Author's note: mostly just language in this chapter, I guess. If some of it feels familiar, I promise the effect is entirely intentional.
Disclaimer: Event Horizon does not belong to me.
Miller awakes, stumbling forward as the grav couch opens to release him from both his temporary prison and the nightmares that plagued him while within.
He's not a man prone to dreams while under sedation, let alone nightmares. This, combined with the reluctance with which the imagined horrors of his enforced slumber seem to be fading away leave him off balance, both mentally and physically.
Swallowing back bile, he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tries to pull himself together.
They have work to do.
He opens his eyes to find Stark all but hanging off the open door frame of her own couch, looking far greener than he's ever seen her as she takes in unsteady, heaving breaths. Further down, Smith's skin is the sort of gray that usually signifies a man going into shock.
Miller makes a mental note to double check their supplies personally-the fact that three of them are feeling these sort of affects could be a result of a bad batch of sedatives, though both Peters and DJ are usually pretty good about keeping track of that sort of thing.
Peters has been overdue for a trip homeward, though, her mind increasingly taken up with thoughts of the son she misses so desperately.
Even DJ, consummate professional that he is, seems to be feeling the effects of their longer than usual stint out in space. Taciturn at best, the man has been nothing short of morose of late.
As much as Miller hates to admit it, it's possible one of them overlooked something.
Peters is dragging Dr. Weir to his feet while DJ simultaneously checks the man's vitals and reminds him to breath, and the scene hits Miller with a feeling of deja vu so strong it almost physically rocks him backward on his feet.
The moment passes. Dr. Weir calms. Miller's crew starts getting ready for the next stage of their mission.
Miller doesn't like the way his general medic keeps shooting glances at his trauma specialist, and likes the fact that said trauma specialist seems to be carefully ignoring each glance even less. Later he's going to have to pull one of them aside and demand to know what's going on, but right now they have work to do, and whatever's going on between them, it doesn't seem to be affecting their ability to do their jobs.
He spares a glance of his own toward his trauma specialist-the man is looking more than a bit pale-and is promptly ignored. Even more unsettling, DJ's usual mask, the one that comes off as detached and uncaring to those who don't know any better, is locked far more tightly in place than Miller's ever seen.
The man looks bored, in spite of the way he's refusing to look Miller in the eye.
He's good at making it look natural. He keeps busy, keeping a constant eye on the rest of the crew with his personal medical scanner. It's standard procedure to examine the crew after using the gravity couches, and over the years the crew has grown accustomed to his own particular brand of hovering; Miller's not sure, after all this time, if they even notice anymore. Smith doesn't so much as bat an eye as the man runs the scanner up and down his body, eyes glued to the screen as if the pilot's life depends on it.
Peters reaches out as she passes by, patting his arm lightly, and the other doctor flinches. The scanner slips from DJ's more than capable fingers and drops, hitting the steel deck beneath their feet with a distinct thunk that draws the attention of everyone present.
Peters draws in an unsteady breath as her fellow medic bends down to retrieve the device, ignoring the fact that all eyes are on him as he retreats to a chair to fiddle with the scanner, most likely to check if it's still functioning properly.
Miller takes a minute to study the man. He's still looking pale, his usual mask of cool indifference well and truly in place even as his eyebrows furrow in concentration. He continues messing with the medical scanner in his hands as if unaware of his captain's scrutiny.
"It doesn't matter," Peters says after a moment. "Broken or not, it won't change anything." Her voice threatens to catch, and he looks up, shoulders hunching slightly.
Something's not right.
DJ nods and sets the medical scanner aside. Miller makes a mental note to check on him-to check on both of his medical officers-later before shifting gears.
They have work to do.
Dr. Weir owes them a briefing. Miller takes a deep breath and starts the necessary introductions.
"You okay?" Peters' question is muttered almost in the trauma specialist's ear, so low Miller nearly misses it. The way she doesn't look up suggests that Miller wasn't supposed to hear-her query was meant for DJ, and DJ alone.
"Hmm?" His gaze follows hers, coming to rest on his right hand, delicate fingers running almost absently up and down his chest on a path running parallel to the scar hidden beneath. Realization dawns in an instant and he straightens, hand jerking away as if burned. "I-"
He pauses, uncertain, then swallows. "My chest hurts," he admits after a moment, voice every bit as soft as hers.
Miller isn't meant to hear this either.
"Psychosomatic. Nothing to be done," he adds coolly, mask once again back in place.
"Sorry," Peters says. DJ shrugs.
Miller feels like he should be more surprised by his trauma surgeon holding a scalpel to his pilot's throat, but more than anything else, he just feels tired.
"I don't know why I did that." The statement feels rehearsed. Practiced.
"I do." Smith turns and slugs the doctor in the face. Hard. DJ staggers back, and for what is possibly the first time all day looks surprised.
For a second the fear is back in his eyes. By the time it blanks Miller's trying to figure out why he thinks he's seen that exact expression on his trauma specialist's face before.
He doesn't think he has, but at the same time knows better.
"We've done this before, and don't try to tell me otherwise!" Smith snaps, lunging forward.
Miller is between the two men in an instant in spite of the fact that his head is currently spinning and it feels like all the oxygen has just left the room.
By the time he finally gets a minute alone with a member of his medical team, the uneasy feeling of deja vu that's been plaguing him is starting to get out of hand, and everything is starting to feel strangely scripted.
DJ isn't remotely surprised when Miller confesses to being haunted by visions of a man long dead. "I've known you a long time," he says, but it feels stilted. His added, "you never told me that" feels hollow even if it is the truth.
"I never told anyone." He sighs. "What the hell is going on?" he asks, frustrated. DJ eyes him warily for a moment before apparently deciding to ignore the question entirely.
Miller's not sure why he's not surprised by the man's eventual translation of the Latin from the earlier transmission, but his mind's attempt to explain it away by insisting that it's entirely in line with how fucked up their current mission is doesn't quite ring true.
"DJ."
"What's happened?"
And Miller is sure they've had this conversation before, even if there's no rational reason for him to feel that way.
But DJ's voice is tired, almost reluctant as it comes over the intercom, and he doesn't have an answer for that either.
Or the fact that he knows, as he takes off running for medical less than a minute later, that it's already too late to save the man.