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“I long, as does every human being, to be at home wherever I find myself.” ~Maya Angelou
“…and then that imbecile had the nerve to suggest I didn’t know what I was talking about!”
John grins into the phone, because he’s missed hearing McKay rant about something at least once a day. “What did you do to him, McKay?”
“Oh, after I disabused him of the notion that he’s the smarter than I am, I put him on the most boring project I could think of. He won’t pull that trick again.” McKay’s smug tone is also familiar, and John slouches a little deeper in his chair, feeling a little of the tension ease.
“So, you still planning on visiting this weekend?” John asks with studied nonchalance, hoping to mask his eagerness.
There’s a hesitation on the other end of the line, and John already knows what the answer is going to be. “I can’t,” McKay replies, sounding miserable. “I wish I could, but I have a deadline, and—I’m sorry.”
“Hey, no problem, buddy,” John says. He is absolutely not going to let on to how much he’d been looking forward to McKay’s visit, or how much he needed a taste of home—of Atlantis.
“Maybe in a couple of weeks,” McKay suggests. “The deadline will be past at that point, and I should be able to make it up there.”
“Sure,” he says, and they exchange a few good-natured insults before McKay announces that he has minions to terrorize.
John isn’t used to feeling sorry for himself. He’s prided himself on being adaptable, and he believes a guy has to play the hand he’s dealt. Unless regret serves to teach a lesson, there’s no point.
But he can’t dismiss the raw ache inside when he thinks of Atlantis, which is pretty much every fucking minute of every fucking day. He misses everything about it—the people, his team, the faint whisper of the city’s presence, the way doors would open with a thought, flying Puddlejumpers, the deep blue of the surrounding ocean, the susurrations of the waves. There are days when he thinks he’ll go crazy from grief, and then he thinks he’s crazy for feeling mourning like this.
He tells himself that Atlantis was just one more posting, but he can’t believe the lie. Atlantis had been home in a way that no other place had ever been, and John grieves her loss. He knows what it means to have a home now, and giving it up hadn’t been his choice.
John broods behind his desk—he has no mission scheduled, and he can’t think of anything better to do. He’s worked up a pisser of a mood when Lorne sticks his head in.
Lorne seems pleased to find John in his office, and John realizes that he hasn’t seen his former second-in-command in over a week.
“A few of us are going out for a drink after work,” Lorne says. “Do you want to come?”
John has every intention of refusing—he doesn’t want to inflict his misery on anyone else—but what comes out of his mouth is, “Sure. What time?”
“We’re leaving the base around seven,” Lorne replies and rattles off the name of a bar and an address.
John thinks about just not showing up for the rest of the day—while he’s bouncing a rubber ball off the wall, while he shoots off a response to Rodney’s latest email, while he’s eating dinner in the commissary.
Dinner is just another reminder of what he’s lost. After the first week back, when he glutted himself on every junk food he could find, John began to miss the curious amalgamation of ingredients used on Atlantis. Even after the Daedalus started its regular runs, the cooks had used certain staples unique to the Pegasus Galaxy. John misses the sharp-sweet taste of the kela fruit, the warm, nutty taste of reva, the rus wine, and the herbs and spices for which he has no name.
He doesn’t know if he’s the only one for whom the food tastes strange, or the water oddly flat, because he hasn’t asked.
John can barely describe formulate the words inside his own head, let alone speak them aloud.
~~~~~
John assumes that when Lorne says “a few of us”, he means those who had been on Atlantis. There’s an unspoken understanding between the people who had been there, and John has noticed that in spite of the new posting, they tend to clump together in the mess or the gym.
John nearly turns right back around when he walks into the bar, spotting Lorne, Cadman and Stackhouse at a table with the current members of SG-1 and General O’Neill. Belatedly, John realizes Lorne, Cadman, and Stackhouse had been attached to teams out of the SGC before signing up to go to Atlantis, which means that everybody at the table has more in common with each other than with him.
He takes a step back, but Cameron Mitchell spots John at the door and waves, as though John hasn’t seen the group in the crowded pub.
John sighs and resigns himself to making nice for an hour or two, and he plasters on his most affable smile.
Lorne greets him with a smile. “Glad you could make it, Colonel.”
He sounds like he means it, and John nods his thanks. There’s one seat open between Sam Carter and Mitchell, apparently reserved for him, and John takes it. Lorne’s seated across from him, and the situation reminds him of the standard meet-and-greet on a mission.
