Chapter Text
He used to dream about it all the time—about flying through the clouds, fingers stretched toward the sun and the wind in his hair—when he was young.
There was never anyone there to stop him as he lifted off the ground, no one telling him to go to his room, no punishments.
Just himself and the sky.
(For the record, John Sheppard never learned to fly: he had something grander and he became an academic instead—the kind of mathematical mind that had titles and prestige and an office at Harvard, which generally went unused once John met Rodney.
Sometimes, though, he still dreamed of what it would have been like.)
“I don't know why you're being such a baby about this.”
John narrowed his eyes at his colleague.
“All you have to do is sit in the chair so we can rule you out of the ATA gene pool officially.”
“No.”
There was literally nothing on Earth that could get John to sit in the Chair. Nope, nothing, not happening. He'd managed this far in life without anyone finding out and there was no way he was going to offer himself up to the US Military for testing when they demanded a medical exam.
Also, Atlantis was pretty damn far away.
“I didn't want to have to resort to this, but...” Rodney squared his shoulders. “I've seen the way you look at my mouth and there's been some sexual tension between the two of us that even I've noticed. So. You sit in the chair and I will give you the best blowjob of your life.”
“Wow.”
“Wow?”
“Wow, you're prostituting yourself. That's a new low.”
Rodney growled, crossed his arms, stuck his chin in the air, and snapped, “At least I didn't require someone offering sexual favors to get me to sit there for five seconds.”
“Hmm, and that's why you're a better man than me, Rodney. A paragon of virtue if you will.”
“I hate you right now.”
“I can tell.”
Rodney's demands to sit in the chair only got worse as time went on.
As the date of the Expedition's launch neared, the helicopter guy, Lorne, was found to have a mild expression of the ATA gene and John had half rejoiced because hey, someone else for Rodney to torment.
Except Rodney could apparently split his attention on two people when it came to the damned gene.
“The ferry guy has sat in the Chair and you haven't.”
“Looks like.”
Rodney clamped down on his wrist, gripping tightly. “We have ten days! Let's go.”
John tried to shake him off, but Rodney refused to let up, even after John told him, “I'm going to have to pass,” and resumed re-reading the proof he'd been working on.
“Let's. Go.” Rodney pulled on John's arm.
The reply was a firm, “No.”
“What is it with you?! This is the greatest find in the history of the world! This is Atlantis and we have the chance to be the first people in thousands of years to see her, and you can't get final approval to go if there's no confirmation of you either having or not having the gene.”
“Who said I was going to go?”
Rodney dropped John's wrist and set his hands on his hips. “You can't seriously be considering not going,” he said, and when John shrugged back at him, he announced, “I'm getting Elizabeth,” and headed out of John's office.
Groaning, John got up and whined, “Wait, Rodney, come on,” as he gave chase, only to find that he'd been led straight to the Chair and not to the Expedition head.
“Sit!”
“No!”
Rodney shoved him hard, sending John flailing while stumbling backward; a wire running from the chair to a computer was the final straw for John's fight against gravity and he fell back with a glare at his best friend.
And as the Chair hummed and glowed brightly, John felt the blush creep up his neck.
He was so fucked.
“John.”
“No.”
Elizabeth sighed: he wasn't even looking up from his work, resolutely staring down at the latest numbers to be re-checked. It was frustrating, how stubborn he was being, but she knew she had to keep pushing—they needed John and with only nine days left before departure, she had to convince him ASAP.
“Please, just listen to me for a few minutes.”
“Are you going to try to convince me to go to Atlantis?”
“Yes.”
He changed something on the paper and repeated, “No,” then added, “I have a number of reasons to not go that will not be surmounted by whatever reasons you and Rodney have come up with for me to go.”
“Okay, like what?”
“Excuse me?”
“What's a reason you have not to go?”
The biggest one flashed to mind and he forced his lips into a tight line in an effort to not blurt it out. Instead he told her, “I'm still close with my family, Elizabeth. I think they'd notice if I said I was going on a trip and never came home.”
She lifted one eyebrow, admitting, “We're expecting to re-establish contact within a year. The Asgard have been working with us to build a ship capable of making the trip between Pegasus and Earth.”
“And if something went wrong in the interim? What then? Sumner takes control?”
“The IOA guidelines put him in charge if there's an issue where military action is needed, but unless we're directly under attack, I'm in charge.”
“I don't trust him.”
“You don't like him, John.”
“Nope, don't like him either.”
She resisted rolling her eyes at him, waiting for the next of John's reasons, but none appeared forthcoming. She prodded, “What else?”
John felt the knot in his chest, the one that had been there since Rodney had pushed him into the Chair, tighten, and he shook his head. “Later. I have work to do.”
