[must be something here] SGA, Teyla/Sora
Title: must be something here
Author: lilysaid
Recipient: queenzulu
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Teyla/Sora
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 6500
queenzulu: you get a gold star for patience, baby. *mwah*
Teyla is sore for weeks after the accident. The Genii doctors give her large white pills to swallow, but there are already too many shifting shapes of memory in her mind, and the pills cloud things even further. They keep asking after her head, but it is her jaw that aches at night, and the moans she stifles during wakefulness must find a way out in sleep, because each time she wakes, Sora is bent at her bedside with a warm compress.
After a few days of this she grows accustomed to the sound of Sora’s bare feet on the floor, the rustle of her loose tangled nightgown and finally, the hot, damp press of a cloth at her temple, agalloch and cloves and a gentle pressure that coaxes her back into sleep.
It is surprising that Sora offers this relief, because she has learned that Sora is not a healer but a soldier, part of the mission that had led to Teyla’s injuries. Sometimes, when they walk out in the sun, she feels a sense of familiarity in the unpredictable gleam of Sora’s hair upon her shoulders, but it is nothing she can build upon, nothing to connect with any of the other strange pieces that drift through the heavy darkness in her head.
It is as though everything she needs to know lies just beyond a heavy curtain. At times she can hear the noise of it from beyond the divide, and even her frustration seems out of reach, cloaked beneath an anaesthetized sense of calm. This is what worries her the most. The doctors declare her state serious, but not life-threatening. Wait until you get back to Atlantis, Sora whispers when they make their diagnosis, and Teyla contemplates the shape of this word in her mind, determined to hold onto it until she can discover its meaning.
***
Sheppard is a surprise. When he strolls into Ladon’s office, he is so unlike the man the Genii have painted with their words that Teyla glances from Sora to Ladon and back to Sheppard, convinced she has misunderstood.
My brother, she has heard them say, my sister, my nephew: only nineteen, because he kills Genii for sport, but he is handsome and when he speaks, she can sense nothing but sincerity.
“Teyla, good to see you,” he says. He wears an easy smile, but his reputation sends her back a step when he approaches, unsure whether she wants this man to take her to Atlantis.
The others act as though it is no matter at all; Sora does not lift her eyes from the paperwork at her wide desk, and Teyla is hypnotized by the swift looping motion of her hand for a moment as she realizes that tonight she is to sleep in Atlantis with no sweet nighttime herbs to relieve her pain.
“She still doesn’t remember,” Sora says without pausing in her work. “Not even you,” she adds in a sly tone Teyla does not recognize, but Sheppard must notice as well, because he shoots Sora a squint of annoyance before he turns to the tall, angry looking man next to him.
“This is weird,” he says quietly, his eyes still on Teyla. “How do we do this?”
The taller man shrugs. “I guess you’ve gotta convince her, first.”
Ladon coughs delicately and extends his arm toward the strangers. “Teyla, this is Colonel Sheppard and Ronon Dex. They’re part of your team back in Atlantis.”
“John,” Colonel Sheppard says quickly. “And Mckay is waiting in the jumper. Dr. McKay. Rodney,” he says, suddenly awkward and pained, as though things have gone wrong and he is not certain how to fix them.
They are strangers. It is different, somehow, than when she had awakened and found herself among the Genii, because although it had been unsettling to find everything so unfamiliar, there had been no expectations. Not even Sora had laid any claim to a relationship the way Colonel Sheppard is doing, and his determination slows her feet, triggers some contrary instinct she hadn’t even known lay beneath her tranquil disposition.
She has packed her bag of possessions, yet she hesitates and glances again at Sora, who has finally stopped writing to watch Colonel Sheppard with open interest. They are waiting for her, which means she must make a decision. And she can only make a decision based upon what she knows, which is that she has known the Genii for sixteen days, and the Atlanteans for none.
“I do not think I am ready to return to Atlantis,” she says, and she does not know what reaction she had expected, but it had been something far more threatening than the way Sheppard taps his radio and says, “Cool your heels, McKay, we’re on our way back.”
***
They leave with a puzzled demeanor, trailing Ladon’s apologies and Teyla’s relief in their wake.
“You’re safer there than here,” Sora says later that night as she sits at her vanity and runs a wide-toothed comb through her hair, but Teyla stills her hand and takes the comb. This place feels safe enough.
“You believe I should have gone?” She rubs gently at the nape of Sora’s neck while she slowly works out the tangles, a small reciprocation for all the care she has received, yet in the mirror Sora’s eyes are startled, and even a careful stroke across her forehead does not erase the suspicious lines there.
“There’s no reason for you to stay,” Sora says. “Dr. Beckett-“
“-yes, I know. And I will seek his help when I return to Atlantis.”
Sora meets her eyes in the mirror. “Go back, Teyla,” she says, and twists out of Teyla’s reach.
Teyla retreats to her own side of the room, troubled by Sora’s short temper and by Colonel Sheppard, who had worn a long black weapon across his chest, another at his thigh.
It is all about weapons, it seems. The day she had been released by the doctors, a gun had been pressed into her hand, and she had found a ready home for it in the same place the Colonel had worn his. Besides that, there is much to be learned in the simple act of watching Sora dress. There are half a dozen places that a woman might keep a blade close to her skin, and Sora makes use of them all. By the time she pulls tight the laces on her boots each morning, she is armed as well as the Colonel, so well that she could just go in Teyla’s place.
She is not judging; the need for weapons is clear. Even without her memories, she still possesses a vague awareness of her past, the war and conflict and threat of the Wraith. It is because of this past that she seeks to break free, when they would all just send her back to a fight where she does not know her place.
This is the time of day when her jaw begins to ache, and tonight it seems worse than usual. Teyla sits on her bed and contemplates the pills in her pocket until Sora approaches with a small wax pillar.
“Here.” She cups her hands beneath Teyla’s and lifts, guiding it toward her face, and yes, this Teyla remembers as she inhales against the smooth curve of the candle, this smoky sandalwood scent that she breathes obediently, Sora’s hands still cupped around her own.
Eventually, Sora steps away and takes the candle with her. “Watch,” she says, and goes to a table where a dozen candles are melted into a dozen asymmetrical shapes and sizes. She lights the first and uses its flame to light the others; slowly, one by one, until Teyla’s breathing is attuned to the Sora’s rhythm: lift, ignite, lift, ignite, and this too feels familiar, the way her body falls into the pattern.
“You do this every night,” Sora’s voice says from far away, the sound pleasantly intimate as it winds its way through Teyla’s limbs, “Always in the same order, and then you-right, like that,” she says, and Teyla is aware of many things; the faint flicker of heat, the scent of lavender, and finally, the mattress beneath her back.
***
They come again the next day, this time with Dr. McKay, who with his appearance alone softens Teyla’s position on leaving. In addition to a visible case of nerves, he moves slowly and favors his right leg. He is weak, and the others compensate by crowding close, even Colonel Sheppard, protecting Dr. McKay from every side.
“Look,” Sheppard says to begin. Today he is unarmed, another point in his favor. “Can we just sit down somewhere and talk? Then, if you still don’t want to come with us, we’ll work something out.”
They sit down for lunch, Teyla on Ladon on one side, the Atlantean team on the other. The conversation is stilted and polite in a way that makes Teyla feel very tired. Eventually, the meal nears an end and they have yet to convince her.
“Your things are all on Atlantis,” Sheppard says in a completely reasonable tone. “You have your own room there, and your own gym for training.”
“It sounds very…nice,” she says with a glance at Rodney, whose expression is edged in gray, something she recognizes well from her own experience over the past few weeks. He is in pain, yet he has come to retrieve her. She can easily see herself taking Rodney’s arm and shouldering his weight as they leave, but the others… Colonel Sheppard reveals nothing of himself, and Ronon looks as though he would just as soon toss her over his shoulder and haul her through the gate.
