FIC: Turtle Soup
Title: Turtle Soup
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Teyla, John, Ronon and Rodney
Genre: Fluff
Summary: She kept trying because it was her way.
Spoilers: Nothing special.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended.
Unbeta'ed so yes... on me.
Turtle Soup
John tracks her down upon returning from the mainland. She’d meant to go too, or at least to find him and hear whatever news there was, but as usual there hadn’t been time. Being the Athosian leader also meant there were alliances to maintain, and when she wasn’t in Atlantis doing just that, she did it on other worlds too.
“From Halling.”
He delivers two bags into her arms, one blood-soaked, the cloth clinging to its contents, the other clean and dry. She peaks inside and recognizes the smell and texture of sea turtle. She needn’t look in the other one.
“He said to tell you to make it and share with loved ones.”
His smile is sheepish.
“I guess that means us.”
She means to store them in the kitchen but an unscheduled opening of the gate puts the bags out of her mind. When she finally goes looking for them, the meat has gone bad.
Another batch arrives with a fellow Athosian of hers.
“Here you go Teyla. All Athosians should enjoy our stroke of luck.”
Indeed. Message received. She stores the ingredients in the kitchen fridge and heads out to give one of her classes. The room feels familiar, hers. The light bounce off the dark floor and she finds it uncommonly pretty. Captain Porter circles around her, trying to figure out a way to take her down. Teyla knows it’s in vain.
Confident of her skill, she twirls the rods in her hands. Her mind feels pliable. Present, attentive but at the same time already in the kitchen, removing the entrails, cutting the meat. Block. Strike. Adding the spices, putting everything in the pan. The smell rises from the pot indicating the moment to begin stirring. Parry. Parry. Strike. Strike. The hours spent waiting for the concoction to stew before adding the fat. Low kick. Block. Rise. Strike. Strike. Strike.
The captain’s sprawled on the floor and she has plans for that night.
Ronon is the first to taste the greenish mix poured into four Athosian earthenware bowls. After the first sip his face registers an emotion she can’t quite read but then he takes another one. And another. John and Rodney are emboldened by this and both take big spoonfuls.
Rodney cries out first. “Burgh! This is bad!”
John chokes but tries to maintain some dignity. Rodney has no such concerns, he wipes his tongue on a napkin.
“How can you give us this? It’s really bad! And you? How can you eat it?”
The big man shrugs.
“Spent years living off roots and whatever I could find. But it is bad Teyla.”
She doesn’t feel a change in her features but John reacts.
“Guys…, a little respect, please! Maybe… if Teyla got another Athosian to make it so we have something to compare with...”
He means well, they all do, but she pours it down the sink that night.
On Athos, once a year the turtles would swim ashore to lay their eggs. They were left alone. But a few months later the hunt was on. Everyone went to watch as the men set out on big boats that got smaller and smaller, finally disappearing in the swells. They’d return hours later, the boats laden with dead turtles, the soft coveted meat hidden under hard shell.
Every home would get their share and the women spent hours extracting the meat while the children played with the shells. Excess meat would be preserved but the rule was not to hunt for more than needed. The turtle meat was temporary and was to be enjoyed in that time.
Everyone had their task. The men had hunted and helped with the skinning. The women cooked and the children ran around picking up any bit of shinny shell they could get their hands on. Later they’d play at throwing them so they’d skim the farthest over the water. Smells would rise all over the settlement and people would go from tent to tent, tasting, talking and secretly comparing.
Not everything in their lives had to do with the Wraith and sometimes she forgets.
(Second try)
Rodney: “This again?”
Ronon: “It’s probably better…. Sorry, no.”
John: “I think you should cook it longer. I wikipedia’d it. That’s what they say.”
She sighs. “It is not an earth recipe John.”
She asks to have more supplies sent over.
(Third try)
Rodney: “You didn’t put lemon in this to get back at me?”
Ronon: “Still bad. But I’ll eat it if you want.”
John: “Maybe… next time?”
She smiles and doesn’t answer.
