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lilyhargraveFandom: Stargate Atlantis/Stargate SG-1 fusion
Rating: NC-17/Explicit
Pairing: John Sheppard/Anansi the Goa'uld (OC), future likely: John Sheppard/Rodney McKay, John Sheppard/Cameron Mitchell
Tags & Warnings: Slash, canon-typical violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Goa'uld (Stargate), Action/Adventure, Made-up Goa'uld biology, Taking liberties with canon, because canon is inconsistent and doesn't make sense sometimes, I invented one (1) good Goa'uld for this, Goa'uld!John, Sharing a Body, Consensually, Internalized Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, John gets to get over it, WIP, No idea when or if I'll finish it, Start at your own risk!, Conquering the galaxy, Politics, More tags to be added as applicable
Summary: In the early days of the Stargate Program, one John Sheppard is recruited into the SGC.
His first mission on a gate team goes catastrophically wrong.
A/N: Another chapter? Yeah, let's do another chapter, :) Getting more used to the dw fic posting process again, too!
Previous chapter: Chapter 3
Travelling through space on an alien spaceship going at FTL speeds where no man has gone before with an alien parasite clamped to your brain stem doesn't sound like it'd be boring, but it actually is.
Apparently, other people think so, too, because there's a few games loaded on the ship's computer, mostly puzzle games, but the interface is in Goa'uld and even with his personal snake translating, it gives John a headache after a while.
John, he hears eventually, amused, gets something like a mental nudge. He blinks, realizes he's been staring out at the passing colours of hyperspace for who knows how long, his chin pillowed on his arms, folded on the console. Go and get some rest.
John checks his watch, and wow, he's been awake for almost eighteen hours. Still... He hesitates, memories of the Kowalsky files floating through his mind.
I'm an adult symbiote– I don't need to wait until you're unconscious if I wanted to force a meld.
Yeah, okay, John concedes the point– it's not like he hasn't had that demonstrated already. So he climbs up and stretches out on the padded floor, shifts until he finds a reasonably comfortable position that doesn't put too much pressure on his back or neck– curled up on his side, the pack under his head for lack of a pillow.
Good morning, he's greeted when he wakes up again, and he just about resists the urge to roll onto his back, groans and runs a hand over his face, stubble scraping along his palm.
Great. Here I was hoping that was a dream.
I'm afraid not.
John staggers to his feet, rolls his shoulders with a wince. His back and neck feel sore, strained. Not as sore as they probably should, but it's not pleasant. He makes his way to the wash room, hesitates with his hands at his fly.
Don't look, he demands.
The Goa'uld snorts, but says: If you insist.
Instead, while John relieves his protesting bladder, he feels the strain in his shoulders ease, feels tight muscles relax.
Is that you?
Yes. You should feel better momentarily.
Yeah. He hesitates for a moment, then adds: Thanks.
You're welcome.
John finishes up, washes his hands, takes a resigned drink from the tab. How far out are we?, he asks as he throws some water on his face to wake up.
Another forty-five hours or so.
John could be wrong, but...: You sound tired. Did you get any sleep? Wait, do you sleep?
We do. Not as much as you, since we don't have to sustain the same body mass, but we do need to rest our minds for short periods of time. I suspect that's why we've developed the ability to render you unconscious, he adds dryly.
Right. Wouldn't want the host being able to run around unsupervised.
Exactly.
So did you? Sleep, I mean?
No. There's a brief hesitation, then a sigh. I dare not. The instinct to meld is too strong. I don't trust myself to hold back if I allow my mind to relax.
Uhm. John's pretty sure he doesn't like the sound of that. The hair at the back of his neck stands up as a shiver works down his spine. But you don't want to do that, right?
I am inside an extremely compatible host. I most certainly want to. However, I won't, not without your consent. Don't worry. I can hold on until we reach my home.
Glad to hear it. But just in case: what happens if you don't?
I will undo the meld.
Like you did before you jumped me?
Yes.
But? Because John can tell there's a but. Otherwise, the Goa'uld would hardly be so determined to not do it in the first place.
He hears another mental sigh. But there is always a risk. There's a reason we don't frivolously switch hosts, and pick them with care. Entering a new host is a gamble– if there's incompatibility, a failed meld can kill a Goa'uld– which usually kills the host, too. We naturally release toxins when we die and withholding them takes effort as you might imagine. Similarly, undoing a successful meld without death or severe damage for either host or symbiote is difficult, time-consuming, and risky. I didn't need to worry about brain damage or shock when I separated from Jamahl– he was already dying. My biggest challenge was to regrow my own structures before his failed to the point that he couldn't sustain me. It's a different matter altogether if I had to undo an accidental meld with you. The voice in his head turns grim. Don't worry. I give you my word that I would remove myself from you without doing you any undue harm.
