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....
Drea, you suck. Anyway. Scott for you. SG-1 for others....
Click. Click.
Clickclick.
Click. Click.
He stopped before he could do the movement twice as fast, tilted his head to the side and
watched the ball-point protrude from the end.
Ballpoint pen. Clicky pen.
The words are almost abstract in his brain, and if Scott thinks about them long enough, he won't think about anything else. To deviate from a planned course of action is to deny one's own true destiny.
Scott Summers doesn't believe in destiny, half-baked truths, or pens without ink.
But he does believe in not thinking. In not connecting this moment to the next -- a sound distracts him. Movement, and he turns from the pen. Looks at the bed, at the woman occupying it.
The IV leading from one arm is matched on the other side by more tubes and wires. There are patches on her temples that were shaved off so that electrodes dipped in viscous jelly could suction on. Pads on her chest (and several reddened patches of skin where they had to shock her. Again.), and monitors that beep every other minute. Sometimes quietly, sometimes not.
Although maybe it always sounds the same and it's just his perception that changes.
She shouldn't be here.
Click. Click.
CkickClick.
"Stop that."
He's surprised, suddenly, that she can speak. That there's anything in her body capable of the muscular movements that produce sound, voice, breathing... "Sorry," he mumbles.
The sound of his voice is rusty and disused, and he's not surprised by that.
Click.
"Scott." Dark eyes stare over at him, framed in pale and frayed skin, lank hair that should have been washed, but also shouldn't exist. It should be turned into its component molecules, burned into the crisp soil of the moon, spread and scattered across Jamaica Bay, plastered over Genosha...
"I can't do this anymore."
Her eyes close. Acceptance, pain, betrayal, rage, none of the emotions he ever wanted to engender in her. And she doesn't speak for a long time, but he can see the tears sliding from her so helplessly.
Click. Click.
"Scott." Jean's voice is stronger, now, and it's almost completely devoid of emotion.
Click.
The pen is yanked from his hand, dashed against the wall with enough force to break it. Those dark eyes are glaring, now, her lips pulled into something that might be anger, something that might be hurt. He doesn't want to know.
She stops him at the door, the telekinetic hold gentle. "Talk to me, Scott."
There's a chasm underneath her words. A pleading sound that he wants to touch, wants to fold, spindle, mutilate--because Jean Grey is not supposed to sound lost and alone when it comes to Scott Summers. And he's sure there's someone in the big bad universe who is laughing maniacally at him. But he can't, for the life of himself, step back in. He can't go on waiting for her to die again. Waiting for her to come back to him.
"Goodbye, Jean."
Click. Click.
He doesn't have the pen anymore, he thinks. But his fingers learned the movement well, and it's like a phamton limb.
Phantom pen syndrome?
A laugh forces its way past his throat.
The telekinetic hold leaves him, and he hears a soft sigh from the bed.
And then he leaves.
=-=-
It was all Carter's fault. Colonel Jack O'Neill didn't care if the reasoning was flawed, of if his second in command, Captain Samantha Carter, hadn't had anything to do with his current situation.
She was there. And it was her fault.
Technically, it was probably his own. He'd been the one to admit to General George Hammond that SG-1 as a whole really wasn't doing anything for Christmas. Dr. Daniel Jackson didn't give a rat's ass (too busy worrying about his kidnapped wife), Teal'c didn't have a clue what Christmas was, Captain Carter had looked shifty and said something about her brother still not speaking to her. And Jack himself... Well, Jack didn't really ever see a point to Christmas. Not when you spend it alone in front of a TV with a case of beer and more pizza than even a cadre of jaffa could eat.
General Hammond hadn't gotten that explanation, though. He'd just gotten a bored, "Nothing, sir."
It had apparently taken the General less than a day to decide to change that nothing. And so here Jack was. Stuck. Surrounded. Entombed. And here his brain was, using words Daniel would. Oh, he was so going to blame this on Daniel now.
He'd been the first to arrive at the mandatory Christmas party Hammond had ordered them to. He'd been expecting brass and big-wigs, some sort of catering. Instead, he realized within moments that it was a family gathering. The Hammond family was a large and sprawling complex of genes and offspring. Within moments of staring dumb-founded, Jack had found himself pounced upon by at least three of said offspring.
They were loud and bouncy, and demanded that "Colonel Jack" tell them stories. (as "Grandpa George' had introduced him that way) Besides, you couldn't ignore that his eagles *did* say Colonel. For once.
So, completely disturbed (and disarmed, and charmed, although he'd never admit it), Jack had sat down on a couch, and started relating something off the top of his head. It ended up being a watered-down version of SG-1's first mission, with lots of attention paid to the adventure, and little to the science. Halfway during the story, he'd noticed Captain Carter arrive. And *she* wasn't in her dress uniform, which meant she probably had known something more than he had. He'd have to ask her. Later, though.
Two of the children (there were five or six now) had bounced up and run off to tackle the Captain, who'd swung them in the air, exclaimed that they'd grown, and then disappeared into the kitchen.
She was chased out by Hammond's eldest daughter moments later.
Jack was glad. Carter so could *not* cook. And her anywhere near dinner would have been a disaster.
But he was still entertaining at least three of the kids. And then the youngest girl had crawled into his lap and started fiddling with the buttons on his uniform.
So he was stuck. Because it had been a hell of a long time since a small child had sat in his lap so trustingly. And he kept expecting it to hurt, kept waiting for that sharp pain to begin in his chest and spread everywhere. Hello, life, it would say, this is Jack O'Neill. You suck.
