New SGA Fic: The Best Portion part two of four
Part One, with header, may be found here
Teyla returns to the ward and sets everything down on a table in the far corner, far enough away for Beckett to have a moment's quiet, but close enough he can act quickly if needed. Getting Dr. Beckett to the food, however, is a whole different matter.
”Honestly, I don't have the time, Teyla,” he says, and words tumble together rubbing against one another like cats. He tries to turn away from her, but she catches his forearm, her grip easy but implacable. With a frown, he glances down at her hand and then back up, and she remembers he does not like to be pushed or manhandled by anyone. Gently she slides her hand down his forearm and circles his wrist, before slipping her hand into his, squeezing slightly.
”You have the steadiest hands I have ever seen,” she says, softening her voice, making it smooth and calming as possible, the voice she uses for the times whenever the situation she faces has gone problematical. ”But now I feel a tremor. Please, sit and eat, for just a moment. You cannot care for your patients if you do not care for yourself.”
He watches her a span of heartbeats, and she cannot tell which way he will go, for she has seen how very stubborn he can be. But then the frown crease fades from between his eyebrows, and his fingers wrap around hers, big and surprisingly strong, chill. She wishes she could feel skin against skin intead of feeling everything muffled through latex, but there is nothing to be done about it. ”Aye, you're right, my dear,” he says finally. His eyes crinkle as he offers a small smile. ”There is a saying on Earth--'Physician, heal thyself'--and I should take those words to heart, I suppose.” He glances around. ”If I don't leave the ward, perhaps,” he muses. ”And everyone seems to be settled, if only for a moment. Perhaps I could take a wee bit of time for myself.”
”I did not think you would wish to leave,” Teyla says, and draws him toward the back corner of the hall, where it is dimmer and slightly quieter. He does not release her hand, and she does not pull free, partially because she is almost afraid he will slip back to work if she does, and partially because she likes it. It has been a long time since she has shared something so simple, yet so comforting with someone.
He lets go her hand as they shed their gear, wash, and sit, positioning himself so he can see his ward easily, and Teyla settles in beside him, long years of training and experience making her unwilling to sit with her back exposed to others, even friends, sitting closely enough that their elbows brush. She pours tea for him and swirls a spoon of honey into it before offering it to him. He sighs then takes it from her, gratefully, breathing in the fragrance. ”Oh, it's lovely,” he murmurs after taking a sip. ”Exactly what I needed.”
Teyla passes him a bowl of the soup and then places the bread and cheese between them. The scent of the soup makes her mouth water, and she tears off a chunk of bread to dip into the bowl. It proves as good to the tongue as it is to the nose, and she applies herself to her meal with a will. She has always had a great appreciation for well-cooked food, because she has absolutely no skill in that area herself.
She happens to glance up and finds Beckett watching her with undiluted interest, fingers wrapped tightly around his mug of tea, cheeks slightly flushed, and eyes dark. Teyla pauses, spoon halfway to her mouth. Beckett sets down his mug of tea and slowly reaches forward. ”You have something...here,” he says, and his voice drops low enough on the last word that Teyla thinks for a moment she can feel it vibrate deep within her body. His thumb slides over the corner of her mouth, and her lips part entirely on their own, her cheek turning slightly into his touch.
”Oh,” he says softly, and slowly pulls away, but his face is too expressive. He looks down into his tea a moment, and when he looks up again, he has wiped away the want and schooled his face to its usual pleasant expression. He clears his throat and says, ”Thank you for bringing me something to eat. You didn't have to do such a thing.”
Teyla wants to touch the tip of her tongue to the corner of her mouth, where his thumb had rested for a brief moment, but she does not. Heat slides down her belly, pulses between her thighs, a quick hot flutter of pleasure. Such a small thing should not have such an effect on her, but it remains that it does. She has worked hard to keep this part of her separate from the Atlanteans, to make them view her as a whole person instead of merely a potential sexual partner; it seems they have difficulty accepting that she could be both with a lessening of neither. The deep ties of friendship and trust, the ability to work with them as an equal partner, have always outweighed the feelings of desire she might otherwise have allowed herself to feel for some of them. Those feelings she takes to certain close friends amongst her people, though it has been months since she has allowed herself even that. Perhaps she should not deny this part of herself for so long; she feels suddenly out of balance. For a moment, she allows herself to remember how solid and strong he had felt in her arms, thinks of how his voice slides over her, soft and thick like a fine pelt of fur, then pushes everything back into the box in her mind and closes it securely. Here, now, is not the place for such things, and she will deal with her own reactions later.
”Do not be concerned, Dr. Beckett. It was no hardship, as I myself needed to eat. We must keep up our strength for those who now depend on us.” And that reminder of their current situation should slide them back neatly into their appointed roles; Teyla is well-accustomed to deflecting unwanted advances. Though in all honesty, she cannot say that this is either precisely unwanted or an advance. Beckett has always been so careful to never cross her carefully-drawn lines, and she suspects it is only his tiredness, his worry, that allowed him such a slip.
”As you say,” Beckett says, and it is as if the past few moments have never happened, with Beckett retreating behind the need to eat and rest, if only for a few moments. But it is not truly a rest; he talks of the disease that runs through the Sueltans, of the difficulty in setting up an effective quarantine when the people cannot or will not understand, of what they might or could do to contain the spread, and the need for cleanliness of linen, clothing, their environment.
Teyla likes that Beckett has the ability to set forth what needs done without the condescension or criticism of Rodney, without the slip into unintelligible scientific jargon that most of the scientists cannot seem to avoid. She knows herself far from stupid; years of working with the Atlanteans and her own innate abilities to pick up and adapt quickly and easily to new information have made her well able to keep pace with what goes on in Atlantis, but she can admit without self-censure when things are beyond her abilities.
When he has finished his meal, and has drained his cup of tea, Beckett sighs. ”I'd best be getting back to work. Also I need to check with Anne how she's coming along, if she's spotted anything significant.” He drums his fingers on the tabletop a moment, watching Biro. ”And we'd best be thinking of returning her to Atlantis. She's been in the suit for nine hours by my estimation. Those things are abominably hot, and she hasn't had a drink since she put it on. The last thing we need is for her to topple over with heat prostration and dehydration.”
His blue, blue eyes slide over to her, follow the curve of her mouth for a heartbeat or two, then skip back up to her eyes. ”If you start feeling feverish, let me know immediately,” he says, and although the words are clinical, the tone is not, and Teyla nods in acknowledgement at the unspoken be careful, now.
A moment later he has garbed up again and stands beside Biro, their heads as close as possible over a computer screen that washes Biro's faceplate an eerie blue. Teyla replaces all her protective gear and sets to work doing what she can-cleaning with a strong bleach and water solution, washing linens and clothes in the hot water heated by the generator, providing water and broth, wiping off sweat and other less clean substances, and whatever else she find to do to help. It is not easy work, nor pleasant, but still it fills her with satisfaction to know that she helps, that she makes a difference, if only a little. She keeps an eye on the doctors, and sees them both gesturing emphatically, but hears remarkably little yelling, because Beckett tends to keep a tighter rein on his temper than most other scientists she has worked with before. In comparison, Rodney and Dr. Zelenka in full argument mode are a contentious wonder to behold, if extremely hard on the ears.
The flow of people coming in to Beckett's makeshift hospital starts to ebb as the night wears on, and Teyla is more than grateful, for weariness has hollowed her bones and filled them with lead. She can only begin to imagine how Beckett and Gasquet must feel, and does not know how Biro has stayed on her feet; by her watch, Biro has been in the suit for close to thirteen hours, and Beckett has started to complain, quite colorfully if not loudly, that she needs to return to Atlantis and get out of the suit now.
Biro staggers away from the medical equipment and computers, heading for the back of the hall where Teyla and Beckett had taken their meal, and Beckett follows, harrassing her about how she should have returned three hours ago. Biro pauses, looks around at her position in the room, and then reaches up and fumbles with the main zipper. Beckett lets out a very undignified noise, but it is too late; she has opened up her suit, exposing herself to the same air they all breathe, and possible contamination.
Teyla has just slipped into new isolation garb, and so she seizes water and towels as Biro shakily strips out of the suit. She wears shorts and a tee shirt, and both are plastered to her with sweat; she smells like a stable. Teyla helps her to step out of it, gives her a jug of water, and holds Biro steady while she drinks and shakes against her.
Beckett can do nothing until he strips out of his own isolation gear, which he does, swearing low and ferocious under his breath. By the time he has finished, Teyla has draped a towel around Biro's shoulders.
”Just what the bloody hell were you thinking? That was a totally daft thing to do! Now you're stuck here with the rest of us, compromised!”
Biro grins, though it is more unsteady than normal. ”Come on, Carson. You didn't really think I'd planned on going back and leaving you with all this, now did you? I just wanted to get as much done working with specimens as I could while in the suit.”
”I swear to all that's holy that I'm shipping you back on the next run of the Daedalus,” he says, so clearly exasperated as he checks her over quickly. ”Let the SGC go grey over your antics instead of me.”
”Think how boring it would be without me,” Biro says, and drinks more water.
”How peaceful, you mean,” Beckett says crossly.
”Peaceful? Certainly not. You'll always have Rodney,” Biro replies, and Teyla has to smile even as Beckett's mouth quirks upward.
”Aye, always,” Beckett replies wryly. But there is fondness there, for Teyla knows how much he likes Rodney, no matter how much he argues with him. Rodney has that effect on everyone, Teyla herself included.
”Dr. Biro, the villagers have set up a room for us to use for rest. Perhaps you would like to do so. After you wash up,” Teyla adds in, striving for a diplomatic tone. Teyla's own experience with a hazmat suit had left her washing for what felt like hours to be free of the stench of sweat and chemicals.
”Oh god yes, I reek. Thanks, Teyla.”
Biro slings an arm around Teyla's shoulders, and Teyla slips an arm around her waist, and they stagger off to their room. Teyla is not surprised at Biro's headache and nausea and vomiting, and helps her to clean up and bathe, and wrestles her into clean soft clothes. The Sueltans have put bedding along each wall of the room; it is on the floor, as they have used all available cots for the ward. Gasquet has already claimed a pallet, and snores lightly. Teyla is tired enough she knows she will not mind sleeping on the floor, and doubts that Beckett will complain when it is their turn for sleep.
Beckett comes back in, and in spite of Biro's fussing, puts an IV in her arm and an injection into her thigh, one for the dehydration and one for the nausea. Teyla fetches a container with a lid to hold fresh water and a basin in the event she becomes nauseated again, and by the time she returns, Biro is soundly asleep.
”Such a stubborn woman,” Beckett says when she rejoins him out in the ward, most of his concentration on regulating an IV for one of his patients. ”Incredibly intelligent, but a head like a brick.”
Teyla cannot help her smile. ”As if you would act differently, Dr. Beckett,” she says as he jots a note on the patient's chart and tucks it back into the bag at the foot of the bed. ”I know you, so you cannot fool me into thinking elsewise.”
