The Color of Wheat
Oct. 2nd, 2011 10:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stringertheoryTitle: The Color of Wheat
Rating: PG
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Characters: Teyla Emmagen, John Sheppard
Word Count: 7565
Categories: AU, drama, angst, action/adventure
Spoilers/Warnings: For the series. No warnings. Slight AU.
Setting of each segment: I. Between "The Long Goodbye" (2.17) and early S3, II. Immediately after the events of "Common Ground" (3.7), III. After "Sunday" (3.17), between then and early S4, IV. During "Doppleganger" (4.4), V. During "Quarantine" (4.13), VI. The end of S4/beginning of S5, VII. Mid-S5.
Summary: Vignettes of moments between Teyla and John.
"I get something," the fox said, "because of the color of wheat." - Le Petit Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
I. Between “The Long Goodbye” (2.17) and early S3
Teyla woke and dressed in the grey light of early morning. Casting a rueful glance at her broken tea kettle, she plucked a small leather bag from a shelf and headed out into the dim hallway. Atlantis was quiet as she walked through the halls, and Teyla allowed the calmness of the slumbering city to seep into her.
The dining hall was empty when she arrived, but sounds from the kitchen told her that the staff were already up and working on breakfast. A few of them glanced around when she entered, but no one bothered her as she helped herself to a mug and filled it with hot water. Quickly leaving the noise and bustle of meal preparation behind, she crossed the dining hall and took a seat near one of the large windows.
There, in the growing light, she prepared her morning tea.
The familiar scent filled the air around her, the warmth seeping through the cup and into her fingers like sunlight on skin. As she took her first sip, she heard footsteps approach. Glancing around, she found John smiling across the table at her. She smiled back, warmth filling her from the inside as well.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning,” he returned, his voice still gravelly with sleep. He pulled out a chair and gestured to it, looking at her. “May I join you?”
“Please,” she said, and he sat down.
Sniffing the air, he eyed the cup in her hands. “Athosian tea?”
Teyla nodded. “Like that we shared the first time you came to Athos.”
“Seems like ages ago,” John replied, his eyes growing distant.
“Yes it does.” The first true streaks of sunlight came through the window, coloring the side of his face gold, turning the other side to shadow. Teyla hesitated, then set her mug on the table and pushed it over to him. “Will you take tea with me this morning?” she asked.
John looked surprised for a second, but smiled crookedly as he picked up the mug and took a sip. His expression turned thoughtful as he handed the cup back over, and Teyla cocked her head in question.
“I may prefer coffee,” he said, “but that is still, hands down, the best tea I've ever had.”
Teyla smiled. “Athosian tradition says those who drink it stay young.”
“Seems to be working for you,” John replied, an all too innocent expression on his face. Teyla gave him a bland look and he leaned back in his chair, grinning. “A lot of cultures on Earth swear by tea, too,” he said. “That's a tradition I can at least understand.”
Teyla frowned at his words. “I take it there are Athosians traditions you do not,” she said.
“Most of them I do,” he said quickly, “but, I admit, there are some I don't quite get.” He shifted forward to lean on his elbows against the table and making a vague gesture toward his face. “Like the whole touching of the foreheads thing.”
“Yes?” Teyla raised her eyebrows.
“What's it about? I've seen the Athosians do it with each other, but you don't do it with your trading partners.”
“That is because it is customary to default to the traditions of the people with whom you are trading,” Teyla advised. “We do, at times, use our traditional greetings and goodbyes when people come to us to trade.”
“When in Rome, huh?” John nodded in understanding, though he still frowned. “What does it mean, though?”
Teyla sighed a little and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, trying to find the words that would adequately explain the significance of the gesture. It was an action that said much through little, an action that was so intricately woven into the history and ways of the Athosians that much of its meaning was lost in translation. Among her people, the gesture was known from childhood, understood intuitively and used without question. Such a thing was difficult to describe to outsiders, and all the simplest words—the Athosian words—that could be used to do so would require explanations of their own.
Teyla sipped her tea as she contemplated how best to explain.
“It can be indicative of many things,” she began at last, “from respect to gratitude to love. In some ways, it is tied directly to the early nomadic life of the Athosian people, and how often that lifestyle led to them encountering strangers.” She held out her free hand, palm open. “Placing your hands on the other person's shoulders shows that you have no weapons, that you are not an enemy.”
“I've seen you fight,” John cut in. “You are a weapon.”
Teyla ignored him, though a smile played at the corner of her mouth. “It can also be seen as a gesture of support and goodwill. Bowing your head, closing your eyes—these actions make you vulnerable. To do so while standing so close to another person shows trust and acceptance.”
“Acceptance?”
“Of one another,” Teyla said. “You do not allow anyone that close to you that you have not accepted—as a friend, a family member, or at the very least, an ally.”
“And touching the heads together?”
“That is perhaps the most difficult part to explain. It is a remnant of the ancient beliefs.”
She fell quiet momentarily, gathering her thoughts. They traded the tea again, John taking a longer drink this time than before, letting the silence stretch between them. As he passed the cup back over, Teyla continued, her words stilted at first as she worked at phrasing the meaning properly.
“When you are close enough to someone that your foreheads can touch, you breathe the same air,” she explained. “You share their breath, their life, as if it were your own. To do so is an affirmation of life in general—and a promise to protect it—as well as an act of thankfulness for your life and for the life of the one with whom you share the gesture.”
John nodded, his eyes dark.
“It is a symbol of harmony, intimacy -” she waved a hand ineffectually “- of close bonds.”
She passed John the mug and thought about their first encounter, the first Athosian greeting she had shared with him. He watched her over the rim of the mug as he sipped. As he gave the tea back, he grinned.
“That explains why you haven't included Rodney yet,” he said.
Teyla frowned.
John's grin widened fractionally before he adopted a solemn expression. “Nobody has harmony with McKay.”
Teyla laughed and shook her head, turning to stare out of the now brightly lit window. Even with her eyes closed and the sun warm on her face, she could feel the heat radiating from John, where he sat across the table from her. It made her smile. They continued to pass the tea back and forth, staying to talk after it was gone, watching their shadows grow shorter as the sun rose in the sky.
II. Immediately after the events of “Common Ground” (3.7)
John was alive and she knew it—she had seen it—but a part of her still couldn't believe.
She had watched him die, had watched life drain from him, minutes and hours and years slipping away as the seconds passed. So when they found him whole and healthy and young again, that image alone was not enough to quell the cold, hollow feeling that had been born inside her with the first footage of the Wraith feeding. Standing in the back of the puddle jumper with him, walking to the infirmary with him, hearing him talk and having him answer her questions was not enough. From the way Rodney and Ronon acted—following him like shadows, watching him with sharp, wary gazes—she knew they felt the same way.
The hovering had finally gotten to John, and he ordered them out of the infirmary after Carson had to ask Rodney to move out of the way for the third time. Respecting John's wishes over her own, Teyla had retreated, returning her gear and cleaning up to kill time. Then she headed back through the city to stalk a corridor that led from the infirmary to both John's quarters and the dining hall.
When he finally came into sight around the corner, she stopped dead in her pacing. He stared at her in surprise, only a small hitch in his stride giving away that he had been startled at seeing her prowling the hall. Relief, no weaker than what had first flooded through her when they found him alive, pulsed in her veins again. She needed to touch him, to feel him solid and steady and alive, and she walked toward him as he approached. Before he even came to a complete stop, before he could say anything to put distance between them or to protest her actions, she stepped into his arms, wrapping her own around him in a tight hug. She squeezed her eyes shut and listened to his heart beating steadily beneath her ear.
To her surprise, he hesitated for only a moment before returning the embrace without any of the awkwardness he usually displayed. His hands were warm against her back and he buried his face in her hair and for a moment she felt the irrational urge to sob. She swallowed it with a shuddering breath. His hands moved comfortingly over her back and she gripped the back of his shirt as if fearful he might suddenly pull away.
For a long few minutes they stood there in the middle of the corridor, locked in an embrace neither seemed willing to break. Teyla let the fear and worry and weariness she had been carrying drain away as she counted John's heartbeats. She took a deep breath, his familiar scent all around her, and released it slowly.
“We thought you were dead,” she mumbled into his shoulder.
“Me, too,” he said, “for a minute there.”
“I am glad you are alive.”
