10001 Nightmares Party

[Fic] i got better things to do (Stargate Atlantis)

Summary:

Atlantis, John thinks. The lost city of Atlantis, dark and abandoned, left all alone. No sign of life on the MALP, and yet the lights come on. They touch things, as they go further, McKay's hands reverent on the consoles revealed under fabric that shows no sign of decay, of wear and tear.

Notes:

presenting eldritch atlantis, the fic! :D (this did not go the way i'd intended, but i'm not mad about it, lol) hope you enjoy!

Work Text:

The chair was nothing compared to this, John thinks, eyes adjusting to the darkness as he slowly steps further away from the open Stargate. The soldiers fan out in clear formations, and it's equally clear that John isn't a part of it; that's fine, he thinks, too, rolling his shoulders and stretching his neck, exhaling as his eyes narrow. The chair in Antarctica can't have been even a fraction of this, he thinks, the weight of something unseen upon him.

The light from the Stargate is nothing less then eerier in the total darkness of the rest of the open area. John moves forward, the scientist at his side, and the lights come on by themselves at the stairs, one by one by as they walk up. 

It's beautiful.

Atlantis, John thinks. The lost city of Atlantis, dark and abandoned, left all alone. No sign of life on the MALP, and yet the lights come on. They touch things, as they go further, McKay's hands reverent on the consoles revealed under fabric that shows no sign of decay, of wear and tear.

There's no dust anywhere, John thinks. The champagne bottle rolling through the gate steals his attention for a moment, then it wanders away again. As the other fold out further and further, leaving this room behind to explore the rest of the city, John lingers in the gate's room. His presence sparks the consoles to life, and McKay grins at him every time, just as excited at every single one of them. John can't help but grin back every time, too.

There's no dust, and there's no tracks from their own steps. The lights are only on in half of the gate room, and John wanders over to the other half, trying to see through stained glass at what lies beyond.

The lights come on here, too.

"You, keep walking," McKay tells him, waving at John and John points at himself like he didn't undershorts. Frowning, McKay scowls. "Yes, you. You're obviously doing something. No, for that matter, come here and do it again."

"You want me to tough the fragile ancient equipment that could break at a touch?" John drawls, walking over—far too slowly, according to McKay's scowl. It's kind of cute, John thinks.

"Well, obviously it's not that fragile. And it—likes you, or something," McKay mutters, hunching over and tapping on the touch-pad of his laptop.

"I am very likable," says John, stopping beside McKay and looking at the computer he's got hooked up to the console, wires bleeding every which way. He's not the only one—they've only been here a few minutes, it feels like, and yet everything is getting plugged into anything that it seems compatible with. This computers doesn't seem to be detecting the connection, though, he thinks, glancing around top check the other scientists; patting the console, John says, "There, there," and smiles at McKay's irritated glance, adding just for him; "Play nice with the good doctor's little laptop, please."

"Oh please—” McKay starts, and snaps his mouth shut when the console does, in fact, play nice with his laptop. Oh, thinks John, staring at the text he doesn't recognize but can still vaguely understand running across the screen as something obviously decides to work, and inhales deep.

"It worked," says McKay, standing up at and staring at John. Eyes narrowing, McKay crosses his arms over his chest. "Why did it work?"

"It must just like me," shrugs John. He straightens his back, too, in response to McKay's examination of his person. Humming in obvious displeasure, McKay still bends back over his laptop. 

Waving his hands at the other computers very determinedly not working, he says, "Well, go do it again, Major."

So John does it again, and again, and again. It gets a little more ridiculous with every computer, but John doesn't stop until everything in the gate room is connected. Then he sort of just stands around; Weir is hovering around a thousand different places, always needing to check and double-check new information, in and out of the room all the time (he doesn't think she noticed him turning on the computers, in a fashion) and Sumner ignores John with more ferocity then anyone else has in his life. It's kind of flattering.

He can't quite get rid of the sense of attention on his back, though. At first he thought it was McKay, because McKay obviously feels some way about how easy it is John to get all these ancient devices working, but McKay is buried in his work every time John glances at him. Even when John is extra careful about it, in case McKay is just really good at looking away quickly. Then he thought maybe Sumner, but Sumner is trying to make ignoring John into a national sport. And it's not Weir; she only looks more and more frazzled and distracted every time John looks at her.

But the feeling doesn't go away.

There's a weight in the back of his head he doesn't recognize and a taste on the back of his tongue that he can't name. Something in the air, he thinks, cracking his neck and grimacing, and McKay tosses him an irritated and distracted glare for disrupting his focus. John's too close, nearly hovering over McKay's shoulder as he tries to see what he's doing while trying to mentally sort of poke at the sore spot in his head.

The scientists talk science-talk at each other; John's no slouch, but he's not particularly trying to parse their meaning right now, caught up in his own distraction.

And then somebody summons Weir away, and this time she takes him with him.

John glances at McKay one last time before he's out of sight; thinks and prods at that space in his head again, and the lights keep going on as they walk onward, Weir's flashlight made obsolete by his mere presence. This is a thousand times more than the chair was, John thinks, noting everything he can and trying to make sense of it.

"It's been difficult to make our way forwards," says the soldier who collected Weir, glancing around with alert eyes. "It's pitch black everywhere and too easy to get lost, and our flashlights aren't working as they should. We have a few missing people—we'll find them," the soldier—marine, John thinks, finally sparing her some attention—says at Weirs alarmed noise. "But for now, you should really see this."

Weir nods, looking at John like he has any answers. John only shrugs, bowing his head, and she sighs. They speed up a little as they continue, but they don't get lose and the lights all come on, and they reach their destination without issue.

Oh.

The ocean is, "Beautiful," they say together and Weir smiles at him, then hurries forth to Sumner right by the large window, and John walks after her, slower, staring with wider eyes. Outside, the bottom of the ocean stretches far, and when he tilts his head back, he doesn't think he can even see the top of it. John's breathing slows, and he walks rights up the edge; the city sweeps out under their feet what must be miles in every direction, murky and difficult to see as it might be. They must nearly be at the top of the city, and John wishes he could walk it all, right now.

Alas, he is on duty. 