Elizabeth reached across the desk to touch his shoulder, feeling something beneath the thick cloth of his fleece. He quickly shook her hand off, and Elizabeth sighed again: John'd always been so... untouchable, unwilling to let anyone breach his personal space, she half-wondered if he'd ever been hugged, kissed, had a lover.
“John, whatever it is, let me have the chance to make you comfortable coming with us.”
He snorted sadly, “You can't.”
With eight days left before departure, Rodney's attempts to convince John to go to Atlantis ratcheted up to the same level of intensity as when he'd been trying to get John to sit in the Chair; Elizabeth was still working to convince him as well, but she kept to more professional boundaries.
Or so he'd thought.
“She send you down here?”
Carson gave him a soft look, then settled into a chair on the other side of the desk. “She wants to express to you how desperate we are for proper gene carriers,” he cocked his head to the side, “which is something you already know so I'll not go on and on about the topic, aye?”
“What are you going to go on and on about?”
“Nothing. I thought I might sit here for a few minutes and then you can shout me out of here.”
John gave him half a smirk, and admitted, “I don't think I can ever shout at you.”
“Ah, well, there is that.” Carson looked down at his shoes, then back at his friend. “I would like you to come to my quarters tonight, John.”
“I thought we agreed not to do... that... again.”
It was Carson's turn to smile. “Ah, no, not that,” he agreed, “I'd like to take some blood. I suspect that a certain feature of yours is related to the ATA gene and I wanted to examine it myself.”
“Carson...”
“I won't let anyone else work on it or even look at it. You have my word.”
“No one else with the gene has,” he swallowed, “you know.”
“It could have to do with how strongly the gene expresses itself. We know that the ATA gene interacts with different genomes depending on if a person is Dominant-Dominant versus Dominant-recessive.”
He remained unsure and Carson could see it.
“If you don't feel comfortable, I won't push, John, but I want you to think about it.”
(John let Carson take the blood samples.
He would come to be glad he did, but when Carson turned up in his quarters the next night, there was a few hours of terror first.
“It's... Christ, John...” Carson gripped the paper in one hand, holding it out for John to read.
One line jumped out at him.
“Fuck. I need to call my dad.”)
He wasn't sleeping well: five days left to departure and that found John wandering through the labs and research section of the outpost.
Few people were awake, which meant he could meander peacefully from room to room; he looked at all the pretty plants that the botanists were collecting seeds from and the saplings they were amid transplanting, and at the papers coating the walls of Daniel's office, words scrawled in pen alongside the rubbings.
Rodney's lab was a mess—as per usual—of Earth technology and Ancient, some devices lighting up when John got near. His back twitched when a particular one began to make a low-pitched whine and he left without making sure the device had turned off.
The historians had a legion of artwork in their space, their current task to analyze it all for clues about the Ancients and Atlantis.
Here he lingered, taking in all the classical paintings and sculptures. He didn't even budge when Daniel entered the room to drop off a text, asking, “Can't sleep either?” while staring at an oil work of angels.
“I work better at night.” Daniel came to stand beside him. “What's your excuse?”
“I didn't plan to go...”
“But you're thinking about it.”
“Yeah.”
Daniel nodded in understanding, then gestured at the picture. “Well, if you go, you might get to meet some of them.”
“Who? Angels?”
“Ancients,” he answered, “They were incorrectly revered as angels on Earth because they'd evolved in Pegasus to have wings.”
“You're joking.”
“I wish I was. It would make talking to Jack about it all far less painful.”
His father called back with four days left to spare.
(“I don't understand why you want to know all this now,” Patrick grumbled, “You know the story.”
“Dad, just humor me.”
“All right.”
“Mom... was she like me?”
“You mean did she have wings? I can't say for sure that she did. I mean yeah, I saw them, but it was a costume party so I thought they were just part of her getup. They might have been.”)
John almost wished he hadn't.
Called, that was.
(“Do you remember exactly what she said when she came home with me?”
“John...”
“It's important, Dad.”
“She said that you were her hope and the hope of many others.” Patrick sighed, “She was high on something. Hell, you screamed for days after she left, so I imagine whatever she was on, you'd been exposed.”)
He'd been happy in his ignorance.
(“Last question, Dad, and then I'll never bring this up again.”
Patrick didn't wait for John to speak again—he knew what his son was going to ask. “Anastius. That was the name she called you.”)
He really had.
(“Dad, I'm... I have the opportunity to go on an expedition with my team. It's far away, no contact, and I don't know exactly when I'll be home. But...” he swallowed, “I want to go. I need to go.”
Patrick was quiet, then, “I won't ask you to stay, John. You're a grown man,” and, “Be safe. Whatever it is, just be safe.”
“I will.”)