A/N: I am supposed to be writing my midterm essay but... For King and Country was such an amazingly inspiring masterpiece of an episode... The scene between Helen and John was so powerful, it spoke volumes about their relationship (past and present) without a single word. I dedicate this poor piece of writing to James Thorpe, who wrote the original scene, and Amanda Tapping, who continues to touch and amaze me by her performance. I've been reading a lot of Virginia Woolf recently, so I apologize if it's too much stream of consciousness...

Perchance to Dream

It was hot and humid in the room, yet Helen Magnus was shivering and her white tunic was sticky with cold sweat, as she reached to feel John's forehead for what felt like the hundredth time. She sighed; at least the fever was finally breaking. She needed him to give her answers, she needed him to live.

Helen took in his limp body as he lay there, sleeping. He looked so… worn, so fragile despite his imposing physique (like a marionette after its strings have been cut), so… tranquil. More like he used to be… lifetimes ago. Before…

She took his hand (and it was still enormous, still made her own look like a child's) and absently caressed his knuckles with her thumb as she peered at his face.

Helen forced herself to ignore the dark shadows under his eyes, the skin tightly stretched over his cheekbones, the hairless skull. He looked older than she remembered; there were more thin lines lining the eyes, now closed, that once regarded her with such tenderness. There were several scars, some almost invisible, whitened by time, others newer; a relatively new one, still pink, threaded across the right side of his face. She traced it carefully with her fingers and cupped his cheek.

Yes, he looked older, but then… so did she. Despite her longevity, Helen knew she was growing older. On the rare occasion when she would allow herself the time to study her face in the mirror, Helen would notice the barely visible wrinkles that were beginning to show around her eyes and the corners of her lips; the weariness that would sometimes creep into her (still) bright blue eyes.

Yes, she had been aware that in the last few years, she seemed to have aged in appearance more than in the past fifty. So much had changed in such a short time, she considered. John, whom she had believed to be dead (the fleeting memory of her shooting him caused a shiver to run up her spine), had returned, only to disappear again, The Cabal… Ashley (a sharp sting of pain in her chest)… her father and now Adam.

With Adam all of it was coming back. All of the dark secrets, everything she had ever hoped to forget was coming back to haunt her. Adam had lost a daughter but so had she. Ashley (just thinking the name hurt) had been ripped away from her but she managed to survive. She had buried her grief deep within her mind like she had so many (too many, it felt) times before. And she knew she would have to do it again. Her work, everything depended on it. On her.

And all of a sudden, Helen shivered again. She was so cold, felt so alone… So… old.

She lifted John's arm and lay down beside him, resting her head on his arm and draping the other over her body, fingers still laced together. The familiar unfamiliarity of his body against hers, his feverish heat spreading through her… Although limp, his body still felt like a rock; a giant, steady rock against her small, shivering form.

Memories flooded her. Too many images at once. Images of a different time, a different life. A time when they were just Helen and John. Of a time that had passed…

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed.

She shifted herself a little closer (if that was possible) and allowed her body to relax.

And for a moment (a moment out of time), she could even believe…