"...this could be a problem," Sumner says, and John turns around a second before the doors open and McKay hurries in, already calling for Weir.

"We'ew under water," John says, grinning, and glances outside again.

"I was just coming to tell you," McKay says, tablet in hand, squinting at it and shaking it a little. John reaches out when he's close enough and pokes the tablet, and it obediently starts working. Muttering a quick, "Thanks," McKay says, "Fortunately, there's some sort of a force-field holding back the water." He stares out the window, and John grins wider, nudging McKay's shoulder. McKay blinks, says, "Important things to discover. Major, come poke some more things for me."

Sumner rocks a little on his heels, and nods at Weir. John's a little sad to be leaving such a view—he wonders where they'll be sleeping. If he could talk himself into this room tonight.

"Have you fixed the lights?" Sumner asks McKay as they walk through the hallways, still lit from their original passing, and says, "Good work," before McKay can answer. McKay frowns at him, but his tablet is stuck to his hand like glue, and he's already doing something on it, getting distracted within seconds.

"U heard there's missing people," Weir says, and Sumner frowns. He adjusts his hold on his weapon.

"Just a handful of people missing check ins. Bad connections, we assume. Could be some kind of jammer. Maybe an accident preventing them from using their radios. We have people looking," and Weir nods. John nods too, like he was part of the conversation, and Sumner glares at him. It's a tiny glare, designed to not be spotted by Weir, and John just smiles pleasantly at him.

Looking away and determinedly ignoring him, Weir and Sumner retreat to their own corner of the gate room when they get back, and McKay grabs John's arm before he can follow, dragging him up to the control room, as McKay calls it. "So," he says, waving his hands at the pile of tablets lying on a cart, turned and a bunch of scientists hovering around it, staring at John with eager eyes. "Do your thing."

It's a little funny, how McKay both scowls and steps closer every time John successfully gets a tablet working with the ancient systems. McKay's shoulder to shoulder with him when hte last one's done, patting John on his back and declaring, "Congrats, you're not totally useless."

"Thanks, I live to impress," John says, and McKay's too busy being pleased about all the science they can now do to glare at him.

They vanish into their research and their scouting, all of them, and when John glances around the room, both Weir and Sumner are gone, too. So John slumps a bit, walking over to a wall and leaning on it, and John tips his head back, resting it on the wall.

The weight is heavy, and his eyelids lower, his breathing steadying. There's something on his shoulders, it almost feels like, but he pats one nothing's off. His movement isn't restricted, either. He rests his eyes a little, listening to hustle and bustle around him; the scientists are in constant motion, talking to each other, arguing with each other, calling McKay over to make him check something out. It's almost soothing, and John's still standing there when lights lower, almost dozing standing up.

"Shit," McKay says, loud and clear, and snaps John out of it. "Weir, can you hear me? Over? Copy?"

"That's not how you do that," John says, stretching his back as he walks over. "What's the matter?"

"Power's dropping, fast," says McKay, glancing at him, hunching over his laptop and tablet, switching between them as he pulls up schematics and information rolls by too quickly for John to read. "Shit. Weir, can you hear me?" McKay pokes and prods at his radio like that's the problem.

"Do you need help?" John asks, staring at the screen. The crash course he took in all this Stargate stuff didn't include more than an image example of what the ancient language looks like, and yet it still feels familiar. It's on the tip of his tongue, he thinks, and frowns.

McKay sighs. "It's above your pay-grade," he says, and his look is mildly apologetic. John huffs, a bit theatrically just to see how McKay will react, and McKay rewards him with a small eye-roll. "Did you make the lights go down?" McKay asks, then, turning to face John. John shrugs. McKay frowns at him, then snaps his finger until one of the other scientists look up at him. "What's your name, Z-something, do you have the–"

"It's right here," the scientist says, putting a tablet on McKay's console doubling as a table. It sure would be nice if they had proper desks, John thinks. Then McKay woulnd't have to consort and spread out his stuff so much so as to not accidentally press the buttons.

"Good, good," McKay mutters, already getting lost in more number. John watches him for another moment, then pats his own radio.

"Weir, are you there?" he asks, stepping away from the control room so he isn't in the way. Nobody answers, so John switches. "Colonel Sumner, can you hear me?"

Still no answer.

Frowning, John looks around the room. It doesn't, to him, look like there's any trouble brewing—aside from a couple of the scientists getting nearly into a shouting match over some kind of argument. "I'll try to track down Weir," John tells McKay, and McKay waves a hand at him, muttering something to the Z-something scientist. Raising an eyebrow, John says, "I trust everything will keep nice and easy while I'm gone," and McKay waves once more, the other scientist sticking his head up over the large computer screen balanced precariously on his console, waving at John, too.

John waves back. It'd be impolite not to, he thinks.

The hallway's dark when John steps out through the automatic doors, but lights turn on as he walks further and further. It's kind of nice; quiet, in a cozy way. Carts and bags and boxes stand stacked here and there, wherever there's room without impeding walkers, and John looks some of them over, too. But he's on a mission, so he speeds up and focuses.

It feels a little bit ridiculous to just wander through such a large place without a plan, but John doesn't know his way around yet and he doesn't know where Weir was last, either, so he just walks, trusting his instincts.

It's too quiet, John thinks.

And John hasn't crossed paths with a single person. Right about now, he thinks, it'd be good to know who he has authority over, who he could ask for a status report, but Sumner's been shutting him out of everything, so John doesn't know. And the lights turn off behind him; they don't stay on, as they'd done when he walked the halls, before.

Narrowing his eyes, John stalk through the halls. "McKay, are you there?" he asks, hand on his radio.

"I am, Major," says McKay, voice distorted by audible, and John exhales. "As long as somebody"—"I said I was sorry, McKay," John hears in the background_—"_doesn't let Kavanaugh near my station again, I should be hear until I starve, I think," McKay grumbles. "What I would give for some cereal right about now."

"I'm sure it's somewhere in all the boxes," John says, and McKay scoffs. "Have you heard from Weir?"

