Wait, it's been how long since I last updated? hides
But, another chapter emerges! A short one, unfortunately…I was planning to make the cut-off about a page and a half later, but Mr. McKay is driving me utterly bonkers and refusing to cooperate, which is severely curtailing my writing attempts. I'll try to get the next chapter out in a more timely fashion, but I figured it was better to post something a bit shorter than usual than wait even longer.
Also, a really huge thank-you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story. It's just phenomenal how much support I have received, and I really, really appreciate it.
And, on we go!
The walk to the theater was freezing, and John hunched his shoulders and burrowed his hands in his pockets. Just because he'd spent months in Antarctica didn't mean he enjoyed not being able to feel his toes. Rodney, on the other hand, seemed remarkably unaffected—frankly, it was slightly unnerving to see him so unconcerned about discomfort.
It was warm inside the theater, at least, and John enjoyed the heat as his teenage companion paid for the tickets and they chose seats in the theater—Rodney, geek that he was, wanted to be close enough to practically touch the screen, and John was old enough to worry about getting a crick in his neck. The middle was eventually decided on after a brief bout of rock-paper-scissors (John had the advantage there—it wasn't the first time he had resorted to that particular technique with the scientist), and they settled in to watch the movie.
The first chunk of film was spent in relative peace, with John feeling superior at the way Rodney was impressed by the special effects and trying to steal the boy's popcorn, and the boy slapping his hand away every time. Apparently military expertise wasn't very effective against teenage reflexes in defense of food, especially when it was Rodney protecting his salt and butter. And then the main character's DNA was mixed with that of a fly, the genetic change gave him new strength and agility, and John started to think that maybe they would have been better off with the new "Alien" movie after all.
It wasn't so bad, at first. Just little bits and pieces that made John squirm uncomfortably—remembering running faster than Ronon, sparring better than Teyla, as on the screen the mutant did pull-ups on the ceiling. The back-of-his-mind wrongness that had accompanied both events, the knowledge that this shouldn't be possible, that he hadn't listened to until it was too late. And then the movie really picked up, showing the grotesque physical changes, the deterioration, the warping of the scientist's personality, and all John could see was his own skin turning hard and blue and alien, his mutilated claw of a hand, the way he had grabbed Elizabeth by the throat and wanted, needed, to see her choking and helpless in his anger…
John stumbled out of the theater almost blindly and leaned over in the freezing air outside, trying to catch his breath. Moments later Rodney followed, leaned over him, uncertain. "Colonel? John?"
"I'm fine, Rodney. Just…give me a second…" Slit pupils and yellow eyes in the mirror, the crust of exoskeleton creeping over his body. The horrible detached feeling he had had, when he pressed on his changing skin and the touch barely registered. The feeling of being trapped in a shell as he watched himself lose control, of being separate and lost. The way needles had started breaking off when they tried to pierce the shell that covered him. The animal, mindless thoughts, the utter loss of control…
"John!"
This time the teenager put his hand on John's shoulder and shook him, hard, and the fact that John could feel Rodney's hand burning through his coat helped to shake him out of his trance. "Sorry. I—sorry."
"What the hell happened?" Rodney snapped, looking wide-eyed and frightened, and John felt a stab of guilt. The kid…he was just a kid. He shouldn't have to go through things like this, watch someone fall apart because a stupid movie had given him flashbacks to being turned into a bug.
"A…a year or so ago, I was on this planet and I got bit—" John stopped for a moment, considering how to explain himself without changing the future more than he already, irrevocably had. "Long story short, I kinda…turned into a bug."
"Are you kidding?" Rodney asked, worry falling away before disbelief, and John nodded.
"It was not the most fun experience of my life. The movie…sorry about that. It just kinda hit close to home."
"Turned in a bug. Jesus."
"Well, not entirely! It turned out okay, anyway." John spread his arms wide, gave Rodney a cheerful smile. "Insect free and proud."
The look the teenager gave him in return was uncomfortably sober. John had always been able to read Rodney clearly, and the scientist had always returned the favor. He wasn't fooled.
"Look, Rodney. It's fine. Go back inside and finish the movie."
"What, after that?" Rodney snorted, and shook his head. "I'm not leaving you out here with your post-traumatic stress disorder."
"Always nice to know you care," John said dryly, feeling a little uncomfortable. There was always something not-quite-right about being comforted by Rodney at any time, and the fact that this Rodney was just a gangly slip of a teenager made it worse. Said teenager just shook his head, and was unnervingly silent all the way back to his house.
Later that night, Rodney sat at his desk and dropped his head in his hands. A bug. The Colonel had turned in a bug. If he wasn't lying, anyway…but, no. It was too late for him to think that, wasn't it? He had already accepted the whole story, against his better judgment, against everything. He had to believe it. But the whole thing was just so…surreal. Aliens and bugs and…alien bugs…and spaceships and time travel. And an impossible problem. But Rodney didn't want to give up, that was the thing. He had told the Colonel he couldn't do it, and the man had accepted it with fairly good grace, but the papers covered with his notes still covered the desk, and his hands itched for a pencil, and the calculations niggled there, in the back of his head. Maybe it was just because he felt needed by John, in some strange way. The older man apparently had an incredible life that he needed to get back to, and he believed, devoutly, that Rodney was the only one who could help him do that. If nothing else, it was flattering for someone to have that kind of confidence in him. But what really got to Rodney, what made him grit his teeth and stare at equations with something like fury, was that, at the theater…the Colonel had been terrified. Hell, he had been keeled over on the ground, eyes wide and unseeing at a kind of memory that Rodney couldn't even begin to imagine, because of a moderately well done horror movie. A person who had gone through the kind of trauma that would cause that, who spoke about it in terms that suggested it wasn't uncommon, and then who, when separated from that life, fought like crazy to get back to it…Rodney couldn't even imagine that kind of devotion.
"You're up late," came an amused male voice from the door, and Rodney spun in his chair to see John smirking and propping up the lintel.
"What are you doing here?"
"Bored," the Colonel said, shrugging, and it only took a second for Rodney to get it—he didn't want to fall asleep right now, be alone, when the horrors were still lurking in the back of his head. With that in mind Rodney gestured to the bed, and John flopped down onto it with poorly masked relief.
"So, what're you doing?" John asked, and Rodney gave him a look.
"Working on getting your sorry ass back where you came from so you can stop freeloading," Rodney said, rolling his eyes and pretending not to notice the way the Colonel stiffened noticeably on the bed.
"Thought you gave up on that," the older man said, sounding carefully nonchalant, and Rodney thought about his answer carefully before he responded. Tried to, anyway.
"This isn't entirely for you," he answered finally. "It's more like…I trust you, about what you say happens in the future. God knows why. So that means that, somewhere…I'm out there, an older me, probably having no idea what happened to you, and…we're friends. Apparently. I mean, that's what you said, although I don't know what head trauma I go through to make me willingly hang out with you, but…I'm probably worrying. Maybe. And…" He paused, trying to say what he needed to without screwing it up. He did that so much, all the time, but if he did it now…"I just have this image of the future me, waiting for you to come back and knowing that if you don't, it's because I screwed up. And I really don't want that to happen, okay?"
"So…you're doing this for purely selfish reasons?" John asked, sounding amused and thoughtful at the same time, and Rodney nodded.
"Now, shut up and let me work," he said, turning back to the desk and his figures. He was going to do this. He had to.