New SGA Fic: The Best Portion, part one of four
Title: The Best Portion
Author: Deirdre
Pairing: Teyla/Carson
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 30,222
Betae: rosewildeirish, kyrdwyn Alpha reading and endless encouragement by mice1900, sithdragn, and dark_cygnet.
Summary: That best portion of a good man's life/His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
Author's Notes: Written for the sga_santa secret santa ficathon. Recipient: hermioneorourke, who requested "Teyla/Rodney/Carson, or any version of it." Well. Two out of three ain't bad, as the song says.
The Best Portion
by Deirdre
November, 2006
That best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
William Wordsworth
When they had stepped out of the back of the jumper onto Suelta, it had been early morning, the air crisp and cold with autumn, everything painted with a sharp silver-white wash of frost. It had crackled loudly beneath her boots, and the scent of icy leaves and grasses, keen as a fine blade, had risen to her nose. For a moment Teyla had been reminded of Athos, could remember standing at the door of her dwelling wrapped in a warm blanket and the even warmer arms of Kathal, watching the sun rise over the far hills white with snow. She'd smiled at the memory, then carefully tucked it away into the box in her mind that held all such treasures. Dr. Beckett had closed the jumper hatch, cloaked it, and Teyla had fallen into step with him and Dr. Gasquet, the expedition's dentist, as they strode toward the village, Beckett's breath a white cloud around him as he spoke of nothing and everything, very much like Rodney and yet not.
And now it is late afternoon, and the sun slides toward rest. Autumn lies golden on the hills like a sleek cat sunning itself beneath the skies, and the breeze lifts her hair away from her neck, flips the ripening leaves on the trees from scarlet to gold, from purple to lavender, from russet to tan. Overhead a small treebiter and an orange-feathered skimmer chatter angrily, squabbling in the branches above them, and a couple of leaves float down. One lands on Dr. Beckett's broad shoulder, bright golden against the blackness of his tee shirt, and flutters downward, skimming over the bunch of biceps as he wields the small shovel, then flutters to the churned dark earth beside his left boot. Teyla's eyes watch the roll of shoulders as Beckett works; she had never before today paid heed to how strong, how solid he is, as he hides always beneath his long white physican's coat or the bulk of his mission jacket and tac vest. Somehow it makes her restless, looking at the strength of his bared arms and his thick thighs beneath black BDUs, and she glances away, quickly, scanning the forest for any signs of danger.
Danal's voice rises in a laugh and when Teyla looks back, he is tugging at Beckett's wrist, pulling him down to kneel in the rich black forest loam, and their fingers scrabble for the curving, twisting roots of the kirthat. Their heads, dark and silver, are close together, and Beckett's laughter, rich and warm, twines with Danal's higher tones as Danal's trained root-hunter tries to dig with them, yelping in apparent happiness, long floppy ears bouncing in their faces.
”Away with you, crazy thing,” Danal says fondly, and gently pushes the brown and cream spotted animal aside. He breaks off a piece of root and gives it a toss over his shoulder, and the creature leaps over Danal's bent back in pursuit of the root, yipping before finding the root and settling down to gnaw at it.
”Back on my planet,” Beckett says, ”we have similar animals-well, perhaps not exactly similar, as yours is more like a hound than ours, which is more of a...well, no actually in fact, a swine, yes-which we use to hunt a specific kind of fungus which we call truffles. They're quite the delicacy on my world.” He has a lovely voice, Teyla thinks, not for the first time, low and rolling and musical, his accent different than either Rodney's or Colonel Sheppard's, or Dr. Zelenka's, strangely soothing, and yet not. ”Teyla, do the Athosians have anything like this?”
”I am afraid not, Dr. Beckett,” she replies. ”We have traditionally had very few domesticated animals, given our nomadic way of life. We do have hunting cats-I believe Colonel Sheppard called them panthers?--although not much else. Other peoples like us do have small herds, but we have always found it much easier without them, preferring to hunt or trade for what we need. Our interest in farming and herding is actually quite recent.”
”Ah, give it up, you damn bloody thing,” Beckett says, his voice strained as he pulls, trying to unearth the kirthat, tangled in the roots of the tree that spreads above them. Danal half-rises to help him, but then with a sharp crack, the root gives way and Beckett tumbles over backwards in a spray of dirt and surprisingly filthy-sounding curses.
Teyla unfolds her crossed arms from their resting place atop the butt of the P90 clipped to her tac vest before stepping over to where Beckett lies sprawled over the leaves. He blinks up at her, his eyes very blue and surprised, though why he should be when Teyla knew herself such a thing was likely to happen is beyond her understanding.