“It is nice,” Sheppard says. He leans forward over the table and meets her eyes. “Just tell me what we need to do to get you to come back with us.”
If it were that easy, she would just tell them. She drops her gaze to the bowl before her.
“The food’s good,” Ronon says. “In Atlantis.”
“There you go. And we have golf, sort of,” Sheppard adds.
“Oh, oh, there’s that marine you said she’s got her eye on,” Rodney interjects, though he sounds small and tired, and Sheppard frowns at him for a second before going forward.
“If this is a matter of you feeling comfortable with our people, there are plenty of friends in Atlantis for you to, you know. Athosians, civilians, scientists…take your pick.
There is a long silence. He is convincing, but she cannot bring herself to concede.
“She seems to remember Sora,” Ladon finally says, and though he is wrong, there remains a certain truth in it, because by now, Sora is familiar enough. “We might be able to spare Sora for a few weeks if Teyla would like to bring her along, ease the transition.”
Teyla takes a breath, and when she finds no reason for protest, releases it slowly.
“Fine,” Sheppard says, when it is clearly anything but fine. Perhaps it is a memory left over from before, the way she can read the frustration that he holds barely in check. “I’m just going to have to clear that with Dr. Weir, first. Teyla?”
“Very well,” she says, flustered by her sudden victory and Rodney’s alarmingly heavy eyes. “Is Dr. McKay well?” she asks.
“He’s okay,” Sheppard says, though he helps Rodney to his feet with some effort. “He and Ronon are just going to wait in the jumper while we finish up here. How much time to you need?”
“I am ready,” Teyla says, though she is anything but.
***
***
“You did not want to come,” Teyla finally says when Sora is putting away her things in Teyla’s room, which, while comfortable, does not make her remember anything from before. From her window, she can see nothing but water, waves with sun-touched peaks and beneath that, the darker shades of evening.
“Don’t be crazy,” Sora says, and shuts a drawer with a bang. “It’s fine. I just thought you’d be eager to get off Genia and back to your city.”
“A city I do not remember.”
Sora shrugs lightly, but her stance is awkward, defensive.
“You should have been asked,” Teyla says, and curves her hands over Sora’s shoulders, bows her head until their foreheads touch. “I am sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Sora says. She holds herself tense, ready to break away at any time, but her breath is soft against Teyla’s mouth. “It’s Ladon’s fault; he shouldn’t have sent me here. It’s just that you wouldn’t- If you remembered…”
“If I remembered…” Teyla coaxes, desperate for the rest of it, and despite her empty memory there is something familiar in this, the flutter in her throat, the warmth in her face, and Sora’s mouth just a secret’s distance from her own.
“We’ve had our differences,” Sora says. “We’ve been angry.”
“But we are not angry any longer,” Teyla says, and when Sora softens in her embrace, she knows it must be true.
***
When Ronon puts the sticks in her hands for the first time, her limbs are shot through with a recognition that nearly doubles her over, and she wobbles on her feet enough that Ronon steps forward to steady her. She regains her balance in time to bring them up to his chest and is startled by Ronon’s smiling eyes as they push and pull until he gives, hands raised in surrender.
“Guess you didn’t forget everything,” Ronon says, and he is still every bit as imposing as before, but now she sees the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the lightness in his step as he backs away.
“I guess I did not,” she says in agreement, a smile pulling at her lips. The mats are cool and yielding beneath her bare feet, and her body likes to move this way, the sharp turns and tugs of one body in battle against another.
At the edge of her vision she can see Ronon circling casually, and her body warms with anticipation. By the time he lunges, she is ready, and though she takes him down by throwing her weight to the side at the last moment, he catches her ankle with one huge hand and brings her down.
She hits the mat hard on her bottom, and though Ronon has had ample time to recover, he remains on the mat.
“They said we’re not supposed to tell you stuff, but they’re usually wrong about this kind of thing,” he says. He looks her straight in the eye. “Watch yourself with Sora.”
His words anger her for reasons she cannot put name to. It is the suggestion that she has not been watching herself, it is his claim to her trust when he has done nothing to earn it. It is the knowledge that her instincts demand a safe distance from Sora, and yet there have been countless moments when she has ignored those instincts in favor of a soft voice and warm hands on her forehead, times when she had fallen back into sleep, her weapon more than an arm’s reach away, and only Sora to stand guard.
“I will be very careful,” she says, and climbs to her feet. “Thank you for the…” She does not know what to call what has just occurred, so she settles for a gesture at the room around them. “I am due in the infirmary in a few minutes.”
“No problem,” Ronon says. “See you later.”
***
The doctors say the same thing as the day before: she is fine, her memories will return, she can talk to Kate Heightmeyer any time she likes. They seem to have forgotten she does not know who Kate Heightmeyer is, but they had all seemed so disturbed by her request for Dr. Beckett that she had not wished to prolong her visit. On her way out, she passes Colonel Sheppard in the corridor, and her spine straightens with tension as she attempts to pass with a nod of recognition.
“Hey, wait,” he calls after her, and jogs back until she has no choice but to stop.
“Hello Colonel,” she says, and he looks strangely bewildered by the whole situation. Sad, like the others, though it is too soon for him to have learned of her mistake.
“John,” he reminds her. “And…hi.” His hands go to rest on his hips, his eyes searching her face for some clue. “How’s it going?” He sounds so casual, but she can tell he wants to ask if she remembers. He wants to make her remember.
“It is going well. I am on my way from the infirmary,” she says, just as Rodney appears, moving steadily down the hall on a pair of crutches. “Dr. McKay! You are looking much better.”
“Oh, really? Yes, I suppose this is better than being stuck on a hive ship after being shot with my own weapon.” His words seem to have a pointed meaning that she does not understand.
Sheppard shifts his shoulders and sighs. “We got you out, McKay. We always get you out.”
“Yes, the key word being always. Don’t you find it a little disturbing that there’s an ‘always’ about being a hostage on a hive ship?”
“I find it very disturbing,” Teyla says with the deep solemnity she feels Rodney expects, and if his small, surprised smile is anything to go by, her reply satisfies him greatly.
***
“What exactly is a hive ship?” Teyla asks when she returns to her rooms, and it is impossible to determine what happens in that moment, whether it is her own words or the sight of Sora-at a low table with her disassembled gun, contentedly cleaning the pieces with a narrow brush-that dislodges a hundred memories all at once, fragments of dark corridors and the wet loamy scent of the Wraith. And the memories are so sharp they cut, but it is Sora that makes Teyla stumble sideways toward her bed, hand pressed to her chest in some futile self-protection. Sora. It has been so long.
Sora’s head is still bent to her task. “The ships where the Wraith live. They use smaller ships to cull humans, and then take them to the hive ships where thousands of them live together.” Her hair is slicked back wet and dark, her nightgown a slice of white on each shoulder. “Why are you thinking about hive ships?” she asks, and slides the magazine into place with a click.
Teyla sinks down onto her bed, feeling as gray as Rodney had been during his visit with the Genii. “Rodney spoke of them.”
“Maybe you’re lucky to forget some things,” Sora says as she rises from the table, wiping her hands on a cloth as she goes. “There’s no point thinking about the Wraith until you have to.”
It is too late for that, but Sora is soft and familiar as she moves around Teyla’s room, and she knows what would happen if she were to say anything now: that wild, defensive edge would return, and she would be gone. She cannot help but think of every liberty Sora has allowed her in the past few days, each of which has taken on an entirely new meaning, a meaning she cannot puzzle out, because Sora does nothing she does not wish to do.