“I'm glad I'm young again,” he said, and she could hear a careful laugh in the statement, as if he were testing the boundaries of the situation.
She stepped back and his arms fell away, the sudden loss of warmth sending a shiver through her. Forcing her hands to stay at her sides, Teyla turned and began walking toward the dining hall, John falling into step beside her. She looked over at him, studying his face.
“Rodney is complaining that the Wraith made you younger,” she said, pushing a laugh into her own voice.
“I don't know about that,” John replied, “but if it's true, I think I earned it.”
He absentmindedly rubbed at his chest and the warm glow that had been building in Teyla cut off like a light switch. He carried no visible scars from the encounter—the Wraith appeared to have considered healing the marks of his feeding as part of the life debt—but it was clear that John had suffered greatly. Teyla stared at the floor as they walked, glancing over now and again at him, almost as if to reassure herself he was still there. Almost as if to reassure herself he was truly alive.
John said nothing, easily keeping pace with her short strides, hands shoved in his pockets. Only a faint frown line between his brows and a darker tint to his gaze gave any hint that he was troubled. Outside the dining hall, before they entered, he took her hand and gave it a squeeze. She squeezed it back.
III. After “Sunday” (3.17), between then and early S4
They were in the middle of a sparring session when John casually mentioned golf.
“So,” he said, ducking under Teyla's swing, “want to learn about golf this weekend?”
He did not meet her eyes as he asked, and Teyla suspected it was just as much a deliberate decision not to as it was him concentrating on their fight. The invitation stirred memories and feelings in her that had not yet settled and she frowned as she countered his attack, breathing deeply around the ache in her chest.
“We never got a chance to, you know...” He trailed off, the sentence left unfinished, but Teyla nodded, understanding what he meant.
“No, we didn't,” she said simply.
They continued their fight in silence for a few more minutes, until Teyla took advantage of John's momentary distraction, disarming him and flipping him to the mat. Smiling faintly, she helped him back to his feet. As he collected his sticks from where they had fallen, she pondered his offer and all the things left unsaid.
Carson's death had wounded them all, but perhaps none more so than her team. In many ways, they carried multiple griefs: their own, and one another's. Rodney in particular had been uncharacteristically solemn and quiet in the few months following the event, and though he was returning to normal, Teyla would often catch him staring into the distance, pain evident in his unfocused gaze. John had taken that pain—all of their pain—and his inability to fix it rather hard. The strain of that burden was clear to Teyla, from the tightness around his eyes to the fact that he didn't smile as often or that he spent much more time than was usual haunting Rodney's lab. He looked weary, she thought, as he crossed to her and took the water bottle she offered with a nod of gratitude.
“When were you thinking?” she asked.
John frowned. “Thinking about what?”
“The golf lessons. When did you want to do them?”
“You interested?” he asked, unable to fully mask his surprise.
Teyla took in the hint of a smile, the growing enthusiasm, the light that came into his tired eyes, and nodded. “Yes, I am.”
“After breakfast?” John suggested. “It can get kind of hot out on the pier after lunch, so we should probably try to do it earlier.”
“That would be fine,” Teyla said. “Which pier?”
“The north pier, through section 2D, past—” He stopped mid-gesticulation and smiled. “How about I just meet you for breakfast and we can go down afterwards, hmm?”
Teyla smiled. “Would eight o'clock be too early?”
“Not for me.”
“Very well. I will meet you in the dining hall at eight.”
And so it was that Teyla found herself standing at the edge of the north pier, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun off the sea, watching as John hit golf balls far out into the water. He had explained the rules of the game to her, not at all dissuaded when she pointed out that there were no holes or greens or sand traps to be had on Atlantis. He had simply shrugged, placed a ball on the tee, and pelted it into the distance.
“It's really more about maintaining your form,” he said. He hit another ball and leaned on the club in his hand as he watched it sail out of sight. “Besides,” he said, throwing her a grin over his shoulder as he set another ball, “I'll be really good at water hazards after this.”
Teyla quirked an eyebrow as he sent the ball sailing. “I thought you were meant to avoid the water in this game?” she asked.
He paused as he set his feet for another swing. “You are,” he acceded, “but since I'm aiming for a particular spot – and hitting it, I might add,” he said, pointing a finger in her direction, “I'm learning not to be distracted by the rest of the water. That I don't want to hit.”
Teyla shook her head but held her tongue. John was smiling and he appeared to be completely relaxed for the first time in weeks. However silly the game seemed to her—and even more so his delight in hitting small balls to nowhere at all—it seemed to please him, and that pleased her. She leaned against the wall and watched as he went through a few more swings. There was something graceful about the motion, the controlled power and precise movement required to strike so small a target with such force. She was wrapped up in analyzing the angles and actions required when she realized she had been caught staring. John was once again leaning on his club, smiling faintly at her.
“Yes?” she asked, suspecting he had said something that she had missed.
“I said it's your turn,” he replied, stepping aside and gesturing to the small square of fake grass where he had been standing.
Teyla eyed it dubiously. “You said this was for me to learn about golf, not to practice it.”
John merely waved her over and she complied, standing as she had seen him do. He handed her the club, showing her the proper way to hold it, adjusting her grip manually when she became confused as to what he meant. As he did so, he muttered something about Ronon, but Teyla was too busy trying to follow his instructions to question him about it.
With his boot, he tapped the outside of her foot, directing her to close her stance slightly. His hands were warm on her wrists as he guided her slowly through the mechanics of a swing, and warm against her hip as he showed her how to pivot her body through the motion. He stepped back and let her practice a few times, murmuring his approval and correcting what he saw as grave errors. Then he told her she was ready for a practice shot, and set the tee for her.
Teyla glanced down at the tee in despair. The golf ball that had looked so small before looked even smaller when she contemplated having to somehow hit it. But John was watching her, his arms folded as he leaned against the wall and smirked – smirked – at her, so she took a deep breath, set her feet, and swung.
The ball left the tee, ricocheted off the roof of the platform, and bulleted around the space, narrowly missing John before somehow falling into his golf bag.
“Whoa,” he said. He walked over and stared into his bag. “That was... impressive.”
He stared at her in shock, all traces of smugness gone from his face, before clearing his throat and carefully resetting the tee.
“Why don't we try that again,” he said, “and this time try to aim a little lower.”
Teyla gave him a glare, but did as he asked. This time the ball did leave the platform, but it only traveled a few meters or so before it fell into the ocean with a sad little plop.
“Again.”
This time she set the tee herself and took a few extra seconds to breathe, find her center, and run through her lesson before giving it another go. The strike was a little better, and the ball went a little further, but it was still quite short of where any of John's had ended up. Teyla frowned at the water, at the tee, at the little patch of fake grass, and at John when he walked over to stand beside her. He stared out at the water before turning to her, the hint of a smile in his eyes.
“So I guess we've finally found something I'm better than you at.”
Teyla's stare was dangerous enough to have him take a step back.
“You have simply had more practice,” she said smoothly as she placed another ball on the tee. “I am not worried. You may win at this game, but I will still win every fight.”
John stepped back quickly as she took another swing, this one more determined and powerful. They watched as the ball soared much further than it had before, landing with a silent splash out in the distance. He grinned at her a little warily and she smiled back, satisfied.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, you will.”
IV. During “Doppleganger” (4.4)
Teyla lay on her back in bed, staring at the shadows on her ceiling and wishing for sleep.
She had tried everything she could think of to help her rest, from lighting candles usually reserved for meditation to meditating itself. She had even attempted counting sheep, an unusual method Rodney had once mentioned. But her mind would not be still and she could not bring herself to shut her eyes. She was afraid of what she might see in the dark.
Despite the fact that she had not had any nightmares since the first, she could not sleep. The memory of the dream and the tales of the others' nightmares had woven themselves into a raw mess of confusing images and strange emotions that left her unsettled and wary. And Kate's death had shaken her to her core.
She was used to fighting for her life; her every breath had been a struggle, a defiance against the death that called Pegasus home. Combat with anyone or anything that put her at risk, that threatened her physical existence, was something she undertook on a daily basis. She knew how to protect herself and others, how to counter a man's attack, how to avoid the moves of a Wraith and exploit its weaknesses to her benefit. But how could she fight something that attacked her mind, that preyed on her deepest fears and insecurities, that could bide its time and kill her in her sleep? She could not defeat this enemy with strength of body or will, and it terrified her.