"No, still no contact." McKay quiets, and John hums. He can almost hear something, can almost feel something; he glances behind him, into the darkness, but there's nothing there. Stomach swooning just the tiniest bit, John presses his lips together. Exhales as he parts them again. "Anyway, we'll manage fine here until you get back, Major." Then, he whispers, "But if you could find where they stashed the coffee while you're out there, Zelenka would be forever grateful."

"You mean you would," says presumably Zelenka—the Z-something scientist, John assumes—in the background, and John huffs a laugh. McKay hushes him, and John smiles, glancing back into the dark one last time before he continues into the darkness before him.

Pitch black, deep, all-consuming.

But the lights keep turning on.

John turns a corner and suddenly there's life. "Major," Ford says, pulling up just short of running into him. He's flustered and wide-eyed and heaving for breath, and he repeats, "Major."

"At ease," John says. "What's wrong?"

"I'm lost, sir," says Ford, snapping into proper posture. He's sweaty in the lights and squinting into, and he pats at his pockets where his rations are. "I—My flashlight stopped functioning and I got separated from my squad. I've been trying to make contact, but nobody's answering, sir." He looks at John, blinking radiply, but his breathing si starting to get back under control. "Sir, are you lost, too?"

"Not that I'm aware," John says. He glances around. Turns the radio on. "McKay, am I lost?"

"I'm a little too busy to bother with your existential crisis right now, Major," is all McKay says, and John smiles.

Rolling his eyes a little, John nods at Ford. "I'm looking for Weir and Sumner. Do you want to head back to the gate room or come with me?"

"I, ehm," staring into the dark behind John, Ford swallows harshly. "With you, Major. If it's alright."

"Perfectly fine. I could use the company," says John, and Ford falls into step with him when he starts walking again. "Do you know where in the city you've been? Have you run into anybody who's seen Weir or Sumner?"

"No idea, sir. This place is like a maze. And in the darkness and with the comms down, I haven't been able to make heads or tails of anything." Ford shudders. "I could have been walking circles for horus, for all I know. And I haven't run into anybody, sir."

"No one at all?" Brows furrowing, John looks around. He spots a box hidden in a little grove in the wall, and walks over, squatting. Doesn't like it's coffee, he thinks, but makes sense of the labels as best he can without the label reader. He asks Ford, "Know what this is?"

"No, sir," says Ford. Then, "Sir, can you get in touch with the gate room, again? Just to... check?"

John raises an eyebrow but does as asked. "McKay, are you there?" Then he clears his throat. "I mean, status report?"

"The status is that I'm too busy for you to bother me all the time and also I think I'm suffering coffee withdrawal and Kavanaugh almost blew us all up, I'm pretty sure. How about you? On a relaxing stroll?"

John huffs a laugh. "I found Ford. He says there's problem with the lights and communication's out completely. And the flashlights don't seem to be working. Do you guys still have power?"

"We're fine," says McKay, and then, "I'll look into it. But anyway, you should find Weir soon and get back, some of the tablets are starting to bleed."

"Blood?" asks John, Ford flinching and John nods at him to keep walking. He carries the box with him; it's small enough and he could do with the exercise, he thinks, rolling his shoulders and trying to move his shoulder blades. He's stiff and his neck feels odd, his brain a bit too big for his head. Like he pulled something, maybe, but he doesn't know what.

"Yes, blood," says McKay, and it takes John a second to realize that that wasn't sarcasm. "Anyway, it's fine. It stopped when I told it off."

"You told a bleeding tablet off," says John. He shares a look with Ford, who bites his lip and ducks his head. John frowns a bit, looking him over. He does look worse for wear. But well, John isn't blind to the fact that this can be an intimidating place. The darkness is certainly nothing to sneeze at, and it's an alien city—who knows what's around the corner? In light of that, it doesn't take a lot of imagination to realize it's gotta be pretty freaky to walk the halls without knowing where you are, in the dark, and with nobody answering your comms.

So John asks, "What's your hobby, Ford?" as they head deeper into their search.

Ford looks at him a bit oddly, but he says, "Sewing, sir. My grandma and I used to do it all the time when she babysat me as a kid."

"So you could fix my socks, if they tear?"

Ford's eyes narrow. "I'll teach you how to fix them yourself, sir."

"Sounds good. Teach a man to fish, and all that," says John, smiling at him. Ford smiles back. John walks through the halls without a problem, always vaguely aware of the way back. He's alawys had a pretty good sense of direction, and the hallways are similar but not that similar, he thinks. They have pretty different vibes. Ford doesn't say anything until John asks him a question, so John asks lots of questions.

He doesn't mind the silence; it's the comforting, pleasant sort of quiet. The sound of their footsteps echo, and the empty halls stretch out far, curl around a corner, stretches out even further beyond. They've passed into a different tower at some point, John thinks. He doesn't mind the silence but it clearly bothers Ford. So John asks questions, and nudges Ford to fill up the hallway with his voice.

They've been walking for half-an-hour by the time they reach what appears to be a dead end. John frowns, and Ford keeps switching which leg he's resting his weight on, hands heavy and curled around his weapon. "Should we head back?" John asks, stepping up to the door of the tiny little alcove-like room, stepping inside.

"Sir—" The door shuts. A panel is revealed on the wall, flickering and then turning on. Blood leeks out of it, and John drags his finger through it, holding it to his nose and smelling it. Nose wrinkling, he tries it to wipe the sticky mess off on the wall, grimacing and ducking his head a little.

Then he presses on one of the pulsing dots on the screen.

It doesn't seem to take any time at all, and then the door opens and Ford is gone, and this is a different hall. The dot he pressed on is gone, when John studies the panel again. There's only darkness beyond the door; a suffocating, dense darkness, the kind that seems like it ought to have physical weight. The light that spills out of the... elevator—maybe? Transporter?—is smothered in infancy, not reaching more than an inch beyond the door frame.

John presses his lips together and turns on the radio. "McKay, can you still hear me?"

"Yes," says McKay, but his voice is crackling; the connection is bad, thinks John, just as McKay says, "Seems to be a bad connection, though. Are you still with, what was it, Ford? Have you found Weir? We're starting to have trouble with the walls, and Kavanaugh is turning out to be a bit of a doomsayer."

