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[ 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.
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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. ]
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[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.
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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. ]
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[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.
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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. ]
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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.
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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. ]
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[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?
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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. ]
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[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.
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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. ]
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[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.
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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. ]
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[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?
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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. ]
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[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.
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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? ]
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[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.
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[ 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. ]
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[First, desperately, to Belize, who left him feeling crazier than before. Then to Byerly, who told him he wasn't crazy but couldn't understand. He sighs.]
When they're about Angels and you're never quite sure whether they're real or the onset of dementia it does tend to complicate things. Most people don't know: the... prophet thing.
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I hope your stage name is Cassandra.
[ Too on the nose? He's just saying.
Still: ]
Do you want to talk about them? Or, try to I guess.
[ Try again, since it didn't work before. ]
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[There's another thing he hasn't told anyone here, yet. Though, only because no one's asked.]
Although Cassandra wouldn't have been bad - if only I could have predicted what was to come.
[Nothing's too on the nose, baby.]
And really, the not sleeping's the problem lately. Besides, this is your dream, you don't get to turn it back on me. It's not my subconscious that wants to share. So what don't you think people want to hear?
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That, John thinks, it's probably good evidence there's something wrong with him.
He shoots Prior a look of mild distaste for picking him up on it, then flits his eyes out across the floor again. The scattered colours on the floor ripple as if they're underwater, and it almost makes John smile for a second. ]
That some things can't be fixed.
[ There's no bitterness this time, it's just honest. ]
People always want to fix things, so they can feel they've helped and then they feel better about it and I get that. I do. But they don't... ask how I want to be helped. They just want me to talk about everything so they can look at me like --
[ Like he's some sad, pitiable thing that needs to be fixed. Well, maybe he doesn't want to be fixed. He sighs in frustration, blinks back a tide of irritation threatening to take over. ]
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[Prior makes some fluttery, sympathetic doe eyes, turning to rest his chin on his shoulder and pout at John. Then his features straighten to something more neutral.]
Some things can't be fixed. That much is true. Half the rest's horsecrap, of course, not to mention uncharitable to the people who'd care enough to listen to you - who you are lucky to have. But so far you're the only one who seems to think everyone expects a magical fix. My guess is you even feel guilty about not finding it, or that you're somehow underperforming by still being fucked up by things no reasonable person would be able to brush off. Have you tried telling people how you want to be helped? Because every time you ask me to help you, you spend the next two hours dodging your own question.
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I have tried to tell people, but as you may have noticed I am not good at talking about these things.
[ He always wants to get to the point, he intends to, it's just difficult. He needs a run up, because asking for help feels so out of reach. Dangerous. Like it might somehow reveal too many cracks and spill all his weaknesses out into the open. ]
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