Archive of Our Own

The Pegasus Galaxy hung like a velvet tapestry, its stars glinting like scattered diamonds against an abyss of velvet black, a breathtaking expanse that whispered both wonder and menace. On M4X-927, the air clung to the skin, heavy with the damp, earthy musk of moss and the strange, syrupy sweetness of alien flora. The sweetness was accompanied by a faint, acrid sting of ionized particles—a telltale trace of the stargate’s recent activation. The jungle pressed in close, its dense canopy a riot of greens and purples, leaves glistening with dew that caught the violet hues of a double sunset.

Major Evan Lorne stood at the edge of a small clearing, the loamy soil soft and yielding beneath his boots, sucking at the soles like it wanted to claim him. The clearing was a rare break in the jungle’s expanse, a patch of dark earth studded with gnarled trees, their bark rough and knotted, draped with glowing vines that swayed without wind, their light an unsettling neon pulse. His P-90 rested against his chest, its familiar weight grounding him, and his tac vest—scratched and scuffed from countless missions—stuffed with amenities: extra clips, a forgotten protein bar, and the small sketchpad he kept hidden.

His blue eyes scanned the horizon, catching the faint shimmer of heat rising from the jungle beyond, his senses attuned to the subtle wrongness of this place—a soldier’s instinct honed by years of dodging Wraith darts and ancient traps. Something’s off, he thought, fingers tightening on his weapon.

Behind him, AR-2 moved with the easy rhythm of a team that had seen too much to be rattled by a little humidity. Lieutenant Reed, wiry and sharp-eyed, crouched near a moss-covered tree, his P-90 sweeping the tree line, fingers twitching like he expected trouble to jump out at any second. “Major, you sure about this? This place is giving me the heebie-jeebies,” he said, voice low, tinged with the faint Boston accent that slipped out under stress. “Feels like we’re being watched.”

Evan tilted his head, catching the distant rustle of leaves—not the wind, but something deliberate. “You say that every mission, Reed. Last week it was that squirrel thing.”

“That squirrel thing had teeth, sir,” Reed shot back, his lips quirking despite the tension. “Big ones. Like, horror-movie big.”

“Point taken.” Lorne’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed sharp, tracking shadows that seemed to shift just beyond the tree line. He turned to Sergeant Stevens, a broad-shouldered man with a perpetual squint, who was checking their six, his P-90 steady. Stevens was the kind of guy who could stare down a Wraith and make it blink first, but even he looked uneasy, his free hand brushing the knife strapped to his thigh. “Stevens, anything back there?”

“Quiet so far, sir,” Stevens rumbled, his voice like gravel. “But this jungle’s too damn quiet. No birds, no bugs. Just… nothing.”

“Great,” Captain Coughlin muttered, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. His uniform was damp, clinging to his stocky frame, and he grimaced as he adjusted his grip on his weapon. “Humidity’s gonna rust my gear before we find anything. Why can’t we ever get sent to a nice, air-conditioned planet?”

“Because the Ancients didn’t believe in HVAC,” Dr. David Parrish chirped, his voice bright despite the oppressive heat. The botanist was crouched beside a neon-blue fern, its fronds glowing faintly in the fading light. “This is incredible! I’m naming it Parrishia gloriosa,” he said excitedly. He was lanky, with a mop of sandy hair and glasses that kept slipping down his nose, his hands busy with a scanner and a small trowel. “Look at the bioluminescence! It’s practically screaming ‘study me!’”

“Parrish, focus,” Lorne said, his tone firm but laced with the patience of a man used to wrangling scientists. “What’s the deal with those ruins?”

Parrish didn’t look up, his fingers brushing dirt from a nearby stone pillar etched with glyphs, its base half-buried in the clearing’s soil. The carvings were angular, almost violent, depicting figures in ritualistic poses under alien constellations. “Post-Ancient, definitely. The glyphs suggest a culture obsessed with celestial alignments—think Stonehenge, but with more… ominous vibes.” He hesitated, tracing a symbol that looked disturbingly like a bound figure, its head tilted back in agony. “There’s a recurring motif of sacrifice. Not exactly a ‘welcome, travellers’ sign.”

“Fantastic,” Coughlin said, rolling his eyes. “So, we’re hiking through a cosmic butcher shop.”

“Keep it together, Coughlin,” Lorne said, his voice steady, but the prickling at the back of his neck hadn’t eased. This planet was wrong—too still, too staged, like a predator holding its breath. He glanced at his watch, noting the time for their next check-in.

They were here to check out an anomalous energy reading picked up by a MALP, a mission that felt tailor-made for Sheppard’s crew—especially with McKay’s knack for sniffing out tech like a bloodhound. But Atlantis had other priorities, some urgent maintenance issue in the control tower, and AR-1 was grounded, so Lorne’s squad drew the short straw.

Reed shifted his weight, his P-90 still sweeping the tree line, his Boston accent thicker with irritation. “Why’d we get stuck with this one, Major? Sheppard’s got McKay—guy probably dreams in binary. He’d have that energy signature cracked by now.”

“McKay’s elbow-deep in control systems back home,” Lorne said, his tone even, though he shared the sentiment. “He and Colonel Sheppard are handling a glitch in the city’s power grid. We’re up because we’re good at this, so quit griping.”

“Doesn’t mean I gotta like it,” Coughlin muttered, swatting at a glowing insect that buzzed too close to his face. “Feels like we’re the B-team out here, poking at creepy ruins while McKay gets to play with shiny toys.”

“Stow it, Captain,” Stevens rumbled, his gravelly voice cutting through the complaints, though his squinting eyes betrayed a flicker of agreement. “We’ve got a job. Let’s do it.”

Parrish glanced up from the stone pilar, pushing his glasses back up his nose, his voice a touch defensive. “For the record, I’m perfectly capable of analysing an energy signature. I mean, sure, McKay’s got his… bombast, but I’ve got finesse. And these ferns! They’re practically a scientific goldmine.”

“Goldmine or not, Doc, we’re not here for your ferns,” Evan said, his patience holding but his eyes narrowing as he caught another faint rustle in the jungle. “We’re here for that energy signature.”

Evan motioned for the team to hold position in the clearing, the jungle sprawling beyond, its violet shadows deepening as the double suns sank. “Parrish, set up that scanner. Let’s get a read on that energy signature before we move in.”

Parrish nodded, dropping to one knee, his lanky frame hunched over his scanner as he adjusted its settings. The device hummed softly, its screen glowing with data streams, casting a faint blue light across his face. “Got it, Major. I’m picking up the signature—strong. It’s… weird. Definitely not standard Ancient tech. It’s best to send the preliminary data to Atlantis now.”

“Stevens, dial the gate,” Lorne ordered, his eyes never leaving the tree line, where the rustling had grown faint but no less ominous. Stevens jogged to the DHD, his heavy boots crunching on the gravelly path, and punched in the symbols. The gate spun to life, its blue event horizon rippling like a pool disturbed by a stone, the familiar whoosh echoing across the cliff.

Evan activated his radio, the small device cool against his fingers. “Atlantis, this is AR-2. We’ve scanned the energy signature from a distance and are sending the data now.”

Dr. Rodney McKay’s voice crackled through, sharp and impatient, like he was personally offended that he was stuck running system checks on Atlantis’s glitchy power grid, unable to be out in the field where he could dissect the energy signature himself. “Yes, yes, I’m looking at the data now. The signature’s definitely not standard Ancient tech. Could be a ZPM, could be a naquadah generator, could be a really enthusiastic toaster for all I know. Just don’t break anything until I get a look at it.”

“Copy that, Doc,” Lorne said, suppressing a chuckle. McKay’s bluster was as predictable as gravity, but it was oddly grounding in the face of M4X-927’s eerie stillness. “We’ll keep the toasters intact.”

“And don’t touch any buttons!” McKay’s voice pitched higher, a mix of panic and exasperation. “I mean it, Lorne. Your team has a history of poking things that explode.”

“That was one time,” Lorne protested, his tone dry, a faint smirk tugging at his lips as he recalled the incident—a misjudged Ancient console that had sparked spectacularly but caused no real harm.

“One time too many! McKay out.” The frequency went silent, and the gate disengaged, its blue glow fading, leaving the jungle’s oppressive silence to reclaim the air. Lorne exchanged a look with Reed, who smirked, his sharp features lit by the last rays of the setting suns. “He’s gonna pop a vein one day.”

“Not if we find a ZPM first,” Lorne said, motioning for the team to move out. “Let’s move, people. Daylight’s burning.”

The jungle seemed to tighten around them as they left the clearing, vines snagging at their boots, the air growing heavier with each step. The double suns dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows that twisted like spectres. Lorne’s boots crunched on fallen leaves, the sound sharp against the unnatural silence.

His fingers brushed the small sketchpad in his vest pocket—a habit from his Academy days, sketching landscapes to clear his mind. He hadn’t shown anyone the drawings, not even Sheppard, though he’d caught the Colonel’s curious glance once or twice. Not the time, Evan, he told himself, pushing the thought away. Focus on the mission. Get the team in, get the tech, get out.

---

The ruins of M4X-927 sprawled like the skeletal remains of a forgotten god, their moss-draped stones jutting from the jungle’s embrace, each slab etched with the weight of millennia. Narrow corridors twisted through like labyrinth, choked with sinuous vines that seemed to pulse faintly, as if alive.  Bioluminescent algae clung to the walls, casting a sickly green glow that made the team’s shadows dance like ghosts. The air was cooler here, a clammy shroud heavy with the musty reek of decay and the sharp, electric tang of ancient technology stirring beneath the surface.

Lorne’s flashlight beam cut through the dimness, illuminating glyphs that seemed to writhe under scrutiny, their angular forms depicting scenes of bound figures, showing their faces etched into the stone in eternal scream.

The energy signature led them deeper, to a chamber vast enough to swallow their footsteps. The ceiling arched high, lost in shadow, studded with crystalline stalactites that glinted like teeth in the green glow of the algae crawling up the walls. In its centre stood a pedestal of black stone, cradling a device unlike anything Lorne had seen—a grotesque hybrid of ZPM crystal and Wraith organic tech, its amber glow pulsing like a heartbeat.

“Jackpot,” Parrish breathed out, his eyes wide with awe. He adjusted his glasses, already reaching for his scanner, his fingers trembling with excitement.

“Or booby trap,” Reed countered, his P-90 trained on the shadows. His voice was tight, his knuckles white with the tight grip. “This place is too quiet, sir. Like it’s waiting.”

Lorne crouched beside the pedestal, his flashlight glinting off the device’s surface. It was beautiful in a deadly sort of way, like a predator’s eyes in the dark. “Parrish, scan it. Coughlin, Stevens, cover the exits. Reed, eyes on me.”

The team moved with practiced precision, but the silence was oppressive, broken only by the hum of Parrish’s scanner and the occasional drip of water from the ceiling. Lorne’s heart thudded, his instincts screaming that they were being watched. He glanced at his watch again. “We better send that to McKay. Stevens, go dial the gate.”

Stevens nodded, jogging back out and up the small path, the echo of his heavy footsteps slowly fading. Minutes later, the gate’s familiar whoosh filled the air again. Lorne activated his radio. “Atlantis, this is AR-2. We’ve got eyes on the target. Looks like a hybrid power source—part ZPM, part Wraith. Sending data now.”

Rodney’s voice cut through the comms, shrill and exasperated. “Hybrid? That’s… intriguing. And by intriguing, I mean potentially catastrophic. Don’t even breathe on it until I analyse this data. The signature’s got organic components—definitely Wraith-like, but there’s a modulation pattern that’s… odd, almost like it’s masking something. I’m seeing traces of Ancient encryption, but it’s scrambled. Could be a power source, could be a weapon. Just—don’t do anything stupid until I figure this out.”

“Copy that, Doc,” Lorne said, his tone dry, though his eyes tracked the chambers shadows, where they seemed to pulse in time with the device’s amber glow. “We’ll keep our hands to ourselves.”

McKay’s voice crackled back, sharp with irritation. “You’d better, Lorne, or I’ll personally come through that gate and slap your hands myself. Don’t test me!” The radio went silent, and the gate disengaged with a low groan, the blue event horizon collapsing inward.

Parrish, still crouched over his scanner, froze mid-motion, his glasses slipping down his nose as his head snapped up. “Wait, what’s that noise?” he said, his voice tight, eyes darting toward the shadows.

Lorne froze, his hand immediately going to his P-90. A low hum filled the chamber, growing louder, vibrating through the stone floor like a waking beast. The shadows shifted, and then—movement. Fast. Too fast.