She felt like she had been tossed into a stormy sea and was drowning, alone, with no one to call to for help.
The helplessness and uncertainty irritated her. With a huff, she sat up in bed and rubbed a hand over the back of her neck. She was weary into her very bones. Every part of her ached for sleep, and every part of her feared it. Her gaze traveled around her quarters, seeking comfort in the familiar room and finding none. Pulling her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her legs and softly sang one of the old songs to herself. The sound of her voice in the quiet room made her lonely, and she trailed off into silence.
She sat still for a few minutes. Then, as if making a decision, she quickly stood. Slipping into shoes, she grabbed her robe and pulled it about her shoulders as she strode across the room. At the door, she paused and turned back to extinguish the two candles that had not already burned themselves out. The wisps of smoke from their spent wicks followed her through the door like a ghostly trail.
Outside John's quarters, she almost turned back. She couldn't quite understand what had led her to his door and wasn't sure that seeking company with the person who was, in effect, the vision of her nightmares was the best of ideas. She stood in the hallway and argued within herself, ultimately turning away, ready to head back to her own quarters. Then she thought of her empty room and the long night still ahead and, squaring her shoulders, she knocked.
“John?” she called softly but deliberately.
There was no answer from inside. After a moment's hesitation, she waved her hand over the controls. The door slid open with a quiet swish, and Teyla paused on the threshold while her eyes adjusted to the dark. She could see John lying in bed, the moonlight from the window shining like a spotlight on his face. His eyes were closed, but Teyla somehow knew that even if he had been asleep before, he had woken as soon as the door opened. She silently padded over to the bed and looked down at him.
“John,” she said again.
His eyes opened, but he didn't move. He stared up at her, eyes dotted with starlight, so still that for a moment she feared she had fallen into another nightmare. Terror fluttered to life inside her chest. Then he blinked, and she could breathe again.
“Can't sleep?” he asked gruffly.
Teyla shook her head. “I am finding sleep very difficult, especially after—” Tightness in her throat cut off the rest of her words, and she swallowed visibly, releasing a long, mostly steady breath.
John continued to watch her without comment, something in his gaze terribly knowing. Without a word, he turned onto his side and shifted as far over as he could, flipping up the edge of the blankets in invitation. Teyla hesitated for heartbeat, then slid under the covers beside him. There was barely room for them both on the narrow mattress, but John pulled her close against him and draped an arm over her waist. She took his hand in both of hers and closed her eyes, focusing on his comforting presence and not the demons that danced at the periphery of her thoughts.
With his breath ruffling her hair and his heartbeat steady against her back, Teyla fell into a dreamless sleep.
V. During “Quarantine” (4.13)
Teyla rounded the corner into the lab and very nearly collided with Rodney in the doorway. Only her quick reflexes and the hand she stuck out to direct him away from her saved them both from a nasty bump. Rodney was immediately apologetic.
“Oh my god!” he blurted, stealing a worried look at the sling she wore and the arm currently in it. “Are you okay? I'm sorry, I didn't see you—”
He placed a hand on her good shoulder, gaze raking her up and down as he assured himself that she was indeed uninjured by their close call. Over his shoulder, Teyla could see that John had risen from his seat at one of the lab tables. She opened her mouth to respond to Rodney's question, but he barreled on.
“I'm in a hurry and I wasn't paying attention,” he continued, words tumbling over one another, “I have somewhere I have to be—well, want to be—need to be, even—it's a surprise, but anyway, you look like you're fine and I really should go before I—”
He trailed off, his face going pale and a flicker of terror flaring in his eyes. Teyla frowned in concern.
“Rodn—” she began.
“Can't talk,” he replied in a strangled voice. “Gotta go.” Straightening his shoulders and setting his jaw, he turned and marched into the hall.
Teyla shook her head at his retreating back. She turned to John for explanation, but he just shrugged and adopted a bland expression that said he knew something, but he wasn't telling. As she entered the room, he gave her a quick once over.
“You sure you're okay?”
Teyla smiled. “Yes, I am fine.” She gestured back at the empty doorway. “Is he?”
“He will be,” John said cryptically. “One way or another.” He stretched and stood. “What brings you to the labs?”
“I came to see if you and Rodney would like to join me for lunch.” She gave the doorway a bemused glance. “The invitation is still open, unless you also have somewhere to be.”
“Nope. I'm all yours.”
He headed around the lab table and Teyla followed him to the door. They were still a few feet away when klaxons began blaring and the lab door slammed shut. Teyla felt her stomach drop as she and John looked at each other and then back at the blocked passageway.
“Well, that's not good,” John said, walking over and passing his hand in front of the controls.
Though he tried several times, the door remained firmly shut. He strode over to the lab's side door and attempted the same. When it, too, failed to respond, he resorted to pushing at it to try to get it open manually. As Teyla moved over to the computer and logged in, John abandoned his fight with the door and tapped his radio.
“Rodney? Are you there?”
In her own earpiece, Teyla could hear the answering silence.
“Rodney? Colonel Carter? Does anyone copy?”
The absolute quiet he got in response was a clear sign that the radios were not operational. There was no static, nothing to indicate that the radios were connecting to anyone at all. Teyla shared a worried glance with John over to top of the computer, then returned to her search in the system. Her eyes widened as she pulled up the city-wide monitor.
“John? You need to see this.”
The fact that they were quarantined did not worry Teyla as much as the thought of some unknown outbreak. Nothing in the city's systems provided information on where the outbreak had begun, what kind of outbreak it might be, or if anyone was working to resolve the issue. She had agreed with John that they should simply wait until Rodney or someone else fixed the problem, but as time passed and none of the life signs on the city scan changed locations, she began to get worried. From what they had found, it was likely that there had been no outbreak; yet the city remained in lockdown, and it did not appear that anyone was having success in breaking the quarantine. Then John discovered the broadcast signal.
“We are broadcasting?” she asked worriedly.
“Yeah,” John replied, tapping at a few keys. “Probably since this whole quarantine kicked into effect, and loudly enough for anybody in the neighborhood to hear.”
“Can you shut it down from here?”
John shook his head. “Only way is from the control room and if they haven't done it by now, that probably means they either haven't noticed it or they can't override the command.”
He stood and began stalking around the lab as though looking for something. Teyla adjusted her sling and watched him. Eventually he stopped and studied the windows with his hands on his hips.
“John—”
“Stand back by the door,” he said firmly.
Teyla took in the set of his jaw and did as he asked. She watched in confusion and then shock as he grabbed a chair and used it to shatter one of the windows. As he knocked out the shards still remaining around the edges, Teyla walked over to him.
“John, what are you doing?” she asked warily.
“Even if they eventually realize that we're broadcasting, no one in the control room will be able to turn off the signal.” He leaned out of the window, looked up the tower, and then ducked back into the room. “They'll need Rodney's password, and none of them know it.”
“But you do,” Teyla said, understanding dawning. She flicked a worried gaze from the open window to John and back again. “You cannot be planning to climb the tower.”
“It's only four levels up,” he argued.
He looked back out the window, and Teyla could she him swallow hard when he glanced down. She stepped to his side and looked out as well. The whistling wind pulled at her hair, and she had to tuck it behind her ears before she could see. For a moment, she thought the building had moved beneath her feet, but when she placed a hand on the window frame to brace herself, she realized the precipitous view had made her dizzy. She took a deep breath and the feeling passed, though her stomach was still in a knot. Beside her, John shifted and she looked over to find him crawling out onto the ledge. She grabbed his sleeve.
“John! You cannot do this.”
He squatted, half on the windowsill and half on the ledge outside, and turned to look back at her. His expression was solemn and concerned, and she knew she would not be able to stop him.
“With the ventilation down, these rooms only hold so much air,” he said. “We have people trapped all over the city and a signal giving our location away to anyone who happens to be passing by. Someone has to turn off that signal and we have to break out of this quarantine. And unless Rodney somehow manages to get out of a room he's been locked in for this long – unlikely – I'm the only other person who can do it.”
Teyla held his gaze for a long moment before she nodded. Returning the gesture, he pivoted away. Before he could stand, she tugged on his sleeve again. As he turned back, she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, but he turned too much or she leaned too far and instead their lips met instead. It was just a faint brush and lasted only a couple of seconds, but when she pulled back she found that his eyes were darker. She offered him a smile.
