![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
[ FINISHED / CLOSED ]
Who: John Sheppard & Prior Walter
What: A prophet and a soldier walk into a nightmare
When: First week of September!
Where: In the realm of sleep.
Warning(s): There's gonna be talk of violence, torture, death, and it'll probably only go downhill
John's had variations of this dream before, over the years, but the core of it is always the same. He's always too late, he's always responsible, he's always at fault in some way. No matter how many times people tell him otherwise, John has long known this is a pretty solid truth. He's got a shaky track record, he disobeys orders, he makes mistakes. Sometimes it's Ford, who's only a kid. Sometimes it's everyone. Sometimes he's shooting Elizabeth as the replicator nanites take over her body. This one, though, is an old familiar story.
In the dark corridor of the wraith compound, John stands and waits for what he knows is coming. It's cold, silent aside from the shift of him adjusting his gun, and a faint mist hangs in the air. The floors and walls are a strange, dark, twisted organic looking structure -- John knows how they make these things, now. How they grow ships. The odd, dim lights pulse and he takes a steadying breath as he slides the Atlantean scanner out of his vest. It tells him what he already knows, he's the only dot in this hall right now. He's alone.
The first scream cuts through his thought process and John looks up sharply, and he doesn't know why it still makes his heart race but it does. Sumner's voice seems to echo as he runs, and he knows he's going to be too late because that's how this works. That's how it always works.
Before, years ago, he'd gone running around the building desperately looking for a way in. He'd been on the wrong floor, and when he'd finally found a place he could see down into the Keeper's room he'd had to lay down on the floor and aim his gun through holes.
He'd still been too late.
Now, he knows the way at least. He cuts straight around the corner from the cells, along twisting paths and runs in -- shoots the two guards and circles around the table with it's oddly macabre feast. With Toran's frail, dried out dead husk propped up in one chair at the end.
The Keeper has Sumner on his knees, her claws digging into the flesh of his chest as she drags life from him. His eyes have already gone milky, his hair white. Colonel Marshall Sumner had been forty five, John knows now. He'd been forty five but in that moment he'd looked like a man in his nineties, and John hadn't even been sure if he could see or hear him. Sumner had disliked him from day one, hadn't wanted him on the expedition, hadn't approved of anything he did. It didn't matter now, of course, but it mattered to everyone who look at the decision he made.
"Major," a voice says behind him, and he knows who it is without even looking back. He knows the voice of Dilon Everett because he hears it in his head so often. Can picture the pinched disappointment on his face. Everett hadn't been there, but he'd talked to John about it. He'd let him know his opinion, even if he'd changed his mind later. It didn't matter, the original words still clung to John -- burned themselves into his memories. "I think I should tell you that Colonel Marshall Sumner was a very good friend of mine. We served together a lot of years. You know, I cannot for the life of me figure how it is that you could go as far as you did and not save him -- how you could get that close ..."
John never leaves a person behind if he can, but Sumner was close to death and sometimes -- sometimes surviving isn't a better fate. He swallows back a wave of nausea, lifts his gun and narrows his eyes at the Keeper as she hisses at him.
"Worse, you admit to firing the shot that killed him."
Yes, he thinks, yes I did. Because I believed that's what he wanted me to do. John lets out a slow breath and shoots a burst of gunfire straight through her hand and into Sumner. She yanks her hand back and he slumps over as the Keeper screams an unholy scream of rage. John shoots another burst into her --
Then he's back standing in the hallway again, and he's breathing a little harder this time as he lowers his gun and waits for Sumner to start screaming again.
What: A prophet and a soldier walk into a nightmare
When: First week of September!
Where: In the realm of sleep.
Warning(s): There's gonna be talk of violence, torture, death, and it'll probably only go downhill
John's had variations of this dream before, over the years, but the core of it is always the same. He's always too late, he's always responsible, he's always at fault in some way. No matter how many times people tell him otherwise, John has long known this is a pretty solid truth. He's got a shaky track record, he disobeys orders, he makes mistakes. Sometimes it's Ford, who's only a kid. Sometimes it's everyone. Sometimes he's shooting Elizabeth as the replicator nanites take over her body. This one, though, is an old familiar story.
