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"You're not dead yet," John said, pressing a hand where a cold sharp pain lanced through his chest on every breath.
The monster -- creature -- Wraith, that was what McKay called it -- leaned over him and pulled its lips back. John thought it was a smile. "Neither are you. John Sheppard. You smell," and the Wraith flared its nostrils, leaning close, "nothing like the sky, and I know you." It's eyes were crusted at the corners, as if with sand. "We fell," he said, and nodded once, as if imparting a truth.
"We sure did, buddy." John grabbed hold of the Wraith's arm with his free hand and used it to pull himself to sitting. He would have fallen over again, except for the Wraith pulling him to lean against its chest. He figured it liked his body heat. The cell they were in -- the cage -- was bitterly cold. "Tell me again what we'll do when we're free?"
The loud sandpaper rasp was the sound of the Wraith laughing. "I had a vision of the stars, John Sheppard, and of dying under them."
John tried to laugh along, but he hurt too fucking badly. His eyes watered, and he was through thinking life was unfair. He was ready for it to just stop, any time now. "Okay," he said, working hard to keep his voice from shaking. "Do it to me again. This time take as much as you need, damn it."
"You are so good at falling," the Wraith said in John's ear, arms snaking around him in an embrace, and then one hand pressed to his chest and John screamed.