[stargate: atlantis fic] in the city and the forest (2/3), pg13
in the city and the forest
- stargate: atlantis
- john/elizabeth
- 20,000 words (8,100 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
You spend their mission clinging to the balcony railing above the 'Gate room. You were in the Control Room when the call came through - the staccato of weapons’ fire, Rodney's frantic orders, static, and silence. That was six hours ago, and since then you've barely moved, staring at the iris.
William barely says a word, but he alternates clinging to your hand and curling in your arms, peppering kisses across your cheeks. You wish you could find a way to stop, to keep your fears hidden from him, to protect him from yourself, but you can't. Just the way you know, even with distance and walls between you, when he's happy, sad, excited or scared, he doesn't need to feel the pounding of your heart to know - to understand.
He's curling his fingers into your palm when the 'Gate dials. Woosley hurries for the steps and Keller appears off to the side with two gurneys and an army of nurses; the marines take up aim just as they fall through - Teyla with an arm slung around Rodney's waist, Ronon half-dragging, half-carrying John. The wormhole hasn't disengaged before he looks up, and everything slows. Memories resurface, faded and human and raw and he smiles, like you're the most amazing thing he's ever seen.
Then he collapses.
The world rushes back in - Keller yelling orders and doctors swarming and John bleeding and Rodney crying out and on instinct, you grab William's head and turn him into your leg so he won't see.
--
Gunshot wound to the stomach.
Keller says he got lucky.
You watch the line on the monitor spike, and listen to him breathe. You sit and hold his hand and stroke his hair and it's so familiar, so precious. No one tells you to eat or sleep, because by now they understand that you don't need it like they do.
William draws pictures of white trees and smiling families and brings them to you, "For when Daddy wakes up from his nap."
You leave before that happens, so he won't know you were there.
--
You last three weeks.
He is still pale and weak, leaning against the doorframe for support, wearing a sleep-deprived frown. "Elizabeth?" he murmurs. "What are you-?"
"I can't do this."
He blinks groggily, and you know you should wait. Know you should leave him alone to rest and heal but you can't. He shuffles back from the door and lets you in, waving his hand over the crystals to close it once you're inside. His room is dark and warm and smells like him and this was a mistake but you can't move.
'' 'Lizabeth?"
You turn to face him. "I-" you start; hesitate. "I told myself that I wouldn't go down this road again. That I couldn't, that it would only end badly and I-" John stares at you in confusion, but the words keep rushing out, disorderly and almost frantic. "It didn't matter. Your heart stopped for almost a minute and none of it mattered anymore, nothing in the last six years and I didn't care. I just needed you to wake up. I needed you to come back to me." You shake your head. "And I don't know how to deal with that."
He shifts. The silence settles. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, because he doesn't have any idea what to say.
"I don't want you to be sorry, I want you to-"
He looks up. "What?"
Your throat closes; the words come out as a whisper. "I don't know. I guess I just...I didn't want to admit it."
He hesitates. "Admit what?"
You smile painfully. "That I still love you," you say sadly. "That I never stopped loving you." John stares at you with wide eyes and his lips slightly parted. He licks his lips and tries, but whatever he wants to say dies in the air between you. In the end, he says nothing, and you know it's a stone you'll carry for a long time. "My cross to bear, I suppose," you murmur, more to yourself.
"Elizabeth…" he manages, but you're already leaving.
"I'm sorry," you tell him. Your hand reaches for the control panel, and in the next moment you're turned, pinned against the wall, his hands on your face and his lips warm and searching against yours and it's so familiar, so old and comforting and perfect that you can't stop it. Your hands slide through his hair and you part your lips and kiss him like you used to when you were whole. He kisses you back with everything he couldn't say.
It lasts and lasts until you feel him weaken - his heart is beating too fast and his skin is hot and you push him away gently.
'" 'Lizabeth," he begs against your neck, and you shudder against the sound. His arms wrap around your waist and hold, refusing to let go even as you inch him backwards toward the bed.
"John, you need to sit down."
"Don't go."
You close your eyes.
" 'Lizabeth, please," he whispers.
"Okay," you promise. "I'll stay, but you need to sit down."
He complies slowly, pulling you with him to stand between his legs. His head falls against your stomach and you tense slightly, but he doesn't seem to notice. You tentatively brush your fingers through his hair and run a hand over his shoulder soothingly, trying to calm the tremors in his muscles.
"John," you try softly. His arms tighten around your waist and he mumbles incoherently into your shirt.
You stay like that for a long, long while.
--
You're heading for the 'Jumper bay when a large hand wraps around your wrist and drags you into an empty room.
"Don't hit me!" is the first thing he says, and you retract your arm before your fist connects with his jaw.
"Rodney, what are you-"
It's dark. He shoves something small and rectangular into your hands. "It's a shield," he says before you can ask. "An invisibility shield. I designed it based off the jumpers, made a few modifications that were really quite-"
"Rodney."
"We're leaving at 0900. If you sneeze, they'll know. If you knock something over, they'll know. It's an invisibility cloak, not a-"
"I get it."
Rodney nods and fidgets and peeks around your shoulder to the empty corridor.
"Why are you doing this?" you ask softly. "If they catch you-"
He shrugs. "I'll just blame Zelenka. Not that he could come up with something so ingenious, but I-" You arch an eyebrow and he stops abruptly. "Anyway," he says. The silence draws itself out. Rodney hesitates and opens his mouth, closes it, opens it, looks away.
"Rodney," you say gently.
He meets your gaze. Guilt. Honesty. Love. You don't know what to do against the onslaught of emotions, directed right at you, into you. "He's your son, Elizabeth," he says finally, simply. "Get him back."
--
The cloak doesn't work.
You materialize on the other side, and it takes Lorne half a second to understand, and raise his weapon. "Dr. Weir!" he shouts, at the same time you arc to the side and Rodney starts yelling "Don't shoot!" in a high, frantic tone. The 'Gate starts dialing and Lorne is yelling and the next thing you know Rodney's stepping between you and the guns. "Go!" he shouts. Lorne fires a stunner and Rodney stumbles and you both crash back through the event horizon.
On the other side, Rodney scrambles to his feet and redials another planet. And then another. And then another.
"Rodney," you say finally, laying a hand over his. He's breathing hard and sweating and shaking and you ease him to the ground.
"I don't think they can trace us. They can't trace us - I couldn't trace us, so there's no way they-"
"Rodney." He blinks. "You didn't have to do that," you murmur, but the righteous indignation you would have felt before, years ago, doesn't surface. Before he can reply you're already standing, eyes sweeping across the overgrown fields. "You're sure it's uninhabited?"
He nods. "Took some energy readings last week of the entire planet and according to the Ancient Database, the last of the people here died out during the war with the Wraith or took refuge elsewhere."
You trust him. "Okay."
Rodney fidgets, and after a moment stands and pulls an MRE from his tac-vest. "So. What'd you, uh - what'd you need?"
You look him in the eye. "If you have any reason to suspect-"
He waves you off. "Yeah, yeah, I know this song."
"Rodney.”
"Elizabeth, I got it," he snaps. "Just - do what you need to do so we can go get yelled at."
You flash him a strained smile and turn away. It isn't a second before you're there, before you can feel him shivering. It's okay, you murmur. William clings to you so tight you can barely move, but you need to know. You need to find him. Protect him.
And then they come.
--
You avoid him for weeks.
Excuses are easy to come by, and you use them all blatantly, ignoring the way your stomach tightens whenever he manages to catch your gaze.
Slowly they've been giving you more and more access to technologies and documents in Atlantis, remembering - believing - who you are. You're earning their trust and they're earning yours, and the process is painstaking.
It's over two years before they allow you off-world again, and not by choice. A community Lorne's team encountered refuses to deal with them, despite the potential benefits to both sides, and you're the only one with any experience in understanding their customs. Your success establishing a treaty with the Klaas people breaks down the final barrier, and for the first time you feel like a member of the team again; feel like maybe, someday, this could be home again.
But then there's John, lingering in the shadows, ever-present and weighing on your soul. You want to talk to him, to work through whatever this is, but you're not sure what you want or what you feel. Some days you aren't sure you can breathe without him; aren't sure you could stay away if he asked you to. Other times, you remember Corlon; you remember cold and running and loneliness and crashing to the forest floor, sharp branches digging into your palms, William's screams; you remember your naive hopes, and feel the hurt turn to anger unbidden.
It's your son who ultimately drives you to words.
"It's William's birthday in two days," you remind him. You clasp your hands together to keep from fidgeting.
John nods. "I uh, I wanted to take him up in the 'Jumper," he says. "See Atlantis from the sky. If- if that's okay."
You nod curtly. "Of course." You force a smile. "I'm sure he'll love that."
John shifts uncomfortably. "Yeah, he's been asking, so…"
Another nod. The air feels stale.
"Teyla's been planning a party. I guess most of the expedition wants to come."
"Well, you know them - any excuse to break out the alien moonshine."
They didn't have a party last year, or the year before. But now you're trustworthy. You're one of them. You bite down on the words to keep them in. "They deserve it."
A bald-faced lie. John doesn't seem to notice.
"Yeah."
Pause. You clear your throat. "So. You'll be there?"
He tries to smile. "Wouldn't miss it."
"Good," you say. Silence. "Well."
"Yeah."
You stare at each other.
You gesture to the door. "I better-"
He nods quickly. "Okay."
"See you."
He gives a short, awkward wave. "See you."
Once out of his office, you resist the urge to bang your head against the transporter.
--
You're in the 'Jumper bay before the rear hatch even opens. John doesn't seem at all surprised, and flashes you a tired but happy smile. "Hey."
You smile at the lump in his arms. "Hey."
John grins. "He fell asleep."
