SGA Fic: If
Title: If
Rating: PG
Category: John Sheppard/Elizabeth Weir.
Spoilers: Season One, The Storm/The Eye
Disclaimer: Owned by others.
Author’s Note: Happy New Year/Birthday, trialia!
==
“Can I stay here with you ‘til the day breaks?
There’s something you should know,
I ain’t got no place to go”
-- Ray LaMontagne, ‘Can I Stay’
==
It starts with a cough a few days after the Genii/Kolya incident, and by the time it’s progressed and she’s pale and gaunt, fevered and attached to beeping machines in Beckett’s lab, John is sufficiently worried enough to spend the majority of his day pacing beside her bed.
He ignores Beckett’s requests and demands to leave - focused on the guilt that this is somehow his fault, the firm belief that Atlantis needs her, and the fear twisting at his gut that she might actually die on him. Rodney stops by often, but never stays long (as though maybe he’s feeling a little bit guilty, too).
“It was the rain,” he says to them.
John doesn’t touch her hand, can’t even touch the bed - every moment suddenly fragile with Beckett constantly frowning and putting needles in her arm, his eyes bleak. She doesn’t seize, doesn’t die, doesn’t wake - three days past with little change until she reaches out for him, her hand on his sleeve.
It’s a cracked whisper, but he hears it clearly. “Sit down already.”
==
He cordons them off on the west pier away from the worst of the flooding, leaves Ford and Teyla with strict instructions.
“One week,” he reminds them (and Beckett and Rodney who are listening in) before putting the ear piece aside.
Elizabeth doesn’t protest, although he can tell she wants to by her expression. She’s barely able to muster enough energy to walk, much less argue, so he knows he’s safe for a few days before she starts getting restless enough to want to work. He shares the thought aloud, and it earns him a knowing smile.
==
They explore the rooms a few levels up - nothing really extraordinary to be found, but it’s an excuse to get her moving. Her hand is in his when they climb stairs, moments when he is entirely too aware of the feel of her, the warm skin, the gentle press of her fingers.
There are a few semi-empty storage rooms, some sort of lab (“Don’t tell Rodney yet,” he cautions), and hallways made of stained glass. It’s quiet, and safe enough, and her strength comes back fast.
“Thank you,” she says to him during one dinner of MREs. “For everything.”
He knows it’s less about the situation now and more about the incident then. “I had the shot.”
She smiles. “I never doubted that.”
==
At night, they sleep in the room with the vaulted ceiling, and he tries not to look across the space to watch her, to check that she’s breathing.
She knows, of course, her eyes meeting his. “I’m not dead.”
“Getting close three times in a week isn’t good odds,” he reminds her.
“Bad week.”
“I’m going to need some advance notice next time.” It comes out more gruffly than he intends, and she looks at him curiously. His feelings are vague and he doesn’t want to think more on it, is thankful when she doesn’t pursue it further.
She hasn’t needed it in a few days, but she takes his hand the next morning when they climb to the top of the west tower.
==
He brings her to the pier - his arm stretched along hers, hands together, her back pressed into him as they aim the gun over the waves and he shows her how to shoot.
“Is this how you train everyone?” she asks.
==
Normal returns abruptly - her health, his off-world missions, work and Atlantis. It’s running always, and he stops thinking about vacations and time off, remembers the week with her when he’s on another planet, keeping watch and idle.
If they’re more in-sync, if he argues less, or if she trusts him enough to concede on occasion, if she’s suddenly a good shot, and if he’s proud of this, if maybe they’re more tactile when he thinks no one’s looking, or if they happen to work better side-by-side and together, it goes quietly unmentioned.
-Fin
Rating: PG
Category: John Sheppard/Elizabeth Weir.
Spoilers: Season One, The Storm/The Eye
Disclaimer: Owned by others.
Author’s Note: Happy New Year/Birthday, trialia!
==
“Can I stay here with you ‘til the day breaks?
There’s something you should know,
I ain’t got no place to go”
-- Ray LaMontagne, ‘Can I Stay’
==
It starts with a cough a few days after the Genii/Kolya incident, and by the time it’s progressed and she’s pale and gaunt, fevered and attached to beeping machines in Beckett’s lab, John is sufficiently worried enough to spend the majority of his day pacing beside her bed.
He ignores Beckett’s requests and demands to leave - focused on the guilt that this is somehow his fault, the firm belief that Atlantis needs her, and the fear twisting at his gut that she might actually die on him. Rodney stops by often, but never stays long (as though maybe he’s feeling a little bit guilty, too).
“It was the rain,” he says to them.
John doesn’t touch her hand, can’t even touch the bed - every moment suddenly fragile with Beckett constantly frowning and putting needles in her arm, his eyes bleak. She doesn’t seize, doesn’t die, doesn’t wake - three days past with little change until she reaches out for him, her hand on his sleeve.
It’s a cracked whisper, but he hears it clearly. “Sit down already.”
==
He cordons them off on the west pier away from the worst of the flooding, leaves Ford and Teyla with strict instructions.
“One week,” he reminds them (and Beckett and Rodney who are listening in) before putting the ear piece aside.
Elizabeth doesn’t protest, although he can tell she wants to by her expression. She’s barely able to muster enough energy to walk, much less argue, so he knows he’s safe for a few days before she starts getting restless enough to want to work. He shares the thought aloud, and it earns him a knowing smile.
==
They explore the rooms a few levels up - nothing really extraordinary to be found, but it’s an excuse to get her moving. Her hand is in his when they climb stairs, moments when he is entirely too aware of the feel of her, the warm skin, the gentle press of her fingers.
There are a few semi-empty storage rooms, some sort of lab (“Don’t tell Rodney yet,” he cautions), and hallways made of stained glass. It’s quiet, and safe enough, and her strength comes back fast.
“Thank you,” she says to him during one dinner of MREs. “For everything.”
He knows it’s less about the situation now and more about the incident then. “I had the shot.”
She smiles. “I never doubted that.”
==
At night, they sleep in the room with the vaulted ceiling, and he tries not to look across the space to watch her, to check that she’s breathing.
She knows, of course, her eyes meeting his. “I’m not dead.”
“Getting close three times in a week isn’t good odds,” he reminds her.
“Bad week.”
“I’m going to need some advance notice next time.” It comes out more gruffly than he intends, and she looks at him curiously. His feelings are vague and he doesn’t want to think more on it, is thankful when she doesn’t pursue it further.
She hasn’t needed it in a few days, but she takes his hand the next morning when they climb to the top of the west tower.
==
He brings her to the pier - his arm stretched along hers, hands together, her back pressed into him as they aim the gun over the waves and he shows her how to shoot.
“Is this how you train everyone?” she asks.
==
Normal returns abruptly - her health, his off-world missions, work and Atlantis. It’s running always, and he stops thinking about vacations and time off, remembers the week with her when he’s on another planet, keeping watch and idle.
If they’re more in-sync, if he argues less, or if she trusts him enough to concede on occasion, if she’s suddenly a good shot, and if he’s proud of this, if maybe they’re more tactile when he thinks no one’s looking, or if they happen to work better side-by-side and together, it goes quietly unmentioned.
-Fin