“For luck,” she said.
He stared at her for a few heartbeats, then stood and began to climb. Teyla leaned out of the window and watched him until the angles of the tower blocked him from sight. Then she returned to her seat at the computer and watched the one life sign that was on the move.
VI. The end of S4/beginning of S5
Time passed differently when you had no way to mark it. Teyla stared at the windowless walls of the Wraith ship and idly wished Michael had not confiscated her watch.
Michael had taken her on and off ships, in and out of buildings, and she had seen both sunlight and rising moons, but Teyla could not say for certain how long she had been his prisoner. Much of her captivity had been spent in various levels of consciousness as Michael drugged her with substance after substance and tested her endlessly. The days had blurred together and she could no longer tell if it had been a week or a month or longer.
She did not know what day it was, but she knew Atlantis was searching for her. She did not doubt that they would find her alive; she wondered if they would find her whole.
Michael had promised her on multiple occasions that she would not be harmed, that she would live. All he needed from her could be gained without the price of her life, he said. Had he been able to obtain what he needed without holding her, he claimed he would have done so.
She did not believe him.
For all that Michael had spoken of her safety, he would not tell her of his plans. What little Teyla knew she had pieced together from the tests he performed on her and the clues he inadvertently let slip. What little she knew had her terrified.
Michael wanted her for the Wraith DNA she carried; that much he had admitted. The fact that he had taken her specifically, when any of the Athosians who shared her gift would have worked just as well—and would have been easier to steal away than she ever was—told her that his plans extended beyond simple research. He wanted her for something. When her periods of drug-induced disorientation grew fewer and farther between, when Michael began to take special care in what she ate and how much she slept, when he began to give her injections he claimed were for her health, a suspicion grew in her mind. Then he spoke of having procured “a sample” from someone with the Ancient gene, and every instinct in Teyla's body told her that her suspicions had been correct.
As she was once again dragged into his lab and strapped to the upright table there, the truth roiled in her mind. She clung tightly to the knowledge that Michael had not, at least so far, carried out the final stage of his plan.
She glared at him as he approached her. He appeared to be both amused and somewhat hurt by her indignation, and he tutted as he gave her the first in what she knew would be a round of three shots.
“You are unusally angry today, Teyla,” he said, exchanging one syringe for another. “Is there a particular reason why?”
“I know what you are doing to me,” she replied, having to push the words past gritted teeth as the indignity and dread and disgust and fury raged inside her.
“Do you?” he asked with polite interest.
Even with her anger, Teyla could not look him in the eyes as she gave voice to her fear. “You plan to use me to create a child, a hybrid child.”
Michael did not seem surprised that she knew. He stared at her in his cold, direct way and confirmed her claim with a simple, “Yes.”
Teyla shut her eyes momentarily, fighting the nausea that had risen in her at the word. When she opened them again, Michael was watching her, a strange expression on his face.
“I experimented for a long time before I decided to make this plan a reality,” he said. “I had to verify that such a merger of Ancient and Wraith DNA would even be viable. Once I knew that it could, theoretically, be done, I needed a test subject, a human vessel for the hybrid.” He played with the ends of her hair and Teyla pulled away as far as her bonds would allow. “I have been preparing you,” he continued. “First by testing your genetic compatibility with the genes of the Ancients, then by getting you ready to become a mother.”
Teyla's stomach turned over. “This will not make me a mother,” she spat, hoping to mask the fear in her voice. “You cannot do this.”
“Oh, but I can. And I will.” Michael stepped over to a nearby console, scrolling through the data streaming there. “I will create this child, and you will carry it.” He walked back to Teyla's side. “Today.”
“What?”
The word was barely a whisper as Teyla suddenly could not breathe. She felt the blood draining from her face and she glanced around the room wildly, taking in the familiar equipment with a new sense of terror. With rising panic, she began to fight against her bonds.
“Let me go,” she said urgently. “Do not do this, let me go!”
Michael simply shook his head as if disappointed in her and walked back to the console. Teyla's struggles grew more frantic, her sense of desperation increasing with every passing second. With a sigh, Michael turned back to face her and, control in hand, began to lower the table to its horizontal position.
“No,” Teyla moaned. “No, no, no, no.”
Michael cut her a look. “This will be easier for us both if you do not—”
Whatever he would have said was cut off by gunfire. The sound was so loud and sudden in the small space that Teyla jumped. She glanced to her left to see Michael staring down at his chest in shock. Blood gushed from two bullet wounds there and as he slowly pivoted to face the lab door, Teyla could see matching holes in his back. John stood in the doorway, gun raised and eyes blazing. Rodney and Ronon and many others were just visible behind him.
Michael tentatively touched his wounds, and looked up with a befuddled expression on his face. “You.”
John grinned grimly. “Me,” he replied. Then he emptied his clip.
Teyla flinched at the sound and turned her head away until it stopped. With the echo still ringing in her ears, she turned back to see Michael on the ground, blood pooling under his body. Ronon's face was hard as he crossed the room in three strides and knelt to check that Michael was truly dead. The satisfaction in his eyes when he looked up and met her gaze was enough. Teyla closed her eyes.
Then there were hands on her arms and she looked around into John's face as he righted the table and pulled at the straps holding her down. There were dark circles under his eyes, she noted, and lines on his face she did not remember. He was quivering with energy, adrenaline, and emotion. His fingers trembled slightly as he worked at her bonds, but his hands were steady when he helped her down. Gently, he took her by the shoulders and looked her over.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and she wanted to tell him yes and she wanted to tell him no but the best she could do at the moment was to simply look at him.
Without a word, he pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms. She was too exhausted to do much more than cling to him. As if it were coming from somewhere far away, she heard Rodney directing the Marines in a voice of deadly calm that Teyla had only heard from him a few times before. He already had a tablet attached to Michael's console, downloading everything they would need to know about the experiments and tests and plans of the dead man on the floor. Teyla shuddered and held on to John a little tighter. His breath was warm against her skin as he placed a kiss on her brow.
He did not let go of her all the way back to the jumper, holding her flush to his side as they skulked back through the ship. Once safely on board, he only reluctantly released her to Ronon and Rodney's care so that he could fly.
At his nod, Major Lorne flicked the switch on the three detonators he had been holding. They flew away from the ship as pieces of it shot in every direction through the dark, star-studded sky.
Teyla, tucked snugly between Rodney and Ronon on the back bench of the jumper, did not take her eyes off John the entire flight home.
VII. Mid-S5
She found him on one of the balconies a few levels below the labs. John looked around as the door glided open and she walked out. Seeing that it was her, he gave a half smile and turned back to the view. Teyla joined him at the railing. The sun was setting against the horizon, the cloudless sky a picture of red and gold that was reflected in the water.
Taking a deep breath of the salty air, Teyla tilted her head back slightly and let the wind play with her hair. Familiar words whispered at the back of her mind and she closed her eyes against the setting sun, silently running through the prayer of gratitude her people spoke at day's end. Though her experiences with the Ancients had dimmed her view of the Ancestors the prayers called to, the words of thankfulness still rang true.
Opening her eyes, she turned to look at John. He was staring out across the water, but she could tell that his thoughts were elsewhere; his eyes were distant. With a small sigh, she faced the sun again and with the fading light sparkling on the water, she let her thoughts drift.
She thought back to the first time the Lanteans met her people and the uncertain fate they had all faced. She thought of all they had accomplished, the mistakes that had been made and the mistakes that had been corrected. Missions and moments came back to her, times spent at bedsides, in jails, around dining hall tables. She remembered laughter and tears, fights and silences, all the things that had turned her team into her family. The past few years filled her mind like a whirlwind, and at its center was the man at her side.
Without looking away from the sea, she slipped her hand into his.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him turn his head slightly and look at her before facing forward again. He laced their fingers together and gave her hand a squeeze. She shifted a step closer and leaned into him a little, felt him shift his stance to take her weight. They stood that way for a long while, watching the sun sink into the water and the stars wink to life above them. As the lights of the city began to flicker to life around them, Teyla spoke.
“John—”
“I know,” he said quickly, cutting her off. His gaze flicked over to her face, then down and back out to sea. “Me, too.”