"The walls bleeding, too?" John studies the panel, and finally presses on one of the random dots. He doesn't know where he came from, didn't have the presence of mind to check if there was a dot that didn't pulse, so he supposes he'll just go in order, clockwise, until he finds Ford again.

"Yes," McKay sounds extremely put out about it, and not like he's panicking at all. "Have you found coffee?" he asks in a whisper, and John chuckles. "It's not funny, it's the height of seriousness, Major! These bumbling fools I've been saddled with desperately need an adrenaline shot to function properly, but in lieu of that, coffee will do. I swear, it's a conspiracy. They're going to drive me mad at this rate. Mad, I tell you. And then where will you be, without my genius?"

"Lost at the bottom of the ocean?" John peeks out into another hall of abject darkness, and doesn't see anybody. "Anybody in range?" he tries the radio, peeking as best he can out, but there's not so much as a whisper. "Hey, anybody there?" he calls, louder, trying to get his voice to carry. It echoes out through the hall, building and building, but there's no reply.

"No, you'd all be dead," says McKay. "Anyway, the gate should work. We can't gate back to earth, obviously, but we could probably reach another gate in this galaxy'."

The lights turn off.

"Fuck," McKay breathes, "Okay, so the power is off, all the consoles are dead, my computers aren't turning on." HE grunts, and there's the sound of banging. "Nope, kicking it didn't do anything. Maybe you should head back? We can send somebody else out for Weir?"

"Yeah, I'll head back," says John. He turns to the dark panel, furrowing his brows. Tapping it, nothing happens. He frowns, glancing around the small room. "Hey, I need to head back to Ford," he tells it, feeling a lot less foolish than he ought to, he thinks. It just bleeds more, and he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. The door is still open behind him, and he can feel the heady, noxious darkness upon his neck, the weight of eyes he can't see. "We're not leaving," he says, because he can make a basic causation connection. "But I do need to get back to Ford, and then to McKay. And if Weir could find the gate room again, that would be great."

"Are you talking to it?" asks McKay, because John didn't turn off the com.

"I'm attempting to forge a personal connection with an alien entity," John says. "I think we're on the road to becoming friends, don't you?" he asks the panel, and it turns on. Smiling, John taps the next dot. "See? We're already getting to know each other."

"Huh." McKay sounds a bit doubtful, but the connection is better; it's easier to make out his voice among all the static. "Anyway, get back here as quick as you can. I'll keep working on it."

"Will do," John says, leaning back on his heels as he checks out the new room he's landed in. It's full of boxes from earth; an improvement, he thinks. It's just a matter of continuing, now. He'll get back to his starting point soon enough.

Ford's in a ball on the floor when the door finally opens in the correct hall, and John steps out before it decides to send him somewhere else. "Ford? You okay?"

"Yeah, sir, I mean, yes sir I'm fine," Ford says, hoarse, and stands up in stiff, stilted movements. His face is blotchy like he's been crying, and John's brow pull tight together. Clearing his throat, Ford says, "Everything good, sir?"

"Yeah," says John, eyes narrowed as he keeps trying to examine Ford. But ford just looks back at him, stone-faced, ignoring the shaking of his own hands and his puffy eyes. "We're going back to the gate room."

"Yes, sir." Ford falls into step with John, body loosening a little as they get further away from the transporter. "Sir, do you know the way back?"

"Yes, Ford. Don't worry," he pats Ford's back, and Ford nods. But he doesn't look like he believes him. Still, seeing is believing, and they make their way back the way John first came here without any issues. They don't come across a single other person, and John frowns at that. Quite a lot of people are on this expedition, and they ought to have run into sombody by now.

Then again, the city is big. Just the vague map on the transporter's panel made that clear, not to mention looking out the window. And if they ran into a transporter, too, and they didn't realize it, they could be wandering around in whole other sections of the city without even knowing.

Back at the gate room, McKay is arguing with one of the consoles when hey step in, Ford nearly collapsing. A cacophony of sounds and voices badger them, and loudest is McKay's, "I know you like Major Sheppard best, but I promise, I'm a good friend, too. I'm the only one who can fix you if you break!"

"Actually," Zelenka tries, hovering next to him and the bleeding console, and McKay waves him off.

"I'm the one who could fix you up the best, then," says McKay, glaring at Zelenka, and dares to pet the console. He wipes the blood on his pants with a grimace. "Don't you want to work at full capacity? I could do so many things with you. We could explore the whole universe."

"Making promises, are we?" John leans his hip against the troublesome console, patting it. "McKay's a good guy," he tells it. "I trust him."

After a second—that feels almost sulking—the console stops bleeding, the buttons light up, and the laptop connected to it turns on. McKay lets out a gleeful, "Aha!" and John smiles at him, stepping out of the way so McKay can get back to work, which he does without a second's delay, not even sparing John a glance. John shares a look with Zelenka, then stretches his back and yawns. "I'll find a place to nap," he tells McKay, who just waves him off.

Chuckling, John goes to a corner and sits down, content to lean his head against the wall. "Wake me up if something happens," he tells the nearest soldier, who's stone-faced and has a death-grip on her fire-arm, and gets a nod in reply.

Satisfied that things are as calm as they can reasonably be expected in the current circumstances, John dozes off, and slowly vanishes into a comfortable slumber. His dreams are strange and distorted, but make perfect sense in his sleep the way all dreams do. John doesn't remember much of them when he blinks himself awake, the sound of Weir's voice far too loud.

Weir, he thinks, and stands, blinking the sleepy haze out of his vision. She's pale-faced and withdrawn on the other side of the control room, next to Ford. Her hair is frazzled and her face puffy and blotchy and she starts when McKay comes over, asking too many questions too quickly. Pushing himself to his feet, John places a hand on the back of his neck and bends it until he hears the tell-tale crack, exhaling at the relief. He stretches his back as he walks over, rolling his shoulders and asking, "Everything alright?" once he's in range.

McKay looks at him, frowning. "Weir has lost it," he declares. One of the other scientists slip on a pool of blood seeping up from the—seamless–floor, but a soldier gets her up without trouble. "She's talking about monsters in the dark and a labyrinth, of all things."

"Huh. Maybe not that weird, then?" asks John, nodding to the floors and the walls and the console that's turning into some kind of tentacle monster.