But then he grins, widely enough that it engraves dimples deeply into his cheeks, and he suddenly looks a hand-span of years younger. Bowed by the weight of responsibilities and decisions his life had not prepared him to make, he always looks worried, older than his actual age. He holds up the pale green twisted root triumphantly, and it showers a little more dirt down upon him, but he obviously does not mind.
”I trust you are not injured, Dr. Beckett,” she says gravely, though she cannot help the twitch of one corner of her mouth, because for a moment, he makes her think of Jinto when he was very young.
”Ach, no,” he says, and takes Teyla's offered hand. She braces herself, and together, they pull him to his feet, staggering a little as his foot slips on a gnarled tree root. ”Nothing injured but pride, my dear,” he says, brushing dirt from his shirt. He has a smear of it across his cheek, and for a heartbeat Teyla thinks of wiping it away with her thumb, but instead folds her hands together to make them behave.
”I think, perhaps, that as the sun is westering, we should consider heading back toward the village,” Teyla says as Beckett gives Danal the root, who in turn tucks it carefully into a covered basket.
”We've been at it since lunch,” Danal says, standing and shoveling dirt back in around the tree roots. And he does look tired and perhaps a bit paler than he normally does. He turns to make a loud, disapproving ”tcha!” sound at the root-hound, which had begun nosing about the basket. It sits back and cocks its head, pink tongue lolling out, ears perked, and Teyla thinks it looks quite unabashed at the reprimand. ”I think we have enough to show for an afternoon's work.”
”Aye, then. I'm in favor of calling a halt to it. I'm afraid I'm not quite accustomed to physical labor anymore,” Beckett says, and rolls his shoulders. In spite of the growing chill, the short-cropped hair at the nape of his neck is wet with sweat, as is the collar of his tee shirt. ”I'll be quite stiff tomorrow, most likely.”
As he brushes at the dirt on his arms and knees and the seat of his BDUs, Teyla says, ”Perhaps you should have accepted my offer to take my turn at digging. I feel that I have not adequately contributed to the afternoon's tasks.”
”Ah, now don't be thinking that, Teyla,” Beckett replies. ”I found it much easier to work, knowing that you were here with a P90 to keep at bay things with big teeth and claws. Just because I don't often turn my hand to things such as this doesn't mean I can't. Or shouldn't. At any rate, it certainly won't hurt me to expend a few calories.” He grins again, gentle self-depreciation, rubbing his hands together to remove the worst of the dirt.
Teyla does not agree with his assessment; privately she thinks Beckett is a fine example of a man. He is not overly muscular, nor lean, but he has a reassuring solidness, broad like Rodney, and is more than strong enough to do what he does. She is not blind to his appeal: those fine, expressive blue eyes, the generous curve of his often-smiling mouth, his thick dark brown hair beginning to show silver, the broad shoulders, but she has never considered herself so shallow that she bases a person's worth on his appearance. He is highly intelligent, is kind and compassionate, his heart huge, and those are the qualities of most value.
He shrugs into his jacket and shoulders the shovel while Danal gets the basket full of kirthat roots. The scent-hunter bounds ahead of them as they make their way back to Danal's village. Beckett walks ahead with Danal and Teyla takes their six. The Sueltan homeworld is generally a peaceful place; Colonel Sheppard would never have allowed just the three of them here if it were not, but Teyla knows just how often things go awry when the Atlanteans are involved, and so it pays to be constantly watchful. Both doctors, but particularly Dr. Beckett, as their chief physician, are far too valuable assets to risk.
Indeed, it would have been better tactically for Beckett to remain on Atlantis and send Hamas, his assistant, to trade for the kirthat, which can be made into a powerful antibiotic medication, but Teyla understands why Beckett insisted on going himself, though he fusses at both piloting and at gate travel. She thinks he misses contact with people-though he treats everyone in Atlantis, it is not the same as those living ordinary lives, with ordinary concerns. She has heard him say that although he has spent most of his time in research, he spent a short while in a trauma center for the experience, which has certainly proved useful during his time on Atlantis.
As part of their trade, he spent the morning conducting exams for those wishing them, and will do the same tomorrow. Dr. Gasquet has worked all day in the village providing dental care, and like Beckett, will continue tomorrow. It is a fair trade, services for a good variety of useful herbs, and one the Sueltans, favored trading partners of the Athosians, were happy to make. The day after tomorrow, they will return to Atlantis with baskets of kirthat, huge bundles of samsa, good for making a pain-relieving tea, dried prem and sauney berries, both good for making healing ointments, and pratala, especially good for burns. The back of the jumper will smell like autumn in Suelta, sweet and slightly musty, a blessed relief; too often it smells of coppery blood and bitter fear.