Teyla stared at him for a long while. Then she smiled to herself and rested her head on his shoulder.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Characters: Teyla Emmagen, John Sheppard
Word Count: 7565
Categories: AU, drama, angst, action/adventure
Spoilers/Warnings: For the series. No warnings. Slight AU.
Setting of each segment: I. Between "The Long Goodbye" (2.17) and early S3, II. Immediately after the events of "Common Ground" (3.7), III. After "Sunday" (3.17), between then and early S4, IV. During "Doppleganger" (4.4), V. During "Quarantine" (4.13), VI. The end of S4/beginning of S5, VII. Mid-S5.
Summary: Vignettes of moments between Teyla and John.
"I get something," the fox said, "because of the color of wheat." - Le Petit Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupéry
I. Between “The Long Goodbye” (2.17) and early S3
Teyla woke and dressed in the grey light of early morning. Casting a rueful glance at her broken tea kettle, she plucked a small leather bag from a shelf and headed out into the dim hallway. Atlantis was quiet as she walked through the halls, and Teyla allowed the calmness of the slumbering city to seep into her.
The dining hall was empty when she arrived, but sounds from the kitchen told her that the staff were already up and working on breakfast. A few of them glanced around when she entered, but no one bothered her as she helped herself to a mug and filled it with hot water. Quickly leaving the noise and bustle of meal preparation behind, she crossed the dining hall and took a seat near one of the large windows.
There, in the growing light, she prepared her morning tea.
The familiar scent filled the air around her, the warmth seeping through the cup and into her fingers like sunlight on skin. As she took her first sip, she heard footsteps approach. Glancing around, she found John smiling across the table at her. She smiled back, warmth filling her from the inside as well.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning,” he returned, his voice still gravelly with sleep. He pulled out a chair and gestured to it, looking at her. “May I join you?”
“Please,” she said, and he sat down.
Sniffing the air, he eyed the cup in her hands. “Athosian tea?”
Teyla nodded. “Like that we shared the first time you came to Athos.”
“Seems like ages ago,” John replied, his eyes growing distant.
“Yes it does.” The first true streaks of sunlight came through the window, coloring the side of his face gold, turning the other side to shadow. Teyla hesitated, then set her mug on the table and pushed it over to him. “Will you take tea with me this morning?” she asked.
John looked surprised for a second, but smiled crookedly as he picked up the mug and took a sip. His expression turned thoughtful as he handed the cup back over, and Teyla cocked her head in question.
“I may prefer coffee,” he said, “but that is still, hands down, the best tea I've ever had.”
Teyla smiled. “Athosian tradition says those who drink it stay young.”
“Seems to be working for you,” John replied, an all too innocent expression on his face. Teyla gave him a bland look and he leaned back in his chair, grinning. “A lot of cultures on Earth swear by tea, too,” he said. “That's a tradition I can at least understand.”
Teyla frowned at his words. “I take it there are Athosians traditions you do not,” she said.
“Most of them I do,” he said quickly, “but, I admit, there are some I don't quite get.” He shifted forward to lean on his elbows against the table and making a vague gesture toward his face. “Like the whole touching of the foreheads thing.”
“Yes?” Teyla raised her eyebrows.
“What's it about? I've seen the Athosians do it with each other, but you don't do it with your trading partners.”
“That is because it is customary to default to the traditions of the people with whom you are trading,” Teyla advised. “We do, at times, use our traditional greetings and goodbyes when people come to us to trade.”
“When in Rome, huh?” John nodded in understanding, though he still frowned. “What does it mean, though?”
Teyla sighed a little and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, trying to find the words that would adequately explain the significance of the gesture. It was an action that said much through little, an action that was so intricately woven into the history and ways of the Athosians that much of its meaning was lost in translation. Among her people, the gesture was known from childhood, understood intuitively and used without question. Such a thing was difficult to describe to outsiders, and all the simplest words—the Athosian words—that could be used to do so would require explanations of their own.
Teyla sipped her tea as she contemplated how best to explain.
“It can be indicative of many things,” she began at last, “from respect to gratitude to love. In some ways, it is tied directly to the early nomadic life of the Athosian people, and how often that lifestyle led to them encountering strangers.” She held out her free hand, palm open. “Placing your hands on the other person's shoulders shows that you have no weapons, that you are not an enemy.”
“I've seen you fight,” John cut in. “You are a weapon.”
Teyla ignored him, though a smile played at the corner of her mouth. “It can also be seen as a gesture of support and goodwill. Bowing your head, closing your eyes—these actions make you vulnerable. To do so while standing so close to another person shows trust and acceptance.”
“Acceptance?”
“Of one another,” Teyla said. “You do not allow anyone that close to you that you have not accepted—as a friend, a family member, or at the very least, an ally.”
“And touching the heads together?”
“That is perhaps the most difficult part to explain. It is a remnant of the ancient beliefs.”
She fell quiet momentarily, gathering her thoughts. They traded the tea again, John taking a longer drink this time than before, letting the silence stretch between them. As he passed the cup back over, Teyla continued, her words stilted at first as she worked at phrasing the meaning properly.
“When you are close enough to someone that your foreheads can touch, you breathe the same air,” she explained. “You share their breath, their life, as if it were your own. To do so is an affirmation of life in general—and a promise to protect it—as well as an act of thankfulness for your life and for the life of the one with whom you share the gesture.”
John nodded, his eyes dark.
“It is a symbol of harmony, intimacy -” she waved a hand ineffectually “- of close bonds.”
She passed John the mug and thought about their first encounter, the first Athosian greeting she had shared with him. He watched her over the rim of the mug as he sipped. As he gave the tea back, he grinned.
“That explains why you haven't included Rodney yet,” he said.
Teyla frowned.
John's grin widened fractionally before he adopted a solemn expression. “Nobody has harmony with McKay.”
Teyla laughed and shook her head, turning to stare out of the now brightly lit window. Even with her eyes closed and the sun warm on her face, she could feel the heat radiating from John, where he sat across the table from her. It made her smile. They continued to pass the tea back and forth, staying to talk after it was gone, watching their shadows grow shorter as the sun rose in the sky.
II. Immediately after the events of “Common Ground” (3.7)
John was alive and she knew it—she had seen it—but a part of her still couldn't believe.
She had watched him die, had watched life drain from him, minutes and hours and years slipping away as the seconds passed. So when they found him whole and healthy and young again, that image alone was not enough to quell the cold, hollow feeling that had been born inside her with the first footage of the Wraith feeding. Standing in the back of the puddle jumper with him, walking to the infirmary with him, hearing him talk and having him answer her questions was not enough. From the way Rodney and Ronon acted—following him like shadows, watching him with sharp, wary gazes—she knew they felt the same way.
The hovering had finally gotten to John, and he ordered them out of the infirmary after Carson had to ask Rodney to move out of the way for the third time. Respecting John's wishes over her own, Teyla had retreated, returning her gear and cleaning up to kill time. Then she headed back through the city to stalk a corridor that led from the infirmary to both John's quarters and the dining hall.
When he finally came into sight around the corner, she stopped dead in her pacing. He stared at her in surprise, only a small hitch in his stride giving away that he had been startled at seeing her prowling the hall. Relief, no weaker than what had first flooded through her when they found him alive, pulsed in her veins again. She needed to touch him, to feel him solid and steady and alive, and she walked toward him as he approached. Before he even came to a complete stop, before he could say anything to put distance between them or to protest her actions, she stepped into his arms, wrapping her own around him in a tight hug. She squeezed her eyes shut and listened to his heart beating steadily beneath her ear.
To her surprise, he hesitated for only a moment before returning the embrace without any of the awkwardness he usually displayed. His hands were warm against her back and he buried his face in her hair and for a moment she felt the irrational urge to sob. She swallowed it with a shuddering breath. His hands moved comfortingly over her back and she gripped the back of his shirt as if fearful he might suddenly pull away.
For a long few minutes they stood there in the middle of the corridor, locked in an embrace neither seemed willing to break. Teyla let the fear and worry and weariness she had been carrying drain away as she counted John's heartbeats. She took a deep breath, his familiar scent all around her, and released it slowly.
“We thought you were dead,” she mumbled into his shoulder.
“Me, too,” he said, “for a minute there.”
“I am glad you are alive.”
“I'm glad I'm young again,” he said, and she could hear a careful laugh in the statement, as if he were testing the boundaries of the situation.