“I am very tired,” Teyla says suddenly, startling even herself with the overly loud announcement.
Sora does not seem to notice. “Me too.” Teyla watches her check every door and window before she dims the lights and crawls onto the bed. “How’s your head?”
“It…” It hurts, but not much. “It is fine.”
“Fine,” Sora mocks lightly. “You’d say you were fine if a Wraith were wrist-deep in your chest.”
“I thought you said I should not think of the Wraith,” Teyla smiles, and lowers herself back onto her pillow when she knows she ought to put an end to all this pretense.
“I said that you should not. I can think of whatever I like, and right now I’m thinking of sleeping for a very long time.”
***
When she wakes, Sora has already brought the warm agalloch cloth even though Teyla does not need it tonight. She has every intention of letting Sora know, letting her get a full night’s sleep for a change, but the nudge of Sora’s hip against her own, a demand for a space to sit, halts the words before they even take shape. It is astonishing, the amount of kindness Sora has shown her under the protection of anonymity, as though the only thing keeping them at odds all this time has been all the defenses Sora has built up around her own regrets.
If she were to tell Sora now, she would pull out of Teyla’s reach forever, and Teyla does not want that, not when they can enjoy one more night of warmth between them-no, heat between them, because there have been nights when even as her head is pressed with healing herbs, there are sleep-warm fingers tracing the slant of her collarbone, a touch that has nothing to do with Sora’s task.
Tonight, without that curtain of pain, she is aware of every touch. Even the application of the compress is not clinical; Sora has always carried herself with a blithe sensuality that comes through in every brush of her skin against Teyla’s, the slide of her forearm against Teyla’s waist where she braces herself on the bed, and Teyla has not been touched like this in a very long time, but she knows what it means that beneath the covers, her hips are restless with tension.
She also knows what it is that makes Sora linger after the pain has passed. Or she suspects she knows, and maybe it is the blissful absence of pain, or having Sora in her bed, nightgown rucked up to her thighs, because Teyla is heavy with arousal, full to bursting with the impulse to press herself against someone, to slide her hands over a warm body and to have bare skin against her tongue.
She could have had this with Sora at one time, but now her memory loss is an unexpected reset-temporary, perhaps, but in the past she has never indulged herself, and look where it has gotten her.
When Teyla shifts on her pillow and blinks up at Sora, the compress slips to the side, but Sora continues to smooth the damp pieces of Teyla’s hair from her face, a touch that raises goose bumps on Teyla’s arms, makes her nipples draw up tight inside the top she wears for sleeping. In the dark, she can make out Sora’s face bent toward her, intent on her task, and shaded at the edges by the bed-tousled curls.
“That feels good,” she murmurs, reluctant to lose the soft touches that spark sensation all over her skin. Sora pauses at the words, but resumes a moment later, this time letting the gentle strokes stray to Teyla’s temple, her cheekbone, and finally, a torturously slow migration to her throat, where her pulse throbs against Sora’s fingers in time with the lesser throb between her legs.
At first she senses the inclination to run in the set of Sora’s mouth, the stiffness in her back, but it slowly disappears, melting away as Sora touches her open-handed, her damp palm over Teyla’s shoulder where her top has slipped down.
She cannot wait; she unlaces her top far less smoothly than she would liked and lets the fabric fall to each side, her naked breasts between them, an offering, and Sora frozen in indecision.
“You’re feeling better,” Sora says, still so suspicious, even with her eyes on Teyla’s breasts, so sharp she can almost feel it graze her skin.
“I have no pain,” Teyla says, and it is the truth, even if it is not the answer to Sora’s entire question. She does not want to talk, she wants to move her hips against Sora’s thigh, or her hand, to ease the swell of pressure that makes her lie there on razor’s edge, breathing too hard, and Sora’s hand still frustratingly far from what she has offered. Because if Sora doesn’t touch her than she cannot possibly touch Sora, and it feels impossible that she has known Sora for so many years and never tasted her sullen mouth.
She does not know how far she is willing to go, but then she pushes the covers down past her hips and does not have to find out, because Sora makes a soft defeated sound and bends to Teyla, shedding her nightgown at the same time she kisses Teyla’s mouth slow as honey, the cool points of her nipples pressed against Teyla’s heated skin.
Teyla kisses back as their bodies settle together, and this is so much better than the time they had fought, knees and fists and elbows, similar in the physicality, in the faint perfume of Sora’s skin, but now there is pleasure mixed in with that blood-churning tension, and when Sora slides two fingers between Teyla’s legs as though she knows what she will find, she cannot understand why they have ever chosen anything over pleasure. She lifts her hips against the fingers, moves in circles, her legs spread wide, until Sora catches on and pets her in the same pattern, dragging her hand round and round, a spread of friction over her entire pussy, her clit pressed from side to side until she can hear, even over their long, panting kisses, the wet slide of Sora’s hand between her legs. The sound sets off a sudden swell of pleasure that spills her into a long, pulsing climax, her tongue in Sora’s mouth and Sora making small broken sounds as though she is the one coming.
Sora pulls away and kneels up, her chest rising and falling as though they have been sparring, and moves her hand slowly across Teyla’s clit a few more times, tiny stabs of sensation, while they look at one another with the same mixture of wariness and desire as always. For a moment she thinks Sora must have realized, seen something in Teyla’s eyes, but it is too dark for that, and she is easily distracted when Teyla sits up and cups the full shape of Sora’s breasts in her hands, squeezing gently, holding Sora’s eyes-and now she is losing the wariness, her mouth slack and dark eyes gone soft-as she mouths the nipples, deep pink against her pale skin and tight wet peaks against Teyla’s tongue.
“I have always wanted to do this,” Teyla says between kisses, between long suckles at Sora’s breasts that have Sora arching her back, clutching at Teyla’s shoulders, but never once asking her to stop. It is almost true.
“You have not,” Sora says with a flare of attitude, and for a long time they say nothing, hands wandering over the slopes of hips, bellies and thighs, until Sora says, “Please,” and Teyla pushes her into the covers and discovers that the inside of her thighs are already shining in the dim light, wet all over. The light covering of hair is scratchy against Teyla’s palm, and she likes the way Sora writhes and scowls when she presses lightly, never dipping inside to the slick pink flesh, not even when Sora throws her leg to the side so Teyla can see everything she’s been neglecting.
Teyla sucks in a startled breath. She has never felt this way, so aroused that her skin is flushed and damp, her belly tight and heavy with arousal, and her pussy swollen and sensitive, dripping as though she’s been drenched in hot oil. Nothing seems like enough, except oh, Sora’s mouth-she shuts her eyes and slides down between Sora’s legs, aching in sympathy for what it must feel like to have a hot relentless tongue licking and probing exactly where she needs it.
Sora’s thighs tremble in her hands.
She tastes good, like the hot summer earth, like sex, like something Teyla had not ever allowed herself. She has never done this before but she knows that it will feel good to have long, open-mouthed kisses pressed into her pussy, spread open by an eager tongue, and she can hear Sora’s words but they seem distant this place where Sora bucks against her and when she slips her fingers inside, bears down and pulses a dozen times around them.
She kisses Sora’s belly, and crawls up next to her, skimming her palm over Sora’s nipples on her way, loving the feel of them, and how touching them coaxes breathy, agonized sounds from her.
“You’re going to be furious,” Sora whispers into her neck, but then proceeds to roll over and rub Teyla’s clit until she falls apart all over again.
***
***
“You remember!” Rodney blurts the next day, as soon as John has checked up on Teyla and left the room. “I can’t believe you, you’re faking? You?” He stares in wide-eyed fascination and pulls her out onto a private balcony.