§§§
”Perhaps next time you'll be a bit more careful, then, eh?”
Teyla holds the man's leg-his name is Bara, she thinks-carefully, the quick-setting plaster splint still warm beneath her fingers. She moves her hands as needed while Dr. Beckett wraps brown elastic bandages around and around Bara's leg, securing the splint in place, his big hands surprisingly nimble and deft. When he reaches the knee, he fastens the bandages in place with clips and gives Bara's kneecap a little pat.
”Well, I didn't intend to be kicked by the olaka,” Bara says sourly. ”I didn't wake up this morning and say, 'oh yes, I want to have my leg broken today.'”
Beckett grins, and Bara sounds enough like Rodney that Teyla feels her own mouth curve. She eases Bara's leg down to the cloth-covered table that serves as Dr. Beckett's makeshift examination area, and Bara scowls at his swollen toes.
”Aye, well, at least you made it a clean break. Should heal well in...” Beckett pauses in gathering up the plastic wrappers of his supplies and tips his head thoughtfully as he looks at her, ”...Teyla, would you happen to know how six weeks translates into Sueltan time units?”
Teyla thinks for a moment, converting from Atlantean time. ”Four cycles,” she says decisively.
”Thank you,” he says, and turns his attention back to Bara. ”It should be healed in four cycles, as you're otherwise a healthy young man.”
Bara scowls at him. ”How am I supposed to work on my farm?”
”You'll have to have help. You've a handful of brothers if I'm not mistaken, and your people seem to be a friendly sort, so there should be no shortage of those who can offer a hand. I'll speak to Danal before I go in the morning, and see what we can arrange for you. He'll come to visit and check on how you're doing in a couple of days, anyway.”
Beckett stuffs the wrappers into a bag to take back to Atlantis for disposal. ”Put no weight on it, now. I'm serious about that.” When Bara's face takes on a stubborn cast, Beckett's eyes narrow a bit, his chin lifts and his expression firms into one she has seen him use effectively on Rodney at his most difficult. His easy affability fades, quickly changing into the serious sternness of a healer who will not be questioned. ”It will heal nicely if you do as I've instructed. If not, if you muck it up by doing things you oughtn't, it could heal badly, leaving you with a permanent limp, or possibly even an amputation. Listen to what I say, Bara. It's much more difficult farming with only one leg, and I'd rather you weren't forced to do such a thing simply because you were too thick-headed to obey instructions.”
Bara glares at him and Beckett returns it, implacable, arms folded across his chest, and finally it is Bara who looks away. ”Fine. I will do as you tell me.”
”There's a good lad,” Beckett says, and unfolds his arms, reaching out to squeeze Bara's shoulder. ”Now off with you, and keep your leg elevated to reduce the swelling. Take the samsa tea as you need it for pain-it's far better, actually, than anything that I could leave with you.”
Teyla steps aside when Bara's brothers move in, slinging his arms across their shoulders, balancing him as he hops away from the table. One of the brothers coughs, and Beckett frowns at him. ”Hold there, lad,” he says. ”I don't recall examining you, and that cough sounds off.”
The man turns slightly. Definitely Bara's brother, with that fierce slice of nose, Teyla thinks. He makes a dismissive motion. ”Ah, 'tis nothing. I get it every year at this time. Danal gives me tea for it, and it eventually goes away.”
Beckett's frown grows deeper, and Teyla can almost see his mind flipping efficiently through the list of patients he has seen today. If she concentrates, she can remember three people with a cough. None of the patients had any other symptoms and so it had not seemed significant, at least to her. Beckett had listened to them, but let them go after asking them about it and apparently finding no other reason to keep them.
Without waiting for Beckett to say anything else, they begin hobbling out. Halfway to the door Bara stops, and looks over his shoulder. ”I did not thank you, Dr. Beckett. My mother would box my ears for such rudeness. So, thank you.”
”Aye, I know well what you mean. My own mother has a quick hand, herself.” The frown lifts and Beckett smiles and waves before Bara begins hobbling away.
”I must confess, Dr. Beckett, that it amuses me to think that your mother would do such a thing,” Teyla says with a smile. And it does, because Teyla has seen pictures of Dr. Beckett's mother-she is a tiny woman, with the same bright, smiling blue eyes as her son and to think of her smacking the back of her son's head is worth much.
Dr. Beckett laughs, and it is as warm as summer sun on her skin. ”I was quite the handful as a boy. Precocious, and given to speaking my mind when perhaps discretion might've been a better choice. My mother always had just cause, I will say.”
