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John's been at the controls for the last six hours, which usually wouldn't be much of a problem. But they took some damage on the way out, a few bad hits that have McKay muttering, and the 'jumper systems keep trying to give him status updates. It's nothing too serious, and he'll get them through the 'gate all right, but the sheer number of little nothings means he has to concentrate. That's already difficult, what with McKay's running commentary on his repairs, and the reports constantly showing up on his screen, like somebody popping their head in every 13 minutes to yell "Yup! Still broke!" But it's the kids in the back that are what's really getting to him. Normally he likes to play chauffeur for little people; they always like him, and the way they react to flying can be funny, and sometimes throws him straight back to that feeling he got the first time he took a plane into the sky. This is different.
The first one started crying about 7 minutes in, and it seems like they've organized a duty roster worthy of Sergeant Campbell, 'cause there's been someone wailing behind him ever since, shrill howls amplified in the tight space of the 'jumper. He's pretty sure there's only four real babies on board, maybe another two old enough to try talking, and he knows there's at least one old enough to toddle. He knows this 'cause McKay freaked out when it stopped crying long enough to make a beeline for his knees, and then freaked again when it started back into that weird hiccupping yell that sounds like someone's shaking it. The adults are doing their best, but every time one kid starts up it sets somebody else off on a crying jag, and it's pretty clear from the glimpse he got as they shoved onboard that a lot of the adults are looking at screaming as a really good option too right now.
Teyla's in the back, doing her thing, nodding gravely as she listens to the group of older women, Martir and Hena and Teyvin, who've taken charge. They're still piecing together exactly what happened, and the Athosian first hand accounts will be useful, but it's more the fact that Teyla's with them that's important. Martir keeps touching her, and the ones who aren't close enough to touch are staring. That's fairly distracting too, and he has to keep resisting the urge to turn and stare as well, as if only the power of their collective gaze is keeping them together here, and he's falling down on the job. There's a lull between shrieks when two of the kids end up facing each other, and they start in on the wide-eyed stare-off that always seems to happen between babies suddenly confronted with someone not them but still baby-shaped.
The jumper starts waving at him about some issue with the targeting system's sensors, which is pretty much a moot point since he fried their weapons ports on a pass that made Ronon yelp. Behind him, the face-off is over and the kids are chortling at each other. Even that's loud, and he hears McKay say something under his breath. Probably just an "oh great", impossible to suppress for a guy for whom sarcasm is instinctive and about as remarkable as blinking. McKay's been making an effort actually, keeping the play-by-play inoffensive and, mostly, quiet, but it still makes John want to shut him up. There are more Athosians left than they expected to find, but not as many as they'd hoped for, and the look of frozen strength on Teyla's face is not a good one. She hasn't looked at any of the kids yet, not that John can tell, not that he's been watching, but then she's been busy. They won't know for sure who made it until they get back to Atlantis, get a full head-count from the other jumpers. He knows his own ship isn't as crowded as it could have been, and he makes an effort not to think about kids in masks, laughing at him.
One of the older kids starts singing, a big hit with the younger set apparently, who start shrieking and yelling, off tempo of course. Kids today and their music, he thinks, and almost smiles when McKay huffs right on cue. One of the older men is crying. He dismisses another prod by the jumper about internal temperature fluctuations (yeah, he's noticed) and adjusts their course to compensate for the failing port thruster, while Ronon shifts beside him to growl, "They're kids—they make noise," at McKay.
Ronon's been pretty quiet, and it must be really quiet if John's noticed a difference in the quality of his silence, but he's not exactly the guy who deals with that. Normally he'd pass it on to Teyla, but seeing as she's in the middle of a reunion with her entire presumed-lost-but-now-found civilization, well, that seems kind of insensitive to John, though he's honestly not even sure why or to who. One of the babies is crying again, the singing too much for her maybe, her dad jouncing her up and down on his shoulder, trying to stop the panting sobs that shouldn't be possible from such a tiny body. Then it stops. It all stops — the crying, the singing, Teyla's reassuring murmurs, the noise of 33 people shoved into one small space. It all stops.