”Well,” Beckett says with a wry sidewise glance. ”I shan't deny it. I'm absolutely certain that somewhere in the genetic makeup of doctors there's a very large and active gene for stubbornness.”
”I am quite convinced it is shared by everyone in Atlantis,” Teyla replies with a bigger smile, handing him another set of latex gloves.
”And among the Athosians as well, then,” he says, and then with a gleam in his eyes, adds, ”Certain ones in particular.”
”Really, Doctor, you should not speak of Halling in such a way,” Teyla replies archly.
Beckett laughs, and she wishes for a moment she could see the deep dimples in his cheeks, hidden by the mask he wears.
He looks as if he will reply, but then a wheezing rasp from one of his patients catches his attention, and Beckett instantly turns to care for him, visibly shrugging off the greater part of his weariness, focused and intent once more.
§§§
From the angle of light pushing in through the wavy window glass, it is midmorning when Teyla awakes. She blinks a couple of times and glances at her watch; only four hours since Beckett sent her to bed. It is not enough rest-she aches all over, but she is not certain what woke her, until she hears it again, a soft little distressed sound that is perhaps what pulled her from sleep.
She rubs her bleary eyes and glances around. Gasquet's pallet is empty, as is that of Biro. Against the third wall, across from her own, is Beckett's pallet, and the noise comes from there. Sitting up, she takes a moment to collect herself, then shoves to her feet, wraps a blanket around her bare shoulders, and pads across the cold floor, shivering.
Beckett lies in a tangle of covers, moving restlessly, his brow creased in a frown even as he sleeps. She is not certain when he actually came to his bed-certainly after Biro had woken, because he would never leave patients unattended, and Biro had been exhausted from the stress of working in the containment suit, had still been sleeping when Teyla staggered in after dawn.
His dreams are obviously not pleasant, and Teyla wonders if he thinks of Hoff; she cannot help but make comparisons, what with the need to rotate people on and off oxygen in order to share limited supplies, the continuous sound of coughing and wheezing that now fills the ward. He shifts constantly, murmuring something in a roll of furry-sounding consonants that she cannot quite catch, his mouth caught in a frown, the violet smudges beneath his eyes from yesterday gone deeper, darker from exhaustion. He has twisted in the covers enough that it only covers his lower belly and part of his upper thighs; she can see the edges of blue boxers. His skin is as pale as cream, his chest deep and broad, smooth and hairless, his belly gently curved. He is not hard and muscular as have been most of the men she has known, the fewer still she has shared a bed with, but there is strength in him, a reassuring solidity. Her conscience pricks sharply at her; she should not look at him while he is so unguarded, but she cannot seem to stop the skim of her eyes over him. Nor can she help the bloom of heat between her thighs brought about by the looking; she is not made of stone, but is as much flesh and blood and desire and need as any other. Teyla kneels down beside him, wary of the reach of his arms, because living under constant stress and threat of the Wraith tends to make people waken violently, even if that is not their nature. She hesitates a moment, then lays a hand on his shoulder. His skin is cold in the autumn morning.
He does not waken, and she is not sure, but she thinks perhaps his restlessness loses the sharp edge of agitation. Beneath her callused fingers, his skin is smooth and soft. Teyla murmurs, ”Carson. Carson, be at ease,” using his given name for fear his last name or title will bring him instantly awake, and he obviously needs his rest.
Teyla hums softly under her breath, a slow, sad song Charin had taught her years ago. But it is calm and soothing to the ear, and evidently it works for him; it takes a few moments, but he finally eases into a deeper sleep, looking less troubled. It is only when she removes her hand from his shoulder that she realizes she has been stroking, gently.
The rash of coldbumps over his skin makes Teyla remove the blanket from around her shoulders and spread it over him, carefully, so as not to wake him. It is warm from her body, and he sighs as it settles over him. She rises and pads back to her own pallet, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her own bare skin creeping with coldbumps. At the foot of her bed lies another blanket, and she tosses it onto her bedding and crawls beneath it. She shivers and presses her thighs tightly together, tucks her hands beneath her armpits, curling up as much as she can. Daring a glance over in his direction, she sees he still rests easily. Deliberately she closes her eyes and wills herself back to sleep, trying to ignore the thrum of blood in her veins, the feelings that have no place here and now.
When she next wakes, Beckett's pallet is empty, though she has slept little more than another hour. Hurriedly, she dresses, splashes cold water on her face, rakes fingers through her hair and ties back her hair again. Out in the ward, she see a flurry of activity around one bed, and as she pulls on isolation gear, she watches as Beckett, at the head of the cot, tips back the patient's head to an acute angle and inserts something smoothly down the man's throat, and Biro hands him tubing while working at the dials of a machine set at bedside. Their actions are smooth and practiced, a team which has worked well together for years, without a false or wasted movement.
Teyla's eyes flick around and she sees that there is another in a like state, hooked up to one of the machines that she knows are respirators. She notes with a sinking heart that it is Danal. Evidently, while she had slept, things had become much worse. She wishes she knew more of medicine, that she could do something of actual value to help them, but her skills lie in other areas. Still, she does what she can, checking the generator, making sure there is plenty of hot water for washing, keeping supplies at hand, feeding patients, helping them take care of their needs, bathing them, cleaning up after them. She loses track of all the times she changes out of isolation gear into new, loses track of the hours as they pass. Dr. Gasquet and Rhan and their helpers are equally busy; there are so many lying in cots, with more coming in seemingly every time she turns her head, and they all grow steadily worse. Teyla thinks that the sound of their labored breathing will haunt her dreams the next time she sleeps. As helpless as she feels, Beckett and Biro must feel a hundred times more so, and frustrated at their lack of progress.
Noon comes and goes, and Teyla gets food for them. Gasquet and Rhan eat hurriedly, Biro sits for a moment tapping at her notebook as she bolts down anything set in front of her, but Teyla has to fetch Beckett and physically pull him away. She has not seen him pause once over the course of the day, always doing something, never stopping.
”You will come with me now,” she says firmly, and starts stripping him out of the gear even as he protests, steers him over to the basins, and stands over him as he washes. His face is dark and displeased at her presumptuousness, but she has learned that Beckett is much like Rodney, and will work until he drops in place, unless someone intervenes. He mutters under his breath, but the lilt and cadence of his words are in his own native tongue, and she does not understand them. It is probably best she does not, she decides, steering him back to the corner furthest from the patients that they have designated for their meals, when they get to take them.
He does not sit, and even as he stands there, drinking heavily-honeyed tea, he moves, if only from one foot to another. He is so obviously beyond tired that it makes her weary just to look at him. Teyla says, ”You should sit, and rest,” and he shakes his head firmly.
”There's an animal-a fish, actually-back on Earth. It's called a shark. If it stops moving, stops swimming, it dies. It's like that, after a fashion, for me. If I sit, I'll sleep,” he says. His voice is husky with exhaustion, his words rolling heavily, his accent deeper and thicker than she has ever heard before. He rubs at his reddened eyes. ”If I keep moving, I'll stay awake.”
Teyla understands, even if she does not approve of how he drives himself. She nods. ”How is Danal?”
Beckett's head turns back toward the ward, and scrubs a hand through his thick dark hair. ”Holding his own,” he says at last. ”These sorts of things are always hardest on the elderly and the young. Though Danal's healthy and as tough as the proverbial boot, nothing changes the fact that he's still in his eighties. I wish I could say without reservation that he'll make it, but honestly, I just don't know. The respirator will keep him going a wee bit longer, and I'm hoping that the discovery Anne and I made earlier will pan out before he loses the fight.” His shoulders sag. ”Anne lost one while I slept. She came to get me to help with the intubations of the others.”
Teyla reaches out and takes one of his big hands in hers. It is cold, and she can feel the tremor caused by exhaustion. ”It did not happen because you slept,” she says gently. She should not have to say these things aloud, as Beckett is one of the most intelligent people she has ever met, as gifted, in his own field, as is Rodney in his, but she knows well that the heart does not always pay heed to the logic of the mind. ”You know this.”
”Aye, I know it,” he says softly. ”Sometimes, no matter how hard you work, how much you will it, the body can only bear so much. It's a true pity that I can't take them back to Atlantis, to have access to all the equipment we have there, but the moment we step through the gate, she'd institute a quarantine and lockdown, and we'd all be trapped where we stood. No. We'll have to deal with it here.”
”Have you and Dr. Biro found the cause for this?” His thumb strokes lightly over hers, and Teyla thinks he is not even aware of it. Even though she seeks to offer comfort, this small, repetitive motion somehow calms her instead.
”Aye, we cultured it out this morning from her work yesterday-it's a preliminary finding, and we'll have to verify, but I think it's our beast. There's a disease on Earth, highly communicable, called Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome, or SARS, for short. This is similar to, though not identical to that. The Earth-form is a nasty creature that doesn't respond well to conventional treatments. Primarily, it's treated symptomatically there-um, by treating symptoms as they appear, and keeping an eye out for secondary problems that take advantage of a suppressed immune system, such as pneumonia, which is what we're doing here, until we can do better. We're hoping that this won't be quite as difficult. We're seeing now how it responds to different medications we have available. I hope to god that we have something that will work. Medicine is still very much a trial and error profession, no matter how fancy the equipment gets.”
”I have faith that you will discover how to treat this and overcome it.” Teyla cannot help the upward curl of her mouth. ”You do have that stubborn gene in very large quantities, after all.”
He looks down at her, and his tired eyes warm for just a moment. ”That I do. But still, let's just hope that your faith in me isn't misplaced.”
”I know that it is not,” Teyla says, and reaches up to put her hands on his shoulders, tipping her head down a little, offering comfort.
Gently, he puts his hands on her shoulders and bends down to put his forehead to hers. His breath is strong with the scent of tea and tiredness, his face dark with unshaved beard. For a bare moment he goes still, then the fingertips of his right hand smooth an arc over the place where her neck meets shoulder as his thumb skates over her collarbone. It is a simple, quick touch, there and gone almost before she feels it. And then Beckett steps away, nods, and returns to his ward, leaving Teyla feeling unaccountably flushed.
Later, it takes the combined force of Teyla, Biro, Gasquet and Rhan, but they manage to oust him from the ward to sleep; he is starting to noticeably slow, and it takes too long for him to formulate answers to questions, his temper quick and his tongue sharp as any of his scalpels. In this condition he is of no use to anyone, and possibly harmful, so he cedes to their logic and goes off to well-deserved sleep. It would be a mercy if he did sleep, but when Teyla checks on him a couple of times, he is as restless as he was before, though he does settle at her light touch.
As late afternoon slides toward evening, Teyla gets a report from Biro, who is slightly more optimistic than Beckett, and rides out to the Gate. She dials in and talks with Dr. Weir, who sounds very concerned at the diagnosis and who agrees, reluctantly, with Beckett's decision that they cannot bring the Sueltans to Atlantis.
”It is a pity, yes,” Teyla says solemnly. ”I have known many of them since I was a young girl. It hurts to see them so ill and not be able to bring them to the medical wonders of Atlantis.”