Teyla does not doubt it. For all of Beckett's generally good nature, he does have a sharp tongue when provoked, and does not like it when he is not taken seriously. He is, along with Colonel Sheppard, one of the very few who can handle Rodney at his worst. Although he often seems timid or unsure when he is out of the infirmary or his labs or staff meetings, in those places, his own element, he is not. She has heard Dr. Weir say that he is ”an iron fist in a velvet glove” and although the expression is unfamiliar, the concept is not.
”Is that the last of them, then?” Beckett asks, and Teyla looks around the screens the Sueltans had put up for their privacy. They had set up Beckett's and Gasquet's examination and treatment areas at opposite ends of the large Great Hall. The sunlight that makes it through the thick, rippled glass of the windows is weak, so the doctors have collected a variety of oil lamps to increase the light they require in order to work. Dr. Gasquet has already torn down his area and left, most likely to rest before the feast that will be given this evening in their honor. She does not know Dr. Gasquet well; he had earlier refused her offers of assistance, though he did it with a quick bright smile that made her think of the one Dr. Zelenka uses when he is busy and wishes to be left in peace but does not want to be particularly rude.
”I believe it so, Dr. Beckett,” Teyla replies. ”I see no one else.”
”Thank god,” Beckett says, and when she looks back, she catches him in a backwards stretch, and his black tee shirt rides up, showing her a small bit of soft-looking pale belly with a line of dark hair. She looks away and busies herself with pulling the sheets from the table. ”I could use a bit of a kip before dinner-it's been a long day.”
”We will soon be back in Atlantis, and you will be able to rest in your own bed,” Teyla says.
”Oh, it isn't that,” Beckett replies, coming out of his stretch. ”I'm quite comfortable here. Whilst in residency-that's actual hands-on experience for medical students-we worked insanely long hours. I could go to sleep standing against a wall. Quite literally. I'm merely sore from digging, as I thought I would be.”
He pours hand cleansing gel in his palm and then works it into his skin. The sharp scent makes her nose sting, overriding the comfortable scent of burning anjerel wood in the huge fireplace. He passes her the bottle, and she uses it, though she would much rather use the grass-scented soap the Sueltans make. She glances up to see him watching her with the peculiar piercing intensity he has for everyone, and she opens her mouth to ask him if something is wrong, but then he smiles and turns away to begin packing up all his equipment, his musical voice light and easy as he talks of the upcoming feast and loading the herbs and roots into the jumper and of Danal's skill as a healer.
When they have packed everything away, they pick up the heavy cases and move them all to Beckett's quarters. The Sueltans have lodged them in guest rooms across the hall from one another in the home of Enlyn, the town's leader. The rooms are not large, but warm and comfortable, and Teyla feels safe here.
Together they wrestle all the cases into Beckett's room, leaving them by the door for ease in moving tomorrow. Although Teyla believes they would be safe left in the Great Hall, Dr. Beckett has been particularly careful with all his equipment and medications since the disaster following Ellia's theft and use of untested retrovirus. He cannot change the past, but he will not endanger anyone else through trusting others. It is a wise choice, gained through unfortunate and painful experience, but still Teyla does not like to see how Beckett's open and innate trust of others has been compromised. It seems to have dimmed him, if only a little.
When they have arranged the cases to his satisfaction, Teyla nods at him and steps across the hallway to her own room; a time of rest does seem a good idea. As she opens her door, Dr. Beckett clears his throat, and she turns back. He shifts from one foot to the other, and it catches her eye, because normally, Dr. Beckett does not have many nervous mannerisms. He looks up at her, and the right corner of his mouth crooks upward, deepening the dimple in that cheek. It is unexpectedly charming.
”Thank you, Teyla, for all your assistance in the past two days. I do appreciate what you've done-what you continue to do for all of us. I'm not sure if I ever have said as much, but I'm very glad you're with us on Atlantis.”
Warmth gathers in her chest. She does not expect the approval or gratitude of others, but it is always pleasant to receive it on occasion. ”You are welcome, Dr. Beckett. I am glad to have made my home with your people, and have come to like as well as respect and admire those around me. You have...always treated me with kindness and respect, and for that I am most grateful. Your friendship has always meant much to me.”
Beckett has a mobile, lively face, and in that moment, several expressions chase across it, too quickly for Teyla to catch the tail of any of them, but the one that finally settles across his features is pleased, with a wash of something else she cannot easily define. He is not as easily-read as Rodney, though far easier than Colonel Sheppard, who masks everything behind an easy affability. ”Thank you, Teyla,” he says simply, and steps back into his room. ”I'll see you later. Rest well, dear.”
