New fic: Triangulation
Title: Triangulation
Author:
wojelah
Fandom: SGA, John/Rodney/Elizabeth; Rodney/Elizabeth;
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: One, small, but for the central plot point in Sunday.
Summary: "And so they went, and so they learned to trust each other with more than just their lives, and so she began to understand what the physicists meant when they said that the triangle was the strongest geometric shape."
Author's Notes: This follows on With the Greatest of Ease, but that's not absolutely required reading. The OTHER half of
omgmetoo is queen among betas, especially when it comes to "totally unsexy mechanics moments" - aka, "I don't know that her hand would fit down there, honestly."
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When Elizabeth toasted the theoretical Earth New Year 2010 along with the rest of the city, she was pretty sure she wasn't the only one wondering if there was any point in doing so when no one was really sure there was an Earth anymore. When she joined Rodney that night in their quarters, she knew she wasn't the only one thinking about someone else. She also knew it didn't matter, since they were both thinking about the same person. If the slide of lip against lip and skin against skin was a little more desperate, well, each knew what the other was trying to forget - or at least ignore for a while. Elizabeth didn't forget. It was her job to remember.
Normally she kept count in her head, ticking off rough milestones in her head to keep track of the time. Three and a half years since Carson. Three years since the Ma'ak's celebration and the great floods, the aftermath of which left her with a mild concussion and the beginnings of what had to be the strangest relationship she'd ever known. The strangest, but also the most precious. After Simon, she hadn't expected to find anything beyond friendship on Atlantis. For a long time after Simon, she hadn't wanted to - or couldn't. Their third year in Atlantis had been the hardest, though, the most damaging to her sense of self. She wasn't her own best friend anymore - frequently, that year, she'd wondered if she wasn't her own worst enemy. The thing about Pegasus, though, was that even as it took with one hand, it gave with the other, moments of startling beauty and wonder that made her ache, the joy ran so deep. So in retrospect, she shouldn't have found it amazing that a simple conversation in a dark corridor under a cliff would lead her to John and Rodney, into something she'd never even considered possible.
"Why?" she'd asked in a rare moment, just her and Sheppard, Rodney still distracted in the lab, not long after they'd returned from M9X-309. He'd looked down at her, cocked an eyebrow. "I mean," she continued, "why did you follow me, that day, under the cliffs?" She'd phrased it carefully, a question with easy, casual answers, in case he chose not to answer the one she was actually asking.
He'd paused, considering, looking away. She felt him shift, awkward, and wondered why on earth she'd thought asking Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard about anything remotely like an emotion was a good idea. She'd been prepared to let it go, had opened her mouth to change the subject, when he'd shrugged his shoulders and said, "Because it was you. I... we..." and he'd made a slight, uncomfortable gesture, "we need you. Rodney and me."
She'd wrapped her arms around herself, kept her voice calm and cheerful. "Ah. Well, it's nice to be needed." It had come out a little strained - enough that Sheppard caught it.
He'd turned, and if she hadn't been so wrapped up in her own head, she'd have laughed at the mix of confusion and irritation and abject terror on his face. "What? No - that's - wait." He stopped, buried his face in his hands. "You realize, right, that I'm not known for this particular skill?"
Elizabeth had chuckled, then, despite herself, at the absolute panic in his voice, and pulled his hands down. "Hey, hey. It's ok. I understand."
"No, you don't, and if McKay comes in and you still look like that, I am sleeping in the wet spot for a month. Look, Elizabeth," he'd said, hands twisting to catch hers, "it's not a pity thing. It's - I don't know what it is. And we'd've followed you anyway, but we sort of... knew already. And we figured you might be willing to listen, just then. And now that you're here, we - it's - this is all three of us. I can't split it up for you like that. And if you ever mention this to Rodney I will make Teyla guilt you into training with her. With the big sticks. And Ronon."
Then she had really, honestly laughed, relaxing against him, starting to understand. "I solemnly swear never to speak of this conversation again."
He'd looked down at her and grinned. "What conversation? And besides, it's nice to have help when McKay's got his head so far up his ass he can see his colon and somebody's got to pull him out." Which is when, of course, Rodney had come through the door, ranting about the marine biologists' latest stunt. She and John had looked each other and fallen apart, turning red in the face as John honked like a bronchitic moose and Elizabeth doubled up with a stitch in her side, Rodney standing at the far end of the room demanding to be let in on the joke.
She'd cornered Rodney not long after and asked him the same question. He'd just looked at her like she'd failed calculus and said, "Because we were worried." The unspoken "moron" was clear. By then, she'd stopped trying to talk herself out of a good thing, and had been content - as content as she could be when she had a fractious, semi-sentient city to run in the middle of a galaxy full of space vampires. And so they went, and so they learned to trust each other with more than just their lives, and so she began to understand what the physicists meant when they said that the triangle was the strongest geometric shape.
Two and a half years ago, the gate had refused to dial Earth. They'd known about the Ori offensive; over the course of about six months, she'd watched the tenor of the information sent through in the databursts change from concern to alarm to something bordering desperation. The Daedalus had been called back, all hands, taking with it an extra detachment of Marines. She'd lain awake at night, making contingency plans and reviewing worst case scenarios. Rodney and John had grown used to waking in the middle of the night to find her gone, staring out the window. Shortly thereafter, Elizabeth had grown used to sleeping in the middle, curled between them. She'd known it was deliberate; they knew she knew. But their weight had held her down, kept her from drifting; their combined heat kept the chill away when her prognostications turned bleak. The day the chevrons refused to lock, she gave it all back to them twofold, holding steady and certain, looking forward, drawing on that remembered weight and warmth and reflecting it back at them when their own thoughts turned cold.
One and a half years ago, Caldwell and the Daedalus had limped into radio range, ZPM badly depleted, carrying a handful of survivors, new faces and old. Scarred by close combat, the ship had barely made it back to Pegasus. From Caldwell's reports, they'd been lucky to have gotten away at all; luckier still not to have been followed.
One year ago, Sheppard had disappeared in a puddle jumper on the far side of the galaxy, hunting the ZPM the Daedalus needed if ever they wanted a chance at contacting Earth again. Two jumpers had gone; two jumpers had been starting to head for home when Sheppard's lost all radio contact and disappeared from the HUD. One jumper eventually came back to Atlantis, Teyla and Ronon and Rodney exchanging the successfully recovered ZPM for additional search teams. Rodney had been the first back on board, pausing just long enough to make sure Zelenka had the module safe in his care. That night he'd returned exhausted, the sad, awkward slash of his mouth telling her all she needed to know.
They'd searched for a month. The days had blurred together, Elizabeth keeping the city running, managing the inevitable crises, Rodney disappearing for the day - or several days - in yet another attempt to achieve the impossible. They'd come to each other at night, as the three of them had before, finding the still, quiet places where they could breathe together, permit themselves the hope and fear they kept at a distance during the day. For a month, Elizabeth had allowed herself the luxury of hope, those thirty days a gift, a grace, before she'd have to force herself and Atlantis to move forward.
On the last night, she'd curled over Rodney, her head on his chest, his nose in her hair, his arms around her waist. She'd gone to him desperate that night, trying to escape the decision that dogged her heels. There'd been tears in her eyes when she'd come, head thrown back and body straining, shattering, as she'd felt Rodney break with her. When she'd collapsed against him, her mind returning, she'd felt acceptance and resignation, brick and mortar, building a wall around the woman she'd been for thirty days.
She'd lain in his arms, curled and quiescent, preparing to speak. She'd taken a breath, ready to tell him, because he should know, deserved to be first, but his arms had tightened around her and he'd beaten her there. "You're calling off the search," he'd said, quiet and unhappy.
"I am." She had seen no point in denying it. This was Rodney. It wasn't like she hadn't considered the probability he'd already worked the problem through. She'd shifted off of him, propping herself up on her arm, and met his eyes without evasion. "We can't afford it any longer. Not without Earth, not and keep Atlantis together. It's draining resources we don't have, on nothing better than the slimmest chance. It's been a month."
"I know the odds, Elizabeth," he had said, scowling. "I calculated most of them. But this is Sheppard we're talking about. The guy who cheats death and destruction three or four times a day and then asks Ronon and Teyla to beat him over the head with sticks."
She'd rolled onto her back, lying next to him without touching, staring at the ceiling. "He's only human," she'd said, as much to herself as to Rodney, and it hurt. "And after a month," she'd chosen her words calmly and with care, "I have to believe that he didn't beat the odds this time."
"No."
She'd blinked. "Excuse me?"
"No, you don't - and even if you think you do, which is just stupid, well, I don't. Until you can prove me wrong, and I mean solid, irrefutable proof, I refuse."
