[stargate: atlantis fic] in the city and the forest (1/3), pg13
in the city and the forest
- stargate: atlantis
- john/elizabeth
- 20,000 words (7,800 this section)
- pg-13
- title from leonard cohen's hey, that's no way to say goodbye
- for otl_fest, 80. elizabeth/john - history repeats itself & for anuna_81, who requested a fic from me a year ago based on viva la vida by coldplay. somewhere down the line this fic took a wrong turn somewhere, but I hope you like it regardless. ♥
- so many thousands upon thousands of epic thanks to tenacious_err. without you, this would probably would have been trashed or abandoned a long time ago. ilu! You are the bestest. <333
Your hands don't shake.
It's past that.
There's a pen between your fingers, but you don't know the color; there are people in the room, but you don't know their names. You recognize the walls, the glass, the floor, but the pressure against your legs doesn't register as a chair and the motion to your left is nothing but a blur.
There are sounds - an out-of-key orchestra playing a barely-remembered song. A trombone, a chime, an oboe.
You played the clarinet in high-school.
"Elizabeth."
It's sharp and clear and you blink and look up.
There's a hand on your elbow. Blue shirt. Nervous eyes.
"We'll get him back."
You're glad John's not here.
"No, you won't."
--
The walk from your office - her office, his office, their office - is long. It's long and the air in the hallways pushes against your face, telling you no, no, no, you can't go there, can't walk, can't stand up, can't sit down, can't move, can't freeze, can't sleep can't think can't remember can't forget-
Someone bumps against your shoulder; warm hands catch you.
"Dr. Weir."
You don't know where you are.
The man stares at you with sympathy and pain. You wonder why he's hurting. What he's lost. He simply stares at you, and you stare back for a long moment until you remember his name.
"Radek."
Doctor, Rodney, transport, tech-lab, ZPM, P24-492, failed, Lorne, 'Gate, shot, missing, John-
"Where's John?"
-glass walls, east pier, footsteps, yellow, ground, scrape, scream, static-
"Dr. Weir?"
Two hours and twenty-two minutes.
The pen was blue.
Later, you'll thank him quietly for catching you just before you hit the ground.
--
The first planet is uninhabited. The second is miles of sand. The nanites quiver and scrape against one another in the heat, and you try again.
And again.
And again.
Your luck holds, and they are always planets, addresses you remember vaguely, passingly. Some offer shelter; some are hostile.
Everywhere you go, they follow. Planet after planet after planet. You make loops. Retrace your steps. You run and hide and try to remember what little Ronon told you of his life before Atlantis. You stay away from old allies and friends, keeping as much to the backwater planets as possible, places you always meant to explore, but never got around to.
You leave clues.
Small and unnoticeable by your pursuers, they are meaningless to anyone but them; but him. Whispers of your presence.
Your stomach grows. Your mind drifts. You run and hide and wait.
They will find you, you're sure of it. They will come. He will come.
--
Your son is born on a small planet with two suns and unbearable heat. You don't want to stay, don't want to put anyone at risk, but the hours drag on and the pain is too much. Women gather to wipe your head with cold clothes and a man with calloused hands tells you to breathe; push; breathe; push. Then he's screaming and crying and the doctor is smiling and your skin is soaked with sweat.
"He's beautiful," one of the nurses whispers as she hands him over, small and perfect and pale. The moment he settles into your arms, he quiets. “What will you call him?” she asks.
But he doesn't have a name. He doesn't have one because it isn't your choice, not alone. You're still waiting. Still hoping. You never answer, and eventually she departs. The lights dim and the sounds fade and you're left alone, just the two of you.
He cries softly and you kiss his face and beneath your lips you can feel the gentle hum. You close your eyes and let the tears slide down his cheeks.
Two weeks later, they come.
Screams are the last thing you hear before you fall through the 'Gate, your nameless son clutched tightly in your arms.
--
You lose track of the planets, the villages, the people.
You're hiding in the forest on a planet covered with snow when you feel it. The pain rakes along your spine and through your skull and you drop to your knees, biting your lip to silence a scream. You can't breathe. Can't think. Your son is wrapped in heavy cloths, lying on a make-shift bed a few feet away. He's crying. He's in pain. You need to go to him, calm him, quiet him, but your head is full and your limbs are useless; everything is red and black and gray and pain and you stumble towards him, palms scraping against sharp rocks and twigs. The cuts heal. Your pants rip. The snow is cold. Your son screams.
Everything goes black.
--
When you wake up, John isn't back.
The infirmary is quiet.
You remember Corlon, with all its snow, and the white sheets burn your eyes.
One of the nurses brings you a glass of water. You're not sure what you're supposed to do with it. The confusion makes you ask, "Anything?" but you don't look at her, don't see her shake her head; the silence is your answer.
Then Rodney's there, and Zelenka, and they're talking, quick and soft and reassuring, but with an undertone of panic that makes you stare into your glass rather than at them.
A low hum interrupts them - the gentle vibrations in the floor. Rodney taps his earpiece.
"He's back."
Footsteps, loud voices and protests - "Colonel, wait." - and John's reply, sharp and muffled and you wonder if he knows and you wonder what he'll say and you wonder if it matters and then he's there. His eyes catch yours from across the room and he does know and there's nothing to say, just your name broken against his lips.
--
You wake up in a warm bed with soft sheets. There's a fire crackling, something cooking, someone talking.
Home, you think.
You open your eyes and the light is wrong and the thought shatters and "My baby," is the only thing you know. Two women hurry to your side and touch your shoulder and try to sooth but oh, god, you can't think, can't breathe; words tumble from your lips without your consent. Part of you registers their confusion as they exchange words and glances - their language a series of strange clicks and low, guttural sounds - but the terror is too great. You press against their restraining hands, eyes darting around the room and oh, god, please, god -
and then you feel him. Close. Safe. Your eyes snap to a young woman near the door, tracking her as she rushes carefully to your side and places a small bundle in your arms. The room goes still. You stare down at his rosy cheeks, his big eyes, his small fist as he reaches toward you. You give him your finger and smile brokenly as he clutches it tightly, bringing it to his mouth and closing his eyes contentedly.
When you finally look up, only one woman remains. She smiles at you and says something, but you don't know what. "Thank you," you tell her. She frowns at the words themselves, but seems to understand because she nods and touches your shoulder gently. Then she moves away, curls up in one of the chairs near the fire and begins to sew.
Outside the window, the snow falls and falls and falls.
--
Corlon is cold and wet and white. The village disappears in the snowdrifts, and time moves slowly: the women give you white, warm clothes and cover your hair with a long, white scarf. Your skin blends and they smile approvingly and teach you to make soup from the bark of Elender trees and how to soften the tough leaves to make cloth.
Months drift by. You think about running, but aren't sure where, and everything is suddenly quiet. The awareness, the crowdedness you felt before has vanished, leaving only you and your son, eight months old and nameless still. You wait. And hope.
And then one day the 'Gate dials.
Lights go out, and the village goes dark and still. You watch between the white curtains as a delegation approaches - three men, two women. You hold your breath, and watch as the leader of the village cautiously greets them, watch as he frowns and shakes his head; as he looks toward the building you're in, and hesitates. Then he nods.
The people are from Sho'rin. You recognize the leader the moment she steps through the doors and sheds her cloak and scarves. They are good people, fair traders, and allies of Atlantis.
'Chancellor Mora,' you greet her, and her eyes widen in surprise. She stares, speechless, as if she's seen a ghost.
Your heart falls.
It's over.
You name your son William, after your father.
--
During the briefing, John holds your hand tight enough to bruise.
It won't, but you feel it - his heartbeat pounding against the pulse-point in his wrist, and his heat.
"We're doing everything we can," you hear through the static.
None of them understand that it won't be enough.
--
The people of Corlon help build you a small cabin. It has barely two rooms, but there's a place for a fire and the walls are strong and thick. The white wood blends with the snow-covered mountains, and everything disappears.
You learn their customs, their language, their work. You sew and cook and gather crops from beneath the snowdrifts. The cold soothes the machines but aches your bones, and you wrap your son in thick cloths and animal hides and keep him indoors, away from the world.
Sew, cook, harvest, clean. Sometimes, you settle disputes between the men. Sometimes you sing songs with the women. One family is interested in the outside world, and asks you to teach their daughter your language. Some dislike you. Some welcome you.
William plays with your hair.
--
John doesn't leave the Control Room. From the balcony, you can hear him shouting, and the air is thick with fear and anger and part of you wants to soothe him; wants to hold out your hand and reassure him with soft sighs and tears and kisses that it'll be alright, that you'll make it through this, all of you.
The other part of you knows it'd be a lie.
Because you can feel him - far away and terrified and in pain - but you can't touch him. Can't close your eyes and brush an imaginary hand over his face and whisper silent words in his ears that you're here, that you're coming, that he isn't alone.
You could - you feel it. One moment of concentration and you could be there because you're connected - blood and body and machines.
But you won't, because then they'd know, and they'd come, and they'd find you and the City and John and you grip the railing so tight it begins to bend.
--
You sing him lullabies in six languages. Always awkward and out of key, but he claps his hands to Stella Stellina and opens his mouth as if to sing along with Mamam Les Petits Bateaux. He grabs your hair when you speak Russian and wrinkles his nose at ‘Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf,’ as if he knows you're making up half the words and butchering the rest. You only remember the melody to the old Athosian folk song Teyla taught you your first year in Atlantis, but it doesn't matter - he only sleeps to quarter tones.
