Reassembling [SGA, Teyla/John, G]
Title: Reassembling
Author: wojelah
Rating: G
Warning: Spoilers for everything through 4x15, Outcast.
Word Count: 1100ish
Summary: "Teyla has never flinched from life; she has never been given that option. But now, ...she has found herself pulling back, seeking time alone, away, apart." Prompt: lost in plain sight - subtle.
Author's Notes: It's still Feb. 2 in California. Thank god for smittywing , who poked until I had an idea AND then proceeded to beta, and to raisintorte , who assured me it was not running amok. Title is from Antoine de Saint-Exupery: "Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, when all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree."
Pregnancy has changed her. That fact alone is not a surprise - Teyla is not so sheltered that she hasn't seen the same thing in others. It is, rather, the nature of the changes that have taken her aback. It goes beyond the swell of breast and belly, the soreness in back and ankles, the shift in her balance and sense of her physical self. It is a curling inward, a change in focus, a sense of withdrawal she understands in theory but which, in practice, is somewhat terrifying.
Teyla has never flinched from life; she has never been given that option. But now, gradually, over the course of the last several months, she has found herself pulling back, seeking time alone, away, apart. She fought it at first, this slow, gentle fading - just as she fought John, tooth and nail, over her removal from missions. She fought it until her encounter with the Wraith queen, and then she was too busy fighting her own fear to have the energy to spare. Even so, she is hardly a hermit: they are still searching for her people, and duty and fear are strict taskmasters. Still, she finds she prefers, more and more, the solitude of her quarters and the still of meditation to the noise of the mess hall and common areas.
She misses Kate; she misses Elizabeth; most of all, she misses Charin. She has so many questions and few people to ask: the women of Atlantis are strong and capable, but none are mothers. Jennifer is so very young, and Colonel Carter too much a stranger, and she finds she cannot confide in either of them. Lorne and Ronon and Rodney have formed amongst themselves some sort of bizarre and unholy alliance - they are forever shadowing her, chivvying her over the state of her dinner plate and her next medical appointment and the importance of music to child development. Some days Teyla wants to smack them; on the whole, however, they make her smile. John does not join them in these efforts, although she holds his promises of family and the future close to her heart. She sees less of John of late, which is not a surprise. They do not train together anymore, on the pretense that she is slow and easily tired. If she is honest, it is also because John has lately grown so awkward and cautious that he is likely to cause injury through his own hesitation.
And so Teyla finds that her days have grown quieter; more so of late, as she feels her body shift and accommodate and gather itself. She is not afraid, precisely, not of the act of giving birth, at any rate. But she does not know who it is she is becoming, and she has always been sure in her sense of self. Tonight, after a week with Ronon and John away on Earth and Lorne and Rodney assisting the children on M7G-677, she has had fewer distractions than normal, and finds herself unusually restless. It sets her to walk along empty corridors, her feet carrying her to a balcony where she can feel the wind on her face, where she can settle and breathe deeply, aware of the stars overhead. She focuses on each muscle in turn, until the tension eases and she loses herself in the familiar comfort of meditation.
The sound of the door opening brings Teyla back to the present; she braces her hands on the floor, ready to heave herself to her feet. "Sorry," comes John's voice above her head, and she relaxes, only to hear him say, "Ah - I'll just - I'll leave you to -," and she makes to rise anyway, feeling awkward and ill-shaped.
"Wait," she says, and then, annoyed, continues, "You might help."
"Sorry," he answers, and his hand is strong and sure at the small of her back until she is steady on her feet. "So," he shrugs, ill-at-ease. "Lucky for you there's no bantos tomorrow."
She smiles, noting the shadows under his eyes and the slight sag to his mouth.
"Lucky for you, perhaps," she returns. "I did not know you had returned."
"Just got back," he says, and moves forward to the railing. "It's good to be home."
She joins him, leaning forward and hissing slightly at the stretch in her lower back. He looks at her uneasily out of the corner of his eye, but says nothing, and they stand there some time in what becomes a comfortable silence.
"I am sorry about your father," she says eventually, because it needs to be said.
"Yeah," he replies, without moving. "Me too."
She shifts over, slightly - just enough that their shoulders brush, and they stand, quiet, until a stray breeze makes her shiver and he wraps an arm around her shoulder. The gesture is wholly unexpected, but hardly unwelcome, and she feels him gradually relax against her.
"Carter says we haven't gotten any new leads on your people," he says after a time, and she is absurdly heartened by the "we".
"No," she answers, and his arm tightens around her briefly. "But we have not exhausted all options yet." The words are taking on the weight of repetition; she refuses to let them become merely a rote response.
"We'll find them, Teyla," John says, but his eyes are still focused out over the water, searching for something unknown to her. In the stillness that has built up around her in the last several months, they sound flat, almost hollow.
She knows how he expects her to answer, but the "I know" lies heavy on her tongue. She closes her eyes as he drops his arm and shifts away.
"Hey," he says, and she hears him move, opening her eyes at the touch of his forehead against hers. His stare is intent as he straightens, even if the lines of his face are still tired. He takes her by the shoulder, his breath warm against her skin. "We will." His other hand rises to touch her cheek, to trace her skin in a long, slow line, until it comes to rest against the nape of her neck. It's the closest another person has been to her in months.
She breathes deeply and nods, grounded by the weight of his gaze and the heat of his palm. "We will," she answers, exerting every fragment of willpower to make the words clear and steady. She should step away, should take the offered strength and use it to straighten her spine. She should, but for now, she does not, content to raise her arms and clasp his in return, to lean in against him until he lowers his head to hers a second time, to stand there, under the stars, and trade breath.