”Yes, I understand,” Weir says, her voice sympathetic. ”But we cannot allow ourselves to be exposed to such an aggressive disease. And I think you'll agree that with an incubation rate of two or three days, we can safely call it aggressive.”
”No, we cannot, I agree. I remain confident that Drs. Beckett and Biro will find a way of dealing with this. They have been very dedicated, have worked so very hard to save everyone here.”
”Of that, I have no doubt,” Weir replies. ”Keep us apprised of the situation, and let us know if there is anything further you need.”
”I shall do that,” Teyla says, and the Gate closes a moment after's Weir's farewell.
It is long past dark once again before Teyla rides back into town. The streets are still and quiet save for a handful of sentries, a marked change from the usual evening crowd of friendly people milling around. Beckett had insisted on instituting a quarantine to try and keep the healthy separated from the sick, but it had proved very difficult to implement, as family members had desired, understandably, to stay with their loved ones. He had been extraordinarily patient with fearful town elders with explanations as to why he wished it, why it was so terribly important, and he had eventually gotten his directions obeyed, but not without argument. Fear often turns to anger, and it had in this instance, which is why the sentries are present, to preserve the peace, to keep everyone in place, and as safe as possible.
Teyla washes and gets into her gear-she is certain that she can now do this in her sleep-and enters the ward. Within, Dr. Gasquet, Rhan, and the two volunteers chosen for their quick minds and willingness to work hard attend to the patients while Beckett and Biro confer over microscopes, notepads, Ancient scanners, and other medical machinery. They appear very intent, their voices low and serious, their hand gestures short and sharp. Their words are in the common language the Atlanteans share, but more of them are medical and scientific jargon she has no way to interpret. Still, they do not look as if all is hopeless, and Teyla finds a measure of comfort in that. Although she knows that what she has been doing has value, it is still somewhat disconcerting not to be in on the decision-making process, as she is with her own team.
She misses them with a sudden rush of something that feels almost like homesickness. Ronon, sharp and quick and relentless with his surprisingly soft eyes and generous mouth that smiles more often now than before. Rodney, undeniably brilliant, surprisingly brave, hiding a core of vulnerability behind a virulent sarcasm. Colonel Sheppard, canny and clever, whose charm and open smile hide far more than they show. She has been with them long enough that she has almost forgotten how she once worked entirely alone, independently, and now feels as if something vital has gone missing by not having them at her side. But she would not wish them here, faced with the possibility of this disease that steals the breath, floods the lungs, causes other organs to fail, for any amount of her own discomfort.
Of course she thinks of falling ill with this herself, of struggling for each breath-how could she not? But she is careful and prudent and obeys Beckett's orders for contact with the patients, minimizing the risks to herself as much as possible. She pushes the thought to the back of her mind and concentrates on what she can do to make the situation better, to be as much help as she can, to care for the caretakers as well as the patients, for worry eats away at one's strength and accomplishes little. Her concern lies more with the others-for all of them of course, but for Beckett and Biro in particular, as they are the ones responsible for finding a way to fight this, a war which depends on patience, knowledge, experience and sheer dogged determination.
And if the thought of Beckett succumbing to this causes a sinking feeling in the pit of her belly, a twist of emotions stronger than those for the others, well. She can admit it, if only to herself.
The evening wears on into night, and eventually she gets them all to eat, and Biro and Gasquet retire to take their sleep shifts. They had simply fallen into this arrangement without planning, and Teyla does not mind to be awake during most of the night hours; she had often taken this watch while offworld with her team, and the familiarity brings a sort of comfort. Beckett does not seem to mind either; she has seen how he does not sleep well, regardless of when he makes the attempt. She thinks of his words on the night of the feast, of how he gets precious few hours of sleep, and she has seen this for herself here, wonders if it is so back in Atlantis, as well. She thinks it perhaps is; Beckett has had to make far too many decisions she does not think he had ever been prepared to make, and they all lie heavily upon him.
Beckett moves through his patients, giving medications, listening to chests, checking monitors and respirators and oxygen setups. Though he is hurried, he always has a kind word, a gentle touch, a moment of calm, an offer of hope. And no less for her; when he passes her, the corners of his blue eyes crinkle in a smile that she cannot help but return.
It is long into the night, almost time for them to wake up Biro and Gasquet when the the battle turns in their favor. As she passes the place they have designated as lab space where he sits peering into a microscope, she hears him say softly, ”Holy mother of god.”
She moves to him, curious, and he switches out slides a couple of times, the set of his shoulders tense and tight; he makes her think of a hunting cat ready to pounce, all anticipation and tension. At last he looks up at her from his microscope, the tiredness wiped from his expression, his eyes glinting with joy. ”We've found it, ” he says, his voice husky. ”We've found a medication I think will kill it.”
”I knew you would,” Teyla says, and she cannot contain the warm joy that courses through her at such wonderful news. ”I knew my faith was not misplaced.”
And then Beckett is on his feet, and Teyla reaches up to pull his forehead down against hers, but instead his arms go around her, and he lifts her up off her feet into a huge hug. Her arms wrap so naturally around his shoulders, and the heat of his body feels wonderful in the chill room. He squeezes hard enough to make her squeak against his neck, and his excitement and happiness rolls over her in a thick wave. For a moment his cheek presses against hers, and she can feel the prickle of rough beard even through their face masks. She feels almost giddy, and she thinks that if they were not in gowns and gloves and masks, she would kiss him.
Beckett has always been very perceptive, quick to read those around him, and even though he is tired, that talent does not fail him now. Somehow, the embrace changes subtly, and when he lowers her back to her feet, her body slides down his, slowly and deliberately. For a heartbeat or two she stands between his sturdy thighs, and he is not unaffected; she can feel him, half-hard.
When she looks up at him, she can see a faint flush high on his cheeks, but his blue eyes are direct and unapologetic. His hands, big and broad and strong, tighten on her waist a moment, and then he steps back, his hands sliding away, lingeringly, as if he wishes to hold her longer. Immediately, she misses his heat, the press of his chest against hers, the touch of his hands, the warm scent of his neck just below his ear.
”I'd best be rousting out Anne to share the good news,” he says, after clearing his throat. His voice still sounds deeper than it does normally, and Teyla cannot ignore-does not wish to ignore-the twisting, lancing ache of desire that arcs downward, that makes things tighten low in her belly. ”We. We still have a bloody lot of work to do. Discovery of a possible cure is just a step in the process.”
”Yes. But at least you may see the destination at the end of the road, now,” Teyla says, and is surprised at the steadiness of her voice, when she feels everything but that.
”Aye. And that's a blessing. This...” he gestures with a little wave of his hand, ”...brings to mind memories of things I'd rather not think of again.”
”But here is not the same as Hoff,” Teyla says, and she notices how he flinches a little at the name, even after all this time. ”It is completely different circumstances.”
”I know that it is,” he says after a moment, and Teyla realizes why he has driven himself so hard here, besides the physician's innate impulse to help; he has never really forgiven either the Hoffans or himself for the events there. But before she can say anything, he says briskly, ”Let's get to work then, shall we? Could you please wake Anne while I check on everyone again?”
”Certainly,” she replies. Beckett has pulled professionalism around himself as he would one of his long white coats. Teyla understands; he is an intensely private person, and this has obviously brought things to the surface he does not wish to think of at this time. And now is not the time to attempt to discuss them, not when they have so much to do. Nor is it a time to indulge in thoughts and feelings that have nothing to do with the task at hand. Later, Teyla promises herself, they will address what is between them, newly acknowledged. She has been alone for too long, as has he, and perhaps together they may find a bit of warmth for themselves.
§§§
Teyla has never missed the comfort of sleep so much, ever.
Beckett is single-minded and driven, Biro no less so, and she has no hope of catching or understanding the quick sharp patter of their words, filled with phrases she does not understand, of math, of dosages and time frames of possible side effects and half a dozen other considerations that she hears every time she passes them.
There is no shortage of work for her hands to do, and so Teyla stays on her feet and does what she can. She is aware when they first give their chosen medication to one patient, of how they watch him as a mother watches a new baby, full of apprehension, fear of the thousand things that could conceivably go wrong. She knows that Beckett has said before that they are physically identical with one another, of the same genetic stock, so what works for the Atlanteans should work as well for those in her own galaxy, but what seems simple and obvious so seldom is, she knows from experience. As do they; Biro says something about ”waiting for things to go pear-shaped,” and although Teyla does not understand the idiom, she comprehends easily enough the idea behind it.
The result of the new medication is not something visibly dramatic; the patient does not miraculously rise from his bed. Teyla did not exactly expect such a thing, but seeing him lying in his bed, seemingly unchanged, is somewhat anticlimatic after Beckett's excitement. But Beckett and Biro seem pleased by the results on their scanners; she can feel their tension ratchet down a notch.
”It's a waiting game,” Beckett says long hours later while they stand side by side and wash in the wavering glow of lamplight. ”We've given others the medication, and now wait and see how they react, what it does to the organism, and how quickly. But so far, everything looks like it's heading for a positive outcome. I'm optimistic.” He tosses the towel into the basket at their feet, and although she can almost see his happiness, he still looks as bleary as she feels. They have been on their feet for more hours than she can exactly recall, and she should be hungry, but all she feels is the heaviness of her limbs, the fuzziness of her mind, slowed to a walk instead of its usual sprint.
”Would you like to eat now?”
He gives it a moment's thought, then shakes his head. ”No, I'd rather sleep, honestly. It's been a while since I've gone this long with so little. I'm rather out of practice,” he says, and offers a small smile, no more than a quirk upward of the left side of his mouth, but it still carves a deep dimple in that cheek. ”And you, love, must be exhausted.”
”I am rather weary,” Teyla admits. ”Rest would be most welcome.”
”We can scrounge about later then, when we wake,” he says, and turns toward the room where they sleep. Biro catches him before he gets far, and Teyla goes on without him.
Someone has set a fire, and the room is warmer than she expects. She wishes desperately for a hot, soapy shower as she strips down to underwear and crawls beneath covers, but they all smell a bit ripe, so she is no more offensive than anyone else, and usually does not notice anyone else simply from constant exposure. Shivering, she curls into a ball after tucking in the covers around herself as much as possible. Before she even warms, though, sleep claims her.
Teyla is not certain how long she sleeps, but it is not long enough. She opens her eyes to the flutter of firelight at the edge of her eye and the soft sound of Beckett's bad dreams. Her head still feels blurry, and her body aches, but she looks over to where he lies, moving restlessly in his blankets. Pulling up the blanket over her ears and eyes, her body clamors for rest and she seeks to return to sleep, but the little sounds of distress tug at her heart, and sleep slips away.
Teyla sits up, pushes her hair from her face, and looks across the room. Beckett lies on his stomach, the covers kicked off, one hand knotted into a fist, brows and mouth drawn into a deep frown. He looks so unhappy that she cannot ignore him. With a sigh, she wraps her blanket around herself and pads over to him.