There's a storm - hot rain that melts the snow and sends the village into deathly silence. William cries and dreams of men with silver skin and white eyes and wakes up screaming and holds you so tight the skin around his knuckles cracks and heals and cracks and heals but he won't let go. You tell him in every language and tone you know that everything will be alright, that he's safe and you won't let anything happen to him, but it isn't until you begin to hum - y'allah ynam, y'allah ynam, al-dbhlah tair hamam - that he quiets.
While he sleeps, you think of Lebanon. Of Rashidieh and Amir and the little girl with dusty hair who wouldn't let go of your hand when car came to take you back to Beirut. You think of yourself, then - twenty-five years old and naïve enough to wonder why anyone would bring a child into that kind of life.
Lightening flashes and William cries and you hug him tighter, and raise your voice to drown out the thunder.
--
It's been seven hours. Seven hours of standing, sitting, staring. Seven hours of useless arguments and plans. You know the plan.
You are the plan.
"Not a chance in hell!"
"John-"
"No!" He paces the length of your bedroom angrily. "Are you insane?"
"We don't have a choice!"
"You're damn right we don't!"
Your fingernails dig into your palms. John takes a few steps, stops, steps, then whirls to face you, his jaw set. "You're not doing it." You open your mouth to protest, but he's in front of you in an instant, towering and brutal. "It's too risky."
You scoff in his face. "This coming from you?"
He rears back like he's been slapped. You can almost hear his teeth grind together. He shakes his head. "We'll find another way."
"There is no other way!"
"No."
Your jaw tightens. "I'm taking it to Woosley."
John freezes, and you use his shock to break for the door. You're too slow; his body slams between you and your escape like a wall.
"Don't."
"John," you warn. His eyes are filled with fear, but you can barely see it beneath the sheen of your own.
"You can't, Elizabeth." There's a pleading edge to his voice that you ignore.
"Move, John."
"No."
You're stronger than him now. You could force him. Hurt him. Something holds you back even as your chest tightens and your muscles clench.
"Please."
His eyes search yours. All you see is red.
"They have our son," you say darkly; slowly. "And I will do anything - anything - to get him back." There's a pause; John inhales sharply. "Now get out of my way."
--
"Elizabeth?'"
Your arm shakes, barely.
He lowers his weapon; you don't. The air against the back of your throat is dry. He is covered in snow.
"Is it really you?"
You tighten your fingers around the metal handle.
"Elizabeth. It's John. Do you-" His voice cracks. "Do you know who I am?"
"How did you find me?"
He winces. "We didn't. It was an accident."
You exhale the stiff breath you've been holding.
"Is anyone else here?"
"Just my team," he says. "They're in the village. The woman - the nurse. She recognized our clothing. Said she wasn't sure-" Pause. He stares. "We thought you were-"
"Don't."
The sound cracks the ice around the doorframe, but it freezes over within seconds. You can barely see his face beneath the thick hood, but his lips are blue and his clothes are damp and his eyes are wide and almost hopeful and suddenly you hate him. With everything you are - a gathering of metal clicks and hums and lines of code - you hate him.
"Elizabeth?"
William is fussing in the back room. You know, even with the distance and the wind and the snow.
You lower the knife halfway. "You shouldn't be so trusting."
--
You let him in, absently noting the stiff line of his shoulders and the way his eyes always keep you, hold you. You ignore his suspicion, his hope. John sheds his coat and gloves near the fire and flexes his fingers - straight and curl, straight and curl, straight and curl. His eyes flicker to your face, then dart away.
"Nice place," he says awkwardly. "Kinda spartan."
You tuck the knife back into a holster around your waist. "We don't have much, just what we need to get by."
He nods slowly. "So you're, uh. You're not alone?"
Your hesitation hits the air like a lead weight. John looks up sharply, trapping you in his gaze. "Elizabeth…" he warns, at the same time you feel William shift in his sleep, the nightmares edging in. You have to, you want to, you need to, you can't. He deserves to know, but you've spent so long hiding from him, from them, from everyone, that this seems too easy, too wrong.
"I-"
The words catch in your throat. John shifts, trying not to let his suspicion show; his hand lingers toward his gun. (That was never a part of your delusions.)
"No," you finally manage. "I'm not alone." You cross the sparse room, aware of his eyes on your back, and disappear into the small alcove. You can feel John hesitate, follow a few steps and then stop. William mumbles incoherently with fitful sleep, and you smile for a moment before lifting him into your arms. The room is dark, intentionally so, and John can't see until you step into the light. His lips part in a soundless gasp and his eyes flicker in surprise.
"John, this is William." You turn to the sleepy child, hoisting him higher on your hip. "Can you say hi?" William frowns and rubs his eyes with his fist. He stares, considers John for a moment, then gives a small wave and buries his face in your neck.
John just stares. William's fingers curl around the collar of your dress, and for a moment you can't breathe. The familiar anxiety of always wanting to do right by John, comfort him, rushing against your skin. Then you blink, pause, and re-channel. The words come out even and flawless.
"I didn't find out until I'd been on Asura for a few months," you offer. "It must have been just before the strike."
John winces, hard. He stares at you, at William, at the boy that's his and yet isn't in all the ways that matter. Your stomach knots in anger, and you release it on a long breath.
"I escaped before he was born. Went from planet to planet until I ended up here."
John swallows tightly. "How do I know this isn't some elaborate set-up?" he demands, but his voice is wavering and his eyes aren't. "You could have your hand in my forehead right now."
You merely shrug. "I don't."
"And I'm just supposed to take your word on that?"
"I'll submit to any test you want," you tell him flatly, ignoring his shock. "You can tell Keller to poke and prod until she's blue in the face. You can ask me anything you want and I'll answer." You pause, partly for effect and partly to control your words, to lace them with the steel and determination that you feel. "But no one touches William. Not one doctor. Not one scientist. No one. And I'm not setting one foot in Atlantis until know he'll be safe."
"Elizabeth," he starts, as if to placate you.
"I don't care. Not one test, John. Not one. And if I ever have any reason to suspect that those terms haven't been adhered to, I'll leave so fast you won't realize I'm gone until I'm halfway across the galaxy and you will never, ever see me or William again."
John runs a hand through his hair. "Woosley's not gonna like that."
The development doesn't faze you. "Make him like it."
John blinks, startled at the unforgivingness in your tone. Part of you wants to soothe him, but the larger part, with William's fears whispering to you through your skin, doesn't give a damn.
You change the subject instead.
"I'm sure you have questions."
He falters for a moment. "Just, uh - just one."
"Yes." Your voice sounds mechanical. "He's your son."
John frowns. "That's actually not what I was going to ask." You raise an eyebrow, and he smirks slightly, gesturing to William. "It's, uh...pretty obvious."
"Then what?"
His voice nearly cracks. "You, uh. You said you escaped a few years ago. Did you- I mean, I know we moved but you still could- Why didn't you come home?"
There's a long, empty silence. You should reassure him, console him, love him. He's done his duty with honor and grace, and all you can do is stand there and resent him for it - for the loneliness. For the cold.
You turn your back to him so you can't see his face.
"Come home to what?"
--
"I can find him," you insist, again (and again, and again, and again). You feel like a merry-go-round - brightly colored and going nowhere.
"Dr. Weir," someone says placatingly. You don't care who it is. You have to convince them, all of them.
"I'll gate off-world. I'll get as far from Atlantis as possible. There's no way they'll be able to-"
"We don't know that for certain."
"Yes, we do," you insist. "I can block them."
"Elizabeth," John starts. You round on him, but the words on your tongue turn into ash in the heat of your anger.
"I'm sorry, Doctor Weir," Woosley says sincerely. "We simply can't allow that kind of risk."
You can't hide the frantic edge to your tone. "It isn't a risk to you!"
"If you were to be compromised-"
"If any of us were to be compromised it would incredibly dangerous, but that is a risk we take every time we step through the 'Gate and nothing about this is any different."
You're right. He knows you're right, but they don't trust you; don't trust metal. John's silence sears into your skin like a brand.
Woosley sighs. "We still don't have enough information-"
"I can get that information!"
"By linking with the collective!" a scientist shouts. It isn't Rodney. It should be Rodney. But Rodney's biased and John's biased and the scientists and the military and Woosley sit in your old office at your old desk and try to pretend like it isn't your son.
"No! I - it's not that simple."
"Maybe not," he says softly, "but the bottom line is that the Replicators would get a lock on your position and if they managed-"
"Which is why I would be at a safe distance from Atlantis-"
"If they managed to reactive their control over your nanites, Dr. Weir, you would be an incredible security threat to this base and to-"
"I can keep them out."
"We don't know that for certain."
The air rushes out of your lungs. "They have my son!"
Your voice cracks. The marines look away. Woosley sighs heavily and shares a glance with the scientists, who shake their heads.
"I'm sorry, Elizabeth," he says. Finality.
He gestures to the door.
You don't remember walking away. You're wandering fast and going nowhere when John appears beside you, slowing his jog.
"Elizabeth, wait."
He grabs your arm. You wrench it away. "Don't touch me."
"There's nothing I could have said," he snaps.