“Ambush!” Reed roared as he swung his P-90 up, the weapon’s muzzle flashing as he fired. Figures materializing from the darkness—humanoid, clad in sleek black armour, their faces hidden behind reflective visors. Energy weapons hummed, and a bolt grazed Coughlin’s arm, sending him sprawling with a curse. Blood bloomed on his sleeve, stark against the fabric.

Stevens sprinted back into the camber, boots pounding the stone, eyes scanning the scene. “They’re flanking left!” he shouted, diving behind a jagged pillar as an energy bolt scorched the wall behind him, sending chips of ancient stone flying like shrapnel.

“Fall back!” Lorne shouted, returning fire. The chamber dissolved into chaos—flashes of blue, the acrid smell of scorched earth, the crack of gunfire. Parrish scrambled for cover, clutching his scanner like a lifeline, eyes wide with terror. Reed dragged Coughlin behind a pillar, his hands fumbling to apply a field dressing as blood seeped through his fingers. Stevens laid down suppressive fire, his shots precise but overwhelmed by the sheer number of attackers.

Evan’s mind raced, calculating angles, exits, odds. Outnumbered. Outgunned. No clear path to the gate. He fired a burst, dropping one of the attackers, but more poured in, their movements eerily synchronized. Stevens cursed as a figure tackled him to the ground, pinning him with a heavy knee before binding his wrists with a coarse rope. Reed and Coughlin went down next, cursing as a net pinned them. Parrish tried to run, but a similar net snared him, his scanner skittering across the floor.

Evan fought until his clip ran dry, his breaths ragged, sweat stinging his eyes. He ducked behind a pillar, reloading, but a blow to the back of his head sent pain exploding through his skull. His vision swam, the amber glow of the device pulsing in time with his fading consciousness. He hit the ground, the cold stone biting into his cheek, and the last thing he saw was Parrish’s terrified face before darkness swallowed him whole.

---

The briefing room in Atlantis was a study in controlled chaos, its high ceiling and bioluminescent panels casting colourful patterns across the table. John slouched in his chair, one boot propped on the edge, tossing a stress ball with the lazy precision of a man who’d mastered the art of looking relaxed while his mind churned. His dark hair was mussed, his jacket slung over the chair’s back, revealing a black t-shirt that clung to his lean frame.

Across from him, Rodney paced, his tablet clutched like a holy relic, his blue eyes scanning the data readings as he muttered about energy signatures and catastrophic failure rates. Teyla sat poised, her hands folded, her calm demeanour a stark contrast to McKay’s frenetic energy. Ronon leaned against the wall, his dreadlocks falling over his shoulders, sharpening a knife with a rhythmic scrape that set McKay’s teeth on edge. Elizabeth stood at the head of the table, her arms crossed, her green eyes shadowed with worry.

“AR-2’s overdue,” Weir said, her voice steady but tight, like a wire pulled taut. “They missed their last check-in, and there’s been no response to our hails.”

John caught the stress ball mid-air, his easy grin fading. “Lorne’s team doesn’t miss check-ins. Something’s wrong.” His voice was casual, but his knuckles whitened around the ball, betraying the knot in his chest. Lorne was one of his best—steady, smart, with a dry wit that could cut through McKay’s rants like a knife. The thought of him in trouble hit harder than it should’ve, stirring something deep and unspoken, a tension Sheppard had buried under layers of duty and bravado.

“Obviously,” McKay snapped, jabbing at his tablet. “The energy signature they were chasing was all kinds of messed up—way outside normal parameters. If they triggered some kind of defence system—or worse, ran into Wraith—we’re talking major trouble.” He paused, his face paling. “Or, you know, Genii. Or some new flavour of psychopath we haven’t met yet.”

Teyla’s brow furrowed, her dark eyes narrowing. “Major Lorne is cautious. He would not take unnecessary risks.”

“Yeah, well, cautious doesn’t mean bulletproof,” Ronon said, his voice a low timbre, his knife gleaming as he tested its edge. “Pegasus has a way of screwing with even the best plans.”

John’s jaw tightened, his fingers squeezing harder until the stress ball creaked. He could picture Evan out there—calm under fire, cracking jokes to keep his team steady, his blue eyes sharp with focus. The image twisted into something darker—Evan bleeding, Evan captured, Evan gone. John shoved the thought away, his voice sharp. “What’s the plan, Elizabeth?”

Weir met his gaze, her expression resolute. “We’re sending AR-1 to M4X-927. Your priority is to locate Lorne’s team, secure the energy device if possible, and get everyone home. I will inform Dr. Beckett to keep his team on standby.”

“Great,” McKay muttered, swiping at his tablet. “Another jungle death trap. Just what my allergies needed. Did I mention I’m allergic to… everything?”

John shot him a look, his hazel eyes glinting with impatience. “You can stay here, Rodney. I’m sure Zelenka’s dying to take your spot.”

Rodney bristled, his hands flapping. “Oh, please. You’d be lost without me. Literally. I’m the one with the scanner, the brain, the—the everything!”

“Then gear up,” Sheppard said, standing, his movements brisk, the chair scraping faintly against the floor. “We leave in twenty.”

As the team dispersed, Sheppard lingered, his fingers brushing the stress ball, its worn surface familiar under his calluses. His mind drifted to Lorne—those rare moments when their eyes met across a briefing room, a shared smirk over McKay’s latest meltdown, the way Lorne’s steady presence grounded him in ways he couldn’t admit. Not out loud. Not yet. Just hold on, Evan, he thought, the knot in his chest tightening. We’re coming.

---

Lorne woke to the taste of blood, coppery and sharp, his head throbbing like it had been used as a punching bag. His wrists were bound behind his back, the rope biting into his skin, the rough texture scraping with every movement. The room was a dank, suffocating hole, lit by flickering torches that cast jagged shadows across the stone walls, their surfaces slick with moisture and etched with more of those sacrificial glyphs. The air was heavy, thick with the scent of rust, sweat, and something acrid—burned circuitry, maybe, or worse.

His team was slumped against the walls, their tac vests gone, faces bruised but holding that stubborn spark he’d come to rely on. Reed sat closest, lip split and eyes darting around like a trapped animal. Stevens sat rigid, his black eye swelling, gripping his knee as if anchoring himself against the pain. Coughlin clutched his bandaged arm, the field dressing already soaked with blood. Parrish, miraculously unharmed, hugged his knees, his glasses askew, his face pale under the torchlight.

“You okay, sir?” Reed whispered, his voice hoarse, barely audible over the distant hum of machinery.

“Peachy,” Lorne muttered, wincing as he shifted, the rope cutting deeper. His ribs ached, his left shoulder screamed with every breath, and a trickle of blood ran from his temple, warm against his cheek. “Status?”

“Alive,” Stevens said grimly, his voice rough. “For now. They worked us over pretty good.”

“They took our gear,” Coughlin added, his jaw tight. “Radios, weapons, Parrish’s damn plants. Bastards didn’t even let me keep my gum.”

Parrish looked affronted, his voice rising despite the fear in his eyes. “Those were samples! Do you know how rare Parrishia gloriosa is? I could’ve revolutionized botany!”

“Priorities, Doc,” Lorne said, his tone dry, but a faint smile tugged at his lips. His team was battered, but their spirit was intact, and that was something. He scanned the room—solid door, no windows, a single vent too small to crawl through. Their captors were organized, militarized, their black armour and visored helmets marking them as something new. Something bad. “Any idea what they want?”

“Besides our charming company?” Reed said, his smirk strained. “They kept asking about Atlantis—tech, defences, gate addresses. Real friendly types.”

Lorne’s gut twisted, a cold knot of dread settling in. “Nobody talks. That’s an order.”

Before anyone could respond, the door slammed open, the sound echoing like a gunshot. A tall figure entered, clad in the same black armour, his visor reflecting the torchlight like a predator’s eyes. Behind him, two guards dragged a metal chair, its surface etched with circuitry that pulsed faintly, ominously, setting it beside a table loaded with an array of sinister tools—blades with serrated edges, a handheld device with a coiled wire sparking faintly, and a set of metallic clamps that looked designed to crush rather than hold. Lorne’s stomach twisted, his soldier’s instinct cataloguing the threats even as his battered body screamed in protest.

“Major Lorne,” the leader said, his voice modulated, cold as the void of space. “Nice of you to join us. We’ve been expecting you.”

Lorne’s head snapped up, his blue eyes narrowing despite the ache in his skull, the dried blood caking his temple. “How the hell do you know my name?” he demanded, his voice rough but steady, the harsh tone masking the chill that ran through him. They know too much. This wasn’t a random grab.

The leader tilted his head, the visor glinting as if amused. “We know many things about Atlantis, Major. Your city, your team, your… loyalties.” His voice dripped with mockery, the last word lingering like a taunt. “You will provide information about your city’s weapons systems.”

Lorne locked eyes with the visor, his jaw set, his voice steady despite the pain. “Yeah, I’m gonna pass. But I can give you a great recipe for meatloaf. Secret’s in the breadcrumbs.”

The leader’s stance shifted, unamused, the faint hum of his armour’s systems filling the silence. “Humour will not save you, Major. Nor will it save them.” He gestured toward Lorne’s team. “You can spare them pain. Tell us about Atlantis’s shields.”

“Go to hell,” Lorne spat, his voice firm, though his heart pounded, guilt and fear gnawing at him. They’re hurting because of me. I should’ve seen the trap.

The leader gestured, and the guards seized Lorne, their grips bruising as they forced him into the chair. The rough rope was removed, offering brief relief to his raw wrists, but it was fleeting. Cold metal restraints snapped around his wrists and ankles, biting into his skin even more, the chair’s surface icy against his back.

The leader leaned closer, his visor inches from Lorne’s face. “You think you’re strong, Major? We’ll see how long that lasts.”

The interrogation began with a question, the leader’s voice sharp and cold. “Tell us about Atlantis’s shields,” the leader demanded. “Frequency, power output. Now.”

Lorne met the visor’s blank stare, his blue eyes steady despite the ache from the guards’ rough handling. “You’re gonna have to try harder than that, buddy.”

The leader’s head tilted, and a guard stepped forward, driving a fist into Lorne’s stomach. The impact stole his breath, pain blooming hot and sharp, his body doubling over as far as the restraints allowed. He gasped, jaw clenched, refusing to cry out. The guard struck again, a brutal jab to his ribs, the blow audible in the dim room. Lorne grunted, his vision blurring, sweat slipping down his brow, but he forced his head up, meeting the leader’s gaze. Parrish whimpered softly, hands over his mouth, while Reed’s curses grew louder, earning a guard’s glare.

“Again,” the leader said, voice flat. “The shields, Major.”

Lorne’s chest heaved, pain radiating with every breath, but he shook his head, voice rough. “Nothing to say. Try a better question.”

Another guard moved in, this time a backhand cracking across Lorne’s cheek, splitting his lip, warm blood trickling down his chin. The blow snapped his head to the side, a dull throb pulsing through his jaw. His team shouted from the cell’s corner—Reed’s furious curses, Stevens’ low growl, Coughlin’s desperate pleas—but the guards held them back, visors impassive.

The leader leaned closer again, undeterred. “The gate addresses. We know you have them. Give us the codes.”

Lorne’s breath came in ragged gasps, pain a constant throb, but he forced a smirk, blood staining his teeth. “You… talk too much,” he rasped, sarcasm his shield.

The leader signalled, and the guards attacked in a coordinated wave. One slammed a fist into Lorne’s chest, the impact jarring his bruised ribs, a sharp grunt escaping. Another drove a knee into his thigh, the muscle seizing under the blow, his leg jerking against the restraints. Lorne’s body trembled, sweat and blood mixing, but he locked eyes with the leader, defiance burning. “That all you got? I’ve had worse from a bad burrito.”

The leader’s hand twitched, and a guard retrieved a handheld device from the table—a sleek, cylindrical tool with a needle-like tip humming with low-grade energy, its faint blue glow casting eerie shadows. “Enough games, Major,” the leader said, voice low, almost intimate. “You’ll talk, or your men will suffer.”

The guard pressed the device against Lorne’s chest, just below his collarbone. A low, burning pain sparked at the contact, like a hot coal searing his skin, spreading slowly through his nerves. Lorne clenched his jaw, muscles tensing, refusing to scream. The guard moved the device, tracing it along his shoulder, then down his side, pressing it into his thigh, then his forearm, each contact igniting a fresh wave of searing agony.

