may the 4th be with you, comment fic round up.

[wellownedbkup]

it's halfway through their mission on M-what-the-fuck-ever when john can't help but notice the lack of sound anywhere. he's used to the sound of footsteps on twigs and grass, the clicking of technology, and the running commentary from rodney. it's the last bit that has him so unnerved, flinching and checking over his shoulder every second to see where everyone is.

it's like someone's turned the sound off on the planet, and it keeps john on edge. the sound is deafening, like the deep end of the pool, pressure on his eardrums until he can't take it anymore.

he gets everyone's attention, directs them back toward the gate with almost frantic hand motions. he keeps reaching to touch rodney, reassure himself of his presence even as he scans the perimeter for an attack of some kind.

they dial home, walk through the gate and john can't help the sigh of relief he gives when he hears the noise of his everyday life. when he hears atlantis hum in welcome. when rodney's tirade breaks into his consciousness.

"... strongest energy readings we've had the entire time in Pegasus and Major Scared-of-the-Silence over there runs us back off the planet..."

john lets it wash over him like water, white noise that makes everything safe again.



rodney tries to tell him that it's futile to play golf on atlantis. not only does he never get the balls back when he treats the planet like his personal driving range, but the planet is quite possibly the largest water hazard he's ever encountered. there's no way he can even hit the ball to the mainland, which is where the hole would have to be, should this be some kind of insane space golf course with an impossible par. there's no actual point to it.

john smiles through every argument and drives another ball off the pier into the sunset. he nods his head with every point that rodney brings up, adds a few others about the limited number of balls and the way that there's little competition to be had on Atlantis anyway and how it's little practice for anything Earth-side when he's got no judge of distance but his own eyesight.

doesn't stop him from doing it though. or rodney coming over.



john calls it a little slice of heaven. the beaches on M-whatever-this-planet-is are all white sand, pristine and endless. the water's bluer than even rodney's eyes, though he'll never admit it, and the waves are perfect for surfing. it reminds him too much of his dad being based in san francisco that one year, where john grew his hair out and spent his days cutting school for the chance to catch the perfect wave.

pissed his dad off every time.

john thinks this place couldn't be any more perfect, really, especially as he's got shore leave with rodney and time to kick back and catch one of those perfect waves. he's just coming in from one such wave when he squints at his favorite scientist, currently frowning up at him from his tablet.

"couldn't you have picked a planet with more exciting weather?" rodney grumbles, hidden beneath a tent and slathered in his homebrew 2000 SPF sunblock. "90 degrees every day, no clouds and nothing but beach bum weather."

john grins and sits on the towel beside rodney, the dampness of the ocean on his skin dripping off onto rodney's leg. "it could be worse."

rodney gives john a look, the weight of all his ire at that comment apparent. "is that so, lieutenant colonel obvious?"

john nods, bumping his bare shoulder against rodney's clothed one. "i could be here without you."



he closes his eyes and feels it, the way the lines thrum beneath his body and reverberate just beneath the surface of his skin. filmy on his fingers and sturdy, like it could hold him forever and never. he doesn't question it, just gives in when he closes his eyes.

it must be the age we're living in, where the world is so interconnected that it's nothing to think that a person in China can be friends with a person in Florida and never have met in person. reading novels written by long-dead thinkers, essays written by long-lived bloggers. internet fame at the click of a button.

it leaks into his dreams, some cross between old movies he's seen and stories he's read. like Tron and Hackers and The Matrix and Charlotte's Web, where he can see the virtual building blocks of the entire world--money transfers and emails and text messages and Twitter. every phone call, every IM, every computer turned on or off. feels the click of power on and off and sees his fate written in binary all above his head, words he can spell in a series of ones and zeroes.

rebel hero.



they call her nightmare girl like she doesn't have ears and feelings. like she's not still wishing she could have gone to prom instead of ending out in coyote sands, where civilization is miles away and she dreams up horrible horrible ends for everyone she sees.

she sees them, with their cut-away glances and their whispers, conspiracies that she dreams up and feels the truth of in her bones. the boy who heals things is going to destroy the world one day. the boy with the golden touch will lose his dearest possession. they'll all forget what they ought to remember.

and alice.

she dreams of alice most of all, uncared for and lost. she doesn't know what to do with these dreams, tries to forget them until she sees them turn true, one by one.

she goes to coyote sands, looking for a cure. and though her dreams tell her that this will all end in disaster, in death and storms and loss, she still thinks that maybe she'll get better.