10001 Nightmares Party

[Fic] dredging of great white sharks (Stargate Atlantis)

Summary:

The undercover mission goes rapidly sideways, and John can only think of one place to go.

Notes:

Title from 'Ship To Wreck' by Florence + the Machine.

posting date adjusted because i forgot this was being released into the wilds now

Work Text:

Todd turns toward him in the semi-darkness of the cramped room, the walls just as filthy as the ground, air hot and choking and curling against his skin almost like a physical touch, and John steps forth and curls his arms around Todd's neck before Todd can say anything. Feels Todd still beneath his grip; feels the distinctive sensation of wraith skin under his hand when his fingers brush over Todd's nape, the piece of skin not covered by hair nor clothing, and Todd's eyes don't narrow at all, John thinks. He changes his weight a little, enough to make give a better view of the scores of men behind him, charged up with ramping energy and far too many weapons, but without giving them in turn a good view of Todd. He doesn't want them to watch; has allowed them to see far too much already.

But he doesn't have a choice.

This mission, John thinks with a slight, theatrical smile, went south about right from the get-go—and it hasn't gotten better yet.

He leans in close to Todd's face, breathing in the distinctive smell of wraith, head turned so no-one behind him can see John's face, and Todd's eyes don't move any more from his expression than John's does from his. He doesn't know if it makes it better of worse; the eyes studying him so thoroughly while they're touching so closely, while  John touches  Todd so brazenly. "I didn't know where else to go," he murmurs into the space between them, tasting the truth on his tongue and his expression both, and knows Todd must as well, for the wraith hums slightly in the back of his throat, noise distinctly inhuman in nature. It draws the disconcerted attention of the men behind them, their disgruntled and crowing sounds rising in both triumph and some kind of strange facsimile of fear.

"And so you came to me?" Todd asks, an amused lilt to his deep voice, not missing so much as a beat, gaze briefly skipping to the people behind John. He places a hand on John's hip, fingers digging into his skin even through the thin clothing; the shudder is involuntary, an instinctive reflex upon a wraith's feeding hand approaching him, but he leans into the touch regardless; exhales, and raises his eyelids enough to make eye-contact with Todd. The wraith is—looks good, John thinks. Like he's been doing well, lately.

He looks well-fed, John thinks.

Smiling, John clenches his grip on Todd. "Will you help me?" he asks, voice raspy, and glances briefly over at Molder and the crew of mutineers that had led to this. Molder, John muses, looks entirely too proud to understand what he's done. Whether Todd helps or not, this isn't going to end well for him. John's not even sorry about it.

"An honest request?" Todd muses, and subtly shifts position, one hand hidden by John's bulk and skimming over a weapon John can't see. It's entirely for the best; John is, he is able to admit to himself, in far over his head, has been so for weeks, and it took every inch of skill and luck he could dredge up to lead to this conclusion, and if he got his hands on a weapon now he'd ruin it all. Wouldn't be able to resist, not knowing what Molder has done, what Molder still plans to do. But that would only get him killed, and so he does not look, does not allow himself the temptation.

"Of course," he says, and rolls his shoulders, the fabric of the thin clothing shifting and displaying more of his chest; the bruises, John knows, have only gotten uglier with time. They're healing, he also knows, but he's not above taking every advantage he can right now.

Todd sees them—of course he does. He sees them, and he tilts his head, and make eye-contact with John. Doesn't mention it, but then why would he? Only makes another subtle shift, one of his wraith minions stepping past them to address Molder's crew. "This is all you offer for your freedom?" the wraith asks, knowing full well who John is.

"Of course not," Molder says, righteous and all the more dangerous for it. "We have others. All yours, upon your protection."

"How many others?" Todd asks, pushing John aside to look Molder in the eyes. Molder, because he doesn't know danger when it's staring him right in the face with a hand on a knife, pushes his chest out in pride, recklessly pleased with how his mutiny has gone. It was mostly uncontested, primarily because this is a ship of mostly children, and Molder got onboard and fucked things over in what has to be a record amount of time. 

John lets himself be pushed. Holds onto one of Todd's arms with a far too tight grip, legs beginning to tremble, and the adrenaline of knowing he succeeded, of knowing Todd is here, already starting to fade, and the helplessness of starvation and dehydration and lack of movement settling in once more. He should have shut up. He should have stopped fighting sooner. Then he'd be in better shape now, could do something beyond hanging on for support to remain standing.

Todd notices that, too, of course. 