"I see that," you murmur, keeping your voice low. "You want me to take him?"
John shakes his head. "Nah, I got him."
You nod, unable to tear your eyes away from your son, curled up is father's arms, his head on John's shoulder; how peaceful he looks, how quiet. You turn and start down the hall; John follows.
"How'd it go?" you ask after a short, almost uncomfortable pause.
"Good," he says. "Great." He laughs softly, and it's impossible to miss the spark in his eyes. "He was so…" He struggles for the word, and eventually gives up, choosing instead to turn to you and grin. "I felt like a superhero."
You can't help but smile back. "He's good at that."
"Yeah," he murmurs, then remembers: "We saw you on the balcony. He waved."
"I know."
He turns his head, frowning slightly in confusion. You merely shrug. "I could feel it," you offer, unsure of how to explain. He seems to understand, though, and that surprises you more than it should.
"That's pretty special."
You smile, trying to keep the sadness from your tone. "Yeah, it is, isn't it?"
When you reach your quarters he stops, hesitating in the doorway. "Do you mind if I…"
"No, of course not."
He relaxes slightly as you wave your hand over the door crystals and follows you through the dim lights. William's bed is small and neat, and you pull back his bedcovers so John can lay him down gently. You carefully remove his shoes and socks, and John tucks the blanket around his neck gently. William mumbles and burrows deeper into the pillow. John raises an eyebrow, and it takes you a moment to realize why.
"Lanni," you explain quietly, and John nods. "He lapses sometimes when he's tired."
"Oh."
Your throat tightens slightly, and you brush a hand through William's hair, quieting him. "He also does it when he's scared," you confide. John stares at you with an unreadable expression, but he seems to know, seems to understand how hard it is for you to share the only real bond you've had with anyone for years.
"I feel like-" he starts quietly, then looks away.
"John?"
He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck and staring at William instead of you. "There's so much I don't know about him, even still," he says softly. The guilt is heavy in his tone. "So much I don't know about you, about what you've both been through."
Your throat tightens. "It's…difficult to talk about," you murmur.
He backtracks quickly. "No, I know, I'm not - I'm not trying to blame you, or-"
"I know."
Silence falls between you, and eventually you look away, following his gaze to your sleeping son. You can't seem to hold on to any one thought, your mind racing and your heart pounding and John, standing so close you can feel his warmth.
"Elizabeth?" he whispers.
You hold your breath. "Yeah?"
So quiet. So scared. "Are we gonna be okay?"
You close your eyes. "I hope so," you answer honestly. John doesn't reply. In the silence, he takes your hand.
Together, you watch your son sleep.
--
You wake up in the infirmary on Atlantis.
"Keller!" someone shouts gruffly. It takes you a moment to realize it's John.
John. Anger. Rodney. Planet. William. Safe. William-
"I know where he is."
A hand on your shoulder pushes you down, but it's unnecessary. The room goes white and for a long moment you can't see or hear anything. You reach out; someone grabs your hand.
"John!"
Panic. White. William.
You try to sit up again. "It's an outpost."
"Eliz…"
"An outpost…MR6-"
You can't see straight. Everything's blurring and hazy, and the voices in your ears are echoing, fading in and out; sometimes too loud, sometimes too soft. John says something and it sounds like a screech, harsh static, and you slam your hands over your ears. The pitch rises and rises and you might be screaming; then you black out.
--
When you wake up, everything is still. The heart monitor beeps steadily. John's hand is warm in yours. You sit up slowly, and the world stays solid. John raises his head.
"Hey."
Your voice is hoarse. "Hey."
He calls the nurse, who runs a few scans and then disappears. John clears his throat. "When you contacted William, you were detected by the collective. They tried to send a virus-"
"I know."
He blinks and frowns. "How-"
"It doesn't matter. MR6-735. There's an outpost. It's twenty-five miles north-west of the 'Gate."
"Elizabeth."
"We have to go now. I can get us in-"
" 'Lizabeth-"
You throw back the covers. You're unsteady, but the adrenaline compensates; the machines compensate. "We can be there in less than an hour-"
"Stop, you have to stop-"
"John-"
"We already went, Elizabeth."
The room goes cold. "What?"
John stares at the floor. "Rodney had all the information when he came back. He - you collapsed. He brought you back and they put you in quarantine. You'd already told him-" His voice is shaking. "I went with my team. They were already gone, Elizabeth."
"No."
"They were already-"
"No!"
"Rodney's with Zelenka right now; they're analyzing all the data you gave him, maybe there's something-" He takes a deep breath. "We're not giving up. We'll find him."
Hollow promises. They echo.
"We'll find him."
You stare at the wall.
--
John frowns at the thick stack of bound pages. "What's this?"
"Concise guide to Lanni."
"There was something in the database?" he asks, surprised. "I looked a while ago and-"
"I wrote it." His head snaps up and he stares, mouth slightly open. You'd laugh if not for your nervousness. "It isn't much - basic phrases and structure. The disc has an audio component, so you can hear it, and it's organized by grammatical structure, but there's a dictionary in the back in case you need it." You're rambling, but he doesn't seem to notice. His eyes fall back to the pages as he flips through them almost reverently.
"Elizabeth…I don't know what to say."
"Schm’ole," you reply. He looks up in confusion. You smile. " 'Thank you.' "
"Right," he murmurs, and repeats, "Schm’ole," as if testing the word.
"You're a natural," you say, but it comes out stilted and awkward and he knows; you can tell by the look in his eyes, the way he hesitates.
"Elizabeth," he starts, but you shake your head.
For a long moment, words evade you - part of you doesn't want him to know, doesn't want to share yet another part of your son with anyone else, even him. The guilt for the thought makes your stomach churn.
"You didn't have to do this," he says quietly.
"Yes, I did," you return, much stronger than you expected. And finally, quietly: "He lapses when he's scared."
--
"I know pi to the forty-seventh decimal," he says as soon as you open the door.
"What?"
"Pi. To the forty-seventh-"
"I know what you mean," you frown, "I just don't-"
"I can calculate equations with irrational numbers."
"John.”
“In my head."
You almost laugh. "What are you-"
He holds up the packet you gave him a week ago. "I think you're making this up. These sounds don't exist!" he protests. This time you do laugh, and he flips the first few pages back and points at one of the Lanni letters indignantly. "How can anyone be expected to pronounce a circle?"
Smirking, you step back from the door. "You want to come in?"
John huffs dramatically, but you can see his smirk as he slips past you into your room.
"William with Teyla?" he asks, and you nod, crossing the room to organize some of the paperwork you have strewn across your bed. He picks up one of the pages and turns it upside down, then around, then to the side, staring at it blankly. You smirk and take the Ancient worksheet from him, neatly organizing piles and moving them onto your desk. John tracks your movements.
"So," you ask him finally. "What seems to be the problem?"
John gives you a look for the amusement in your tone. "It's a circle, Elizabeth," he reminds you petulantly, and you shake your head fondly. John follows when you sit down on the bed, legs crossed with your back against the headboard. He perches awkwardly on the edge, keeping one foot on the floor, and hands you the packet.
"Page two," you deadpan. "Impressive."
"Circles," he reiterates.
You spend the next three hours teaching him sounds. His mouth contorts into strange shapes as he tries to master the Lanni vowels, and you're pretty sure he spends more time complaining than he does actually speaking.
It doesn't take him long to relax, scooting closer to you, brushing your hand when he reaches for the pages, leaning into your personal space, bumping your shoulder. It doesn't seem to be conscious, if the small, hesitant smiles he keeps giving you are anything to go by, and you can't quite bring yourself to pull away. Instead, you inch closer, smile wider, laugh longer. His eyes are bright and his expression soft and he's beautiful like this - happy.
You're explaining how to form constructs when he leans over suddenly and kisses you. He misses just a little, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth, and you freeze, and he freezes, and the air around you freezes and he pulls away as you turn. Your lips collide and you can feel his smile as he wraps a hand around the back of your neck and pulls you closer. His other hand cups your cheek and the angle is awkward so you lean back slightly, arms looping around his shoulders; John follows on a rush of air, pushing you back gently into the pillows, his body blanketing yours and his hands drifting and part of you knows that it's too much, too fast, but he's so, so warm. So right.
Your fingers tangle in his hair as his lips move across your jaw, kissing your throat and your collarbone and your shoulder through your shirt. He doesn't stay away long; his mouth finds yours and you wonder if he's drowning; if it's synapses and sparks.
Your skin is flushed.
"John," you breathe.
His hand snakes under your shirt and along your ribs and you gasp, tearing your lips from his. Your back arches and your breathing stalls and it's too much; you push him away.
"You okay?" he manages, soft - his breathing is heavy, and he's trembling.
You nod, but you can't speak. You can't explain - the weight in your bones, your blood; the way you can feel the metal itch beneath your skin, the way they connect and charge and die and you wouldn't explain even if you could; wouldn't tell him how mechanical it is - you are.
Neither of you move for a long moment. His heartbeat slows and finally he pulls back, raising his eyes to yours. He looks scared - hesitant, guilty, lost. You push yourself up slightly and he moves away, but doesn't stop touching you, doesn't move his hands from your hips.
"John," you try. He bows his head. On instinct, you lean forward and brush a kiss against his forehead.
He sighs heavily. "We should probably talk about this, huh?"
You nod, but at the same time your throat tightens and your mind goes blank. You don't want to talk, don't want to think, don't want to analyze every way in which this is a monumentally bad idea; every way in which it's not. Before you can say anything, he leans forward and kisses you tenderly.
He pulls back with a tentative smile and licks his lips. "So," he says, picking up one of the discarded papers. "Constructs."
You swallow stiffly. "Constructs," you repeat.
