A/N - ch 5 was growing too long, so here's the first half at a convenient break. Ch 6 will be posted over the w/e. Hope you like! XD
If anyone can tell me how to do accents, I'd appreciate it. Anais Anais is pronounced 'Ana-eece', and there's an umlaut over the 'i' and I srsly didn't want to appear too ignint, but I guess the damage is done. ;-D
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She shot you then saved you… She cauterized your gunshot wounds. Why?
"Colonel Sheppard? John? Are you with us? Just open your eyes, son. You'll see it's us. Quit fighting us, there's a good lad. You're doing yourself more harm than good. We have you now. Oh, for pity's sake. John. John! Help me out here, someone. Anyone. You lot! Over here, lads! Lift him down gently. Easy does it. Oh, this isn't working. John! Stop fighting. Open your eyes, there's a good lad!"
"No."
He had no intention of opening his eyes. He didn't need to leave this place. Go from bad to worse. If he could have swatted their groping paws away, he would have.
"John, we are here for you. Let us help! Open your eyes! For me!" A woman.
"You m'new owner?" Then, he had to open his eyes for her. He tried. He really did. Maybe if he offered her his best puppy dog eyes, she wouldn't beat him too badly. It sometimes worked. He only succeeded in raising his eyebrows, and his eyeballs rolled into the back of his head. He had to try again, but it was so hard, he -
"John! We cannot own you. You are a human being. You are our friend!" He felt her tug his boxers back up and over his hips. There was a time long, long ago he might've been grateful for the gesture.
- used to be human. 'M not any more.
As for friends, he thought he might have had some of those once. It was good while it lasted. But he'd been abandoned. Left outside an animal shelter in a cardboard box.
"Open your eyes, Sheppard." A growl of a big junkyard dog. Crap.
"'M sorry… Can't… Eye... lid... m-mal… f-func... tionnh... "
Maybe his new owner'd be more lenient than his last one. He couldn't remember what he'd done to deserve it, but she'd run her fingers over his matchy-matchy impalement scars either side of his lower body, poked and prodded while he hung there helpless, then looked at him with a sick grin. He couldn't remember exactly how he came about those scars, but he guessed he'd been bad for his previous owner, too. He was a bad dog. Bad.
Then she'd shot him. Right through those scars. In a haze of agony, and just when he'd thought it couldn't get any worse, she'd shoved a red hot poker deep into both through'n'throughs. He couldn't scream as by then his voice was shot to hell. He'd gasped and wheezed instead. She'd wanted him to live, but she'd wanted him punished to make sure he didn't… didn't… what? He wasn't clear on that. Maybe that's why he was always being punished. Because he could never remember jack.
"Comfy... chair… "
He wanted to crawl back under his stone. If only he could find a little water, he could maybe dab his burn marks, calm them down. Thing about burns is that there was never any let-up. It was constant agony. He'd learned that lesson well. Burns had always scared him, ever since he was around seven years old. He'd played with matches, had lit a candle in his bedroom in memory of his mom, and had played with that tiny, fascinating, wispy flicker of yellow and - whoa! - blue! Cool! He'd let the dark smoke play over and around his fingers, then feeling brave, he passed his right hand over the actual flame, and for some reason, held it there in place. It hurt! And unlike the endless grazes on his knees and bruises on his shins, it just wouldn't stop hurting.
Johnny ran in tears to Davey, who called him a jerk for being such a crybaby, and told him with a knowing look to go run his hand under cold running water. That worked, until he pulled his hand away. Then it burned worse than ever. When his dad found out what he'd done to himself, he'd slapped some Silverdene on it, and promptly launched into a lecture about playing with matches but even more about not sniveling like some goddamn pansy.
Johnny just sat there in a huddle on the couch, his arms wrapped around his knees, hugging himself better, and he listened in silence, his eyes red and swollen, struggling to stifle tell-tale sobs. He'd learned his lesson that day. Suck it up. Tell 'em 'I'm good.' He slept in the doghouse with Tyler that night, and pretended the warm body was his mom, and that Tyler's fur was his old blankie his dad threw away when he was five. The one that smelled of his mom. In the doghouse, he could let his tears flow freely.
When he was nearly nine, Johnny scalded his wrist while trying to make himself a bedtime hot chocolate like his mom use to make. He knew better than to bother anyone, and he dashed to the restroom, suppressing his tears, and let that water cascade over his entire hand for half an hour or so, even as he jiggled in desperation to go pee. Running water did that to a kid. He didn't want his dad or his brother to know he'd been an asshole again, so he hid the scald mark under a wristband. It was also a reminder he should keep his mouth shut when he was hurting, and take care of himself, look out for himself, and at the same time it was a reminder of his mom, which was a good thing. He had a steady supply of her wristbands in different colors as she used to play tennis a lot, sometimes even in tournaments. Mom even made the state finals before she got sick. He'd fished them all out of the donation pile after his dad's clearout of her stuff. Dad had sold off most of her jewelry bar a few trinkets. Johnny cared nothing for that junk as she'd never worn it on a daily basis. Some of it she never wore at all. Her clothes smelled of her in a way diamonds and rubies never could.