The only sound is a soft cry from McKay, and John has one moment of pure nauseating horror, terrified he's screwed up and spaced them all, Teyla and babies and everyone, until he realizes he'd be sucked out too and also that that was one of McKay's happy sounds. When he speaks, his voice feels tight and low in his throat and Ronon looks at him wide-eyed.
"What the hell, McKay," he says, but McKay is oblivious in his oh-so-pleased with himself post-discovery bubble.
"Oh, nothing," says McKay, "I just reactivated the jumper's internal soundproofing system, which is impressive since I wasn't even sure we had soundproofing. It was surprisingly difficult actually, the sensor damage may be more extensive than..." It takes John a minute, but when he interrupts, he doesn't shout.
"Turn it off," he says.
McKay stops mid self-congratulatory infodump and his eyes suddenly match Ronon's, whose whole body is tense next to John, watching him. McKay recovers, or covers, anyway, coming back all bluster and bravado.
"What? You have been conscious for the past 8 hours right? I mean, I'm happy we found them and all that, nice to see familiar faces not dead for once, but seriously it is like hell in there. Did you hear the kid just saying ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma-ma over and over again? Or the howling one with the cough? Noises like that should be outlawed, you could interrogate Wraith with decibels that high..."
"Put some damn kleenex in your ears if it bothers you so much," John says roughly, "I need to concentrate." He turns back to the controls. He has to focus if he's going to get them home. That port drive is worse than he'd thought, and he has to correct again, feeling like the guy with the sticky-wheel cart at the supermarket.
"I...yeah, sort of the point," says McKay, throwing an incredulous look at John, like maybe he hasn't heard the last 6 and a half hours of contained riot, but he turns the whatever off. The noise of the Athosians rushes back just as quickly as they'd vanished, and John feels Ronon next to him un-tense, feels his own muscles relax, and keeps flying.
Later, after Ronon's pushed past him to get to the firing range (and there's a coping mechanism John can really get behind — none of this touchy-feely talking crap) and he's hung around long enough to see that Teyla and Keller and Lorne can deal with 178 malnourished and traumatized Athosians much better without him, McKay stops by his quarters. It's getting to be a regular thing, he thinks, as McKay walks in and remarks awkwardly, "Teyla's busy being strong for her people, so I thought I'd come see what you're doing." John waves his comic book at him, and sits up.
"Reading," he says. "You don't have stuff to do?" McKay ignores him, arms crossed over his broad chest, and shoulders tight, so John sighs, sits up.
"That was good work today," he starts and McKay blurts, "You don't have to do penance, you know," and that's so wrong John has to stare at him. This could be what boggling feels like, he thinks. It's probably unattractive.
When he shuts his mouth, McKay's still standing in the middle of his room, looking horrified at himself. John's really not sure what to do with this. Thousands of people are dead all over the galaxy, Ronon's entire world has been wiped out or perverted by the wraith, more than half of the Athosians are about to be declared dead, and when Teyla pressed her head to his, he could feel the soft, warm curve of her belly against his body. He wonders idly how long it would take for Keller to come in with the sedatives if he were to start screaming at McKay, right now, like a child. He imagines the look on Rodney's face, remembers Teyla's as she held Martir's hand, and stands instead.
McKay's watching him like he was earlier in the jumper, eyes wide and lips in a thin, unhappy line, so John crosses to him and presses a kiss to his mouth, his fingers curling at his side. When he pulls away, Rodney looks a little reassured, and he would look it even more if John could speak, hold Rodney's face between his hands and tell him that of course he doesn't blame himself. He wants to, wants to hear the reassuring intake of breath, and the exhalation. It's important to know where your people are, where they stand. Instead, John kisses him again softly, lets his fingers brush the line of Rodney's jaw, steps back.
"That sound proofing will really come in handy," he says. "You snore on the way back from missions sometimes, and Ronon's been making noise about smothering you with your own tac-vest."