He flashes you a smirk. "Gonna teach me any Lanni curses? Bad words? Body parts?"
You laugh. "Let's make sure you can introduce yourself before you alienate an entire culture, shall we?"
"Now where's the fun in that?"
--
Woosley holds you back after the briefing. There's a long pause; you wait for platitudes, for repercussions, for condemnation.
"I'm not going to tell SGC about what happened."
You stare blankly.
"Major Lorne and his team have also agreed that this should be an internal affair, relevant only to Atlantis. What you did-"
"It didn't work."
You don't mean to sound so broken.
Woosley shakes his head. "On the contrary, it worked exactly as you said it would. The connection, the information you were able to gather - without compromising yourself or the City. It's...almost commendable." He flashes you a smirk. "If you hadn't disobeyed a direct order, of course."
You nod stiffly - surprised, and yet not fully able to appreciate the olive branch he's handing you. The diplomat in you demands that you smile; the mother simply stares.
Woosley's expression softens. "We haven't stopped searching," he says gently. "There's still a chance-"
"Thank you, Richard."
He nods, but there's nothing else to say.
--
"No, no keep them closed!"
"They are!" you insist, laughing. Not that it would matter - he has his hands over your eyes as he shuffles you slowly down the hallway. You can feel people passing, hear a few of them murmuring or chuckling in amusement. "John!"
"We're almost there," he promises.
You bump lightly into the wall and he steers you away. "Oops! I missed."
William, who has been stealthily running in front of you, stifles a giggle.
Left, right, left, straight. You know he's taking the long way to wherever you're going, in an attempt to throw you off. Five minutes earlier you made the mistake of proving you knew exactly where you were; since then he's delighted in stopping at every hallway intersection and spinning you around in circles before moving on. You could be right back where you started for all you know.
Another thirty seconds and John finally slows, guiding you through a doorway. A cool breeze hits your face and you're pretty sure you're on one of the central balconies. "Okay," he says. "Open."
You were wrong - you're at the very edge of one of the piers, with a wide view of Atlantis, its spires bright in the setting sun.
"Cliché, I know," John shrugs, slightly embarrassed.
"Surprise!"
William jumps out from behind one of the small spires and into your arms. You laugh, dramatically affecting shock and awe as he weasels out of your grasp, disappears behind the pillar and returns, attempting to carry a large military crate full of food and blankets. John hurries to help him, scolding him for trying to lift something so heavy, and helps him set out the items. Salad, bread, fruit, chocolate.
"John, you didn't have to-"
He shushes you with a wave of his hand.
It's been a bad month. Complicated trade negotiations made more complicated by a civil war and more dangerous by an assassination attempt on the Deghi leader. Rather than barter for food and a simple trade alliance, you found yourself carefully orchestrating a cease-fire, a peaceful secession, and two trade agreements - one with the old Deghi monarchy, and the other with the new Ne-Deghi Republic.
John being off-world with his team didn't help matters, and their typical routine of falling into avoidable trouble yet again put you on edge.
"M'yka," William's whining draws you out of your thoughts. " 'Gha'li," he demands. You laugh softly and press a loud kiss to his forehead before grabbing his waist and tickling him. William screams and giggles, squirms his way out of your grasp and runs out of your reach. Within moments he's back again, testing you, laughing every time you grab for him and miss.
John grins and plays along and for an hour it's all so simple - a picnic with your family in the sunlight.
--
There's a mobile hanging from the ceiling, of Milky Way planets and stars. He will never see Earth, but it isn't a secret. It's a place you lived long ago - a distant memory of green mountains and tall buildings and smog and dust and your apartment on M Street, small and quaint and brick.
Your fingers shake as you touch the sun, painted red and gold from the juice of Rtiki plants; a gift from the Athosians.
The strings bounce gently and the mobile turns. The moon aligns with the sun and shadows Earth and you hate it. You hate its beauty and its symmetry and its grace. You pull your hand away violently to keep from breaking it.
There are toys on the floor and pictures on the walls and the room is so peaceful and joyful and bright that you choke. You stumble backwards and hit the desk; scattered crayons and small wooden soldiers and a half-finished drawing and you crash to the floor, struggling desperately for air.
--
He doesn't push.
He steals kisses and grabs your hand but other than that he waits, and part of you hates it. Hates your own useless indecision, your desires, your fears. You hate the way he looks at you like he doesn't care what you are, and sometimes you wonder if he gets it; if he knows.
Logic says he can't.
Your heart tells a different tale, in soft whispers when you're alone. Your breaking point is unexpected, but not entirely surprising. It's been another week of off-world negotiations and you haven't been back, haven't seen John or William or the lights from your city for days, and all it does is remind you of the past; of a time when you couldn't reach out and touch the steel railing; couldn't listen to the ocean from your window.
William is asleep and John is hovering, waiting to give you a goodnight kiss.
"Well, I should get-" he starts, as the same time you muster the courage:
"Do you want to-"
You stop yourself too late. John frowns slightly, and you know he’s caught your apprehension.
"What?" You look away. "Elizabeth," he coaxes, drawing your name out. It almost makes you smile.
"Nothing," you wave him off, "It's been a long week."
He's too quiet. "I know."
William dreams of white, sandy beaches and cerulean waters. You find yourself drawn to him with no explanation, no forward thought. He dreams of sunsets; you add stars.
"I've never left him alone like that," you murmur. "Never been so far-" The words catch. John touches your back gently.
"He did fine. He was okay." He smiles and gives a little shrug. "You raised him well."
"I know, but I-"
"Elizabeth?"
He didn't need me.
You don't realize you've spoken aloud until John grabs your arm gently and turns you to face him.
"Of course he did. Elizabeth, did you see how excited he was when you walked through the 'Gate?
All screams and joy and 'mommy, I did this and mommy I did that and mommy look what I made!' " John knows where you've gone, and smiles. "He did fine because he knew you were coming back. He trusts you."
His eyes are bright. The words are sweet. "Thank you."
He shrugs a little awkwardly. "Just telling it like it is."
The silence hangs for a moment, and you know it's your call. "Would you stay?"
He hesitates. "Are you sure?"
Swallow. Nod. "Yeah."
Nod. Swallow. "Okay."
You fall asleep with his arms around you, and your face pressed into his shoulder.
--
You don't remember moving. Don't remember John picking you up or moving you to the bed or tucking you under the blankets. You don't remember falling asleep. Your eyes are burning and your face feels stiff and tight.
The other side of the room is silent.
Carefully, slowly, you ease yourself out of bed and across the room to where William sleeps. His bed is still made, his toys scattered. You run your fingers over his pillow. You can almost hear his laughter.
"Hey."
Your mind jumps slightly, but your body's too tired to be surprised. John moves to stand beside you, so close. You pray he doesn't touch you.
"I spoke with Lorne." His voice is raw and low. "Nothing from Larrin, or Radim. Though they both promised to dial in if they heard anything." He relays the information flatly. "Keras sends his sympathies."
You nod.
(If you concentrate hard enough, you can feel him - shaking and cold.)
"Elizabeth."
The word sounds like a drum. You don't know what it means.
"Elizabeth, look at me."
He takes your hand.
You turn and stare, but you don't really see him. You see your boy, who has his father's eyes and his father's cheeks and his father's hair.
"I can't," you whisper, little more than air between your lips.
His grip on your hand tightens. "Don't," he begs. "Don't shut me out. Elizabeth-"
You pull away.
John snaps.
"Are you ever going to let me in?" The fierce anger in his voice makes you start; buries his fear. "Or is this how it's always going to be? You against the whole goddamn world."
Your head is pounding. The lights are too bright, the shadows too dark. John continues.
"We're trying to help. People out there are doing everything they can to get him back."
Your response is automatic: "Not everything."
For a moment, John simply stares. "We've got teams on every planet, Elizabeth, every damn-" He breaks off in frustration. "Rodney hasn't slept in two days, Zelenka hasn't said a word in English for the past seven hours he's so far gone, and you can't even thank them for trying!"
Shadows and lights. Ice and snow. Fire and ash. "Trying isn't good enough."
John throws his arms in the air and rounds on you. "What the hell else do you want them to do? Take the damn city and fly after them?"
"Yes!" Sharp and high, your voice startles you both, but you can't stop. It's been building and building and now it's rolling out like thunder, like the pulse in your veins that isn't your own. "Yes, that's exactly what I want! I want to take every drone and every jumper and every marine on base and find them and make them pay for what they've done! For taking my son."
John stares at you with entirely too much sadness. Too much sympathy. You don't want his sympathy, his pity, his remorse - you want his anger. You want his fire and determination and passion. You want him to scream at you until you're convinced you're staring at a father and not a soldier, not a leader. But John just shakes his head and tries for soft and firm. "That isn't the solution, and you know it."
Bitterness strangles your words. "Of course I know it. I was once the strong, formidable leader of the great city of Atlantis." Sarcasm. Anger. You can't rein it in. You can feel yourself trying - some small, remaining part of you left over from years ago - the diplomat; the friend. It stands no chance. "Fighting fruitlessly for diplomacy over military solutions. Of course, that all went to hell the minute I was gone."
"Elizabeth-"
"Was it an order, John?" The question throws him, hard. He stares, begs you with his eyes to stop, stop, stop but you can't. Words are tumbling and you have no control anymore, aren't sure you want any. "Or just a quiet decision to 'let it go'? See what happens next?" Your arms drop to your sides. "Who knows - maybe she'll find her own way back." Silence. Demanding: "Was that it?"
His voice cracks. "We should have tried harder. It was a mistake-"
"You're damn right it was a mistake. One your son is now paying for."