“You’re wasting time, Major,” the leader taunted, his voice low, almost intimate. “Your loyalty is noble, but it’s pointless. Atlantis will fall, with or without your help. Make it easier for your men. Tell us what we want.” Lorne’s nerves twitched, the energy pulsing, amplifying every sensation. His breath hitched, a low groan escaping as the guard lingered on his forearm, the burn sharpening into a white-hot stab. His vision blurred, his hands gripping the chair’s arms until his knuckles whitened.

“Shields, Major. Gate codes. Now,” the leader pressed, voice cutting through the haze.

Lorne thought of Atlantis—its spires gleaming under alien stars, the moons light reflecting on the ocean’s restless surface as the waves crashed softly against the city’s edges. He thought of John’s steady hand, those lingering hazel eyes, the half-smile that softened the Colonels guarded expression. It anchored him. “You’re… really bad at this… hospitality thing,” he gasped, voice weak but laced with sarcasm.

The leader signalled again, and a second guard approached with a control device, its screen glowing sickly green, wired to the chair’s pulsing circuitry. The guard adjusted the settings and chair hummed louder, its metal frame vibrating, the air crackling faintly. The guard activated it, and a burning current surged through the chair, a relentless sear that built from a dull ache to screaming agony, sinking into Lorne’s muscles, igniting his nerves.

His body arched against the restraints, teeth gritted, a raw groan tearing free as the electric shocks jolted his limbs, making them seize and cramp. The needle-device returned, pressed to his chest, then his thigh again, each pulse amplifying the chair’s torment, pain radiating in fiery bursts. His head lolled, vision swimming, but he met the leader’s visor with a weak glare.

The torture continued, a brutal rhythm of questions, refusals, and punishment. The guards alternated between fists—striking his ribs, chest, face—and the needle-device, targeting his arms, legs, neck, chest, each contact a fresh hell that left him trembling, sweat and blood soaking his uniform. The leader’s taunts were relentless—promises of mercy, threats against his team, mockery of Atlantis’s defences. “Your city is a relic,” he sneered. “You think you’re heroes? You’re insects, clinging to ruins.”

Lorne held onto the last scraps of his composure, his voice hoarse but steady. “Insects… still bite,” he muttered, earning a sharp backhand from a guard, his head snapping to the side, blood pooling in his mouth. Stevens shouted, “Leave him alone!” only to be shoved back against the wall.

They dragged Reed next, strapping him into the chair. The guards used heated clamps on his thighs and arms, his curses turning to choked gasps as the filament burned, his body jerking against the restraints.

Stevens was next, his silence deafening as they pressed the needle-device against his chest, his jaw clenched so hard Lorne thought it might break.

Coughlin fought, earning a broken nose and a vicious cut across his cheek before they forced him down, using a handheld pulse emitter that made his muscles spasm uncontrollably, his eyes wide with pain.

Parrish was spared the chair, but they used a smaller device on him—a sonic emitter that sent high-pitched waves through his skull, making him sob and clutch his head, begging them to stop. Lorne’s guilt was a weight heavier than the pain—I should’ve seen the trap. Should’ve gotten them out.

---

Sheppard’s team moved through the jungle with grim determination, the stargate’s blue glow fading behind them as the double suns sank, painting the sky in streaks of violet and gold. The jungle air hung thick, laced with the cloying sweetness of rotting fruit and the musty damp of soil, an eerie quiet pressing down like a weight.

The Colonel led the way, his P-90 at the ready, his boots sinking into the mud with each step. His tac vest and black t-shirt damp with sweat, his hazel eyes scanning the trees for any sign of trouble. Behind him, McKay grumbled, swatting at vines with his tablet, his face flushed and miserable.

“This is ridiculous,” Rodney said, his voice carrying despite Sheppard’s warning glare. “Why can’t we ever go to planets with air conditioning? Or sidewalks? Or—here’s a novel idea—pavement?” He tripped over a root, cursing as a leaf smacked into his face.

“Quiet, Rodney,” John hissed, his voice low, sharp, his senses on high alert. The jungle was too still, the silence unnatural, like a held breath. “Unless you want to advertise our position to every hostile within a klick.”

Teyla moved silently beside him, her steps light, her senses attuned to the forest’s rhythm. Her dark hair was pulled back, expression calm but her eyes sharp, catching every rustle, every shadow. “I sense no Wraith,” she said softly, “but there is… unease. This place feels wrong, like a wound in the earth.”

“Tell me about it,” Ronon said, his blaster drawn, his massive frame cutting through the vines like they were paper. His dreadlocks swayed as he moved, his eyes scanning the canopy. “Smells like a trap. Always does.”

Sheppard’s grip tightened on his weapon, his mind racing. Lorne’s team was out there—Lorne, Reed, Stevens, Coughlin, Parrish—caught in whatever mess this planet had thrown at them. He could feel the weight of it, the responsibility, the fear he wouldn’t admit. Lorne was more than a subordinate, more than a friend, though Sheppard had spent years pretending otherwise. The thought of him hurt—or worse—twisted something deep in his chest, a feeling he’d buried under layers of sarcasm and duty. Not now, John. Focus. “Rodney, you got anything on that scanner?”

McKay tapped his device, sweat making his fingers slip. “The energy signature is stronger. But there’s interference—could be jamming, could be natural. Either way, it’s not good. Jamming’s never good.” He paused, his voice dropping. “What if they’re… you know…”

“Don’t,” John snapped, his voice sharper than intended, his hazel eyes hard as they met Rodney’s. He softened his tone, but his eyes stayed hard. “They’re alive. We’re getting them back.”

Dusk deepened as they reached the ruins, their crumbling stone corridors looming like the bones of a dead city, moss and vines choking every surface, their faint glow casting writhing shadows. The air turned cooler, heavy with the musty scent of ancient stone and a sharp, metallic bite, carrying the same wrongness, the same sense of being watched.

Signs of a struggle were everywhere—scorch marks on the walls, spent shell casings glinting in the dirt, a torn piece of Parrish’s jacket caught on a vine, its green fabric stark against the grey stone. Sheppard’s heart sank, but he kept his voice steady, his command persona a shield against the fear clawing at him. “Spread out. Look for clues.”

Teyla crouched beside a pillar, her fingers brushing a bloodstain, dark and tacky. “This is recent,” she said, her voice calm but heavy. “Someone was injured here.”

“Great,” Rodney muttered, clutching his scanner like a lifeline. “So we’re following a trail of blood. Fantastic. This is how horror movies start.”

“Focus, Rodney,” Sheppard said, his patience fraying. He crouched beside a set of tracks, his fingers brushing the dirt, the imprints of heavy boots and something else—sleek, almost mechanical. “They went this way. Let’s move.”

The trail wound through the crumbling ruins, then out into the open, where the air grew sharp and cool, heavy with the tang of ancient stone and a faint metallic bite. Sheppard’s flashlight beam sliced through the twilight, revealing signs of a struggle—deep gouges in the earth, a snapped knife blade glinting in the dirt, a smear of blood that twisted his gut. Evan, you better be okay, he thought, the words a silent mantra as they pressed on.

---

The constant pain tugged at Evan’s awareness, the ache never loosening its grip, a burning thread woven through his nerves. His team had been questioned too—Reed’s split lip bled sluggishly, Stevens’ ribs were bruised, Coughlin’s eyes were haunted, and Parrish whispered apologies, his hands trembling as he sat against the wall.

The torture had been systematic, designed to break them—the needle-like device that seared his nerves, the blows that came after prolonged silence, and the chair’s electric pulses that jolted his body against itself. They’d held firm, but their silence was paid in blood and pain.

“Not your fault, Doc,” Lorne rasped, his throat raw, his voice barely above a whisper. “We’re getting out of here.”

“How?” Reed asked, his voice low, his eyes flicking to the door. “They’ve got us locked down tight, sir. No gear, no weapons, and I’m pretty sure they’re not serving breakfast.”

Lorne forced a grin, ignoring the blood trickling from split lip, the way his body pulsed with pain. “We’re Atlantis, Reed. We don’t do ‘locked down.’ We’ll find a way.”

The door slammed open again, and Lorne braced himself, his body tensing despite the exhaustion. But this time, the guards dragged in new prisoners—Sheppard, McKay, Teyla, and Ronon, their hands bound, their gear stripped. Sheppard’s eyes locked onto Lorne’s, and for a moment, the world narrowed to just them, the air charged with something unspoken. Sheppard’s dark hair was mussed, his tac vest gone, his t-shirt torn at the shoulder, revealing a bruise that made Lorne’s chest tighten. The guards showed them inside, slamming the doors shut with a deafening boom.

“You look like hell, Major,” Sheppard said, his tone light, but his hazel eyes blazed with worry, scanning Lorne’s injuries—the blood, the bruises, the way he held himself too still, like moving would cost too much.

“Feel like it too, sir,” Lorne replied, managing a weak smirk despite the pain shooting through his ribs. “You here to rescue us or join the party?”

“Little of both,” Sheppard said, but his grin didn’t reach his eyes. He scanned the room, taking in the team’s injuries, and his jaw tightened, a muscle ticking under the stubble. “What do these guys want?”

“Everything,” Lorne said, his voice steady despite the effort. “Tech, intel, Atlantis. They’re not big on small talk.”

McKay, pale and twitchy, piped up, his hands twisting against his restraints. “Well, that’s just great. Did you tell them we’re not exactly the galaxy’s tech support? I mean, who do they think we are, Best Buy?”

“Figured I’d let you handle that, Doc,” Lorne said, his tone dry, a spark of his usual humour cutting through the pain.

The leader entered the room a few moments later, his visor glinting like polished obsidian. “Your resistance is futile,” he said, his voice cold, mechanical. “You will provide the information we seek, or you will die.”

Sheppard tilted his head, face carefully set into a neutral expression, his voice dripping with his trademark sarcasm. “Yeah, see, we’re not big on ultimatums. How about you let us go, and we don’t blow up your little clubhouse? I’m pretty sure we’ve got a guy who’s good at blowing things up.” He jerked his head toward Ronon, who bared his teeth in a grin that was more threat than smile.

The leader’s response was a gesture, and the guards seized McKay, dragging him toward the torture chair. Sheppard lunged, his shout echoing— “Rodney!”—but the guards restrained him, their grips like iron. Lorne’s heart pounded, guilt and fear warring within him. This is my fault. I should’ve seen the trap. Should’ve gotten my team out.

---

Hours bled into one another, each one measured by the sharp ache in their bodies and the stubborn refusal to surrender. The members were interrogated, dragged one by one into the chair, its hum a constant backdrop to their suffering. Sheppard’s team was questioned about Atlantis’s defences, McKay’s genius, Teyla’s potential knowledge of Atlantis, Ronon’s combat tactics.

Rodney was first, his protests echoing as guards slammed him into the chair, metal clamps biting his wrists and ankles. The needle-device, its eerie blue tip pulsing, hovered over his chest. When it touched his skin, a white-hot jolt tore through him, and he yelped, voice shrill. “Fine, you want genius? I’m your man! That gizmo out there? It’s—argh!—some ZPM knockoff, organic wiring, but your goons ruined my analysis with that ambush!” His words spilled in a frantic torrent, half-defiant, half-desperate, his face blanching as the device grazed his arm, pain spiking. “I’m worth more conscious, you know! Stop—stop this!” His bravado crumbled into gasps, sweat drenching his hair, until he sagged, breath ragged, eyes dim with exhaustion.

John stole a glance at Lorne’s team. Evan leaned against the wall, his chest heaving, blue eyes hazy but fixed on Rodney, a flicker of guilt in his gaze. Reed, bruised and slouched, muttered a weak, “Hang in there, McKay.” Stevens, jaw tight, kept a hand on Coughlin’s shoulder, his face pale but resolute. Parrish, glasses askew, clutched his knees, his lanky frame shaking, but his eyes held a stubborn spark.

Teyla followed, her steps steady despite the guards’ shoves. Strapped into the chair, she faced the sonic emitter, its piercing whine slicing into her mind like a shard of glass. Her jaw tightened, fingers gripping the armrests, but her gaze held an unyielding calm. “Your tools will not sway me,” she declared, her voice clear, slicing through the emitter’s screech. “I have faced worse from the Wraith. You’re nothing compared to them.” The leader demanded Atlantis’s schematics, its weak points, but Teyla’s silence was a fortress. The sound intensified, her cheeks paling, a faint tremor in her hands, yet she drew a slow breath, her spirit an unshakable flame.

Ronon was hauled up next, his bulk barely fitting the chair, restraints creaking as he strained, eyes smouldering with rage. The guards, wary, wielded a needle-device and a glinting dagger. “Your combat tactics, fighting style—give it up,” the leader barked. Ronon’s sneer was feral, his voice a low snarl. “Want a lesson? Cut me loose, I’ll demonstrate—starting with your spine.” He surged forward, the chair rattling, his threat a promise of violence. A guard sliced his cheek, blood dripping onto his chest, but Ronon’s laugh was guttural, unbowed. “That’s your best? I’ve had worse shaving.”