Molder takes a step forth, ignoring the shifting, dangerous wraith in the room. "Dozens. They can all be yours," he repeats, like the problem is they just don't understand what they're being offered. Molder, John thinks, is far too sure of his own intelligence, made worse by the fact that he is intelligent. He's also convinced wraith are not; that they're little more than animals, things to appease with a scrap or too, a monster you can summon and banish at will. A tool, perhaps.

Wherever he's come from, it's not a place that have shown him much of wraith at all.

Todd remarks slowly, "A generous offer. And whom are you, to make it?"

"I am Molder. This is my ship." Molder nods to the walls like his words aren't enough. A faint rattle is audible in John's ears, and he's fairly certain it's from him. Todd's gaze skips briefly back to him, before settling on Molder again, and he's still letting John cling to him for support. It's probably ludicrous. Probably stupid of him. But the strength is vanishing from his limbs, and Todd is the first good thing he's seen in weeks, and John is tired, honestly. Tired, exhausted, too full of nightmares to think properly. So he holds on, and shifts to face Molder fully, and takes a step back to stand in line with Todd.

Molder spots it. His mouth tightens, and he frowns. "Are you taking the deal, or not? We have other users for him if you don't want him."

Todd snorts. "Oh, I'm sure you do." He pulls his arm out of John's grip at last but before John can sway to the floor his hand instead presses to John's back, holds him up effortlessly, and John exhales, heartbeat slowing again. He draws himself up as tall as he can, tilts his head back, and smirks. Todd grins at him in reply. "But sadly for you, I do accept this most generous offering. You can expect full repayment."

Molder's expression clears in victory, but some degree of suspicion still lingers. He's not stupid, but his arrogance is far greater than his intelligence. "Good," he says, and then doesn't say anything else ever again, a knife in his throat and blood bubbling out of his mouth. The others pull back instead of attacking,  white-faced and shaking, and they're really, really not equipped for what they're trying to do. 

"Lock them up," Todd tells his wraiths, and then turns toward John. Pulls him a little closer. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," John grouches, allowing himself the support. He gives Molder's dead body one last glance, sighs, and drags a hand over his face. Slumps a little. "Perfectly fine," he mutters, and nearly drops where he's standing despite Todd's support, his legs weak despite the exercises he tried to do even in his narrow cage. It's nearly an insult, he thinks, that he was given so little leeway even when he bent to the inevitable and changed his tactics, switching to a long con. Still, Molder is dead now, and it's uncouth to hold onto any resentment, he supposes.

John shuts his eyes. The ache behind them hasn't gone away since he got punched—repeatedly—on the head. That was at the beginning though, and the bruising has gone by. He groans a little. Todd's grip on him—strong, sure, effortlessly keeping him balanced on trembling legs—tightens somewhat, and Todd murmurs, "You should sit."

John sits. With Todd's assistance he's even able to keep the little food he's been given in his stomach, as the stench of the dead body is swiftly joined by many more. John eyes them a little, the wraith as they work. They're quick; ruthlessly efficient and John marks each body dropping lifeless to the floor in his head, comparing it to the people he knows is involved in this. There's Molder's original crew, of course, as well as the people who bent the knee and gladly—or forcibly, or both—gave in to Molder and serviced him, heedless of the harm he caused their former friends and family—or because of the harm he caused their friends and family. Molder was certainly not above using every card at his disposal, after all.

"That's the main ones," he says when all the lodges in his head have been lodged.

Todd nods, pulling him up to his feet again. "Remain here or back to my ship?" he asks, tilting his head. "We can keep the prisoners easier on my ship."

"There's plenty of cages here," John remarks. Todd's attention zeroes in on him again, and John grimaces a little. His tone let through a few more things than he intended, but Todd doesn't call him out on it. "I'd like to rest, now," John says instead of dealing with it, grimacing as he takes a step. Todd keeps hold of him the entire way through the dirty, dingy, ancient ship, built more out of scrap-metal than anything else, and yet managing to fly damn near beautifully. It's no wonder Molder wanted it. No wonder he'd kill for it, even. Not in a universe infested by wraith, in the midst of a galaxy-spanning war.

They get to a room with a bed. John has no idea who's it is, and he honestly doesn't much care right this second. For now, he collapses onto the smelly sheets, stretching out properly for what feels like the first time in weeks, and stares at the ceiling. Pretends, for a moment, that he can't feel Todd's gaze on him, where Todd is standing still beside the narrow bed.

There's not room for two people.

John pretends he doesn't care about that.