Elizabeth had refused to be drawn, had simply retreated, leaving him the field. "I'm sorry," she'd said simply. "I can't operate that way. Not and keep the city safe." No one had spoken further; nothing had remained to be said. When she'd woken in the morning, curled in on herself, Rodney had been gone.
She'd kept her distance, or tried to. They'd still shared quarters; she'd thought about leaving - had almost mentioned it more times than she could count, and each time it hurt, like an actual blow, and she'd turned tail, changed the subject. Elizabeth hadn't tried to fool herself as to why, when nearly every night she woke from restless sleep and found herself twined around Rodney, and him around her, when she lay awake and watched the frown ease from his face, memorizing the wide lines of his mouth, the sweep of eyelashes against his cheek, in case somehow she lost that, too. But she'd risen early and gone to bed late or feigned sleep herself when Rodney joined her in bed. She'd never resented his honesty before; now she hated it for calling her own grief closer to the surface. Too close, near enough that it had hampered her ability to think, to evaluate, to decide.
Periodically he'd come to her with some new plan, some new approach, meant to succeed where everything else had failed, eyes wide and arguments earnest. If they had the capacity to take on such a project, she'd give it the go-ahead. Often, though, they'd been too thinly stretched, and the conversation would devolve into frustration and arguments on both sides. Every time, it left Elizabeth raw and aching, at moments when she could ill afford the vulnerability. At last, she'd simply cut him off and refused to listen. "Rodney, you have to face it. He is not coming back. John is not coming back. And I can't keep arguing this point with you, not and do my job. No more," she'd said, raising a hand as he started to protest, and it was an order. He had been silent as she walked away down the corridor. He hadn't raised the issue again. And she still woke up in the middle of the night pressed tight against him, his arms tight around her waist, holding on.
Six months ago, she'd been tired - chronically overcaffeinated and ill-rested - and had given Lorne an order that even she had to admit, in retrospect, was a bad idea. Lorne had withdrawn when it became clear his objections weren't going to carry the day, leaving to try to turn bad directives into manageable commands. Rodney, somehow, had caught wind of the problem and stormed into her office. Performing at full voice, he'd explained in excruciating scientific detail why the plan was a bad one. She'd paid polite but perfunctory attention, which explained why she hadn't been prepared for him to stop mid-sentence, for his shoulders to slump and his voice to go flat.
"You know what? Fine. You hurt. I hurt. Teyla hurts. Lorne looks like someone kicked his pet puppy, and Ronon's hair is drooping. Fine. That's allowed. But it's making you stupid, and that is not acceptable. Because pretty soon you're going to have to give an order or make a decision and you're going to choose wrong, really wrong, and someone will get hurt that didn't have to, and you're going to lose a lot of trust. And knowing you, you won't be able to forgive yourself, either. So get your head out of the damn sand and start paying attention again, because right now you're buried so deep I can't even find you anymore."
She'd glared up at him from where she sat behind her desk, ready to fight, ready to yell, and then caught herself at the look on his face. Rodney never had been good at subtext, she'd thought, looking at the tension in his shoulders, the frustration and worry and anger in his eyes, mapped across his face, and she'd felt something fracture, felt like the ache in her chest might split her apart. "I can't, Rodney." The words had been acid, etched on her tongue, burning her throat. She hadn't even been entirely sure what she meant. But Rodney had gone still, had walked over and reached out for her. She let him pull her up, let herself relax against him like she hadn't in months, felt his hand her hair as he grumbled, "Well, then, let somebody help for once. Idiot." And with that, something had started to heal between them, returning to whatever it was would pass for normal and whole with Sheppard gone. If she was still careful around Rodney in a way she hadn't been before, he pretended not to notice. And if, when they talked, lying in the dark, safe and quiet, if Rodney would start to say something and stifle himself, unnatural restraint tightening his muscles, Elizabeth chalked it up as another debt she owed, another failure to be redeemed, and gathered the weight of it into her conscience.
Four months ago, Hermiod had deemed the Daedalus sufficiently repaired to begin considering the possibility of reconnaissance in the Milky Way. A month after that, Caldwell had finally taken his crew and her blessing and headed back toward Earth.
That night, welcoming the new year, wrapped in blankets and Rodney and a comfortable, if rare, alcoholic haze, she was happy to ignore the past and simply hold on to the moment.
Three weeks later, she felt like all she could do was remember, the events of the last few years written in her bones, repeating in her head as the minutes and hours ticked past, while she sat at her desk and waited for the Daedalus to return. Caldwell was overdue by more than two weeks, and she was very much focused on not-panicking and very much aware of the days ticking by. Everyone waited; everyone wondered; everyone worried.
Elizabeth was at lunch, spending a moment in the sunshine, when the Daedalus finally made it home. Zelenka's voice came over the citywide. "Doctor Weir, attention, Doctor Weir, the Daedalus - she is in range. Colonel Caldwell reports good news, but would prefer to deliver it in person. Rodney has already beamed aboard, because he could not wait. Colonel Caldwell says he would be happy to bring you up as well, if you would inform him of your position."
"Colonel Caldwell? This is Weir - I'm outside the mess." If she smiled any harder, she'd sprain something. People in the mess were cheering.
"Doctor Weir? Prepare to come aboard." And then she was on the bridge, and greeting Caldwell, who looked so unlike the worried, drawn man who'd left that she feigned a double-take and laughed as he not-quite blushed.
Then she pulled a real one when she recognized Samantha Carter standing a few feet behind. "Tell me," she said, suddenly serious, "tell me this means good news about Earth."
"Good and bad," Carter said, coming forward, "but mostly good. It's going to take some time to explain - "
Rodney's voice cut Carter off, exuberant through her radio. "Elizabeth? You're not going to believe this. Get down here, now."
"Rodney, I -"
"No, no, no. Now. Cargo Bay B."
Elizabeth looked over at Caldwell in quasi-apology. "Whatever you've brought back, it has Rodney over the moon. Do you mind if I...?"
He and Carter exchanged a look. "No, that's fine. We have a long debriefing session ahead of us - go ahead and deal with McKay first."
She made her way down the hallways quickly, but not fast enough - she wasn't quite to the door when her radio crackled to life again. "Where are you?" Rodney demanded.
"I'm just getting there, Rodney. The bay's huge - where are you?" she asked, as the ceiling opened up overhead and a small army of people bustled past.
"Right here," he said, materializing over to her right and walking away so quickly she had to trot to keep up. "Come on."
"Rodney, what - oof!" she exclaimed, as he stopped short and she ran into his shoulder. In front of them, medical personnel scurried back and forth.
"There," Rodney said. She followed his gaze, but couldn't see anything. She looked back at him, raising an eyebrow. "Just wait," he said impatiently. "Look, look - there."
She could just barely make out a figure sitting on a gurney, but the sheer number of people obscured her view. Rodney stood next to her, anticipation pouring off him in waves, and just as she was about to ask, there came a gap in the crowds and she felt her heart stop as a man with a beard and floppy black hair and eyes she knew were green laughed up at a nurse. "Oh my god." People moved, blocking her line of sight, and she turned her back, walked away, reaching blindly for a wall.
"Elizabeth?" Rodney followed, worried.
Her skin felt too tight, tingling and raw, as she turned back around. "It's him."
"It is," he said, and his voice cracked a little. She glanced up, then away, before the look on his face could undo her. "It really is," he repeated. "The whole crew is fine, all of them."
She tried to breathe. "How?" she managed, eyes sliding sideways, trying to catch another glimpse despite herself.
"Novak and Hermiod caught the very edge of the jumper's distress signal as they were passing M6X-058. It's why they were late - they went to investigate. Turns out the planet had a long-range shield and Sheppard's jumper got too close, got trapped behind it. They spent three months tracking down the power source to an underground cave system; another three months trying to find the off switch," and it was a measure of Rodney's emotion that there was absolutely no sarcasm invested in that description, "and another six months trying to boost their distress signal as far as they could, hoping someone would answer." Rodney was casual, careless, elated; there was absolutely nothing of blame in his voice. He looked back over his shoulder as if afraid Sheppard would vanish. "Are you -"
She reached a hand up to his cheek and willed it not to shake. "I'm fine." She found a smile and put enough force behind it to make it look real. "It's him."
"It is." The unfettered joy in his face nearly shattered her.
Caldwell's voice broke in over her headset. "Doctor Weir, I'm sorry to interrupt, but we've got a lot of pretty critical information to cover - are you able to start briefing shortly?"
She lowered her hand, stepped back from Rodney, made her voice crisp and firm. "I am. Give me two minutes to finish up for now and then you can have Hermiod beam me down to the conference room. Weir out."
