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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.

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[ Does he?

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. ]

Sing it, sister. [Prior claps his hands in solidarity and dips his chin to rest on the backs of his palms, watching John stalk the floor.] And who can blame them. Truth is usually messy. It's bloody or it's sad, or selfish or mean. Right? We all look so much prettier when we lie. And yet.

[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.

[ The frustrated energy seeps out of John slowly at that, leaving him feeling tired again. He lets out a slow breath, nods. ]

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? ]

I guess we might. But some people do want to hear. There's this one asshole who'll show up with soup and crackers even when I tell him to go away.

[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.

Another VIP club we're both in.

[ 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. ]

I've tried.

[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.

[ Yeah, that does complicate things. ]

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. ]

It was Polly. Polly Amory.

[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?

[ Wow, is this -- his subconscious taking the form of Prior to nag him about not addressing his own problems in his own dream?

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. ]

Look a you like?

[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.

[ Oh of course, it's his fault. Like everything else. ]

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. ]

Mm.

[A hand to his chest, Prior leans back and tilts his head skyward.]

My god, masculinity really is a curse. So. People don't ask what help you need, and you don't know how to tell them. We're firmly wedged between the proverbial rock and hard place, aren't we? How good are you at interpretive dance?

[ Yeah yeah, laugh it up Prior. John rolls his eyes, but it takes a little of the heat out of his irritation anyway. He knows he's not exactly making it easy. ]

Terrible.

[ He will not be telling this story through interpretive dance. ]

And my drawing isn't any better.

[ John is not going to paint his feelings. ]

[Humor is how one deals with adversity. Take it from a queen.]

Then your options may be limited to the chief among your talents, weak as it is. Talking. I could try and read your mind but it's not really how these things work. So - how do you want to be helped?

[ How does he want to be helped?

That's a difficult question. It shouldn't be, but it is. There's a dissonance between what he really wants and what, instinctively, he might suggest as a halfway compromise. Between what he might say he wants and what he wouldn't admit.

John wants the comfort his mother used to offer him as a child, the way she used to tell him she believed in him. That she'd always be proud of him. That it was okay to hurt. The patience she showed him. The way she never suggested anything he was feeling was wrong, that anything he was doing was wrong. It was maybe unexpected, it was maybe not the life she thought he'd have, but she always supported him.

He draws his legs up toward his chest and rests his arm over his knees, presses his lips together as he tries to work himself toward an answer. He needs to circle up to it, he knows, because he's not comfortable here. He needs a little lead in to get himself going conversationally. His voice is pitched a little softer as he begins talking, wary, as if he's still not entirely sure he's even saying the right thing. As if he's anticipating being told it's horsecrap again. ]

When I first got back from Afghanistan I... I just wanted everything to go back to how it was. I wanted things to be normal, I wanted to... to know that something was reliable, I guess. Even after the... court martial, the people who died, that Nancy was still there for me and our lives could still just... go on. But... it didn't. The world changed while I was gone, I changed, nothing was... how it was. I'd wake up in the night still thinking I was in the desert, thinking she was someone who was dead. I guess I was someone else for her too.

[ Though it still stings, to feel like maybe she'd given up on him. She'd always gotten along with his Dad, after all, when John hadn't. It had felt like an additional betrayal. Like maybe she was never on his side. Maybe she was just deciding his father had been right all along. That he wasn't good enough. ]

I just wanted it to... not be a big deal. I just wanted some patience, to... I dunno, not have to have some big talk about it every time I have a nightmare.

[ To not be pressured into talking while he was still shaken up, to going to therapy he wasn't comfortable with or trying whatever suggestion it was that night when all he wanted was to cool off and feel safe again. To just be accepted as who he was now. ]

It happens to the best of us.

[Prior says, finally, after a long moment letting the silence draw itself out along the lengthening shadows on the floor. He twists so he's facing inward, toward John, sighing softly as he studies the silhouette of his features. He'd like to be more aloof, but it's very hard to hold someone at arm's length when you've just seen them being spun round the dancefloor by their own personal demons and your arm's the only thing you've got to offer out.

He stretches a hand out and smooths John's hair back from the muss across his forehead.]

Time. People change no matter what, without wars or death or sickness to blame. And sometimes the people we want to take with us can't or won't come. Sometimes we won't let them.

[Sometimes we have to let people worry and understand that it's a byproduct of love, for godssakes, but - one thing at a time.]

These dreams are just your mind trying to get you back to where you were. Fix the things you wish hadn't happened, but even in this crazy place the world won't work that way. It only spins forwards, and we who are stuck dwelling on it get one of two choices: we hold on as best we can, or we get off the ride altogether. You've got things to hold on for. And maybe you can't get back to the way you'd hoped things would be, but if you can get over being afraid of all the things that could go wrong, starting something new might not be so bad.

[ John closes his eyes and turns into the touch, letting Prior's soothing words flow over him.

You've got things to hold on for, he says, and John knows that's true but sometimes all the weight of death dogging his footsteps -- all the blood debt he feels he owes feels too much, all the pain he even causes those who have to live and handle him.

Even Prior, listening to all this bullshit. Ianto, watching him with bitter, sad eyes as he gets up and walks away. Cain, snatching his hand and shoving back his sleeve to unveil all his blotchy scars. Everyone constantly calling him on his lies, dragging them into the sunlight while John frantically kicks and struggles away for no good reason other than he can't.

He wishes he could be better. He wishes he could be the person everyone seems to believe he is capable of being. He wishes he could be anything but a fuck-up. ]

You deserve better.

[ He wishes he could be a good friend. He wishes he could be what Prior needs, but nobody needs to deal with John's mess right now. ]

Yes. But so do most people. We get the hands we get.

[And he's not talking about John, that much is clear from the wistful tug in his voice. John's not the only one who'd wind the world backward, if they could. Listen to the voice of experience, baby.

Prior smiles faintly - and faint is the word. As pale yellow light starts to filter in around him, he's fading out of this particular plane.]

Well would you look at that. The night ends after all.

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