dragonsmoke

"Good, that's good," Rodney says, voice very clear through the white-rush-roar in John's ears. His lungs feel pinched and he sucks in sharp-feeling air despite the pain. The cold shakes him harder, and he gives in to it, needles stabbing into him, ice crusting his eyes shut, everything hurting, but if Rodney's there, it's all right; he can let go, as long as Rodney is all right.

His head is full of snow, whiting out his thoughts.

"Colonel..."

He should answer that soft voice, respond to the concern, but the cold air hits his skin and his teeth begin chattering too hard to get out anything understandable.

Is this Antarctica? It's cold there. He's cold. Cold and heavy and bruised, like he's been thrown around the cockpit.  

He's been tumbling, falling, spinning through the clouds in an out of control dive.

Hasn't he?

Has he been shot down? It feels like losing a tail rotor, everything turning too fast, out of control, spinning like a top, going down no matter what he does, because a helo has the glide characteristics of a wet brick. He went down like that once, in Afghanistan, but it wasn't white there. Everything is white here.

Crashed, has he crashed?

John realizes vaguely he's being undressed, boots, socks, then his wet, frozen jacket. He tries to protest, to get away, rolling sluggishly onto his side and curling into a trembling, miserable ball. Ice melts away from his lashes and runs down his face. It seems like too much trouble to even open his eyes. He can't stop anything, can't remember what happened. He tries to pluck the hands away from his belt, but his fingers are too numb and swollen to close. The buttons on his BDUs are opened and they're drawn off, then even his shirt and boxers are gone.

Oh, God, he's cold, so cold he thinks he'll turn to ice, not melt it.

An emergency thermal blanket, slick and crackle-soft, suddenly rests on his shoulder, arm and hip, as someone – Rodney? He wants it to be Rodney – push-pulls him until it wraps around him. He can hear panting breaths, feel hands still so warm they hurt, but it's distant, far away, a dream.

Everything is slowing down.

Down, down, down like goose down, sinking, no, rising, floating into the clouds. If he opened his eyes he would be flying through cotton candy cumulus clouds, sure that somewhere beyond the building storm he would rise into the sun. He reaches out, wanting, needing to touch, to anchor himself in the unending vertiginous spin, before he is utterly lost. A hand closes on his and he knows he will be all right, caught and pulled back from ... something, from the dizzying edge of dissolving.


The steam is thick around them, white and heavy, filling his lungs and he sways, lightheaded, feeling drugged. Rodney's right there, tracing his fingers over John's mouth, and that's all the permission he needs. Drowsily, he reaches for Rodney, matching Rodney's movement, gliding his fingers over Rodney's mouth. He watches a droplet of water slide down Rodney's temple, leans up and catches it on his tongue, tasting salt and herbs. He's shivering and he doesn't know why, not really, but he needs to slip closer to Rodney's warmth, needs him. Rodney's short hair feels silky even wet, as John slips his hands through it, pulling himself closer, wanting to crawl inside him and just stay. He presses himself against Rodney, gloriously aware of solid bone and surprising muscle underneath hot, hot skin. The skin behind Rodney's ear somehow carries the scent of coffee and electricity, as Rodney drifts his hands over John's shoulders and John slides down onto his knees and breathes hot, moist air over one of those tight nipples. One hand finds the edge of the towel wrapped around Rodney's waist and draws it away, until he can rest his palm on the point of Rodney's hip. He slowly spreads his fingers, and just that, just knowing he can touch and have, can slide his hand down between Rodney's legs and cup the erection there, has him hard and achy with want.

Skin on skin, sweet and bare, then mouth on mouth, a kiss that makes his head spin, and he just needs to get closer. They tumble down onto the floor together. Rodney's hand is so careful on his head, gentle fingers running through his hair to his neck, then resting against his nape, drawing him closer.

Eyes still closed, he lets Rodney control the kiss, lips soft on that uneven mouth, murmuring wordless things, lets Rodney's tongue into his mouth while Rodney lets John into his body, both of them moving slowly and languidly against each other under the veil of steam.


The jackhammer throb at the back of his skull says he hit something, though he doesn't remember what at first. He remembers enough of the night that followed. Fuck, he remembers more than enough.