You nod stiffly. "Right. Because you're only the military commander."
The thick sarcasm makes him wince. "Elizabeth-"
"A token effort would have been appreciated."
"What the hell was I supposed to say!" His voice starts high and plummets into a low growl. Heads turn. John leans in closer. "I'm just as involved in this as you are."
"Then act like it."
John's head snaps up and his shoulder twitches; he wants to slap you. To hit you, hard. You almost wish he would.
"Don't," he warns. "Don't do that."
You stare; hesitate. Then turn and leave him standing.
He doesn't follow.
--
You're in the middle of a debriefing when you feel it - shock. Terror. Your fingers curl around the table-edge so tight your skin begins to tear. Woosley asks you another question - Replicator fail-safe systems on Asura - but your head is full of cries and fear and the words are out of your mouth, cold like stone, before you can think: "Where is William."
It isn't a question; it's a demand. Woosley looks at your face and looks at your hands and starts to protest, "He's with Colonel Sheppard, like we arran-"
You thought the silence was bad, the emptiness in your veins - this is worse. This shatters you.
The two marines guarding the door don't stand a chance. You're vaguely aware of Woosley calling out your name, calling for reinforcements. There are people in your way - the smart ones move to the side; the others fall that way.
The infirmary is bright and loud and John is pacing with his arms folded and his gaze hot and Rodney is holding a scanner and Keller is standing beside them and William is crying. You hear Rodney say "oh god" and see Keller shrink away. John takes a step forward and stops but it doesn't matter, because William is already in your arms, his face pressed against your shoulder and his arms clinging to your neck.
A moment later four marines slam into the room, followed by Woosley. It takes you less than a second to disarm John, leaving him hunched and winded. Rodney's face is white; Keller is in the shadows.
"Dr. Weir," Woosley starts.
"We had a deal."
"I know," he says, "But you have to understand that the IOA-"
"Don't care."
"We're trying to help you," Rodney manages. Your eyes flicker but your aim doesn't change; you can't point a gun at him, even still.
"No, you aren't," you return calmly, coldly. "The first human-replicator hybrid with the ATA gene?" Your laughter is bitter. "You must be loving this."
"I'm not," he snaps.
"Elizabeth," John tries.
"Save it!"
The room is still. William breathes heavily against your neck, his eyes flickering around the room. You can feel his confusion, his fear, and the guilt tugs at you fiercely. "This was a mistake," you say, more to yourself than to them. In your mind, you murmur quietly, brushing an imaginary hand over William's face and through his hair. You hum in quartertones until his shaking subsides.
All the while, you hold the gun high.
"They wanted to take you back to Earth," John says. He takes a step forward. Then another. Then another. He stands in front of the gun. "They wanted to separate you from William. You're right," he says lowly, angrily. “They don't care who he is, only what he is."
You don't want to listen, don't want to hear this, but his voice is serious and firm. He sounds like the man you remember, the man you fell in love with; he sounds like your friend.
"We made them a deal. A couple of tests, and they'd leave him alone. They'd leave you both alone."
You swallow tightly, but your arm doesn't waver. If you pull the trigger, he'll die.
You narrow your eyes. "This wasn't something you thought to tell me?"
He falters, guilty. "I didn't want you to run," he murmurs, too quiet for anyone to hear but you. "I was afraid you'd run."
--
John's softness grates at your nerves. He hovers, lingers, brings you coffee and expects you to smile. He speaks lowly, like higher tones would crack your veneer of pride and strength; like the sight of him might make you break. But you're passed that. So far down that road, you can't see where you started from - three years ago, a nameless child, a heart full of hope.
Your voice is flat and emotionless when you speak.
"Let me make something perfectly clear - I'm here for one reason, and one reason only: William deserves a father. I made the decision a long time ago that if you ever showed up, I'd come back to Atlantis willingly so that he could grow up somewhere safe and beautiful. But this is not my home, and you are not my lover.
“I have been through a lot in the past two years, more than you can imagine, but nothing - not the running, or the torture, or the fear - none of that comes close to the realization that you weren't looking. That you never started. That I wasted eight months with a nameless son just so you could-" Your voice cracks and you hate yourself.
"Elizabeth-"
"Don't." The word cuts deep; you can see it on his face. Taking a deep breath, you try for calm. "Maybe someday," you tell him honestly. "Maybe someday I'll be able to listen to your reasons. Maybe someday I'll understand. But not today."
--
He isn't wrong.
The weight hangs in your chest; your words on an anchor, sinking deep and slow. The pier is quiet and the waves are gentle but it isn't soothing - you want a storm. You want violent winds and brutal rain and cold and something heavy to fill the hollows of your bones.
You want a sign, something from him that proves his loyalty, even though you never used to need it. His silence bears down on you like betrayal, even though you know it's everything but; even though you know where his heart lies, he's too easy to blame, too willing to accept the flashes of anger you can't reign in.
Part of you wishes he'd snap, and give it back to you in spades. Part of you knows you deserve it.
But John is quiet, like the waves. He comes and goes, trying to touch you and falling away when you recoil, only to try again, and again, and again - relentless and ineffective.
"You are pushing him away," Teyla says gently, a shadow to your left. You feel her tone more than her words, echoing against your skin. She is standing close, but not too close. Not close enough. The centimeters bend and ache between you, and you hate them viciously. "He does not deserve this," she continues, but she isn't mad or bitter; isn't placing blame. She's pointing out a fact. "William is his son, too."
You know that. Know that John is worried about your safety. He's worried about Atlantis. He's worried about Earth and the SGC and whether Rodney's getting enough sleep. Worried doesn't begin to describe how he feels about William and you know that but they aren't listening. You have to find him, and now. You had to find him two days ago. And you can. You know it.
You can fight them - you did it once and you can do it again, will do so as many times as you have to because they can't have him. They can't have you and they can't have him and John just begs you no, no, no, with overwhelming fear in his eyes and anger in his throat.
You push it away.
"Elizabeth," Teyla urges, and you finally meet her gaze. She grabs your hand and squeezes.
--
You aren’t particularly surprised to learn about the other replicators, the ones who survived after Asura was destroyed; you aren’t particularly surprised to hear that they destroyed it. The timeline fits too well with yours, with the quiet, and you merely nod even as your mind and your morals scream in protest.
Rodney tells you about Fran and the replicator versions of you that have come along. He tells you with his eyes averted and his words clipped, like any of it matters anymore. Like the fact that they believed a false version of you is worse than not searching for any version at all.
The next three months are a trial run. Briefings, meetings, interrogations, medical tests. You tell them everything they want to know and more, and they stay away from William, for the most part. Every two weeks Rodney runs a scan - noninvasive, unthreatening. You sit by his bedside and hold his hand and William tries to catch the lights as they glide over his frame. Rodney huffs in annoyance; William laughs; you almost smile.
Ronon is the first to fully accept you. It doesn't take much - your willingness to pin him to the floor earns his respect; the guilt that shadows your face afterwards convinces him it's you, as you were. Before.
Teyla follows quickly, once assured that the nanites pose no threat to her son, and she's the one who drags you to the mess hall and the east pier and sits cross-legged with you on the floor of her room, while your children play quietly in the background.
Rodney hides behind the science.
John is a category all to himself.
Three months of the same song and dance before they hold you for one last meeting. It goes on for hours, and you sit calmly, wait patiently, soothed by William's soft laughter rooms and halls away as he plays with Torren on the floor of Teyla's room.
You're not allowed off-world. You're not allowed on Earth. You're not allowed near ninety percent of the technology. You'll submit to scans consistently for at least a year, as will William. Woosley tries to protest on your behalf, but you shake your head; it's better that way, you know. Safer.
You will not attempt to contact any other replicators. You will provide any and all information you possess about their technology, social structure and whereabouts. You will be quiet. You will not make waves.
You will stay.
It isn't until the last of the delegation members leave, and the door closes with a soft hiss, and the silence settles, that you breathe.
--
The balcony doors slide open and you tense.
"Hey."
You force an unconvincing smile. "Hi."
John leans against the railing and asks softly, "How'd the briefing go?"
You shrug. "As expected. Don't touch this, don't say that. One wrong move-"
John shakes his head. "You're not going anywhere," he says, and you start at the fierce confidence in his words, the way he isn't looking at you. "How's William?" he asks after a moment, and you can't help a small smile.
"Still a bit overwhelmed. And incredibly curious."
John grins. "Rodney said he activated a generator on accident yesterday."
"Yeah. Your genes and my machines," you murmur dryly. "Hell of a way to start."
John looks at you with too much purpose. "You're not a machine, Elizabeth."
"I'm half-machine. The nanites are the only thing keeping me alive and we both know it, so can we not pretend that everything will ever be exactly as it was?" You shake your head; the exhaustion is catching up with you slowly. "I'm too tired for that."
There's a long pause. John is too quiet, too still, and you know you've hurt him somehow, but you can't entirely bring yourself to care why or how; it's a damage that's been done.
"Okay," he says finally, quietly. His eyes are lowered and his face is pale, and the guilt stirs in your chest.
"Thank you," you return softly. He winces slightly, and you turn to face him.
In the past three months, he's been there. He's done everything to fight for you, for your son, and you can't bring yourself to be ungrateful.
"John. I mean it." He meets your gaze, and you smile. The only thing that's missing is the touch of your hand. "Thank you."
