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Sarie Venea
Author of 18 Stories |
Nightmares
Sarie Venea
AN-Post-unwritten torture, angst. As usual.
She refused his unspoken offer of the bed, instead accepting a pillow and curling up on the rug. They both knew better than to try to talk, John instead sinking into the couch and Teyla asleep within seconds. He watched her for a few minutes, noting with a surge of pain the skeletal joints that protruded through the blanket. She moved restlessly, a quick breath harsh before her muscles calmed again. He rested his head back, waiting.
There it was, the insistent, brassy knock. He crossed silently to the door, opening it and smirking at the rumpled, still-sickly looking physicist standing nervously in the hall. The pale, sunken cheeks betrayed the flash of general annoyance that appeared, and John could see clearly the trembling that occupied the weakened hands. He stood back and let Rodney in, nodding at Teyla to keep the other man quiet. McKay frowned at the Athosian, concerned about the tiny ball she'd knotted her body into.
Teyla had stopped eating, her food in little untouched piles across her tray. Ronon filled it for her, carefully arranging the things she liked best in small portions on the plates. All three men watched her while she pretended to eat, hating themselves for letting her die piece by piece.
Sheppard shrugged toward the bed, reading the exhaustion in his friend's shoulders. Pausing to bend and run his fingers along the small brown hand that clenched the blanket, Rodney slipped in between the sheets, sprawling gingerly on the very edge of the bed. He narrowed his eyes at Sheppard, who again sat on the couch. John smiled softly, leaning back, exuding an easy safety and casual vigilance. He nodded once, watching as Rodney's eyes slid shut, his breathing hitching before he too slept.
Sheppard closed his eyes, telling the lights to go down mentally. Nothing happened, and he raised his head, suddenly and achingly remembering that they weren't on Atlantis when he found the stubborn desk lamp still blazing dimly. His hurting, weary body refused to make the effort to turn it off.
Rodney was permanently spooked, jumping at a slammed door, his shoulder brushing Sheppard's more often then not, refusing to leave Ronon's hulking shadow. He craved protection with every fiber while denying his every effort to provide the same for the other three.
This knock was nearly fifteen minutes later; Sheppard hovering on the edge of sleep. He startled, standing too quickly and nearly falling. Crossing to the door, half-dizzy, he was unsurprised to see Ronon leaning against the wall, the lines of his body tense to the point of snapping. John opened the door wider, again standing back and letting Ronon enter, his arms folded as he took in the other occupants of the room. Rodney slept as noisily and fretfully as he lived, his hands clutching and opening, his face moving and his legs rolling under the blankets. Teyla's beautiful face was uncharacteristically lined and worried, her forehead creasing and her limbs tightening into her body.
John crossed to the closet, pulling out a thin cot and setting it up effortlessly, wincing as he straightened. Ronon nodded and lifted the edge, setting it quietly between the door and the bed, stretching out noiselessly. Bandages, white against his dark skin, peeked from his BDUs, the characteristic leather abandoned. His eyes raked over John, his frown deepening. Sheppard glared back, but grabbed a blanket off the foot of the bed, snagging a pillow from the side not under McKay. He let his hand brush Rodney's shoulder, sharper than it should be and shaking slightly. Turning away, he let his long form drape over the sofa, yanking the blanket close and curling up. Sleep came easily.
"Rodney! It is alright; you are safe. Breathe, Rodney, calm down."
Ronon stood behind her, his focus on the white-faced man, McKay's eyes searched the shadows, wild and terrified. A dark bruise spread across his nose and under his eyes, the imprint of chain links sickening in the dim light. His chest heaved, hyperventilating and gasping through tightening airways.
"McKay, there are no Wraith here. You're safe." The deep voice vibrated through them.
"N-no…no Wraith. C'course not. No Wraith." Rodney wasn't the brilliantly articulate genius whose verbal lashings had reduced half his science team to tears. He was the scared, hurting soul that had been tortured nearly to death and mentally broken by his worst fears. Teyla closed her eyes, her own chest aching with the agony that tore through Rodney's wasted frame with each shudder. She let her hands fall to his shoulders, encircling him and pulling him close. Opening her eyes, she glanced up at Sheppard, kneeling behind his friend, his palm hovering, as if he didn't know whether to touch McKay or not. The colonel sighed and dropped his hand, reaching up to rub his own neck and curse quietly. A long night of nightmares faced them, and the only way they would survive it was by clinging to one another.