"This is just a tantrum," says McKay, waving his hands. "You can make it calm down. And anyway, when I get the gene therapy maybe Atlantis will like me, too. That would be the best case scenario right now, wouldn't it? Anyway, we have power concerns and we're at the bottom of the ocean, we don't have time for all this hocus pocus."

John looks at Weir, raising his eyebrows. She flinches, hugging herself. Then she draws hersel up taller with Ford at her side, inhaling deeply. "He's right," she says hoarsely, "We have more important concerns at the moment. Can we dial out?"

The power goes out.

"Oh, for fucks sake, who mentioned leaving this time?!" McKay stomps up the steps to the control room, the sound echoing in the silence, and John follows. "I've told you, stop making the power go out! I'm nowhere done with diagnostics and mapping, and anyway, if you have a problem, take it up with Sheppard. And for the sake of whatever god you believe in, stop Kavanaough from to access the Stargate crystals again, I can hear him getting closer!"

There's a scuffle by the Stargate, and loud protests and accusations of misconduct, but nothing catastrophic happens so presumably this Kavanaugh was stopped in time.

"We're not leaving," says John in the control room. He can't see anything in the dark, but he knows where McKay is, can sort of feel he's presence. Like when he has his eyes closed and he can still feel where his hand is in relation to himself. Not to brag, but he can find the tip of his nose flawlessly even without sight.

It's a little bit like that. But also—not.

John can turn his head and know precisely where he is and who's in front of him, and what they're doing. He knows, vaguely, what's happening down by the Stargate; Weir is panicking, and Ford is trying to calm her down. HE doesn't hear it, his hearing isn't that fantastic, and there's the bustle of so many footsteps and murmurs and people trying to hold onto their senses, anything too far away just sort of melts into the same, inarticulate noise.

"Are we?" he asks McKay, poking a console until it lights up and the ancient screen shimmers to life above it, the only light in the whole control room.

McKay studies it. "Of course not. But we will need to trips somewhere eventually, at least to find food and water and medicine. We'll need land if we're to grow something of our own, and I don't exactly see any, do you?"

"I don't, no," says John. Then he pats the console again. "Hear that? We're squishy humans with squishy human needs, and some those can't be found here. So we will need to leave, if only to find some place we can grow coffee."

"You didn't find any at all?" McKay asks, looking a John pleadingly.

Shaking his head, John sighs. "Sorry, McKay." McKay sighs, too.

"Well, I'll... survive. I suppose." Frowning, McKay shuffles his feet. The laptop connected to the console beeps, and McKay blanches, nearly pushing John aside in his hurry to get to it, Zelenka appearing from nowhere to hover over his shoulder. "Oh no," says McKay. "Oh no, this isn't good at all."

"I know," says Zelenka, and McKay glares at him—but his hands don't stop moving over the keyboard. "We can't stop it, can we?"

McKay doesn't answer. John doesn't get in the way, retreating to the large window in the center of the staircase. He stares out into the darkness of the ocean, places his hand on the glass. He can feel it, he thinks. The movements of something beneath, just like he can feel the movements of people behind his back, like he can feel people moving in the halls. Like he can feel the consoles, and the lights, and the transporter.

And the Stargate.

It's a black hole the like he's never felt before. The glass almost feels soft, he thinks, too, his hand running up and down it. "Everybody get down and hold onto something!" McKay calls, and John doesn't move an inch. He stares out, and he watches and watches and watches, and feels the water closing in on them.

And Atlantis rises.

Up and up and up, into the light, it goes on and on, and John doesn't move an inch through any of it, steady with his hand on the glass.

His lips part and his eyes widen, and his heart thumps a lullaby he doesn't recognize in his aching chest. "Major!" McKay calls, but John's mind is full of things he can't name, and he doesn't reply. Just watches. Feels the pressure of Atlantis going up, and up, and up, and sees the light start sparkling from the top of the ocean. And then they go beyond that, too, and the light is everywhere.

It washes over him like an avalanche, and he blinks into the sun, squinting as the room around him is slowly illuminated. The blood still drips down the walls, seeps through the flooring, and the consoles are still stubbornly refusing to work, some of them biting when hands get too close. But it's beautiful, John thinks, tilting hsi head back and closing his eyes, breathing in deep.

It's beautiful.

Atlantis settles on top of the water, McKay walking slowly to John. He stands beside him. "Oh," he says. "Did you know it could do that?"

"Why would I know?" asks John, looking at McKay out of the corner of his eyes.

McKay rolls his eyes, nudging his shoulder into John's. "Come on, you've obviously got something going on. Just tell me, do you think Atlantis will let me find a bed without getting lost. Not that I think I would get lost, but Weir has obviously been traumatized and we still can't get in touch with the majority of the crew." McKay frowns. "Everybody who left the gate room, actually," he says. "Did nobody get back after leaving?"

"Weir did," says John.

McKay wabes a hand, "Yes, but didn't you ask for that?" Narrowing his eyes, he stares at John. "Are you secretly an ancient? Is that why Atlantis likes you so much?"

"Im' just a human," says John, shrugging. Then he smirks. "A very handsome human."

"Pretty, you mean," says McKay. Then he blushes, hot and heavy, and John laughs. Glaring at him, McKay crosses his arms over his chest and spits, "It's just a factual, scientific description." John just laughs again, because truly, he thinks, McKay is pretty fun. And Atlantis probably agrees, he thinks, because the console with McKay's laptop even lets Zelenka poke at it.

McKay does not, though. "Hey, don't touch that!" he calls, stomping over and Zelenka stepping back with his hands held high. McKay glares at him suspiciously for a moment, then looks at John, who'd followed after him. "Anyway, we need to figure out sleeping situations and food and water, and we need to find our missing personal," says McKay. His face screws up. "I think all the medical personal is missing." He sighs. Looks at John. "Do you think if I touched you Atlantis would like me, too?"

"Touch?" Raising an eyebrow, John looks McKay until McKay blushes again. "Well, it's worth a try," says John, and McKay glares at him again.