--
They give you your own room, and a small office near the west pier. William sleeps in a small, adjoining room off yours and plays with blocks on your office floor. When you're alone, or when he's scared, he speaks to you in Lanni, and the soft clicks and long vowels make you wistful.
You spend most of your time translating articles buried in the Ancient database, and occasionally relaying information you've learned about various cultures and planets, matching their names to their 'Gate addresses.
You stay clear of the command center, of your old office, of the balcony. It's too much like a long goodbye.
You find a new place, a smaller, more secluded balcony near your quarters with a view that looks back on the City instead of the ocean. Sometimes John joins you; sometimes it's comforting; sometimes the familiarity suffocates you both.
John lasts five months before he breaks.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, eyes downcast and fingers white-knuckled around the balcony railing. "I don't-" his voice breaks. "I don't know what else to say. We thought you were dead. We thought you were dead because one person - one Replicator," he spits out the word, "told us. And we bought it. We believed. We believed it was you when they brought Replicators into the City. We screwed up. I screwed up, and it cost me-" He meets your gaze, and the guilt, pain, desperation, fear, regret all etched so clearly in his eyes make your stomach knot. "It cost me everything, Elizabeth. Everything I-"
You know he means you.
Turning, he looks back at the City. In the light reflected from her towers, you can see the tears in his eyes.
--
Another meeting. Another team of useless scientists and bureaucrats and military. You and John and a room full of dead-ends and acceptable remorse. You can feel yourself fraying, the last of your control falling limp at your feet.
"You should have let me go after them."
Major Lorne stares at you regretfully. "Dr. Weir-"
You can't see straight. All the graceful lines and corners you once found so beautiful are blending; bending. The colors seep together as you stare. "Do you have any idea what they'll do to him?"
"Elizabeth-" someone says.
Lorne stares. Your anger swells. "Do you?"
"It was the right call, ma'am," he says, and in your head you hear the echoes of his cries as they tore him away, back through the 'Gate; can still hear weapons’ fire from all directions; can still feel the weight of a body over yours, shielding you, holding you down, protecting you, restraining you. "…I don't like it, but it was the only viable plan-"
You snap: "It wasn't viable. It wasn't even an option."
"Ma'am," he tries.
Everything is white.
"I told you to leave me."
"All due respect-"
"No!"
There's a cry, but it doesn't register as your own until a hand grips your elbow and John's face appears, washed out and gray in front of you.
"Elizabeth, enough," he murmurs, so low you barely hear, even though you can feel his breath on your cheek. It hurts. Like his oxygen is stretching your skin raw. You're vaguely aware of Lorne's dismissal, of the door opening and closing - the lines change, expand, parallel, and then reform. John is speaking. You don't care.
"…his job, Elizabeth. He did exactly what he was supposed to-"
You pull your arm from his grasp so hard he stumbles. "You will never get your son back. Do you understand that?" John stares. The floor is shaking and you can't feel your hands. "Never."
"Elizabeth, don't,” he cautions, and part of you knows he's right but the lines are caving in above your head and the shades of gray are merging, overlapping, covering your words as if to make them soft; you can't hear your tone, can't hear what he hears; your bitter helplessness.
"…never, ever be the same little boy."
"Stop it," he says, and you see the desperation on his face, you hear it, but it doesn't register, doesn't matter.
"…what they do…"
His fist slams against the conference table, and the world rights itself with a snap. "I said stop it!"
"No, you stop!" Your voice is back, but you can't catch the words as they fall. "You have never wanted to face this, John. Never. Not after Niam and not after Asura and sure as hell not when I came back. Shoving a hand through your forehead is only a fraction of what they can do. Your imagined reality lasted five minutes; he's been with them for two days."
"I know how long it's been!"
"No, you don't know! The worst they can do to you is make you see things that aren't there. William is part Replicator. They can break his body down particle by particle and tear apart his mind until it's nothing but scraps-"
"Elizabeth." His voice is soft.
"-and that's if - if - they haven't assimilated him into the rest of the collective-"
Hands on your face, tears in his eyes. His palms are wet. You can't breathe.
"-and we don't even know - don't know where to start - there's not enough-"
"We'll find him," he whispers, like a prayer against your cheek.
"I can't feel him anymore. I can't-"
His arms slide around your back and he holds you, so tight you know it can't just be for you. He's shaking, or you're shaking, or the ground is shaking and there's no discernible difference because there's quiet in your bones and the colors are beginning to fade.
"It was only a second."
You don't realize you've spoken until he whispers into your hair. "It's not your fault."
Your stomach coils in knots. You feel sick. Feel like falling. Feel like dying. "I turned my back. I turned-"
"No," he says. Holding your cheeks between his palms, he forces you to meet his gaze. Soft: (His thumbs brush over your skin.) "No, Elizabeth. No."
You pull out of his grasp. John stares, arms falling defeated to his side as you back away. His broken gaze is the last thing you see before you turn and leave him standing.
--
The anger ebbs and flows. Some days it's white-hot and blinding, and you stay away from everyone; when the nightmares are thick and heavy and vivid. When you can hear the doctor, yelling at you to run; when you can see people scattering in all directions; when you remember Mora's words, and the silence, and the emptiness.
Some days it fades. You sit in the mess hall with John and Rodney and listen to them bicker back and forth and sometimes, you can't help but smile. It's familiar and touching, and with William's weight in your lap and his incessant questions in your ear, it almost feels right.
Sometimes, John catches your look and smiles. It makes your chest ache, and you know you won't be able to hide forever.
--
"He called me Dad."
Your head snaps up. John is standing in front of your desk, almost in a daze.
"John?"
He stares at you helplessly and repeats, "He called me Dad. He's never-"
You smile gently to hide your fear. "Told you he'd come around."
"I-" he starts; then his face falls. "Is that okay?"
You frown, unsure. "Is what okay?"
John shifts his weight and stares at your cheek. "That he calls me that. I mean, I don't want to-"
You hold up a hand to silence him. "He's your son, John," you tell him gently, firmly. “The reason I came back to Atlantis is so that William could have a father." You shake your head. "I'm not about to take that away from him." Pause. "Or you."
John nods slowly. "Thanks," he manages.
"Besides," you tell him, a small smile playing on your lips. "He already thinks you're 'the coolest'."
John blinks in surprise. "He does?"
You nod. "He does."
He smirks, then - proud. Hopeful. It wavers when he looks at you. "And uh, what - what do you think?"
You sigh. "I think I need time."
--
There are marines scouting planets and teams contacting allies and ears pressed to the ground. There are jumpers in the air. Steven is on his way back from Earth.
Rodney and Zelenka are working frantically on a way to track William using data from the tests they've conducted every month for the past two years. You sit in Rodney's lab while they scan and rescan, looking at your nanites and William's nanites and John's genes and transport technology and Asgard sensors and energy signatures. They argue and yell and curse and try everything even when they know it will fail. You can't find the words, but you hope they know you're grateful underneath your fear and tension and pain.
Every so often, Rodney looks over at you, and you wonder what he sees through all the wires attached to your skin; if there's even a glimmer there of the leader you used to be. Guilt flashes all too clearly across his face, and he looks away; yells sharply at Radek.
You wish you could tell him you forgive him, that you forgave him a long time ago. That if he fails, he won't lose you for the reasons he believes; you'll just be gone.
--
"Where's William?"
"With Torren."
"Teyla watching them?" he asks, sidling around your desk casually.
You shake your head and smile ruefully. "Rodney and Zelenka."
"God help us all," he groans, peering over your shoulder. "That looks…boring."
You smirk. "It's Ancient. It's only boring if you can't read it." You stare at him pointedly, and John looks away sheepishly.
"I have other talents," he defends, and you almost (almost) laugh.
"I'm sure you do," you indulge, and he grins. Your stomach flutters nervously, and you hate it.
"Hey, you wanna get out of here for a bit?"
You raise an eyebrow. "What'd you have in mind?"
He shrugs. "Walk. ‘Jumper to the mainland. Woosley gave me the day off, so…" He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly.
"Shouldn't you use that time to relax?"
"I'd rather spend it with you," he says automatically, and you can see him freeze, can tell by the look on his face that he wants to recall the words, to shove them deep down and bury them, but he can't. Neither of you can.
Despite your best efforts, your harshest chastisements, you're growing closer. You've had long conversations and hot fights; careful jokes and quiet moments. Unintentionally, the balcony you claimed is no longer yours alone; it's yours and his. You're falling back into old habits so easily it terrifies you; claims your every breath.
"John," you warn him gently, but he shakes his head firmly, suddenly determined.
"It's been a year, Elizabeth."
You want to snap at him, to remind him of the four you spent alone, but you can't. Your initial anger has slowly faded, leaving behind the ashes of a dull hurt. You aren't ready to sort it through just yet.
--
John makes overtures that you reject before you can fully comprehend what they are - a glass of water, a careful, reassuring smile, a hand on your arm. In the back of your mind you know he needs you, that he's falling apart just like you are. But the overriding image behind your eyes isn't his sullen face and sunken eyes - it's his back, disappearing around the corner; Mora's confused and shaken stares; it's white scarves and cold and ice and fear and everything you've tried so carefully to keep bottled up and buried.
He looks at you like he needs, but all you see is ash.
--
Seventy-six hours.
You've had enough.