The door closes behind him, gently. For a moment Teyla's attention remains fixed on it, her mind turning in curious circles. It had seemed as if he wanted to say something but had at the last moment decided he should not. He is not a man given to holding his tongue if it is important, so she dismisses it; if he wishes to say something, he shall, eventually. She turns to her own room, thinking a small nap might be just the perfect thing before the celebration tonight.
§§§
The sun the next morning is sharp and bright, the air crisp against Teyla's cheeks, and the scent of burning wood fragrant. Teyla feels invigorated; she has always loved the autumn best of all the seasons, and in Atlantis, always encased in a metal shell, one day feels much like the next, so this is a gift.
Drs. Beckett and Gasquet do not find the morning quite so cheerful or energizing, and Teyla hides a smile. She had warned them last night of the strength of the ale, but most foolishly, they had not heeded her. Dr. Beckett wears sunglasses against the brightness, and Dr. Gasquet is pale and withdrawn, his brow creasing with every loud noise. Unfortunately, loading the cases of medical equipment and supplies on the back of a big olaka-drawn wagon to take back to the jumper is not quiet work-the chatter of those helping to load baskets and bundles of herbs, and the ear-piercing squalling of the olaka are enough to make even her head pound, and she had not had nearly as much ale as they had.
Dr. Gasquet swears low and continuously in his own language, his voice rough. Teyla takes mercy on him and steps over to help him load his trunks. He frowns at her, evidently decides it makes his head hurt too much to bother arguing with her, and allows her to help him. She had been puzzled at first by the Atlantean men's initial reluctance to let her help lift, push, or pull heavy objects, and more than a little insulted, especially as she is stronger than many of them. After she had spoken sharply to more than one on that matter, Dr. Weir had pulled her aside to explain chivalry, and while she had understood the concept, though she came to understand they truly meant no insult, still, it had grated on her. She is not an invalid, not a child, not weak and in need of either protection or for someone to take her share of the work. Almost all of them have finally accepted this, though occasionally she still finds one, like Dr. Gasquet, who still believes otherwise.
”Ach.” After Dr. Beckett loads the last of his cases, he leans against the high sides of the wagon, pressing his forehead against his folded arms. ”I think there is not enough acetaminophen in the entire bloody universe to help my head,” he says, his voice muffled. ”May the lord have mercy on my wretched soul.”
The exposed nape of his neck looks curiously vulnerable, and Teyla has the sudden urge to run her fingertips along the smooth line, from the collar of his field jacket to the prickle of short hair at his hairline. She knows now that his dark brown hair is very thick and crisp-springy against her fingertips instead of soft, like it looks. She knows what he feels like, loose-limbed and lax and heavy against her. She knows how her arms feel around him, knows what he smells like, masculine and musky, overlaid with the contrasting scents of alcohol and woodsmoke. She knows how the backs of his fingers feel stroking down her cheek, so gently. She knows how dark his eyes can get.
She knows all these things because she had helped him to bed last night after he had drank far too much at the feast. They had careened from one wall to the other in Enlyn's home, her arms tightly around him, attempting to hold him steady, one of his arms draped heavily over her shoulders. It had taken three tries to get the door to his room open and stagger through it, bouncing off the door jambs, and once in, it was more a controlled fall in the direction of his bed than anything resembling walking. He had landed mostly on the bed, but enough on her that it had knocked the breath momentarily from her.
It had taken determined wriggling to slide from beneath him because evidently, he was an affectionate drunk, all carelessly-thrown arms and legs and happy murmurs in his own rolling tongue. Once she had gotten free, an easy task as he was pliable and amiably agreeable, she had tugged off his boots, thrown a blanket over him against the night chill and left him to sleep away the ale, intending to return to her own room and the warmth of her bed there. As she reached the door, she had paused when he had called her name.
He had draped an arm over his eyes, but moved it aside when she returned to stand over him. His eyes had opened, hazy and dark, almost all pupil, and his fair cheeks had flushed brightly.
”Ah, Teyla,” he had said softly, his words almost unintelligible between his thickened accent and the slur of drink. ”Such a very lovely young lady you are. So intelligent. So gifted.” He had raised a hand, and she had not shied away-this was after all Dr. Beckett, who could never harm her in any way-and he had trailed the backs of his fingers down her cheek, a surprisingly sweet, gentle touch.
She had caught his hand as his thumb had traced just beneath her lower lip, eased it down upon his stomach. ”You must sleep now, Dr. Beckett,” she had said, and he had let out a deep, soulful sigh.