Even if it kills you? John asks, and if he'd said it out loud, he would've made it sound flippant, but in his head, it's deadly serious.
Yes.
You're sure taking this consent thing seriously.
It's my... anchor. He must've felt John's lack of understanding, because he continues: I am Goa'uld. I'm as prone as any of the others to arrogance, to cruelty, to violence. I use the sarcophagus when I need to. I can heal the resulting damage in my host's brain, and I rely on my host to tell me when I cross a line. Do you believe the others are aware of their own insanity? They believe themselves to be generous, merciful, while they throw thousands of Jaffa lives away on petty squabbles and crush worlds into abject slavery. The fact that I was born sane enough to see the horror of their actions doesn't protect me from going the same way during my lifetime. It's happened to plenty of my siblings. This is why I've decided that I will never take an unwilling host, no matter how necessary I might think it is. It is the only way I can think of to keep myself accountable.
And if you took an unwilling host...
How could I ask him to tell me when I was going wrong when I disregard the initial wrong I did him by taking him against his will? How could I count on the advice of someone I had to keep suppressed to keep them from harming either me or themselves in an attempt to get rid of me?
John swallows. Yeah, I see what you mean. And you want me to play moral compass for you?
Yes. You have a sharp mind and a strong will. What's more, you know what I am– you didn't grow up indoctrinated to worship my kind. You will have absolutely no compunction telling me I'm wrong. In addition, you're young, healthy, and precisely what I like in a host. Not to mention, delightfully compatible. All in all, considering the chance nature of our meeting, you're rather disgustingly perfect.
John snorts, he can't help it, because “perfect” isn't something he's been called often. Or ever, that he can remember.
Look, I suppose I'm flattered, he replies, but... I'm not a saint. I've done things I'm not proud of.
So have we all, I believe. I'm not asking you to be a saint– I would just like you to be what you are: a good man. I'm pretty sure I'm still sane enough to recognize one when I share his brain.
Yeah, John's not so sure about that.
You want to fight the Goa'uld to protect your people, no? Not for power, or riches, but because you believe that people should be free to live their lives in peace, no?
Well, yeah, John agrees. That's... pretty elementary, isn't it?
The chuckle he gets is a little pained. It's something I might need reminding of, some day.
Well... I'm still not signing on, here, John points out.
Of course. The choice is yours. I won't keep you from your home.
Home. The word hits him oddly. Where is home? Oh, Earth, sure, but... a whole planet is just too big to really qualify as “home”. And it's not the apartment he's been sleeping in, that he's stashed his stuff in, since the divorce. It's not the house he shared with Nancy whenever he wasn't on missions, not anymore– and he's not sure if it ever was. And it's certainly not the cold, sprawling monstrosity he grew up in, and that he hasn't set foot in in over ten years. The SGC bunker, maybe– the closest it can be, after only a few months.
John suddenly realizes how little there is that ties him to his planet. He's divorced, estranged from his family, and he has no close friends– too much moving, too many classified ops he can't talk to anyone about. Oh, he has some acquaintances, sure, guys he'll go for a drink with if they happen to be in the same state at the same time. He'd thought maybe the guys on his team could become friends, in time. The closeness of SG-1 is pretty legendary around the SGC. But they're dead, and he mourns them, sure, but they've only been assigned to the same team yesterday, and he's only vaguely gotten to know them during training. So, no, he doesn't really feel it, their loss, except in a general sense.
Yet you still wish to return?
Well... I can't just up and vanish. I need to report what happened to them, bring back the information you gave me... I have a job to do.
Ah. Duty.
John frowns a little. He hadn't thought of it like that, but... yeah. He supposes it's duty.
Also, still don't really see the appeal of spending the rest of my life with a snake in my head who can take over my body whenever he pleases, he points out.
It would be a long life, the Goa'uld answers, centuries, millennia even. You would never get sick, and only age very slowly. And you would have the opportunity to fight for the freedom of your people on a far more... even footing. We would plot and scheme to set the Goa'uld against each other, sabotage their plans wherever we can, and sometimes, when it's unavoidable, battle them openly. I have Jaffa, I have ships, I have planets– not many, by Goa'uld standards, not enough to make me a System Lord. Not yet. We can foster dissent and rebellion among the humans and the Jaffa– there is growing unrest I plan to take advantage of.