--
continued
- stargate: atlantis
- john/elizabeth
- 20,000 words (7,800 this section)
- pg-13
- title from leonard cohen's hey, that's no way to say goodbye
- for otl_fest, 80. elizabeth/john - history repeats itself & for anuna_81, who requested a fic from me a year ago based on viva la vida by coldplay. somewhere down the line this fic took a wrong turn somewhere, but I hope you like it regardless. ♥
- so many thousands upon thousands of epic thanks to tenacious_err. without you, this would probably would have been trashed or abandoned a long time ago. ilu! You are the bestest. <333
Your hands don't shake.
It's past that.
There's a pen between your fingers, but you don't know the color; there are people in the room, but you don't know their names. You recognize the walls, the glass, the floor, but the pressure against your legs doesn't register as a chair and the motion to your left is nothing but a blur.
There are sounds - an out-of-key orchestra playing a barely-remembered song. A trombone, a chime, an oboe.
You played the clarinet in high-school.
"Elizabeth."
It's sharp and clear and you blink and look up.
There's a hand on your elbow. Blue shirt. Nervous eyes.
"We'll get him back."
You're glad John's not here.
"No, you won't."
--
The walk from your office - her office, his office, their office - is long. It's long and the air in the hallways pushes against your face, telling you no, no, no, you can't go there, can't walk, can't stand up, can't sit down, can't move, can't freeze, can't sleep can't think can't remember can't forget-
Someone bumps against your shoulder; warm hands catch you.
"Dr. Weir."
You don't know where you are.
The man stares at you with sympathy and pain. You wonder why he's hurting. What he's lost. He simply stares at you, and you stare back for a long moment until you remember his name.
"Radek."
Doctor, Rodney, transport, tech-lab, ZPM, P24-492, failed, Lorne, 'Gate, shot, missing, John-
"Where's John?"
-glass walls, east pier, footsteps, yellow, ground, scrape, scream, static-
"Dr. Weir?"
Two hours and twenty-two minutes.
The pen was blue.
Later, you'll thank him quietly for catching you just before you hit the ground.
--
The first planet is uninhabited. The second is miles of sand. The nanites quiver and scrape against one another in the heat, and you try again.
And again.
And again.
Your luck holds, and they are always planets, addresses you remember vaguely, passingly. Some offer shelter; some are hostile.
Everywhere you go, they follow. Planet after planet after planet. You make loops. Retrace your steps. You run and hide and try to remember what little Ronon told you of his life before Atlantis. You stay away from old allies and friends, keeping as much to the backwater planets as possible, places you always meant to explore, but never got around to.
You leave clues.
Small and unnoticeable by your pursuers, they are meaningless to anyone but them; but him. Whispers of your presence.
Your stomach grows. Your mind drifts. You run and hide and wait.
They will find you, you're sure of it. They will come. He will come.
--
Your son is born on a small planet with two suns and unbearable heat. You don't want to stay, don't want to put anyone at risk, but the hours drag on and the pain is too much. Women gather to wipe your head with cold clothes and a man with calloused hands tells you to breathe; push; breathe; push. Then he's screaming and crying and the doctor is smiling and your skin is soaked with sweat.
"He's beautiful," one of the nurses whispers as she hands him over, small and perfect and pale. The moment he settles into your arms, he quiets. “What will you call him?” she asks.
But he doesn't have a name. He doesn't have one because it isn't your choice, not alone. You're still waiting. Still hoping. You never answer, and eventually she departs. The lights dim and the sounds fade and you're left alone, just the two of you.
He cries softly and you kiss his face and beneath your lips you can feel the gentle hum. You close your eyes and let the tears slide down his cheeks.
Two weeks later, they come.
Screams are the last thing you hear before you fall through the 'Gate, your nameless son clutched tightly in your arms.
--
You lose track of the planets, the villages, the people.
You're hiding in the forest on a planet covered with snow when you feel it. The pain rakes along your spine and through your skull and you drop to your knees, biting your lip to silence a scream. You can't breathe. Can't think. Your son is wrapped in heavy cloths, lying on a make-shift bed a few feet away. He's crying. He's in pain. You need to go to him, calm him, quiet him, but your head is full and your limbs are useless; everything is red and black and gray and pain and you stumble towards him, palms scraping against sharp rocks and twigs. The cuts heal. Your pants rip. The snow is cold. Your son screams.
Everything goes black.
--
When you wake up, John isn't back.
The infirmary is quiet.
You remember Corlon, with all its snow, and the white sheets burn your eyes.
One of the nurses brings you a glass of water. You're not sure what you're supposed to do with it. The confusion makes you ask, "Anything?" but you don't look at her, don't see her shake her head; the silence is your answer.
Then Rodney's there, and Zelenka, and they're talking, quick and soft and reassuring, but with an undertone of panic that makes you stare into your glass rather than at them.
A low hum interrupts them - the gentle vibrations in the floor. Rodney taps his earpiece.
"He's back."
Footsteps, loud voices and protests - "Colonel, wait." - and John's reply, sharp and muffled and you wonder if he knows and you wonder what he'll say and you wonder if it matters and then he's there. His eyes catch yours from across the room and he does know and there's nothing to say, just your name broken against his lips.
--
You wake up in a warm bed with soft sheets. There's a fire crackling, something cooking, someone talking.
Home, you think.
You open your eyes and the light is wrong and the thought shatters and "My baby," is the only thing you know. Two women hurry to your side and touch your shoulder and try to sooth but oh, god, you can't think, can't breathe; words tumble from your lips without your consent. Part of you registers their confusion as they exchange words and glances - their language a series of strange clicks and low, guttural sounds - but the terror is too great. You press against their restraining hands, eyes darting around the room and oh, god, please, god -
and then you feel him. Close. Safe. Your eyes snap to a young woman near the door, tracking her as she rushes carefully to your side and places a small bundle in your arms. The room goes still. You stare down at his rosy cheeks, his big eyes, his small fist as he reaches toward you. You give him your finger and smile brokenly as he clutches it tightly, bringing it to his mouth and closing his eyes contentedly.
When you finally look up, only one woman remains. She smiles at you and says something, but you don't know what. "Thank you," you tell her. She frowns at the words themselves, but seems to understand because she nods and touches your shoulder gently. Then she moves away, curls up in one of the chairs near the fire and begins to sew.
Outside the window, the snow falls and falls and falls.
--
Corlon is cold and wet and white. The village disappears in the snowdrifts, and time moves slowly: the women give you white, warm clothes and cover your hair with a long, white scarf. Your skin blends and they smile approvingly and teach you to make soup from the bark of Elender trees and how to soften the tough leaves to make cloth.
Months drift by. You think about running, but aren't sure where, and everything is suddenly quiet. The awareness, the crowdedness you felt before has vanished, leaving only you and your son, eight months old and nameless still. You wait. And hope.
And then one day the 'Gate dials.
Lights go out, and the village goes dark and still. You watch between the white curtains as a delegation approaches - three men, two women. You hold your breath, and watch as the leader of the village cautiously greets them, watch as he frowns and shakes his head; as he looks toward the building you're in, and hesitates. Then he nods.
The people are from Sho'rin. You recognize the leader the moment she steps through the doors and sheds her cloak and scarves. They are good people, fair traders, and allies of Atlantis.
'Chancellor Mora,' you greet her, and her eyes widen in surprise. She stares, speechless, as if she's seen a ghost.
Your heart falls.
It's over.
You name your son William, after your father.
--
During the briefing, John holds your hand tight enough to bruise.
It won't, but you feel it - his heartbeat pounding against the pulse-point in his wrist, and his heat.
"We're doing everything we can," you hear through the static.
None of them understand that it won't be enough.
--
The people of Corlon help build you a small cabin. It has barely two rooms, but there's a place for a fire and the walls are strong and thick. The white wood blends with the snow-covered mountains, and everything disappears.
You learn their customs, their language, their work. You sew and cook and gather crops from beneath the snowdrifts. The cold soothes the machines but aches your bones, and you wrap your son in thick cloths and animal hides and keep him indoors, away from the world.
Sew, cook, harvest, clean. Sometimes, you settle disputes between the men. Sometimes you sing songs with the women. One family is interested in the outside world, and asks you to teach their daughter your language. Some dislike you. Some welcome you.
William plays with your hair.
--
John doesn't leave the Control Room. From the balcony, you can hear him shouting, and the air is thick with fear and anger and part of you wants to soothe him; wants to hold out your hand and reassure him with soft sighs and tears and kisses that it'll be alright, that you'll make it through this, all of you.
The other part of you knows it'd be a lie.
Because you can feel him - far away and terrified and in pain - but you can't touch him. Can't close your eyes and brush an imaginary hand over his face and whisper silent words in his ears that you're here, that you're coming, that he isn't alone.
You could - you feel it. One moment of concentration and you could be there because you're connected - blood and body and machines.
But you won't, because then they'd know, and they'd come, and they'd find you and the City and John and you grip the railing so tight it begins to bend.
--
You sing him lullabies in six languages. Always awkward and out of key, but he claps his hands to Stella Stellina and opens his mouth as if to sing along with Mamam Les Petits Bateaux. He grabs your hair when you speak Russian and wrinkles his nose at ‘Schlaf, Kindlein, schlaf,’ as if he knows you're making up half the words and butchering the rest. You only remember the melody to the old Athosian folk song Teyla taught you your first year in Atlantis, but it doesn't matter - he only sleeps to quarter tones.