”Aye, indeed,” he had replied softly. ”Sleep. Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care,” he had said and although she had not been certain, it had sounded more like something from a poem or song than an original observation. ”It is all I am allowed, after all, and precious little even of that.” He had rolled over and a moment later, despite his words, she had heard his breathing even out. Teyla had not been certain then, nor as she ate breakfast this morning, exactly why she had run her hand through his hair and over his shoulder before leaving him to his rest, but it had seemed the right thing to do.
Teyla blinks, back to the present as Beckett pushes away from the wagon. ”Well, now, let's be done with this,” he says, businesslike even though he has a line etched between his eyebrows. ”Teyla, Dr. Gasquet, have we everything loaded?”
Gasquet mutters what sounded like an affirmative in his own language, and then Beckett runs his hand over everything in the wagon to be certain it had been well-secured, though they all had seen one of the younger Sueltans crawling all over, tying everything down not a moment before.
Danal appears at the corner of the wagon. He looks as pale as Dr. Gasquet if not more so, enough that Teyla steps forward, concerned. ”Danal. Are you ill?”
”I'm fine, Teyla,” he says, and makes an effort to smile, though it falls far short of the usual brilliance of his smiles. ”I'd think that after all these years, I'd learn my tolerance for ale.”
Teyla frowns, although the ale truly had flowed quite freely last night. But as many times as she has traded with the Sueltans, she has never seen Danal drink to excess. ”If you say as much,” Teyla replies, ”then I have little choice but to believe you, as you are after all the healer and not I.”
”Very true, and how I wish my patients could hear your words so they would cease arguing with me.” Danal pats her arm, and bends his head down to touch her forehead with his. ”Bright days to you, Teyla Emmagen. Thank you for bringing the healers to us-it was indeed a good trade.”
”You are more than welcome, Danal,” she says, and pulls back with a smile. ”May we trade again soon.”
Danal steps over to Dr. Beckett, who immediately pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head. Teyla approves; only by looking into a man's eyes can one see him truly, and Dr. Beckett understands this, though the light clearly pains his aching head. He is clearly not quite certain of the type of farewell customs the Sueltans use, but he appears open and friendly.
Danal grasps both forearms of Dr. Beckett and squeezes gently, pressing his left cheek to Beckett's right, then pulls back, and Beckett repeats the gesture, a little awkwardly, though Teyla gives him credit for the effort. The Atlanteans are not much given to ritual touching, she has noted.
”Many thanks to you, Dr. Beckett,” Danal says formally. ”It is always a pleasure to work with healers from other worlds, and your gifts, your medicines, are strong. I only hope that you will return and share with us again. I think there is much we can learn from one another.”
”Aye, there is,” Beckett replies, ”and I would be very pleased to return once more. I'll talk to our leader, Dr. Weir, about arranging more regular visits.”
”Bright days to you, Dr. Beckett,” Danal says, and moves away to speak to Dr. Gasquet in much the same way.
Dr. Beckett stands for a moment watching Danal, a little frown tugging at his mouth, but then pulls the sunglasses back down onto his nose, and some of the tension in his shoulders visibly melts away. He hops onto the back of the wagon with surprising grace and makes himself comfortable amongst the herbs, his feet dangling slightly off the ground. Teyla sees Dr. Gasquet climb onto the front seat of the wagon with the driver-evidently he had won the right to ride there in a quick little hand game Beckett called ”rock-paper-scissors,” a game not very different than the ones Athosian children play--leaving Beckett to ride with her in the back. She does not mind, as Beckett is generally more cheerful and talkative than Dr. Gasquet.
Teyla hops up beside Beckett and settles in just in time before the wagon lurches forward, the driver clucking to the olakas drawing it. It will take almost one Atlantean hour to return to where the jumper lies parked and cloaked.
Beckett leans back, cushioning his head against a sheaf of dried herbs. He is so quiet for a moment that Teyla thinks he has fallen asleep much in the same way he had told her yesterday, and her eyes track over the bright, golden countryside, storing up the memory for the days when she is so weary of metal walls that she thinks she will suffocate, unable to draw a full breath. When her attention returns to him, he stirs.
”I'm not quite sure,” he says hesitantly, ”if I have anything I should apologize for.”
He still wears the sunglasses, but Teyla knows he watches her. She would prefer to see his eyes, but he is clearly embarrassed, fearing the worst of his own behavior last night. ”No, you have done nothing for which you should feel shame. You were...affectionate, but not overly so.”
Color flushes across his pale cheeks, and he rubs at the back of his neck. ”Well, that's a blessing, at least. Though I suspect had I gotten too fresh, I wouldn't be able even to move now.”