Something sparks. John's head snaps up and he glares at you with hurt and guilt and fear. "You think I don't know that? That if I could change it-" His voice breaks; all his regrets laid bare and fragile. "He's my kid. My-"
"Then where were you?" You regret it. The moment the words hit the air you wish you could draw them back, take the life from them but they're there, and they're whole unlike you and unlike him and "Where were you, John, when he said his first words? Took his first steps? Where were you when he started having nightmares, when he woke up screaming in pain because of the nanites? Where were you when I left clues on every damn planet we visited?" He looks away. You want to hit him. "Answer me!" Your voice cracks. "Where the hell were you!"
"I don't know!" he screams, frantic and pained. "I screwed up, okay! I get it!"
"No, you don't get it! You'll never get it!"
In your face, his body radiating heat: "Because you refuse to explain it to me! It's been four years, Elizabeth, and we've just been going in circles because you won't talk to me!" He inhales, leans back just slightly, as if his proximity might intimidate you. He shakes his head. "I can apologize a thousand times and I will, but it's not gonna make a damn bit of difference if you don't let me in." His voice quiets. The room goes still. "Elizabeth." There are tears in his eyes. He touches your hand. "Let me in."
You hold his gaze as long as you can, but all you see is white and all you feel is cold. The wind and the ash and William, his face buried in your neck. "I can't do this."
John grabs your arm as you try to pass. "Don't walk away from me."
His pain is stretched tight across his face, warring with determination and anger. You yank your arm from his grasp with a strength you rarely show.
"Three years, John." Your voice shakes, and you hate yourself. "Don't you dare talk to me about walking away."
--
You knew it would eventually come back to this: pressed against the wall with your shirt half off and his hands in your hair and everything on fire. Knew that once you let him stay, there would be no going back, no backing down. He kisses you with the same purpose and intensity he did five years ago, and it's like falling.
John sneaks his hand under your shirt and cups your breast, trails his fingers over your ribs and at the same time tries to steer you, inch you toward the bed.
Alarm bells ring. Your body tenses without your consent. Thoughts bombard you, and waves of energy beneath your skin turn the pleasure to a sharp pain.
" 'Liz'beth?"
His breathing is heavy and his pupils are blown. He wants you.
You feel like lead.
"Sorry," you murmur. "I'm sorry-"
He sighs and shakes his head and tells you not to worry about it. You've lost track of how many times you've heard those words; how many times he's groaned into your mouth, but stepped away; how many times he's let you touch him, and how many times you've denied him the same.
You fix your shirt and run a hand through your tangled hair while John looks around on the floor for his shirt. The room is hot and awkward and you feel like you have to say something, anything, but you feel like metal, and you don't know how to tell him that.
"It's not that I-" you start.
His head snaps up and he looks at you, startled.
Silence.
You wring your hands together even as you tell yourself not to. Get a grip, you tell yourself, but he's holding his shirt in his hand and his dog tags are harsh against his skin.
He takes a few steps toward you and stops. Softly: "What?"
You catch his eyes and hold them. Deep breath: "It's not that I don't want this." Pause; clarify: "Want you. But I-"
Metal, you think. Scratching at your veins. You don't want him to feel them, too.
"Elizabeth?"
You turn away.
Your voice is flat and emotionless: "I don't get sunburns," you try to explain. "I can't freeze to death. I don't sweat. I don't bleed. I don't feel-" Your fist covers your mouth briefly. "I gained control over the nanites a long time ago. Used them to protect us. But that doesn't mean they're gone."
You can feel him nod. "I know."
You turn back, suddenly needing him to see; to understand. "I don't know what they'll do. If my guard is down, I don't know what- if something happened-"
"Hey." He reaches for your hands. "They're not in control of you, Elizabeth. They're not in control of anything."
Eyes wide; voice frail: "I don't know what I'll feel."
Nothing, your mind supplies. Maybe you'll feel nothing.
"Maybe too much?" he murmurs with a soft, knowing smile.
"John-"
"I'm not trying to pressure you." He offers a small grin. "This isn't high school in the back of a '59 Cadillac where if you don't put out I'm not gonna take you to prom."
Your lips quirk. "I know."
"Good."
Pulling you close, he kisses your forehead, then pulls back and holds your gaze.
"You're not a machine, Elizabeth," he starts, and you hold your breath. "You may have nanites making you stronger, making you heal faster or - preventing sunburns. But that doesn't change who you are." He smiles softly, and brushes his thumb across your cheek. "It doesn't make me love you any less," he whispers. "And it never will."
The moment holds, then breaks as you kiss him fiercely. He freezes in shock, then grins and wraps his arms around you tightly as he leans into the kiss, letting you control the motions but meeting you every step; synchronicity. Perfect time.
Home-coming.
You both struggle for air. "So," he breathes heavily. "Better than a Cadillac?"
You smack his shoulder and laugh.
--
He doesn't ask. You don't explain.
John sleeps in your bed some nights, and you rest better with him there - he is always warm, and you are always cold; entropy and enthalpy.
You try not to wonder if he gets anything out of it besides cold.
He never asks, and you can never find the words to begin. On good days, it sits like an old hope chest, covered in cobwebs in the corner; on bad days, it stands stark red and angry in front of you.
On those days, you hide yourself away on a pier on the far side of the city and let the cool air wash over you. The smell of salt surrounds you and drives away the smoke; the wind on your skin like bandages over the needle marks.
Sometimes John finds you and sometimes you want to tell him everything.
Sometimes you think he deserves it.
Sometimes you pray he never, ever finds out.
Some days he sits behind you, your back to his chest and his hands in yours, legs dangling over the side of the pier. He rests his chin on your shoulder and plays with your hair and hums Johnny Cash just below the wind.
--
His entire body stiffens when you close the door behind you. It's dark, and he's hunched over the windowsill. The light from the moon is flat and pale and you close your eyes.
"I'm sorry," you murmur, but he doesn't turn. "For what I said earlier. Everything."
"You meant it."
The silence settles. You think about lying, but you owe him better than that.
"Some of it."
He turns to you with blood-shot eyes. "Elizabeth-" he chokes and you're by his side, holding his face between your hands and willing your own tears to hold.
"You did the right thing." Fervent and honest, you need him to see. To see your words and their meaning and you, the part of you they took. "You kept our people safe and for that, I…" Your voice cracks. "That's what mattered most. What I went through…it was a small price to pay. And most of the time I know that. Sometimes I forget." Barely a whisper: "When it comes to William, I forget." You can feel him nod, almost imperceptibly. You meet his gaze. "You did the right thing, John. I don't blame you." He exhales sharply and you stroke his cheeks with your thumbs, press your forehead to his. "I don't blame you."
He nods, his hands finally coming to rest on your hips and the small contact buries you in relief. And then his voice, small and uncertain and so unlike the man you love:
"But?"
You put him here. You did this to him, and the thought chokes you. You can't breathe or think or see and all the while he waits because you don't blame him, you couldn't, but he wasn't there and it was just you and your boy but you can't tell him that because it's his boy too, his son, and "it was so cold."
John pulls back and stares.
You open your mouth to explain, but all you can think of is Corlon and white and your bare feet in the snow; of wind and rain and ice and the chill you only felt because you thought you were supposed to, because you remembered; of his face, small and pale and peering up at you while you stared down; too stunned and too terrified and too alone, you could barely go near him for weeks after he was born because you couldn't be sure if he was real, if he was there, if he was yours and his and you want to tell him now but there are no words.
"Elizabeth," he murmurs. You don't realize you're crying until he's brushing away your tears.
"It was so cold." You hear the words, but they aren't your own. His face is blurring and changing and your eyes are burning and you think he might be holding you but you're so, so numb.
"It's okay," he murmurs against your ear. His lips are soft. Hands warm. Body close.
"It was so cold."
You feel him shudder slightly, his eyelashes brushing against your temple. "I know," he whispers, and you try so very hard to believe him.
When you pull back, everything adjusts. You see, for the first time, the lines on his face, the dark circles under his eyes. How much he's aged in just a few days; how alone he's been while you've been spiraling down; how you've left him to weather his grief in stoicism and silence.
Guilt spreads through your veins, and your fingers shake when you brush them over his cheek. John inhales sharply, reaching out hesitantly with a look - terrified and brave. Reaching up, you press your lips to his just barely. You're both too tired for a kiss, too strung out and insecure and frightened and in desperate need of closeness. His arms tighten around you as he drops his face into your neck and breathes out shakily, tension and weight falling from his shoulders as he leans into you.
You raise your hand to his neck, gently stroking through his hair in slow, repetitive motions, listening to his breathing, keeping time by his heart-beat that drums so close to yours. He whispers something that might be your name and might be a plea and might be an apology, but it doesn't matter. You're both here. Together.
He doesn't protest when you pull back to strip him out of his clothes, just silently does the same for you, guiding you to the bed and under the blankets and pulling you tight against his chest. You can't see him like this - your back to him and his face buried against your shoulder - but he's warm and solid and honest, with his arm across your breasts and your fingers intertwined.
--
"Are you sure?" he asks, wide-eyed and warm.
"You're asking this now?" you gasp, breathing heavily.
He looks a little guilty. "Got carried away," he grins sheepishly. Then, serious: "Elizabeth, you don't have to-"
"John," you warn, and his lips split into a grin.
"Rescinded."
Little shock-waves along your spine and he kisses you sweetly. His palms smooth up and down your back, bare skin on bare skin and it's so much but you're still holding on. One hand cups your shoulder blade and the other skates over your face, brushing damp hair out of your eyes. His lips move, and 'beautiful' is what you think he says, but don't dare ask him to repeat it.
You shift your weight, falling so that you're beneath him, and he's spread over you like a blanket, like something safe.
" 'Lizabeth," he murmurs.
You let go.
