Date: 2012-10-26 04:14 pm (UTC)
stardrive_pilot: (Charming)
It still hasn't been all that long since the last time he stood in front of the ocean, but as a gust of wind brushes his face with the smell of salt, it's like he can feel the full distance between him and Atlantis. The last time he tasted a breeze that brought him right back to the beaches of his childhood, it was that last bright morning on Atlantis, standing out on the piers and saying one last goodbye before those damn ungrateful Ancients decided to pay them back for their help by booting them out of the city.

These aren't those endless, clear waters and they're not the waters of his childhood, either, but if he can't have the skies, the seas have always been a comfort.

He can't have Atlantis, and right now, he can't have the skies. As leader of SG-4, who knows when he'll get them back again? There's not a lot of call for F302 pilots offworld, and Earth and the battlecruisers have their own squadrons. Not a lot of chance of calling on the leader of SG-4 for the skills that got him in the program in the first place. Recon on the Ori is all well and good, but there's a war out there he needs to be fighting, and that's not his war anymore.

Tell the people whose lives it's ruined that it's not the guy who started it's responsibility anymore and see how that goes down.

None of these people have any idea of what's going on out there in the stars. That much, he's almost used to; a guy who does what he does can't expect the world to have any idea what it's being protected from, and that's a big part of the whole point, right? This beach, these people, the kids running over there laughing, the tanned beauties lounging on their towels, the old couple settling down with their books can be here, now, enjoying this moment because they know nothing about Wraith or Ori or Goa'uld.

Still, that's weird, because in Pegasus, there's almost nobody who hasn't lived their whole life in fear of the Wraith.

He's always been adaptable, but here it is: an alien world that was once his own.

There are surfers out there, catching the waves and weaving along them, spray flying as they cut in and out, sunlight scattering over the droplets like flying shards of shattered crystal. He can almost feel the water, almost feel the freedom, the exhilaration of liberation from the world that the surf holds out, enticing.

That's what he needs now, and that's why he's here, so he straightens, tugs at the board and finds a spot to dump his stuff.

The sand's warm and fine under feet more used to combat boots than its gentle massage, but the ground where he takes his first step over the tide line to where the sand is still a little damp is cool. He takes a moment on the edge of the water, where it curls in and laps at his feet once it's expended all its energy on the waves that draw the surfers here.

There's a guy riding a wave just out from where he's standing, running just ahead of the water as momentum fights the gravity that will inevitably make that perfect curve fall in on itself. The guy works the wave, his board skimming in and out and around, tracing an ephemeral path of white until the water gives in to gravity with a crash.

The guy rides it in, looking up and around as he draws closer, and John nods as his gaze drifts his way.

The guy's good.
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John Sheppard

October 2012

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