Kneeling down beside him, she reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder, as she had before. His skin feels cold, and he shifts a little toward her, as if seeking more warmth. He has a beautiful back, pale and smooth and broad, surprisingly muscular. She likes the contrast between her skin tones and his as her fingers drift down the curve of his spine without conscious thought, until her fingers reach the waistband of his boxers, tugged askew by his position, drawn tight over the full curve of buttocks.
Beckett shifts, and one eye, just visible over the arc of biceps, opens slowly. His eyelashes are not long, but thick, and he blinks again before he can focus on her. ”Teyla?” His voice is rough with sleep.
”Shh, Carson,” she says, and she hears the little hitch in her voice when she says his name. ”You were having a nightmare.”
”Ah, I'm sorry,” he says, and turns enough to roll halfway to his side, rubbing at his eyes. ”I didn't mean to...” Teyla's hand slides across his waist, and he shivers, though she thinks he does not do so from the cold. ”Oh,” he says.
Carson's eyes fix on her, moving from sleep-tossed hair to bare feet, before returning to her face. He pulls up a knee slightly, thigh half-hiding his groin, but not before she had caught a glimpse of his thicking flesh barely concealed by his boxers.
Her body, in spite of her weariness, responds with a warm little flutter low in her belly, and before her mind can catch up with her and give her reasons as to why she should wait, should not do this now, she slides the blanket from her shoulders and lies down beside him, tugging the blanket over the both of them. As cold as his back had been, his chest, his belly, the fronts of his legs are not. She wriggles and presses herself close to his heat, and when her bare breasts flatten against his chest, when her arm goes around his waist, she hears his soft, ”Oh, Christ,” as his whole body goes rigid. With her face tucked against his neck and shoulder, she feels him swallow, hard. His hands hover just above her skin, as if he is uncertain whether he may touch her. ”Teyla, maybe this isn't such a good idea. You don't have to...”
”If you think that I do things I do not wish to do, then you have not been paying attention,” she says, and her lips brush against his beard-prickly throat. He smells of warm musk and sweat, of man, and she wants suddenly to taste him against her tongue, to feel tender flesh between her teeth. Instead she runs her hand up his back, curls her hand over the top of his shoulder, and squeezes. He shudders harder, and it is very gratifying. ”I am here because I want to be here.”
”I. Oh, dammit, very well.” For a moment, he hesitates, then slowly, very slowly, he starts relaxing against her, and his arm goes over her waist, hand lying in the curve of her lower back. It feels warm and heavy there, and the tip of his smallest finger slips beneath the edge of her panties, his thumb stroking lightly over the curve of her hip. If the heat of his body had not seeped into her, if she were not almost drunk with tiredness, she would want more, because he feels good against her, makes her feel alive, strong and female.
”Carson,” she murmurs, ”Sleep now. We will sort through everything later, I promise.”
”Oh, that we will, without a doubt,” he replies, and Teyla falls back to sleep, breathing in his scent, lulled by his heat and the gentle stroke of his thumb against her skin.
When next she wakes, it is to Biro's voice, calling Carson's name, telling him it is his turn for a shift, to get up and let her sleep, and Carson's slurred, husky, ”Aye, I'm awake now. Give me a moment, please.”
Though she knows it is selfish, Teyla does not wish to open her eyes. She is warm and comfortable with Carson snugged in closely behind her, thighs tucked in behind her own, his face in her hair; she can feel his breath ghost against the back of her ear. The arm she lies on makes a good pillow, and his other arm curls over her waist, big hand cupping a breast. For a moment she thinks he will pull away now that he is awake, but then he squeezes gently, and his thumb rubs slowly back and forth across the nipple, bringing it to stiff attention. It is a sharp, wonderful ache that sends hot sensation zipping down her body, that makes heat and wetness bloom between her thighs. Slowly she wriggles back a little against him, and he is hard, his erection nestled in the small of her back, a thick, solid bar of heat.
”Ah,” he says, with a little catch in his voice, ”perhaps it would be best if you didn't do that, love.” In spite of his words, his hips push against her as he gives her nipple a little tug, and the pleasure is so acute that Teyla cannot help the sound that escapes her, breathy and needy. Her blood rushes tumultuously through her body, pounds in a hard, heavy pulse between her legs. She cannot help the tremor that sweeps over her, through her, the tidal pull of desire, and the need to be filled, to take and give long-denied pleasure, drives away most thought.
She is not certain if she turned, or if he turned her to her back, and it does not matter as he leans above her on one elbow, looking down at her. He still has dark smudges beneath his eyes, still looks exhausted, but his expression is one of wonder, as if he cannot believe she lies almost naked next to him. Beyond that, is a tender, passionate regard, an almost tangible intensity that leaves no doubt that he feels the same pull she does.
His eyes flick from her face, down to bare skin exposed by the twist of blanket around her waist. His hand is pale against her skin, so warm. He tweaks her nipple once more, and her hips rise helplessly in response. That little movement, the heat in her face, the way her breath catches, brings a pleased, wholly masculine smile to his face, and he slides his hand over the swell of her breast, up her throat, and curls his fingers around her jaw, tipping up her face for a kiss.
”My given name,” he says, and Teyla shivers at the drop in his voice, the burr of his words. ”I want to hear you say it. Please.”
”Carson,” Teyla says, wrapping her hand around his arm, pulling him closer. ”Carson. Kiss me, Carson.”
His breath is morning-strong, but she does not care, her own likely the same, and his lips are slightly chapped, but so warm. When the tip of his tongue slicks across the middle of her upper lip, requesting entry, she opens willingly for him, and oh, it is wonderful. He kisses slowly, assuredly, his mouth generous with hers, his tongue teasing and clever, a kiss that begins sweetly but moves unhurriedly into heat, the kiss of a man who enjoys kissing for its own sake and not simply as a step on the path to sex. Teyla does not know why she finds his skill surprising, because he has always been a man of focus and passion in regard to everything in life, and in this, he is no different.
Teyla likes the way his fingers stroke along her jaw, how his hand slides into her hair and cups the back of her neck in his palm, his touch gentle but ardent. He slides a knee between hers, and presses his erection against her hip, moving steadily against her as he kisses her. When he starts to pull away, she is not yet ready to give him up, and captures his lower lip in her teeth and tugs and bites down easily. The sound he makes, a little surprised, much aroused, makes her blood sing in her veins. Her own hands roam over his arms, his shoulders, over the back of his neck, through his thick hair, urging him closer, and when he resists, she flips them and swings a leg over, settling astride him. The blankets slide down and pool around them, but she is no longer cold.
”Oh, god,” he says fervently as his eyes move slowly over her, belly and breasts, shoulders and face. ”You are so beautiful.” His hands curve over her legs, thumbs rubbing circles over tender inner thighs, moving slowly, surely upward, little touches of heat that pull a soft moan from her. She can feel his erection, hot even through two layers of cloth, push against her, sliding between her legs as his hips make a little stuttering thrust upward. Teyla feels hot and full, feels slick and melting, as if just the right touch will make her burst open from pleasure.
She leans forward, bracing herself on his shoulders, and her hair falls around them, curtaining their faces together. His eyes are huge and black, and his mouth, dark pink from kisses, opens in a gasp. It matches the one that comes from her as his hands slide up her thighs, and over her hips to spread over her backside and squeeze.
”Shouldn't,” he manages, but his hands do not stop moving, kneading. ”Need to get back to work. No time.”
”No,” Teyla agrees, and she rubs her breasts across his chest for the pleasurable drag and pull against her nipples; she wants his hands on her there, but does not wish him to stop kneading her backside. She dips her head to lick over the arch of collarbone. It tastes of salt sweat, the skin thin and fragile over bone, and she can feel the wild flutter of his pulse against her tongue in the little notch at the base of his throat. ”But I find I do not care in this moment,” she murmurs against his skin, and bites down.
Carson arches upward, and his hands pull her hips down onto him; three quick grinding thrusts against her belly, and he makes a low, rough, choked-off sound and shudders, climaxing, his arms going around her and squeezing so tightly her ribs creak. When she lifts her head from his chest, her mark lies across his collarbone, bright red-purple, and when she licks across it, hot. The smell of him is sharp and strong, come and musk and sweat, and it arrows down to the center of her, makes her thighs clench helplessly.
He gasps through a spill of syllables before going limp, his hands sliding from her, face flushed bright, eyes fluttering closed. She does not think she has ever seen him so relaxed, so at peace, and she loves that she made him feel so. But that satisfaction does not help with the need that thrums through her, in her head, her veins, her belly. His dark lashes flutter, and he licks his lips before opening his eyes, which are so dark she can barely see a ring of blue around the pupil.
”Lovely,” he says, voice hoarse. ”Wonderful.”
Teyla shifts against him until she can rub against his leg. ”I would like to experience wonderful for myself,” she manages to grit out, and ah, that angle is good, she thinks, rocking and grinding down on his thigh. A moment of that, and she can find release herself, she is so close.
Carson chuffs out a laugh, and rolls them. The wall is cold against her bare back, and Teyla arches up with a hiss, but then it does not matter as his hand smoothes down her belly and slides beneath her panties. His dark head bends over her breast, and she cannot help the low moan that escapes her when he begins to suckle, all hot, wet suction, as his fingers, deft and unerring, slip through her wetness and find just the right spot.
”Yes,” she says, ”oh yes, there,” and then the fevered heat that slides through her, in skin and muscle and nerves, sends her thoughts skittering away, leaving her aware only of aching desire and the drive to completion. She tries to open her legs wider, but he has her pinned between the wall and his body. He lifts his head, releasing her nipple with a wet pop to watch her as his touch changes, thumb now circling as his fingers slip into her, stretching, thrusting, filling her.
”Come on now,” he croons. ”Come for me, love.”
Her elbow slams into the wall and her other hand tightens on his shoulder as she climaxes hard against his hand, as pleasure, almost scalding in its intensity, pours over her, inner muscles clasping hard and frantically against his fingers deep within her. She claps her hand over her mouth, muffling her helpless cry as orgasm grows and swells and blooms hotly within her.
When the last of the trembling shivers over her, Carson eases his fingers from her, dragging them up her belly, leaving a moist trail. When he brings them up and licks off the remaining wetness, savoring her flavor, the sight of his obvious pleasure in that makes her belly tighten and clench hard again.
Her whole body thrums with repletion, and she thinks she can almost see as well as feel the pleasure shimmering over her skin. Carson looks tired and happy and sated. His smile for her is warm, his mouth warmer as he kisses her; his lips and tongue taste of her. She wishes she knew what he tastes like, but he spent himself against her before she could discover his flavor for herself.
”Seeing you like that has to be one of the most glorious things I've ever seen,” he says against her mouth, his fingers stroking over her cheek. ”If I live to be a hundred, I'll never forget it.” He tucks a sweaty strand of hair behind her ear. ”I wish we'd had more time. You deserve to be appreciated, like a fine wine, like a perfect meal. I'm afraid we've taken far too much as it is, though.”