"I just meant a simple touch," McKay says and grabs John's arm. John raises an eyebrow and tilts his head, and finally McKay sighs and changes to grab John's hand. It's not a magical touch, but it is nice, welcoming, and John squeezes on McKay's grip. McKay's hand is warm, slightly sweaty, and he's squeezing John just a bit too tight, and John smiles at him.

Scoffing, McKay lets go. "Go," he says. "Try to talk Atlantis into realizing we're not enemies." And he waves John away, too, Zelenka looking at John with raised eyebrows.

"Sure, McKay," John says, drawling a little on purpose. McKay looks up at him, finally deigning to look away from his laptop, and John says, "You know, I'm sure if Atlantis knew how good you are at fixing things, it'd stop trying to bleed on you."

"...I am good at fixing things," McKay says, expression lighting up. "And I have found some problems that could do with a fix. I've just been resisting the urge to leave the room in case I get catastrophically lost and am never found again. I'm mildly claustrophobic, you know. And I don't like the dark. And I have low blood sugar, and I can only carry so many rations—in fact, most of the rations is missing, too, since nobody has the guts to leave to get them—and I need ten hours of peaceful sleep after a day like today but if I have nightmares about consoles trying to eat me—”

"None of that is going to happen," says John, raising his hands. "You're not going to get lost, and you're not going to starve, or whatever. Just do your thing. It'll be fine."

"You promise?" McKay's gaze searches him.

"I do," hums John. He looks at Zelenka, and says, "You won't have issues, either." Blinking, Zelenka nods.

"Do you think Atlantis does what you're telling it to because she likes you, because she's trying to lure you into something, or because she's implanting these ideas into your head and you're actually doing what she wants?" McKay frowns at thin air, obviously considering the options.

"She?" asks John.

"It's a ship, Sheppard," McKay drawls, looking at John like he's the stupidest person in the world. John smiles; rocks a little on his heels and looks at him until McKay squirms, glancing away. But he looks back quickly enough, straightening, forcing any discomfort away in favor of being petty and curious and and oddly spiteful—but not, John thinks, in a bad way. In a rather captivating way, even. He looks at McKay and he knows there's something off about himself, that something changed the moment he sat in the chair in Antarctica and further twisted him the moment he stepped in Atlantis, and he thinks maybe McKay can tell this. But also that McKay doesn't much care; McKay is only bothered, probably, by what this means for the science, and what kdin of unfair advantage John might have in learning about Atlantis.

It's charming, in a way.

"Of course." John nods. Then he shrugs. "And does it matter? I like Atlantis, too."

"But what if she's secretly controlling you and you've turned into a puppet? What if you're not even Sheppard anymore!" McKay's his arms so much he almost hits John, and John huffs. That only makes McKay glare harsher at him,. and Zelenka clears his throat.

"There is a chance that you've been taken over, Major," says Zelenka carefully, "There's precedent in—"

"Right, right, lots of precedent." McKay waves his hand again. "People get possessed by things every other week in the Stargate Programme, it feels like. Ugh. So annoying. Are you sure you're still Sheppard? Feel any urge to kill people? Have you developed the spontaneous urge to only speak Ancient? Has your eyesight gotten better? Do you want to kill me?"

John laughs. McKay's eyes widen. "Oh my god, you want to kill me!"

"Lots of people want to kill you," Zelenka says, "It's not an indication of possession."

McKay utterly ignores him. He steps right up to John and peers into his eyes, so close that John can feel his breath skimming his skin. Raising his eyebrows, John stares right back into his eyes. "Are you sure you're John Sheppard?" McKay asks, quieter, more serious.

"I am," says John, and McKay stares into his eyes a few seconds longer. He's got pretty eyes, John thinks, and his jaw flexes. But finally, McKay seems to accept it, and he nods, once, in a snappy motion. Snapping his fingers, one of the scientists—he's already collecting minions, and John's chest warms—hurries over with a tablet. McKay studies it for a moment.

Declares, "I think we're safe."

The room collectively lets out a breath of relief.

John looks around, studies the various people grouped up around the gate and control rooms. Some of them are obviously traumatized, sitting hunched down and trying to hide, while others are more stoic, attempting to brave their fears and unease with various levels of success. John studies all of them, tries to feel some level of sympathy, but it's difficult when there is only joy and delight nestled in his chest.

Maybe McKay is correct. 

John doesn't much care, though.

"Yeah, yeah," he tells the air, tells Atlantis, feeling the gentle push at the back of his head, the attention hot on the back of his neck. He follows McKay, cocks his hip against a console, watches him work. McKay doesn't spare him any attention more than a few glances here and there, focused on his work, and John is content just to watch.

Atlantis is learning to be content with  it, too, he thinks.

They're probably bleeding a bit into each other. That's fine, though; John's pretty sure it's not on purpose, and he's pretty sure the loneliness that's a burning a hole in his chest isn't his own. It's a chewy kind of emotion, sticky on his tongue, lingering between his teeth. Not entirely human, and yet so utterly human as to inspire in John the desire to quench it.

And, well, it's Atlantis.

John isn't immune to the romanticism of it. Isn't immune to the fact that it rose out of the sea, like something from the legends, from the myths.  Isn't even immune ot the tales McKay's has been telling everybody during the lead-up to the expedition setting off.

This isn't what he had expected. It can barely be what anybody expected. But the sunlight bursts in through the large windows, the ocean blue as far as the eye can see, and they're here.

They're here.

Smiling, John tilts his head back and looks out the window. He there's a balcony there, and the thought once occurred to him won't go away. "Hey, you wanna go outside?" he asks McKay, looking down at him.

It takes a minute for McKay to register that John asked him a question, and then a few seconds more to look up at him, eyebrows furrowed. "What?" he asks, snappy.

"There's a balcony. Wanna get some fresh air?"

"If it won't kill me. Who knows what I'm allergic to here?" mutters McKay, but he stands, follows John out. John glances behind him every other step, but McKay keeps following. They pause at the doors, but they don't need to; they open at their approach. McKay exhales softly. "Well, I'll be damned."

Grinning, John leads the way out. The world is large and bright before them, stretching all the to the horizon. The sunshine is soft on his skin, too, and he inhales the fresh air deep into his lungs. Stands at the edge of the balcony, looking down at the city—it stretches further than he could see in the bottom of the ocean, and he itches to explore all of it, to learn and know every single piece of it.