She stepped back and his arms fell away, the sudden loss of warmth sending a shiver through her. Forcing her hands to stay at her sides, Teyla turned and began walking toward the dining hall, John falling into step beside her. She looked over at him, studying his face.
“Rodney is complaining that the Wraith made you younger,” she said, pushing a laugh into her own voice.
“I don't know about that,” John replied, “but if it's true, I think I earned it.”
He absentmindedly rubbed at his chest and the warm glow that had been building in Teyla cut off like a light switch. He carried no visible scars from the encounter—the Wraith appeared to have considered healing the marks of his feeding as part of the life debt—but it was clear that John had suffered greatly. Teyla stared at the floor as they walked, glancing over now and again at him, almost as if to reassure herself he was still there. Almost as if to reassure herself he was truly alive.
John said nothing, easily keeping pace with her short strides, hands shoved in his pockets. Only a faint frown line between his brows and a darker tint to his gaze gave any hint that he was troubled. Outside the dining hall, before they entered, he took her hand and gave it a squeeze. She squeezed it back.
III. After “Sunday” (3.17), between then and early S4
They were in the middle of a sparring session when John casually mentioned golf.
“So,” he said, ducking under Teyla's swing, “want to learn about golf this weekend?”
He did not meet her eyes as he asked, and Teyla suspected it was just as much a deliberate decision not to as it was him concentrating on their fight. The invitation stirred memories and feelings in her that had not yet settled and she frowned as she countered his attack, breathing deeply around the ache in her chest.
“We never got a chance to, you know...” He trailed off, the sentence left unfinished, but Teyla nodded, understanding what he meant.
“No, we didn't,” she said simply.
They continued their fight in silence for a few more minutes, until Teyla took advantage of John's momentary distraction, disarming him and flipping him to the mat. Smiling faintly, she helped him back to his feet. As he collected his sticks from where they had fallen, she pondered his offer and all the things left unsaid.
Carson's death had wounded them all, but perhaps none more so than her team. In many ways, they carried multiple griefs: their own, and one another's. Rodney in particular had been uncharacteristically solemn and quiet in the few months following the event, and though he was returning to normal, Teyla would often catch him staring into the distance, pain evident in his unfocused gaze. John had taken that pain—all of their pain—and his inability to fix it rather hard. The strain of that burden was clear to Teyla, from the tightness around his eyes to the fact that he didn't smile as often or that he spent much more time than was usual haunting Rodney's lab. He looked weary, she thought, as he crossed to her and took the water bottle she offered with a nod of gratitude.
“When were you thinking?” she asked.
John frowned. “Thinking about what?”
“The golf lessons. When did you want to do them?”
“You interested?” he asked, unable to fully mask his surprise.
Teyla took in the hint of a smile, the growing enthusiasm, the light that came into his tired eyes, and nodded. “Yes, I am.”
“After breakfast?” John suggested. “It can get kind of hot out on the pier after lunch, so we should probably try to do it earlier.”
“That would be fine,” Teyla said. “Which pier?”
“The north pier, through section 2D, past—” He stopped mid-gesticulation and smiled. “How about I just meet you for breakfast and we can go down afterwards, hmm?”
Teyla smiled. “Would eight o'clock be too early?”
“Not for me.”
“Very well. I will meet you in the dining hall at eight.”
And so it was that Teyla found herself standing at the edge of the north pier, shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun off the sea, watching as John hit golf balls far out into the water. He had explained the rules of the game to her, not at all dissuaded when she pointed out that there were no holes or greens or sand traps to be had on Atlantis. He had simply shrugged, placed a ball on the tee, and pelted it into the distance.
“It's really more about maintaining your form,” he said. He hit another ball and leaned on the club in his hand as he watched it sail out of sight. “Besides,” he said, throwing her a grin over his shoulder as he set another ball, “I'll be really good at water hazards after this.”
Teyla quirked an eyebrow as he sent the ball sailing. “I thought you were meant to avoid the water in this game?” she asked.
He paused as he set his feet for another swing. “You are,” he acceded, “but since I'm aiming for a particular spot – and hitting it, I might add,” he said, pointing a finger in her direction, “I'm learning not to be distracted by the rest of the water. That I don't want to hit.”
Teyla shook her head but held her tongue. John was smiling and he appeared to be completely relaxed for the first time in weeks. However silly the game seemed to her—and even more so his delight in hitting small balls to nowhere at all—it seemed to please him, and that pleased her. She leaned against the wall and watched as he went through a few more swings. There was something graceful about the motion, the controlled power and precise movement required to strike so small a target with such force. She was wrapped up in analyzing the angles and actions required when she realized she had been caught staring. John was once again leaning on his club, smiling faintly at her.
“Yes?” she asked, suspecting he had said something that she had missed.
“I said it's your turn,” he replied, stepping aside and gesturing to the small square of fake grass where he had been standing.
Teyla eyed it dubiously. “You said this was for me to learn about golf, not to practice it.”
John merely waved her over and she complied, standing as she had seen him do. He handed her the club, showing her the proper way to hold it, adjusting her grip manually when she became confused as to what he meant. As he did so, he muttered something about Ronon, but Teyla was too busy trying to follow his instructions to question him about it.
With his boot, he tapped the outside of her foot, directing her to close her stance slightly. His hands were warm on her wrists as he guided her slowly through the mechanics of a swing, and warm against her hip as he showed her how to pivot her body through the motion. He stepped back and let her practice a few times, murmuring his approval and correcting what he saw as grave errors. Then he told her she was ready for a practice shot, and set the tee for her.
Teyla glanced down at the tee in despair. The golf ball that had looked so small before looked even smaller when she contemplated having to somehow hit it. But John was watching her, his arms folded as he leaned against the wall and smirked – smirked – at her, so she took a deep breath, set her feet, and swung.
The ball left the tee, ricocheted off the roof of the platform, and bulleted around the space, narrowly missing John before somehow falling into his golf bag.
“Whoa,” he said. He walked over and stared into his bag. “That was... impressive.”
He stared at her in shock, all traces of smugness gone from his face, before clearing his throat and carefully resetting the tee.
“Why don't we try that again,” he said, “and this time try to aim a little lower.”
Teyla gave him a glare, but did as he asked. This time the ball did leave the platform, but it only traveled a few meters or so before it fell into the ocean with a sad little plop.
“Again.”
This time she set the tee herself and took a few extra seconds to breathe, find her center, and run through her lesson before giving it another go. The strike was a little better, and the ball went a little further, but it was still quite short of where any of John's had ended up. Teyla frowned at the water, at the tee, at the little patch of fake grass, and at John when he walked over to stand beside her. He stared out at the water before turning to her, the hint of a smile in his eyes.
“So I guess we've finally found something I'm better than you at.”
Teyla's stare was dangerous enough to have him take a step back.
“You have simply had more practice,” she said smoothly as she placed another ball on the tee. “I am not worried. You may win at this game, but I will still win every fight.”
John stepped back quickly as she took another swing, this one more determined and powerful. They watched as the ball soared much further than it had before, landing with a silent splash out in the distance. He grinned at her a little warily and she smiled back, satisfied.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, you will.”
IV. During “Doppleganger” (4.4)
Teyla lay on her back in bed, staring at the shadows on her ceiling and wishing for sleep.
She had tried everything she could think of to help her rest, from lighting candles usually reserved for meditation to meditating itself. She had even attempted counting sheep, an unusual method Rodney had once mentioned. But her mind would not be still and she could not bring herself to shut her eyes. She was afraid of what she might see in the dark.
Despite the fact that she had not had any nightmares since the first, she could not sleep. The memory of the dream and the tales of the others' nightmares had woven themselves into a raw mess of confusing images and strange emotions that left her unsettled and wary. And Kate's death had shaken her to her core.
She was used to fighting for her life; her every breath had been a struggle, a defiance against the death that called Pegasus home. Combat with anyone or anything that put her at risk, that threatened her physical existence, was something she undertook on a daily basis. She knew how to protect herself and others, how to counter a man's attack, how to avoid the moves of a Wraith and exploit its weaknesses to her benefit. But how could she fight something that attacked her mind, that preyed on her deepest fears and insecurities, that could bide its time and kill her in her sleep? She could not defeat this enemy with strength of body or will, and it terrified her.