“Rodney,” she says in a low voice, encouraging him to lower his own. “I do not remember-“
“And now you’re going to deny it? Please! I saw you. Sheppard’s tight pants? ”
A smile twitches at her lips, but she stands firm. “Rodney,” she says, but he interrupts, hands waving.
“Oh, come on. Everybody knows that when Sheppard wears the tight pants, everyone watches him leave the room. And you knew to look, which means you remember.” He punctuates the last word with a finger jabbed toward her chest, which she grabs and holds tightly while his expression goes from triumphant to nervous.
“Rodney. I have not regained my memories just yet,” she says carefully, holding his eyes.
He blinks, his face twisted with betrayal before it settles into a calm mask that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and then he nods. “Right. My mistake,” he says. “It certainly won’t be the first time Sheppard’s pants caused an intergalactic misunderstanding.”
“Thank you,” she says with a gentle squeeze to his finger. “I believe it should only be a few days before I am as good as new.”
“That’s-that’s good to know,” Rodney says, as though he cannot decide whether he is impressed or disgruntled over the matter.
Teyla can relate. She is not certain how she feels about it, either, the situation she has created where she can have a sweet version of Sora-a familiar version, the one she knows from before the storm-so long as she lies, or confess and watch the girl completely disappear.
It is not about the sex.
It is not entirely about the sex. There is certainly more than sex involved, but she enjoys sharing her bed with Sora, and she feels loose and relaxed today, suffused with a hum of contentment, and she knows that Sora’s touch has a great deal to do with that. Still, her face heats when she imagines what Rodney-or anyone, for that matter-would think if they knew how she had ensnared herself with desires that she has no business indulging.
“I guess I’ll see you later, then,” Rodney says, still in that odd tone, but he stops on the way back in. “You look good,” he says thoughtfully. “Better,” he says with a nod, and slips away.
***
“I have to admit I’m surprised,” Rodney says over breakfast the next day, when John and Ronon have already gone. He doesn’t stop chewing, doesn’t take his eyes from her face, as though she is one of the greater puzzles on his agenda. “I mean, it’s exactly like every other woman I’ve known. Everything’s fine and then-“ he snaps his fingers in the air. “I’ve got no idea what’s going on. And they never tell me, you know. I’ve always thought it was because they couldn’t explain it, themselves, but…”
He waits expectantly, his face hopeful, as though she might explain the ways of women once and for all.
“It is complicated,” she says slowly.
He waves his hand impatiently. “That’s what they all say.”
She hesitates for a moment, but it is unlike Rodney to inquire about personal matters-it is unlike all her teammates-and she remembers the pleasure of sharing the tea ceremony with Rodney, his sure hands and open heart.
“I have made a bad decision,” she says, and when he nods encouragingly, she continues. “I should have immediately told everyone that I had regained my memory, but I did not, because I knew that if I did…”
Rodney looks as though he is about to burst, but he waits.
“I do not know,” she sighs, and rubs her face with both hands. “I did not want Sora to return home, and then when we became intimate, I did not wish to lose her.”
Rodney stares.
“And now…” She smiles, though she does not feel like smiling. “As I said, it is complicated.”
“I’m a little disappointed,” Rodney says, his mouth turned down on one side, the way he looks when he’s more than a little disappointed. “I honestly thought it was something I could fix for you. Or, try to fix.”
“And for that I am grateful,” she says, and finishes eating while he leaves with his empty tray.
***
She and Sora have lunch together most days, and they spend a great deal of time sparring in the afternoons, but today Elizabeth calls a senior staff meeting just as they’re headed for the gym.
“Is something the matter?” Teyla asks as she sits, though something is quite obviously the matter.
“We’ve had a rather disturbing transmission,” Elizabeth sighs, with that pinched look she always gets when everything is falling apart.
John slouches in his chair, his face dark, and replays the transmission for Teyla.
The screen is full of static, but she can make out the speaker. “Michael,” she breathes angrily, and when she turns away, is met with five shocked faces, and Rodney, who is only attempting to appear shocked.
“You remember?” John asks. He looks as though he wants to hug her, or at least give her a hearty slap on the back. “What happened? Did you just…I can’t believe Michael, of all people, was the trigger.”
“I…”
“Was he?” Elizabeth asks.
“Of course he was!” Rodney booms. “It makes perfect sense. What with the trauma and, and the…”
Teyla cannot look at Ronon or Sora because if she does, they will certainly know, but if she does not, they will know regardless. She cannot win, and it is her own fault.
“And the head injury,” Rodney adds.
“Thank you, Rodney.” There is a pathetic tremble in her belly, but she draws herself up and turns to Elizabeth. “It is true that my memory has returned,” she says. “I believe I will see Dr. Keller later, but for now, if you will excuse me.”
Sora follows her all the way to her quarters. She does not allow herself to look at Sora until they are behind closed doors, and something in her chest plunges with dismay when she finally does, because Sora’s face is stone, the face of a soldier, a stranger, certainly not of a friend.
“Will you let me explain?”
“There is nothing to explain,” Sora says tightly. She begins gathering her things as though she has been given mere minutes to get out of Atlantis. “You have your memory back; therefore, I go home. And the rest of it…” She pulls her nightgown out from under the bed and shoves it into the bottom of her bag. “I don’t want to know.”
“I am sorry,” Teyla says, standing in the middle of her room while Sora maneuvers around her, careful not to touch. “But we have never been allowed to have this, and that is not fair.”
She has never said those words before. She has always found it ridiculous when others have uttered them; It is not fair, we have been culled three times in a row while our neighbors only once; It is not fair, my crop failed after a season of hard work; It is not fair for you to be in the City, Teyla; It is not fair, not fair, not fair. Yet now she feels the words like an old wound, a dull ache that has no cure.
“We are still not allowed,” Sora mutters as she pulls on her jacket. Teyla watches her slender fingers move over the buttons and knows there is nothing she can say.
“I believe it is you who will not allow it,” she says. “But I will go see about sending you through the stargate.”
***
Rodney volunteers to tell Sora about the arrangements, and Teyla retreats to the gym. She wants to believe she is respecting Sora’s space, but the truth is she is ashamed, both of her deception and her easy defeat. She has never folded so quickly, but she has never been in the wrong, not like this. It is a new feeling, unlike the times in Atlantis when she has questioned whether their choices were ethical, but had ultimately done what she felt was best.
This is on her alone, and she is grateful that Ronon is willing to spar with her for as long as she needs, until she is certain Sora must be gone, and that she will not have to be reminded of her mistake any more than necessary. Finally, they both collapse onto the mats, fighting for breath, her legs weak with exertion.
“It’s not that bad,” Ronon says, looking up at the patterns on the ceiling.
“What is not that bad?” she says carefully.
“What you did. If I got it right. She’s as much to blame as you, right? If she thought you didn’t remember.”
“I…” She was the one who had told the lie. Lie of omission. It is still a lie.
“Think about it,” Ronon says, and groans as he pulls himself into a sitting position. “Because I can’t go at it with you like this every day.”
He could do it twice a day and still have energy to fight the Wraith, but she smiles and pulls him to his feet. “Thank you,” she says, and rests her forehead against his for beat longer than usual.
***
When she returns to her rooms, they are messier than usual-the result of Sora’s whirlwind packing-and depressingly empty. She clears her mind as she showers, in preparation for meditation, and then lights her candles.
Her bedcovers are a wreck, so she pulls them off and is just getting situated when she spots something on her bedside table, something Sora has left behind. It is the small sack where Sora keeps her herbs and compress. When Teyla picks it up, the strong scent brings back that dull ache, yet she opens it anyhow. The compress is there, along with the small packs of herbs, and on top, a folded piece of paper, a hastily scrawled note in Sora’s hand.
