enough of a jerk, Rodney at least would leave him alone. In the end it just seemed to make the man more determined. And Rodney's approach was surprisingly subtle - he'd stop by, say "Hi", give him updates on their latest missions - brief visits, seemingly casual. Only there to talk about surface stuff. None of that stupid "feelings" crap Elizabeth had tried to pull...
God, he could still hear the sadness and pity in Elizabeth's tone. He'd practically chased her from the room. He winced. That hadn't gone well. Not his proudest moment.
His door chime went, and John sat up. "Yeah?"
"It's me. Rodney."
John almost smiled at that. "Oh. Ringing the doorbell now, are we?" Silence. He didn't really expect an answer to that one. He could imagine the look on Rodney's face - caught somewhere between pissy and annoyed.
John turned the lights on low, more for Rodney's comfort than any benefit he'd get in terms of his sight. He triggered the door.
"You sleeping?" Rodney asked, his voice showing his surprise at seeing John in bed.
John realised he could simply say "Yes" and end this conversation here and now, but the scent of the food Rodney had brought was far too tempting. Instead he said, "Not really."
"Cause I can leave this and come back..."
He waved Rodney in, pulling the sheets so that they pooled around his lap. He leaned back against the wall. "Thanks for the food," he said as the door shut behind his visitor.
He heard a chair scrape across the floor, and then rustling as Rodney settled in it. There was a distinctive "clink" as Rodney placed a plate on the table beside his bed, then the soft tinkle of cutlery as he placed that beside it.
"Meatloaf, mashed, no gravy," Rodney said. "And water," as he placed a glass on the table's surface. "Brought my own as well." Then, around what obviously was a mouthful of food, he managed, "Hope you don't mind."
They spent the next several minutes eating, John holding his food close enough to his face that any "oops" moments would be caught by the plate, rather than his lap. He was actually almost enjoying the meatloaf - there might even be actual 'meat' in there - when his thoughts were interrupted by Rodney's sudden comment.
"Good to see you eating."
John looked up from his plate, his eyebrow raised in a question.
"So much, I mean," Rodney added awkwardly. "Since the gas you..."
Right! John thought, the memories coming back to him in a wave as Rodney rambled on. Gas. He'd been gassed. That's what had blinded him - some weird chemical. Most of the effects had gone away with treatment and time - the breathing problems, the skin lesions. And the memory problems - he almost laughed. Despite all evidence, from those he was fast recovering. But the blindness? That he got to keep. Souvenir of war.
"Hmm..." Rodney said around a bite.
Oh, here it comes, John thought, bracing himself. He placed the plate on the table and crossed his arms across his chest.
"I want to make sure you're -
John cut him off. "Listen, I wasn't -
Rodney slid his own plate onto the bedside table in a clatter of cutlery. "Fine. That's fine. I'm glad."
Rodney did in no way actually sound glad. John could see the movement of his hands in the air, sculpting his thoughts as he spoke.
"But I want to - I need to make sure. That you won't. Um." Rodney hesitated, letting out a harsh breath. In a more resolute voice, he added, "I need you to promise that you won't."
John slid careful fingers across the nightstand's surface, feeling for the glass of water as he tried to buy himself some time. Rodney as counsellor was something he really hadn't been expecting. Grasping the glass and taking a quick sip, he fumbled for a response. "Did you tell anyone?" he finally asked, knowing that his evasion of Rodney's request was probably pretty obvious.
"Nah. No."
That surprised John. He'd thought that Rodney would tell Elizabeth about the pistol, about finding him here. Or Carson at least. Or go running to Heightmeyer. Maybe he had to rethink the man.
John reached out a hand toward Rodney. "I wasn't..." he started before trailing off into thought. Honestly. I swear to God. I wasn't.
Rodney spoke into the silence. "And you won't - ", he said, more of a statement then a question.
"I won't."
"Promise?"
John held fingers up in a mock Boy Scout salute. "I swear."
"Not joking, here," Rodney said, his words sharp and biting.
John let his hand fall to his lap. Rodney wanted serious? He could give him serious. "I promise," he said sombrely.
"And if you do..."
"I won't," John interrupted, his voice taking on some of Rodney's edge.
"If. You. Do," Rodney said, punctuating each word with an arm movement. "If you start to think..." At a loss for words, he waved his hands. "...whatever. Even an inkling, I want you to come to me first."
"To you?" John asked, unable to keep his voice from showing his shock. He fully expected Rodney to flee from such a thing, not to actually set himself up for it. The man was full of surprises lately.
"Yes. To me," Rodney said firmly. "I know you'd never to go Heightmeyer, or Elizabeth, or...hell, probably not to anyone."
John sat in quiet acknowledgement.
"So, yes. To me. Promise."
"Fine," John sighed. "Promise."
They sat in silence for a moment before John looked away. "You know they'll send me back. Once we re-establish transit back to Earth, you know they'll..." He wrapped his fist in his sheet.
He had no idea of what he'd do once he was home. He'd always been military and sure, there had been times in his career when he'd thought about life beyond that. But he'd never really thought of a life without flying.
"Your vision could get better. They may be able to figure something out."
"Maybe," John said, not sounding convinced even to his own ears. When Rodney didn't respond, he went on. "What the hell can I do if I'm blind?
"You could teach."
"Nah," John replied. "You can teach," he laughed, placing the emphasis on the first word. "Me, not so much. And I don't have a grad degree."
"You could get one -
"Let's just drop it, okay?" he said, hands flying up, his words coming out harsher than he'd intended. In the resulting silence, he said, almost plaintive, "For now, anyway, all right?"
"Okay," Rodney answered softly. He reached forward and cuffed John on the knee. For now he left the rest unsaid, the words hanging between them.
John knew he'd only postponed the inevitable. Rodney never let stuff drop. The man was tenacious.
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