Rodney looked at her. "I, ah - I guess I need to be there for this, huh?" he said, glow dimming slightly.
She smiled again, a little more real, this time. This, she could do. "No. No - I think I can make your excuses for now. I'll blame it on your fascination with the broken puddle jumper. Go on. I'll see you tonight."
It was easier, back on Atlantis, sitting in the conference room, shut away with Carter and Caldwell and Lorne and Zelenka and Teyla and Ronon, discussing the effects of the last great offensive against the Ori, the repairs to the SGC gate, details crowding on details. She could put the rest of herself away and focus on work, on the reality of contacting Earth again, without fear of tearing apart at the seams. The mundane was easy to believe. They talked and dissected and planned until late in the night, breaking up only when there simply wasn't anything more to cover. She'd ordered them all to sleep in, and walked quiet halls on the way to her own bed.
The room was lit, but only dimly, when she opened the door. Rodney stood by one of the windows, leaning against the wall. He turned to look when the panels slid apart and let her through. It was hard, so hard, to walk over to him, to rest her head against his shoulder and feel his hands cupping her shoulders. So hard to feel herself start to tremble, to let the knowledge Sheppard was alive, alive, after a year of nothing, rumble through her bones even as she tried to fight for calm. She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud until Rodney rested his chin on the top of her head and said, "I know. It's not like I didn't notice, on the Daedalus." He paused, shifted to kiss her temple. "You know, for someone who purports to be a diplomat, you're pretty awful at bluffing. Which only proves my point about the complete lack of rigor in the so-called social sciences."
She laughed, weakly, against his chest, and closed her eyes, relaxed a little. Then the door slid open and a voice she knew too well, even after a year, a year of silence, said, "Hey." She couldn't help it - her whole body tensed. Rodney ran a hand down her spine, soothing; said, over her shoulder, "You're late."
It wasn't fair, not at all, to still be able to hear someone roll his eyes, to know what the expression on his face looked like, when he'd been gone a year - a whole year. Sheppard said, "Sorry. It took awhile to shave the damn beard off, and I seem to remember someone giving me hell about the horrors of beardburn. I managed," he said, "but I guess she's the one who gets final approval as to whether it's regulation."
Rodney snorted. "Like any part of your personal hair care regimen has ever come close to regulation."
She heard Sheppard move closer and she very nearly bolted, only Rodney's arms around her keeping her in place. She couldn't do this, couldn't be light and easy and joking, not yet, not tonight. She'd been wrong to think she could. She needed time, needed space, needed a moment to let herself observe and think and shape a reaction to the sudden reordering of the universe. If he really was alive - had been alive, all this time, she had left him there, left him behind. They'd searched for a month, yes, but it was only a month, and they'd had an entire galaxy of possibilities. And she wanted to believe; she knew that if she did, and this proved to be some trick, if they were dreaming and woke to find Sheppard gone in the morning, she'd splinter beyond hope of repair. Pegasus, she knew, could be that cruel. It wouldn't be the first time it had used her emotions against her, and even then, with so much less than this at stake, her force of will had come near to faltering. This last year she'd been made of nothing but will, and she was tired, so tired. Rodney was solid and furnace-warm beneath her, scalding and real and there. He'd been her bedrock despite everything, and she remembered the weight of all the strained silences and aborted conversations. She remembered the debt she owed him, carried tight against her chest. If she could protect him now from later hurt, she'd find the will to do it. Even if it meant denying John - the illusion of John - standing just behind her. Pegasus could be that cruel, but she would do it, and call the cost paid a bargain.
She straightened in Rodney's arms, eyes closed, head turned aside. When she spoke, her voice was cold. "You're not here." She felt them hesitate. "You're not here. I'm dreaming this." Rodney started to splutter, turned her around, hands tight on her shoulders, but she kept her eyes closed, kept her arms folded tight against her, holding her elbows. Sheppard said nothing. "You're not here, and I'm going to wake up tomorrow and you still won't be here and I've done that. I won't do it again."
She felt remembered hands cup her face, brush along her temples. They skimmed her neck, came to rest on her shoulders, as he stepped even closer, warmth at her front to match Rodney's at her back. Arms pulled her forward, wrapping around her shoulders even as Rodney wound his arms around her waist, his hands reaching forward, pulling John in.
"I'm here," John murmured, and she didn't know who he meant to reassure. "I'm here," and she heard his voice catch, heard Rodney mutter something before leaning forward and kissing him over her shoulder. She breathed them in, clean and male and there, with her, alive, unable to keep her hands from rising, from resting against the body in front of her. The arms around her shoulders loosened, a hand curled around her neck, tilting her face up, and then John's sweet, strange, familiar mouth was on hers, his hands buried in her hair.
It wasn't light, it wasn't easy, it wasn't any kind of joke; the tension missing from his voice thrummed in every muscle, in the pressure of his lips. She met him halfway, fierce and demanding, a doubting Thomas of a rather different sort; her body asked and asked and received only truth in return. Rodney shifted, leaning back against the wall, spread his legs so she stood between them; his hands roamed over both of them, broad and possessive. Joy and guilt and anger, remembered fear and grief welled up, so overwhelming they hurt, and she turned greedy, plundering John's mouth in a frantic attempt to drown them out. He didn't flinch, just kept pouring himself into her, fingers spread, moving over the lines of her face, burning as they passed. She fisted her hands in his shirt, pulling him in, pulling him down, trying to crawl inside him, to run away, to disappear. She could feel Rodney, heat and pressure snugged up behind her, his hands caught between her and John, running over John's chest as if mapping him by touch. She ground back against him, felt him thrust up to meet her as his teeth scraped the back of her neck, as he filled his hands with her breasts, pulling her towards him and flicking a finger over her nipple. She arched into the curve of his body, moaning into John's mouth, and it might have been a sob, startling in the quiet of the room.
John went still against her, moved back just enough to breathe. "Wait," he said, voice thick with effort. She protested, a wordless noise, and followed him, pulling against Rodney's hands, lips dragging over John's jaw, locking her hands around his neck to bring him closer. He resisted, cleared his throat, said "no, really, wait," in a slightly firmer tone. Rodney's hands went still, settling warm and heavy on her hips. John ran a hand along her cheek, his breath steadying, fingertips brushing against her still-closed eyes. She turned into his palm shamelessly, tasting it, mindless in her quest for touch. He leaned in, rested his forehead against hers. She felt him reach over her shoulder for Rodney, felt Rodney lean forward, his head against the back of hers.
"Elizabeth." John said, his breath ghosting over her lips. "Elizabeth, look at me."
She shuddered once, hard, the heat and need leeching out of her as a million different emotions roiled. She shook her head in denial, panting for breath, fighting to keep herself in check. "No." Rodney's hands made small, gentle circles against the swell of her hips; he mouthed a gentle kiss against the nape of her neck, but it only made her fight harder. "No. Please," she said, voice raw, "I can't."
John let go of Rodney, brought his hands up to cradle her face, and the sound that escaped her burned. "Elizabeth," he said, in a tone she'd first heard in a tunnel in the dark under a cliff. "Why?"
Oh god, she was falling again, plummeting, and when she hit bottom she was going to smash apart like glass. It was so easy for them to just believe, so easy, and she didn't understand how it could be, not when she found it so hard, when the last months of her life had been built on doubt and refusal and practicalities. She shook her head again, almost violent, but the cracks had begun and the words slipped through in a whisper, so raw and thin they'd never have heard her from any farther away. "I'm so scared."
John drew breath, but it was Rodney who spoke next. "Elizabeth," he said, "please," and she heard in his voice the toll of the last year, all the hope and the sorrow bottled into two poor little words. She froze again, poised on the edge of breaking, and thought of Rodney and silence, such strange bedfellows, and knew, in her bones, that this was the payment due, this request that she simply let go and believe, a far dearer price than the denial she'd been prepared to give. But it was Rodney, and it was John in whom he was asking her to trust, and surely, surely - whispered a small voice, stealing away her resolve - that cost was not so high. The realization stole her breath, left her dazed and limp between them, unable to stop the slow-gathering tears. A gentle thumb swiped at them, painted them over her lips, leaving them damp. She licked them, tasted bitter salt, gathered herself together and opened her eyes.
