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John enters Carson’s office after a brief knock on the door. “Hey, doc. You wanted to see me?”
“I did.” Carson waves him into a chair. “Have a seat, John.”
John lets out a nervous chuckle. “Uh, oh. Now I know there’s trouble.”
Carson hesitates. “You could say that. Please, have a seat.”
John sits down and wipes his—still blue—hands on his BDUs. “What’s up?”
“We haven’t seen any change in the last week,” Carson begins, and his voice is unbearably gentle.
John already doesn’t like where this is going. “Most of the scales are gone.”
“Aye, that they are,” Carson replies. “But there’s been no further change in pigmentation. We’ve determined that the retrovirus is no longer active in your system, and mentally you’re back to normal, but…”
“But I’m still blue,” John says flatly and stares at the leathery knuckles on his right hand.
“We’ll keep treating you,” Carson promises. “And there’s no reason you can’t go back on active duty.”
John can see a few reasons. “Who’s going to listen to me when I look like this?”
Carson winces. “Yes, well, there is that. I haven’t told Elizabeth yet. Do you want to break the news, or would you like me to do so?”
“Would you?” John asks hoarsely. He’s not sure how he can face Elizabeth, who had been one of his most stalwart defenders during this whole mess.
“Of course,” Carson assures him. “Whatever I can do, Colonel. We’ll continue exploring treatment options. There’s always the possibility that this is a plateau in your recovery, or that we’ll hit upon another solution.”
“There’s always a chance,” John echoes, although his stomach twists. He doesn’t believe Carson this time; he knows that there’s a better chance that he’s not going to get better.
John’s going to be stuck like this—somewhere in between human and freak.
Carson gives John a sympathetic smile. “If there’s anything I can do for you—”
“No,” John says, cutting Carson off, not wanting pity or sympathy or any of it. He needs to be alone. “I’m okay. You’ll tell Elizabeth?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Carson promises. “Right away.”
John nods and then walks out of Carson’s office, out of the infirmary. He heads back to his quarters, grateful that he no longer has an escort.
Once there, however, he feels trapped, hemmed in. He takes off the radio he’s only recently started wearing again and sets it on the bedside table, then heads out. He starts out at a walk, but he moves faster and faster as he gets farther out from the city center, until he’s running full bore.
John can still run Ronon into the ground, and he can still beat Teyla with the bantos, so the only option he has is to run alone. Maybe this strength, speed, and stamina would be helpful if he looked like his old self, but right now, John can’t see the benefits for the drawbacks.
In truth, John would prefer to trail behind Ronon or have Teyla kick his ass. He can’t imagine a world where these gifts of his will be useful, not with him still looking like this. There’s no way Elizabeth will allow him to go on first contact missions now, and John isn’t sure the rest of the expedition will accept his leadership.
And if the SGC recalls him, no matter how they phrase it—whether they want to give him advanced treatment, or expert help—John will wind up in a lab somewhere. While John is used to being viewed as an interesting scientific specimen—his ATA gene has secured that role for him—John isn’t used to the differences showing.
He’d much rather look just like everybody else.
By the time John jogs towards his quarters, he’s feeling a little calmer at least, less likely to fly off the handle, and it’s easier to ignore the sometimes curious, sometimes hostile glances of those he passes.
Rodney is waiting when John enters, having made himself at home on John’s narrow bed, and he glances up from his tablet as John steps inside.
Rodney taps his earpiece. “Elizabeth, Colonel Sheppard is back in his quarters. He seems fine.”
“I am fine,” John replies. “What are you doing here?”
“Yeah, I’ll keep an eye on him,” Rodney says, not responding to John. “Thanks, Elizabeth.”
“So, I take it she knows.” John knows he sounds snide, but he can’t seem to rein himself in.
“She knows.” Rodney still won’t meet John’s eyes. “You know, disappearing for six hours after you get news like that is just going to make her worry.”
John feels a sudden, helpless anger when Rodney keeps his eyes on some spot just beyond his left shoulder. He hates that Rodney—of all people—is treating him differently. It hurts like a motherfucker. “I’m going to shower, McKay. Do you mind?”
“Are you going to get dinner?” Rodney asks. “They’re not going to be serving it much longer.”
John shakes his head. Food still doesn’t taste quite right—it’s not bad; it’s just off, and John isn’t up to dealing with that or the stares he’s sure to get. “I’m not really hungry.”
Rodney meets John’s eyes for the first time, looking at him straight on. This time, he manages not to flinch. “You just ran for six hours, Sheppard.”
“Drop it, Rodney,” John growls. “I’m fine.”
Rodney’s mouth twists into an unhappy slant, but he nods. “Have it your way, Colonel.”
He’s gone a moment later, and John breathes a sigh of relief and heads for the shower. When he steps under the water, John wishes it could wash him clean, remove the changes Carson’s treatment couldn’t.