”Fresh?” Teyla cocks her head curiously. The Atlanteans have many sayings and most of them make little sense to her, determined by a culture vastly different from her own.
”'Fresh' means. Um. Sexually aggressive.” Beckett looks as if he would rather be anywhere but sitting beside her, that if he tries hard enough, he can will himself into invisibility.
”Ah. Then no, Dr. Beckett, you were not...'fresh.' I can assure you of that.” She thinks back to the night before. ”If anything, you were more melancholic.”
He makes a little snorting noise. ”I'm a Scot,” he says, as if that should explain everything.
Teyla decides to let that slide away and ask later what it means. ”I do have a question to ask of you, if you would not mind to answer.”
”Ah.” He pushes up the sunglasses and scrubs at his face with one hand. He looks very worn, face rough with night beard and violet smears beneath his eyes. ”I suppose I could at least listen to the question. Go on, then.”
Teyla pauses. Perhaps she should have asked last night, but he had fallen asleep before she could, and it is perhaps too intimate a question for the unforgiving light of day. Beckett, in spite of his easy, friendly charm, is a very private person, and for all the times they've worked together in Atlantis and offworld, they have never before spoken of truly personal matters. Perhaps they should not now, but he has proved to be a staunch, loyal friend, and he so obviously felt pain last night; she wishes to help if she can.
But before she can ask, she catches movement out of the corner of her eye, and she snaps to attention, hands firmly on her P90. From behind them, mounted on one of the ungainly-looking but surprisingly fleet olakas, comes a rider from town. As he draws closer, she can see it is Aral, one of Enlyn's sons. Beckett calls to the wagon-driver to stop, and she slides from the cart, alert and at ready, centered.
”Dr. Beckett,” Aral calls as he reins in his mount with a spray of dirt. ”Dr. Beckett, we need you to return if you can,” he says breathlessly. ”Danal has fallen suddenly ill, and we need you to return. I don't think he's the only one, either. Please.”
The weariness slides away from Beckett as Teyla turns to look at him, replaced by that piercing intensity. She has seen him transform like this before, his own personal problems fading away, replaced by a crisp, cool professionalism that calms everyone around him, that makes them believe he can heal them, save them. He reaches into the back of the cart and pulls out his backpack of most-used supplies and shoulders into it.
”How many?” he asks. Teyla had wondered why so few had been there to say goodbye to them; usually the Sueltans are an effusive people, their farewells cheerful and enthusiastic. She had simply attributed it to far too much ale the night before. Evidently, she had been very wrong.
”I'm not sure. Many. Mother sent me after you in the hopes you'd not yet returned to your home world. Danal collapsed a few moments after you left, and his apprentice is worried. His breathing does not sound good.”
”Can you take me back more quickly on this...thing?” Beckett gestures at the long-legged olaka.
”Yes. Hop on.” Aral kicks out of a stirrup, and Beckett puts his foot into it. Teyla pushes, Aral pulls, and Beckett manages to scramble on behind the young man, the beast skittering nervously to one side.
”I shall go on to the Gate and contact Dr. Weir to inform her that we will be late. Do you wish me to ask for assistance?” She seizes the leg of Beckett's BDUs and pulls hard to keep him from sliding off the other side of the olaka.
Beckett takes handfuls of Aral's tunic to anchor himself in place. ”No. Not until I see what's going on here. He said there were several ill, and if it's an epidemic, I'd rather not bring in anyone else to become infected. Send supplies, though. Speaking of which, hand me that black case. It has a portable liquid oxygen unit. Sounds like I'll be needing it. Have Atlantis send more.”
Teyla pries out the indicated case from the others, and hands it up to Beckett. ”I understand. As quickly as I can, I will bring back the wagon and Dr. Gasquet,” Teyla says.
She sees movement from the corner of her eye, and Dr. Gasquet hops from the wagon, dragging a backpack with him and says, ”Wait, Beckett. Here. I have extra protective gear here-masks and gloves and gowns. If it's airborne, we're probably already contaminated, but if not, you'll need them.”
”Thanks, man,” Beckett says, and then Aral wheels the beast around, sending them pelting toward town.
§§§
”Dr. Biro is on call in the infirmary now. Do you need for me to send her?” Dr. Weir's voice sounds calm, but concerned on the radio link.
Before Teyla shimmers the blue event horizon, rippling gently as if the breeze that tugs at her hair disturbs its surface as well.
”No, Dr. Beckett was quite firm about not sending anyone else in the event that it is truly an epidemic. He did ask for additional supplies, but I am not sure what that constitutes. Dr. Gasquet, would you perhaps know what Dr. Beckett would need?”