Not getting the results he wanted, the leader then targeted Sheppard with brutal precision, first pressing a handheld device—the same needle-like tool—against his neck, its low-grade energy sparking a burning pain that spread through his nerves, making his body shake, his hazel eyes blazing with defiance even as he gasped. 

“You’ll give us the shield codes, Colonel,” the leader taunted, his visor glinting. Lorne, chained against the wall, the ropes looped through a rusted ring above him, shouted, “Hey, tin can! You’re wasting your time with him. I’m the one with the shield codes. Let him go and deal with me!” His chest ached, not just from his own wounds but from the sight of his CO in pain, the man’s stubborn grin faltering under the assault. I can’t stop them, but I can redirect their focus. I have to.

Reed hissed, “Easy, Major,” his own voice strained with pain.

John’s head twitched slightly at Lorne’s shout, his hazel eyes flicking toward him, clouded with pain but sharp with fear—not for himself, but for Lorne. The needle-device burned into his neck, a white-hot jolt that made his muscles twitch, his breath catching, yet the sight of Lorne straining against his ropes, risking himself, sent a deeper dread through him. Evan, don’t. They’ll kill you. His heart clenched, knowing Lorne’s provocation was for him, knowing he couldn’t stop it. “Lorne, shut up,” he rasped, his voice weak but sharp, a desperate plea masked as a command.

The guards ignored him, and the leader adjusted the device, the burn deepening, Sheppard’s breath hitching as he fought to stay silent, his body trembling under the strain. “The gate addresses, Colonel,” the leader demanded, his voice cold. “We know you have them.”

Lorne’s gut churned, his voice hoarse but relentless. “Come on, you cowards! I know gate addresses—wanna hear about the planet with the killer squirrels?” The guards glanced at him, but didn’t move from their places.

Sheppard’s jaw tightened, a flicker of despair in his eyes as Lorne’s words echoed, each shout a dagger in his chest. He wanted to yell at his XO to stop, to save his strength, but his voice was trapped, stolen by the pain and the fear that Lorne’s recklessness would draw the leader’s wrath. You’re gonna get yourself killed, Evan. For me. I’m not worth it. His fingers curled into fists, the restraints biting into his wrists, a silent plea for Lorne to stay quiet, to survive.

“Pick on someone your own size!” Lorne yelled, yanking against his ropes, the burn of frayed fibres against his skin nothing compared to the agony of Sheppard’s suffering. “You want Atlantis? I’ll give you the grand tour—starting with the brig!”

The leader’s visor turned briefly toward Lorne, a flicker of irritation in his pasture, but he continued, swapping the needle-device for a thin blade. He traced it along Sheppard’s forearm, the shallow cuts deliberate, blood welling up as Sheppard hissed, his eyes locked on the leader, refusing to break.

The pain was sharp, a bright flare against the dull ache of his body, but it was Lorne’s voice that cut deeper, each desperate shout a reminder of the man risking everything for him. His gaze darted to his second-in-command, heart pounding with a mix of gratitude and terror, seeing the blood on Lorne’s wrists, the hard set of his blue eyes. Stop, Evan. Please. I can’t lose you.

“You’re wasting your time,” Evan yelled, straining against his bonds, desperation fuelling his words. “He’s stubborn as hell—try me, I’m an open book!” A guard snarled, stepping toward him, but the leader raised a hand, signalling him to wait.

Sheppard’s breath caught, his chest tight with hopelessness, the weight of Lorne’s loyalty crushing him. “Damn it, Major, stop it!” he snapped, his voice cracking, eyes burning with a silent plea—Don’t do this. Not for me. The emotion in Lorne’s shouts, the raw need to protect him, tore at Sheppard’s heart, a mirror to his own unspoken feelings, a love he’d buried under duty now laid bare in this hellish cell.

The interrogation dragged on, the leader using the chair’s electric pulses on Sheppard, the shocks jolting his muscles, making them seize and cramp, his breath catching in his throat. “The control chair, Colonel—its interface. Tell us,” the leader demanded. Sheppard’s head lolled, sweat dripping, but he managed a smirk, false bravado masking the fear that Lorne’s shouts would cost him everything.

“You’re pathetic!” The Major shouted, his voice cracking, desperation seeping through. “He’s got nothing you want. I’m the one who runs ops—ask me about the drones, the jumpers, anything!” His heart pounded. If I can’t save you, I’ll take the pain for you.

Beside him, Coughlin sat slumped against the wall. “Don’t be a hero, sir,” he muttered, voice quiet as his eyes flickered between the CO and XO.

John’s eyes widened at his XO’s admission, a surge of panic cutting through the pain, his smirk faltering. His body shook with the chair’s pulses, but it was the thought of Evan suffering more that terrified him, the image of those blue eyes dulled by pain, the man he cared for—loved, if he dared admit it—broken because of him. He shook his head faintly, a desperate gesture, his voice too weak to carry but his gaze burning with emotion—Stop. I need you alive.

The leader’s patience snapped. “Silence him,” he ordered, and a guard strode to Lorne, slamming a fist into his stomach. Lorne doubled over, gasping, air fleeting from his lungs and blood dripping from his lips, but he smirked, teeth red. “That all you got? My grandma hits harder.”

John flinched, the sound of the blow echoing in his skull, guilt and fear twisting inside him. Evan’s persistence, his bloodied smirk, was for him, and it was unbearable. His eyes stung, the hopelessness of their situation crashing over him, the fear that Evan wouldn’t walk out of this cell alive if he kept pushing.

The leader returned to Sheppard and activated the control device, and the chair surging with electric pulses, jolting John’s body, his muscles seizing, a low groan escaping as his head tipped back, sweat mixing with blood on his face. “Let’s try again. The shield codes,” the leader pressed, his voice relentless. “Give them to us.”

Lorne struggled against the restraints, his voice raw. “You’re barking up the wrong tree! I’m the one who calibrates the shields—let him go, and I’ll talk!” His eyes locked on the Colonel’s, a silent plea—Hold on, John. I’m trying. But Sheppard’s gaze met his, hazel eyes clouded with pain yet burning with a silent, desperate plea of their own—Stop, Evan. Don’t. The raw emotion in that look, a mix of fear and unspoken gratitude, pierced Evan’s chest like a blade.

Sheppard’s heart raced, the pain of the chair fading against the terror of what Evan’s shouts might cost him. He wanted to beg Lorne to stop, to save himself, but his voice was gone, stolen by the shocks, his body betraying him. I can’t protect you like this. The thought of Evan taking more blows, of those steady blue eyes closing forever, was a fear sharper than any blade, a hopelessness that threatened to drown him.

Lorne opened his mouth to shout again, to draw the leader’s focus, but the weight of Sheppard’s gaze held him, a silent command to protect himself, to survive. The guard struck him again, a backhand across the face, splitting his lip even further, blood warm against his chin, and he bit back his words, his throat tight with the effort, his heart aching with the need to shield the man he’d never dared name his feelings for.

---

Back in the cell, the military CO and XO of Atlantis worked on a plan, their voices low, the damp stone walls pressing close in the cramped space. Sheppard sat on the cold floor, back pressed against the wall, his wrists bound behind him. Lorne, still held up against the wall, his wrists raw and bleeding, leaned as far forward as his restraints allowed, his voice steady despite the pain. The air was thick, the torchlight casting their shadows in jagged patterns across the stone, Sheppard’s presence a lifeline in the dark. Evan’s holding up, but he’s hurting, Sheppard thought, his gut twisting with worry.

Ronon sat nearby, his massive frame coiled tight, dreadlocks falling over his shoulders as he subtly twisted his wrists, working at the ropes binding him. Hidden in his cuff, was a small, sharp shard of metal—snagged from a broken tool during their capture, a trick from his days as a Runner—which he scraped at the bindings. His movements were slow, careful, his eyes flicking to the door, ears attuned to the distant clank of boots in the corridor.

“We need a diversion,” Sheppard said, his eyes scanning the door, noting the hinges, the lock’s design. “Something to draw the guards.”

Lorne nodded, a wince flashing across his face as pain stabbed through his battered body, his stomach still throbbing from the guard’s punch. “Parrish could fake a seizure,” he said, voice steady despite the ache. “Guys got a flair for theatrics—nearly convinced me he was dying of anaphylaxis over a pollen sample once.”

Sheppard’s lips quirked, a ghost of a smile breaking through, his hazel eyes flickering with gratitude despite the bruises on his face. “Noted. Once the guards are distracted, Ronon and I can take them down. Teyla’s got the finesse to pick the lock. You good to move?” His gaze lingered on Lorne, noting the blood crusting his temple, the strain in his shoulders.

Lorne glanced at Ronon. With a final jerk, the Satedan’s ropes snapped, and his hands were free, eyes glinting with predatory focus. “I’m ready,” Ronon rumbled, his voice low, his eyes meeting Sheppard’s with a nod.

He moved silently, passing the shard to Teyla, who used it to cut her restraints, her nimble fingers quick and precise. She freed McKay next, his hands shaking but his muttering defiant, then Sheppard, whose bloodied arm didn’t slow him. Ronon reached Lorne, cutting through his bonds with steady hands, bracing him as Lorne staggered, pain flaring through his torso.

“Thanks,” Lorne rasped, his voice steady despite the ache, his eyes meeting Ronon’s with a nod of acknowledgement.

Ronon grunted, already moving to Reed, Stevens, Coughlin, and Parrish, freeing them one by one, the shard’s edge glinting in the torchlight. “Let’s get outta here,” he growled, his cheek’s cut still oozing, his blaster hand itching for a fight.

Lorne met Sheppard’s gaze, seeing the unspoken question—Are you okay? His chest ached, not just from the torture but from the weight of Sheppard’s concern, the way those hazel eyes searched his face for answers he couldn’t give, and the guilt of failing to spare him pain. “I’m good, sir,” he said, his voice steady. “Let’s do this.”

But Sheppard’s hand lingered on Lorne’s arm, a fleeting touch that sent a spark through him, warm and electric, a silent acknowledgment of Lorne’s attempts to protect him. “Don’t do anything stupid, Major,” Sheppard said, his voice low, raw, his eyes holding Lorne’s for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Lorne’s breath hitched, the moment stretching, heavy with everything they’d never said, his heart racing with the memory of Sheppard’s pain, the need to protect him burning stronger than ever. “Same goes for you, sir,” he replied, his voice soft but firm, his blue eyes steady.

Reed’s cough broke the spell, his voice dry, his split lip cracking as he spoke. “Uh, sirs? Plan?”

“Right,” Sheppard said, clearing his throat, his hand dropping to his side, his focus snapping back to the mission. “Let’s move.”

---

The escape was a desperate, chaotic ballet, every step fraught with danger. Parrish’s fake seizure was Oscar-worthy, his body convulsing on the cold floor, hands flailing dramatically as he gasped about “toxic spores!” His voice cracked, glasses slipping down his nose, the torchlight catching on the beads of sweat running down his face. The guards rushed to him, one barking orders into a comm device, their visors glinting as they bent over him. Neither of them noticed the shift in placement of their prisoners.  

Ronon seized the moment, his massive frame a blur as he slammed into the nearest guard, his fist connecting with a sickening crunch. The guard crumpled, his faceplate splitting, revealing a human face—pale, scarred, eyes wide with shock. Ronon didn’t hesitate, wrenching the guard’s energy weapon free and tossing it to Sheppard, who caught it mid-air, firing a burst that dropped another guard. Ronon’s eyes flicked to the doors as he scanned for more targets.

Teyla moved from the ground, her eyes scanning the fallen guards as she searched for the key to the cell door. Her fingers brushed over a guard’s belt, finding a small metal ring with a jagged key, its surface worn from use. She darted to the lock, her movements precise, the key clicking as it turned, and the door groaned open with a low creak. “Go, now!” she urged, her voice low but commanding, her gaze flicking to the corridor beyond.

Lorne staggered to his feet, pain lancing through his ribs, his vision swimming, but he pushed forward, hauling Reed up, who grimaced, his knee swollen from a deep bruise. Stevens pulled Coughlin upright, the sergeant’s left arm dangling, blood dripping from his fingertips to the floor. The teams spilled into the corridor, their breaths ragged, the stone walls slick with moisture, the air heavy with rust and fear.