She tries again and again, dredges up childhood memories trying to remember Charin’s instructions. She even goes to the mainland and sits, humiliated, as Anka, an old friend, takes her through the moves. Holding Anka’s baby daughter, she watches the girl she used to play with adding the herbs, stirring, patiently preparing her broth. Part of her feels stupid, neglecting duties back on Atlantis and here to make turtle soup.
She couldn’t explain it to John or Halling and though they both disguised it pretty well, she knows she left them stumped. Even the children sneak peaks into the tent to catch a glimpse of the warrior-leader they haven’t seen in a while, who misses the turtle hunts but returns to cook them. Her reputation’s taking a hit.
Fourth, fifth, sixth try, she stubbornly keeps at it, variating cooking time, the way she cuts the meat, even the ingredients, but the soup’s still bad. She wikipedia’s the recipe, desperately seeking inspiration but it’s no use.
So Teyla opts for the direct approach. Cancels some classes and provides what was sorely lacking in her cooking up till now: time. She cuts the vegetables and the meats properly and carefully, her mind entirely on the exercise. The kitchen is hers in the late hours, her task is at hand, defined and she fully embraces it.
She does it all exactly as she knows and remembers, as she was shown. She sits nearby as the hours pass watching it intently, observing every shade, every bubble. She hovers over it willing it to be good, right. A mother praying for her child’s health, she muses.
She waits as they taste it, her eyes trained on Rodney. He’s the first to respond. He doesn’t wipe his tongue in his napkin anymore but she suspects it’s more due to threats of bodily harm than any improvement in her cooking skills.
“Wow, that’s… that’s never going to get better. It’s just…”
Ronon interrupts him. “I think you’re getting better.”
“John?”
“You’re getting closer. Next time?”
She doesn’t serve it next time. Rodney’s wail takes her by surprise.
“What do you mean there’s no soup?”
She wasn’t prepared and her answer is embarrassed.
“It is no use. I do not have a cauldron, a real wood fire and …I am no cook. You will not suffer any longer.”
In Atlantis there are soldiers and scientists. Her skills are less easily placed. Even among her people she was apart for reasons that only recently became clear. She could hear the Wraith, feel them in her body and even warn and save others. She learned to fight with the rods, to defend herself, she chose to fight for her people. The only one.
She hasn’t felt this sorry for herself in a long time. Here in Atlantis it’s hard to remember that there’s a life that doesn’t involve fighting or fighters. And it seems this belligerent lifestyle’s taken over her. She hadn’t even known turtles were found near the mainland. Not till John had handed her the bag. There had been a return to the old ways, peace and joy and she hadn’t even known. Worse: when she looked in the bag and saw the turtle flesh she’d felt disappointment. It’s different. The turtles here are bigger, tasted different and the ultimate failure of her cooking experience, is that she can’t be sure that difference is the reason her soup’s terrible.
It is though, terrible. Her friends are nice about it, submitting to the experiment with good grace. Rodney offering his scathing version of honesty, Ronon, his plain candor and John, embarrassed attempts at sparing her feelings. She kept trying because it’s was her way, but nature had had another take on it.
“Turtle season is over. They swam away, too far for my people to hunt.”
“We could take the jumpers….”
“It is not our way Rodney. We always let them go…”
“Right.”
She imagines standing on the shore watching them swim away, saying goodbye. She was the lucky one really, the one who got to live in the city. Here it’s normal to be foreign and out of place, to feel intimidated by all the changes. On the mainland, her people live much as they always have, together, but in an unknown place. Everything is a reminder of what they all lost.
She wrings her hands and tries to shake off this mood. It’s her duty to care for them, to make everything all right. Does she feel guilty for not facing it with them? Or is she secretly glad she didn’t have to? Silence settles in around the table and she feels self-conscious. It’s not heavy or unpleasant, it’s just empty.
“What now? It’s tradition. You make bad soup, we try to pretend it’s okay and in between Sheppard threatens me. I like my routines!”
“I don’t threaten. I firmly suggest. And he’s right, we were getting used to it.”
“You could cook something else.” Ronon’s voice hits her inside.
“No. But perhaps you would like to.”
To everyone else his Satedan shrug is a “yes!”
She feels John’s hand, warm on her arm, his way of making everything all right.
“I’m sure you’ll get it right. They’ll be back next year.”