--
continue
- stargate: atlantis
- john/elizabeth
- 20,000 words (8,100 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
You spend their mission clinging to the balcony railing above the 'Gate room. You were in the Control Room when the call came through - the staccato of weapons’ fire, Rodney's frantic orders, static, and silence. That was six hours ago, and since then you've barely moved, staring at the iris.
William barely says a word, but he alternates clinging to your hand and curling in your arms, peppering kisses across your cheeks. You wish you could find a way to stop, to keep your fears hidden from him, to protect him from yourself, but you can't. Just the way you know, even with distance and walls between you, when he's happy, sad, excited or scared, he doesn't need to feel the pounding of your heart to know - to understand.
He's curling his fingers into your palm when the 'Gate dials. Woosley hurries for the steps and Keller appears off to the side with two gurneys and an army of nurses; the marines take up aim just as they fall through - Teyla with an arm slung around Rodney's waist, Ronon half-dragging, half-carrying John. The wormhole hasn't disengaged before he looks up, and everything slows. Memories resurface, faded and human and raw and he smiles, like you're the most amazing thing he's ever seen.
Then he collapses.
The world rushes back in - Keller yelling orders and doctors swarming and John bleeding and Rodney crying out and on instinct, you grab William's head and turn him into your leg so he won't see.
--
Gunshot wound to the stomach.
Keller says he got lucky.
You watch the line on the monitor spike, and listen to him breathe. You sit and hold his hand and stroke his hair and it's so familiar, so precious. No one tells you to eat or sleep, because by now they understand that you don't need it like they do.
William draws pictures of white trees and smiling families and brings them to you, "For when Daddy wakes up from his nap."
You leave before that happens, so he won't know you were there.
--
You last three weeks.
He is still pale and weak, leaning against the doorframe for support, wearing a sleep-deprived frown. "Elizabeth?" he murmurs. "What are you-?"
"I can't do this."
He blinks groggily, and you know you should wait. Know you should leave him alone to rest and heal but you can't. He shuffles back from the door and lets you in, waving his hand over the crystals to close it once you're inside. His room is dark and warm and smells like him and this was a mistake but you can't move.
'' 'Lizabeth?"
You turn to face him. "I-" you start; hesitate. "I told myself that I wouldn't go down this road again. That I couldn't, that it would only end badly and I-" John stares at you in confusion, but the words keep rushing out, disorderly and almost frantic. "It didn't matter. Your heart stopped for almost a minute and none of it mattered anymore, nothing in the last six years and I didn't care. I just needed you to wake up. I needed you to come back to me." You shake your head. "And I don't know how to deal with that."
He shifts. The silence settles. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, because he doesn't have any idea what to say.
"I don't want you to be sorry, I want you to-"
He looks up. "What?"
Your throat closes; the words come out as a whisper. "I don't know. I guess I just...I didn't want to admit it."
He hesitates. "Admit what?"
You smile painfully. "That I still love you," you say sadly. "That I never stopped loving you." John stares at you with wide eyes and his lips slightly parted. He licks his lips and tries, but whatever he wants to say dies in the air between you. In the end, he says nothing, and you know it's a stone you'll carry for a long time. "My cross to bear, I suppose," you murmur, more to yourself.
"Elizabeth…" he manages, but you're already leaving.
"I'm sorry," you tell him. Your hand reaches for the control panel, and in the next moment you're turned, pinned against the wall, his hands on your face and his lips warm and searching against yours and it's so familiar, so old and comforting and perfect that you can't stop it. Your hands slide through his hair and you part your lips and kiss him like you used to when you were whole. He kisses you back with everything he couldn't say.
It lasts and lasts until you feel him weaken - his heart is beating too fast and his skin is hot and you push him away gently.
'" 'Lizabeth," he begs against your neck, and you shudder against the sound. His arms wrap around your waist and hold, refusing to let go even as you inch him backwards toward the bed.
"John, you need to sit down."
"Don't go."
You close your eyes.
" 'Lizabeth, please," he whispers.
"Okay," you promise. "I'll stay, but you need to sit down."
He complies slowly, pulling you with him to stand between his legs. His head falls against your stomach and you tense slightly, but he doesn't seem to notice. You tentatively brush your fingers through his hair and run a hand over his shoulder soothingly, trying to calm the tremors in his muscles.
"John," you try softly. His arms tighten around your waist and he mumbles incoherently into your shirt.
You stay like that for a long, long while.
--
You're heading for the 'Jumper bay when a large hand wraps around your wrist and drags you into an empty room.
"Don't hit me!" is the first thing he says, and you retract your arm before your fist connects with his jaw.
"Rodney, what are you-"
It's dark. He shoves something small and rectangular into your hands. "It's a shield," he says before you can ask. "An invisibility shield. I designed it based off the jumpers, made a few modifications that were really quite-"
"Rodney."
"We're leaving at 0900. If you sneeze, they'll know. If you knock something over, they'll know. It's an invisibility cloak, not a-"
"I get it."
Rodney nods and fidgets and peeks around your shoulder to the empty corridor.
"Why are you doing this?" you ask softly. "If they catch you-"
He shrugs. "I'll just blame Zelenka. Not that he could come up with something so ingenious, but I-" You arch an eyebrow and he stops abruptly. "Anyway," he says. The silence draws itself out. Rodney hesitates and opens his mouth, closes it, opens it, looks away.
"Rodney," you say gently.
He meets your gaze. Guilt. Honesty. Love. You don't know what to do against the onslaught of emotions, directed right at you, into you. "He's your son, Elizabeth," he says finally, simply. "Get him back."
--
The cloak doesn't work.
You materialize on the other side, and it takes Lorne half a second to understand, and raise his weapon. "Dr. Weir!" he shouts, at the same time you arc to the side and Rodney starts yelling "Don't shoot!" in a high, frantic tone. The 'Gate starts dialing and Lorne is yelling and the next thing you know Rodney's stepping between you and the guns. "Go!" he shouts. Lorne fires a stunner and Rodney stumbles and you both crash back through the event horizon.
On the other side, Rodney scrambles to his feet and redials another planet. And then another. And then another.
"Rodney," you say finally, laying a hand over his. He's breathing hard and sweating and shaking and you ease him to the ground.
"I don't think they can trace us. They can't trace us - I couldn't trace us, so there's no way they-"
"Rodney." He blinks. "You didn't have to do that," you murmur, but the righteous indignation you would have felt before, years ago, doesn't surface. Before he can reply you're already standing, eyes sweeping across the overgrown fields. "You're sure it's uninhabited?"
He nods. "Took some energy readings last week of the entire planet and according to the Ancient Database, the last of the people here died out during the war with the Wraith or took refuge elsewhere."
You trust him. "Okay."
Rodney fidgets, and after a moment stands and pulls an MRE from his tac-vest. "So. What'd you, uh - what'd you need?"
You look him in the eye. "If you have any reason to suspect-"
He waves you off. "Yeah, yeah, I know this song."
"Rodney.”
"Elizabeth, I got it," he snaps. "Just - do what you need to do so we can go get yelled at."
You flash him a strained smile and turn away. It isn't a second before you're there, before you can feel him shivering. It's okay, you murmur. William clings to you so tight you can barely move, but you need to know. You need to find him. Protect him.
And then they come.
--
You avoid him for weeks.
Excuses are easy to come by, and you use them all blatantly, ignoring the way your stomach tightens whenever he manages to catch your gaze.
Slowly they've been giving you more and more access to technologies and documents in Atlantis, remembering - believing - who you are. You're earning their trust and they're earning yours, and the process is painstaking.
It's over two years before they allow you off-world again, and not by choice. A community Lorne's team encountered refuses to deal with them, despite the potential benefits to both sides, and you're the only one with any experience in understanding their customs. Your success establishing a treaty with the Klaas people breaks down the final barrier, and for the first time you feel like a member of the team again; feel like maybe, someday, this could be home again.
But then there's John, lingering in the shadows, ever-present and weighing on your soul. You want to talk to him, to work through whatever this is, but you're not sure what you want or what you feel. Some days you aren't sure you can breathe without him; aren't sure you could stay away if he asked you to. Other times, you remember Corlon; you remember cold and running and loneliness and crashing to the forest floor, sharp branches digging into your palms, William's screams; you remember your naive hopes, and feel the hurt turn to anger unbidden.
It's your son who ultimately drives you to words.
"It's William's birthday in two days," you remind him. You clasp your hands together to keep from fidgeting.
John nods. "I uh, I wanted to take him up in the 'Jumper," he says. "See Atlantis from the sky. If- if that's okay."
You nod curtly. "Of course." You force a smile. "I'm sure he'll love that."
John shifts uncomfortably. "Yeah, he's been asking, so…"
Another nod. The air feels stale.
"Teyla's been planning a party. I guess most of the expedition wants to come."
"Well, you know them - any excuse to break out the alien moonshine."
They didn't have a party last year, or the year before. But now you're trustworthy. You're one of them. You bite down on the words to keep them in. "They deserve it."
A bald-faced lie. John doesn't seem to notice.
"Yeah."
Pause. You clear your throat. "So. You'll be there?"
He tries to smile. "Wouldn't miss it."
"Good," you say. Silence. "Well."
"Yeah."
You stare at each other.
You gesture to the door. "I better-"
He nods quickly. "Okay."
"See you."
He gives a short, awkward wave. "See you."
Once out of his office, you resist the urge to bang your head against the transporter.
--
You're in the 'Jumper bay before the rear hatch even opens. John doesn't seem at all surprised, and flashes you a tired but happy smile. "Hey."
You smile at the lump in his arms. "Hey."
John grins. "He fell asleep."
"I see that," you murmur, keeping your voice low. "You want me to take him?"