You’re right, it’s not fair.
Author: lilysaid
Recipient: queenzulu
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: Teyla/Sora
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 6500
queenzulu: you get a gold star for patience, baby. *mwah*
Teyla is sore for weeks after the accident. The Genii doctors give her large white pills to swallow, but there are already too many shifting shapes of memory in her mind, and the pills cloud things even further. They keep asking after her head, but it is her jaw that aches at night, and the moans she stifles during wakefulness must find a way out in sleep, because each time she wakes, Sora is bent at her bedside with a warm compress.
After a few days of this she grows accustomed to the sound of Sora’s bare feet on the floor, the rustle of her loose tangled nightgown and finally, the hot, damp press of a cloth at her temple, agalloch and cloves and a gentle pressure that coaxes her back into sleep.
It is surprising that Sora offers this relief, because she has learned that Sora is not a healer but a soldier, part of the mission that had led to Teyla’s injuries. Sometimes, when they walk out in the sun, she feels a sense of familiarity in the unpredictable gleam of Sora’s hair upon her shoulders, but it is nothing she can build upon, nothing to connect with any of the other strange pieces that drift through the heavy darkness in her head.
It is as though everything she needs to know lies just beyond a heavy curtain. At times she can hear the noise of it from beyond the divide, and even her frustration seems out of reach, cloaked beneath an anaesthetized sense of calm. This is what worries her the most. The doctors declare her state serious, but not life-threatening. Wait until you get back to Atlantis, Sora whispers when they make their diagnosis, and Teyla contemplates the shape of this word in her mind, determined to hold onto it until she can discover its meaning.
***
Sheppard is a surprise. When he strolls into Ladon’s office, he is so unlike the man the Genii have painted with their words that Teyla glances from Sora to Ladon and back to Sheppard, convinced she has misunderstood.
My brother, she has heard them say, my sister, my nephew: only nineteen, because he kills Genii for sport, but he is handsome and when he speaks, she can sense nothing but sincerity.
“Teyla, good to see you,” he says. He wears an easy smile, but his reputation sends her back a step when he approaches, unsure whether she wants this man to take her to Atlantis.
The others act as though it is no matter at all; Sora does not lift her eyes from the paperwork at her wide desk, and Teyla is hypnotized by the swift looping motion of her hand for a moment as she realizes that tonight she is to sleep in Atlantis with no sweet nighttime herbs to relieve her pain.
“She still doesn’t remember,” Sora says without pausing in her work. “Not even you,” she adds in a sly tone Teyla does not recognize, but Sheppard must notice as well, because he shoots Sora a squint of annoyance before he turns to the tall, angry looking man next to him.
“This is weird,” he says quietly, his eyes still on Teyla. “How do we do this?”
The taller man shrugs. “I guess you’ve gotta convince her, first.”
Ladon coughs delicately and extends his arm toward the strangers. “Teyla, this is Colonel Sheppard and Ronon Dex. They’re part of your team back in Atlantis.”
“John,” Colonel Sheppard says quickly. “And Mckay is waiting in the jumper. Dr. McKay. Rodney,” he says, suddenly awkward and pained, as though things have gone wrong and he is not certain how to fix them.
They are strangers. It is different, somehow, than when she had awakened and found herself among the Genii, because although it had been unsettling to find everything so unfamiliar, there had been no expectations. Not even Sora had laid any claim to a relationship the way Colonel Sheppard is doing, and his determination slows her feet, triggers some contrary instinct she hadn’t even known lay beneath her tranquil disposition.
She has packed her bag of possessions, yet she hesitates and glances again at Sora, who has finally stopped writing to watch Colonel Sheppard with open interest. They are waiting for her, which means she must make a decision. And she can only make a decision based upon what she knows, which is that she has known the Genii for sixteen days, and the Atlanteans for none.
“I do not think I am ready to return to Atlantis,” she says, and she does not know what reaction she had expected, but it had been something far more threatening than the way Sheppard taps his radio and says, “Cool your heels, McKay, we’re on our way back.”
***
They leave with a puzzled demeanor, trailing Ladon’s apologies and Teyla’s relief in their wake.
“You’re safer there than here,” Sora says later that night as she sits at her vanity and runs a wide-toothed comb through her hair, but Teyla stills her hand and takes the comb. This place feels safe enough.
“You believe I should have gone?” She rubs gently at the nape of Sora’s neck while she slowly works out the tangles, a small reciprocation for all the care she has received, yet in the mirror Sora’s eyes are startled, and even a careful stroke across her forehead does not erase the suspicious lines there.
“There’s no reason for you to stay,” Sora says. “Dr. Beckett-“
“-yes, I know. And I will seek his help when I return to Atlantis.”
Sora meets her eyes in the mirror. “Go back, Teyla,” she says, and twists out of Teyla’s reach.
Teyla retreats to her own side of the room, troubled by Sora’s short temper and by Colonel Sheppard, who had worn a long black weapon across his chest, another at his thigh.
It is all about weapons, it seems. The day she had been released by the doctors, a gun had been pressed into her hand, and she had found a ready home for it in the same place the Colonel had worn his. Besides that, there is much to be learned in the simple act of watching Sora dress. There are half a dozen places that a woman might keep a blade close to her skin, and Sora makes use of them all. By the time she pulls tight the laces on her boots each morning, she is armed as well as the Colonel, so well that she could just go in Teyla’s place.
She is not judging; the need for weapons is clear. Even without her memories, she still possesses a vague awareness of her past, the war and conflict and threat of the Wraith. It is because of this past that she seeks to break free, when they would all just send her back to a fight where she does not know her place.
This is the time of day when her jaw begins to ache, and tonight it seems worse than usual. Teyla sits on her bed and contemplates the pills in her pocket until Sora approaches with a small wax pillar.
“Here.” She cups her hands beneath Teyla’s and lifts, guiding it toward her face, and yes, this Teyla remembers as she inhales against the smooth curve of the candle, this smoky sandalwood scent that she breathes obediently, Sora’s hands still cupped around her own.
Eventually, Sora steps away and takes the candle with her. “Watch,” she says, and goes to a table where a dozen candles are melted into a dozen asymmetrical shapes and sizes. She lights the first and uses its flame to light the others; slowly, one by one, until Teyla’s breathing is attuned to the Sora’s rhythm: lift, ignite, lift, ignite, and this too feels familiar, the way her body falls into the pattern.
“You do this every night,” Sora’s voice says from far away, the sound pleasantly intimate as it winds its way through Teyla’s limbs, “Always in the same order, and then you-right, like that,” she says, and Teyla is aware of many things; the faint flicker of heat, the scent of lavender, and finally, the mattress beneath her back.
***
They come again the next day, this time with Dr. McKay, who with his appearance alone softens Teyla’s position on leaving. In addition to a visible case of nerves, he moves slowly and favors his right leg. He is weak, and the others compensate by crowding close, even Colonel Sheppard, protecting Dr. McKay from every side.
“Look,” Sheppard says to begin. Today he is unarmed, another point in his favor. “Can we just sit down somewhere and talk? Then, if you still don’t want to come with us, we’ll work something out.”
They sit down for lunch, Teyla on Ladon on one side, the Atlantean team on the other. The conversation is stilted and polite in a way that makes Teyla feel very tired. Eventually, the meal nears an end and they have yet to convince her.
“Your things are all on Atlantis,” Sheppard says in a completely reasonable tone. “You have your own room there, and your own gym for training.”
“It sounds very…nice,” she says with a glance at Rodney, whose expression is edged in gray, something she recognizes well from her own experience over the past few weeks. He is in pain, yet he has come to retrieve her. She can easily see herself taking Rodney’s arm and shouldering his weight as they leave, but the others… Colonel Sheppard reveals nothing of himself, and Ronon looks as though he would just as soon toss her over his shoulder and haul her through the gate.