In the dark corridor of the wraith compound, John stands and waits for what he knows is coming. It's cold, silent aside from the shift of him adjusting his gun, and a faint mist hangs in the air. The floors and walls are a strange, dark, twisted organic looking structure -- John knows how they make these things, now. How they grow ships. The odd, dim lights pulse and he takes a steadying breath as he slides the Atlantean scanner out of his vest. It tells him what he already knows, he's the only dot in this hall right now. He's alone.
The first scream cuts through his thought process and John looks up sharply, and he doesn't know why it still makes his heart race but it does. Sumner's voice seems to echo as he runs, and he knows he's going to be too late because that's how this works. That's how it always works.
Before, years ago, he'd gone running around the building desperately looking for a way in. He'd been on the wrong floor, and when he'd finally found a place he could see down into the Keeper's room he'd had to lay down on the floor and aim his gun through holes.
He'd still been too late.
Now, he knows the way at least. He cuts straight around the corner from the cells, along twisting paths and runs in -- shoots the two guards and circles around the table with it's oddly macabre feast. With Toran's frail, dried out dead husk propped up in one chair at the end.
The Keeper has Sumner on his knees, her claws digging into the flesh of his chest as she drags life from him. His eyes have already gone milky, his hair white. Colonel Marshall Sumner had been forty five, John knows now. He'd been forty five but in that moment he'd looked like a man in his nineties, and John hadn't even been sure if he could see or hear him. Sumner had disliked him from day one, hadn't wanted him on the expedition, hadn't approved of anything he did. It didn't matter now, of course, but it mattered to everyone who look at the decision he made.
"Major," a voice says behind him, and he knows who it is without even looking back. He knows the voice of Dilon Everett because he hears it in his head so often. Can picture the pinched disappointment on his face. Everett hadn't been there, but he'd talked to John about it. He'd let him know his opinion, even if he'd changed his mind later. It didn't matter, the original words still clung to John -- burned themselves into his memories. "I think I should tell you that Colonel Marshall Sumner was a very good friend of mine. We served together a lot of years. You know, I cannot for the life of me figure how it is that you could go as far as you did and not save him -- how you could get that close ..."
John never leaves a person behind if he can, but Sumner was close to death and sometimes -- sometimes surviving isn't a better fate. He swallows back a wave of nausea, lifts his gun and narrows his eyes at the Keeper as she hisses at him.
"Worse, you admit to firing the shot that killed him."
Yes, he thinks, yes I did. Because I believed that's what he wanted me to do. John lets out a slow breath and shoots a burst of gunfire straight through her hand and into Sumner. She yanks her hand back and he slumps over as the Keeper screams an unholy scream of rage. John shoots another burst into her --
Then he's back standing in the hallway again, and he's breathing a little harder this time as he lowers his gun and waits for Sumner to start screaming again.
no subject
[ Or maybe it wouldn't, since Prior is in his head so Prior is technically -- god, is he talking to himself? Is he trying to talk himself into letting go by dreaming about Prior telling him to let go?
John lifts a hand to his face as he prowls away again, trying to steady himself. Have you talked to anyone about it? John just imagines Kate Heightmeyer, her waves of blonde hair and her reassuring smile. She's dead now, too, and maybe he didn't directly kill her but he's still the reason she's dead -- and all the secrets he'd told her in sessions gone with her. He'd joked once that the Natha needed to start waking up psychologists and really, on some level it hadn't been a joke.
He'd trusted Heightmeyer, and now she was dead, along with all the other people he'd failed to save.
The figure of Kolya prowls a step forward, his lips twisted in an unkind smile:
You claim your purpose is to protect your people, but half the time you can't even do that. That's what drives you, isn't it? Your past failures. ]
Well, since you're dead too I think we can agree I succeeded in some areas.
[ He shifts uncomfortably, feeling trapped between Kolya and Prior, then tries to rally himself. ]
What even is this, a party to tell me how fucked up I am? You don't even belong here, and neither do you --
[ He rounds on Prior, narrowing his eyes. ]
In fact, I was pretty sure if I was gonna have dreams about you it'd be ones where you turn up naked and I feel weird about it in the morning. This is much less pleasant, for the record.