O’Neill fills an empty glass from one of the pitchers on the table and slides it towards John. “Drink up,” he advises. “You’re behind.”
The conversation starts up again, and John munches half-heartedly on the nachos that Carter nudges in his direction. He’s counting the minutes until he can finish his beer and leave, especially when the others start reminiscing about people John has never met.
He’s ready to call it a night when he drains the last of his beer, but Mitchell grabs John’s glass to refill it, and Jackson catches his eye. “So, Colonel Sheppard. Tell me about Atlantis.”
Jackson’s open expression is easy to read, as is O’Neill’s good-natured eye roll. John has heard that Jackson is bitterly disappointed that he never got a chance to join the Atlantis expedition, and he suspects the rest of SG-1 is sick of hearing about his missed opportunity, especially now that there won’t be another.
Lorne smiles and shrugs, and John sees that Cadman and Stackhouse wear the same smile—a little bit wistful, a little bit wry—because it’s impossible to explain Atlantis and the Pegasus galaxy to someone who’s never been there.
John tries to shrug the question off by saying, “It’s a little hard to describe.”
Jackson is relentless, though, and he peppers John with questions until John starts answering out of self-defense.
Looking back, he’s never certain what starts it, but somehow one of Jackson’s questions leads to John telling the story of how Ronon got roped into an alien ritual involving naked mud wrestling and sacred fruit.
Lorne follows that tale up with one of his own, involving Parrish and a man-eating plant, and Cadman tells the story of being stuck inside McKay’s head. John grins as she recounts it, because he’s never heard her side, and Cadman has a sly sense of humor John appreciates.
Mitchell, not to be outdone, launches into the tale of his time with the Sodan, which spurs Teal’c to talk about one of SG-1’s more amusing run-ins with the Jaffa. As Teal’c finishes up, John catches the look that Carter and Jackson exchange, and then Carter begins, “You know, there was that time on P4X-921.”
O’Neill’s back straightens from his comfortable slouch. “Now, Carter, I thought we agreed not to mention that again.”
She grins impishly. “I never agreed to anything of the sort.”
“Isn’t that the planet where we had to meditate in loincloths for a couple of hours?” Jackson asks.
John’s lips quirk up in a smile as he recognizes the routine; he and Ronon have done the same thing to Rodney often enough in the past. O’Neill must recognize it, too, because he relaxes back into his chair. “Fine. Tell the damn story. But there are a couple I know about you two that you might not want repeated.”
Carter grins at John, and he can’t help but smile back. “Then I’ll stop there, but the general has very nice legs.”
“Damn right, I do,” O’Neill replies grumpily, but there’s a sparkle in his eyes that suggests he’s not all that put out. “Sheppard, let me get you a refill.”
Mitchell leaves around midnight, and Lorne, Cadman, and Stackhouse have to be at the SGC early for a mission the next day, so they all head back to the base together. But John ends up closing the place down with the rest of SG-1, feeling relaxed and more than a little buzzed from the four or five—or possibly six—beers.
Jackson is just as unsteady, and John sees the silent conversation between Carter, O’Neill and Teal’c. He recognizes that kind of bond because it’s something he’d been building with his team. But for once, he doesn’t feel like an outsider, but more of a guest in someone else’s home.
“Come on,” Carter finally says. “You can sleep on my couch tonight, John.”
John frowns. “I don’t want to put you out.”
“I got a ride here from General O’Neill,” she says, plucking John's keys from his hand. “He and Teal’c will make sure Daniel gets home.”
Indeed, Teal’c and O’Neill are already guiding Jackson out of the bar, and John stumbles along in Carter’s wake, finding his balance after a few steps. Carter finds John's loaner easily in the nearly-empty parking lot, and he leans heavily against the passenger side, waiting for her to unlock it.
John tips his head back, looking up at a night sky that feels unfamiliar and alien to him now. He misses watching the stars from one of Atlantis’ balconies, burning bright and clear.
“You really miss it, don’t you?” Carter asks, although it’s more of an observation.
John closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Atlantis, it—it gets into your blood.”
When he looks at Carter again, her eyes are full of sympathy, and she offers, “Maybe you’ll get a chance to go back. General O’Neill has been invited.”
“Maybe,” he acknowledges, although he doesn’t hold out much hope. John smiles, a little of the camaraderie of the evening clinging to him. Earth might not feel like home, but he doesn’t feel like quite so much of a stranger either. “This place isn’t so bad, though.”