Part Three
Teyla returns to the ward and sets everything down on a table in the far corner, far enough away for Beckett to have a moment's quiet, but close enough he can act quickly if needed. Getting Dr. Beckett to the food, however, is a whole different matter.
”Honestly, I don't have the time, Teyla,” he says, and words tumble together rubbing against one another like cats. He tries to turn away from her, but she catches his forearm, her grip easy but implacable. With a frown, he glances down at her hand and then back up, and she remembers he does not like to be pushed or manhandled by anyone. Gently she slides her hand down his forearm and circles his wrist, before slipping her hand into his, squeezing slightly.
”You have the steadiest hands I have ever seen,” she says, softening her voice, making it smooth and calming as possible, the voice she uses for the times whenever the situation she faces has gone problematical. ”But now I feel a tremor. Please, sit and eat, for just a moment. You cannot care for your patients if you do not care for yourself.”
He watches her a span of heartbeats, and she cannot tell which way he will go, for she has seen how very stubborn he can be. But then the frown crease fades from between his eyebrows, and his fingers wrap around hers, big and surprisingly strong, chill. She wishes she could feel skin against skin intead of feeling everything muffled through latex, but there is nothing to be done about it. ”Aye, you're right, my dear,” he says finally. His eyes crinkle as he offers a small smile. ”There is a saying on Earth--'Physician, heal thyself'--and I should take those words to heart, I suppose.” He glances around. ”If I don't leave the ward, perhaps,” he muses. ”And everyone seems to be settled, if only for a moment. Perhaps I could take a wee bit of time for myself.”
”I did not think you would wish to leave,” Teyla says, and draws him toward the back corner of the hall, where it is dimmer and slightly quieter. He does not release her hand, and she does not pull free, partially because she is almost afraid he will slip back to work if she does, and partially because she likes it. It has been a long time since she has shared something so simple, yet so comforting with someone.
He lets go her hand as they shed their gear, wash, and sit, positioning himself so he can see his ward easily, and Teyla settles in beside him, long years of training and experience making her unwilling to sit with her back exposed to others, even friends, sitting closely enough that their elbows brush. She pours tea for him and swirls a spoon of honey into it before offering it to him. He sighs then takes it from her, gratefully, breathing in the fragrance. ”Oh, it's lovely,” he murmurs after taking a sip. ”Exactly what I needed.”
Teyla passes him a bowl of the soup and then places the bread and cheese between them. The scent of the soup makes her mouth water, and she tears off a chunk of bread to dip into the bowl. It proves as good to the tongue as it is to the nose, and she applies herself to her meal with a will. She has always had a great appreciation for well-cooked food, because she has absolutely no skill in that area herself.
She happens to glance up and finds Beckett watching her with undiluted interest, fingers wrapped tightly around his mug of tea, cheeks slightly flushed, and eyes dark. Teyla pauses, spoon halfway to her mouth. Beckett sets down his mug of tea and slowly reaches forward. ”You have something...here,” he says, and his voice drops low enough on the last word that Teyla thinks for a moment she can feel it vibrate deep within her body. His thumb slides over the corner of her mouth, and her lips part entirely on their own, her cheek turning slightly into his touch.
”Oh,” he says softly, and slowly pulls away, but his face is too expressive. He looks down into his tea a moment, and when he looks up again, he has wiped away the want and schooled his face to its usual pleasant expression. He clears his throat and says, ”Thank you for bringing me something to eat. You didn't have to do such a thing.”
Teyla wants to touch the tip of her tongue to the corner of her mouth, where his thumb had rested for a brief moment, but she does not. Heat slides down her belly, pulses between her thighs, a quick hot flutter of pleasure. Such a small thing should not have such an effect on her, but it remains that it does. She has worked hard to keep this part of her separate from the Atlanteans, to make them view her as a whole person instead of merely a potential sexual partner; it seems they have difficulty accepting that she could be both with a lessening of neither. The deep ties of friendship and trust, the ability to work with them as an equal partner, have always outweighed the feelings of desire she might otherwise have allowed herself to feel for some of them. Those feelings she takes to certain close friends amongst her people, though it has been months since she has allowed herself even that. Perhaps she should not deny this part of herself for so long; she feels suddenly out of balance. For a moment, she allows herself to remember how solid and strong he had felt in her arms, thinks of how his voice slides over her, soft and thick like a fine pelt of fur, then pushes everything back into the box in her mind and closes it securely. Here, now, is not the place for such things, and she will deal with her own reactions later.
”Do not be concerned, Dr. Beckett. It was no hardship, as I myself needed to eat. We must keep up our strength for those who now depend on us.” And that reminder of their current situation should slide them back neatly into their appointed roles; Teyla is well-accustomed to deflecting unwanted advances. Though in all honesty, she cannot say that this is either precisely unwanted or an advance. Beckett has always been so careful to never cross her carefully-drawn lines, and she suspects it is only his tiredness, his worry, that allowed him such a slip.
”As you say,” Beckett says, and it is as if the past few moments have never happened, with Beckett retreating behind the need to eat and rest, if only for a few moments. But it is not truly a rest; he talks of the disease that runs through the Sueltans, of the difficulty in setting up an effective quarantine when the people cannot or will not understand, of what they might or could do to contain the spread, and the need for cleanliness of linen, clothing, their environment.
Teyla likes that Beckett has the ability to set forth what needs done without the condescension or criticism of Rodney, without the slip into unintelligible scientific jargon that most of the scientists cannot seem to avoid. She knows herself far from stupid; years of working with the Atlanteans and her own innate abilities to pick up and adapt quickly and easily to new information have made her well able to keep pace with what goes on in Atlantis, but she can admit without self-censure when things are beyond her abilities.
When he has finished his meal, and has drained his cup of tea, Beckett sighs. ”I'd best be getting back to work. Also I need to check with Anne how she's coming along, if she's spotted anything significant.” He drums his fingers on the tabletop a moment, watching Biro. ”And we'd best be thinking of returning her to Atlantis. She's been in the suit for nine hours by my estimation. Those things are abominably hot, and she hasn't had a drink since she put it on. The last thing we need is for her to topple over with heat prostration and dehydration.”
His blue, blue eyes slide over to her, follow the curve of her mouth for a heartbeat or two, then skip back up to her eyes. ”If you start feeling feverish, let me know immediately,” he says, and although the words are clinical, the tone is not, and Teyla nods in acknowledgement at the unspoken be careful, now.
A moment later he has garbed up again and stands beside Biro, their heads as close as possible over a computer screen that washes Biro's faceplate an eerie blue. Teyla replaces all her protective gear and sets to work doing what she can-cleaning with a strong bleach and water solution, washing linens and clothes in the hot water heated by the generator, providing water and broth, wiping off sweat and other less clean substances, and whatever else she find to do to help. It is not easy work, nor pleasant, but still it fills her with satisfaction to know that she helps, that she makes a difference, if only a little. She keeps an eye on the doctors, and sees them both gesturing emphatically, but hears remarkably little yelling, because Beckett tends to keep a tighter rein on his temper than most other scientists she has worked with before. In comparison, Rodney and Dr. Zelenka in full argument mode are a contentious wonder to behold, if extremely hard on the ears.
The flow of people coming in to Beckett's makeshift hospital starts to ebb as the night wears on, and Teyla is more than grateful, for weariness has hollowed her bones and filled them with lead. She can only begin to imagine how Beckett and Gasquet must feel, and does not know how Biro has stayed on her feet; by her watch, Biro has been in the suit for close to thirteen hours, and Beckett has started to complain, quite colorfully if not loudly, that she needs to return to Atlantis and get out of the suit now.
Biro staggers away from the medical equipment and computers, heading for the back of the hall where Teyla and Beckett had taken their meal, and Beckett follows, harrassing her about how she should have returned three hours ago. Biro pauses, looks around at her position in the room, and then reaches up and fumbles with the main zipper. Beckett lets out a very undignified noise, but it is too late; she has opened up her suit, exposing herself to the same air they all breathe, and possible contamination.
Teyla has just slipped into new isolation garb, and so she seizes water and towels as Biro shakily strips out of the suit. She wears shorts and a tee shirt, and both are plastered to her with sweat; she smells like a stable. Teyla helps her to step out of it, gives her a jug of water, and holds Biro steady while she drinks and shakes against her.
Beckett can do nothing until he strips out of his own isolation gear, which he does, swearing low and ferocious under his breath. By the time he has finished, Teyla has draped a towel around Biro's shoulders.
”Just what the bloody hell were you thinking? That was a totally daft thing to do! Now you're stuck here with the rest of us, compromised!”
Biro grins, though it is more unsteady than normal. ”Come on, Carson. You didn't really think I'd planned on going back and leaving you with all this, now did you? I just wanted to get as much done working with specimens as I could while in the suit.”
”I swear to all that's holy that I'm shipping you back on the next run of the Daedalus,” he says, so clearly exasperated as he checks her over quickly. ”Let the SGC go grey over your antics instead of me.”
”Think how boring it would be without me,” Biro says, and drinks more water.
”How peaceful, you mean,” Beckett says crossly.
”Peaceful? Certainly not. You'll always have Rodney,” Biro replies, and Teyla has to smile even as Beckett's mouth quirks upward.
”Aye, always,” Beckett replies wryly. But there is fondness there, for Teyla knows how much he likes Rodney, no matter how much he argues with him. Rodney has that effect on everyone, Teyla herself included.
”Dr. Biro, the villagers have set up a room for us to use for rest. Perhaps you would like to do so. After you wash up,” Teyla adds in, striving for a diplomatic tone. Teyla's own experience with a hazmat suit had left her washing for what felt like hours to be free of the stench of sweat and chemicals.
”Oh god yes, I reek. Thanks, Teyla.”
Biro slings an arm around Teyla's shoulders, and Teyla slips an arm around her waist, and they stagger off to their room. Teyla is not surprised at Biro's headache and nausea and vomiting, and helps her to clean up and bathe, and wrestles her into clean soft clothes. The Sueltans have put bedding along each wall of the room; it is on the floor, as they have used all available cots for the ward. Gasquet has already claimed a pallet, and snores lightly. Teyla is tired enough she knows she will not mind sleeping on the floor, and doubts that Beckett will complain when it is their turn for sleep.
Beckett comes back in, and in spite of Biro's fussing, puts an IV in her arm and an injection into her thigh, one for the dehydration and one for the nausea. Teyla fetches a container with a lid to hold fresh water and a basin in the event she becomes nauseated again, and by the time she returns, Biro is soundly asleep.
”Such a stubborn woman,” Beckett says when she rejoins him out in the ward, most of his concentration on regulating an IV for one of his patients. ”Incredibly intelligent, but a head like a brick.”
Teyla cannot help her smile. ”As if you would act differently, Dr. Beckett,” she says as he jots a note on the patient's chart and tucks it back into the bag at the foot of the bed. ”I know you, so you cannot fool me into thinking elsewise.”