They needed their gear. Sheppard led them through the stronghold’s stone corridors, navigating toward a storage room he’d clocked during their escort to the cells. The reinforced door was ajar, the guards distracted by the blaring alarms. Ronon kicked the door wide, his stolen weapon humming as he dropped the lone guard inside with a single shot, the man collapsing with a muffled thud.

The room was a chaotic stash—P-90s, knives, McKay’s scanner, Parrish’s sample bag stuffed with glowing ferns, even Lorne’s sketchpad, its edges singed—strewn haphazardly on a metal table. Lorne grabbed his P-90, its familiar weight steadying his shaking hands, the cold metal a reprieve against the pain radiating from his wrists. Reed snatched his knife, muttering, “Missed you, buddy.” Coughlin, wincing, clipped his P-90 to his tac vest, his face grim. McKay dove for his data pad, clutching it to his chest like a child, his voice a mix of relief and indignation. “Oh, thank God, you’re safe. Now let’s never do this again!”

The corridors of the stronghold were a claustrophobic maze, the torchlight making their shadows dance against the stone walls. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and corroded metal. Alarms wailed, a relentless screech that burrowed into their skulls, red lights pulsing in sync, casting jagged shadows.

John led the way, his shots precise as he cleared a path. Ronon guarded the rear, his blaster barking, each shot a thunderclap in the confined space. Teyla moved beside Lorne, her eyes scanning for threats, her hand steady on her P-90.

A junction loomed ahead, three corridors branching off, each dark and foreboding. “Which way?” Reed gasped, his voice strained, his hand pressed against his side.

McKay’s pad flickered, his fingers dancing over the screen, his voice shrill with urgency. “Left! The gate’s left, I’m almost certain! Unless the signal’s jammed, which, knowing our luck, is likely!” He glanced at Sheppard, wide-eyed. “Don’t look at me like that, I’m doing my best!”

“Move!” Sheppard barked. Before they could move any further, a squad of guards rounded the corner, their energy weapons blazing. Lorne dove behind a pillar, returning fire, his P-90’s recoil jarring his battered shoulder. A bolt grazed his thigh, scorching the surface of his pants and he grunted, blood welling, but he kept firing, dropping one guard as Sheppard took out another. Ronon hurled his knife, the blade embedding in a guard’s chest with a wet crunch, the man collapsing with a gurgle. Teyla fired her P-90, a precise burst, disarming another guard with a shot to his weapon hand.

The jungle beyond the stronghold was a suffocating beast. The moment they crashed through the treeline, the air turned thick and wet, clinging to their skin like a second uniform. The canopy above was a tangled web of violet leaves, filtering the twin moons’ light into eerie, shifting patterns. Every step sank into loamy, grasping earth, vines whipping at their legs like living tripwires. The place they’d been held was only a few minutes’ run from the ruins where they’d first been ambushed—both now shrinking behind them like a fever dream—the only thing separating them from the Stargate being the small clearing.

Lorne’s legs burned, his vision blurring from pain and exhaustion, but Sheppard’s voice— “Keep moving, people!”—was a steady anchor, fierce and unyielding.

Rodney tripped over a root, cursing loudly. “Who puts a jungle this close to a gate? It’s a safety hazard!” Ronon hauled him up, his grip firm but impatient. “Complain later, McKay,” he growled, blaster firing into the trees, dropping a guard with a muffled thud.

Behind them, the shouts of their pursuers crashed through the undergrowth, closer now. Energy bolts sizzled past, scorching bark, sending up sparks where they struck stone. Reed stumbled, his knee giving out, and Lorne hauled him up, shoving the marine in front of him as they kept running. “You owe me a beer, Lieutenant,” he grunted, his voice strained but laced with dry humour. Reed managed a weak grin, “Make it two, sir.”

McKay, panting, clutched his data pad, dodging a bolt that scorched the ground beside him. “This is why I hate field work! I’m a scientist, not a—ow! That was my hair! These people are barbarians!” His voice cracked, but he kept moving, muttering, “If I die, I’m haunting all of you.”

They reached the DHD, Teyla’s hands flying over the symbols, the gate spinning to life. McKay, fingers fumbling as he frantically input the IDC, managed to dodge another stray shot. Reed and Stevens laid down covering fire, their P-90s spitting bullets, spent casings glinting in the moonlight.

A volley of shots sliced through the air, sharp and final, their crackle splitting the jungle’s oppressive silence. Lorne’s eyes caught the glint first—black-armoured figures in the treeline, weapons gleaming, shots converging with deadly aim.

A bolt arced toward McKay’s back, the scientist’s eyes drawn to the glowing screen of the data pad, leaving him oblivious to the danger. Instinct took over. Lorne lunged, shoving McKay aside with a hoarse shout— “Rodney, DOWN!”—the scientist stumbling with a startled yelp, a graze searing across his arm, blood welling as he sprawled into the mud, his data pad skidding across the loamy soil.

Pain exploded in Lorne’s body—three bolts slammed into him, one tearing through his chest, shredding his vest with a sickening rip, another punching into his shoulder, the third ripping into his side, each a blinding flare that stole his breath. He collapsed, the jungle floor cold and wet beneath him, blood soaking his uniform, pooling around him in a dark, spreading stain. The world spun, the gate’s blue glow flickering at the edge of his vision, the sounds of gunfire and shouts blurring into a distant roar.

The team’s focus was locked on the threat, their weapons blazing in a desperate symphony. Ronon’s blaster thundered, a deep bellow that dropped one guard in a burst of scorched flesh and shattered armour. Teyla’s P-90 spat precise bursts, her shots finding a second guard’s throat, his body crumpling with a wet gurgle, her face a mask of lethal calm.

Stevens and Reed poured fire into the tree line, casings pooling around their feet as another guard fell with a scream, silenced by a flurry of rounds. Coughlin fired one-handed, his face grim, unaware of the cost behind them. McKay, scrambling to retrieve his data pad, clutched his bleeding arm, voice frantic. “I’m hit! I’m actually hit! This is why I stay in the lab!”

Only when the last guard was taken down and the last echo of gunfire faded, the jungle falling into an eerie stillness broken by the gate’s hum, did Sheppard’s gaze sweep the clearing. His eyes landed on Evan, limp and motionless, blood pooling beneath him, a stark crimson against the dark soil.

His heart lurched, a raw, gut-punch of dread. “Evan!” he shouted, the name tearing from his throat, desperate and unfamiliar, the first time he’d voiced it aloud. He sprinted toward him, boots slipping in the mud, his rifle clattering to the ground as he dropped beside Lorne, hands trembling as they pressed against the chest wound, warm blood slicking his fingers. “Stay with me, damn it!” he yelled, his voice cracking, hazel eyes wide with terror, their usual cool fractured by panic. “Evan, you’re not doing this! You hear me?”

The others froze, their focus snapping to Lorne’s crumpled form, horror dawning on them. Rodney, still on his knees, his arm dripping blood, stared at Lorne, his face draining of colour, voice a broken stammer. “Oh God, he—he pushed me out of the way. He saved me…” His hands shook, the data pad forgotten, guilt carving deep lines into his face, his usual bravado replaced by raw, unfiltered shock. “Lorne, you idiot, why’d you—someone fix him!”

Teyla’s P-90 lowered, her eyes glistening, a rare crack in her composure as she stepped closer, her voice tight but steady. “John, we must hurry.” Her gaze lingered on Lorne, sorrow flickering, but she moved with purpose, dropping to her knees beside Sheppard. Her hands, steady despite the tremor in her heart, tore a strip from her jacket, pressing it firmly against Lorne’s side wound, blood soaking the fabric instantly. “Hold on, Major,” she murmured, her voice soft but urgent, her touch a desperate anchor against the tide of his fading strength.

Ronon’s massive frame loomed nearby, blaster smoking, his face a mask of fury and grief. “He took those shots for McKay. Damn it, Lorne,” he growled, his voice rough with barely contained rage. He scanned the tree line, ensuring no threats remained, but his eyes kept darting to Lorne. With a grunt, he slung his blaster to his tight holster, moving to Lorne’s side, his hands hovering, ready to act.

Reed and Coughlin staggered forward, their steps faltering, horror etched in their faces. Coughlin’s voice broke, raw and ragged— “Major!”—his good hand trembling as he dropped to one knee, tears mingling with sweat. Stevens, grim-faced, pulled him back, his voice tight. “We’ve got the gate, but we need to move, now.” His eyes flicked to his CO, a flicker of anguish betraying his stoic facade, his jaw clenched as he fought to keep the team focused.

John’s hands pressed harder against the chest wound, blood seeping through his fingers, his face pale, breath hitching as he fought to keep Lorne anchored. “Evan, you stay with me,” he whispered, voice low, desperate, thick with everything unspoken—fear, gratitude, a love he’d never named. His hazel eyes locked on Evan’s, searching for a spark, a sign, anything to hold onto. “That’s an order.” He leaned closer, his voice steadying, a forced calm masking his panic. “You’re gonna make it, Evan. We’re getting you home. Just keep those eyes open, you hear me?” I can’t lose you, Evan.

Evan’s lips twitched, a faint ghost of a smirk, a fleeting attempt to quip something dry, to ease the agony in Sheppard’s eyes, but his strength faded, his breath a shallow rasp. The gate’s blue glow faded in his vision, the jungle’s sounds dimming, Sheppard’s face above him a blur of raw anguish. John… I’m sorry…

Rodney’s eyes darted from Lorne’s limp form to Sheppard and back to the bloody ground, his voice a broken stammer. “We can’t—he can’t—this isn’t—” He clutched his data pad, useless now, his usual arrogance shattered by guilt and fear, his eyes wide with the weight of Lorne’s sacrifice. “Get him up, we have to go!” he shouted, his voice cracking, a rare plea beneath his panic.

Scrambling to his feet, he fumbled with his radio, his bleeding arm trembling as he keyed it on. “This is McKay! Major Lorne’s hit and it’s bad! We need medical in the gate room, now!” His words tumbled out, frantic and raw, his breath hitching as the weight of Lorne’s act pressed on his chest.

Ronon didn’t wait for orders. “I’ve got him,” he rumbled, his voice low as he slid his arms under Lorne, lifting him with surprising gentleness despite his strength. Lorne’s head lolled, a faint groan escaping as his blood stained Ronon’s shirt, but the Satedan’s grip was unyielding, his face set with determination. “Stay with us, Lorne,” he muttered, his words rough but fierce, carrying him toward the gate’s shimmering event horizon.

Sheppard stayed glued to Lorne’s side, one hand still pressing the chest wound, the other gripping his XO’s arm, voice a steady stream of reassurance despite the tremor beneath it. “You’re doing great, Evan. Just a few steps, we’re almost there. Atlantis is waiting, you’re not checking out on us.” His eyes flicked to the gate, the blue light a beacon of hope, but his focus snapped back to Evan, refusing to let go, his heart pounding with the fear of losing him.

Teyla rose, her hands bloodied but steady, grabbing her P-90. Her steps were swift but measured, scanning for any lingering threats. Reed and Stevens hauled Coughlin upright, the sergeant’s face twisted with grief, his voice a choked whisper— “Major, hold on.”

Stevens, his stoic facade cracking, keyed his own radio, his voice tight but clear. “Atlantis, this is Stevens. Major Lorne’s injured—multiple wounds. Prep the infirmary, we’re coming through hot!” Parrish trailed behind, tears streaking his face, his voice barely audible. “This wasn’t supposed to happen…”

McKay brought up the rear, his breath ragged, his face streaked with sweat and grime as he shakily muttered under his breath. “He better make it, or I swear I’ll never forgive this galaxy…”

---

They dove through the gate, the jungle’s stifling heat giving way to the cool stone of Atlantis’s gate room, the air sharp with the tang of ozone and the sterile bite of antiseptic. John kept his hand on Evan, his fingers slick with blood, voice low and urgent. “We’re through, Evan. You made it. Hold on.” His hazel eyes locked on Evan’s ashen face, searching for any flicker of response, his heart hammering with the desperate need to believe his words.

Teyla followed, her P-90 raised, her gaze sweeping the gate room with practiced precision before she turned, ensuring the others crossed the threshold. Reed, Coughlin, Parrish, and Stevens staggered through, faces etched with exhaustion and raw fear, their gear streaked with mud and blood. McKay came in last, the gate’s shield snapping shut behind him with a faint hum, sealing them in the stark, sterile safety of Atlantis.

The gate room erupted into a blur of motion, a frenetic dance of urgency and dread. Medics surged forward, their voices overlapping in a cacophony of sharp commands, their boots echoing on the polished floor. “Stretcher, now!” one shouted, while another barked, “Prep the OR!”