“It is nice,” Sheppard says. He leans forward over the table and meets her eyes. “Just tell me what we need to do to get you to come back with us.”
If it were that easy, she would just tell them. She drops her gaze to the bowl before her.
“The food’s good,” Ronon says. “In Atlantis.”
“There you go. And we have golf, sort of,” Sheppard adds.
“Oh, oh, there’s that marine you said she’s got her eye on,” Rodney interjects, though he sounds small and tired, and Sheppard frowns at him for a second before going forward.
“If this is a matter of you feeling comfortable with our people, there are plenty of friends in Atlantis for you to, you know. Athosians, civilians, scientists…take your pick.
There is a long silence. He is convincing, but she cannot bring herself to concede.
“She seems to remember Sora,” Ladon finally says, and though he is wrong, there remains a certain truth in it, because by now, Sora is familiar enough. “We might be able to spare Sora for a few weeks if Teyla would like to bring her along, ease the transition.”
Teyla takes a breath, and when she finds no reason for protest, releases it slowly.
“Fine,” Sheppard says, when it is clearly anything but fine. Perhaps it is a memory left over from before, the way she can read the frustration that he holds barely in check. “I’m just going to have to clear that with Dr. Weir, first. Teyla?”
“Very well,” she says, flustered by her sudden victory and Rodney’s alarmingly heavy eyes. “Is Dr. McKay well?” she asks.
“He’s okay,” Sheppard says, though he helps Rodney to his feet with some effort. “He and Ronon are just going to wait in the jumper while we finish up here. How much time to you need?”
“I am ready,” Teyla says, though she is anything but.
***
***
“You did not want to come,” Teyla finally says when Sora is putting away her things in Teyla’s room, which, while comfortable, does not make her remember anything from before. From her window, she can see nothing but water, waves with sun-touched peaks and beneath that, the darker shades of evening.
“Don’t be crazy,” Sora says, and shuts a drawer with a bang. “It’s fine. I just thought you’d be eager to get off Genia and back to your city.”
“A city I do not remember.”
Sora shrugs lightly, but her stance is awkward, defensive.
“You should have been asked,” Teyla says, and curves her hands over Sora’s shoulders, bows her head until their foreheads touch. “I am sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Sora says. She holds herself tense, ready to break away at any time, but her breath is soft against Teyla’s mouth. “It’s Ladon’s fault; he shouldn’t have sent me here. It’s just that you wouldn’t- If you remembered…”
“If I remembered…” Teyla coaxes, desperate for the rest of it, and despite her empty memory there is something familiar in this, the flutter in her throat, the warmth in her face, and Sora’s mouth just a secret’s distance from her own.
“We’ve had our differences,” Sora says. “We’ve been angry.”
“But we are not angry any longer,” Teyla says, and when Sora softens in her embrace, she knows it must be true.
***
When Ronon puts the sticks in her hands for the first time, her limbs are shot through with a recognition that nearly doubles her over, and she wobbles on her feet enough that Ronon steps forward to steady her. She regains her balance in time to bring them up to his chest and is startled by Ronon’s smiling eyes as they push and pull until he gives, hands raised in surrender.
“Guess you didn’t forget everything,” Ronon says, and he is still every bit as imposing as before, but now she sees the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the lightness in his step as he backs away.
“I guess I did not,” she says in agreement, a smile pulling at her lips. The mats are cool and yielding beneath her bare feet, and her body likes to move this way, the sharp turns and tugs of one body in battle against another.
At the edge of her vision she can see Ronon circling casually, and her body warms with anticipation. By the time he lunges, she is ready, and though she takes him down by throwing her weight to the side at the last moment, he catches her ankle with one huge hand and brings her down.
She hits the mat hard on her bottom, and though Ronon has had ample time to recover, he remains on the mat.
“They said we’re not supposed to tell you stuff, but they’re usually wrong about this kind of thing,” he says. He looks her straight in the eye. “Watch yourself with Sora.”
His words anger her for reasons she cannot put name to. It is the suggestion that she has not been watching herself, it is his claim to her trust when he has done nothing to earn it. It is the knowledge that her instincts demand a safe distance from Sora, and yet there have been countless moments when she has ignored those instincts in favor of a soft voice and warm hands on her forehead, times when she had fallen back into sleep, her weapon more than an arm’s reach away, and only Sora to stand guard.
“I will be very careful,” she says, and climbs to her feet. “Thank you for the…” She does not know what to call what has just occurred, so she settles for a gesture at the room around them. “I am due in the infirmary in a few minutes.”
“No problem,” Ronon says. “See you later.”
***
The doctors say the same thing as the day before: she is fine, her memories will return, she can talk to Kate Heightmeyer any time she likes. They seem to have forgotten she does not know who Kate Heightmeyer is, but they had all seemed so disturbed by her request for Dr. Beckett that she had not wished to prolong her visit. On her way out, she passes Colonel Sheppard in the corridor, and her spine straightens with tension as she attempts to pass with a nod of recognition.
“Hey, wait,” he calls after her, and jogs back until she has no choice but to stop.
“Hello Colonel,” she says, and he looks strangely bewildered by the whole situation. Sad, like the others, though it is too soon for him to have learned of her mistake.
“John,” he reminds her. “And…hi.” His hands go to rest on his hips, his eyes searching her face for some clue. “How’s it going?” He sounds so casual, but she can tell he wants to ask if she remembers. He wants to make her remember.
“It is going well. I am on my way from the infirmary,” she says, just as Rodney appears, moving steadily down the hall on a pair of crutches. “Dr. McKay! You are looking much better.”
“Oh, really? Yes, I suppose this is better than being stuck on a hive ship after being shot with my own weapon.” His words seem to have a pointed meaning that she does not understand.
Sheppard shifts his shoulders and sighs. “We got you out, McKay. We always get you out.”
“Yes, the key word being always. Don’t you find it a little disturbing that there’s an ‘always’ about being a hostage on a hive ship?”
“I find it very disturbing,” Teyla says with the deep solemnity she feels Rodney expects, and if his small, surprised smile is anything to go by, her reply satisfies him greatly.
***
“What exactly is a hive ship?” Teyla asks when she returns to her rooms, and it is impossible to determine what happens in that moment, whether it is her own words or the sight of Sora-at a low table with her disassembled gun, contentedly cleaning the pieces with a narrow brush-that dislodges a hundred memories all at once, fragments of dark corridors and the wet loamy scent of the Wraith. And the memories are so sharp they cut, but it is Sora that makes Teyla stumble sideways toward her bed, hand pressed to her chest in some futile self-protection. Sora. It has been so long.
Sora’s head is still bent to her task. “The ships where the Wraith live. They use smaller ships to cull humans, and then take them to the hive ships where thousands of them live together.” Her hair is slicked back wet and dark, her nightgown a slice of white on each shoulder. “Why are you thinking about hive ships?” she asks, and slides the magazine into place with a click.
Teyla sinks down onto her bed, feeling as gray as Rodney had been during his visit with the Genii. “Rodney spoke of them.”
“Maybe you’re lucky to forget some things,” Sora says as she rises from the table, wiping her hands on a cloth as she goes. “There’s no point thinking about the Wraith until you have to.”
It is too late for that, but Sora is soft and familiar as she moves around Teyla’s room, and she knows what would happen if she were to say anything now: that wild, defensive edge would return, and she would be gone. She cannot help but think of every liberty Sora has allowed her in the past few days, each of which has taken on an entirely new meaning, a meaning she cannot puzzle out, because Sora does nothing she does not wish to do.