"Are you alright?" Todd asks in the dark. John can hear movement throughout the ship; the groaning of the metal as the ship starts moving again, slowly. The vibrations tingle down his spine, and he exhales softly, eyelashes fluttering. Todd takes a smooth step closer, footsteps silent even on the ship's metal floors, and looms above him. Opening his eyes, John gazes up at the wraith. Todd looks menacing in the dark, barely any light at all; a silhouette more than anything else until John's eyes begin adjusting. He shuts his eyes again, and when he opens them once more he can see Todd's expression.

He's probably been spending too much time with this wraith, he thinks—he can read that expression far too easily.

"Really, I'm fine," he says, grinning somewhat, and it's easier with the exaltation and the relief of it worked running through his warming veins. "I just need some time to recover and I'll be right as rain."

"If you say so," Todd says, managing to pack in a mountain of doubt in the few words. John raises an eyebrow, but exhaustion still clings to him and the expression slips from his grip soon enough. He yawns, too tired to even raise a hand to hide it, and Todd takes one more step closer. Sits upon the bed by John's waist, and John contorts himself to make room before his mind catches up with what he's doing. Then he freezes, breath lodging in his throat, and he flutters his eyelashes for a second until he gets his thoughts under control and he looks at Todd.

Todd is gazing down at him, head somewhat tilted, hair braided back for once. John wonders if that means something. He's too tired to think it through, though, and when Todd reaches out and gently grabs his hand, John doesn't resist at all. Rather relishes in the touch, in fact, breath kept inside his lungs for far too long to be healthy. When he breathes again his whole chest moves so very obviously, and Todd hums deep in his throat. John rolls his eyes a little, tension leaking out of him like a sieve the longer Todd merely sits and holds his hand, thumb gently sweeping over the back of it.

It tingles, the touch.

"You came to me," Todd muses.

Laughing—somewhat wetly, perhaps—John points out, "Technically, you came to me."

"A vital distinction," Todd agrees, and John huffs a laugh again. It's drier this time, doesn't stick to his teeth like taffy, and the glimmer of amusement in Todd's eyes is a pleasant distraction from his own emotions. "You asked for my help," Todd starts over, voice rumbly and deep and pleasant after weeks of insults and stale food and lukewarm water and the cold of the ship when the heating failed and nobody in Molder's crew knew how to fix it.

"And you came," John murmurs, when Todd doesn't say anything more.

Todd smile. "I did." A pause, then, "Did you think I wouldn't?"

"Didn't even cross my mind," John admits, a quiet murmur, and breaks eye-contact, staring at the wall behind Todd instead, the closed door. His next inhale is a raspy, hitching thing, and he squeezes Todd's hand tight, feels the feeding grip beneath it and yet no rising panic. He glances at Todd out of the corner of his eyes, but soon enough his eyelids start slipping shut again, slumber threatening to pull him under. He resists, tries to shake it off, tries to sit up to force it down.

"Don't," Todd says, and presses his free hand to John's shoulder, gently bringing him back down to the springy mattress again. "You need your rest," Todd adds, and for a moment he is leaning over John, so close John can smell his breath, and see his pupils changing size in the changing lights. The ship speeds up. "We're going to a more appropriate location to sort all this out," Todd says upon John's questioning glance, and John allows himself at last to be pressed down into the mattress, looking up into Todd's eyes. He licks his lips; almost manages to trick himself into thinking Todd's eyes follow the movement.

"Okay," he says instead of doing anything inadvisable.

Todd huffs. "We've contacted Atlantis. They'll be waiting for your return."

"Okay."

"I've already received a transmission with guidelines for how to properly treat you for a number of human maladies. But I believe, right now, the thing you require most is rest. So go to sleep. I'll keep watch. And when you wake, I will have something for you to eat." Todd hesitates above him, leans down a little before pulling back up again, clearing his throat slightly. He squeezes John's hand, holds it on his lap and smooths his fingers over John's skin. John can't help reacting to the touch; he turns his hand, stretches out his fingers, and entangles them with Todd's. Can't help it, truly. He's known no kind touch for weeks, and Todd, he thinks, he associates with safety.

With pain ceasing.

It does so now as well; slumber pulls over him, turns him into mush and little more than dreams and smothering nightmares picked apart at the seams by the gentle words John can't quite hear in his dozing state; Todd's voice is rough, but the wraith stays close even as John is pulled further and further under, his cognizance leaving him at last. But his breaths stay steady, and the nightmares don't last, and Todd doesn't leave.

John is, he finds in the dark and the shuttering thoughts of a sleeping mind only occasionally half-aware of the world outside its head, comfortable at last.

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#Fandom: Stargate #Post type: Fic #Rating: Teen #Status: Complete #Tag: Hurt/Comfort #WC: 1000-5000