When she did, John stepped back, just slightly, giving her space to absorb, to react. His eyes were dark in the dim light; crinkled in a smile but tight at the corners with something very like her own fear, and she reached out in understanding, running her fingers through the hair at his temples. "I'm sorry," she said, looking at John but speaking to both of them. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be," John said, catching her hand, pressing a kiss against the pulse at her wrist. Rodney, remarkably quiet till now, snorted and nipped gently at her earlobe before pushing himself away from the wall, sending Elizabeth off balance and into John, who caught and held her. They both turned to look at Rodney, standing in front of the window, arms crossed and mouth in a smirk. "Idiots," he said fondly. "Welcome back," and she thought he might be talking to both of them. She laughed, joyful for the first time in forever, and felt John start to chuckle deep in his chest, saw Rodney smiling broadly as he walked over to them and gathered them both up against him, leaning in to steal a quick, grinning kiss that made her gasp. He turned to John, clearly intending the same, but John caught the back of Rodney's neck and pulled him in.
She reached up to run her mouth over Rodney's jaw, skin smooth under her tongue as she tasted his skin; ran her hand up John's chest to wrap gently around his neck, feeling his pulse rapid under her thumb, feeling the muscles shift as Rodney deepened the kiss, as it spun out around them, drawing her in. Their hands met behind her back, joined, traced firm and sure down the length of her spine, making her gasp and arch against them as they rubbed slow circles in the small of her back. Rodney started to laugh, breaking the kiss - she bit his chin gently, smiling back, until John pulled her back against him, sliding hot, hot hands around her waist, up and under her shirt to brush her nipples, making her squeak and go boneless, heat pooling low and hungry, curling out through her veins.
She felt them pause, glanced up and caught the tail end of a look, and then there was a flurry of movement as Rodney pulled her shirt over her head and John flicked the clasp of her bra and cool air hit her skin, making her twist between them in surprise. And then Rodney's mouth was on her breast, and John's hand was on her stomach, slipping under the waistband of her pants, running under the elastic of her underwear, and her own hands were everywhere, running over soft cotton and coarse hair and hard muscle, plucking, holding, kneading, seeking out sensation like it could ground her, keep her from falling apart as their touch sent her flying, so high, so fast, faster than she'd ever gone before. Rodney's hands were busy at her waist, fiddling with buttons and zipper; he pulled away and pushed her clothing down to puddle at her ankles, kneeling to trace delicate lines over her arches as he slipped off her shoes, and then John moved his hand lower, circled a single, blunt finger against her clit. Her hips bucked, once, twice, and she cried out in surprise and was suddenly gone, gone, gone, skin flushing, toes curling, completely unprepared as it raced through her, turning her head into John's neck, Rodney kneeling in front of her, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the insides of her thighs.
She cupped her own breast, needing the touch, needing the pressure, as she gasped for breath, John moving with her, hot and solid in the small of her back, as she rode out the aftershocks, shivering, even as her body began to clamor for more. She heard a groan and saw Rodney looking up at them, eyes wide, mouth tight with control even as he palmed himself through his pants. "You have no idea," he murmured, "how incredibly hot that is." She felt John's smile against her skin, reached out her hand with his to pull Rodney up, sandwiching her between them, Rodney's leg between her thighs, John's hands reaching around both of them to slide under the hem of Rodney's shirt and less clothing, yes, good idea, and she must have said so out loud because Rodney was nodding his head in agreement and then somehow he was naked, shoulders and arms and hard, hard cock and she couldn't help it, had to touch the heat of it, the soft, soft skin, had to watch his hips snap forward and his forehead crease in concentration even as he choked on a curse, catching her wrists and pulling her to him, away from John's solid warmth at her back, kissing her with open mouth and teeth and tongue until her head spun and she turned to breathe, which is when she looked and saw John, bare-chested and bare-footed and BDUs undone, shirt dangling from his hand, staring at them.
She knew, oh, she knew what it was that had John's eyes so wide, so wild, as Rodney reached out and captured John's wrist in a careful hold, pulling him in close enough for Elizabeth to run her hands over the surprisingly delicate sweep of his collarbone, as the two of them led him back and laid him down and stripped him bare, all dark hair and golden-pale skin against the blanket on the bed, as they pinned him there, curled on either side of him, hands and mouths seeking and finding the places they knew were there, to make him writhe, to make the terrible uncertainty leave his face, as they whispered at him of home, and home, and home. She was losing herself in the slow slide of skin, in the murmur of their voices, her head in the crook of John's shoulder, feeling Rodney stretch out firm and sure over John, hearing them groan as they began to move against each other, watching John's hand wrap around both of them, cock against cock, tugging gently, pulling noises from both of their throats as she hooked her leg over his, rocking against him, Rodney running a hand over her hip, down her back, tracing maddening patterns and dipping down to curve over her ass, her own finger on her clit, circling and circling and then edging away, buying her time to breathe.
She could feel them, couldn't do anything but feel them, the three of them winding tighter and closer, tension binding them up, gathering them in, waiting, waiting - and then John pushed at Rodney, saying something she was too lost to catch. She saw Rodney stand, heard the slide of the drawer and the snick of the lube, and John was shifting with her, moving closer to the edge of the bed, rolling to cover her, slipping a thigh between her legs, nudging them open even as she reached down and traced her thumb along the underside of his cock, ran her hand over the head, slick with need, and heard him groan. Elizabeth leaned up, into John's kiss, wet and open and wild, her free hand catching Rodney's and clinging as John slid into her, filled her, as she tipped her head back and caught her breath. They held there, suspended in time, until John groaned, deep and low, and let his head fall against her shoulder, weight on his elbows, until she let go of Rodney, ran her hands over and down John's back. She watched, carding her fingers through John's hair, murmuring half-coherent encouragement into John's ear, caught up in the intense concentration on Rodney's face, felt John shift against her, in her, as Rodney stood behind them and slowly opened him with one finger, then two, so slowly. She felt Rodney's other hand move, slipping to touch them both where she and John lay joined, brushing fingers against the soft skin of John's balls, against her curls. She felt herself move, shivering, heard the groan deep in her throat, felt John shudder, watched Rodney shift to rest one knee on the bed and then she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, as Rodney pressed into John pressed into her, burying her, and the shock was like home, like drowning. They held for a moment, wrapped up in each other's body and breath. Then the urge to move overwhelmed them, huge rolling waves of nothing but sensation, washing over them, swamping them, piling heavier and heavier until she could do nothing but fall. John shifted his weight, gathered her in, slipping his hands under her shoulders, stealing kisses, biting gently at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, the hair on his chest rasping over her breasts as he moved, his breath hot against her ear as he murmured words she couldn't begin to catch. Rodney held tight to John's hips with one hand, reached down with the other and caught her hand again, caught her gaze, twining his fingers through hers; his look pinned her down, stripping her clean, until she was stretched bare and open beneath the weight of it, but still soaring, higher and higher until Rodney groaned, "Please," and she couldn't hold on any more, breaking with a shudder and a cry, stiffening in their arms, hips arching up and up and up, hearing John groan, feeling him bear down, head flung back, hot inside her, feeling Rodney's grasp on her hand tighten as his hips stuttered, thrust hard, sending John deeper into her, setting her to tremble again until at last she lay limp and tired and whole.
Rodney moved first, eventually, carefully, offering a quiet apology when John winced slightly, wandering unsteadily to the bathroom and returning with warm, damp towels. They lingered over each other where they hadn't before, cataloging changes, touching for the sheer, lazy joy of it. They'd pulled the bed to rights, mostly, and curled up in a tangle of limbs, speaking softly and just drifting, until finally the warmth of their bodies and the weight of their arms around her pulled her down, pulled her under, and she slept.
Elizabeth woke, briefly, curled around John, Rodney across from her, her free hand caught under his arm where it lay flung across John's chest, John's arms wrapped around each of them, holding them close even in sleep, his breathing deep and even. She stretched slowly, so as not to wake them, feeling a pleasant ache; glanced over again to see Rodney looking back at her, just enough pre-dawn light filtering in that she could see him smile, equal parts joyful and satisfied. Later that morning she'd call it smug and bean him with a pillow; for now she just smiled back, slow and sweet and still half-drugged with sleep. She watched as his expression shifted into something so intense it made her breath catch in her throat, as he looked from her to John and back again as if to reassure himself, as if he'd found chocolate and coffee and Christmas morning all at once and was afraid they'd slip through his grasp, as she shifted her hand from beneath his arm and took his hand, lacing her fingers with his and resting them on John's chest, just over his heart. Sleep tugged at her and she fought to keep her eyes open, fumbling for the words to tell him it was all right, that he was right, that they were home, all of them; felt him squeeze her hand gently and saw him smile again as she gave up and let herself go.
She slept deeply, but not long, waking again with her head in John's lap, Rodney's hand in her hair, and the sound of voices arguing over her head about breakfast, and as she grumbled something about inconsiderate bedmates and Rodney muttered dire imprecations over missing breakfast and John just laughed at the pair of them, she felt like Atlantis, rising out of the water and into the sun, alive and sparkling and home.