”Well,” Beckett says with a wry sidewise glance. ”I shan't deny it. I'm absolutely certain that somewhere in the genetic makeup of doctors there's a very large and active gene for stubbornness.”
”I am quite convinced it is shared by everyone in Atlantis,” Teyla replies with a bigger smile, handing him another set of latex gloves.
”And among the Athosians as well, then,” he says, and then with a gleam in his eyes, adds, ”Certain ones in particular.”
”Really, Doctor, you should not speak of Halling in such a way,” Teyla replies archly.
Beckett laughs, and she wishes for a moment she could see the deep dimples in his cheeks, hidden by the mask he wears.
He looks as if he will reply, but then a wheezing rasp from one of his patients catches his attention, and Beckett instantly turns to care for him, visibly shrugging off the greater part of his weariness, focused and intent once more.
§§§
From the angle of light pushing in through the wavy window glass, it is midmorning when Teyla awakes. She blinks a couple of times and glances at her watch; only four hours since Beckett sent her to bed. It is not enough rest-she aches all over, but she is not certain what woke her, until she hears it again, a soft little distressed sound that is perhaps what pulled her from sleep.
She rubs her bleary eyes and glances around. Gasquet's pallet is empty, as is that of Biro. Against the third wall, across from her own, is Beckett's pallet, and the noise comes from there. Sitting up, she takes a moment to collect herself, then shoves to her feet, wraps a blanket around her bare shoulders, and pads across the cold floor, shivering.
Beckett lies in a tangle of covers, moving restlessly, his brow creased in a frown even as he sleeps. She is not certain when he actually came to his bed-certainly after Biro had woken, because he would never leave patients unattended, and Biro had been exhausted from the stress of working in the containment suit, had still been sleeping when Teyla staggered in after dawn.
His dreams are obviously not pleasant, and Teyla wonders if he thinks of Hoff; she cannot help but make comparisons, what with the need to rotate people on and off oxygen in order to share limited supplies, the continuous sound of coughing and wheezing that now fills the ward. He shifts constantly, murmuring something in a roll of furry-sounding consonants that she cannot quite catch, his mouth caught in a frown, the violet smudges beneath his eyes from yesterday gone deeper, darker from exhaustion. He has twisted in the covers enough that it only covers his lower belly and part of his upper thighs; she can see the edges of blue boxers. His skin is as pale as cream, his chest deep and broad, smooth and hairless, his belly gently curved. He is not hard and muscular as have been most of the men she has known, the fewer still she has shared a bed with, but there is strength in him, a reassuring solidity. Her conscience pricks sharply at her; she should not look at him while he is so unguarded, but she cannot seem to stop the skim of her eyes over him. Nor can she help the bloom of heat between her thighs brought about by the looking; she is not made of stone, but is as much flesh and blood and desire and need as any other. Teyla kneels down beside him, wary of the reach of his arms, because living under constant stress and threat of the Wraith tends to make people waken violently, even if that is not their nature. She hesitates a moment, then lays a hand on his shoulder. His skin is cold in the autumn morning.
He does not waken, and she is not sure, but she thinks perhaps his restlessness loses the sharp edge of agitation. Beneath her callused fingers, his skin is smooth and soft. Teyla murmurs, ”Carson. Carson, be at ease,” using his given name for fear his last name or title will bring him instantly awake, and he obviously needs his rest.
Teyla hums softly under her breath, a slow, sad song Charin had taught her years ago. But it is calm and soothing to the ear, and evidently it works for him; it takes a few moments, but he finally eases into a deeper sleep, looking less troubled. It is only when she removes her hand from his shoulder that she realizes she has been stroking, gently.
The rash of coldbumps over his skin makes Teyla remove the blanket from around her shoulders and spread it over him, carefully, so as not to wake him. It is warm from her body, and he sighs as it settles over him. She rises and pads back to her own pallet, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her own bare skin creeping with coldbumps. At the foot of her bed lies another blanket, and she tosses it onto her bedding and crawls beneath it. She shivers and presses her thighs tightly together, tucks her hands beneath her armpits, curling up as much as she can. Daring a glance over in his direction, she sees he still rests easily. Deliberately she closes her eyes and wills herself back to sleep, trying to ignore the thrum of blood in her veins, the feelings that have no place here and now.
When she next wakes, Beckett's pallet is empty, though she has slept little more than another hour. Hurriedly, she dresses, splashes cold water on her face, rakes fingers through her hair and ties back her hair again. Out in the ward, she see a flurry of activity around one bed, and as she pulls on isolation gear, she watches as Beckett, at the head of the cot, tips back the patient's head to an acute angle and inserts something smoothly down the man's throat, and Biro hands him tubing while working at the dials of a machine set at bedside. Their actions are smooth and practiced, a team which has worked well together for years, without a false or wasted movement.
Teyla's eyes flick around and she sees that there is another in a like state, hooked up to one of the machines that she knows are respirators. She notes with a sinking heart that it is Danal. Evidently, while she had slept, things had become much worse. She wishes she knew more of medicine, that she could do something of actual value to help them, but her skills lie in other areas. Still, she does what she can, checking the generator, making sure there is plenty of hot water for washing, keeping supplies at hand, feeding patients, helping them take care of their needs, bathing them, cleaning up after them. She loses track of all the times she changes out of isolation gear into new, loses track of the hours as they pass. Dr. Gasquet and Rhan and their helpers are equally busy; there are so many lying in cots, with more coming in seemingly every time she turns her head, and they all grow steadily worse. Teyla thinks that the sound of their labored breathing will haunt her dreams the next time she sleeps. As helpless as she feels, Beckett and Biro must feel a hundred times more so, and frustrated at their lack of progress.
Noon comes and goes, and Teyla gets food for them. Gasquet and Rhan eat hurriedly, Biro sits for a moment tapping at her notebook as she bolts down anything set in front of her, but Teyla has to fetch Beckett and physically pull him away. She has not seen him pause once over the course of the day, always doing something, never stopping.
”You will come with me now,” she says firmly, and starts stripping him out of the gear even as he protests, steers him over to the basins, and stands over him as he washes. His face is dark and displeased at her presumptuousness, but she has learned that Beckett is much like Rodney, and will work until he drops in place, unless someone intervenes. He mutters under his breath, but the lilt and cadence of his words are in his own native tongue, and she does not understand them. It is probably best she does not, she decides, steering him back to the corner furthest from the patients that they have designated for their meals, when they get to take them.
He does not sit, and even as he stands there, drinking heavily-honeyed tea, he moves, if only from one foot to another. He is so obviously beyond tired that it makes her weary just to look at him. Teyla says, ”You should sit, and rest,” and he shakes his head firmly.
”There's an animal-a fish, actually-back on Earth. It's called a shark. If it stops moving, stops swimming, it dies. It's like that, after a fashion, for me. If I sit, I'll sleep,” he says. His voice is husky with exhaustion, his words rolling heavily, his accent deeper and thicker than she has ever heard before. He rubs at his reddened eyes. ”If I keep moving, I'll stay awake.”
Teyla understands, even if she does not approve of how he drives himself. She nods. ”How is Danal?”
Beckett's head turns back toward the ward, and scrubs a hand through his thick dark hair. ”Holding his own,” he says at last. ”These sorts of things are always hardest on the elderly and the young. Though Danal's healthy and as tough as the proverbial boot, nothing changes the fact that he's still in his eighties. I wish I could say without reservation that he'll make it, but honestly, I just don't know. The respirator will keep him going a wee bit longer, and I'm hoping that the discovery Anne and I made earlier will pan out before he loses the fight.” His shoulders sag. ”Anne lost one while I slept. She came to get me to help with the intubations of the others.”
Teyla reaches out and takes one of his big hands in hers. It is cold, and she can feel the tremor caused by exhaustion. ”It did not happen because you slept,” she says gently. She should not have to say these things aloud, as Beckett is one of the most intelligent people she has ever met, as gifted, in his own field, as is Rodney in his, but she knows well that the heart does not always pay heed to the logic of the mind. ”You know this.”
”Aye, I know it,” he says softly. ”Sometimes, no matter how hard you work, how much you will it, the body can only bear so much. It's a true pity that I can't take them back to Atlantis, to have access to all the equipment we have there, but the moment we step through the gate, she'd institute a quarantine and lockdown, and we'd all be trapped where we stood. No. We'll have to deal with it here.”
”Have you and Dr. Biro found the cause for this?” His thumb strokes lightly over hers, and Teyla thinks he is not even aware of it. Even though she seeks to offer comfort, this small, repetitive motion somehow calms her instead.
”Aye, we cultured it out this morning from her work yesterday-it's a preliminary finding, and we'll have to verify, but I think it's our beast. There's a disease on Earth, highly communicable, called Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome, or SARS, for short. This is similar to, though not identical to that. The Earth-form is a nasty creature that doesn't respond well to conventional treatments. Primarily, it's treated symptomatically there-um, by treating symptoms as they appear, and keeping an eye out for secondary problems that take advantage of a suppressed immune system, such as pneumonia, which is what we're doing here, until we can do better. We're hoping that this won't be quite as difficult. We're seeing now how it responds to different medications we have available. I hope to god that we have something that will work. Medicine is still very much a trial and error profession, no matter how fancy the equipment gets.”
”I have faith that you will discover how to treat this and overcome it.” Teyla cannot help the upward curl of her mouth. ”You do have that stubborn gene in very large quantities, after all.”
He looks down at her, and his tired eyes warm for just a moment. ”That I do. But still, let's just hope that your faith in me isn't misplaced.”
”I know that it is not,” Teyla says, and reaches up to put her hands on his shoulders, tipping her head down a little, offering comfort.
Gently, he puts his hands on her shoulders and bends down to put his forehead to hers. His breath is strong with the scent of tea and tiredness, his face dark with unshaved beard. For a bare moment he goes still, then the fingertips of his right hand smooth an arc over the place where her neck meets shoulder as his thumb skates over her collarbone. It is a simple, quick touch, there and gone almost before she feels it. And then Beckett steps away, nods, and returns to his ward, leaving Teyla feeling unaccountably flushed.
Later, it takes the combined force of Teyla, Biro, Gasquet and Rhan, but they manage to oust him from the ward to sleep; he is starting to noticeably slow, and it takes too long for him to formulate answers to questions, his temper quick and his tongue sharp as any of his scalpels. In this condition he is of no use to anyone, and possibly harmful, so he cedes to their logic and goes off to well-deserved sleep. It would be a mercy if he did sleep, but when Teyla checks on him a couple of times, he is as restless as he was before, though he does settle at her light touch.
As late afternoon slides toward evening, Teyla gets a report from Biro, who is slightly more optimistic than Beckett, and rides out to the Gate. She dials in and talks with Dr. Weir, who sounds very concerned at the diagnosis and who agrees, reluctantly, with Beckett's decision that they cannot bring the Sueltans to Atlantis.
”It is a pity, yes,” Teyla says solemnly. ”I have known many of them since I was a young girl. It hurts to see them so ill and not be able to bring them to the medical wonders of Atlantis.”