“I am very tired,” Teyla says suddenly, startling even herself with the overly loud announcement.
Sora does not seem to notice. “Me too.” Teyla watches her check every door and window before she dims the lights and crawls onto the bed. “How’s your head?”
“It…” It hurts, but not much. “It is fine.”
“Fine,” Sora mocks lightly. “You’d say you were fine if a Wraith were wrist-deep in your chest.”
“I thought you said I should not think of the Wraith,” Teyla smiles, and lowers herself back onto her pillow when she knows she ought to put an end to all this pretense.
“I said that you should not. I can think of whatever I like, and right now I’m thinking of sleeping for a very long time.”
***
When she wakes, Sora has already brought the warm agalloch cloth even though Teyla does not need it tonight. She has every intention of letting Sora know, letting her get a full night’s sleep for a change, but the nudge of Sora’s hip against her own, a demand for a space to sit, halts the words before they even take shape. It is astonishing, the amount of kindness Sora has shown her under the protection of anonymity, as though the only thing keeping them at odds all this time has been all the defenses Sora has built up around her own regrets.
If she were to tell Sora now, she would pull out of Teyla’s reach forever, and Teyla does not want that, not when they can enjoy one more night of warmth between them-no, heat between them, because there have been nights when even as her head is pressed with healing herbs, there are sleep-warm fingers tracing the slant of her collarbone, a touch that has nothing to do with Sora’s task.
Tonight, without that curtain of pain, she is aware of every touch. Even the application of the compress is not clinical; Sora has always carried herself with a blithe sensuality that comes through in every brush of her skin against Teyla’s, the slide of her forearm against Teyla’s waist where she braces herself on the bed, and Teyla has not been touched like this in a very long time, but she knows what it means that beneath the covers, her hips are restless with tension.
She also knows what it is that makes Sora linger after the pain has passed. Or she suspects she knows, and maybe it is the blissful absence of pain, or having Sora in her bed, nightgown rucked up to her thighs, because Teyla is heavy with arousal, full to bursting with the impulse to press herself against someone, to slide her hands over a warm body and to have bare skin against her tongue.
She could have had this with Sora at one time, but now her memory loss is an unexpected reset-temporary, perhaps, but in the past she has never indulged herself, and look where it has gotten her.
When Teyla shifts on her pillow and blinks up at Sora, the compress slips to the side, but Sora continues to smooth the damp pieces of Teyla’s hair from her face, a touch that raises goose bumps on Teyla’s arms, makes her nipples draw up tight inside the top she wears for sleeping. In the dark, she can make out Sora’s face bent toward her, intent on her task, and shaded at the edges by the bed-tousled curls.
“That feels good,” she murmurs, reluctant to lose the soft touches that spark sensation all over her skin. Sora pauses at the words, but resumes a moment later, this time letting the gentle strokes stray to Teyla’s temple, her cheekbone, and finally, a torturously slow migration to her throat, where her pulse throbs against Sora’s fingers in time with the lesser throb between her legs.
At first she senses the inclination to run in the set of Sora’s mouth, the stiffness in her back, but it slowly disappears, melting away as Sora touches her open-handed, her damp palm over Teyla’s shoulder where her top has slipped down.
She cannot wait; she unlaces her top far less smoothly than she would liked and lets the fabric fall to each side, her naked breasts between them, an offering, and Sora frozen in indecision.
“You’re feeling better,” Sora says, still so suspicious, even with her eyes on Teyla’s breasts, so sharp she can almost feel it graze her skin.
“I have no pain,” Teyla says, and it is the truth, even if it is not the answer to Sora’s entire question. She does not want to talk, she wants to move her hips against Sora’s thigh, or her hand, to ease the swell of pressure that makes her lie there on razor’s edge, breathing too hard, and Sora’s hand still frustratingly far from what she has offered. Because if Sora doesn’t touch her than she cannot possibly touch Sora, and it feels impossible that she has known Sora for so many years and never tasted her sullen mouth.
She does not know how far she is willing to go, but then she pushes the covers down past her hips and does not have to find out, because Sora makes a soft defeated sound and bends to Teyla, shedding her nightgown at the same time she kisses Teyla’s mouth slow as honey, the cool points of her nipples pressed against Teyla’s heated skin.
Teyla kisses back as their bodies settle together, and this is so much better than the time they had fought, knees and fists and elbows, similar in the physicality, in the faint perfume of Sora’s skin, but now there is pleasure mixed in with that blood-churning tension, and when Sora slides two fingers between Teyla’s legs as though she knows what she will find, she cannot understand why they have ever chosen anything over pleasure. She lifts her hips against the fingers, moves in circles, her legs spread wide, until Sora catches on and pets her in the same pattern, dragging her hand round and round, a spread of friction over her entire pussy, her clit pressed from side to side until she can hear, even over their long, panting kisses, the wet slide of Sora’s hand between her legs. The sound sets off a sudden swell of pleasure that spills her into a long, pulsing climax, her tongue in Sora’s mouth and Sora making small broken sounds as though she is the one coming.
Sora pulls away and kneels up, her chest rising and falling as though they have been sparring, and moves her hand slowly across Teyla’s clit a few more times, tiny stabs of sensation, while they look at one another with the same mixture of wariness and desire as always. For a moment she thinks Sora must have realized, seen something in Teyla’s eyes, but it is too dark for that, and she is easily distracted when Teyla sits up and cups the full shape of Sora’s breasts in her hands, squeezing gently, holding Sora’s eyes-and now she is losing the wariness, her mouth slack and dark eyes gone soft-as she mouths the nipples, deep pink against her pale skin and tight wet peaks against Teyla’s tongue.
“I have always wanted to do this,” Teyla says between kisses, between long suckles at Sora’s breasts that have Sora arching her back, clutching at Teyla’s shoulders, but never once asking her to stop. It is almost true.
“You have not,” Sora says with a flare of attitude, and for a long time they say nothing, hands wandering over the slopes of hips, bellies and thighs, until Sora says, “Please,” and Teyla pushes her into the covers and discovers that the inside of her thighs are already shining in the dim light, wet all over. The light covering of hair is scratchy against Teyla’s palm, and she likes the way Sora writhes and scowls when she presses lightly, never dipping inside to the slick pink flesh, not even when Sora throws her leg to the side so Teyla can see everything she’s been neglecting.
Teyla sucks in a startled breath. She has never felt this way, so aroused that her skin is flushed and damp, her belly tight and heavy with arousal, and her pussy swollen and sensitive, dripping as though she’s been drenched in hot oil. Nothing seems like enough, except oh, Sora’s mouth-she shuts her eyes and slides down between Sora’s legs, aching in sympathy for what it must feel like to have a hot relentless tongue licking and probing exactly where she needs it.
Sora’s thighs tremble in her hands.
She tastes good, like the hot summer earth, like sex, like something Teyla had not ever allowed herself. She has never done this before but she knows that it will feel good to have long, open-mouthed kisses pressed into her pussy, spread open by an eager tongue, and she can hear Sora’s words but they seem distant this place where Sora bucks against her and when she slips her fingers inside, bears down and pulses a dozen times around them.
She kisses Sora’s belly, and crawls up next to her, skimming her palm over Sora’s nipples on her way, loving the feel of them, and how touching them coaxes breathy, agonized sounds from her.
“You’re going to be furious,” Sora whispers into her neck, but then proceeds to roll over and rub Teyla’s clit until she falls apart all over again.
***
***
“You remember!” Rodney blurts the next day, as soon as John has checked up on Teyla and left the room. “I can’t believe you, you’re faking? You?” He stares in wide-eyed fascination and pulls her out onto a private balcony.