He never wore the pink wristbands as pink was for girls and… pansies, whatever that meant. Those he kept under his pillow. After Tyler had to be put down, he sometimes slept in the doghouse with Casey, who later got hit by a truck, then Beau, who went head to head with some coyotes, and he always lit a candle for them when they passed, but he never put his hand near an open flame again.
By the time Johnny was in high school, and was no longer Johnny but John, he still wore his wristbands, and by then he was ready to fight over them, and win. He was officially a jock and didn't look out of the ordinary. Well, apart from his ears but they got covered back then by his crazy hair. Wristbands and sweatbands were the order of the day along with other cool sports gear. Much later he later found out the scent impregnating the wristbands was called Anais Anais. It took Nancy to tell him. She had challenged him over some other woman's scent in the house as she preferred Chanel No 5, but he never spilled the beans. There was no point. His marriage was already on the rocks.
"Oh, no! Not the comfy chair! Ow! What? It's Monty Python! He's being witty. Sheppard is a wit. At least he's half a one. Right, Sheppard? Eh? Ow! Quit hitting me, Conan!"
Whuh?
"Ronon! Rodney! Behave!"
He cringed. He'd better behave too. He stopped squirming and went limp. He was on fire. Squirming helped minimize the pain. They wanted him to hurt. Drive the lesson home. Tears trickled freely down his cheeks, and he began to sob. Pride had gone bye-bye long ago.
"John, thank you for co-operating. Good lad. We only want to help."
Sure you do.
"We're here for you, Sheppard."
Sure you are.
"What Conan said."
Drop it.
He'd let them fix him up. It would only be to heal him for his next due punishment, but until he could manage to die, smack his head even harder on the stone bench next time, he'd have to take what he could get. It would give him the strength to do what he needed to do. He felt his body being lifted from the gate, and placed back in his cot. At least, it didn't appear to be his bench. He waited in agonized silence for the tainted water and broth. Instead, one of them jabbed him in the back of his hand. He felt himself relax. He could still feel all the ministrations, manipulations, contortions, but it was hazy now. Distant. Like it wasn't his own body. He remembered it was no longer his anyways, and they were taking it away from him to do whatever they wanted with it.
"Do you know your name, son?"
"Sh-Shep."
"Close enough."
"Who did this to you?"
"S-Sam… " Samara. The alternative was way worse.
"Sam? No, son. I don't think so. This isn't anything Colonel Carter would do. She's a good person." Shep heard the man whisper something about bandaging his wrist, and not attempting to pull his dog tags away until they got him into surgery.
Surgery? Surgery meant Carson!
"Car- "
"What is it, lad?"
"Carson?"
"Aye, lad! Aye! It's me! It's us!"
"Tell us who did this, Sheppard. I'll beat the crap out of 'em."
The junkyard dog was on his side? Things were looking up!
"And don't say 'Sam', Sheppard, because as we both know that's a heap of - ow!"
"Sam- Samara." They were wiping him down. Cleaning him up. He guessed they didn't want infection to set in. He wouldn't be of much use to them then.
"That creepy, dark-haired bitch who does weird stuff to you after seven days? Like a Wraith?"
"Same." Now someone was palpating him for broken bones. He fought again not to squirm.
"John, I do not believe that can be so. We received an anonymous tip as to your location by a normal human female."
Invasive fingers ran through his hair and down his left cheek. He braced himself for a follow-up slap.
"Aye, lass. Keep him with us while we get him prepped for transport. Help me sponge him down a wee bit. His temperature is high. Little wonder he's a tad delusional, poor bugger."
"No."
Transport?
"No?"
"Not. Normal. Sick. Head." He shook his head in lieu of tapping his temple with a forefinger in that universal gesture indicating mental instability.
"Doctor Beckett. I believe the brand to be the letter S."
"Looks like an emoticon to me, what with the feeding mark. Wait. You don't think… She's dead! Isn't she? It's one of the more immutable laws of wormhole physics, that - or maybe not… " Shep heard a harrumph, followed by fingers snapping together, and an acerbic demand for a pen and paper.
They all fell silent at that. Shep decided to switch off too. His new owner'd just have to get her ya-yas out by beating him while he was unconscious.
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