Author: wojelah
Rating: G
Warning: Spoilers for everything through 4x15, Outcast.
Word Count: 1100ish
Summary: "Teyla has never flinched from life; she has never been given that option. But now, ...she has found herself pulling back, seeking time alone, away, apart." Prompt: lost in plain sight - subtle.
Author's Notes: It's still Feb. 2 in California. Thank god for smittywing , who poked until I had an idea AND then proceeded to beta, and to raisintorte , who assured me it was not running amok. Title is from Antoine de Saint-Exupery: "Night, the beloved. Night, when words fade and things come alive. When the destructive analysis of day is done, when all that is truly important becomes whole and sound again. When man reassembles his fragmentary self and grows with the calm of a tree."
Pregnancy has changed her. That fact alone is not a surprise - Teyla is not so sheltered that she hasn't seen the same thing in others. It is, rather, the nature of the changes that have taken her aback. It goes beyond the swell of breast and belly, the soreness in back and ankles, the shift in her balance and sense of her physical self. It is a curling inward, a change in focus, a sense of withdrawal she understands in theory but which, in practice, is somewhat terrifying.
Teyla has never flinched from life; she has never been given that option. But now, gradually, over the course of the last several months, she has found herself pulling back, seeking time alone, away, apart. She fought it at first, this slow, gentle fading - just as she fought John, tooth and nail, over her removal from missions. She fought it until her encounter with the Wraith queen, and then she was too busy fighting her own fear to have the energy to spare. Even so, she is hardly a hermit: they are still searching for her people, and duty and fear are strict taskmasters. Still, she finds she prefers, more and more, the solitude of her quarters and the still of meditation to the noise of the mess hall and common areas.
She misses Kate; she misses Elizabeth; most of all, she misses Charin. She has so many questions and few people to ask: the women of Atlantis are strong and capable, but none are mothers. Jennifer is so very young, and Colonel Carter too much a stranger, and she finds she cannot confide in either of them. Lorne and Ronon and Rodney have formed amongst themselves some sort of bizarre and unholy alliance - they are forever shadowing her, chivvying her over the state of her dinner plate and her next medical appointment and the importance of music to child development. Some days Teyla wants to smack them; on the whole, however, they make her smile. John does not join them in these efforts, although she holds his promises of family and the future close to her heart. She sees less of John of late, which is not a surprise. They do not train together anymore, on the pretense that she is slow and easily tired. If she is honest, it is also because John has lately grown so awkward and cautious that he is likely to cause injury through his own hesitation.
And so Teyla finds that her days have grown quieter; more so of late, as she feels her body shift and accommodate and gather itself. She is not afraid, precisely, not of the act of giving birth, at any rate. But she does not know who it is she is becoming, and she has always been sure in her sense of self. Tonight, after a week with Ronon and John away on Earth and Lorne and Rodney assisting the children on M7G-677, she has had fewer distractions than normal, and finds herself unusually restless. It sets her to walk along empty corridors, her feet carrying her to a balcony where she can feel the wind on her face, where she can settle and breathe deeply, aware of the stars overhead. She focuses on each muscle in turn, until the tension eases and she loses herself in the familiar comfort of meditation.
The sound of the door opening brings Teyla back to the present; she braces her hands on the floor, ready to heave herself to her feet. "Sorry," comes John's voice above her head, and she relaxes, only to hear him say, "Ah - I'll just - I'll leave you to -," and she makes to rise anyway, feeling awkward and ill-shaped.
"Wait," she says, and then, annoyed, continues, "You might help."
"Sorry," he answers, and his hand is strong and sure at the small of her back until she is steady on her feet. "So," he shrugs, ill-at-ease. "Lucky for you there's no bantos tomorrow."
She smiles, noting the shadows under his eyes and the slight sag to his mouth.
"Lucky for you, perhaps," she returns. "I did not know you had returned."
"Just got back," he says, and moves forward to the railing. "It's good to be home."
She joins him, leaning forward and hissing slightly at the stretch in her lower back. He looks at her uneasily out of the corner of his eye, but says nothing, and they stand there some time in what becomes a comfortable silence.
"I am sorry about your father," she says eventually, because it needs to be said.
"Yeah," he replies, without moving. "Me too."
She shifts over, slightly - just enough that their shoulders brush, and they stand, quiet, until a stray breeze makes her shiver and he wraps an arm around her shoulder. The gesture is wholly unexpected, but hardly unwelcome, and she feels him gradually relax against her.
"Carter says we haven't gotten any new leads on your people," he says after a time, and she is absurdly heartened by the "we".
"No," she answers, and his arm tightens around her briefly. "But we have not exhausted all options yet." The words are taking on the weight of repetition; she refuses to let them become merely a rote response.
"We'll find them, Teyla," John says, but his eyes are still focused out over the water, searching for something unknown to her. In the stillness that has built up around her in the last several months, they sound flat, almost hollow.
She knows how he expects her to answer, but the "I know" lies heavy on her tongue. She closes her eyes as he drops his arm and shifts away.
"Hey," he says, and she hears him move, opening her eyes at the touch of his forehead against hers. His stare is intent as he straightens, even if the lines of his face are still tired. He takes her by the shoulder, his breath warm against her skin. "We will." His other hand rises to touch her cheek, to trace her skin in a long, slow line, until it comes to rest against the nape of her neck. It's the closest another person has been to her in months.
She breathes deeply and nods, grounded by the weight of his gaze and the heat of his palm. "We will," she answers, exerting every fragment of willpower to make the words clear and steady. She should step away, should take the offered strength and use it to straighten her spine. She should, but for now, she does not, content to raise her arms and clasp his in return, to lean in against him until he lowers his head to hers a second time, to stand there, under the stars, and trade breath.