“Rodney,” she says in a low voice, encouraging him to lower his own. “I do not remember-“
“And now you’re going to deny it? Please! I saw you. Sheppard’s tight pants? ”
A smile twitches at her lips, but she stands firm. “Rodney,” she says, but he interrupts, hands waving.
“Oh, come on. Everybody knows that when Sheppard wears the tight pants, everyone watches him leave the room. And you knew to look, which means you remember.” He punctuates the last word with a finger jabbed toward her chest, which she grabs and holds tightly while his expression goes from triumphant to nervous.
“Rodney. I have not regained my memories just yet,” she says carefully, holding his eyes.
He blinks, his face twisted with betrayal before it settles into a calm mask that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and then he nods. “Right. My mistake,” he says. “It certainly won’t be the first time Sheppard’s pants caused an intergalactic misunderstanding.”
“Thank you,” she says with a gentle squeeze to his finger. “I believe it should only be a few days before I am as good as new.”
“That’s-that’s good to know,” Rodney says, as though he cannot decide whether he is impressed or disgruntled over the matter.
Teyla can relate. She is not certain how she feels about it, either, the situation she has created where she can have a sweet version of Sora-a familiar version, the one she knows from before the storm-so long as she lies, or confess and watch the girl completely disappear.
It is not about the sex.
It is not entirely about the sex. There is certainly more than sex involved, but she enjoys sharing her bed with Sora, and she feels loose and relaxed today, suffused with a hum of contentment, and she knows that Sora’s touch has a great deal to do with that. Still, her face heats when she imagines what Rodney-or anyone, for that matter-would think if they knew how she had ensnared herself with desires that she has no business indulging.
“I guess I’ll see you later, then,” Rodney says, still in that odd tone, but he stops on the way back in. “You look good,” he says thoughtfully. “Better,” he says with a nod, and slips away.
***
“I have to admit I’m surprised,” Rodney says over breakfast the next day, when John and Ronon have already gone. He doesn’t stop chewing, doesn’t take his eyes from her face, as though she is one of the greater puzzles on his agenda. “I mean, it’s exactly like every other woman I’ve known. Everything’s fine and then-“ he snaps his fingers in the air. “I’ve got no idea what’s going on. And they never tell me, you know. I’ve always thought it was because they couldn’t explain it, themselves, but…”
He waits expectantly, his face hopeful, as though she might explain the ways of women once and for all.
“It is complicated,” she says slowly.
He waves his hand impatiently. “That’s what they all say.”
She hesitates for a moment, but it is unlike Rodney to inquire about personal matters-it is unlike all her teammates-and she remembers the pleasure of sharing the tea ceremony with Rodney, his sure hands and open heart.
“I have made a bad decision,” she says, and when he nods encouragingly, she continues. “I should have immediately told everyone that I had regained my memory, but I did not, because I knew that if I did…”
Rodney looks as though he is about to burst, but he waits.
“I do not know,” she sighs, and rubs her face with both hands. “I did not want Sora to return home, and then when we became intimate, I did not wish to lose her.”
Rodney stares.
“And now…” She smiles, though she does not feel like smiling. “As I said, it is complicated.”
“I’m a little disappointed,” Rodney says, his mouth turned down on one side, the way he looks when he’s more than a little disappointed. “I honestly thought it was something I could fix for you. Or, try to fix.”
“And for that I am grateful,” she says, and finishes eating while he leaves with his empty tray.
***
She and Sora have lunch together most days, and they spend a great deal of time sparring in the afternoons, but today Elizabeth calls a senior staff meeting just as they’re headed for the gym.
“Is something the matter?” Teyla asks as she sits, though something is quite obviously the matter.
“We’ve had a rather disturbing transmission,” Elizabeth sighs, with that pinched look she always gets when everything is falling apart.
John slouches in his chair, his face dark, and replays the transmission for Teyla.
The screen is full of static, but she can make out the speaker. “Michael,” she breathes angrily, and when she turns away, is met with five shocked faces, and Rodney, who is only attempting to appear shocked.
“You remember?” John asks. He looks as though he wants to hug her, or at least give her a hearty slap on the back. “What happened? Did you just…I can’t believe Michael, of all people, was the trigger.”
“I…”
“Was he?” Elizabeth asks.
“Of course he was!” Rodney booms. “It makes perfect sense. What with the trauma and, and the…”
Teyla cannot look at Ronon or Sora because if she does, they will certainly know, but if she does not, they will know regardless. She cannot win, and it is her own fault.
“And the head injury,” Rodney adds.
“Thank you, Rodney.” There is a pathetic tremble in her belly, but she draws herself up and turns to Elizabeth. “It is true that my memory has returned,” she says. “I believe I will see Dr. Keller later, but for now, if you will excuse me.”
Sora follows her all the way to her quarters. She does not allow herself to look at Sora until they are behind closed doors, and something in her chest plunges with dismay when she finally does, because Sora’s face is stone, the face of a soldier, a stranger, certainly not of a friend.
“Will you let me explain?”
“There is nothing to explain,” Sora says tightly. She begins gathering her things as though she has been given mere minutes to get out of Atlantis. “You have your memory back; therefore, I go home. And the rest of it…” She pulls her nightgown out from under the bed and shoves it into the bottom of her bag. “I don’t want to know.”
“I am sorry,” Teyla says, standing in the middle of her room while Sora maneuvers around her, careful not to touch. “But we have never been allowed to have this, and that is not fair.”
She has never said those words before. She has always found it ridiculous when others have uttered them; It is not fair, we have been culled three times in a row while our neighbors only once; It is not fair, my crop failed after a season of hard work; It is not fair for you to be in the City, Teyla; It is not fair, not fair, not fair. Yet now she feels the words like an old wound, a dull ache that has no cure.
“We are still not allowed,” Sora mutters as she pulls on her jacket. Teyla watches her slender fingers move over the buttons and knows there is nothing she can say.
“I believe it is you who will not allow it,” she says. “But I will go see about sending you through the stargate.”
***
Rodney volunteers to tell Sora about the arrangements, and Teyla retreats to the gym. She wants to believe she is respecting Sora’s space, but the truth is she is ashamed, both of her deception and her easy defeat. She has never folded so quickly, but she has never been in the wrong, not like this. It is a new feeling, unlike the times in Atlantis when she has questioned whether their choices were ethical, but had ultimately done what she felt was best.
This is on her alone, and she is grateful that Ronon is willing to spar with her for as long as she needs, until she is certain Sora must be gone, and that she will not have to be reminded of her mistake any more than necessary. Finally, they both collapse onto the mats, fighting for breath, her legs weak with exertion.
“It’s not that bad,” Ronon says, looking up at the patterns on the ceiling.
“What is not that bad?” she says carefully.
“What you did. If I got it right. She’s as much to blame as you, right? If she thought you didn’t remember.”
“I…” She was the one who had told the lie. Lie of omission. It is still a lie.
“Think about it,” Ronon says, and groans as he pulls himself into a sitting position. “Because I can’t go at it with you like this every day.”
He could do it twice a day and still have energy to fight the Wraith, but she smiles and pulls him to his feet. “Thank you,” she says, and rests her forehead against his for beat longer than usual.
***
When she returns to her rooms, they are messier than usual-the result of Sora’s whirlwind packing-and depressingly empty. She clears her mind as she showers, in preparation for meditation, and then lights her candles.
Her bedcovers are a wreck, so she pulls them off and is just getting situated when she spots something on her bedside table, something Sora has left behind. It is the small sack where Sora keeps her herbs and compress. When Teyla picks it up, the strong scent brings back that dull ache, yet she opens it anyhow. The compress is there, along with the small packs of herbs, and on top, a folded piece of paper, a hastily scrawled note in Sora’s hand.
You’re right, it’s not fair.