Author:
wojelah
Fandom: SGA, John/Rodney/Elizabeth; Rodney/Elizabeth;
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: One, small, but for the central plot point in Sunday.
Summary: "And so they went, and so they learned to trust each other with more than just their lives, and so she began to understand what the physicists meant when they said that the triangle was the strongest geometric shape."
Author's Notes: This follows on With the Greatest of Ease, but that's not absolutely required reading. The OTHER half of
omgmetoo is queen among betas, especially when it comes to "totally unsexy mechanics moments" - aka, "I don't know that her hand would fit down there, honestly."
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When Elizabeth toasted the theoretical Earth New Year 2010 along with the rest of the city, she was pretty sure she wasn't the only one wondering if there was any point in doing so when no one was really sure there was an Earth anymore. When she joined Rodney that night in their quarters, she knew she wasn't the only one thinking about someone else. She also knew it didn't matter, since they were both thinking about the same person. If the slide of lip against lip and skin against skin was a little more desperate, well, each knew what the other was trying to forget - or at least ignore for a while. Elizabeth didn't forget. It was her job to remember.
Normally she kept count in her head, ticking off rough milestones in her head to keep track of the time. Three and a half years since Carson. Three years since the Ma'ak's celebration and the great floods, the aftermath of which left her with a mild concussion and the beginnings of what had to be the strangest relationship she'd ever known. The strangest, but also the most precious. After Simon, she hadn't expected to find anything beyond friendship on Atlantis. For a long time after Simon, she hadn't wanted to - or couldn't. Their third year in Atlantis had been the hardest, though, the most damaging to her sense of self. She wasn't her own best friend anymore - frequently, that year, she'd wondered if she wasn't her own worst enemy. The thing about Pegasus, though, was that even as it took with one hand, it gave with the other, moments of startling beauty and wonder that made her ache, the joy ran so deep. So in retrospect, she shouldn't have found it amazing that a simple conversation in a dark corridor under a cliff would lead her to John and Rodney, into something she'd never even considered possible.
"Why?" she'd asked in a rare moment, just her and Sheppard, Rodney still distracted in the lab, not long after they'd returned from M9X-309. He'd looked down at her, cocked an eyebrow. "I mean," she continued, "why did you follow me, that day, under the cliffs?" She'd phrased it carefully, a question with easy, casual answers, in case he chose not to answer the one she was actually asking.
He'd paused, considering, looking away. She felt him shift, awkward, and wondered why on earth she'd thought asking Lieutenant Colonel John Sheppard about anything remotely like an emotion was a good idea. She'd been prepared to let it go, had opened her mouth to change the subject, when he'd shrugged his shoulders and said, "Because it was you. I... we..." and he'd made a slight, uncomfortable gesture, "we need you. Rodney and me."
She'd wrapped her arms around herself, kept her voice calm and cheerful. "Ah. Well, it's nice to be needed." It had come out a little strained - enough that Sheppard caught it.
He'd turned, and if she hadn't been so wrapped up in her own head, she'd have laughed at the mix of confusion and irritation and abject terror on his face. "What? No - that's - wait." He stopped, buried his face in his hands. "You realize, right, that I'm not known for this particular skill?"
Elizabeth had chuckled, then, despite herself, at the absolute panic in his voice, and pulled his hands down. "Hey, hey. It's ok. I understand."
"No, you don't, and if McKay comes in and you still look like that, I am sleeping in the wet spot for a month. Look, Elizabeth," he'd said, hands twisting to catch hers, "it's not a pity thing. It's - I don't know what it is. And we'd've followed you anyway, but we sort of... knew already. And we figured you might be willing to listen, just then. And now that you're here, we - it's - this is all three of us. I can't split it up for you like that. And if you ever mention this to Rodney I will make Teyla guilt you into training with her. With the big sticks. And Ronon."
Then she had really, honestly laughed, relaxing against him, starting to understand. "I solemnly swear never to speak of this conversation again."
He'd looked down at her and grinned. "What conversation? And besides, it's nice to have help when McKay's got his head so far up his ass he can see his colon and somebody's got to pull him out." Which is when, of course, Rodney had come through the door, ranting about the marine biologists' latest stunt. She and John had looked each other and fallen apart, turning red in the face as John honked like a bronchitic moose and Elizabeth doubled up with a stitch in her side, Rodney standing at the far end of the room demanding to be let in on the joke.
She'd cornered Rodney not long after and asked him the same question. He'd just looked at her like she'd failed calculus and said, "Because we were worried." The unspoken "moron" was clear. By then, she'd stopped trying to talk herself out of a good thing, and had been content - as content as she could be when she had a fractious, semi-sentient city to run in the middle of a galaxy full of space vampires. And so they went, and so they learned to trust each other with more than just their lives, and so she began to understand what the physicists meant when they said that the triangle was the strongest geometric shape.
Two and a half years ago, the gate had refused to dial Earth. They'd known about the Ori offensive; over the course of about six months, she'd watched the tenor of the information sent through in the databursts change from concern to alarm to something bordering desperation. The Daedalus had been called back, all hands, taking with it an extra detachment of Marines. She'd lain awake at night, making contingency plans and reviewing worst case scenarios. Rodney and John had grown used to waking in the middle of the night to find her gone, staring out the window. Shortly thereafter, Elizabeth had grown used to sleeping in the middle, curled between them. She'd known it was deliberate; they knew she knew. But their weight had held her down, kept her from drifting; their combined heat kept the chill away when her prognostications turned bleak. The day the chevrons refused to lock, she gave it all back to them twofold, holding steady and certain, looking forward, drawing on that remembered weight and warmth and reflecting it back at them when their own thoughts turned cold.
One and a half years ago, Caldwell and the Daedalus had limped into radio range, ZPM badly depleted, carrying a handful of survivors, new faces and old. Scarred by close combat, the ship had barely made it back to Pegasus. From Caldwell's reports, they'd been lucky to have gotten away at all; luckier still not to have been followed.
One year ago, Sheppard had disappeared in a puddle jumper on the far side of the galaxy, hunting the ZPM the Daedalus needed if ever they wanted a chance at contacting Earth again. Two jumpers had gone; two jumpers had been starting to head for home when Sheppard's lost all radio contact and disappeared from the HUD. One jumper eventually came back to Atlantis, Teyla and Ronon and Rodney exchanging the successfully recovered ZPM for additional search teams. Rodney had been the first back on board, pausing just long enough to make sure Zelenka had the module safe in his care. That night he'd returned exhausted, the sad, awkward slash of his mouth telling her all she needed to know.
They'd searched for a month. The days had blurred together, Elizabeth keeping the city running, managing the inevitable crises, Rodney disappearing for the day - or several days - in yet another attempt to achieve the impossible. They'd come to each other at night, as the three of them had before, finding the still, quiet places where they could breathe together, permit themselves the hope and fear they kept at a distance during the day. For a month, Elizabeth had allowed herself the luxury of hope, those thirty days a gift, a grace, before she'd have to force herself and Atlantis to move forward.
On the last night, she'd curled over Rodney, her head on his chest, his nose in her hair, his arms around her waist. She'd gone to him desperate that night, trying to escape the decision that dogged her heels. There'd been tears in her eyes when she'd come, head thrown back and body straining, shattering, as she'd felt Rodney break with her. When she'd collapsed against him, her mind returning, she'd felt acceptance and resignation, brick and mortar, building a wall around the woman she'd been for thirty days.
She'd lain in his arms, curled and quiescent, preparing to speak. She'd taken a breath, ready to tell him, because he should know, deserved to be first, but his arms had tightened around her and he'd beaten her there. "You're calling off the search," he'd said, quiet and unhappy.
"I am." She had seen no point in denying it. This was Rodney. It wasn't like she hadn't considered the probability he'd already worked the problem through. She'd shifted off of him, propping herself up on her arm, and met his eyes without evasion. "We can't afford it any longer. Not without Earth, not and keep Atlantis together. It's draining resources we don't have, on nothing better than the slimmest chance. It's been a month."
"I know the odds, Elizabeth," he had said, scowling. "I calculated most of them. But this is Sheppard we're talking about. The guy who cheats death and destruction three or four times a day and then asks Ronon and Teyla to beat him over the head with sticks."
She'd rolled onto her back, lying next to him without touching, staring at the ceiling. "He's only human," she'd said, as much to herself as to Rodney, and it hurt. "And after a month," she'd chosen her words calmly and with care, "I have to believe that he didn't beat the odds this time."
"No."
She'd blinked. "Excuse me?"
"No, you don't - and even if you think you do, which is just stupid, well, I don't. Until you can prove me wrong, and I mean solid, irrefutable proof, I refuse."