John shakes his head. "Nah, I got him."
You nod, unable to tear your eyes away from your son, curled up is father's arms, his head on John's shoulder; how peaceful he looks, how quiet. You turn and start down the hall; John follows.
"How'd it go?" you ask after a short, almost uncomfortable pause.
"Good," he says. "Great." He laughs softly, and it's impossible to miss the spark in his eyes. "He was so…" He struggles for the word, and eventually gives up, choosing instead to turn to you and grin. "I felt like a superhero."
You can't help but smile back. "He's good at that."
"Yeah," he murmurs, then remembers: "We saw you on the balcony. He waved."
"I know."
He turns his head, frowning slightly in confusion. You merely shrug. "I could feel it," you offer, unsure of how to explain. He seems to understand, though, and that surprises you more than it should.
"That's pretty special."
You smile, trying to keep the sadness from your tone. "Yeah, it is, isn't it?"
When you reach your quarters he stops, hesitating in the doorway. "Do you mind if I…"
"No, of course not."
He relaxes slightly as you wave your hand over the door crystals and follows you through the dim lights. William's bed is small and neat, and you pull back his bedcovers so John can lay him down gently. You carefully remove his shoes and socks, and John tucks the blanket around his neck gently. William mumbles and burrows deeper into the pillow. John raises an eyebrow, and it takes you a moment to realize why.
"Lanni," you explain quietly, and John nods. "He lapses sometimes when he's tired."
"Oh."
Your throat tightens slightly, and you brush a hand through William's hair, quieting him. "He also does it when he's scared," you confide. John stares at you with an unreadable expression, but he seems to know, seems to understand how hard it is for you to share the only real bond you've had with anyone for years.
"I feel like-" he starts quietly, then looks away.
"John?"
He hesitates, rubbing the back of his neck and staring at William instead of you. "There's so much I don't know about him, even still," he says softly. The guilt is heavy in his tone. "So much I don't know about you, about what you've both been through."
Your throat tightens. "It's…difficult to talk about," you murmur.
He backtracks quickly. "No, I know, I'm not - I'm not trying to blame you, or-"
"I know."
Silence falls between you, and eventually you look away, following his gaze to your sleeping son. You can't seem to hold on to any one thought, your mind racing and your heart pounding and John, standing so close you can feel his warmth.
"Elizabeth?" he whispers.
You hold your breath. "Yeah?"
So quiet. So scared. "Are we gonna be okay?"
You close your eyes. "I hope so," you answer honestly. John doesn't reply. In the silence, he takes your hand.
Together, you watch your son sleep.
--
You wake up in the infirmary on Atlantis.
"Keller!" someone shouts gruffly. It takes you a moment to realize it's John.
John. Anger. Rodney. Planet. William. Safe. William-
"I know where he is."
A hand on your shoulder pushes you down, but it's unnecessary. The room goes white and for a long moment you can't see or hear anything. You reach out; someone grabs your hand.
"John!"
Panic. White. William.
You try to sit up again. "It's an outpost."
"Eliz…"
"An outpost…MR6-"
You can't see straight. Everything's blurring and hazy, and the voices in your ears are echoing, fading in and out; sometimes too loud, sometimes too soft. John says something and it sounds like a screech, harsh static, and you slam your hands over your ears. The pitch rises and rises and you might be screaming; then you black out.
--
When you wake up, everything is still. The heart monitor beeps steadily. John's hand is warm in yours. You sit up slowly, and the world stays solid. John raises his head.
"Hey."
Your voice is hoarse. "Hey."
He calls the nurse, who runs a few scans and then disappears. John clears his throat. "When you contacted William, you were detected by the collective. They tried to send a virus-"
"I know."
He blinks and frowns. "How-"
"It doesn't matter. MR6-735. There's an outpost. It's twenty-five miles north-west of the 'Gate."
"Elizabeth."
"We have to go now. I can get us in-"
" 'Lizabeth-"
You throw back the covers. You're unsteady, but the adrenaline compensates; the machines compensate. "We can be there in less than an hour-"
"Stop, you have to stop-"
"John-"
"We already went, Elizabeth."
The room goes cold. "What?"
John stares at the floor. "Rodney had all the information when he came back. He - you collapsed. He brought you back and they put you in quarantine. You'd already told him-" His voice is shaking. "I went with my team. They were already gone, Elizabeth."
"No."
"They were already-"
"No!"
"Rodney's with Zelenka right now; they're analyzing all the data you gave him, maybe there's something-" He takes a deep breath. "We're not giving up. We'll find him."
Hollow promises. They echo.
"We'll find him."
You stare at the wall.
--
John frowns at the thick stack of bound pages. "What's this?"
"Concise guide to Lanni."
"There was something in the database?" he asks, surprised. "I looked a while ago and-"
"I wrote it." His head snaps up and he stares, mouth slightly open. You'd laugh if not for your nervousness. "It isn't much - basic phrases and structure. The disc has an audio component, so you can hear it, and it's organized by grammatical structure, but there's a dictionary in the back in case you need it." You're rambling, but he doesn't seem to notice. His eyes fall back to the pages as he flips through them almost reverently.
"Elizabeth…I don't know what to say."
"Schm’ole," you reply. He looks up in confusion. You smile. " 'Thank you.' "
"Right," he murmurs, and repeats, "Schm’ole," as if testing the word.
"You're a natural," you say, but it comes out stilted and awkward and he knows; you can tell by the look in his eyes, the way he hesitates.
"Elizabeth," he starts, but you shake your head.
For a long moment, words evade you - part of you doesn't want him to know, doesn't want to share yet another part of your son with anyone else, even him. The guilt for the thought makes your stomach churn.
"You didn't have to do this," he says quietly.
"Yes, I did," you return, much stronger than you expected. And finally, quietly: "He lapses when he's scared."
--
"I know pi to the forty-seventh decimal," he says as soon as you open the door.
"What?"
"Pi. To the forty-seventh-"
"I know what you mean," you frown, "I just don't-"
"I can calculate equations with irrational numbers."
"John.”
“In my head."
You almost laugh. "What are you-"
He holds up the packet you gave him a week ago. "I think you're making this up. These sounds don't exist!" he protests. This time you do laugh, and he flips the first few pages back and points at one of the Lanni letters indignantly. "How can anyone be expected to pronounce a circle?"
Smirking, you step back from the door. "You want to come in?"
John huffs dramatically, but you can see his smirk as he slips past you into your room.
"William with Teyla?" he asks, and you nod, crossing the room to organize some of the paperwork you have strewn across your bed. He picks up one of the pages and turns it upside down, then around, then to the side, staring at it blankly. You smirk and take the Ancient worksheet from him, neatly organizing piles and moving them onto your desk. John tracks your movements.
"So," you ask him finally. "What seems to be the problem?"
John gives you a look for the amusement in your tone. "It's a circle, Elizabeth," he reminds you petulantly, and you shake your head fondly. John follows when you sit down on the bed, legs crossed with your back against the headboard. He perches awkwardly on the edge, keeping one foot on the floor, and hands you the packet.
"Page two," you deadpan. "Impressive."
"Circles," he reiterates.
You spend the next three hours teaching him sounds. His mouth contorts into strange shapes as he tries to master the Lanni vowels, and you're pretty sure he spends more time complaining than he does actually speaking.
It doesn't take him long to relax, scooting closer to you, brushing your hand when he reaches for the pages, leaning into your personal space, bumping your shoulder. It doesn't seem to be conscious, if the small, hesitant smiles he keeps giving you are anything to go by, and you can't quite bring yourself to pull away. Instead, you inch closer, smile wider, laugh longer. His eyes are bright and his expression soft and he's beautiful like this - happy.
You're explaining how to form constructs when he leans over suddenly and kisses you. He misses just a little, his lips brushing against the corner of your mouth, and you freeze, and he freezes, and the air around you freezes and he pulls away as you turn. Your lips collide and you can feel his smile as he wraps a hand around the back of your neck and pulls you closer. His other hand cups your cheek and the angle is awkward so you lean back slightly, arms looping around his shoulders; John follows on a rush of air, pushing you back gently into the pillows, his body blanketing yours and his hands drifting and part of you knows that it's too much, too fast, but he's so, so warm. So right.
Your fingers tangle in his hair as his lips move across your jaw, kissing your throat and your collarbone and your shoulder through your shirt. He doesn't stay away long; his mouth finds yours and you wonder if he's drowning; if it's synapses and sparks.
Your skin is flushed.
"John," you breathe.
His hand snakes under your shirt and along your ribs and you gasp, tearing your lips from his. Your back arches and your breathing stalls and it's too much; you push him away.
"You okay?" he manages, soft - his breathing is heavy, and he's trembling.
You nod, but you can't speak. You can't explain - the weight in your bones, your blood; the way you can feel the metal itch beneath your skin, the way they connect and charge and die and you wouldn't explain even if you could; wouldn't tell him how mechanical it is - you are.
Neither of you move for a long moment. His heartbeat slows and finally he pulls back, raising his eyes to yours. He looks scared - hesitant, guilty, lost. You push yourself up slightly and he moves away, but doesn't stop touching you, doesn't move his hands from your hips.
"John," you try. He bows his head. On instinct, you lean forward and brush a kiss against his forehead.
He sighs heavily. "We should probably talk about this, huh?"
You nod, but at the same time your throat tightens and your mind goes blank. You don't want to talk, don't want to think, don't want to analyze every way in which this is a monumentally bad idea; every way in which it's not. Before you can say anything, he leans forward and kisses you tenderly.
He pulls back with a tentative smile and licks his lips. "So," he says, picking up one of the discarded papers. "Constructs."
You swallow stiffly. "Constructs," you repeat.