”Yes, I understand,” Weir says, her voice sympathetic. ”But we cannot allow ourselves to be exposed to such an aggressive disease. And I think you'll agree that with an incubation rate of two or three days, we can safely call it aggressive.”
”No, we cannot, I agree. I remain confident that Drs. Beckett and Biro will find a way of dealing with this. They have been very dedicated, have worked so very hard to save everyone here.”
”Of that, I have no doubt,” Weir replies. ”Keep us apprised of the situation, and let us know if there is anything further you need.”
”I shall do that,” Teyla says, and the Gate closes a moment after's Weir's farewell.
It is long past dark once again before Teyla rides back into town. The streets are still and quiet save for a handful of sentries, a marked change from the usual evening crowd of friendly people milling around. Beckett had insisted on instituting a quarantine to try and keep the healthy separated from the sick, but it had proved very difficult to implement, as family members had desired, understandably, to stay with their loved ones. He had been extraordinarily patient with fearful town elders with explanations as to why he wished it, why it was so terribly important, and he had eventually gotten his directions obeyed, but not without argument. Fear often turns to anger, and it had in this instance, which is why the sentries are present, to preserve the peace, to keep everyone in place, and as safe as possible.
Teyla washes and gets into her gear-she is certain that she can now do this in her sleep-and enters the ward. Within, Dr. Gasquet, Rhan, and the two volunteers chosen for their quick minds and willingness to work hard attend to the patients while Beckett and Biro confer over microscopes, notepads, Ancient scanners, and other medical machinery. They appear very intent, their voices low and serious, their hand gestures short and sharp. Their words are in the common language the Atlanteans share, but more of them are medical and scientific jargon she has no way to interpret. Still, they do not look as if all is hopeless, and Teyla finds a measure of comfort in that. Although she knows that what she has been doing has value, it is still somewhat disconcerting not to be in on the decision-making process, as she is with her own team.
She misses them with a sudden rush of something that feels almost like homesickness. Ronon, sharp and quick and relentless with his surprisingly soft eyes and generous mouth that smiles more often now than before. Rodney, undeniably brilliant, surprisingly brave, hiding a core of vulnerability behind a virulent sarcasm. Colonel Sheppard, canny and clever, whose charm and open smile hide far more than they show. She has been with them long enough that she has almost forgotten how she once worked entirely alone, independently, and now feels as if something vital has gone missing by not having them at her side. But she would not wish them here, faced with the possibility of this disease that steals the breath, floods the lungs, causes other organs to fail, for any amount of her own discomfort.
Of course she thinks of falling ill with this herself, of struggling for each breath-how could she not? But she is careful and prudent and obeys Beckett's orders for contact with the patients, minimizing the risks to herself as much as possible. She pushes the thought to the back of her mind and concentrates on what she can do to make the situation better, to be as much help as she can, to care for the caretakers as well as the patients, for worry eats away at one's strength and accomplishes little. Her concern lies more with the others-for all of them of course, but for Beckett and Biro in particular, as they are the ones responsible for finding a way to fight this, a war which depends on patience, knowledge, experience and sheer dogged determination.
And if the thought of Beckett succumbing to this causes a sinking feeling in the pit of her belly, a twist of emotions stronger than those for the others, well. She can admit it, if only to herself.
The evening wears on into night, and eventually she gets them all to eat, and Biro and Gasquet retire to take their sleep shifts. They had simply fallen into this arrangement without planning, and Teyla does not mind to be awake during most of the night hours; she had often taken this watch while offworld with her team, and the familiarity brings a sort of comfort. Beckett does not seem to mind either; she has seen how he does not sleep well, regardless of when he makes the attempt. She thinks of his words on the night of the feast, of how he gets precious few hours of sleep, and she has seen this for herself here, wonders if it is so back in Atlantis, as well. She thinks it perhaps is; Beckett has had to make far too many decisions she does not think he had ever been prepared to make, and they all lie heavily upon him.
Beckett moves through his patients, giving medications, listening to chests, checking monitors and respirators and oxygen setups. Though he is hurried, he always has a kind word, a gentle touch, a moment of calm, an offer of hope. And no less for her; when he passes her, the corners of his blue eyes crinkle in a smile that she cannot help but return.
It is long into the night, almost time for them to wake up Biro and Gasquet when the the battle turns in their favor. As she passes the place they have designated as lab space where he sits peering into a microscope, she hears him say softly, ”Holy mother of god.”
She moves to him, curious, and he switches out slides a couple of times, the set of his shoulders tense and tight; he makes her think of a hunting cat ready to pounce, all anticipation and tension. At last he looks up at her from his microscope, the tiredness wiped from his expression, his eyes glinting with joy. ”We've found it, ” he says, his voice husky. ”We've found a medication I think will kill it.”
”I knew you would,” Teyla says, and she cannot contain the warm joy that courses through her at such wonderful news. ”I knew my faith was not misplaced.”
And then Beckett is on his feet, and Teyla reaches up to pull his forehead down against hers, but instead his arms go around her, and he lifts her up off her feet into a huge hug. Her arms wrap so naturally around his shoulders, and the heat of his body feels wonderful in the chill room. He squeezes hard enough to make her squeak against his neck, and his excitement and happiness rolls over her in a thick wave. For a moment his cheek presses against hers, and she can feel the prickle of rough beard even through their face masks. She feels almost giddy, and she thinks that if they were not in gowns and gloves and masks, she would kiss him.
Beckett has always been very perceptive, quick to read those around him, and even though he is tired, that talent does not fail him now. Somehow, the embrace changes subtly, and when he lowers her back to her feet, her body slides down his, slowly and deliberately. For a heartbeat or two she stands between his sturdy thighs, and he is not unaffected; she can feel him, half-hard.
When she looks up at him, she can see a faint flush high on his cheeks, but his blue eyes are direct and unapologetic. His hands, big and broad and strong, tighten on her waist a moment, and then he steps back, his hands sliding away, lingeringly, as if he wishes to hold her longer. Immediately, she misses his heat, the press of his chest against hers, the touch of his hands, the warm scent of his neck just below his ear.
”I'd best be rousting out Anne to share the good news,” he says, after clearing his throat. His voice still sounds deeper than it does normally, and Teyla cannot ignore-does not wish to ignore-the twisting, lancing ache of desire that arcs downward, that makes things tighten low in her belly. ”We. We still have a bloody lot of work to do. Discovery of a possible cure is just a step in the process.”
”Yes. But at least you may see the destination at the end of the road, now,” Teyla says, and is surprised at the steadiness of her voice, when she feels everything but that.
”Aye. And that's a blessing. This...” he gestures with a little wave of his hand, ”...brings to mind memories of things I'd rather not think of again.”
”But here is not the same as Hoff,” Teyla says, and she notices how he flinches a little at the name, even after all this time. ”It is completely different circumstances.”
”I know that it is,” he says after a moment, and Teyla realizes why he has driven himself so hard here, besides the physician's innate impulse to help; he has never really forgiven either the Hoffans or himself for the events there. But before she can say anything, he says briskly, ”Let's get to work then, shall we? Could you please wake Anne while I check on everyone again?”
”Certainly,” she replies. Beckett has pulled professionalism around himself as he would one of his long white coats. Teyla understands; he is an intensely private person, and this has obviously brought things to the surface he does not wish to think of at this time. And now is not the time to attempt to discuss them, not when they have so much to do. Nor is it a time to indulge in thoughts and feelings that have nothing to do with the task at hand. Later, Teyla promises herself, they will address what is between them, newly acknowledged. She has been alone for too long, as has he, and perhaps together they may find a bit of warmth for themselves.
§§§
Teyla has never missed the comfort of sleep so much, ever.
Beckett is single-minded and driven, Biro no less so, and she has no hope of catching or understanding the quick sharp patter of their words, filled with phrases she does not understand, of math, of dosages and time frames of possible side effects and half a dozen other considerations that she hears every time she passes them.
There is no shortage of work for her hands to do, and so Teyla stays on her feet and does what she can. She is aware when they first give their chosen medication to one patient, of how they watch him as a mother watches a new baby, full of apprehension, fear of the thousand things that could conceivably go wrong. She knows that Beckett has said before that they are physically identical with one another, of the same genetic stock, so what works for the Atlanteans should work as well for those in her own galaxy, but what seems simple and obvious so seldom is, she knows from experience. As do they; Biro says something about ”waiting for things to go pear-shaped,” and although Teyla does not understand the idiom, she comprehends easily enough the idea behind it.
The result of the new medication is not something visibly dramatic; the patient does not miraculously rise from his bed. Teyla did not exactly expect such a thing, but seeing him lying in his bed, seemingly unchanged, is somewhat anticlimatic after Beckett's excitement. But Beckett and Biro seem pleased by the results on their scanners; she can feel their tension ratchet down a notch.
”It's a waiting game,” Beckett says long hours later while they stand side by side and wash in the wavering glow of lamplight. ”We've given others the medication, and now wait and see how they react, what it does to the organism, and how quickly. But so far, everything looks like it's heading for a positive outcome. I'm optimistic.” He tosses the towel into the basket at their feet, and although she can almost see his happiness, he still looks as bleary as she feels. They have been on their feet for more hours than she can exactly recall, and she should be hungry, but all she feels is the heaviness of her limbs, the fuzziness of her mind, slowed to a walk instead of its usual sprint.
”Would you like to eat now?”
He gives it a moment's thought, then shakes his head. ”No, I'd rather sleep, honestly. It's been a while since I've gone this long with so little. I'm rather out of practice,” he says, and offers a small smile, no more than a quirk upward of the left side of his mouth, but it still carves a deep dimple in that cheek. ”And you, love, must be exhausted.”
”I am rather weary,” Teyla admits. ”Rest would be most welcome.”
”We can scrounge about later then, when we wake,” he says, and turns toward the room where they sleep. Biro catches him before he gets far, and Teyla goes on without him.
Someone has set a fire, and the room is warmer than she expects. She wishes desperately for a hot, soapy shower as she strips down to underwear and crawls beneath covers, but they all smell a bit ripe, so she is no more offensive than anyone else, and usually does not notice anyone else simply from constant exposure. Shivering, she curls into a ball after tucking in the covers around herself as much as possible. Before she even warms, though, sleep claims her.
Teyla is not certain how long she sleeps, but it is not long enough. She opens her eyes to the flutter of firelight at the edge of her eye and the soft sound of Beckett's bad dreams. Her head still feels blurry, and her body aches, but she looks over to where he lies, moving restlessly in his blankets. Pulling up the blanket over her ears and eyes, her body clamors for rest and she seeks to return to sleep, but the little sounds of distress tug at her heart, and sleep slips away.
Teyla sits up, pushes her hair from her face, and looks across the room. Beckett lies on his stomach, the covers kicked off, one hand knotted into a fist, brows and mouth drawn into a deep frown. He looks so unhappy that she cannot ignore him. With a sigh, she wraps her blanket around herself and pads over to him.