Elizabeth had refused to be drawn, had simply retreated, leaving him the field. "I'm sorry," she'd said simply. "I can't operate that way. Not and keep the city safe." No one had spoken further; nothing had remained to be said. When she'd woken in the morning, curled in on herself, Rodney had been gone.
She'd kept her distance, or tried to. They'd still shared quarters; she'd thought about leaving - had almost mentioned it more times than she could count, and each time it hurt, like an actual blow, and she'd turned tail, changed the subject. Elizabeth hadn't tried to fool herself as to why, when nearly every night she woke from restless sleep and found herself twined around Rodney, and him around her, when she lay awake and watched the frown ease from his face, memorizing the wide lines of his mouth, the sweep of eyelashes against his cheek, in case somehow she lost that, too. But she'd risen early and gone to bed late or feigned sleep herself when Rodney joined her in bed. She'd never resented his honesty before; now she hated it for calling her own grief closer to the surface. Too close, near enough that it had hampered her ability to think, to evaluate, to decide.
Periodically he'd come to her with some new plan, some new approach, meant to succeed where everything else had failed, eyes wide and arguments earnest. If they had the capacity to take on such a project, she'd give it the go-ahead. Often, though, they'd been too thinly stretched, and the conversation would devolve into frustration and arguments on both sides. Every time, it left Elizabeth raw and aching, at moments when she could ill afford the vulnerability. At last, she'd simply cut him off and refused to listen. "Rodney, you have to face it. He is not coming back. John is not coming back. And I can't keep arguing this point with you, not and do my job. No more," she'd said, raising a hand as he started to protest, and it was an order. He had been silent as she walked away down the corridor. He hadn't raised the issue again. And she still woke up in the middle of the night pressed tight against him, his arms tight around her waist, holding on.
Six months ago, she'd been tired - chronically overcaffeinated and ill-rested - and had given Lorne an order that even she had to admit, in retrospect, was a bad idea. Lorne had withdrawn when it became clear his objections weren't going to carry the day, leaving to try to turn bad directives into manageable commands. Rodney, somehow, had caught wind of the problem and stormed into her office. Performing at full voice, he'd explained in excruciating scientific detail why the plan was a bad one. She'd paid polite but perfunctory attention, which explained why she hadn't been prepared for him to stop mid-sentence, for his shoulders to slump and his voice to go flat.
"You know what? Fine. You hurt. I hurt. Teyla hurts. Lorne looks like someone kicked his pet puppy, and Ronon's hair is drooping. Fine. That's allowed. But it's making you stupid, and that is not acceptable. Because pretty soon you're going to have to give an order or make a decision and you're going to choose wrong, really wrong, and someone will get hurt that didn't have to, and you're going to lose a lot of trust. And knowing you, you won't be able to forgive yourself, either. So get your head out of the damn sand and start paying attention again, because right now you're buried so deep I can't even find you anymore."
She'd glared up at him from where she sat behind her desk, ready to fight, ready to yell, and then caught herself at the look on his face. Rodney never had been good at subtext, she'd thought, looking at the tension in his shoulders, the frustration and worry and anger in his eyes, mapped across his face, and she'd felt something fracture, felt like the ache in her chest might split her apart. "I can't, Rodney." The words had been acid, etched on her tongue, burning her throat. She hadn't even been entirely sure what she meant. But Rodney had gone still, had walked over and reached out for her. She let him pull her up, let herself relax against him like she hadn't in months, felt his hand her hair as he grumbled, "Well, then, let somebody help for once. Idiot." And with that, something had started to heal between them, returning to whatever it was would pass for normal and whole with Sheppard gone. If she was still careful around Rodney in a way she hadn't been before, he pretended not to notice. And if, when they talked, lying in the dark, safe and quiet, if Rodney would start to say something and stifle himself, unnatural restraint tightening his muscles, Elizabeth chalked it up as another debt she owed, another failure to be redeemed, and gathered the weight of it into her conscience.
Four months ago, Hermiod had deemed the Daedalus sufficiently repaired to begin considering the possibility of reconnaissance in the Milky Way. A month after that, Caldwell had finally taken his crew and her blessing and headed back toward Earth.
That night, welcoming the new year, wrapped in blankets and Rodney and a comfortable, if rare, alcoholic haze, she was happy to ignore the past and simply hold on to the moment.
Three weeks later, she felt like all she could do was remember, the events of the last few years written in her bones, repeating in her head as the minutes and hours ticked past, while she sat at her desk and waited for the Daedalus to return. Caldwell was overdue by more than two weeks, and she was very much focused on not-panicking and very much aware of the days ticking by. Everyone waited; everyone wondered; everyone worried.
Elizabeth was at lunch, spending a moment in the sunshine, when the Daedalus finally made it home. Zelenka's voice came over the citywide. "Doctor Weir, attention, Doctor Weir, the Daedalus - she is in range. Colonel Caldwell reports good news, but would prefer to deliver it in person. Rodney has already beamed aboard, because he could not wait. Colonel Caldwell says he would be happy to bring you up as well, if you would inform him of your position."
"Colonel Caldwell? This is Weir - I'm outside the mess." If she smiled any harder, she'd sprain something. People in the mess were cheering.
"Doctor Weir? Prepare to come aboard." And then she was on the bridge, and greeting Caldwell, who looked so unlike the worried, drawn man who'd left that she feigned a double-take and laughed as he not-quite blushed.
Then she pulled a real one when she recognized Samantha Carter standing a few feet behind. "Tell me," she said, suddenly serious, "tell me this means good news about Earth."
"Good and bad," Carter said, coming forward, "but mostly good. It's going to take some time to explain - "
Rodney's voice cut Carter off, exuberant through her radio. "Elizabeth? You're not going to believe this. Get down here, now."
"Rodney, I -"
"No, no, no. Now. Cargo Bay B."
Elizabeth looked over at Caldwell in quasi-apology. "Whatever you've brought back, it has Rodney over the moon. Do you mind if I...?"
He and Carter exchanged a look. "No, that's fine. We have a long debriefing session ahead of us - go ahead and deal with McKay first."
She made her way down the hallways quickly, but not fast enough - she wasn't quite to the door when her radio crackled to life again. "Where are you?" Rodney demanded.
"I'm just getting there, Rodney. The bay's huge - where are you?" she asked, as the ceiling opened up overhead and a small army of people bustled past.
"Right here," he said, materializing over to her right and walking away so quickly she had to trot to keep up. "Come on."
"Rodney, what - oof!" she exclaimed, as he stopped short and she ran into his shoulder. In front of them, medical personnel scurried back and forth.
"There," Rodney said. She followed his gaze, but couldn't see anything. She looked back at him, raising an eyebrow. "Just wait," he said impatiently. "Look, look - there."
She could just barely make out a figure sitting on a gurney, but the sheer number of people obscured her view. Rodney stood next to her, anticipation pouring off him in waves, and just as she was about to ask, there came a gap in the crowds and she felt her heart stop as a man with a beard and floppy black hair and eyes she knew were green laughed up at a nurse. "Oh my god." People moved, blocking her line of sight, and she turned her back, walked away, reaching blindly for a wall.
"Elizabeth?" Rodney followed, worried.
Her skin felt too tight, tingling and raw, as she turned back around. "It's him."
"It is," he said, and his voice cracked a little. She glanced up, then away, before the look on his face could undo her. "It really is," he repeated. "The whole crew is fine, all of them."
She tried to breathe. "How?" she managed, eyes sliding sideways, trying to catch another glimpse despite herself.
"Novak and Hermiod caught the very edge of the jumper's distress signal as they were passing M6X-058. It's why they were late - they went to investigate. Turns out the planet had a long-range shield and Sheppard's jumper got too close, got trapped behind it. They spent three months tracking down the power source to an underground cave system; another three months trying to find the off switch," and it was a measure of Rodney's emotion that there was absolutely no sarcasm invested in that description, "and another six months trying to boost their distress signal as far as they could, hoping someone would answer." Rodney was casual, careless, elated; there was absolutely nothing of blame in his voice. He looked back over his shoulder as if afraid Sheppard would vanish. "Are you -"
She reached a hand up to his cheek and willed it not to shake. "I'm fine." She found a smile and put enough force behind it to make it look real. "It's him."
"It is." The unfettered joy in his face nearly shattered her.
Caldwell's voice broke in over her headset. "Doctor Weir, I'm sorry to interrupt, but we've got a lot of pretty critical information to cover - are you able to start briefing shortly?"
She lowered her hand, stepped back from Rodney, made her voice crisp and firm. "I am. Give me two minutes to finish up for now and then you can have Hermiod beam me down to the conference room. Weir out."
