Summary: One day, you'll be alone again.
Fandom: Stargate: Atlantis
Word Count: 679
Rating/Warnings: PG, so much sadface, second person narration
A/N: So here's what happened; I sat down at my computer to write something, maybe some House/Cuddy, for fluff_friday, something with cuddles and sprinkles and the sort of stuff we like over there.
That is not at all what happened. Not at ALL.
One day, you'll be alone again.
One day, you'll wake up, and he won't be there. The bed will still be too small, because it's not big enough even for you as it is, but it will somehow feel like there are a hundred miles of barren desert between you and the night stand.
You will lay in this very bed and look at the ceiling, but all you will be able to see is his crooked mouth, even when you close your eyes. In your head, he will always be the same age he is now, and he will always be smiling. Some days, you will hate him for that.
You will wait every single night for his body to press down on his side of the bed- it will always be his side of the bed- and even after a thousand days it will still surprise you when it doesn't. You will think about it in lieu of sleeping, tossing and turning on your side of the bed- always your side- pondering how he left you.
Maybe he will die. Maybe you'll see it happen, maybe you won't- but you probably will. It will probably be your fault; even if he goes back to Earth tomorrow, what happens to him will always be your responsibility.
Maybe he will have a good death; maybe he will save you as he does it, maybe save the whole world. Or maybe he'll just step the wrong way at the right time, off a ledge or into the path of a bullet. Maybe you'll get to tell him everything you always meant to, or maybe you won't even have the time to whisper don't go and goodbye.
Maybe you will have to watch him suffer, watch him waste away from some disease that probably won't even have a name yet; maybe he's already infected. Maybe he will breathe his last breath right here with you, decades from now, when you are both old and satisfied with yourselves; but even that will not make it any easier.
Or maybe he will just leave you, and you will only wish he was dead.
And then, one day, it won't bother you anymore. You will forget to flinch when someone mentions his name in passing. It won't tug at you every time you look at a whiteboard or step through the gate. You won't think about him every time a stranger looks at you with blue eyes. You will buy a dog and start putting lemon in your tea again; maybe you will even come to love someone else.
Eventually, the place where his heart, his being touched yours will harden, the surface even thicker than it was before. You will say that everything is fine, and you'll be smiling when you do it; but everyone who gets close enough will always be able to see where you used to fit together.
It will not be your only scar.
He stirs, warm and noisy and human beside you; your breath catches in your throat. He rolls over, giving you a sleepy smile that fades into a quizzical look at your expression. You pull him close to you, as close as you can and closer, wrapping yourself around him; you feel like if you don't ground yourself with him, one of you is just going to fall away.
You can't touch enough of him to content yourself; but then he puts his arms around you, stroking your back and placing dry, cautious kisses on your forehead. He doesn't expect you to talk about it- he never will. Even if he did, you will never be the kind of person who would be able to.
You hold on for as long as you can, your face pressed against his hair, breathing him in like you'll suffocate if you don't.
“It's okay, John,” he murmurs, and you can feel his lips moving against your skin. “I'm here.”
One day, you'll be alone again.
You sure as hell won't let it be today, though.