Kneeling down beside him, she reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder, as she had before. His skin feels cold, and he shifts a little toward her, as if seeking more warmth. He has a beautiful back, pale and smooth and broad, surprisingly muscular. She likes the contrast between her skin tones and his as her fingers drift down the curve of his spine without conscious thought, until her fingers reach the waistband of his boxers, tugged askew by his position, drawn tight over the full curve of buttocks.
Beckett shifts, and one eye, just visible over the arc of biceps, opens slowly. His eyelashes are not long, but thick, and he blinks again before he can focus on her. ”Teyla?” His voice is rough with sleep.
”Shh, Carson,” she says, and she hears the little hitch in her voice when she says his name. ”You were having a nightmare.”
”Ah, I'm sorry,” he says, and turns enough to roll halfway to his side, rubbing at his eyes. ”I didn't mean to...” Teyla's hand slides across his waist, and he shivers, though she thinks he does not do so from the cold. ”Oh,” he says.
Carson's eyes fix on her, moving from sleep-tossed hair to bare feet, before returning to her face. He pulls up a knee slightly, thigh half-hiding his groin, but not before she had caught a glimpse of his thicking flesh barely concealed by his boxers.
Her body, in spite of her weariness, responds with a warm little flutter low in her belly, and before her mind can catch up with her and give her reasons as to why she should wait, should not do this now, she slides the blanket from her shoulders and lies down beside him, tugging the blanket over the both of them. As cold as his back had been, his chest, his belly, the fronts of his legs are not. She wriggles and presses herself close to his heat, and when her bare breasts flatten against his chest, when her arm goes around his waist, she hears his soft, ”Oh, Christ,” as his whole body goes rigid. With her face tucked against his neck and shoulder, she feels him swallow, hard. His hands hover just above her skin, as if he is uncertain whether he may touch her. ”Teyla, maybe this isn't such a good idea. You don't have to...”
”If you think that I do things I do not wish to do, then you have not been paying attention,” she says, and her lips brush against his beard-prickly throat. He smells of warm musk and sweat, of man, and she wants suddenly to taste him against her tongue, to feel tender flesh between her teeth. Instead she runs her hand up his back, curls her hand over the top of his shoulder, and squeezes. He shudders harder, and it is very gratifying. ”I am here because I want to be here.”
”I. Oh, dammit, very well.” For a moment, he hesitates, then slowly, very slowly, he starts relaxing against her, and his arm goes over her waist, hand lying in the curve of her lower back. It feels warm and heavy there, and the tip of his smallest finger slips beneath the edge of her panties, his thumb stroking lightly over the curve of her hip. If the heat of his body had not seeped into her, if she were not almost drunk with tiredness, she would want more, because he feels good against her, makes her feel alive, strong and female.
”Carson,” she murmurs, ”Sleep now. We will sort through everything later, I promise.”
”Oh, that we will, without a doubt,” he replies, and Teyla falls back to sleep, breathing in his scent, lulled by his heat and the gentle stroke of his thumb against her skin.
When next she wakes, it is to Biro's voice, calling Carson's name, telling him it is his turn for a shift, to get up and let her sleep, and Carson's slurred, husky, ”Aye, I'm awake now. Give me a moment, please.”
Though she knows it is selfish, Teyla does not wish to open her eyes. She is warm and comfortable with Carson snugged in closely behind her, thighs tucked in behind her own, his face in her hair; she can feel his breath ghost against the back of her ear. The arm she lies on makes a good pillow, and his other arm curls over her waist, big hand cupping a breast. For a moment she thinks he will pull away now that he is awake, but then he squeezes gently, and his thumb rubs slowly back and forth across the nipple, bringing it to stiff attention. It is a sharp, wonderful ache that sends hot sensation zipping down her body, that makes heat and wetness bloom between her thighs. Slowly she wriggles back a little against him, and he is hard, his erection nestled in the small of her back, a thick, solid bar of heat.
”Ah,” he says, with a little catch in his voice, ”perhaps it would be best if you didn't do that, love.” In spite of his words, his hips push against her as he gives her nipple a little tug, and the pleasure is so acute that Teyla cannot help the sound that escapes her, breathy and needy. Her blood rushes tumultuously through her body, pounds in a hard, heavy pulse between her legs. She cannot help the tremor that sweeps over her, through her, the tidal pull of desire, and the need to be filled, to take and give long-denied pleasure, drives away most thought.
She is not certain if she turned, or if he turned her to her back, and it does not matter as he leans above her on one elbow, looking down at her. He still has dark smudges beneath his eyes, still looks exhausted, but his expression is one of wonder, as if he cannot believe she lies almost naked next to him. Beyond that, is a tender, passionate regard, an almost tangible intensity that leaves no doubt that he feels the same pull she does.
His eyes flick from her face, down to bare skin exposed by the twist of blanket around her waist. His hand is pale against her skin, so warm. He tweaks her nipple once more, and her hips rise helplessly in response. That little movement, the heat in her face, the way her breath catches, brings a pleased, wholly masculine smile to his face, and he slides his hand over the swell of her breast, up her throat, and curls his fingers around her jaw, tipping up her face for a kiss.
”My given name,” he says, and Teyla shivers at the drop in his voice, the burr of his words. ”I want to hear you say it. Please.”
”Carson,” Teyla says, wrapping her hand around his arm, pulling him closer. ”Carson. Kiss me, Carson.”
His breath is morning-strong, but she does not care, her own likely the same, and his lips are slightly chapped, but so warm. When the tip of his tongue slicks across the middle of her upper lip, requesting entry, she opens willingly for him, and oh, it is wonderful. He kisses slowly, assuredly, his mouth generous with hers, his tongue teasing and clever, a kiss that begins sweetly but moves unhurriedly into heat, the kiss of a man who enjoys kissing for its own sake and not simply as a step on the path to sex. Teyla does not know why she finds his skill surprising, because he has always been a man of focus and passion in regard to everything in life, and in this, he is no different.
Teyla likes the way his fingers stroke along her jaw, how his hand slides into her hair and cups the back of her neck in his palm, his touch gentle but ardent. He slides a knee between hers, and presses his erection against her hip, moving steadily against her as he kisses her. When he starts to pull away, she is not yet ready to give him up, and captures his lower lip in her teeth and tugs and bites down easily. The sound he makes, a little surprised, much aroused, makes her blood sing in her veins. Her own hands roam over his arms, his shoulders, over the back of his neck, through his thick hair, urging him closer, and when he resists, she flips them and swings a leg over, settling astride him. The blankets slide down and pool around them, but she is no longer cold.
”Oh, god,” he says fervently as his eyes move slowly over her, belly and breasts, shoulders and face. ”You are so beautiful.” His hands curve over her legs, thumbs rubbing circles over tender inner thighs, moving slowly, surely upward, little touches of heat that pull a soft moan from her. She can feel his erection, hot even through two layers of cloth, push against her, sliding between her legs as his hips make a little stuttering thrust upward. Teyla feels hot and full, feels slick and melting, as if just the right touch will make her burst open from pleasure.
She leans forward, bracing herself on his shoulders, and her hair falls around them, curtaining their faces together. His eyes are huge and black, and his mouth, dark pink from kisses, opens in a gasp. It matches the one that comes from her as his hands slide up her thighs, and over her hips to spread over her backside and squeeze.
”Shouldn't,” he manages, but his hands do not stop moving, kneading. ”Need to get back to work. No time.”
”No,” Teyla agrees, and she rubs her breasts across his chest for the pleasurable drag and pull against her nipples; she wants his hands on her there, but does not wish him to stop kneading her backside. She dips her head to lick over the arch of collarbone. It tastes of salt sweat, the skin thin and fragile over bone, and she can feel the wild flutter of his pulse against her tongue in the little notch at the base of his throat. ”But I find I do not care in this moment,” she murmurs against his skin, and bites down.
Carson arches upward, and his hands pull her hips down onto him; three quick grinding thrusts against her belly, and he makes a low, rough, choked-off sound and shudders, climaxing, his arms going around her and squeezing so tightly her ribs creak. When she lifts her head from his chest, her mark lies across his collarbone, bright red-purple, and when she licks across it, hot. The smell of him is sharp and strong, come and musk and sweat, and it arrows down to the center of her, makes her thighs clench helplessly.
He gasps through a spill of syllables before going limp, his hands sliding from her, face flushed bright, eyes fluttering closed. She does not think she has ever seen him so relaxed, so at peace, and she loves that she made him feel so. But that satisfaction does not help with the need that thrums through her, in her head, her veins, her belly. His dark lashes flutter, and he licks his lips before opening his eyes, which are so dark she can barely see a ring of blue around the pupil.
”Lovely,” he says, voice hoarse. ”Wonderful.”
Teyla shifts against him until she can rub against his leg. ”I would like to experience wonderful for myself,” she manages to grit out, and ah, that angle is good, she thinks, rocking and grinding down on his thigh. A moment of that, and she can find release herself, she is so close.
Carson chuffs out a laugh, and rolls them. The wall is cold against her bare back, and Teyla arches up with a hiss, but then it does not matter as his hand smoothes down her belly and slides beneath her panties. His dark head bends over her breast, and she cannot help the low moan that escapes her when he begins to suckle, all hot, wet suction, as his fingers, deft and unerring, slip through her wetness and find just the right spot.
”Yes,” she says, ”oh yes, there,” and then the fevered heat that slides through her, in skin and muscle and nerves, sends her thoughts skittering away, leaving her aware only of aching desire and the drive to completion. She tries to open her legs wider, but he has her pinned between the wall and his body. He lifts his head, releasing her nipple with a wet pop to watch her as his touch changes, thumb now circling as his fingers slip into her, stretching, thrusting, filling her.
”Come on now,” he croons. ”Come for me, love.”
Her elbow slams into the wall and her other hand tightens on his shoulder as she climaxes hard against his hand, as pleasure, almost scalding in its intensity, pours over her, inner muscles clasping hard and frantically against his fingers deep within her. She claps her hand over her mouth, muffling her helpless cry as orgasm grows and swells and blooms hotly within her.
When the last of the trembling shivers over her, Carson eases his fingers from her, dragging them up her belly, leaving a moist trail. When he brings them up and licks off the remaining wetness, savoring her flavor, the sight of his obvious pleasure in that makes her belly tighten and clench hard again.
Her whole body thrums with repletion, and she thinks she can almost see as well as feel the pleasure shimmering over her skin. Carson looks tired and happy and sated. His smile for her is warm, his mouth warmer as he kisses her; his lips and tongue taste of her. She wishes she knew what he tastes like, but he spent himself against her before she could discover his flavor for herself.
”Seeing you like that has to be one of the most glorious things I've ever seen,” he says against her mouth, his fingers stroking over her cheek. ”If I live to be a hundred, I'll never forget it.” He tucks a sweaty strand of hair behind her ear. ”I wish we'd had more time. You deserve to be appreciated, like a fine wine, like a perfect meal. I'm afraid we've taken far too much as it is, though.”
Part Three