Ronon gently lowered Lorne onto a waiting stretcher, his hands lingering on the Major’s shoulders. “Don’t give up, Lorne,” he growled, his voice rough with worry, his dark eyes burning with a fierce plea as he stepped back, allowing the medics to swarm.

Carson Beckett’s Scottish burr sliced through the chaos, authoritative yet strained, his face taut with focus as he reached Lorne’s side. “Get him to the infirmary, stat!” he shouted, his hands already on Lorne, fingers probing for a pulse that flickered weakly, stethoscope pressed to the Major’s chest. “Multiple penetrative wounds. He’s losing blood fast. Move!”

His team responded with practiced efficiency, one medic securing an oxygen mask over Lorne’s pale face, its plastic fogging faintly; another starting an IV, their movements swift but tinged with the tension of a life hanging in the balance. Carson’s eyes flicked to the heart monitor, his jaw tightening at the faltering vitals. “Come on, lad, stay with us,” he muttered, his voice low, a crack in his professional veneer as he directed the stretcher toward the infirmary, the wheels rattling against the floor.

Elizabeth stood at the balcony overlooking the gate room, her arms crossed tightly, face pale under the harsh lights, her green eyes wide with barely concealed dread. The tension radiating from her was palpable, a quiet storm that seemed to ripple through the room. She descended the stairs, her steps measured but quick, her presence commanding yet softened by concern. “What happened?” she asked, her voice steady but urgent as she reached Sheppard, her gaze flicking to the blood on his hands, then to the stretcher disappearing down the corridor. The gate room’s hum seemed to amplify the silence that followed, the weight of her question hanging heavy among the team.

John stood frozen, his blood-stained hands trembling slightly, face pale and eyes distant, haunted by the moment he saw Evan lying on the ground—the blood pooling, the way Lorne’s hand had gone slack in his grip, the name Evan torn from his lips, a confession he hadn’t meant to make. I should’ve been faster. Should’ve seen it. Should’ve… His mind churned, guilt gnawing at him, his usual easy charm buried under a tide of anguish. He met Elizabeth’s gaze, voice rough, barely above a whisper. “He took three shots saving McKay. He…” He trailed off, swallowing hard, unable to voice the fear that Lorne might not make it.

Teyla touched Sheppard’s shoulder, her blood-streaked hand a quiet reassurance, her voice soft but firm. “He is strong, John. He will fight.” Her own eyes glistened, her composure fraying at the edges, but she stood tall, her presence grounding the team amidst the gate room’s frenetic energy. Ronon loomed nearby, his fists clenched, his silence a roiling storm of grief and resolve, his gaze fixed on the corridor where Lorne had vanished, as if willing him to hold on.

Reed and Coughlin slumped against the gate room’s wall, faces hollow, their P-90s dangling loosely. Coughlin’s voice was a broken whisper, his good hand wiping at his eyes. “He better pull through…” Stevens stood rigid, his stoic mask cracking, his jaw tight as he stared at the floor, his voice low. “He didn’t hesitate. Not for a second.”

Rodney paced near the gate, hands flailing, his face a mix of guilt and agitation, voice rising in a frantic stream. “This is my fault! I was standing there, distracted by that stupid pad, and he—he just—” He stopped, breath hitching, his eyes darting to Elizabeth, then away, unable to meet her gaze. “Carson’s got him, right? He’s the best, he’ll fix this!” His words were more plea than statement, his usual arrogance replaced by a raw, desperate hope.

Elizabeth stepped closer, her hand resting briefly on Rodney’s arm, her voice calm but firm, cutting through his spiral. “Rodney, breathe. Carson’s team is doing everything they can.” Her eyes swept over both teams, taking in their battered forms, the blood, the exhaustion, the fear. “All of you, get to the infirmary for a check-up. We’ll know more soon.” Her tone brooked no argument, but her expression softened, a flicker of empathy for the toll this had taken. She turned to Sheppard, her voice quieter. “John, go with them. You need to be there when he wakes up.”

John nodded, a jerky motion, but his eyes remained haunted, his mind still trapped in the jungle, on seeing Evan lying in his own blood. The gate room’s tension lingered, a heavy shroud over the team, the hum of Atlantis a faint backdrop to their grief and hope. As they moved toward the infirmary, their steps heavy, the sterile lights cast long shadows, their thoughts went to the injured man, praying for a miracle.

---

The OR was a storm of controlled chaos—monitors beeping erratically, medics barking orders, the sound of metallic instruments clattering on trays. The air was thick with the sharp sting of antiseptic and the undercurrent of fear, fluorescent lights casting harsh shadows across the sterile walls. Lorne lay on the operating table, his skin ghostly pale against the crisp sheets, tubes snaking from his arms, a ventilator hissing in a steady, mechanical rhythm.

Carson worked with relentless precision, his hands steady despite the sweat beading on his brow. His team was a blur of motion around him as they fought to repair the damage from three energy blasts—through-and-through wounds cauterized by the searing heat of the alien blasters, one collapsing Lorne’s lung, another piercing through his shoulder, the third tearing a jagged path through his side.

The wounds were clean but devastating, the internal damage a maze of scorched tissue and ruptured vessels. Carson had brought Lorne back from the death’s edge, his defibrillator jolting life into a body that had flatlined, the piercing scream of the monitor giving way to a faint, unsteady beep. It was close. Too damn close.

Above, in the observation room overlooking the makeshift OR, the teams stood in a tense, silent vigil, their faces pressed to the glass, breaths fogging the cold surface. Sheppard leaned against the railing, his hands gripping it so tightly his knuckles blanched, his tac vest discarded, his t-shirt stiff with Lorne’s dried blood. His hazel eyes were locked on the scene below, tracing every movement of Carson’s hands, every flicker of the monitors, his jaw clenched so hard it ached. Evan, keep fighting.

Teyla stood beside him, her arms crossed, her face a mask of calm that didn’t reach her eyes, which glistened with unshed tears. Ronon loomed at the back, his massive frame rigid, his cheek still oozing from a guard’s blade, his fists clenched as if he could fight death itself.

Rodney paced restlessly, his hands flailing, his voice a low, anxious mutter. “This is taking too long. It’s been hours—three hours, twenty-seven minutes! Why haven’t they finished?” Reed, Stevens, and Coughlin sat in a row, their faces haggard, their gear piled in a corner, mud and blood streaking their uniforms. Parrish stood apart, his glasses fogged with tears, face illuminated by the glowing ferns he’d sampled on that cursed planet.

Then it happened—a sound that ripped through the observation room like a blade. The monitor’s shrill wail erupted, a relentless screech that announced a flatline, the green line collapsing into a stark, unyielding horizon. Lorne’s chest stilled under the ventilator’s mechanical push, his body unnaturally still on the operating table, the white sheets stark against his ashen skin. Time seemed to stop, each second a jagged shard, the OR’s chaos below a surreal blur against the observation room’s frozen horror.

John’s breath caught, his chest caving as if the air had been sucked from the room. His heart slammed against his ribs, a raw, choking panic clawing up his throat. “No, no, no,” he rasped, voice cracking, barely audible, his hands slamming the glass with a dull thud, smearing prints across its cold surface. His vision tunnelled, the OR’s lights too bright, the monitors’ wail deafening, his mind screaming a single plea: Evan, don’t you dare leave me. His eyes burned, tears threatening, his jaw clenched so hard it ached, the railing’s bite the only thing keeping him upright.

Teyla’s hand flew to her mouth, a soft gasp escaping, her composure shattering as tears spilled down her cheeks. “Major Lorne…” she breathed, her voice trembling, her silent prayers faltering. Ronon’s fist hit the wall, a dull thud, his face twisting with fury and helplessness. “Fight, damn it,” he growled, barely audible.

Rodney froze mid-pace, his face draining of colour, his voice a high, desperate stammer. “They can’t—he can’t—Carson, do something!” Reed’s head dropped into his hands, his shoulders shaking, his voice muffled. “Not the Major…” Stevens stared blankly, his stoic mask crumbling, his hands gripping his knees, knuckles white. Coughlin’s hands trembled, his voice a ragged plea. “Come on, sir. Don’t give up yet.” Parrish’s sobs broke free, his hands clutching his hair, tugging as he stifled chocked, anguished cries.

The defibrillator’s high-pitched whine cut the air, a mechanical scream that matched the monitor’s wail, its paddles gleaming under the fluorescent lights. A medic slapped them onto Lorne’s chest, the gel leaving slick patches on his pale skin, and Carson shouted, “Clear!”

The first jolt hit, Lorne’s body arching off the table, muscles seizing, the monitors shrieking in protest, their green lines flat, unyielding. Carson’s hands moved with practiced care as his blue eyes kept flicking over the vitals screen, its red numbers frozen. “Again!” he barked, voice raw, the second shock slamming through Lorne, his body jerking, the table’s metal frame rattling faintly, the monitors still screaming.

John’s heart pounded, each beat a hammer against his ribs, his vision blurring, tears he refused to acknowledge stinging his eyes. Every second stretched into an eternity his mind screaming at Evan to hold on, to fight, to not leave him. I didn’t get to tell you. I didn’t say it. His forehead pressed against the glass, its cold bite grounding him, his breath fogging the pane.

The third shock came, Carson’s team a blur of motion, “Clear!” Lorne’s body arched again, the defibrillator’s whine peaking, the monitors’ wail unrelenting. The medics’ voices overlapped in a desperate chorus— “No rhythm!” “Push epi!” “Charge again!”— their teal scrubs a blur, the trays’ instruments glinting like scattered stars. Carson’s hands hovered, his face taut, eyes locked on the monitor, willing it to change. The flatline held, a merciless tyrant, the green line a cruel horizon, the OR’s hum a faint mockery of life.

Then—a flicker. The line wavered, a faint beep piercing the wail, weak but stubborn, the green line stuttering, clawing back to life. Another beep, then another, slow, unsteady, but there—a rhythm, fragile as a newborn’s breath. The monitor’s screech softened, the green line pulsing faintly, Lorne’s chest rising slightly under the ventilator’s push, a ghost of movement.

John exhaled, a shaky, ragged sound, his forehead pressing harder against the glass, relief flooding him like a wave, though fear still gnawed at his gut. His hands slid down the railing, trembling, his teary eyes locked on Evan’s form, the monitors’ faint beeps a lifeline he clung to.

Teyla’s hand found his arm, her touch warm, grounding, her voice soft. “He is fighting, John.” Her tears still fell, but her dark eyes held hope. Ronon’s shoulders sagged, his fists unclenching, a low grunt escaping. Rodney sank into a chair, his hands shaking, his voice a whisper. “Thank God… don’t do that again.” The others exchanged glances, their faces raw with relief but shadowed by the weight of how close they’d come to losing him.

Hours crawled by, the teams rooted to their spots, unwilling to leave until they knew Lorne was through the worst. John stayed glued to the glass, his eyes never leaving Evan. His mind kept replaying their frantic retreat like a broken record. Then the memory always landed on that moment: red staining the earth, the stark reality of how close they’d come to losing him. I should’ve had his back. Should’ve moved faster.

Guilt chewed at him, but beneath the weight, something long-hidden stirred—a gentle ache he’d spent years denying. In that moment, with Lorne bleeding out and the world narrowing to the sound of his name on John’s lips, all those careful boundaries had finally fallen away.

Teyla sat cross-legged on the floor, her Athosian prayers resuming in a soft murmur, her fingers tracing the beads of her necklace, her thoughts on the Major’s quiet strength, his steady presence on missions, the way he’d always had her back.

Ronon slouched against the wall, absently brushing at the dried blood on his face. His thoughts kept circling back to Lorne—how he’d always stood his ground, the way he’d never flinched, even outnumbered. He’s a warrior. He’ll make it.

Rodney fidgeted, his laptop open but ignored, his thoughts spiralling with guilt. I was watching that damn pad. He wouldn’t be here if I’d just paid attention.

Reed and Stevens traded stories in low voices—their CO’s dry quips during training, his knack for sketching landscapes, his calm under fire—each memory a lifeline, a refusal to let him go.

Coughlin stared at the ceiling, his injured arm throbbing, his mind on the Major’s countless orders that had saved them, his regret for not thanking him sooner.

The surgery ended after seven gruelling hours, Carson emerging, his scrubs bloodied, his face haggard but cautiously hopeful. “He’s stable, for now,” he said, his Scottish burr heavy with exhaustion. “It was touch and go, but he’s a stubborn one. We’ll know more in the next few hours.” The team exhaled as one, relief washing over them, though the tension lingered, a fragile hope. They filtered into the infirmary, taking turns at Lorne’s bedside, their presence a silent vow to see him through.