He thinks he feels that desire echo back at him, in a gentle sort of way. It's attention on him, a sensation of walking on water; his stomach is so close to swooping that it's nearly nauseating. "Beautiful," he says, murmurs, down into the nothingness of the sea.

McKay hums.

"Hey," says McKay, then, and John turns to face him. McKay is frowning, brows furrowed, and he looks right at John. "Are you really okay? I know I kind of panicked, but there really is precedent for possession and foreign influence and the like. If you're not–"

"I'm fine, McKay." John tilts his head, studies him. "Are you? If you could go home, would you?"

"No," says McKay. He squares his shoulders. "This is the discovery of a lifetime. Think what we could learn! What secrets remain undiscovered! No, I'm not leaving unless I'm getting dragged out."

"Even though Atlantis is like... this?"

Snorting, McKay says softly, "It's Atlantis. She's Atlantis. I don't care if she wants to eat me, or if she kills me, or if I walk into a one these halls and never find my way out again. This is Atlantis we're talking about, Sheppard." He looks at John, and his smile is a beautiful, captivating thing. Utterly brilliant, outshining even the sunlight. "We're in Atlantis."

"Yeah," breathes John. His heart thumps, and his hands sweat; curling them around the railing, he inhales deep. McKay is looking out at the ocean, when John glances at him again. "It's Atlantis."

What more is there to say?

They don't stay out there for more than a few minutes, in the end. McKay has a lot of work to do, and John needs to go on a rescue mission, tracking down the missing people that Atlantis has squared away somewhere before they die. He pats Atlantis as he walks back into the control room, and the door to the balcony shuts behind him. "Treat McKay well," he murmurs, feeling just a bit foolish but it's smothered by the tug at the back of his mind. He can't name the feeling, can barely comprehend it, but it is comprehensible, too, in a way.

"Yeah," he says, walking out into the hall, glancing back briefly. "I like McKay, too."

He thinks Atlantis will only grow to like McKay more.

He thinks he will, too.

After a couple of hours he's collected a few dozen people around the city. Thankfully nobody's wandered very far, and he does in fact find coffee on one of his trip. Weir and Dr. Beckett have set up a triage are ain the gate room, right in front of the Stargate. McKay ran off to fix various faults, followed by a whole gaggle of scientists and soldiers that didn't want to risk being away from him; John's gotten a very detailed step-by-step description of it from both McKay himself and Zelenka.

The second time McKay and his crew returns to the gate room to pick up equipment and recharge their rations, even more people waddle off after them.

McKay gets very grumpy.

But he doesn't make anybody leave.

People sleep in shifts, trying not to spread too far out. Those who were lost longer in the dark, suffocating loneliness of Atlantis are visibly worse off, and John does what he can for them. But there's more people to find, more equipment to track down; somebody needs to do a full inventory, he thinks. Somebody needs to find out what state people are in, and who's fit to work. And who will need more treatment.

But John thinks Atlantis is starting to get it. Get it that he's not leaving, that they're not leaving.

Get it that, too, that it—she, perhaps, though John thinks it's a little silly to assign a gender to it; at least without it's own input—needs to be a bit more cautious with the squishy, fragile humans scurrying around inside it. John stalks her halls, retrieves the people that he finds, catalogues together with Ford the boxes that he passes. It's hardly a proper inventory, but it's a decent start and a bit of map-making, and the activity seems to at least fo Ford some good. He's not quite so jumpy anymore.

John finds some time to sleep, here and there. McKay's found some bedrooms on his search for things to fix, and John stumbles into the first bed he reaches and sleeps too deep to even dream. Still, he wakes to a sensation of something crawling in his skull, something burrowing beneath his skin, and he grimaces, trying to shake off the phantom sensations.

Opening his eyes, he squints up into McKay's eyes. "Good, you're awake," McKay says and holds a small device in front of his face. "Can you turn this on?"

John pokes it with a tired hand, and it shines. McKay grins at it, shaking it a bit. "I got the gene therapy," he says, sitting down on John's bed, eyes wide and little manic. "Beckett thought I should wait, that I haven't slept enough, but I told him to stop bothering with minor things like that. Do you think it worked? Can you sense that, do you think?"

"I haven't sensed anything like that before," says John slowly, turning over on his side and looking up at McKay. "I'm not the only gene carrier here, am I? But I haven't picked up anything."

"Well, nobody else's gene is as strong as your," McKay shrugs. "But can you sense mine?" And he bends over John, shadowing him from the sunlight streaming in through the windows.

"No," says John. Then he frowns. "Well, maybe. Something, I guess. But I don't know if it's your gene, it might just be..." you, he thinks but doesn't say. McKay still lights up, grinning and sitting straight. He twists and turns the device in his hands, small and innocuous, and yet John thinks it could easily kill a person.

It won't kill McKay, though. John's certain about that.

"You're not  going to move?" asks John, blinking sleepily up at McKay.

McKay glances back at him, scoffing. "Why? So you can hog the bed? I'll have you know the slackers that follow me around have claimed every bed we've found and then some. So if you're done sleeping, scoot over nad let me at it, Major."

So John scoots over. He squeezes in as close to the edge as he can and McKay clambers noisily onto the bed. He's a furnace next to John, hot and heavy, and he sighs as he shuts his eyes, body brushing John's every time he moves. John just watches, until finally McKay snaps a short, "Don't just stare at me," at him.

John huffs. McKay doesn't deign to respond, so John doesn't bother to stop staring at him.

It doesn't take long for McKay to fall asleep.

He must be really tired, John thinks, eyeing the dark circles under his eyes, the perspiration that's stuck ot him. McKay has been running to and fro from the moment he stepped through the Stargate, has been the defacto leader while Weir and Sumner and the rest were missing, and John thinks he only made it worse, convincing Atlantis to be easy on him. Because the others noticed, didn't they, that if they stuck McKay they had a greater chance of not getting lost, of not being attacked by the things they touched, investigated, worked with. And si McKay just kept getting bothered by people, followed around and turned to for every little problem.