[ Things you continue to say when you think someone isn't real for $100, Alex. ]
no subject
Really? Well let me gather the pearls I just dropped in my shock, because I am the poster child for magical cures.
[Unlike some people, who can die and wake up right as rain in the morning - Prior didn't even get the cures everyone else got coming here. All magic's ever done for him is screw things harder. So fuck that little dig. And fuck John, for thinking that's the message implied in anything he's said.]
And if your alternative to something that doesn't work like magic for you is to store all this up and torture yourself after dark then knock yourself out. Everybody's got their kinks. But I hope you know that you're the one telling yourself this bullshit now. [A gesture to the man running his mouth off back there.] You. Not him. And personally, I'm starting to think I'd have to turn up naked in your bed at home before you felt guilty enough to dream about me.
[While Prior speaks, Kolya seems to have got stuck on a loop of that same line: That's what drives you, isn't it? Your past failures. Eventually Prior's heard so much of it he turns round to snap at the half corporeal figure.]
Oh, will you give it a break? I don't know what crawled up your ass, Major Burns, but everybody fails. We fail people and we are failed. Learning from mistakes might not be current military strategy but I'm willing to bet we still teach it in elementary school. Nobody can protect everyone from everything. Shit happens, and if it doesn't hit the fan in one direction it'll crap on you from another. People who know that and keep trying? They're who you want on your side.
no subject
It's something John would easily tell anyone else, but he can't swallow his own platitudes. John holds himself to a different standard. His failures stick, weigh him down, draw him slowly under the waves like hundreds of grasping hands.
You torture yourself every day, John. How many is it, now? Kolya prompts, and John scowls at that. ]
What, did you take villainous monologue classes for extra credit? Listen to the prophet, okay? All of you just -- leave me alone! I've been fucked without consent enough for one night, thank you.
[ He's still pacing, but at some point between blinks his gun, jacket and tactical vest have vanished off his uniform. John is, instead, just pacing in a plain black t-shirt and trousers, unarmed against the potential threads around him. ]
no subject
Is he a villain? [Because that's the role John seems to be casting himself in, more and more.] Or just wrong?
[Is he wrong, John?]
no subject
Remembers shouting at Kolya over the chaos of a storm as he threatened to kill Elizabeth and Rodney.
Remembers laying on the floor of the cell Kolya put him in, remembers being convinced he was going to die there -- being tortured until he was nearly as much of a husk as Sumner had been. Ordering Elizabeth to leave him there. ]
Oh, he's a villain alright.
[ There's something dark and angry in John's voice, being Kolya had crossed too many lines he couldn't forgive. John understands mercy, but not when you hurt his people. Not when you do it repeatedly.
Still, he studies Kolya a long moment before turning to Prior again and something nags. Something about Prior hasn't fit here from the beginning, but the more he dwells on it the more wrong it feels. He prowls over to him slowly, curious frown in place. ]
Why are you here?
[ He's asked it before, but he's asking again. Everything else is slowly fading, but Prior isn't. ]
no subject
[Stepping back, he hops up onto the edge of the table, kicking his feet lightly through the misty form of Kolya, who vanishes with the evidence of his insubstantiality.]
Me? Oh, who knows. Maybe there's a part of me that thought you shouldn't be alone, too. And I've been waiting for that.
[He gestures to a door where a door wasn't a moment ago. This one looks like a bathroom door, complete with the stick figure of the gender intended to use it.]
no subject
John watches Prior jump up onto the table warily, watches his feet kick. ]
Waiting for what?
[ His eyes follow Prior's gesture, but he doesn't know if it answers his question. Waiting for him to need company? For a bathroom door? John doesn't entirely follow. ]
For us to get locked in a bathroom together?
[ Is this turning into one of those dreams? Admittedly better than a nightmare about Sumner, but still -- a bit of a gear switch. ]
no subject
[But it isn't, usually. He can't control most dreams this way, but on these rare occasions, if there's no way to wake from it, there's usually one to change it, instead.
Prior stands to walk across to it, a hand out for John to take.]