There's a storm - hot rain that melts the snow and sends the village into deathly silence. William cries and dreams of men with silver skin and white eyes and wakes up screaming and holds you so tight the skin around his knuckles cracks and heals and cracks and heals but he won't let go. You tell him in every language and tone you know that everything will be alright, that he's safe and you won't let anything happen to him, but it isn't until you begin to hum - y'allah ynam, y'allah ynam, al-dbhlah tair hamam - that he quiets.
While he sleeps, you think of Lebanon. Of Rashidieh and Amir and the little girl with dusty hair who wouldn't let go of your hand when car came to take you back to Beirut. You think of yourself, then - twenty-five years old and naïve enough to wonder why anyone would bring a child into that kind of life.
Lightening flashes and William cries and you hug him tighter, and raise your voice to drown out the thunder.
--
It's been seven hours. Seven hours of standing, sitting, staring. Seven hours of useless arguments and plans. You know the plan.
You are the plan.
"Not a chance in hell!"
"John-"
"No!" He paces the length of your bedroom angrily. "Are you insane?"
"We don't have a choice!"
"You're damn right we don't!"
Your fingernails dig into your palms. John takes a few steps, stops, steps, then whirls to face you, his jaw set. "You're not doing it." You open your mouth to protest, but he's in front of you in an instant, towering and brutal. "It's too risky."
You scoff in his face. "This coming from you?"
He rears back like he's been slapped. You can almost hear his teeth grind together. He shakes his head. "We'll find another way."
"There is no other way!"
"No."
Your jaw tightens. "I'm taking it to Woosley."
John freezes, and you use his shock to break for the door. You're too slow; his body slams between you and your escape like a wall.
"Don't."
"John," you warn. His eyes are filled with fear, but you can barely see it beneath the sheen of your own.
"You can't, Elizabeth." There's a pleading edge to his voice that you ignore.
"Move, John."
"No."
You're stronger than him now. You could force him. Hurt him. Something holds you back even as your chest tightens and your muscles clench.
"Please."
His eyes search yours. All you see is red.
"They have our son," you say darkly; slowly. "And I will do anything - anything - to get him back." There's a pause; John inhales sharply. "Now get out of my way."
--
"Elizabeth?'"
Your arm shakes, barely.
He lowers his weapon; you don't. The air against the back of your throat is dry. He is covered in snow.
"Is it really you?"
You tighten your fingers around the metal handle.
"Elizabeth. It's John. Do you-" His voice cracks. "Do you know who I am?"
"How did you find me?"
He winces. "We didn't. It was an accident."
You exhale the stiff breath you've been holding.
"Is anyone else here?"
"Just my team," he says. "They're in the village. The woman - the nurse. She recognized our clothing. Said she wasn't sure-" Pause. He stares. "We thought you were-"
"Don't."
The sound cracks the ice around the doorframe, but it freezes over within seconds. You can barely see his face beneath the thick hood, but his lips are blue and his clothes are damp and his eyes are wide and almost hopeful and suddenly you hate him. With everything you are - a gathering of metal clicks and hums and lines of code - you hate him.
"Elizabeth?"
William is fussing in the back room. You know, even with the distance and the wind and the snow.
You lower the knife halfway. "You shouldn't be so trusting."
--
You let him in, absently noting the stiff line of his shoulders and the way his eyes always keep you, hold you. You ignore his suspicion, his hope. John sheds his coat and gloves near the fire and flexes his fingers - straight and curl, straight and curl, straight and curl. His eyes flicker to your face, then dart away.
"Nice place," he says awkwardly. "Kinda spartan."
You tuck the knife back into a holster around your waist. "We don't have much, just what we need to get by."
He nods slowly. "So you're, uh. You're not alone?"
Your hesitation hits the air like a lead weight. John looks up sharply, trapping you in his gaze. "Elizabeth…" he warns, at the same time you feel William shift in his sleep, the nightmares edging in. You have to, you want to, you need to, you can't. He deserves to know, but you've spent so long hiding from him, from them, from everyone, that this seems too easy, too wrong.
"I-"
The words catch in your throat. John shifts, trying not to let his suspicion show; his hand lingers toward his gun. (That was never a part of your delusions.)
"No," you finally manage. "I'm not alone." You cross the sparse room, aware of his eyes on your back, and disappear into the small alcove. You can feel John hesitate, follow a few steps and then stop. William mumbles incoherently with fitful sleep, and you smile for a moment before lifting him into your arms. The room is dark, intentionally so, and John can't see until you step into the light. His lips part in a soundless gasp and his eyes flicker in surprise.
"John, this is William." You turn to the sleepy child, hoisting him higher on your hip. "Can you say hi?" William frowns and rubs his eyes with his fist. He stares, considers John for a moment, then gives a small wave and buries his face in your neck.
John just stares. William's fingers curl around the collar of your dress, and for a moment you can't breathe. The familiar anxiety of always wanting to do right by John, comfort him, rushing against your skin. Then you blink, pause, and re-channel. The words come out even and flawless.
"I didn't find out until I'd been on Asura for a few months," you offer. "It must have been just before the strike."
John winces, hard. He stares at you, at William, at the boy that's his and yet isn't in all the ways that matter. Your stomach knots in anger, and you release it on a long breath.
"I escaped before he was born. Went from planet to planet until I ended up here."
John swallows tightly. "How do I know this isn't some elaborate set-up?" he demands, but his voice is wavering and his eyes aren't. "You could have your hand in my forehead right now."
You merely shrug. "I don't."
"And I'm just supposed to take your word on that?"
"I'll submit to any test you want," you tell him flatly, ignoring his shock. "You can tell Keller to poke and prod until she's blue in the face. You can ask me anything you want and I'll answer." You pause, partly for effect and partly to control your words, to lace them with the steel and determination that you feel. "But no one touches William. Not one doctor. Not one scientist. No one. And I'm not setting one foot in Atlantis until know he'll be safe."
"Elizabeth," he starts, as if to placate you.
"I don't care. Not one test, John. Not one. And if I ever have any reason to suspect that those terms haven't been adhered to, I'll leave so fast you won't realize I'm gone until I'm halfway across the galaxy and you will never, ever see me or William again."
John runs a hand through his hair. "Woosley's not gonna like that."
The development doesn't faze you. "Make him like it."
John blinks, startled at the unforgivingness in your tone. Part of you wants to soothe him, but the larger part, with William's fears whispering to you through your skin, doesn't give a damn.
You change the subject instead.
"I'm sure you have questions."
He falters for a moment. "Just, uh - just one."
"Yes." Your voice sounds mechanical. "He's your son."
John frowns. "That's actually not what I was going to ask." You raise an eyebrow, and he smirks slightly, gesturing to William. "It's, uh...pretty obvious."
"Then what?"
His voice nearly cracks. "You, uh. You said you escaped a few years ago. Did you- I mean, I know we moved but you still could- Why didn't you come home?"
There's a long, empty silence. You should reassure him, console him, love him. He's done his duty with honor and grace, and all you can do is stand there and resent him for it - for the loneliness. For the cold.
You turn your back to him so you can't see his face.
"Come home to what?"
--
"I can find him," you insist, again (and again, and again, and again). You feel like a merry-go-round - brightly colored and going nowhere.
"Dr. Weir," someone says placatingly. You don't care who it is. You have to convince them, all of them.
"I'll gate off-world. I'll get as far from Atlantis as possible. There's no way they'll be able to-"
"We don't know that for certain."
"Yes, we do," you insist. "I can block them."
"Elizabeth," John starts. You round on him, but the words on your tongue turn into ash in the heat of your anger.
"I'm sorry, Doctor Weir," Woosley says sincerely. "We simply can't allow that kind of risk."
You can't hide the frantic edge to your tone. "It isn't a risk to you!"
"If you were to be compromised-"
"If any of us were to be compromised it would incredibly dangerous, but that is a risk we take every time we step through the 'Gate and nothing about this is any different."
You're right. He knows you're right, but they don't trust you; don't trust metal. John's silence sears into your skin like a brand.
Woosley sighs. "We still don't have enough information-"
"I can get that information!"
"By linking with the collective!" a scientist shouts. It isn't Rodney. It should be Rodney. But Rodney's biased and John's biased and the scientists and the military and Woosley sit in your old office at your old desk and try to pretend like it isn't your son.
"No! I - it's not that simple."
"Maybe not," he says softly, "but the bottom line is that the Replicators would get a lock on your position and if they managed-"
"Which is why I would be at a safe distance from Atlantis-"
"If they managed to reactive their control over your nanites, Dr. Weir, you would be an incredible security threat to this base and to-"
"I can keep them out."
"We don't know that for certain."
The air rushes out of your lungs. "They have my son!"
Your voice cracks. The marines look away. Woosley sighs heavily and shares a glance with the scientists, who shake their heads.
"I'm sorry, Elizabeth," he says. Finality.
He gestures to the door.
You don't remember walking away. You're wandering fast and going nowhere when John appears beside you, slowing his jog.
"Elizabeth, wait."
He grabs your arm. You wrench it away. "Don't touch me."
"There's nothing I could have said," he snaps.
You nod stiffly. "Right. Because you're only the military commander."
