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Wish Fulfillment - Stargate: Atlantis - Gen (John Sheppard) - Words: 930
Written for Stargateland's Anywhere But Here Challenge.
Summary: There are places that John only let's himself go in the most dire of circumstances. This is one.
Content Notes: None. PG
On AO3: Wish Fulfillment
John leaned back, or at least he made the motions of leaning back as the webbing held him too tight for him to do much more than blink and twist his head about half an inch, and did his best to ignore the way the strands of the Wraith cocoon were digging into his skin. He did his best not to think about the tingling feeling that started around his knees and went all the way down to his feet, probably the result of his circulation being cut off. He tried not to think about how much he wanted to itch the skin just above his right eye, or how much he wanted to pull his wrist up to check his watch, or how worried he was that the rest of his team hadn't made it off the ship before the Wraith had found them.
Strangely, escape never really crossed his mind; he wasn't worried about it. Either he would, probably after a Wraith came and cut him free, or he wouldn't. There was nothing he could do about it either way at the moment. The odd knowledge that nothing he could do would have any outcome on future events was freeing, and John let his mind wander to places that he'd only let himself go after his chopper had gone down in Afghanistan or during his nights in Antarctica. It wasn't something he was proud of, in fact he would probably say it was close to one of his most closely guarded secrets. He occupied that brief moment of shame before he let his eyes flicker closed, trusting that his other senses would alert him to the presence of the Wraith, and let go of the last barriers that were preventing him from drifting into the conglomeration of memory and fantasy that he'd patched together.
He was young, maybe four years old or thereabout; too young to really understand much of anything yet, but old enough that his bubble of the world was starting to expand beyond the confines of his family and home. His brother had yet to be born, his mother a brief figment that wound in and out of his life in a blur of color and movement. But not here, no, here his mother was a steady presence. John was standing in the kitchen, in a pair of dark green corduroy overalls that he still remembered - that he maybe only remembered because of this particular fantasy. He wasn't hungry, not yet, it was only a little past lunch, the sound of a storm slowly gathering outside the large picture windows that made up the side of the kitchen and the attached sitting room. John's mother was there, sitting in the padded rocking chair working on something with her hands, strands of color being carefully woven together in what John now recognized as knitting.
The strands of the Wraith cocoon bit into John's skin as he automatically strained against them, his body moving towards his mother in his fantasy. John kept his eyes closed, though he paused and forced his muscles to relax again and allowed the cocoon to hold some of his weight instead of straining to remain full upright. He exhaled as smoothly as he could in his confines and let himself continue.
He walked across the floor, his bare feet sticking a little to the hardwood floors as lightening in the distance flashed and the sky rumbled. John wasn't scared of storms, not unless it was dark and the thunder woke him in the night, but in the daytime they were just on the right edge of awesome and scary. He picked up his pace a little and was soon at his mother's side, his hands clenching tight on the wooden arm of the chair, though he was mindful not to catch his toes under the rockers. His mother's hand descended gently, stroking through John's hair and ruffling it so it stood up in the wild mess that his father always complained about. She set aside her knitting in a pile on the floor and scooped John up in her arms, strong and steady. There was a soft quilt that smelled like summer and grass hanging over the back of the chair, and his mother pulled it down and set it over John. They didn't speak, they didn't need to, John just sat back, letting his head rest against his mother's chest as she held him wrapped tight in the blanket and they watched the storm.
John's eyes jerked open guiltily as he heard noise in the distance. Not Wraith noise, but the noise of his team on a rescue mission; he'd recognize those sounds anywhere. He took a moment and concentrated on controlling his breathing. That particular line of thought wasn't something he indulged in unless he was certain he had time afterward to reconcile fantasy and reality, to carefully shelve both what had really happened on that stormy afternoon and what part of him had built up over the years that he could imagine had happened. His childhood was something he didn't usually think about, let alone fantasize about, and to be caught in the moment was not something he'd planned for. As he listened to his team grow closer, John meticulously gathered up all stray thoughts about blankets and mothers and pushed them away. He was their leader, the one they would rely on to get them out of the Wraith Hive and back to Atlantis, and he couldn't afford to be preoccupied. Somedays, he couldn't afford to be human.