It's a lot more than Earth has, John thinks. He knew they were laughably outmatched– but it's a lot more real with the vague impressions he's caught from the Goa'uld in his head. Still...
As I said: the choice is yours. I'm honoured you're considering it at all, and grateful you've assisted me this far.
Yeah, well... I needed a way off that rock, too. So, John thinks determinedly, because what do you do with a polite Goa'uld?– you said your name was Anansi, right? Where's that from, then? Don't think I'm familiar with that particular god...
You expect to recognize all the Goa'uld? He sounds amused.
Well, you stole them from us, right? John asks. Ra came to Earth and grabbed himself the first human host and then you guys set up shop as whatever god gave you an in with the locals, no?
There's a moment of silence, of surprise, and then a delighted: You are Tau'ri?
Well, yeah, John replies, confused. Obviously? You're in my head, how does that surprise you?
You do not think of yourself or your world as Tau'ri. You only call it 'Earth'- I was unaware that this is the name you now use. And as I have not set foot on it in over a thousand years, your memory images don't tell me much. I was aware you were from a planet of above-average technological advancement that had not suffered under the Goa'uld recently, and that you have just started exploring through the Chappa'ai. I was not aware it was the First World.
Oh, okay. Yeah, apparently it is. So, who're you supposed to be?
I took the name from one of the gods of a bright, beautiful tribal people– a god of stories who defeats his enemies by wit and cunning rather than force, Anansi the Spider. It suited me far better than one of those dreadful martial figures, and it made people far more likely to sit around a camp fire with me and tell me their stories.
You actually hung out with the locals?
Yes. I have many fond memories of my time on Tau'ri– the times I did not have to suffer the company of my kind, in any case.
And John can feel it, a sort of warm glow, feint images of laughing, scantily-clad people, teeth flashing white against dark skin gleaming in the firelight, gesturing broadly with their enthusiastic tales, while the sky is black with diamond-sharp stars overhead.
So... Africa? He ventures.
The triangular continent south-west of Ra's domain? Yes. The west coast of it– a beautiful place, full of life.
The only things John's really seen of Africa are desert and battlefields, but then that's true of most continents he's been on– well, the deserts are optional.
There is much war on your world these days?
Yeah, John admits.
A pity. It is a lovely planet.
It is, John agrees. One they probably should treat better, come to think of it.
Speaking of fighting– who was going at it back on P3-X778 anyway? And why?
Herur'ur and Ba'al– there was a rumour of an ancient treasure of some sort hidden in the city.
So they... bomb the hell out of the place?
They would rather destroy it than have it fall into the hands of another.
Okay, yeah, that sounds pretty typical, John concedes. But... we sent a MALP. Everything looked fine– empty. How did it go to shit in the twenty minutes between the telemetry and our coming through the stargate?
It sounds like your timing was very unfortunate. The first troops must have arrived mere minutes after your probe.
Great, John sighs. And why were you there?
The Goa'uld echoes his sigh. I had heard of the rumour and Ba'al's interest, and I wanted to ascertain whether he found anything, and if he did, whether it was anything of significance. I didn't expect the arrival of Herur'ur.
There's bitter regret laced through the thought.
Um... Sorry about Jamahl?
Thank you. Such a silly, pointless thing to lose him over.
John knows the feeling.
What was he like?
Jamahl? John gets an echo of emotion, a warm rush of affection (and you can't fake that, right?) Oh, he was... a great companion. He had such a generous spirit– as you might expect, since he agreed to share his body with me. He was always laughing, full of good cheer. He brought happiness wherever he went. Only the most miserable and cruel of personalities could dislike him. John catches a glimpse of visual memory to go along with it, of a handsome man, dark-haired and deeply-tanned, a short beard framing a bright laugh, corners of striking grey eyes crinkling. There's something weird about it, until John realizes he's seeing it like he would in a mirror, rather than an outside perspective.
We should have had far longer together. Anansi's silent for a moment. Sometimes I do wonder if it's worth it. If I didn't care, losing a host would not hurt so much.
Yeah, John has no answer for that. He's... he's not good with this sort of thing, never knows what to say.
I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. Your compassion is appreciated.
Yeah, well. I asked, John says, shrugs a little.
Come. We still have some forty hours or so to while away. Let's see if you remember what I showed you yesterday about flying this ship, how about it?
Okay, John agrees, and makes his way to the cockpit.
Re: Yay!
Date: 16 May 2025 04:40 (UTC)