Are you coming? There's nothing left here, so if you're not done being abused you'll have to ask me nicely instead.
no subject
Maybe that means he's not done being abused, maybe he'll never be done until he's driven himself into a grave of his own, but all that leaves is John hesitating a perhaps tellingly long amount of time over leaving an empty room. His fingers flex, and John can't pinpoint why but feels almost afraid of what will happen as he reaches out. As if he might be agreeing to something, silently. As if Prior might do something, sweep these memories from him entirely. ]
You better be taking me somewhere nice. I'm not a cheap date.
[ John Sheppard is absolutely the cheapest date there is. ]
no subject
[He's holding your hand, John, but none of this has left him feeling overly romantic. It's precisely the pressure of the atmosphere that means they need to leave it.
So Prior opens a door. They're walking out of a bathroom, and if John looks back now a battered stall and selection of spattered urinals are all he'll see. If he doesn't, he'll find himself in the Central Park Boathouse long, long after dark. The lights are down inside, only the gleam in through the windows show the empty tables and abandoned bar - the door with a broken lock leading outside.
Prior takes it all in with a slight smile.]
Which is a pity, because I've brought enough very cheap dates here before.
no subject
It looks like a place that won't be hiding something from his nightmares, which is reassuring.
John keeps his fingers loosely tangled with Prior's for a long moment, taking in the scene. Then, slowly, he lets go moves to the window.
Its the water outside that really soothes him. John likes to fly, of course, he loves flying -- but his first original love was the ocean. Atlantis had that, a deep wide expanse of blue water around it. The constant sound of waves, the rough squalls that battered windows and balconies and the perfectly calm days when you could see for miles. ]
I think I like your dreams better than mine.
[ Cheap date or not, on the scale this is a infinitely more peaceful than ninety percent of John's dreams. ]
no subject
Mine usually come back here, in the end. Or somewhere near it. This is the very zenith of morality. Ahead of us, Bethesda Fountain and her Angel. Behind, the sinful pleasures of New York City's number one cruising spot.
[He breathes it in a moment.]
Home.
no subject
John studies the ripples of the water a moment longer before turning from it -- pressing his back against the glass and wood. Slowly, he lets himself slide down until he's sat on the floor -- arms resting on his knees.
In the darkness like this, it's easy to let his focus go soft. To just listen to the sounds around him and imagine he's anywhere he wants. ]
This still feels like home for you?
[ He doesn't know why he's keeping his voice so hushed, as if they're discussing a secret. Maybe because it feels personal, private. Maybe it's the darkness. Maybe it's because John feels jittery, off balance, like he's somehow unwittingly bared something vulnerable to Prior here and he hasn't quite recovered yet. Even sitting like this he feels young, awkward. It's an uncomfortable thing, a role he isn't used to and doesn't like. Maybe that's okay in a dream, though. Maybe it's okay if nothing is real. Maybe he's allowed that. ]
no subject
[Home. Here, and a hundred other scattered little spots across this city: the angel just a couple of minutes down the path more than anywhere, perhaps. This boat house is nothing holy: just a slightly warmer place horny idiots would break into on nights when the Ramble was too cold a mattress. But it's home.
Prior walks slowly across to John, kneeling beside him and finally turning to sit, shoulder to shoulder.]
And I'm it's last custodian. The only one keeping it alive. Though I guess now you'll be keeping a little bit of it, too. [Here, take this place to keep along with all the darker things you insist on maintaining.] Where's yours?
no subject
I dunno.
[ He misses Atlantis, missing the high patterned glass windows, misses the bright natural light and the easy way it responded to his touch. That was home, in a way nothing had been for a long time, but now it's gone and it hurts too much to think of. Thinking of it only makes him think of all the people he misses, people who are dead or who are in suspended animation in Natha pods. People he's still mourning or who he can't mourn, the way they're stuck in limbo and he's stuck waiting. ]
Olympia, I guess.
[ It's a home, a place he lives. Not a place he longs to return to, though. Just something functional. ]
no subject
[Prior doesn't ask the question again, he just leaves that in the air and lets John correct himself if he wants to.]