The thick sarcasm makes him wince. "Elizabeth-"
"A token effort would have been appreciated."
"What the hell was I supposed to say!" His voice starts high and plummets into a low growl. Heads turn. John leans in closer. "I'm just as involved in this as you are."
"Then act like it."
John's head snaps up and his shoulder twitches; he wants to slap you. To hit you, hard. You almost wish he would.
"Don't," he warns. "Don't do that."
You stare; hesitate. Then turn and leave him standing.
He doesn't follow.
--
You're in the middle of a debriefing when you feel it - shock. Terror. Your fingers curl around the table-edge so tight your skin begins to tear. Woosley asks you another question - Replicator fail-safe systems on Asura - but your head is full of cries and fear and the words are out of your mouth, cold like stone, before you can think: "Where is William."
It isn't a question; it's a demand. Woosley looks at your face and looks at your hands and starts to protest, "He's with Colonel Sheppard, like we arran-"
You thought the silence was bad, the emptiness in your veins - this is worse. This shatters you.
The two marines guarding the door don't stand a chance. You're vaguely aware of Woosley calling out your name, calling for reinforcements. There are people in your way - the smart ones move to the side; the others fall that way.
The infirmary is bright and loud and John is pacing with his arms folded and his gaze hot and Rodney is holding a scanner and Keller is standing beside them and William is crying. You hear Rodney say "oh god" and see Keller shrink away. John takes a step forward and stops but it doesn't matter, because William is already in your arms, his face pressed against your shoulder and his arms clinging to your neck.
A moment later four marines slam into the room, followed by Woosley. It takes you less than a second to disarm John, leaving him hunched and winded. Rodney's face is white; Keller is in the shadows.
"Dr. Weir," Woosley starts.
"We had a deal."
"I know," he says, "But you have to understand that the IOA-"
"Don't care."
"We're trying to help you," Rodney manages. Your eyes flicker but your aim doesn't change; you can't point a gun at him, even still.
"No, you aren't," you return calmly, coldly. "The first human-replicator hybrid with the ATA gene?" Your laughter is bitter. "You must be loving this."
"I'm not," he snaps.
"Elizabeth," John tries.
"Save it!"
The room is still. William breathes heavily against your neck, his eyes flickering around the room. You can feel his confusion, his fear, and the guilt tugs at you fiercely. "This was a mistake," you say, more to yourself than to them. In your mind, you murmur quietly, brushing an imaginary hand over William's face and through his hair. You hum in quartertones until his shaking subsides.
All the while, you hold the gun high.
"They wanted to take you back to Earth," John says. He takes a step forward. Then another. Then another. He stands in front of the gun. "They wanted to separate you from William. You're right," he says lowly, angrily. “They don't care who he is, only what he is."
You don't want to listen, don't want to hear this, but his voice is serious and firm. He sounds like the man you remember, the man you fell in love with; he sounds like your friend.
"We made them a deal. A couple of tests, and they'd leave him alone. They'd leave you both alone."
You swallow tightly, but your arm doesn't waver. If you pull the trigger, he'll die.
You narrow your eyes. "This wasn't something you thought to tell me?"
He falters, guilty. "I didn't want you to run," he murmurs, too quiet for anyone to hear but you. "I was afraid you'd run."
--
John's softness grates at your nerves. He hovers, lingers, brings you coffee and expects you to smile. He speaks lowly, like higher tones would crack your veneer of pride and strength; like the sight of him might make you break. But you're passed that. So far down that road, you can't see where you started from - three years ago, a nameless child, a heart full of hope.
Your voice is flat and emotionless when you speak.
"Let me make something perfectly clear - I'm here for one reason, and one reason only: William deserves a father. I made the decision a long time ago that if you ever showed up, I'd come back to Atlantis willingly so that he could grow up somewhere safe and beautiful. But this is not my home, and you are not my lover.
“I have been through a lot in the past two years, more than you can imagine, but nothing - not the running, or the torture, or the fear - none of that comes close to the realization that you weren't looking. That you never started. That I wasted eight months with a nameless son just so you could-" Your voice cracks and you hate yourself.
"Elizabeth-"
"Don't." The word cuts deep; you can see it on his face. Taking a deep breath, you try for calm. "Maybe someday," you tell him honestly. "Maybe someday I'll be able to listen to your reasons. Maybe someday I'll understand. But not today."
--
He isn't wrong.
The weight hangs in your chest; your words on an anchor, sinking deep and slow. The pier is quiet and the waves are gentle but it isn't soothing - you want a storm. You want violent winds and brutal rain and cold and something heavy to fill the hollows of your bones.
You want a sign, something from him that proves his loyalty, even though you never used to need it. His silence bears down on you like betrayal, even though you know it's everything but; even though you know where his heart lies, he's too easy to blame, too willing to accept the flashes of anger you can't reign in.
Part of you wishes he'd snap, and give it back to you in spades. Part of you knows you deserve it.
But John is quiet, like the waves. He comes and goes, trying to touch you and falling away when you recoil, only to try again, and again, and again - relentless and ineffective.
"You are pushing him away," Teyla says gently, a shadow to your left. You feel her tone more than her words, echoing against your skin. She is standing close, but not too close. Not close enough. The centimeters bend and ache between you, and you hate them viciously. "He does not deserve this," she continues, but she isn't mad or bitter; isn't placing blame. She's pointing out a fact. "William is his son, too."
You know that. Know that John is worried about your safety. He's worried about Atlantis. He's worried about Earth and the SGC and whether Rodney's getting enough sleep. Worried doesn't begin to describe how he feels about William and you know that but they aren't listening. You have to find him, and now. You had to find him two days ago. And you can. You know it.
You can fight them - you did it once and you can do it again, will do so as many times as you have to because they can't have him. They can't have you and they can't have him and John just begs you no, no, no, with overwhelming fear in his eyes and anger in his throat.
You push it away.
"Elizabeth," Teyla urges, and you finally meet her gaze. She grabs your hand and squeezes.
--
You aren’t particularly surprised to learn about the other replicators, the ones who survived after Asura was destroyed; you aren’t particularly surprised to hear that they destroyed it. The timeline fits too well with yours, with the quiet, and you merely nod even as your mind and your morals scream in protest.
Rodney tells you about Fran and the replicator versions of you that have come along. He tells you with his eyes averted and his words clipped, like any of it matters anymore. Like the fact that they believed a false version of you is worse than not searching for any version at all.
The next three months are a trial run. Briefings, meetings, interrogations, medical tests. You tell them everything they want to know and more, and they stay away from William, for the most part. Every two weeks Rodney runs a scan - noninvasive, unthreatening. You sit by his bedside and hold his hand and William tries to catch the lights as they glide over his frame. Rodney huffs in annoyance; William laughs; you almost smile.
Ronon is the first to fully accept you. It doesn't take much - your willingness to pin him to the floor earns his respect; the guilt that shadows your face afterwards convinces him it's you, as you were. Before.
Teyla follows quickly, once assured that the nanites pose no threat to her son, and she's the one who drags you to the mess hall and the east pier and sits cross-legged with you on the floor of her room, while your children play quietly in the background.
Rodney hides behind the science.
John is a category all to himself.
Three months of the same song and dance before they hold you for one last meeting. It goes on for hours, and you sit calmly, wait patiently, soothed by William's soft laughter rooms and halls away as he plays with Torren on the floor of Teyla's room.
You're not allowed off-world. You're not allowed on Earth. You're not allowed near ninety percent of the technology. You'll submit to scans consistently for at least a year, as will William. Woosley tries to protest on your behalf, but you shake your head; it's better that way, you know. Safer.
You will not attempt to contact any other replicators. You will provide any and all information you possess about their technology, social structure and whereabouts. You will be quiet. You will not make waves.
You will stay.
It isn't until the last of the delegation members leave, and the door closes with a soft hiss, and the silence settles, that you breathe.
--
The balcony doors slide open and you tense.
"Hey."
You force an unconvincing smile. "Hi."
John leans against the railing and asks softly, "How'd the briefing go?"
You shrug. "As expected. Don't touch this, don't say that. One wrong move-"
John shakes his head. "You're not going anywhere," he says, and you start at the fierce confidence in his words, the way he isn't looking at you. "How's William?" he asks after a moment, and you can't help a small smile.
"Still a bit overwhelmed. And incredibly curious."
John grins. "Rodney said he activated a generator on accident yesterday."
"Yeah. Your genes and my machines," you murmur dryly. "Hell of a way to start."
John looks at you with too much purpose. "You're not a machine, Elizabeth."
"I'm half-machine. The nanites are the only thing keeping me alive and we both know it, so can we not pretend that everything will ever be exactly as it was?" You shake your head; the exhaustion is catching up with you slowly. "I'm too tired for that."
There's a long pause. John is too quiet, too still, and you know you've hurt him somehow, but you can't entirely bring yourself to care why or how; it's a damage that's been done.
"Okay," he says finally, quietly. His eyes are lowered and his face is pale, and the guilt stirs in your chest.
"Thank you," you return softly. He winces slightly, and you turn to face him.
In the past three months, he's been there. He's done everything to fight for you, for your son, and you can't bring yourself to be ungrateful.
"John. I mean it." He meets your gaze, and you smile. The only thing that's missing is the touch of your hand. "Thank you."