John forces himself to face the mirror when he gets out, studying the changes he’d believed were only temporary. His eyes, at least, have gone back to their muddy hazel color, but the remaining blue pigmentation in his skin stretches along his right arm, traveling across his chest and up his neck, halfway up his face and down his left arm.
The blue streaks travel down his legs as well, and John clenches his hands into fists, holding back from breaking the mirror through a sheer force of will.
He can’t afford to let his temper get the best of him. John can’t afford to be thought of as anything other than human; he can’t risk being locked up in the infirmary, or in the brig.
Being out of control, even for a moment, is no longer an option.
John might be a freak now, but he’ll prove he’s human where it counts.
Slowly, John turns away from the mirror, and he walks back into his room, where he pulls on a clean uniform and collapses on his bed.
Sleep doesn’t come for a long time.
~~~~~
John wakes late the next morning when his radio squawks, audible even from the small bedside table. He puts it on and croaks, “Yeah?”
“John? Are you available for a meeting?” Elizabeth asks.
He knows he’s lucky to have had this much time, and he replies, “I’ll be there shortly.”
Today, John avoids looking in the mirror as he splashes water on his face and brushes his teeth. He doesn’t want the reminder, although he sees it in the eyes of every person he passes in the hallway. They all flinch and look at anything but John, obviously trying not to stare. He can smell the sharp odor of fear as he passes most of them, and he tries not to think about the fact that he can smell fear, or that he knows what fear smells like.
John thinks about shoving Teyla up against the wall, of closing his hand around Elizabeth’s throat—and then he swallows back the bile and tries to tell himself that wasn’t actually him. He’s better now; he’s okay.
By the time he arrives at Elizabeth’s office, John has stopped looking at everyone he passes, but he can’t avoid their scents. He can’t avoid the knowledge that all of Atlantis is currently afraid of its military leader.
Elizabeth looks up as John enters, and there’s a terrible pity in her eyes. “John. Have a seat.” He’s bracing himself for the bad news when she asks, “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” He tries to make a joke out of it by saying, “Still a little blue.”
Elizabeth smiles as he’d hoped. “Carson tells me you’re back to normal, at least mentally.”
John shrugs. “I can’t promise normal, but I feel like my old self.”
“Good. That’s really good.”
John waits for her to continue, but when she remains silent, he asks, “When is Caldwell coming back to take over?”
He wants to get the bad news out of the way immediately. He has no intention of being blindsided later on.
Elizabeth’s eyes widen in real surprise, and she replies, “Colonel Caldwell isn’t taking over, John. I asked him to take over your duties because you were mentally compromised. Carson has cleared you for duty.”
John blinks. “Elizabeth, I’m still fucking blue.”
He knows he shouldn’t use profanity around his boss, but he can’t help it right now.
Elizabeth raises an eyebrow, but her lips twitch. “Perhaps, but you’re capable of carrying out your duties, unless there’s something you’d like to tell me.”
John hesitates, wondering if he should take the win, but then he says, “I’m not going to be able to lead an off-world team looking like this.”
She winces. “Maybe not, but there are plenty of other things you can do.”
“What if the SGC calls me back?” John asks.
Her expression hardens. “They can try, but you’re not going back to Earth, John. I know…” She trails off, her lips forming a straight line, and John knows what she won’t say. If he goes back to Earth, John will never make it out of a lab.
John can’t go back to Earth, not if he wants any kind of freedom.
“And if the orders come through?” he presses.
“Some orders are made to be broken,” Elizabeth replies. “We’ll figure something out.”
John nods, believing that Elizabeth will try, even if she isn’t successful. “Thanks.”
“Colonel Caldwell made a number of changes,” Elizabeth continues smoothly. “I’d like you to review them, and decide which ones make sense, and which we can do away with.”
John nods, grateful to have a constructive task. “Will do.”
“Just because we can’t send you on first contact missions doesn’t mean you can’t be the military leader,” Elizabeth says briskly. “Perhaps you could check in with Lorne. I think he’s already reviewed most of those decisions.”
John nods and pushes himself up out of his chair. “I’ll do that. Thanks.”
“John,” Elizabeth calls out. “It will be okay.”
He appreciates her reassurance, even if he doesn’t believe it. “Thanks”
Lorne is already in the office that they share when John arrives, and to his credit, he shows no sign of alarm. Even Lorne’s scent remains steady. “Colonel Sheppard. I wasn’t sure you’d be in today.”
“Dr. Weir asked me to go over Caldwell’s changes,” John explains. “Do you mind?”
Lorne shrugs. “Not at all. I can go over them with you if you want, sir.”
“That would be appreciated,” John says. “Elizabeth said you’d be familiar with Caldwell’s orders, and you’ll probably have a better idea of which ones we should keep.”
John is grateful for Lorne’s assistance, since Lorne has already sorted through the changes that would be beneficial and has ignored those that would be problematic. John is also thankful that Lorne doesn’t appear to have any trouble meeting his eyes without flinching.
John has never pretended to be an administrator, nor had he any aspirations to such a position. Mostly, when he’d joined the Air Force, he’d wanted to fly. John figured he’d put in his twenty, retire, and then find another job where he could fly.