The difference between a house and a home: something you live inside and something you keep inside.
no subject
You ever been inside an old church? Atlantis was built like that -- high ceilings, big spires, and lots of patterned glass everywhere. Lots of natural light, balconies, open spaces. Only it wasn't intimidating like a church --
[ Maybe it says something about him, that he finds churches intimidating. He winces a little, shakes his head as if to dismiss the thought. ]
It was just -- peaceful. It made you feel welcome. Everywhere you walked, the floors lit up to guide you. The doors opened for you. It felt like it wanted you there.
[ It felt like a home. ]
no subject
[Or that's the expected effect, isn't it. Prior isn't religious - wasn't - but he was raised with sunday services and on rare occasions he walks with the fold.]
Or, maybe once or twice, for carols by candlelight. [The music's the lure, and how pretty everything is that time of year. As he thinks about it, stained glass patterns start to play across the boathouse floor. They look an awful lot like echoes of the Atlantis John's talking about.]
It shouldn't be such a rare thing: feeling wanted.
no subject
Dreams are weird, John thinks. ]
Maybe.
[ Maybe it shouldn't be a rare thing. Is he telling himself that? God, this feels complicated to think about. ]
Do you feel wanted?
[ Is this answer just going to be if John thinks Prior feels wanted? He winces, slips his eyes up to Prior then away again. ]
Maybe that's a weird thing to ask.
[ Maybe anything you ask someone in a dream is just going to be weird when you realise you're talking to yourself. ]
no subject
[He almost brushes it off with a flutter of his hand and a glib line. He used to, even back in a world where a significant section of the population made it clear they did not. There have always been people in his circle who loved him enough to make up for all that. But now?
Prior pushes his hands up through his hair, peering sidelong at John through the little triangle window of his elbow and forearm.]
Not so much, lately. You?
no subject
John frowns at floor. It feels a difficult question. He knows logically he is, he just doesn't know if it's... the right kind of wanted.
It feels selfish to be fussy, though. Prior's hurting and he's lost people and he's sick and what's wrong with John other than a bad case of self-involved idiocy? ]
I dunno.
[ He says, which is a non-answer. Which is the answer he gives when he does know but feels like he shouldn't say it.
But no, this is stupid. Why is he incapable of doing this even in a dream? Which can't he ever --
John curls up a little for a moment and makes a low sound of frustration, like he's seconds from exploding, then pushes to his feet abruptly and paces out the energy. ]
I hate this.
[ Low, emphatic. He takes a breath, shoots a guilty look at Prior and lets it out slowly. ]
Not --
[ He gestures around at the boat, winces and rubs at the back of his neck as he paces. ]
I hate lying, but people don't really want the truth.
[ When people ask how your day was, they don't actually want to hear it was shitty. ]
no subject
[And yet, even when his instincts are to tread softly, he struggles to maintain a lie. And as with most people who view the world through their own narrative framework, he expects the same of others. Truth often isn't pretty but lies are a thin mask, and it hurts when it gets ripped off.]
And yet I find when something is inescapable - and people finding the truth out so often is - you may as well face it and take the knocks than let them catch up when you're not looking.
no subject
I guess we tell plenty of the same lies.
[ For different reasons, but still. I'm fine. Don't worry about it.
He scrubs a hand through his hair and rubs the back of his neck, moves to sit beside Prior again -- close enough that their arms can press comfortably together. A companionable closeness. ]
Do you have nightmares too?
[ He supposes Prior has plenty to be afraid of, it would make sense, yet not everyone feeds that into nightmares. Then again, what answer is he going to get here? If his perception of Prior has nightmares? ]
no subject
[He flashes a smile across. Even if he's still feeling pissy about a couple of the 'truths' from earlier, he'd always rather take those than pretty lies. Truth's a brick wall and he's become far too used to running smack into it, lately. There's an odd addiction to taking those bruises.]
Crazy dreams, mostly. Sometimes nightmares. I don't sleep well.
no subject
[ He shifts his weight enough to lean a little against Prior, enough for the gentle, silent reassurance of touch without pinning Prior down so much he can't move away. ]
Do you talk about them?
[ To anyone? People keep trying to talk to him about his nightmares but really, aside from with professionals once or twice John has neatly avoided doing that and he's not strictly sure changing his tactic is going to bring him much joy. ]
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)