The infirmary quieted as night fell, the monitors a soft, steady rhythm, the lights dimmed to a gentle glow. John sat by Evan’s bed, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly his knuckles were white, his blood-stained t-shirt a grim reminder he hadn’t changed. His eyes traced Evan’s face—the lines of pain, the faint bruises, the slow rise and fall of his chest.

The others had come and gone—Rodney, his apologies a rambling mess, his voice cracking with guilt as he promised to fix whatever Lorne wanted; Teyla, her prayers in Athosian a soothing cadence, her hand warm on Sheppard’s shoulder; Ronon, silent, his cheek finally bandaged, his presence a quiet strength; Parrish, leaving a small vial of glowing fern extract on the bedside table, its faint light a nod to the planet they’d escaped, his voice choked with regret; Reed, Stevens, and Coughlin, their voices low as they shared stories of Major’s leadership, his quick wit, his ability to keep them steady, their loyalty palpable.

John stayed by Evans’s bedside, the hours melting into a haze, his heart a storm of anguish and fragile hope. The mission replayed in his mind, each moment etched in excruciating detail—the jungle’s suffocating heat, the blasters’ cruel hiss, Evan’s crumpled body, blood soaking the earth, the desperate weight of his limp hand in John’s grip. I almost lost you, Evan. I almost didn’t get to say how much you mean to me.

Guilt gnawed at him, his chest ached with the weight of it, each breath a battle against the fear that had clawed at him. It was a knife, twisting deeper with every replay, but beneath it, love burned brighter, raw and fierce, a flame he could no longer smother.

For years, John had buried his feelings behind protocol and rank, but in that clearing, with death hovering close, everything had changed. Calling him Evan—not Major, not Lorne—had been a raw admission, a desperate hope hurled into the dark. Now, John couldn’t hide from the truth: what he felt for Evan had always been more than friendship, and nearly losing him had forced that truth into the open. All he wanted now was a second chance to show Evan what he’d always meant.

Relief that Evan’s chest rose and fell, slow but steady, warred with a gnawing dread—what if he slipped away in the night? What if John never bared his heart fully, never told him how every glance, every shared laugh, had carved Evan’s name deeper into his soul?

Evan lay still, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths, the infirmary’s dim lights casting soft shadows across his pale face. The bandages on his chest and shoulder stood stark against his skin, tubes snaking from his arms, the monitor’s steady beep a lifeline.

John sat slumped in the unforgiving metal chair, his shoulders hunched, the weight of the day pressing into his bones. His eyes, rimmed with red from exhaustion or unshed tears—he couldn’t tell which—flicked restlessly to the monitors Evan was hooked up to. Fatigue clawed at him, a heavy fog seeping into his limbs. He knew he should get checked out, scrub the blood and dirt from his skin, choke down a meal, and collapse into bed to get at least four hours of sleep. But he couldn’t move, wouldn’t, not until Evan’s blue eyes, sharp and alive, met his own.

Evan stirred, his body twitching faintly under the thin infirmary sheet, a low, disoriented groan escaping his lips. John’s breath caught, his heart leaping as he leaned forward, eyes locked on Evan’s face. His eyelids fluttered, heavy from anaesthesia and pain meds, but didn’t open, his head shifting slightly on the pillow. Another groan, low and ragged, and his breathing hitched, a grimace flickering across his face before he stilled again, sinking back into the drug-induced haze. John exhaled shakily, hope and fear clashing, his hand hovering near Evan’s but not touching, not yet. Come on, Evan. Come back to me.

Sometime later, Evan stirred again, a faint twitch rippling through his battered body, a low, ragged moan piercing the infirmary’s hushed stillness. His eyelids fluttered, parting briefly to reveal a fleeting glimpse of glassy blue eyes, unfocused and clouded. His brow creased, a silent battle etched in the furrow, as if he fought to claw his way back to consciousness. John’s heart raced, his voice soft, barely a whisper. “Evan?” But his XO didn’t respond, his breathing evening out, the moment passing. John sank back, relief tinged with frustration, his eyes never leaving Evan’s face.

Carson appeared, his footsteps soft but purposeful, his face etched with exhaustion of a gruelling battle to save life, yet softened by a kindness that lingered in his eyes. He checked the monitors, his hands deft as he adjusted an IV drip, his stethoscope cold against Evan’s chest. “Vitals are holding steady,” he murmured, more to himself, then fixed John with a stern look, the frown deepening as he scanned his appearance. “Colonel, you’re a mess. Go change, get some rest. You’re no good to him like this, looking like you crawled out of a war zone.”

John’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking to Evan, reluctant to leave. “I’m fine, Carson. I’m staying.”

Carson’s eyes softened, but his tone didn’t waver. “You’re not fine, lad. You’re covered in blood and dirt, and you’ll scare the poor man half to death when he wakes. I’ll sit with him, keep an eye. Go sort yourself out, or I’ll have Ronon drag you to the showers myself.”

John hesitated, his gaze lingering on Evan’s still form, but Carson’s no-nonsense stare won out. He knew it was pointless to argue with doctor. “Alright,” he muttered, standing reluctantly. “But you call me the second anything changes.”

“Aye, I will,” Carson promised, settling into the chair John vacated, his presence calm and steady. “Now go.”

John cast one last look at Evan, his heart twisting, before forcing himself to leave, each step heavy with worry.

When John returned, freshly showered, in a clean uniform, Carson was still there, checking Evan’s chart. “No change yet,” he said, standing. “But he’s fighting. Give him time.” He clapped John’s shoulder and left, the infirmary quiet save for the monitors’ soft beeps.

John resumed his vigil, settling beside Evan, his hand resting closer now, inches from Evan’s. Time blurred again, the night deepening, until Evan stirred once more, this time with purpose. A low, pained groan escaped, his body shifting slightly, his face contorting as consciousness clawed its way through the fog of anaesthesia. His breathing grew uneven, hitching with small, sharp gasps, his fingers twitching on the sheet.

Evans’s eyelids fluttered, opening partway, revealing glassy, unfocused blue eyes that drifted aimlessly before finding John. He blinked slowly, confusion etching his brow, his lips parting as he tried to speak, voice a hoarse, slurred rasp. “S… sir?” The word was thick, barely audible, his gaze wavering but locking onto John, a spark of recognition breaking through.

Lost in thought, John’s head snapped up as he caught the soft rasp, his heart lurching, relief crashing through him so intense it nearly broke him. Tears pricked his eyes, unbidden, his throat tightening as joy and dread tangled— Evan was awake, but the fear of losing him still lingered, raw and fresh. “Hey,” he said, voice cracking, a trembling smile breaking through his exhaustion, warm but fragile, like he was afraid to hope too much. He leaned closer, his hand hovering near Evan’s, aching to touch but hesitating, the weight of regulations a faint shadow against the overwhelming need to feel Evan’s warmth. “You scared the hell outta me, Major. Don’t do that again.”

Evan’s lips twitched, a faint attempt at his usual smirk, but it faltered, pain flashing across his face as he shifted slightly. “Occupational… hazard,” he mumbled, voice weak and slurred, struggling to get the words out. His brow furrowed, a wince tightening his features as the pain meds dulled but didn’t erase the deep ache. His hand fumbled on the sheet, fingers twitching as if seeking something. A shallow cough rattled through him, his chest heaving, and he grimaced, eyes squeezing shut briefly before opening again, searching John’s face. “Everyone… okay?”

“Yeah,” John said, his throat so tight it hurt, his hand finally giving in, brushing Evan’s fingers, the touch tentative but grounding, warm against Evan’s clammy skin. Regulations be damned, he needed this, needed to know Evan was real, here, alive. “Thanks to you. Rodney’s whining, so he’s fine. Got a graze, but he’ll milk it for all it’s worth.”

Lorne’s chuckle was barely a breath, cut short by another cough, his hand tightening weakly on the sheet, knuckles whitening. “Good… that’s good,” he rasped, his voice fading, eyes heavy but still fixed on John, a faint warmth breaking through the pain and fog.

Silence fell, heavy with unspoken words. John leaned closer, his hand brushing Evan’s again, heart pounding with a mix of fear and hope. “Evan,” he said, his voice low, raw with everything he’d held back, the name a promise, a confession. “When you laid there, when I saw you…, I thought… God, it was like the world stopped, you know? Just—gone, blood everywhere, and I…” He swallowed, his eyes searching Evan’s, glistening with tears he didn’t bother to hide.

“I thought I’d lost you. And I can’t keep pretending that I—” he gestured between them, his hand trembling “—that I don’t care about you. That I don’t love you, Evan. I mean, hell, I’ve been dodging this forever, right? All those missions, those looks, those damn late-night talks over bad coffee, and I never said it. Should’ve said it ages ago, before the jungle, before you almost—” His voice cracked, a shaky breath escaping, “—before we almost lost everything.”

Evan’s breath hitched, his eyes widening as he searched John’s face for truth, for certainty. His heart raced, hope warring with fear, joy at hearing words he’d dreamed of, but never dared to hope for. “John,” he said, his voice soft, hesitant, “you sure? The regs… Atlantis… it’s a lot to risk.”

“Screw the regs,” John said, his voice fierce, warm fingers curling gently around Evan’s, careful not to jostle him. “I almost lost you, Evan. I’m done wasting time. I don’t care about the fallout—I care about you.” His voice cracked, his eyes locked on Evan’s, open and unguarded, every wall he’d built torn down by the fear of losing him.

Evan’s lips parted, hope and joy shining in his eyes, tempered by a flicker of fear, and he squeezed John’s hand, the gesture stronger than his voice, a spark of his dry humour breaking through. “Took you long enough,” he rasped, voice soft but warm, a smile curving his lips, his blue eyes bright with something new, something free.

John laughed, a shaky, relieved sound, joy flooding him. He leaned closer, touching his forehead against Evan’s and cupping his cheek, the world shrinking to just them, the monitors’ soft beeps fading away.

“Yeah, I’m a slow learner sometimes,” he murmured, breath warm against Evan’s skin. Their eyes locked, the world fading—monitors, infirmary, Atlantis, all dissolving. John leaned in, his lips meeting Evan’s in a soft, tentative kiss, warm and trembling, a confession sealed in touch. It deepened, a surge of longing and relief, Evan’s hand weakly gripping John’s, anchoring him, the kiss a promise of everything they’d hoped for.

They parted, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling, hearts racing. Evan studied John’s features, intent on committing every detail to memory. He swallowed, his throat working, a flicker of vulnerability crossing his face as he gathered the strength to speak. “John,” he whispered, “I love you too. Every sketch I drew, every time I caught you looking back, every mission I followed you into—I was too damn scared to say it, thought I’d never get the chance.” His smile was faint but radiant, blue eyes shimmering with truth.

John’s breath caught, a fresh wave of relief and joy crashing through him, lips curving into a soft smile. “You’re gonna make me look bad, saying it better than I did,” he couldn’t help but tease. His hand slid to Evan’s neck, fingers tracing the skin gently, his smile soft, unguarded. “You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion, his teary eyes shimmering with love.

Evan’s smirk returned, faint but real, his hand holding John’s tightly. “Good,” he rasped, voice warm despite the pain, blue eyes steady. “Wouldn’t want to.” He pulled John closer, their hands entwining even more, a quiet laugh escaping as he nuzzled against John’s cheek, the gesture small but intimate. “Stay,” he murmured, voice soft, vulnerable, a plea wrapped in affection.

“Always,” John said, voice firm, settling beside the bed, their hands still clasped, his thumb stroking Evan’s hand slowly. He leaned in again, pressing a gentle kiss to Evan’s forehead, lingering, the warmth of the touch grounding them both. They sat in silence, foreheads touching, breaths steady, the infirmary’s soft beeps a backdrop to their newfound truth, a fragile but fierce beginning.

---

The mission debrief was a gruelling ordeal, stretching painfully long in Atlantis’s briefing room, the air thick with tension and exhaustion. Elizabeth sat at the head of the table, her questions sharp yet measured, her green eyes scanning both teams—sans the Atlantis’s second-in-command—as she pieced together the chaos of M4X-927. “We need to understand how the ambush was set,” she said, her voice steady but laced with concern, her pen pausing over her notepad.

Across from her, Rodney was in rare form, his laptop glowing as he waved his hands, data streams flickering as he ranted about the hybrid device they’d barely glimpsed before their capture. “It’s a bloody masterpiece of engineering—part organic, part crystalline, probably a ZPM derivative! If I’d had ten more minutes, we’d be rewriting power dynamics in Pegasus!” His voice pitched higher, face flushed, oblivious to the team’s weary glares.