She felt like she had been tossed into a stormy sea and was drowning, alone, with no one to call to for help.
The helplessness and uncertainty irritated her. With a huff, she sat up in bed and rubbed a hand over the back of her neck. She was weary into her very bones. Every part of her ached for sleep, and every part of her feared it. Her gaze traveled around her quarters, seeking comfort in the familiar room and finding none. Pulling her knees to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her legs and softly sang one of the old songs to herself. The sound of her voice in the quiet room made her lonely, and she trailed off into silence.
She sat still for a few minutes. Then, as if making a decision, she quickly stood. Slipping into shoes, she grabbed her robe and pulled it about her shoulders as she strode across the room. At the door, she paused and turned back to extinguish the two candles that had not already burned themselves out. The wisps of smoke from their spent wicks followed her through the door like a ghostly trail.
Outside John's quarters, she almost turned back. She couldn't quite understand what had led her to his door and wasn't sure that seeking company with the person who was, in effect, the vision of her nightmares was the best of ideas. She stood in the hallway and argued within herself, ultimately turning away, ready to head back to her own quarters. Then she thought of her empty room and the long night still ahead and, squaring her shoulders, she knocked.
“John?” she called softly but deliberately.
There was no answer from inside. After a moment's hesitation, she waved her hand over the controls. The door slid open with a quiet swish, and Teyla paused on the threshold while her eyes adjusted to the dark. She could see John lying in bed, the moonlight from the window shining like a spotlight on his face. His eyes were closed, but Teyla somehow knew that even if he had been asleep before, he had woken as soon as the door opened. She silently padded over to the bed and looked down at him.
“John,” she said again.
His eyes opened, but he didn't move. He stared up at her, eyes dotted with starlight, so still that for a moment she feared she had fallen into another nightmare. Terror fluttered to life inside her chest. Then he blinked, and she could breathe again.
“Can't sleep?” he asked gruffly.
Teyla shook her head. “I am finding sleep very difficult, especially after—” Tightness in her throat cut off the rest of her words, and she swallowed visibly, releasing a long, mostly steady breath.
John continued to watch her without comment, something in his gaze terribly knowing. Without a word, he turned onto his side and shifted as far over as he could, flipping up the edge of the blankets in invitation. Teyla hesitated for heartbeat, then slid under the covers beside him. There was barely room for them both on the narrow mattress, but John pulled her close against him and draped an arm over her waist. She took his hand in both of hers and closed her eyes, focusing on his comforting presence and not the demons that danced at the periphery of her thoughts.
With his breath ruffling her hair and his heartbeat steady against her back, Teyla fell into a dreamless sleep.
V. During “Quarantine” (4.13)
Teyla rounded the corner into the lab and very nearly collided with Rodney in the doorway. Only her quick reflexes and the hand she stuck out to direct him away from her saved them both from a nasty bump. Rodney was immediately apologetic.
“Oh my god!” he blurted, stealing a worried look at the sling she wore and the arm currently in it. “Are you okay? I'm sorry, I didn't see you—”
He placed a hand on her good shoulder, gaze raking her up and down as he assured himself that she was indeed uninjured by their close call. Over his shoulder, Teyla could see that John had risen from his seat at one of the lab tables. She opened her mouth to respond to Rodney's question, but he barreled on.
“I'm in a hurry and I wasn't paying attention,” he continued, words tumbling over one another, “I have somewhere I have to be—well, want to be—need to be, even—it's a surprise, but anyway, you look like you're fine and I really should go before I—”
He trailed off, his face going pale and a flicker of terror flaring in his eyes. Teyla frowned in concern.
“Rodn—” she began.
“Can't talk,” he replied in a strangled voice. “Gotta go.” Straightening his shoulders and setting his jaw, he turned and marched into the hall.
Teyla shook her head at his retreating back. She turned to John for explanation, but he just shrugged and adopted a bland expression that said he knew something, but he wasn't telling. As she entered the room, he gave her a quick once over.
“You sure you're okay?”
Teyla smiled. “Yes, I am fine.” She gestured back at the empty doorway. “Is he?”
“He will be,” John said cryptically. “One way or another.” He stretched and stood. “What brings you to the labs?”
“I came to see if you and Rodney would like to join me for lunch.” She gave the doorway a bemused glance. “The invitation is still open, unless you also have somewhere to be.”
“Nope. I'm all yours.”
He headed around the lab table and Teyla followed him to the door. They were still a few feet away when klaxons began blaring and the lab door slammed shut. Teyla felt her stomach drop as she and John looked at each other and then back at the blocked passageway.
“Well, that's not good,” John said, walking over and passing his hand in front of the controls.
Though he tried several times, the door remained firmly shut. He strode over to the lab's side door and attempted the same. When it, too, failed to respond, he resorted to pushing at it to try to get it open manually. As Teyla moved over to the computer and logged in, John abandoned his fight with the door and tapped his radio.
“Rodney? Are you there?”
In her own earpiece, Teyla could hear the answering silence.
“Rodney? Colonel Carter? Does anyone copy?”
The absolute quiet he got in response was a clear sign that the radios were not operational. There was no static, nothing to indicate that the radios were connecting to anyone at all. Teyla shared a worried glance with John over to top of the computer, then returned to her search in the system. Her eyes widened as she pulled up the city-wide monitor.
“John? You need to see this.”
The fact that they were quarantined did not worry Teyla as much as the thought of some unknown outbreak. Nothing in the city's systems provided information on where the outbreak had begun, what kind of outbreak it might be, or if anyone was working to resolve the issue. She had agreed with John that they should simply wait until Rodney or someone else fixed the problem, but as time passed and none of the life signs on the city scan changed locations, she began to get worried. From what they had found, it was likely that there had been no outbreak; yet the city remained in lockdown, and it did not appear that anyone was having success in breaking the quarantine. Then John discovered the broadcast signal.
“We are broadcasting?” she asked worriedly.
“Yeah,” John replied, tapping at a few keys. “Probably since this whole quarantine kicked into effect, and loudly enough for anybody in the neighborhood to hear.”
“Can you shut it down from here?”
John shook his head. “Only way is from the control room and if they haven't done it by now, that probably means they either haven't noticed it or they can't override the command.”
He stood and began stalking around the lab as though looking for something. Teyla adjusted her sling and watched him. Eventually he stopped and studied the windows with his hands on his hips.
“John—”
“Stand back by the door,” he said firmly.
Teyla took in the set of his jaw and did as he asked. She watched in confusion and then shock as he grabbed a chair and used it to shatter one of the windows. As he knocked out the shards still remaining around the edges, Teyla walked over to him.
“John, what are you doing?” she asked warily.
“Even if they eventually realize that we're broadcasting, no one in the control room will be able to turn off the signal.” He leaned out of the window, looked up the tower, and then ducked back into the room. “They'll need Rodney's password, and none of them know it.”
“But you do,” Teyla said, understanding dawning. She flicked a worried gaze from the open window to John and back again. “You cannot be planning to climb the tower.”
“It's only four levels up,” he argued.
He looked back out the window, and Teyla could she him swallow hard when he glanced down. She stepped to his side and looked out as well. The whistling wind pulled at her hair, and she had to tuck it behind her ears before she could see. For a moment, she thought the building had moved beneath her feet, but when she placed a hand on the window frame to brace herself, she realized the precipitous view had made her dizzy. She took a deep breath and the feeling passed, though her stomach was still in a knot. Beside her, John shifted and she looked over to find him crawling out onto the ledge. She grabbed his sleeve.
“John! You cannot do this.”
He squatted, half on the windowsill and half on the ledge outside, and turned to look back at her. His expression was solemn and concerned, and she knew she would not be able to stop him.
“With the ventilation down, these rooms only hold so much air,” he said. “We have people trapped all over the city and a signal giving our location away to anyone who happens to be passing by. Someone has to turn off that signal and we have to break out of this quarantine. And unless Rodney somehow manages to get out of a room he's been locked in for this long – unlikely – I'm the only other person who can do it.”
Teyla held his gaze for a long moment before she nodded. Returning the gesture, he pivoted away. Before he could stand, she tugged on his sleeve again. As he turned back, she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, but he turned too much or she leaned too far and instead their lips met instead. It was just a faint brush and lasted only a couple of seconds, but when she pulled back she found that his eyes were darker. She offered him a smile.