He flashes you a smirk. "Gonna teach me any Lanni curses? Bad words? Body parts?"
You laugh. "Let's make sure you can introduce yourself before you alienate an entire culture, shall we?"
"Now where's the fun in that?"
--
Woosley holds you back after the briefing. There's a long pause; you wait for platitudes, for repercussions, for condemnation.
"I'm not going to tell SGC about what happened."
You stare blankly.
"Major Lorne and his team have also agreed that this should be an internal affair, relevant only to Atlantis. What you did-"
"It didn't work."
You don't mean to sound so broken.
Woosley shakes his head. "On the contrary, it worked exactly as you said it would. The connection, the information you were able to gather - without compromising yourself or the City. It's...almost commendable." He flashes you a smirk. "If you hadn't disobeyed a direct order, of course."
You nod stiffly - surprised, and yet not fully able to appreciate the olive branch he's handing you. The diplomat in you demands that you smile; the mother simply stares.
Woosley's expression softens. "We haven't stopped searching," he says gently. "There's still a chance-"
"Thank you, Richard."
He nods, but there's nothing else to say.
--
"No, no keep them closed!"
"They are!" you insist, laughing. Not that it would matter - he has his hands over your eyes as he shuffles you slowly down the hallway. You can feel people passing, hear a few of them murmuring or chuckling in amusement. "John!"
"We're almost there," he promises.
You bump lightly into the wall and he steers you away. "Oops! I missed."
William, who has been stealthily running in front of you, stifles a giggle.
Left, right, left, straight. You know he's taking the long way to wherever you're going, in an attempt to throw you off. Five minutes earlier you made the mistake of proving you knew exactly where you were; since then he's delighted in stopping at every hallway intersection and spinning you around in circles before moving on. You could be right back where you started for all you know.
Another thirty seconds and John finally slows, guiding you through a doorway. A cool breeze hits your face and you're pretty sure you're on one of the central balconies. "Okay," he says. "Open."
You were wrong - you're at the very edge of one of the piers, with a wide view of Atlantis, its spires bright in the setting sun.
"Cliché, I know," John shrugs, slightly embarrassed.
"Surprise!"
William jumps out from behind one of the small spires and into your arms. You laugh, dramatically affecting shock and awe as he weasels out of your grasp, disappears behind the pillar and returns, attempting to carry a large military crate full of food and blankets. John hurries to help him, scolding him for trying to lift something so heavy, and helps him set out the items. Salad, bread, fruit, chocolate.
"John, you didn't have to-"
He shushes you with a wave of his hand.
It's been a bad month. Complicated trade negotiations made more complicated by a civil war and more dangerous by an assassination attempt on the Deghi leader. Rather than barter for food and a simple trade alliance, you found yourself carefully orchestrating a cease-fire, a peaceful secession, and two trade agreements - one with the old Deghi monarchy, and the other with the new Ne-Deghi Republic.
John being off-world with his team didn't help matters, and their typical routine of falling into avoidable trouble yet again put you on edge.
"M'yka," William's whining draws you out of your thoughts. " 'Gha'li," he demands. You laugh softly and press a loud kiss to his forehead before grabbing his waist and tickling him. William screams and giggles, squirms his way out of your grasp and runs out of your reach. Within moments he's back again, testing you, laughing every time you grab for him and miss.
John grins and plays along and for an hour it's all so simple - a picnic with your family in the sunlight.
--
There's a mobile hanging from the ceiling, of Milky Way planets and stars. He will never see Earth, but it isn't a secret. It's a place you lived long ago - a distant memory of green mountains and tall buildings and smog and dust and your apartment on M Street, small and quaint and brick.
Your fingers shake as you touch the sun, painted red and gold from the juice of Rtiki plants; a gift from the Athosians.
The strings bounce gently and the mobile turns. The moon aligns with the sun and shadows Earth and you hate it. You hate its beauty and its symmetry and its grace. You pull your hand away violently to keep from breaking it.
There are toys on the floor and pictures on the walls and the room is so peaceful and joyful and bright that you choke. You stumble backwards and hit the desk; scattered crayons and small wooden soldiers and a half-finished drawing and you crash to the floor, struggling desperately for air.
--
He doesn't push.
He steals kisses and grabs your hand but other than that he waits, and part of you hates it. Hates your own useless indecision, your desires, your fears. You hate the way he looks at you like he doesn't care what you are, and sometimes you wonder if he gets it; if he knows.
Logic says he can't.
Your heart tells a different tale, in soft whispers when you're alone. Your breaking point is unexpected, but not entirely surprising. It's been another week of off-world negotiations and you haven't been back, haven't seen John or William or the lights from your city for days, and all it does is remind you of the past; of a time when you couldn't reach out and touch the steel railing; couldn't listen to the ocean from your window.
William is asleep and John is hovering, waiting to give you a goodnight kiss.
"Well, I should get-" he starts, as the same time you muster the courage:
"Do you want to-"
You stop yourself too late. John frowns slightly, and you know he’s caught your apprehension.
"What?" You look away. "Elizabeth," he coaxes, drawing your name out. It almost makes you smile.
"Nothing," you wave him off, "It's been a long week."
He's too quiet. "I know."
William dreams of white, sandy beaches and cerulean waters. You find yourself drawn to him with no explanation, no forward thought. He dreams of sunsets; you add stars.
"I've never left him alone like that," you murmur. "Never been so far-" The words catch. John touches your back gently.
"He did fine. He was okay." He smiles and gives a little shrug. "You raised him well."
"I know, but I-"
"Elizabeth?"
He didn't need me.
You don't realize you've spoken aloud until John grabs your arm gently and turns you to face him.
"Of course he did. Elizabeth, did you see how excited he was when you walked through the 'Gate?
All screams and joy and 'mommy, I did this and mommy I did that and mommy look what I made!' " John knows where you've gone, and smiles. "He did fine because he knew you were coming back. He trusts you."
His eyes are bright. The words are sweet. "Thank you."
He shrugs a little awkwardly. "Just telling it like it is."
The silence hangs for a moment, and you know it's your call. "Would you stay?"
He hesitates. "Are you sure?"
Swallow. Nod. "Yeah."
Nod. Swallow. "Okay."
You fall asleep with his arms around you, and your face pressed into his shoulder.
--
You don't remember moving. Don't remember John picking you up or moving you to the bed or tucking you under the blankets. You don't remember falling asleep. Your eyes are burning and your face feels stiff and tight.
The other side of the room is silent.
Carefully, slowly, you ease yourself out of bed and across the room to where William sleeps. His bed is still made, his toys scattered. You run your fingers over his pillow. You can almost hear his laughter.
"Hey."
Your mind jumps slightly, but your body's too tired to be surprised. John moves to stand beside you, so close. You pray he doesn't touch you.
"I spoke with Lorne." His voice is raw and low. "Nothing from Larrin, or Radim. Though they both promised to dial in if they heard anything." He relays the information flatly. "Keras sends his sympathies."
You nod.
(If you concentrate hard enough, you can feel him - shaking and cold.)
"Elizabeth."
The word sounds like a drum. You don't know what it means.
"Elizabeth, look at me."
He takes your hand.
You turn and stare, but you don't really see him. You see your boy, who has his father's eyes and his father's cheeks and his father's hair.
"I can't," you whisper, little more than air between your lips.
His grip on your hand tightens. "Don't," he begs. "Don't shut me out. Elizabeth-"
You pull away.
John snaps.
"Are you ever going to let me in?" The fierce anger in his voice makes you start; buries his fear. "Or is this how it's always going to be? You against the whole goddamn world."
Your head is pounding. The lights are too bright, the shadows too dark. John continues.
"We're trying to help. People out there are doing everything they can to get him back."
Your response is automatic: "Not everything."
For a moment, John simply stares. "We've got teams on every planet, Elizabeth, every damn-" He breaks off in frustration. "Rodney hasn't slept in two days, Zelenka hasn't said a word in English for the past seven hours he's so far gone, and you can't even thank them for trying!"
Shadows and lights. Ice and snow. Fire and ash. "Trying isn't good enough."
John throws his arms in the air and rounds on you. "What the hell else do you want them to do? Take the damn city and fly after them?"
"Yes!" Sharp and high, your voice startles you both, but you can't stop. It's been building and building and now it's rolling out like thunder, like the pulse in your veins that isn't your own. "Yes, that's exactly what I want! I want to take every drone and every jumper and every marine on base and find them and make them pay for what they've done! For taking my son."
John stares at you with entirely too much sadness. Too much sympathy. You don't want his sympathy, his pity, his remorse - you want his anger. You want his fire and determination and passion. You want him to scream at you until you're convinced you're staring at a father and not a soldier, not a leader. But John just shakes his head and tries for soft and firm. "That isn't the solution, and you know it."
Bitterness strangles your words. "Of course I know it. I was once the strong, formidable leader of the great city of Atlantis." Sarcasm. Anger. You can't rein it in. You can feel yourself trying - some small, remaining part of you left over from years ago - the diplomat; the friend. It stands no chance. "Fighting fruitlessly for diplomacy over military solutions. Of course, that all went to hell the minute I was gone."
"Elizabeth-"
"Was it an order, John?" The question throws him, hard. He stares, begs you with his eyes to stop, stop, stop but you can't. Words are tumbling and you have no control anymore, aren't sure you want any. "Or just a quiet decision to 'let it go'? See what happens next?" Your arms drop to your sides. "Who knows - maybe she'll find her own way back." Silence. Demanding: "Was that it?"
His voice cracks. "We should have tried harder. It was a mistake-"
"You're damn right it was a mistake. One your son is now paying for."