He's been run ragged, and he looks it. John doesn't move, partly because he doesn't want to accidentally wake him and partly because he's quite comfortable. They're not quite cuddling, but it's close, and maybe John has missed this kind of closeness, missed just sleeping next to somebody.

Especially somebody as extraordinary as McKay.

In the end, though, hunger rears it's ugly head, and John climbs over him to get off the bed. The mattress dips under his weight and McKay slides closer to him, and John stops, trying to see if he's waking up. But he doesn't, and so John continues.

He looks at McKay, for a second, before he leaves. Finally writes a quick note with some directions of where he's going, in case McKay wakes up in time to join him for a meal. He shouldn't, though, John thinks. McKay needs a proper, uninterrupted rest, and so John waves down a soldier that's passing by outside the room and instructs her to guard him, not to let anyone disturb him unless it's deadly serious.

She nods, yes, sir's him_,_ traces of tears on her face, but her expression is calm and she her hands aren't trembling on her weapon. John smiles at her, says, "I'll pick up some rations for you."

He does, in fact, pick up some rations for her. And a whole pile for McKay. He gets his hands on some coffee, too, and squares it away in the box he's carrying for ease of transportation before anybody sees what he's doing. But he's waylaid by Weir on the way back; "Major, I need to speak with you," she says, staring at him. She's done an admirable job pulling herself back together, but she's still too pale and her hands shake a bit as she crosses her arms over her chest.

"What can I do you for, Ma'am?" John asks, adjusting his grip on his box.

"There's a lot we still don't know about this city," she says, starting to walk in a different direction that John wants. "And in a place this old, I suppose we should have expected... complications. But this... I mean, we need to be able to search it without fear. Investigate without fear. Most of my people are refusing to walk too far away from McKay, and I've heard the soldiers talking, they don't want to do any deep scouting. And—"

"Sorry for interrupting, but what do you want from me, Ma'am?"

"There's obviously something different about you," she says, expression twisting at his interruption. "If you could reassure the rest that there's nothing to be afraid of, they could begin properly searching—"

"Dr. Weir, I hardly think now's the time for exploration," he says, and her expression twists further.

"Who knows what kind of knowledge we can he find here?" she asks. "Atlantis is obviously powerful. This is what we're here for, Major."

"I understand," says John, nodding. "But, respectfully, we only just got here. We need more time for Atlantis to become familiar with us before we start poking at everything we find."

"McKay has certainly been doing a lot for poking," Weir says, frowning at him.

"McKay has been fixing things," shrugs John. "A different form of poking."

Weir stares at him a second longer. "Major, I need to know we're on the same page," she says at last. "Sumner has been nearly run to death, trying to keep people intact and safety and patrols operational. We've got dozens of traumatized people—some people are still missing, Major! We can't afford to stop exploring; we need to know what we're truly dealing with here. How to protect ourselves."

"I'll find the people missing," says John. "But you shouldn't go looking for trouble right now."

Pressing her lips together, Weir watches him leave. John feels a bit bad about it, but he doesn't think he's wrong. Now's not a good time to overwhelm Atlantis with people and intent and needs. Atlantis has been alone for who knows how long—John doesn't think rushing is going to do anybody any good.

He drops off the box with the soldier—Air Force, he thinks—outside McKay's room, and then heads off to collect the last few people that's missing. They're in another tower, must have stumbled their way through a transporter. It takes John a while to find the Tower they're in, relying on the vague sense of direction that doesn't help much from Atlantis, a soft sense of something is being disturbed and faint impression of bloating in the stomach that has nothing to do with him—John's barely remembering to eat the rations he's got on him.

But he does, eventually, track down every missing person. Nobody's dead or missing any limbs, so he calls that a success. The mental trauma isn't something he can fix; that's up to the doctors, and themselves. But he does his best to assure them they're safe, and this won't happen to them again, the whole way back with him.

He doesn't know if they believe him.

It doesn't much matter, he thinks.

Atlantis isn't interested in those who doesn't want to be here; it'll find some way to get rid of them. Hopefully she'll be kind to them—John is trying the pronoun out now and then, trying to discern how Atlantis feels about, but so far he doesn't think it's even noticed—but John can't control it.

It's indulgence, he thinks. This trend of Atlantis listening to what he says; it's the kind of indulgence a pet owner might have. It'll let him go where he wants and poke at wants he wants, and he'll have his friends and he can play with them all he likes, but at the end of the day, John isn't the one that's in charge.

He's fine with that.

Patting the wall that's nearest to him, he follows the sounds of vicious scolding to find McKay in the middle of a gaggle of scientists, poking at a crystal panel and snapping every time somebody makes an "inane" suggestion. John feels only fondness, and a kind of warmth that sticks in his chest and settles in his lungs, fluttering in the pit of his stomach. "Everything going okay, McKay?" he asks, the crowd parting to let him through.

McKay looks up at him. His scowl eases, and he says with undeniable smugness, "Nothing I can't handle." And John believes him.

There is, probably, not a lot that McKay can't handle.

"I'm rooting for you," John still says, and McKay's eyes narrow. He looks John up and down, studies him, tries to discern if John's mocking, and John simply looks back at him. Finally, McKay grins, deciding to take it as a compliment, and John smiles.

"Thanks, Sheppard," McKay stands up so he can nudge John's shoulder, and John huffs a laugh. "I knew you were an intelligent man."

"Thanks, McKay," says John, nudging him back.

There's a lot still to be done, John thinks as he leans against the wall, watching McKay returning to work. There's an impressive number of people, some of them still wearing traces of the strangeness of this lost city of theirs, that are making notes of McKay's actions, his instructions, dedicating themselves to learning. And John's content to watch, there's something captivating, about McKay. About how he works. Just... about him, in general. And when McKay glances up at John, preening when John asks questions that show he's paying attention, John's chest only grows warmer and the flutters inside only grow gentler.

It's maybe a little bit pathetic, how quickly John's gotten all tangled up in him.

But John doesn't mind.

Not at all.

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#Fandom: Stargate Atlantis #Post Type: Fic #Rating: Teen #Status: Complete #Tag: AU #Tag: Horror #WC: 10000-20000