Written for Stargateland's Anywhere But Here Challenge.
Summary: There are places that John only let's himself go in the most dire of circumstances. This is one.
Content Notes: None. PG
On AO3: Wish Fulfillment
John leaned back, or at least he made the motions of leaning back as the webbing held him too tight for him to do much more than blink and twist his head about half an inch, and did his best to ignore the way the strands of the Wraith cocoon were digging into his skin. He did his best not to think about the tingling feeling that started around his knees and went all the way down to his feet, probably the result of his circulation being cut off. He tried not to think about how much he wanted to itch the skin just above his right eye, or how much he wanted to pull his wrist up to check his watch, or how worried he was that the rest of his team hadn't made it off the ship before the Wraith had found them.
Strangely, escape never really crossed his mind; he wasn't worried about it. Either he would, probably after a Wraith came and cut him free, or he wouldn't. There was nothing he could do about it either way at the moment. The odd knowledge that nothing he could do would have any outcome on future events was freeing, and John let his mind wander to places that he'd only let himself go after his chopper had gone down in Afghanistan or during his nights in Antarctica. It wasn't something he was proud of, in fact he would probably say it was close to one of his most closely guarded secrets. He occupied that brief moment of shame before he let his eyes flicker closed, trusting that his other senses would alert him to the presence of the Wraith, and let go of the last barriers that were preventing him from drifting into the conglomeration of memory and fantasy that he'd patched together.
He was young, maybe four years old or thereabout; too young to really understand much of anything yet, but old enough that his bubble of the world was starting to expand beyond the confines of his family and home. His brother had yet to be born, his mother a brief figment that wound in and out of his life in a blur of color and movement. But not here, no, here his mother was a steady presence. John was standing in the kitchen, in a pair of dark green corduroy overalls that he still remembered - that he maybe only remembered because of this particular fantasy. He wasn't hungry, not yet, it was only a little past lunch, the sound of a storm slowly gathering outside the large picture windows that made up the side of the kitchen and the attached sitting room. John's mother was there, sitting in the padded rocking chair working on something with her hands, strands of color being carefully woven together in what John now recognized as knitting.
The strands of the Wraith cocoon bit into John's skin as he automatically strained against them, his body moving towards his mother in his fantasy. John kept his eyes closed, though he paused and forced his muscles to relax again and allowed the cocoon to hold some of his weight instead of straining to remain full upright. He exhaled as smoothly as he could in his confines and let himself continue.
He walked across the floor, his bare feet sticking a little to the hardwood floors as lightening in the distance flashed and the sky rumbled. John wasn't scared of storms, not unless it was dark and the thunder woke him in the night, but in the daytime they were just on the right edge of awesome and scary. He picked up his pace a little and was soon at his mother's side, his hands clenching tight on the wooden arm of the chair, though he was mindful not to catch his toes under the rockers. His mother's hand descended gently, stroking through John's hair and ruffling it so it stood up in the wild mess that his father always complained about. She set aside her knitting in a pile on the floor and scooped John up in her arms, strong and steady. There was a soft quilt that smelled like summer and grass hanging over the back of the chair, and his mother pulled it down and set it over John. They didn't speak, they didn't need to, John just sat back, letting his head rest against his mother's chest as she held him wrapped tight in the blanket and they watched the storm.
John's eyes jerked open guiltily as he heard noise in the distance. Not Wraith noise, but the noise of his team on a rescue mission; he'd recognize those sounds anywhere. He took a moment and concentrated on controlling his breathing. That particular line of thought wasn't something he indulged in unless he was certain he had time afterward to reconcile fantasy and reality, to carefully shelve both what had really happened on that stormy afternoon and what part of him had built up over the years that he could imagine had happened. His childhood was something he didn't usually think about, let alone fantasize about, and to be caught in the moment was not something he'd planned for. As he listened to his team grow closer, John meticulously gathered up all stray thoughts about blankets and mothers and pushed them away. He was their leader, the one they would rely on to get them out of the Wraith Hive and back to Atlantis, and he couldn't afford to be preoccupied. Somedays, he couldn't afford to be human.
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I'll post it to AO3 once the challenge is over and I'm allowed to. :D -- THANK YOU!