Something sparks. John's head snaps up and he glares at you with hurt and guilt and fear. "You think I don't know that? That if I could change it-" His voice breaks; all his regrets laid bare and fragile. "He's my kid. My-"
"Then where were you?" You regret it. The moment the words hit the air you wish you could draw them back, take the life from them but they're there, and they're whole unlike you and unlike him and "Where were you, John, when he said his first words? Took his first steps? Where were you when he started having nightmares, when he woke up screaming in pain because of the nanites? Where were you when I left clues on every damn planet we visited?" He looks away. You want to hit him. "Answer me!" Your voice cracks. "Where the hell were you!"
"I don't know!" he screams, frantic and pained. "I screwed up, okay! I get it!"
"No, you don't get it! You'll never get it!"
In your face, his body radiating heat: "Because you refuse to explain it to me! It's been four years, Elizabeth, and we've just been going in circles because you won't talk to me!" He inhales, leans back just slightly, as if his proximity might intimidate you. He shakes his head. "I can apologize a thousand times and I will, but it's not gonna make a damn bit of difference if you don't let me in." His voice quiets. The room goes still. "Elizabeth." There are tears in his eyes. He touches your hand. "Let me in."
You hold his gaze as long as you can, but all you see is white and all you feel is cold. The wind and the ash and William, his face buried in your neck. "I can't do this."
John grabs your arm as you try to pass. "Don't walk away from me."
His pain is stretched tight across his face, warring with determination and anger. You yank your arm from his grasp with a strength you rarely show.
"Three years, John." Your voice shakes, and you hate yourself. "Don't you dare talk to me about walking away."
--
You knew it would eventually come back to this: pressed against the wall with your shirt half off and his hands in your hair and everything on fire. Knew that once you let him stay, there would be no going back, no backing down. He kisses you with the same purpose and intensity he did five years ago, and it's like falling.
John sneaks his hand under your shirt and cups your breast, trails his fingers over your ribs and at the same time tries to steer you, inch you toward the bed.
Alarm bells ring. Your body tenses without your consent. Thoughts bombard you, and waves of energy beneath your skin turn the pleasure to a sharp pain.
" 'Liz'beth?"
His breathing is heavy and his pupils are blown. He wants you.
You feel like lead.
"Sorry," you murmur. "I'm sorry-"
He sighs and shakes his head and tells you not to worry about it. You've lost track of how many times you've heard those words; how many times he's groaned into your mouth, but stepped away; how many times he's let you touch him, and how many times you've denied him the same.
You fix your shirt and run a hand through your tangled hair while John looks around on the floor for his shirt. The room is hot and awkward and you feel like you have to say something, anything, but you feel like metal, and you don't know how to tell him that.
"It's not that I-" you start.
His head snaps up and he looks at you, startled.
Silence.
You wring your hands together even as you tell yourself not to. Get a grip, you tell yourself, but he's holding his shirt in his hand and his dog tags are harsh against his skin.
He takes a few steps toward you and stops. Softly: "What?"
You catch his eyes and hold them. Deep breath: "It's not that I don't want this." Pause; clarify: "Want you. But I-"
Metal, you think. Scratching at your veins. You don't want him to feel them, too.
"Elizabeth?"
You turn away.
Your voice is flat and emotionless: "I don't get sunburns," you try to explain. "I can't freeze to death. I don't sweat. I don't bleed. I don't feel-" Your fist covers your mouth briefly. "I gained control over the nanites a long time ago. Used them to protect us. But that doesn't mean they're gone."
You can feel him nod. "I know."
You turn back, suddenly needing him to see; to understand. "I don't know what they'll do. If my guard is down, I don't know what- if something happened-"
"Hey." He reaches for your hands. "They're not in control of you, Elizabeth. They're not in control of anything."
Eyes wide; voice frail: "I don't know what I'll feel."
Nothing, your mind supplies. Maybe you'll feel nothing.
"Maybe too much?" he murmurs with a soft, knowing smile.
"John-"
"I'm not trying to pressure you." He offers a small grin. "This isn't high school in the back of a '59 Cadillac where if you don't put out I'm not gonna take you to prom."
Your lips quirk. "I know."
"Good."
Pulling you close, he kisses your forehead, then pulls back and holds your gaze.
"You're not a machine, Elizabeth," he starts, and you hold your breath. "You may have nanites making you stronger, making you heal faster or - preventing sunburns. But that doesn't change who you are." He smiles softly, and brushes his thumb across your cheek. "It doesn't make me love you any less," he whispers. "And it never will."
The moment holds, then breaks as you kiss him fiercely. He freezes in shock, then grins and wraps his arms around you tightly as he leans into the kiss, letting you control the motions but meeting you every step; synchronicity. Perfect time.
Home-coming.
You both struggle for air. "So," he breathes heavily. "Better than a Cadillac?"
You smack his shoulder and laugh.
--
He doesn't ask. You don't explain.
John sleeps in your bed some nights, and you rest better with him there - he is always warm, and you are always cold; entropy and enthalpy.
You try not to wonder if he gets anything out of it besides cold.
He never asks, and you can never find the words to begin. On good days, it sits like an old hope chest, covered in cobwebs in the corner; on bad days, it stands stark red and angry in front of you.
On those days, you hide yourself away on a pier on the far side of the city and let the cool air wash over you. The smell of salt surrounds you and drives away the smoke; the wind on your skin like bandages over the needle marks.
Sometimes John finds you and sometimes you want to tell him everything.
Sometimes you think he deserves it.
Sometimes you pray he never, ever finds out.
Some days he sits behind you, your back to his chest and his hands in yours, legs dangling over the side of the pier. He rests his chin on your shoulder and plays with your hair and hums Johnny Cash just below the wind.
--
His entire body stiffens when you close the door behind you. It's dark, and he's hunched over the windowsill. The light from the moon is flat and pale and you close your eyes.
"I'm sorry," you murmur, but he doesn't turn. "For what I said earlier. Everything."
"You meant it."
The silence settles. You think about lying, but you owe him better than that.
"Some of it."
He turns to you with blood-shot eyes. "Elizabeth-" he chokes and you're by his side, holding his face between your hands and willing your own tears to hold.
"You did the right thing." Fervent and honest, you need him to see. To see your words and their meaning and you, the part of you they took. "You kept our people safe and for that, I…" Your voice cracks. "That's what mattered most. What I went through…it was a small price to pay. And most of the time I know that. Sometimes I forget." Barely a whisper: "When it comes to William, I forget." You can feel him nod, almost imperceptibly. You meet his gaze. "You did the right thing, John. I don't blame you." He exhales sharply and you stroke his cheeks with your thumbs, press your forehead to his. "I don't blame you."
He nods, his hands finally coming to rest on your hips and the small contact buries you in relief. And then his voice, small and uncertain and so unlike the man you love:
"But?"
You put him here. You did this to him, and the thought chokes you. You can't breathe or think or see and all the while he waits because you don't blame him, you couldn't, but he wasn't there and it was just you and your boy but you can't tell him that because it's his boy too, his son, and "it was so cold."
John pulls back and stares.
You open your mouth to explain, but all you can think of is Corlon and white and your bare feet in the snow; of wind and rain and ice and the chill you only felt because you thought you were supposed to, because you remembered; of his face, small and pale and peering up at you while you stared down; too stunned and too terrified and too alone, you could barely go near him for weeks after he was born because you couldn't be sure if he was real, if he was there, if he was yours and his and you want to tell him now but there are no words.
"Elizabeth," he murmurs. You don't realize you're crying until he's brushing away your tears.
"It was so cold." You hear the words, but they aren't your own. His face is blurring and changing and your eyes are burning and you think he might be holding you but you're so, so numb.
"It's okay," he murmurs against your ear. His lips are soft. Hands warm. Body close.
"It was so cold."
You feel him shudder slightly, his eyelashes brushing against your temple. "I know," he whispers, and you try so very hard to believe him.
When you pull back, everything adjusts. You see, for the first time, the lines on his face, the dark circles under his eyes. How much he's aged in just a few days; how alone he's been while you've been spiraling down; how you've left him to weather his grief in stoicism and silence.
Guilt spreads through your veins, and your fingers shake when you brush them over his cheek. John inhales sharply, reaching out hesitantly with a look - terrified and brave. Reaching up, you press your lips to his just barely. You're both too tired for a kiss, too strung out and insecure and frightened and in desperate need of closeness. His arms tighten around you as he drops his face into your neck and breathes out shakily, tension and weight falling from his shoulders as he leans into you.
You raise your hand to his neck, gently stroking through his hair in slow, repetitive motions, listening to his breathing, keeping time by his heart-beat that drums so close to yours. He whispers something that might be your name and might be a plea and might be an apology, but it doesn't matter. You're both here. Together.
He doesn't protest when you pull back to strip him out of his clothes, just silently does the same for you, guiding you to the bed and under the blankets and pulling you tight against his chest. You can't see him like this - your back to him and his face buried against your shoulder - but he's warm and solid and honest, with his arm across your breasts and your fingers intertwined.
--
"Are you sure?" he asks, wide-eyed and warm.
"You're asking this now?" you gasp, breathing heavily.
He looks a little guilty. "Got carried away," he grins sheepishly. Then, serious: "Elizabeth, you don't have to-"
"John," you warn, and his lips split into a grin.
"Rescinded."
Little shock-waves along your spine and he kisses you sweetly. His palms smooth up and down your back, bare skin on bare skin and it's so much but you're still holding on. One hand cups your shoulder blade and the other skates over your face, brushing damp hair out of your eyes. His lips move, and 'beautiful' is what you think he says, but don't dare ask him to repeat it.
You shift your weight, falling so that you're beneath him, and he's spread over you like a blanket, like something safe.
" 'Lizabeth," he murmurs.
You let go.
--
continue