Reed and Stevens, still sporting bruises, traded dark quips to cope—Reed’s accent thick as he muttered, “Next time, I’m packing a flamethrower for that jungle.” Stevens grunted, his squint deepening. “Or a bigger knife.” Coughlin, his broken nose bandaged, spoke softly, gratitude in his eyes. “Major Lorne took the worst of it. We’re here because of him.” Teyla sat poised, her calm a quiet anchor, though her fingers tightened around her cup when John’s XO’s injuries were mentioned. Ronon, leaning against the wall, said little, his nod to Coughlin a show of acknowledgement.

Sheppard stood at the room’s edge, arms crossed, his jaw tight, hazel eyes fixed on the table. He spoke sparingly, his drawl clipped, his focus on the team’s survival, but his thoughts were with Evan, recovering in the infirmary. The weight of leadership pressed hard—every decision, every risk, his to bear—but Evan’s sacrifice had cut deeper, a reminder of what he stood to lose. He caught Teyla’s concerned glance but deflected it with a tight smile, his hand brushing the sketchpad in his pocket, Evan’s gift to him, now a talisman.

Later, John escaped to the balcony, Atlantis’s spires gleaming under a starry sky, the ocean below whispering secrets in cool, salted air. He gripped the railing, knuckles white, his thoughts running mile a minute. Evan was recovering, still tethered to monitors, his sketchpad—left on the bedside table—open to an unfinished drawing. John had glimpsed it earlier: a rough pencil sketch of the gate room, his own silhouette in the foreground, leaning casually, a quiet confession in graphite.

In the infirmary, life pulsed on. Carson checked Evan’s chart, his voice soft but firm as he adjusted the IV. “You’re a stubborn one, Major, but you’re mending. Don’t go undoing my work.” Evan managed a weak smirk, voice hoarse. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Doc.” Carson’s eyes crinkled, but he lingered, his hand on Evan’s shoulder a paternal anchor. “You scared us, lad. Rest now.”

In the following days, the infirmary experienced an ongoing flow of visitors. Evan’s team trickled steadily into the infirmary. Reed sprawled in a chair, his wiry frame relaxed but his sharp eyes warm with relief, his Boston accent carrying a playful edge. “Gotta admit, Major, you pulled off that whole ‘hero’ thing without breaking a sweat. Almost jealous.” His grin softened the words, his voice catching slightly, betraying the fear he’d felt.

Stevens stood near the door, his broad shoulders squared, his gravelly voice steady but heavy with respect. “You took the heat for us, sir. That’s a debt we won’t forget.” Coughlin, his arm in a sling, leaned against the wall, his stocky frame weary but his rare smile genuine, a silent nod conveying more than words could.

Parrish lingered at the foot of the bed, lanky and fidgeting, his sandy hair falling into his eyes as he adjusted his glasses. “I, uh, brought you a holo-image of the gate room,” he said, holding out a small crystal device, its surface shimmering with a captured view of Atlantis’s heart. “Thought it’d remind you of home, not… that place.” His voice wavered, and Evan’s throat tightened, guilt gnawing at him—he should’ve shielded them better. “Means a lot, Doc,” he rasped, taking the device, its faint glow comforting in his palm.

Teyla visited next, her presence a quiet balm. She sat gracefully, her necklace beads clicking softly as she leaned forward, eyes warm. “You fought bravely, Major,” she said, voice rich with Athosian cadence. “Your team is safe because of you.” She placed a small woven charm on the table, its threads vibrant. “For strength,” she murmured, her hand brushing his, a silent prayer. Evan’s throat tightened, his nod small but grateful.

Ronon loomed in the doorway later, his bulk filling the space, cheek still bandaged. He didn’t sit, just leaned against the wall, arms crossed, dark eyes assessing Evan. “You’re tougher than you look, Lorne,” he grunted, a rare half-smile tugging his lips. “Good thing, too.” He tossed a small, polished stone onto the bed—smooth, etched with a Satedan rune. “Keep it. Means ‘survivor.’” Evan’s fingers closed around it, his voice rough. “Thanks, Ronon.” Ronon nodded, a silent vow to watch his back, then left as quietly as he’d come.

Rodney stormed in later, a whirlwind of agitation, a tablet tucked under one arm, the other hand brandishing a small, battered chronometer—Evan’s old wristwatch, its face cracked from a mission years ago, a nagging reminder of time he’d never fixed. “I repaired it!” McKay announced, thrusting the watch forward, his tone a mix of smug pride and poorly veiled concern.

“The gears were a mess, and don’t get me started on the water damage—honestly, Lorne, how do you break a chronometer this badly? Took me hours to recalibrate.” His rant was classic Rodney, but his eyes darted to Evan’s bandages, worry flickering beneath the bluster.

“You’re welcome, by the way. And stop throwing yourself at blasters! I’m the indispensable one here, you know.” His voice softened, almost an afterthought. “You’re… okay, right?” Evan’s lips twitched, a faint smirk breaking through his fatigue. “Getting there, McKay. Thanks for the fix.” Rodney huffed, muttering about “reckless heroics” as he turned to leave, but his backward glance was soft, a rare moment of vulnerability.

Elizabeth visited last, her presence commanding yet gentle. She stood by the bed, hands clasped, her voice warm but professional. “Major, I’m glad you’re with us. Heal quickly.” Her eyes softened, a rare vulnerability. Evan nodded, humbled, his voice quiet. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Days later, the infirmary was finally quieter, the bustle of post-mission chaos fading. Carson stood by Evan’s bed, checking his chart with a practiced eye, his voice soft but firm. “You’re a tough one, Major, but you’re cleared to go. Light duty only, mind you, or I’ll have you back here faster than you can say ‘Wraith.’”

Evan, propped up, his chest and shoulder still bandaged, managed a faint smirk, his blue eyes brighter despite the lingering pain. “No marathons, got it, Doc.” Carson’s eyes crinkled, his hand resting briefly on Evan’s shoulder. “You gave us a scare, lad. Take it slow.” He glanced at John, hovering by the door, and added, “And you, Colonel, make sure he behaves.”

John’s grin was lopsided, his gaze warm but shadowed with relief. “I’ll keep him in line, Carson.” Evan rolled his eyes, a weak chuckle escaping, though it cost him a wince, his hand pressing the bandages. Carson nodded, satisfied, and left them, his footsteps fading down the hall.

John stepped closer, his voice low, teasing but gentle. “Ready to ditch this place, Major?” Evan’s nod was slow, his movements careful as he eased off the bed, pain flickering across his face. John offered an arm, steady but unobtrusive, and Evan accepted, his grip firm despite his weakness. They moved slowly through Atlantis’s halls, the city’s hum a soothing backdrop, its crystal walls catching the soft glow of evening lights. Evan’s steps were measured, his breath catching occasionally, but John’s presence was a quiet anchor, his hand brushing Evan’s back when he faltered.

In Evan’s quarters, the door hissed shut, sealing them in a private world. The room was sparse but personal—a small canvas of a Pegasus nebula on the wall, a sketchpad on the desk, a few books stacked neatly. John helped Evan to the bed, easing him down, his touch lingering, careful not to jar his injuries. “You good?” he asked, voice soft, eyes carefully searching Evan’s face.

“Yeah,” Evan rasped, settling on the edge of the matters, his smile faint but real. “Better here than Carson’s prison.” His hand reached for John’s, fingers brushing, a tentative connection that sent warmth through them both.

John pulled a chair close, sitting so their knees nearly touched, his hand clasping Evan’s, thumb tracing slow circles over his knuckles. The silence was comfortable, if a bit heavy with their recent admissions, the confessions from the infirmary still fresh in their minds.

Evan shifted slightly, wincing as he reached into his pocket with his free hand, pulling out a small, polished Satedan stone, its surface etched with Ronon’s rune for ‘survivor.’ “Ronon gave me this earlier,” he said, voice low, holding it up for John to see, the stone catching the soft light. “Said I earned it.”

His fingers closed around it, his throat tight, blue eyes shadowed with guilt as they dropped to his lap. “Didn’t feel like surviving out there,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Thought I let you all down, getting caught in that trap.”

John’s grip tightened, his voice fierce but soft. “You didn’t. You saved them, Evan. Reed, Stevens, Coughlin, Parrish—they’re here because of you.” He leaned closer, his free hand lifting Evan’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “You’re the reason Rodney’s still here. Don’t carry that alone.” His hazel eyes were unguarded, steady and open, offering a quiet strength that asked for nothing in return.

Evan’s breath hitched, his smile fragile, a mix of gratitude and vulnerability. “You keep talking like that, John, I’m gonna lose my tough-guy rep,” he teased, voice hoarse, but his hand squeezed John’s, a lifeline in the quiet room. The humour was a shield, but his eyes betrayed the depth of his feeling, a longing that matched John’s own.

John’s chuckle was soft, his forehead brushing Evan’s, their breaths mingling. “Tough guy or not, you’re stuck with me,” he murmured, his hand sliding to cradle Evan’s neck, fingers threading through his short hair, careful of the bruises. “We’ve earned this, Evan. No more hiding.” Their eyes locked, Atlantis’s hum fading, the dangers of this galaxy a distant thought.

John tilted his head, his lips meeting Evan’s in a slow, deliberate kiss, warm and deep, a confession poured into every gentle press. Evan’s hand found John’s chest, fingers curling into his shirt, weak but grounding, the kiss a dance of relief and promise, each moment a reclamation of what they’d nearly lost.

They lingered close, foreheads gently touching, their breaths slow and even as the world faded away. John’s fingers traced a reassuring line along Evan’s neck, his voice low and intimate in the quiet space between them. “We’ve got time, Evan. No rush.” Evan’s lips curved, dimples showing, his blue eyes bright despite the pain. “Good. Not going anywhere.”

Both shifted, John helping Evan settle more comfortably, their movements slow, mindful of Evan’s injuries. Evan’s bed was larger than John’s, a nice perk of his quarters, its expanse inviting. “C’mere,” Evan rasped, tugging John’s hand, his voice soft but insistent. John hesitated, glancing at the injured man, but Evan’s quiet, “Please,” broke his resolve. He kicked off his boots, easing onto the bed beside Evan, careful not to jostle him.

Evan shifted, wincing but determined, curling into John’s side, his head resting on John’s shoulder, one arm draped across his chest. John wrapped an arm around him, hand resting on Evan’s back, fingers tracing lazy patterns over his shirt, the warmth of their closeness like a balm.

“You’re warm, Colonel” Evan murmured, his voice muffled against John’s neck, a faint smile in his tone. John’s chuckle vibrated through them, his lips brushing Evan’s temple, a soft kiss that lingered. “You’re not so bad yourself, Major.” They lay there, bodies pressed close, Evan’s breaths slowed, the rise and fall of his chest gradually syncing with the body beneath him, the quiet rhythm between them a rare moment of calm in the galaxy’s chaos.

John’s hand found Evan’s hair again, fingers combing gently, each touch a wordless promise. Evan tilted his head, catching John’s lips in another kiss, softer this time, unhurried, a shared breath that spoke of trust and tomorrows. John deepened it slightly, his hand cupping Evan’s face, thumb grazing his jaw, the kiss a haven they’d carved from pain.

They spent the evening wrapped in each other, trading quiet stories. Evan spoke of a childhood summer on his uncle’s farm, his voice slow, punctuated by small winces, but warm with memory—a calf he’d named Star, the smell of hay, the ache of long days. John listened, his heart swelling, then shared a tale of a surfing mishap on Earth, his free hand gesturing animatedly.

Their words wove a tapestry of their pasts, each revelation pulling them closer, Evan’s hand resting on John’s chest, John’s arm tightening around him. They laughed softly, kissed again—small, tender presses of lips, Evan’s hand sliding to John’s neck, John’s fingers brushing Evan’s cheek, each touch a spark in the quiet.

As night deepened, Evan’s eyes grew heavy, pain and fatigue tugging at him. John helped him settle, adjusting pillows, his touch gentle, lingering as he tucked the blanket around Evan. “Stay,” Evan murmured, voice soft, vulnerable, his hand catching John’s.

“Always,” John said, voice firm, settling back beside Evan, their bodies pressed close, legs tangled under the blanket. He pressed a kiss to Evan’s forehead, then another to his lips, slow and warm, Evan’s hand tightening weakly in his. They curled together, Evan’s head on John’s chest, John’s arm around him, fingers tracing soothing circles on his back. Their breaths synced, Atlantis’s soft hum a lullaby, the city’s spires glowing under alien stars, a silent guardian of their fragile, fierce love.