But, oddly, it didn't start. He just felt weirdly content.
Click. Click.
Clickclick.
Click. Click.
He stopped before he could do the movement twice as fast, tilted his head to the side and
watched the ball-point protrude from the end.
Ballpoint pen. Clicky pen.
The words are almost abstract in his brain, and if Scott thinks about them long enough, he won't think about anything else. To deviate from a planned course of action is to deny one's own true destiny.
Scott Summers doesn't believe in destiny, half-baked truths, or pens without ink.
But he does believe in not thinking. In not connecting this moment to the next -- a sound distracts him. Movement, and he turns from the pen. Looks at the bed, at the woman occupying it.
The IV leading from one arm is matched on the other side by more tubes and wires. There are patches on her temples that were shaved off so that electrodes dipped in viscous jelly could suction on. Pads on her chest (and several reddened patches of skin where they had to shock her. Again.), and monitors that beep every other minute. Sometimes quietly, sometimes not.
Although maybe it always sounds the same and it's just his perception that changes.
She shouldn't be here.
Click. Click.
CkickClick.
"Stop that."
He's surprised, suddenly, that she can speak. That there's anything in her body capable of the muscular movements that produce sound, voice, breathing... "Sorry," he mumbles.
The sound of his voice is rusty and disused, and he's not surprised by that.
Click.
"Scott." Dark eyes stare over at him, framed in pale and frayed skin, lank hair that should have been washed, but also shouldn't exist. It should be turned into its component molecules, burned into the crisp soil of the moon, spread and scattered across Jamaica Bay, plastered over Genosha...
"I can't do this anymore."
Her eyes close. Acceptance, pain, betrayal, rage, none of the emotions he ever wanted to engender in her. And she doesn't speak for a long time, but he can see the tears sliding from her so helplessly.
Click. Click.
"Scott." Jean's voice is stronger, now, and it's almost completely devoid of emotion.
Click.
The pen is yanked from his hand, dashed against the wall with enough force to break it. Those dark eyes are glaring, now, her lips pulled into something that might be anger, something that might be hurt. He doesn't want to know.
She stops him at the door, the telekinetic hold gentle. "Talk to me, Scott."
There's a chasm underneath her words. A pleading sound that he wants to touch, wants to fold, spindle, mutilate--because Jean Grey is not supposed to sound lost and alone when it comes to Scott Summers. And he's sure there's someone in the big bad universe who is laughing maniacally at him. But he can't, for the life of himself, step back in. He can't go on waiting for her to die again. Waiting for her to come back to him.
"Goodbye, Jean."
Click. Click.
He doesn't have the pen anymore, he thinks. But his fingers learned the movement well, and it's like a phamton limb.
Phantom pen syndrome?
A laugh forces its way past his throat.
The telekinetic hold leaves him, and he hears a soft sigh from the bed.
And then he leaves.
=-=-
It was all Carter's fault. Colonel Jack O'Neill didn't care if the reasoning was flawed, of if his second in command, Captain Samantha Carter, hadn't had anything to do with his current situation.
She was there. And it was her fault.
Technically, it was probably his own. He'd been the one to admit to General George Hammond that SG-1 as a whole really wasn't doing anything for Christmas. Dr. Daniel Jackson didn't give a rat's ass (too busy worrying about his kidnapped wife), Teal'c didn't have a clue what Christmas was, Captain Carter had looked shifty and said something about her brother still not speaking to her. And Jack himself... Well, Jack didn't really ever see a point to Christmas. Not when you spend it alone in front of a TV with a case of beer and more pizza than even a cadre of jaffa could eat.
General Hammond hadn't gotten that explanation, though. He'd just gotten a bored, "Nothing, sir."
It had apparently taken the General less than a day to decide to change that nothing. And so here Jack was. Stuck. Surrounded. Entombed. And here his brain was, using words Daniel would. Oh, he was so going to blame this on Daniel now.
He'd been the first to arrive at the mandatory Christmas party Hammond had ordered them to. He'd been expecting brass and big-wigs, some sort of catering. Instead, he realized within moments that it was a family gathering. The Hammond family was a large and sprawling complex of genes and offspring. Within moments of staring dumb-founded, Jack had found himself pounced upon by at least three of said offspring.
They were loud and bouncy, and demanded that "Colonel Jack" tell them stories. (as "Grandpa George' had introduced him that way) Besides, you couldn't ignore that his eagles *did* say Colonel. For once.
So, completely disturbed (and disarmed, and charmed, although he'd never admit it), Jack had sat down on a couch, and started relating something off the top of his head. It ended up being a watered-down version of SG-1's first mission, with lots of attention paid to the adventure, and little to the science. Halfway during the story, he'd noticed Captain Carter arrive. And *she* wasn't in her dress uniform, which meant she probably had known something more than he had. He'd have to ask her. Later, though.
Two of the children (there were five or six now) had bounced up and run off to tackle the Captain, who'd swung them in the air, exclaimed that they'd grown, and then disappeared into the kitchen.
She was chased out by Hammond's eldest daughter moments later.
Jack was glad. Carter so could *not* cook. And her anywhere near dinner would have been a disaster.
But he was still entertaining at least three of the kids. And then the youngest girl had crawled into his lap and started fiddling with the buttons on his uniform.
So he was stuck. Because it had been a hell of a long time since a small child had sat in his lap so trustingly. And he kept expecting it to hurt, kept waiting for that sharp pain to begin in his chest and spread everywhere. Hello, life, it would say, this is Jack O'Neill. You suck.
But, oddly, it didn't start. He just felt weirdly content.