out_there | SGA fic: The Never-Ending Flight of Future Days.

Title: The Never-Ending Flight of Future Days.
Fandom: SGA
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Characters: John, Radek
Summary: The halls of Atlantis feel bright and sterile, hard straight lines that lead John to horrible places, to the infirmary, to his quarters, to the labs. They all seem wrong.
Authors' Notes: Hmmm. I swear this was going to be Sheppard/Zelenka porn when I started. Then I got distracted.

The halls of Atlantis feel bright and sterile, hard straight lines that lead John to horrible places, to the infirmary, to his quarters, to the labs. They all seem wrong.

The whole city feels wrong: soulless and cold when empty, claustrophobic and crushing when full of people. John doesn't know which is worse, being alone or being surrounded.

(He considers talking to Kate again, but he doesn't have anything new to say.)

He wants to steal one of the jumpers, get away, but he knows he can't outrun this. Flying has always been his first love. Over desert, over snow, a rush bigger than anything else, and more important, more reliable, more honest than any charming smile or passionate kiss. The type of lover that welcomes you with open arms, that amazes and astounds you, that offers you more and more until you're skating across the edge of your limits.

It's required sacrifices, but John loves it. Loves it enough to keep it sacred and unsullied, to deny himself until he can walk around the city and not cringe at Ancient technology. He refuses to lose flying as well.

For a while, he refused to accept this, to say the words. To write the report and sign his name, to legitimise it and commit the loss to paper. He was sure that if he did so, it would hurt: like a knife slicing through muscle, like a bullet ripping through your belly; the kind of pain that left you gasping and swearing, thinking that death would be a kindness.

When he finally forced himself to do it, it didn't feel like that at all. (It felt worse.) John's pretty sure this will feel the same, but military stoicism has its uses.

The door opens without a thought. John's noticed this, the way the city responds faster to him now, the way it anticipates his needs before he can bring himself to ask. It makes his mouth taste bitter, makes him want to kick the doors, smash the control crystals. Makes him glad that he's been well-trained by the Air Force and knows when his wants should be ignored.

The lab inside is busy, blue-clad scientists scurrying from one table to another, chattering about results and simulations so that the room is filled with noise, so that they can't hear the missing voice. They don't look at him, and the effort they put into not looking at him and not stopping their conversations is palpable, like acrid smoke hanging in the air.

John walks up to Radek. He concentrates on keeping his expression calm, relaxed, tries not to hate everyone in this room simply because they're here, breathing and talking and alive. "Dr Zelenka?"

"John--" Radek frowns and somehow realises this is a time for formalities. "Colonel. Did you need to talk to me?"

"Dr Weir and I," John says, hoping it doesn't sound rehearsed, doesn't sound forced, "wanted to offer you the Head Science Officer position. We believe you're the best candidate."

Behind the glasses, Radek's eyes go wide, even though they all knew this was coming. He's the logical choice, the one with the most knowledge about Atlantis, about her systems, about the jumpers. "I-- But-- "

"You're already doing the necessary work, covering the extra responsibility. We should make it official."

"Surely, John," Radek says, voice soft, eyes soft, loss and mourning etched into his face, "this can wait. It does not need to be decided now."

John winces. He can do this, will do this, but he can't make it personal. He *can't*. "If you have any doubts, you should discuss them with Dr Weir."

Radek bites his lip, then nods. "I would be honored." He looks away, doesn't meet John's eyes, and for that small mercy, John is forever grateful.