Hive

Title: Hive 1/?
Author: Ne'ichan
Fandom: SGA
Email: neichan22@gmail.com
ML: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/slashloveandangst
Archive: WWOMB. Whoever else wants it.
Warnings: Bug fic. Multiple pairings. M/M, M/F. Questionable consent
from time to time.
Summary: John is going through a few changes. The residents of
Atlantis need to decide if that is good, or very bad.

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John Sheppard was going gray; irritably he poked at his hair. He was
less than forty years old, not by much sure, but still he hadn't
gotten to the big 4-0. It wasn't fair that he had a patch of grayish;
well silver/white really, hair taking over a quarter sized spot on the left side of his head. Thick. Pale. Not one hair, not ten, but a whole patch. He scratched at the offending clump. It was soft, thick, and weighty in an odd way, and slippery-slick, very different from the coarse, stubborn black strands he was used to trying to tame. It also seemed to be growing at a rate far outstripping the rest of his hair.

His scalp itched. So now not only did his hair do what ever it wanted, standing straight up like a rooster's comb when it suited, it now had decided to change color prematurely. In patches. Great. He didn't really notice as he scratched at his wrist, still peering into the mirror.

Fuck. Rodney would laugh at it. If he noticed. It was a toss up as to
when the easily agitated scientist, who was paradoxically John's best
friend despite their opposite personalities, would notice. Today or a
year from today. If it wasn't science or having to do with Atlantis
and Ancient technology, if the fate of the universe wasn't at stake,
sometimes McKay, the smartest and most observant man John had ever
known, didn't see the hand in front of his face.

John turned from the mirror. Now he noticed that his skin itched, too.
Not terribly, but it distracted him. His back was the worst, all down
his spine up to the nape of his neck. He scratched the most recent
location of that persistent itch, rubbing it with curved knuckles
instead of scratching with his nails, before pulling up his shorts.
He'd carved furrows in his skin before, scratching, he wouldn't let it
happen again, the scratches just itched worse when they scabbed over
and were healing.

He had too much to get done today to worry about it any longer. He'd
ask Carson for something later, if it didn't go away on its own in the
meantime. In John's experience these kind of irritating things usually
did after a few hours, disappearing without a trace once they'd driven
you crazy first.

And John was irritated. He was very irritated and impatient. Not
really in character, he was usually pretty laid back for a soldier,
though he had to admit, the rumors about soldiers being aggressive and
easy to agitate weren't true, those kinds of soldiers didn't last very
long. They were shot pretty soon after taking the field. No, it was
the cautious man who lived to fight another day, not the reckless one.

Something was niggling at him, hovering just out of reach so he had no
chance to figure it out. He was restless, angry, and impatient. He
wanted to ~move~ to get out and run, sprint, hunt, shoot something.

Running with Ronon the other day, that had been good. He'd felt alive,
strong, elated. Like all was right with the world. He'd climbed the
steelwork, right to the top, climbing, up the framework that made up
the city of the Ancients, Atlantis. The whole structure was
honeycombed with joists and struts that were uncovered, perfect for
scaling. Leaping, swinging, and making his way to the pinnacles of
Atlantis's towers and turrets, without the elevators.

He wanted to do that again. Not go sit in a meeting with the other
leaders of Atlantis. It was too damn quiet, too peaceful. There was
nothing to fight against, nothing to exert against, nothing to tear
apart or shred, he just had to wait to plan, to think. Review security
and defense. And wait. Train. And wait.

He hitched his jumpsuit up, pulling the zipper up to close the front,
shifting his neck side to side, feeling the material of his collar
rasping along the skin of his neck just right. Hell, yeah.

Then he reached out and snagged his weapon. He slept with the damn
thing to hand, you pretty much had to on Atlantis. What with the
Wraith, the Genii and other enemies always ready to drop in
unannounced. Though...well it had been too long. Never a dull moment
in the city on the sea. Except the last month.

He loped down the corridor, tall, a touch gangly, his ropy muscles
hidden by his loose-fitting jumpsuit. He was moving fast, noting not
for the first time how far from everyone else his rooms were. Some
small part of him didn't like that. Being so isolated. He never had
been a loner.

But a larger, more aggressive part of him liked having his own
territory, a place no one else got around to visiting, where he could
see them coming if they did. And the room was great, the biggest of
all the others, his shower was huge, his bed more than a simple narrow
mattress, stretched out big enough for a frat party. If only he could
find real beer somewhere in the Pegasus Galaxy. He cracked a smile at
that. Juvenile humor, but humor none the less.

He liked the room. That was the salient fact. It was high up in the
tower, his room, dark and yet it had windows open on all sides. Well
ventilated, warm, the air circulating, not damp or moldering. The
overhanging awnings were what kept the light low. It was warm, very
warm inside on the floor, half of which was now a padded mattress, not
elevated, at floor level, strewn with blankets and pillows. Habitually
he slept under it all, hidden from all eyes, if there had been any to
look for him.

Quiet, so far away from everyone else. Face it; he had the king of the
rooms, the Atlantean equivalent of Taj Mahal. And no one had
challenged him for it. He grinned, showing more teeth than he usually
did. That just felt right. The only thing he didn't like was how far
it was from the center of everything that was going on in Atlantis.
And yet...he could get to the others faster now, when he ran he
~moved~, running or on the transports. One minute, two, and he was
there. Whatever Rodney was doing to tune up the old city it was
working. She was a well oiled machine. A city made for John Sheppard,
custom built.

He stepped into the lift, thinking about where he wanted to go. The
doors closed and the transporter was in motion before his hand could
connect with the display. He raised a brow, hand hanging outstretched
in the air for a split second before he lowered it to grip his rifle.
He listened to the almost silent movement of the Ancient machinery.
Strange how he'd thought it was silent when he first got here. He
hadn't been listening closely enough that early into the mission. He
definitely heard it now, the inner workings as they whirred.

Well, well, he thought, let's see where I'm going. He was sure he
knew, but it wasn't 100 percent. Atlantis occasionally played tricks,
even on him sometimes, for all she loved him and his Ancient Gene. It
might not be that he was on his way to Elizabeth's office at all. He
might be headed for the abandoned East pier, or some where in the city
he'd yet to visit.

He'd be ready to shoot if he didn't like where he ended up, or who was
there. But, he wasn't worried. Not really. He was more excited, he
thought to himself as a spurt of adrenaline coursed pleasantly sharp
through his veins. At the end of the journey maybe there would be
something to shoot, someone to fight. His lips pulled up in a smile as
he inhaled through dilated nostrils, scenting the air around him. His
hands flexed on the weighty grips of his rifle.

The doors opened onto the usual hall outside of the meeting room; a
huge let down. The adrenaline stubbornly insisted there had to be
something to fight, to kill. John growled his disappointment, seeing
nothing out of the ordinary, nothing beyond the fact that Atlantis now
responded to the thought of where he wanted to go, not just the touch
of panel buttons. Which was interesting, and unexplained. Why should
things have changed from the way they were? He thought for about ten
seconds of asking Rodney what he thought, and then dismissed the idea.
Who cared why?


TBC

ne'ichan