Rodney looked at her. "I, ah - I guess I need to be there for this, huh?" he said, glow dimming slightly.
She smiled again, a little more real, this time. This, she could do. "No. No - I think I can make your excuses for now. I'll blame it on your fascination with the broken puddle jumper. Go on. I'll see you tonight."
It was easier, back on Atlantis, sitting in the conference room, shut away with Carter and Caldwell and Lorne and Zelenka and Teyla and Ronon, discussing the effects of the last great offensive against the Ori, the repairs to the SGC gate, details crowding on details. She could put the rest of herself away and focus on work, on the reality of contacting Earth again, without fear of tearing apart at the seams. The mundane was easy to believe. They talked and dissected and planned until late in the night, breaking up only when there simply wasn't anything more to cover. She'd ordered them all to sleep in, and walked quiet halls on the way to her own bed.
The room was lit, but only dimly, when she opened the door. Rodney stood by one of the windows, leaning against the wall. He turned to look when the panels slid apart and let her through. It was hard, so hard, to walk over to him, to rest her head against his shoulder and feel his hands cupping her shoulders. So hard to feel herself start to tremble, to let the knowledge Sheppard was alive, alive, after a year of nothing, rumble through her bones even as she tried to fight for calm. She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud until Rodney rested his chin on the top of her head and said, "I know. It's not like I didn't notice, on the Daedalus." He paused, shifted to kiss her temple. "You know, for someone who purports to be a diplomat, you're pretty awful at bluffing. Which only proves my point about the complete lack of rigor in the so-called social sciences."
She laughed, weakly, against his chest, and closed her eyes, relaxed a little. Then the door slid open and a voice she knew too well, even after a year, a year of silence, said, "Hey." She couldn't help it - her whole body tensed. Rodney ran a hand down her spine, soothing; said, over her shoulder, "You're late."
It wasn't fair, not at all, to still be able to hear someone roll his eyes, to know what the expression on his face looked like, when he'd been gone a year - a whole year. Sheppard said, "Sorry. It took awhile to shave the damn beard off, and I seem to remember someone giving me hell about the horrors of beardburn. I managed," he said, "but I guess she's the one who gets final approval as to whether it's regulation."
Rodney snorted. "Like any part of your personal hair care regimen has ever come close to regulation."
She heard Sheppard move closer and she very nearly bolted, only Rodney's arms around her keeping her in place. She couldn't do this, couldn't be light and easy and joking, not yet, not tonight. She'd been wrong to think she could. She needed time, needed space, needed a moment to let herself observe and think and shape a reaction to the sudden reordering of the universe. If he really was alive - had been alive, all this time, she had left him there, left him behind. They'd searched for a month, yes, but it was only a month, and they'd had an entire galaxy of possibilities. And she wanted to believe; she knew that if she did, and this proved to be some trick, if they were dreaming and woke to find Sheppard gone in the morning, she'd splinter beyond hope of repair. Pegasus, she knew, could be that cruel. It wouldn't be the first time it had used her emotions against her, and even then, with so much less than this at stake, her force of will had come near to faltering. This last year she'd been made of nothing but will, and she was tired, so tired. Rodney was solid and furnace-warm beneath her, scalding and real and there. He'd been her bedrock despite everything, and she remembered the weight of all the strained silences and aborted conversations. She remembered the debt she owed him, carried tight against her chest. If she could protect him now from later hurt, she'd find the will to do it. Even if it meant denying John - the illusion of John - standing just behind her. Pegasus could be that cruel, but she would do it, and call the cost paid a bargain.
She straightened in Rodney's arms, eyes closed, head turned aside. When she spoke, her voice was cold. "You're not here." She felt them hesitate. "You're not here. I'm dreaming this." Rodney started to splutter, turned her around, hands tight on her shoulders, but she kept her eyes closed, kept her arms folded tight against her, holding her elbows. Sheppard said nothing. "You're not here, and I'm going to wake up tomorrow and you still won't be here and I've done that. I won't do it again."
She felt remembered hands cup her face, brush along her temples. They skimmed her neck, came to rest on her shoulders, as he stepped even closer, warmth at her front to match Rodney's at her back. Arms pulled her forward, wrapping around her shoulders even as Rodney wound his arms around her waist, his hands reaching forward, pulling John in.
"I'm here," John murmured, and she didn't know who he meant to reassure. "I'm here," and she heard his voice catch, heard Rodney mutter something before leaning forward and kissing him over her shoulder. She breathed them in, clean and male and there, with her, alive, unable to keep her hands from rising, from resting against the body in front of her. The arms around her shoulders loosened, a hand curled around her neck, tilting her face up, and then John's sweet, strange, familiar mouth was on hers, his hands buried in her hair.
It wasn't light, it wasn't easy, it wasn't any kind of joke; the tension missing from his voice thrummed in every muscle, in the pressure of his lips. She met him halfway, fierce and demanding, a doubting Thomas of a rather different sort; her body asked and asked and received only truth in return. Rodney shifted, leaning back against the wall, spread his legs so she stood between them; his hands roamed over both of them, broad and possessive. Joy and guilt and anger, remembered fear and grief welled up, so overwhelming they hurt, and she turned greedy, plundering John's mouth in a frantic attempt to drown them out. He didn't flinch, just kept pouring himself into her, fingers spread, moving over the lines of her face, burning as they passed. She fisted her hands in his shirt, pulling him in, pulling him down, trying to crawl inside him, to run away, to disappear. She could feel Rodney, heat and pressure snugged up behind her, his hands caught between her and John, running over John's chest as if mapping him by touch. She ground back against him, felt him thrust up to meet her as his teeth scraped the back of her neck, as he filled his hands with her breasts, pulling her towards him and flicking a finger over her nipple. She arched into the curve of his body, moaning into John's mouth, and it might have been a sob, startling in the quiet of the room.
John went still against her, moved back just enough to breathe. "Wait," he said, voice thick with effort. She protested, a wordless noise, and followed him, pulling against Rodney's hands, lips dragging over John's jaw, locking her hands around his neck to bring him closer. He resisted, cleared his throat, said "no, really, wait," in a slightly firmer tone. Rodney's hands went still, settling warm and heavy on her hips. John ran a hand along her cheek, his breath steadying, fingertips brushing against her still-closed eyes. She turned into his palm shamelessly, tasting it, mindless in her quest for touch. He leaned in, rested his forehead against hers. She felt him reach over her shoulder for Rodney, felt Rodney lean forward, his head against the back of hers.
"Elizabeth." John said, his breath ghosting over her lips. "Elizabeth, look at me."
She shuddered once, hard, the heat and need leeching out of her as a million different emotions roiled. She shook her head in denial, panting for breath, fighting to keep herself in check. "No." Rodney's hands made small, gentle circles against the swell of her hips; he mouthed a gentle kiss against the nape of her neck, but it only made her fight harder. "No. Please," she said, voice raw, "I can't."
John let go of Rodney, brought his hands up to cradle her face, and the sound that escaped her burned. "Elizabeth," he said, in a tone she'd first heard in a tunnel in the dark under a cliff. "Why?"
Oh god, she was falling again, plummeting, and when she hit bottom she was going to smash apart like glass. It was so easy for them to just believe, so easy, and she didn't understand how it could be, not when she found it so hard, when the last months of her life had been built on doubt and refusal and practicalities. She shook her head again, almost violent, but the cracks had begun and the words slipped through in a whisper, so raw and thin they'd never have heard her from any farther away. "I'm so scared."
John drew breath, but it was Rodney who spoke next. "Elizabeth," he said, "please," and she heard in his voice the toll of the last year, all the hope and the sorrow bottled into two poor little words. She froze again, poised on the edge of breaking, and thought of Rodney and silence, such strange bedfellows, and knew, in her bones, that this was the payment due, this request that she simply let go and believe, a far dearer price than the denial she'd been prepared to give. But it was Rodney, and it was John in whom he was asking her to trust, and surely, surely - whispered a small voice, stealing away her resolve - that cost was not so high. The realization stole her breath, left her dazed and limp between them, unable to stop the slow-gathering tears. A gentle thumb swiped at them, painted them over her lips, leaving them damp. She licked them, tasted bitter salt, gathered herself together and opened her eyes.