--
They give you your own room, and a small office near the west pier. William sleeps in a small, adjoining room off yours and plays with blocks on your office floor. When you're alone, or when he's scared, he speaks to you in Lanni, and the soft clicks and long vowels make you wistful.
You spend most of your time translating articles buried in the Ancient database, and occasionally relaying information you've learned about various cultures and planets, matching their names to their 'Gate addresses.
You stay clear of the command center, of your old office, of the balcony. It's too much like a long goodbye.
You find a new place, a smaller, more secluded balcony near your quarters with a view that looks back on the City instead of the ocean. Sometimes John joins you; sometimes it's comforting; sometimes the familiarity suffocates you both.
John lasts five months before he breaks.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, eyes downcast and fingers white-knuckled around the balcony railing. "I don't-" his voice breaks. "I don't know what else to say. We thought you were dead. We thought you were dead because one person - one Replicator," he spits out the word, "told us. And we bought it. We believed. We believed it was you when they brought Replicators into the City. We screwed up. I screwed up, and it cost me-" He meets your gaze, and the guilt, pain, desperation, fear, regret all etched so clearly in his eyes make your stomach knot. "It cost me everything, Elizabeth. Everything I-"
You know he means you.
Turning, he looks back at the City. In the light reflected from her towers, you can see the tears in his eyes.
--
Another meeting. Another team of useless scientists and bureaucrats and military. You and John and a room full of dead-ends and acceptable remorse. You can feel yourself fraying, the last of your control falling limp at your feet.
"You should have let me go after them."
Major Lorne stares at you regretfully. "Dr. Weir-"
You can't see straight. All the graceful lines and corners you once found so beautiful are blending; bending. The colors seep together as you stare. "Do you have any idea what they'll do to him?"
"Elizabeth-" someone says.
Lorne stares. Your anger swells. "Do you?"
"It was the right call, ma'am," he says, and in your head you hear the echoes of his cries as they tore him away, back through the 'Gate; can still hear weapons’ fire from all directions; can still feel the weight of a body over yours, shielding you, holding you down, protecting you, restraining you. "…I don't like it, but it was the only viable plan-"
You snap: "It wasn't viable. It wasn't even an option."
"Ma'am," he tries.
Everything is white.
"I told you to leave me."
"All due respect-"
"No!"
There's a cry, but it doesn't register as your own until a hand grips your elbow and John's face appears, washed out and gray in front of you.
"Elizabeth, enough," he murmurs, so low you barely hear, even though you can feel his breath on your cheek. It hurts. Like his oxygen is stretching your skin raw. You're vaguely aware of Lorne's dismissal, of the door opening and closing - the lines change, expand, parallel, and then reform. John is speaking. You don't care.
"…his job, Elizabeth. He did exactly what he was supposed to-"
You pull your arm from his grasp so hard he stumbles. "You will never get your son back. Do you understand that?" John stares. The floor is shaking and you can't feel your hands. "Never."
"Elizabeth, don't,” he cautions, and part of you knows he's right but the lines are caving in above your head and the shades of gray are merging, overlapping, covering your words as if to make them soft; you can't hear your tone, can't hear what he hears; your bitter helplessness.
"…never, ever be the same little boy."
"Stop it," he says, and you see the desperation on his face, you hear it, but it doesn't register, doesn't matter.
"…what they do…"
His fist slams against the conference table, and the world rights itself with a snap. "I said stop it!"
"No, you stop!" Your voice is back, but you can't catch the words as they fall. "You have never wanted to face this, John. Never. Not after Niam and not after Asura and sure as hell not when I came back. Shoving a hand through your forehead is only a fraction of what they can do. Your imagined reality lasted five minutes; he's been with them for two days."
"I know how long it's been!"
"No, you don't know! The worst they can do to you is make you see things that aren't there. William is part Replicator. They can break his body down particle by particle and tear apart his mind until it's nothing but scraps-"
"Elizabeth." His voice is soft.
"-and that's if - if - they haven't assimilated him into the rest of the collective-"
Hands on your face, tears in his eyes. His palms are wet. You can't breathe.
"-and we don't even know - don't know where to start - there's not enough-"
"We'll find him," he whispers, like a prayer against your cheek.
"I can't feel him anymore. I can't-"
His arms slide around your back and he holds you, so tight you know it can't just be for you. He's shaking, or you're shaking, or the ground is shaking and there's no discernible difference because there's quiet in your bones and the colors are beginning to fade.
"It was only a second."
You don't realize you've spoken until he whispers into your hair. "It's not your fault."
Your stomach coils in knots. You feel sick. Feel like falling. Feel like dying. "I turned my back. I turned-"
"No," he says. Holding your cheeks between his palms, he forces you to meet his gaze. Soft: (His thumbs brush over your skin.) "No, Elizabeth. No."
You pull out of his grasp. John stares, arms falling defeated to his side as you back away. His broken gaze is the last thing you see before you turn and leave him standing.
--
The anger ebbs and flows. Some days it's white-hot and blinding, and you stay away from everyone; when the nightmares are thick and heavy and vivid. When you can hear the doctor, yelling at you to run; when you can see people scattering in all directions; when you remember Mora's words, and the silence, and the emptiness.
Some days it fades. You sit in the mess hall with John and Rodney and listen to them bicker back and forth and sometimes, you can't help but smile. It's familiar and touching, and with William's weight in your lap and his incessant questions in your ear, it almost feels right.
Sometimes, John catches your look and smiles. It makes your chest ache, and you know you won't be able to hide forever.
--
"He called me Dad."
Your head snaps up. John is standing in front of your desk, almost in a daze.
"John?"
He stares at you helplessly and repeats, "He called me Dad. He's never-"
You smile gently to hide your fear. "Told you he'd come around."
"I-" he starts; then his face falls. "Is that okay?"
You frown, unsure. "Is what okay?"
John shifts his weight and stares at your cheek. "That he calls me that. I mean, I don't want to-"
You hold up a hand to silence him. "He's your son, John," you tell him gently, firmly. “The reason I came back to Atlantis is so that William could have a father." You shake your head. "I'm not about to take that away from him." Pause. "Or you."
John nods slowly. "Thanks," he manages.
"Besides," you tell him, a small smile playing on your lips. "He already thinks you're 'the coolest'."
John blinks in surprise. "He does?"
You nod. "He does."
He smirks, then - proud. Hopeful. It wavers when he looks at you. "And uh, what - what do you think?"
You sigh. "I think I need time."
--
There are marines scouting planets and teams contacting allies and ears pressed to the ground. There are jumpers in the air. Steven is on his way back from Earth.
Rodney and Zelenka are working frantically on a way to track William using data from the tests they've conducted every month for the past two years. You sit in Rodney's lab while they scan and rescan, looking at your nanites and William's nanites and John's genes and transport technology and Asgard sensors and energy signatures. They argue and yell and curse and try everything even when they know it will fail. You can't find the words, but you hope they know you're grateful underneath your fear and tension and pain.
Every so often, Rodney looks over at you, and you wonder what he sees through all the wires attached to your skin; if there's even a glimmer there of the leader you used to be. Guilt flashes all too clearly across his face, and he looks away; yells sharply at Radek.
You wish you could tell him you forgive him, that you forgave him a long time ago. That if he fails, he won't lose you for the reasons he believes; you'll just be gone.
--
"Where's William?"
"With Torren."
"Teyla watching them?" he asks, sidling around your desk casually.
You shake your head and smile ruefully. "Rodney and Zelenka."
"God help us all," he groans, peering over your shoulder. "That looks…boring."
You smirk. "It's Ancient. It's only boring if you can't read it." You stare at him pointedly, and John looks away sheepishly.
"I have other talents," he defends, and you almost (almost) laugh.
"I'm sure you do," you indulge, and he grins. Your stomach flutters nervously, and you hate it.
"Hey, you wanna get out of here for a bit?"
You raise an eyebrow. "What'd you have in mind?"
He shrugs. "Walk. ‘Jumper to the mainland. Woosley gave me the day off, so…" He scratches the back of his neck awkwardly.
"Shouldn't you use that time to relax?"
"I'd rather spend it with you," he says automatically, and you can see him freeze, can tell by the look on his face that he wants to recall the words, to shove them deep down and bury them, but he can't. Neither of you can.
Despite your best efforts, your harshest chastisements, you're growing closer. You've had long conversations and hot fights; careful jokes and quiet moments. Unintentionally, the balcony you claimed is no longer yours alone; it's yours and his. You're falling back into old habits so easily it terrifies you; claims your every breath.
"John," you warn him gently, but he shakes his head firmly, suddenly determined.
"It's been a year, Elizabeth."
You want to snap at him, to remind him of the four you spent alone, but you can't. Your initial anger has slowly faded, leaving behind the ashes of a dull hurt. You aren't ready to sort it through just yet.
--
John makes overtures that you reject before you can fully comprehend what they are - a glass of water, a careful, reassuring smile, a hand on your arm. In the back of your mind you know he needs you, that he's falling apart just like you are. But the overriding image behind your eyes isn't his sullen face and sunken eyes - it's his back, disappearing around the corner; Mora's confused and shaken stares; it's white scarves and cold and ice and fear and everything you've tried so carefully to keep bottled up and buried.
He looks at you like he needs, but all you see is ash.
--
Seventy-six hours.
You've had enough.
--
continued