ghosts with just voices Finally, the blue skin begins to shed, layer by layer – yet too slowly for John’s liking. Fingernails rip at the second, unnatural coat on his body, and his chest heaves with exhausted breathing, paranoia coursing through him at the wrongness of it all. Wrong, wrong, get it off, now, please. Help me, please. Get it off, off, off. This is only the third day, yet agonizingly worse than the first two. Carson has told him, over and over it seems, that it will get better; that it should. Should, should, should, and he can so clearly hear the doubt. He screams a noiseless scream, and never could he have imagined pain like this existing. ~ On the evening of the fourth day, he has just enough strength to sit up in bed, muscles pulling weakly against the bonds holding him down. His eyes shut against the dim lights of the infirmary, the privacy curtains concealing his bed, concealing him from the rest of Atlantis. Elizabeth whispers urgently with Carson, and John can hear every word, disruptive of his few, blissful moments of restless sleep. He should have progressed more than this, Elizabeth. But I can’t tell you what’s wrong yet, I’m sorry. Then he opens his eyes for a split second, peeking through a split in the curtains; Elizabeth and Carson are all the way across the room. His eyes burn hot, then, and all he can do is stare at the slowly peeling blue on his arms. The tint of true skin hides underneath, barely visible. Frustrated, his head falls back against the pillow, and the cacophony of sounds surrounding him is suffocating. Another noiseless scream, and another, and another; then a real one; hurried footsteps echo in his mind, alongside the confused hum of Atlantis. She doesn’t recognize him. ~ Sometime during the morning of the ninth day, the restraints have disappeared. The curtains haven’t. He’s still shielded from the population of the city, protecting them from the new, not-so-improved John Sheppard. Carson hovers over him, and it’s too much. Get away, all of you. “Welcome back, Colonel. You’re looking better.” He hears the curiosity, the unspoken questions: Does it hurt? Does it feel as bad as it looks? He wants to ask: How much is ‘better’? He doesn’t. He also wants to ask: Has anyone else seen me like this? Has Rodney? He doesn’t ask that, either. ~ Carson releases him from the infirmary during the twelfth day, telling him to rest. Walking down the corridor outside the infirmary, he passes a group of surprised scientists, followed by Sergeant Cole’s team. “Glad to have you back, sir,” Cole says, giving him a small smile, moving his group along, shouting to those still staring. He reaches his quarters, door sliding open willingly, and he hears the happy hum of Atlantis in his mind again. He lets himself smile. He walks into the bathroom, and stares into the mirror. He almost doesn’t recognize himself. His eyes have returned to normal, as has the skin on his face. But his neck gradually fades into a light blue, crawling over his shoulders, the back of his neck a deeper shade. He raises a hand, reaching for the neck of his shirt, and pulls the soft material over his head. Parts of his chest have remained a lighter tint, but for the most part the skin has changed back. Then he notices the backs of his hands, and the blue on his forearms, blending together with the deep color on his shoulders. He turns, looking at his back, at the unchanged skin there, too. His fingers grip the shirt in his hands, and he pulls it back on, frustrated at himself, at the situation, and even Atlantis’s presence in his mind can’t soothe him. He flees. You’re such a coward, the voice in the back of his mind tells him. I know. ~ Standing on the balcony overlooking the east pier, the cool ocean breeze whispers softly against his skin. Clouds roll across the open sky, purple and red and orange clashing as the setting sun gradually disappears behind the horizon. John watches a lone ‘jumper fly in from the north, no doubt returning home from a trip to the Athosian camp on the mainland. The ship hovers above the open ‘jumper bay door, descending slowly. The ache inside him is painfully real; John needs the sky like the ocean needs its waves. He can almost feel the controls beneath his hands, in his mind, responding so eagerly to his every thought. Fingers linger on the railing as he turns away, gripping the cool surface once more, and she, the city, is pure in her reassurance. I’m still here. ~ The fourteenth day, John ventures into the control room for the first time in two weeks, watching the blur of activity below. Resting one hand on the nearest Ancient console, he watches the ‘gate dial and the wormhole activate, Major Lorne and his team appearing a second later, returning from their mission. When an unguarded grin lights up his 2iC’s face, John knows everything went well off-world. Good. Atlantis agrees, and he smiles at that, really smiles. Well, almost, says the voice, with bitterness and resentment. Fuck off, he tells the voice. It only laughs, sharp and painful, overpowering Atlantis. He turns away, and runs from his imaginary enemy. ~ That night, as spring rain falls from the skies, beating a steady rhythm against Atlantis’s wide windows, John wanders back to his quarters after leaving Rodney’s unusually empty lab. The door opens with a whisper, and he walks in, eyes cast downwards, not bothering to trigger the lights. But they come on blindingly white when he thinks on, almost urgently, after he glimpses the shadow of someone in the corner by the bed, simply watching the bleak weather outside. Accented raindrops falling into a sharp decrescendo, evening out at the end. Repeat. Rodney winces at the sudden intrusion of light, hesitant as he glances at John’s physical changes. Maybe he can see the emotional ones, too. “Colonel, I hope I’m not intrud— I can leave if you’d like, and—” Rodney starts, voice nervous and soft at first, before cutting himself off at the look John gives him. It’s fine, Rodney, his eyes say. Atlantis’ concerned hum grows in his mind, asking what is the matter, and he soothes her, too, and the lights dim pleasantly around them once more. John moves forward, standing next to him, shoulder brushing Rodney’s. He gazes at the sky, watching storm clouds move swiftly across the night sky, each backlit by the full moon in the east. The world’s second moon, significantly smaller than its brother and dotted with violent craters, comes in high from the north, only a sliver of the waning crescent visible through the rain. As he takes in these details, filing them away for another, clearer night, Rodney watches him, still and silent. When Rodney moves to stand in front of him, a warm hand on his shoulder, John closes his eyes, shifting to lean lightly into the touch. The hand moves from his shoulder to his neck, fingers sliding gently over changed and unchanged skin at the same time, he relaxes, sighing quietly, tension dissolving. Rodney must’ve felt it, because he hears a soft chuckle in front of him. He moves forward, pressing lips desperate for salvation to Rodney’s willing ones. They haven’t done this in weeks, not since Project Arcturus. But Rodney’s here again, familiar hands holding his face still, lips on his warm and insistent and Rodney. For the moment, he doesn’t give a damn about the fact that his skin has changed, because now he knows that Rodney sees him exactly the same as before. So this is what trust is. feedback | read comments