“For luck,” she said.
He stared at her for a few heartbeats, then stood and began to climb. Teyla leaned out of the window and watched him until the angles of the tower blocked him from sight. Then she returned to her seat at the computer and watched the one life sign that was on the move.
VI. The end of S4/beginning of S5
Time passed differently when you had no way to mark it. Teyla stared at the windowless walls of the Wraith ship and idly wished Michael had not confiscated her watch.
Michael had taken her on and off ships, in and out of buildings, and she had seen both sunlight and rising moons, but Teyla could not say for certain how long she had been his prisoner. Much of her captivity had been spent in various levels of consciousness as Michael drugged her with substance after substance and tested her endlessly. The days had blurred together and she could no longer tell if it had been a week or a month or longer.
She did not know what day it was, but she knew Atlantis was searching for her. She did not doubt that they would find her alive; she wondered if they would find her whole.
Michael had promised her on multiple occasions that she would not be harmed, that she would live. All he needed from her could be gained without the price of her life, he said. Had he been able to obtain what he needed without holding her, he claimed he would have done so.
She did not believe him.
For all that Michael had spoken of her safety, he would not tell her of his plans. What little Teyla knew she had pieced together from the tests he performed on her and the clues he inadvertently let slip. What little she knew had her terrified.
Michael wanted her for the Wraith DNA she carried; that much he had admitted. The fact that he had taken her specifically, when any of the Athosians who shared her gift would have worked just as well—and would have been easier to steal away than she ever was—told her that his plans extended beyond simple research. He wanted her for something. When her periods of drug-induced disorientation grew fewer and farther between, when Michael began to take special care in what she ate and how much she slept, when he began to give her injections he claimed were for her health, a suspicion grew in her mind. Then he spoke of having procured “a sample” from someone with the Ancient gene, and every instinct in Teyla's body told her that her suspicions had been correct.
As she was once again dragged into his lab and strapped to the upright table there, the truth roiled in her mind. She clung tightly to the knowledge that Michael had not, at least so far, carried out the final stage of his plan.
She glared at him as he approached her. He appeared to be both amused and somewhat hurt by her indignation, and he tutted as he gave her the first in what she knew would be a round of three shots.
“You are unusally angry today, Teyla,” he said, exchanging one syringe for another. “Is there a particular reason why?”
“I know what you are doing to me,” she replied, having to push the words past gritted teeth as the indignity and dread and disgust and fury raged inside her.
“Do you?” he asked with polite interest.
Even with her anger, Teyla could not look him in the eyes as she gave voice to her fear. “You plan to use me to create a child, a hybrid child.”
Michael did not seem surprised that she knew. He stared at her in his cold, direct way and confirmed her claim with a simple, “Yes.”
Teyla shut her eyes momentarily, fighting the nausea that had risen in her at the word. When she opened them again, Michael was watching her, a strange expression on his face.
“I experimented for a long time before I decided to make this plan a reality,” he said. “I had to verify that such a merger of Ancient and Wraith DNA would even be viable. Once I knew that it could, theoretically, be done, I needed a test subject, a human vessel for the hybrid.” He played with the ends of her hair and Teyla pulled away as far as her bonds would allow. “I have been preparing you,” he continued. “First by testing your genetic compatibility with the genes of the Ancients, then by getting you ready to become a mother.”
Teyla's stomach turned over. “This will not make me a mother,” she spat, hoping to mask the fear in her voice. “You cannot do this.”
“Oh, but I can. And I will.” Michael stepped over to a nearby console, scrolling through the data streaming there. “I will create this child, and you will carry it.” He walked back to Teyla's side. “Today.”
“What?”
The word was barely a whisper as Teyla suddenly could not breathe. She felt the blood draining from her face and she glanced around the room wildly, taking in the familiar equipment with a new sense of terror. With rising panic, she began to fight against her bonds.
“Let me go,” she said urgently. “Do not do this, let me go!”
Michael simply shook his head as if disappointed in her and walked back to the console. Teyla's struggles grew more frantic, her sense of desperation increasing with every passing second. With a sigh, Michael turned back to face her and, control in hand, began to lower the table to its horizontal position.
“No,” Teyla moaned. “No, no, no, no.”
Michael cut her a look. “This will be easier for us both if you do not—”
Whatever he would have said was cut off by gunfire. The sound was so loud and sudden in the small space that Teyla jumped. She glanced to her left to see Michael staring down at his chest in shock. Blood gushed from two bullet wounds there and as he slowly pivoted to face the lab door, Teyla could see matching holes in his back. John stood in the doorway, gun raised and eyes blazing. Rodney and Ronon and many others were just visible behind him.
Michael tentatively touched his wounds, and looked up with a befuddled expression on his face. “You.”
John grinned grimly. “Me,” he replied. Then he emptied his clip.
Teyla flinched at the sound and turned her head away until it stopped. With the echo still ringing in her ears, she turned back to see Michael on the ground, blood pooling under his body. Ronon's face was hard as he crossed the room in three strides and knelt to check that Michael was truly dead. The satisfaction in his eyes when he looked up and met her gaze was enough. Teyla closed her eyes.
Then there were hands on her arms and she looked around into John's face as he righted the table and pulled at the straps holding her down. There were dark circles under his eyes, she noted, and lines on his face she did not remember. He was quivering with energy, adrenaline, and emotion. His fingers trembled slightly as he worked at her bonds, but his hands were steady when he helped her down. Gently, he took her by the shoulders and looked her over.
“Are you okay?” he asked, and she wanted to tell him yes and she wanted to tell him no but the best she could do at the moment was to simply look at him.
Without a word, he pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms. She was too exhausted to do much more than cling to him. As if it were coming from somewhere far away, she heard Rodney directing the Marines in a voice of deadly calm that Teyla had only heard from him a few times before. He already had a tablet attached to Michael's console, downloading everything they would need to know about the experiments and tests and plans of the dead man on the floor. Teyla shuddered and held on to John a little tighter. His breath was warm against her skin as he placed a kiss on her brow.
He did not let go of her all the way back to the jumper, holding her flush to his side as they skulked back through the ship. Once safely on board, he only reluctantly released her to Ronon and Rodney's care so that he could fly.
At his nod, Major Lorne flicked the switch on the three detonators he had been holding. They flew away from the ship as pieces of it shot in every direction through the dark, star-studded sky.
Teyla, tucked snugly between Rodney and Ronon on the back bench of the jumper, did not take her eyes off John the entire flight home.
VII. Mid-S5
She found him on one of the balconies a few levels below the labs. John looked around as the door glided open and she walked out. Seeing that it was her, he gave a half smile and turned back to the view. Teyla joined him at the railing. The sun was setting against the horizon, the cloudless sky a picture of red and gold that was reflected in the water.
Taking a deep breath of the salty air, Teyla tilted her head back slightly and let the wind play with her hair. Familiar words whispered at the back of her mind and she closed her eyes against the setting sun, silently running through the prayer of gratitude her people spoke at day's end. Though her experiences with the Ancients had dimmed her view of the Ancestors the prayers called to, the words of thankfulness still rang true.
Opening her eyes, she turned to look at John. He was staring out across the water, but she could tell that his thoughts were elsewhere; his eyes were distant. With a small sigh, she faced the sun again and with the fading light sparkling on the water, she let her thoughts drift.
She thought back to the first time the Lanteans met her people and the uncertain fate they had all faced. She thought of all they had accomplished, the mistakes that had been made and the mistakes that had been corrected. Missions and moments came back to her, times spent at bedsides, in jails, around dining hall tables. She remembered laughter and tears, fights and silences, all the things that had turned her team into her family. The past few years filled her mind like a whirlwind, and at its center was the man at her side.
Without looking away from the sea, she slipped her hand into his.
From the corner of her eye, she saw him turn his head slightly and look at her before facing forward again. He laced their fingers together and gave her hand a squeeze. She shifted a step closer and leaned into him a little, felt him shift his stance to take her weight. They stood that way for a long while, watching the sun sink into the water and the stars wink to life above them. As the lights of the city began to flicker to life around them, Teyla spoke.
“John—”
“I know,” he said quickly, cutting her off. His gaze flicked over to her face, then down and back out to sea. “Me, too.”
Teyla stared at him for a long while. Then she smiled to herself and rested her head on his shoulder.