When she did, John stepped back, just slightly, giving her space to absorb, to react. His eyes were dark in the dim light; crinkled in a smile but tight at the corners with something very like her own fear, and she reached out in understanding, running her fingers through the hair at his temples. "I'm sorry," she said, looking at John but speaking to both of them. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be," John said, catching her hand, pressing a kiss against the pulse at her wrist. Rodney, remarkably quiet till now, snorted and nipped gently at her earlobe before pushing himself away from the wall, sending Elizabeth off balance and into John, who caught and held her. They both turned to look at Rodney, standing in front of the window, arms crossed and mouth in a smirk. "Idiots," he said fondly. "Welcome back," and she thought he might be talking to both of them. She laughed, joyful for the first time in forever, and felt John start to chuckle deep in his chest, saw Rodney smiling broadly as he walked over to them and gathered them both up against him, leaning in to steal a quick, grinning kiss that made her gasp. He turned to John, clearly intending the same, but John caught the back of Rodney's neck and pulled him in.
She reached up to run her mouth over Rodney's jaw, skin smooth under her tongue as she tasted his skin; ran her hand up John's chest to wrap gently around his neck, feeling his pulse rapid under her thumb, feeling the muscles shift as Rodney deepened the kiss, as it spun out around them, drawing her in. Their hands met behind her back, joined, traced firm and sure down the length of her spine, making her gasp and arch against them as they rubbed slow circles in the small of her back. Rodney started to laugh, breaking the kiss - she bit his chin gently, smiling back, until John pulled her back against him, sliding hot, hot hands around her waist, up and under her shirt to brush her nipples, making her squeak and go boneless, heat pooling low and hungry, curling out through her veins.
She felt them pause, glanced up and caught the tail end of a look, and then there was a flurry of movement as Rodney pulled her shirt over her head and John flicked the clasp of her bra and cool air hit her skin, making her twist between them in surprise. And then Rodney's mouth was on her breast, and John's hand was on her stomach, slipping under the waistband of her pants, running under the elastic of her underwear, and her own hands were everywhere, running over soft cotton and coarse hair and hard muscle, plucking, holding, kneading, seeking out sensation like it could ground her, keep her from falling apart as their touch sent her flying, so high, so fast, faster than she'd ever gone before. Rodney's hands were busy at her waist, fiddling with buttons and zipper; he pulled away and pushed her clothing down to puddle at her ankles, kneeling to trace delicate lines over her arches as he slipped off her shoes, and then John moved his hand lower, circled a single, blunt finger against her clit. Her hips bucked, once, twice, and she cried out in surprise and was suddenly gone, gone, gone, skin flushing, toes curling, completely unprepared as it raced through her, turning her head into John's neck, Rodney kneeling in front of her, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the insides of her thighs.
She cupped her own breast, needing the touch, needing the pressure, as she gasped for breath, John moving with her, hot and solid in the small of her back, as she rode out the aftershocks, shivering, even as her body began to clamor for more. She heard a groan and saw Rodney looking up at them, eyes wide, mouth tight with control even as he palmed himself through his pants. "You have no idea," he murmured, "how incredibly hot that is." She felt John's smile against her skin, reached out her hand with his to pull Rodney up, sandwiching her between them, Rodney's leg between her thighs, John's hands reaching around both of them to slide under the hem of Rodney's shirt and less clothing, yes, good idea, and she must have said so out loud because Rodney was nodding his head in agreement and then somehow he was naked, shoulders and arms and hard, hard cock and she couldn't help it, had to touch the heat of it, the soft, soft skin, had to watch his hips snap forward and his forehead crease in concentration even as he choked on a curse, catching her wrists and pulling her to him, away from John's solid warmth at her back, kissing her with open mouth and teeth and tongue until her head spun and she turned to breathe, which is when she looked and saw John, bare-chested and bare-footed and BDUs undone, shirt dangling from his hand, staring at them.
She knew, oh, she knew what it was that had John's eyes so wide, so wild, as Rodney reached out and captured John's wrist in a careful hold, pulling him in close enough for Elizabeth to run her hands over the surprisingly delicate sweep of his collarbone, as the two of them led him back and laid him down and stripped him bare, all dark hair and golden-pale skin against the blanket on the bed, as they pinned him there, curled on either side of him, hands and mouths seeking and finding the places they knew were there, to make him writhe, to make the terrible uncertainty leave his face, as they whispered at him of home, and home, and home. She was losing herself in the slow slide of skin, in the murmur of their voices, her head in the crook of John's shoulder, feeling Rodney stretch out firm and sure over John, hearing them groan as they began to move against each other, watching John's hand wrap around both of them, cock against cock, tugging gently, pulling noises from both of their throats as she hooked her leg over his, rocking against him, Rodney running a hand over her hip, down her back, tracing maddening patterns and dipping down to curve over her ass, her own finger on her clit, circling and circling and then edging away, buying her time to breathe.
She could feel them, couldn't do anything but feel them, the three of them winding tighter and closer, tension binding them up, gathering them in, waiting, waiting - and then John pushed at Rodney, saying something she was too lost to catch. She saw Rodney stand, heard the slide of the drawer and the snick of the lube, and John was shifting with her, moving closer to the edge of the bed, rolling to cover her, slipping a thigh between her legs, nudging them open even as she reached down and traced her thumb along the underside of his cock, ran her hand over the head, slick with need, and heard him groan. Elizabeth leaned up, into John's kiss, wet and open and wild, her free hand catching Rodney's and clinging as John slid into her, filled her, as she tipped her head back and caught her breath. They held there, suspended in time, until John groaned, deep and low, and let his head fall against her shoulder, weight on his elbows, until she let go of Rodney, ran her hands over and down John's back. She watched, carding her fingers through John's hair, murmuring half-coherent encouragement into John's ear, caught up in the intense concentration on Rodney's face, felt John shift against her, in her, as Rodney stood behind them and slowly opened him with one finger, then two, so slowly. She felt Rodney's other hand move, slipping to touch them both where she and John lay joined, brushing fingers against the soft skin of John's balls, against her curls. She felt herself move, shivering, heard the groan deep in her throat, felt John shudder, watched Rodney shift to rest one knee on the bed and then she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, as Rodney pressed into John pressed into her, burying her, and the shock was like home, like drowning. They held for a moment, wrapped up in each other's body and breath. Then the urge to move overwhelmed them, huge rolling waves of nothing but sensation, washing over them, swamping them, piling heavier and heavier until she could do nothing but fall. John shifted his weight, gathered her in, slipping his hands under her shoulders, stealing kisses, biting gently at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, the hair on his chest rasping over her breasts as he moved, his breath hot against her ear as he murmured words she couldn't begin to catch. Rodney held tight to John's hips with one hand, reached down with the other and caught her hand again, caught her gaze, twining his fingers through hers; his look pinned her down, stripping her clean, until she was stretched bare and open beneath the weight of it, but still soaring, higher and higher until Rodney groaned, "Please," and she couldn't hold on any more, breaking with a shudder and a cry, stiffening in their arms, hips arching up and up and up, hearing John groan, feeling him bear down, head flung back, hot inside her, feeling Rodney's grasp on her hand tighten as his hips stuttered, thrust hard, sending John deeper into her, setting her to tremble again until at last she lay limp and tired and whole.
Rodney moved first, eventually, carefully, offering a quiet apology when John winced slightly, wandering unsteadily to the bathroom and returning with warm, damp towels. They lingered over each other where they hadn't before, cataloging changes, touching for the sheer, lazy joy of it. They'd pulled the bed to rights, mostly, and curled up in a tangle of limbs, speaking softly and just drifting, until finally the warmth of their bodies and the weight of their arms around her pulled her down, pulled her under, and she slept.
Elizabeth woke, briefly, curled around John, Rodney across from her, her free hand caught under his arm where it lay flung across John's chest, John's arms wrapped around each of them, holding them close even in sleep, his breathing deep and even. She stretched slowly, so as not to wake them, feeling a pleasant ache; glanced over again to see Rodney looking back at her, just enough pre-dawn light filtering in that she could see him smile, equal parts joyful and satisfied. Later that morning she'd call it smug and bean him with a pillow; for now she just smiled back, slow and sweet and still half-drugged with sleep. She watched as his expression shifted into something so intense it made her breath catch in her throat, as he looked from her to John and back again as if to reassure himself, as if he'd found chocolate and coffee and Christmas morning all at once and was afraid they'd slip through his grasp, as she shifted her hand from beneath his arm and took his hand, lacing her fingers with his and resting them on John's chest, just over his heart. Sleep tugged at her and she fought to keep her eyes open, fumbling for the words to tell him it was all right, that he was right, that they were home, all of them; felt him squeeze her hand gently and saw him smile again as she gave up and let herself go.
She slept deeply, but not long, waking again with her head in John's lap, Rodney's hand in her hair, and the sound of voices arguing over her head about breakfast, and as she grumbled something about inconsiderate bedmates and Rodney muttered dire imprecations over missing breakfast and John just laughed at the pair of them, she felt like Atlantis, rising out of the water and into the sun, alive and sparkling and home.