He’d never planned on being the military commander of a base in another galaxy, whereas Caldwell had wanted the job from day one. John can appreciate a lot of the suggestions Caldwell made, even if Caldwell had been indecently excited about the opportunity to take over.
John doesn’t plan on hitting the mess for lunch, but any thoughts he had of finding an MRE and hiding out somewhere are derailed when Teyla and Ronon appear.
“We’re going to eat lunch,” Teyla says. “Would you join us, John?”
She asks in such a way that tells John she isn’t going to take no for an answer, and Ronon crosses his arms over his chest, raising his eyebrows in a clear challenge.
Teyla’s expression is both expectant and kind, Ronon merely appears impatient, and John figures he doesn’t have a choice. “Sure,” he says, faking a smile.
Teyla and Ronon flank him as they head for the mess, and John is grateful for their shelter. He tries not to look at those he passes, because he doesn’t want to see his own understanding reflected in their eyes.
He’s a freak, but he doesn’t need confirmation.
John takes the blandest meal options because he thinks he has a better chance of choking down food that doesn’t taste like anything at all.
Teyla gets John up to date on the local gossip. Teyla might not say much, but she stays up to date on all the news, and she passes that information on to the rest of the team.
John manages to eat most of his lunch before he shoves the tray away. He hopes that he’ll get used to the change in his taste buds, but right now, he’s none too sure of that.
Rodney sits down next to Teyla—who’s sitting across from John—and grabs John’s tray. “Are you done with this?” he asks.
John waves a hand. “Go ahead.”
Rodney finishes off John’s food before he starts up on his own meal. “Are we back to our regular Thursday nights?” he asks, looking at John.
It takes John a moment to figure out what McKay is talking about, but he decides he can’t really get out of it. “Yeah, I guess, if you want.”
Rodney fixes John with a bright blue gaze. “Of course I want. We’ve skipped an entire month of Thursdays.”
John shrugs. “Yeah, fine.”
“Good.” Rodney offers one of his crooked smiles. “I’ll see you then.”
~~~~~
John spends his afternoon with Teyla and Ronon, who do their best to keep him distracted. The team has been off the rotation for a while, and Teyla and Ronon have filled their time by training Athosians who want lessons in the bantos, and beating up Marines who want a challenge.
John is cautious at the beginning, uncertain about whether he should participate, especially since he can smell the fear coming off the Athosians and the Marines in great waves. Teyla insists in her quiet way, though, and Ronon smirks at him until John agrees to help.
After a couple of hours taking on two and three Marines at once, teaching valuable lessons on how to fight as a unit, the fear scent is gone, and they’re laughing at John’s jokes. John begins to feel as though this situation isn’t quite so impossible.
“They’ll get used to you over time,” Teyla murmurs as they file out of the room that has been set aside for training.
John nods, not trusting his voice.
Ronon claps him on the shoulder heartily. “You’re stronger than you used to be,” he says. “We can kill more Wraith.”
“Sure, buddy,” John agrees, because what else can he say? If the failed treatment means John can kill more Wraith, that he can save more people, then maybe it will be worth it.
Maybe.
John cleans up and grabs a sandwich from the mess since it’s a little too early for dinner. He heads to the pier with a couple of beers. He has no idea what to expect from Rodney, but John knows that it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker if Rodney gives off that fear scent.
John grows progressively more nervous as 1800 hours comes and goes. He’s beginning to think that Rodney has stood him up, and the disappointment weighs on him heavily.
After more than thirty minutes of waiting, John gives up and clambers to his feet. He turns from the view of the ocean and nearly runs into Rodney.
“Sorry, sorry,” Rodney says. “I know I’m late.”
“It’s okay,” John replies sincerely, because he can’t smell any hint of fear on Rodney.
Rodney rolls his eyes. “Someone nearly blew up one of the power conduits because they were using too much power to further their own ends without proper safeguards. And then—then—someone entered the lab—the one on the eastern side of the city on the lower level—that I specifically said was out of bounds.”
John is grinning by now, letting Rodney’s complaints wash over him as they sit side by side with their feet hanging over the edge of the pier. John has missed this; he’s missed Rodney and their usual activities, and drinking a beer with him while overlooking the ocean has the last piece falling into place.
“It’s not so bad, you know,” Rodney says suddenly, changing directions in mid-thought.
John frowns. “What’s not so bad?”
“The way you look.” Rodney is looking at him intently, his eyes wide and blue—a truer shade than John’s changed skin. He touches John’s hand where it rests next to his on the deck. “It’s kind of cool, actually. Like a super hero.”
John feels a shy grin pull at his lips. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Showing more assurance, Rodney entwines his fingers with John’s. “Definitely cool.”
John realizes that the scent he’s been catching off Rodney isn’t fear at all, and he grips Rodney’s hand hard.
If Rodney thinks he’s like a superhero… Well. Maybe John will eventually get used to being blue.