Sheppard eyes the slope and the white sheet of snow covering it over the top of his sunglasses. Brilliant sun glares off it.  What is the incline, anyway? It looks like about 40 degrees and there are no trees or other formations between the top of the mountain and the valley with the stargate.

Teyla dials the gate, the distinct sound of each chevron locking in echoing up the valley through the crystalline, icy air.

It's a perfectly beautiful, perfectly empty world, culled long ago and left fallow.

When the wormhole stabilizes, he shares a smile with Teyla and says into the radio, "Atlantis, this is Sheppard."

It's Elizabeth who replies, static overlaying her calm voice heard through his comm earpiece.

"Is there a problem, Colonel?"

"Is there ever not?"

Teyla laughs softly.

"We made it as far as the auxiliary lab described in the database, but the port stabilizers on the jumper went out halfway there.  McKay says he needs a replacement crystal – Zelenka'll know which one."

"Any other problems?"

"Ronon slipped on some ice and sprained his ankle. I left him with McKay. Look, Teyla and I hiked back to the stargate, but we need to head back before nightfall. It's colder than a witch's ti  – It's cold," Sheppard tells her..

Zelenka's voice joins the comm channel. "Is this Jumper Eleven, Colonel?"

"Yeah, it's the one Lorne says is cursed."

"Major Lorne should perhaps consider this equipment is over ten thousand years old," Zelenka remarks.

Elizabeth laughs and then adds,"Major Lorne will deliver the crystal to you once his team returns from Illadia, Colonel."

"Hey, we'll be fine, the lab's still got power, we've got MREs and McKay's got about a year's worth of powerbars stashed in his vest. All we have to do is keep Ronon off his feet. Let Lorne and his guys get a meal inside them and some sleep. He can play delivery boy in the morning."

Teyla switches her comm on. "The Colonel is correct, Dr. Weir. There is no urgency here. We will be well and safe for the night."

"All right. I expect a radio check from you in the morning."

"Sunrise is at around oh five hundred here, so we'll wait for the light before we start out," John replies. "Expect to hear from us around fifteen hours from now."

"Very well."

"Sheppard, out," he finishes.

Teyla disengages the wormhole.

"Looks like it's just the two of us for now – "

The bass growl has both of them whipping around to stare up the mountain in time to see a slab of snow shifting and beginning its slide down toward the valley floor. The avalanche seems to pick up speed in the next breath, rushing toward them in a blinding cloud of snow and ice, a roar of sound and destruction.

"Grab the DHD and hold on!" John shouts.  

White hits and he's spinning, falling, tumbling –


The avalanche peters out by the time it reaches the valley floor, but still has enough force to sweep John's feet from under him and toss him head first against the ring of the stargate before rolling him through it and a hundred feet on, leaving him buried half a meter deep.

Teyla digs him free.

She's naked against him now, asleep and exhausted, thermal blankets wrapped around both of them. Her hair is still damp, strands tickling against his skin and she smells of sweat, with a familiar acrid undertone of fear, and sweet herbs. The dizzy, confused memory of moving in her, her arms strong around him, still hums through his body, along with the dream or hallucination he'd been caught in.

A draft works its way underneath the blankets, making him shudder and pull his feet up, his knee brushing Teyla's leg. He's as naked as she is, hot and sticky where their skin is in contact, and chilled everywhere else.

She must have put together one of the tiny, two man tents they carried in their packs, dragged his half-conscious ass inside, radioed Rodney and Ronon, and set out to keep him from dying of hypothermia.  He wasn't any use at all.

She saved his life, but all John can think is what has he done?

Her touch was as full of care as any he's ever known; he's sure of that, he remembers that much. It only makes him feel worse.

John forces himself to open his eyes, wincing and squinting against the glare of sunlight coming through the walls of the little tent. His breath puffs out, turning to vapor, the dragon smoke of frozen winter mornings in his childhood.

Teyla's hand is on his chest. He feels her fingers tighten against him as he breathes out and knows she's awake, too.

What the hell can he say?

He turns his head slowly and meets her eyes, afraid to ask if she knows who he thought he was with, who he wanted it to be.