Sheppard was next. Screams filled his ears and he groaned, the crushing weight in his head filling his limbs with lead. He couldn't get to them, he couldn't turn away, he couldn't watch. Elizabeth became an ugly husk; Rodney was still in death, Ronon was hunted yet again, Teyla's body weakened into old age. The city tore to shreds around them, the beautiful windows shattering and the consoles exploding into sparks around him. Images and visions of terror snapped through his mind like a horrific slide show.
He groaned and clenched his fists, fighting the weight that sank through his body. Suddenly a sharp slap against his face forced his eyes open. McKay's blue eyes were inches from his, his hand wrapped around John's chin and jaw, shaking him hard.
"Breathe!" The order filled his mind and he sucked in air, gasping as the pressure against his bone and cheek captured his focus. The images melted away and he went limp, the grip easing and moving to his shoulder. Nausea came in sharp waves and John rolled, dry heaving. Rodney braced him on the edge of the couch while Teyla held a cloth under his mouth, her hand cradling his cheek. A hand rubbed across his shoulders and back, the abrasive man aching for the tension that corded the colonel's muscles.
"It is not real, John. You are safe, on Earth. It is not real."
His eyes opened again, focusing on the tall, hulking man who stood, his arms crossed, glowering at the scene. Fragments floated through his mind, flickering with reality. Ronon shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving John's.
The warrior paced, waiting until the door clanged open and a broken body was dumped into the cell. He lunged at the brute of a guard each time, snarling, only to have the door slammed in his face. He turned back to the team member, be it a scientist or a leader of her people, and, deceptively gentle, gathered them into his arms; cradling the smaller bodies against his warmth until they woke, confused, scared, embarrassed, yet always clinging to the familiar.
Teyla merely cried, holding onto the Runner, her soft sobs muted in his chest; Rodney and John sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the bed, watching as she relived every detail, her dreams vivid and emotional. Finally the weakened scientist sank into the pillow, his eyes slipping shut. Sheppard pulled his knees to his chest, keeping position at the foot of his friend's bed. Ronon rocked the delicate woman gently, letting her whimper into sleep, never letting go of his jacket.
Elizabeth slammed through her room, her datapad flying into the wall and shattering. She stood for a second, chest heaving, tears hot on her face. Stumbling to her desk, she reached out blindly, grabbing anything her fingers touched, flinging it and tearing it, uncaring, unseeing. Finally she crossed to the balcony, lurching against the railing. Leaning over it, she opened her mouth and screamed. Anger, fury, pain, hate, an aching sadness poured out of her in terrible sounds of agony. She screamed until she had nothing left, sinking to the floor and curling into herself. They were home. Safe. So far from sound.
Weeks of searching led to nothing after nothing, dead-ends and phony leads that built on her heart like bricks. SAR became MIA, holding on became moving on, hope simply shrank into dust. Then, a miracle, a stab in the chest. A horror-house of slavery and torture was liberated, like the American soldiers who found skeletons walking in death-camps of genocide. Cells were opened, a team at the gate dialing and watching as people went home to worlds they'd forgotten. A deep, dripping cell that stank of decay and terror was found, a huddled group illuminated with the first light to touch them softly in over three months. Blue, hazel, brown, black. Eyes opened, a head with knotted hair lifted, a round pale face turned into a skinny shoulder, small brown hands gripped gun-callused ones. Protection flashed in some, hopelessness in others, fevers and pain gutting the spark of life each once held.
Crossing hesitantly to the bed, wiping the tears on her pants, she let her fingers drift toward the unruly head pressed against the folded blanket at the foot. She stroked the black hair lightly, aware of the exhaustion that hummed through his thin frame. He stirred, blinking up at her. A ghost of a smile fitted across his face, his eyes slipping closed again, burrowing into the mattress. She knelt on the floor beside him, pausing before pressing her lips to his temple. Laying her head on his, she allowed the tears to run freely.