Dr. Gasquet frowns at her. ”I'm a dentist--what would I know?” When Teyla looks at him levelly, he says, ”Very well. At least intravenous start kits and fluids. Beckett did say to send liquid oxygen setups, as many as possible. Respiratory treatment supplies as well, I would imagine. Some wide-spectrum antibiotics would not be amiss.”
”Thank you, Dr. Gasquet. Why don't I speak with Dr. Biro, and see what else she recommends.” Dr. Weir replies smoothly. ”Teyla, I'm going to close down the Gate until we have all the supplies at hand and ready to send to you. Will you be all right until then?”
”I believe so,” Teyla says. ”We have a large wagon here, and we can unload it while we wait. There is also a ramp leading down from the Gate, so if you put the supplies on wheeled carts, you could just push them through without exposing anyone else.”
”We'll rig up something like that. In half an hour, we should have everything gathered, and we'll open up the Gate again to send it through.”
Teyla glances at her watch. ”That should be good. I will expect to hear from you then.”
”Weir out.” The event horizon flashes, and disappears.
Teyla turns back to the wagon, and they start planning what and where to unload. By the time they have done that and sorted through things, the Gate blooms into existence, and Atlantis begins sending through carts of supplies. With the last cart comes a figure clad in one of the big blue-grey containment suits, carrying a duffle bag. Teyla feels Malan, their driver, stiffen beside her, hand reaching for the knife at his belt, but he stops as he evidently realizes that Teyla and Dr. Gasquet are not reacting in alarm. It is not until the figure turns that Teyla can see the face behind the clear plexiglass face shield. Glasses, lank light-colored hair, a bright, curious expression.
”Dr. Biro,” Teyla says, somewhat surprised. ”Dr. Beckett was quite insistent that no one come through.”
”Men,” the doctor says with a roll of her eyes, ”they think they can handle everything themselves. I'll deal with Carson, don't worry. Besides,” she says with a wave of her gloved hand, ”I think I'm more than adequately protected, here.” Her voice has a tinny sound from the comm unit of the suit. Already she sweats; Teyla knows from experience just how hot it is within the suits.
”Teyla.” It is Dr. Weir's voice in her earpiece. ”Obviously, you're getting help whether Carson wanted it or not. I suspect that if it is something major, he'll be very glad to see her. I'd like for you to report back in six hours-that should give them a chance to see what's going on. But if you need help before then, dial us up, and we'll be glad to help.”
”Understood, Dr. Weir. And thank you.” Teyla cuts the radio, and the wormhole closes.
While Teyla had felt curiously abandoned when Dr. Beckett handed her personal medical care over to Biro about a year and a half ago, she understands the reasoning for his actions. He cannot truly care for everyone, and it is more logical to divide patients amongst all the physicians in order to provide the best care for all. Besides, she has grown to like Dr. Biro, who says exactly what she thinks when she thinks it-not to the degree of Rodney, of course, because no one is that brutally frank-and who is friendly and assertive. Biro has always dealt well and fairly with her.
Biro goes through all their supplies quickly, her questions unceasing. Most of them Teyla cannot answer, though she does think to tell her of the people with the coughs, to which Biro makes a thoughtful humming sound. When things are to Biro's satisfaction, they drive back in to town.
They are on the outskirts when Teyla radios Beckett to tell him they have brought the requested supplies.
”Aye, that's good,” he says, and sounds distracted. ”Bring everything to the Great Hall. That's where I've set up my ward. No, man, over there,” he says, obviously speaking with someone else.
”How are things there?”
”Busy. Come along now, I need another set of hands here. Beckett out.”
He clicks off abruptly, and Teyla turns to Malan. ”Please take us to the Great Hall. Dr. Biro, he sounds very busy. No doubt he will be most pleased to see you.”
”I doubt that,” Biro says with a grin. ”Given that I went against his direct order. But he'll change his mind soon enough. No one ever turns down help.”
Biro then insists they all dress in the gowns, gloves and masks she had brought with her for their own protection, though Teyla wonders what use it is to do so if they have already been exposed to whatever disease affects the Sueltans. When they pull up before the Great Hall, Dr. Biro is out of the wagon almost before it stops moving, her movements made more awkward by the suit, and Teyla seizes two bags and follows on her heels. Any of the medical staff of Atlantis, any healer she has known, have never hesitated to plunge in and help others, regardless of the danger to themselves. Bravery, Teyla knows, does not merely mean meeting a foe on a battlefield.
Yesterday the Great Hall had been calm save for the occasional crying of babies or young children, and later, the revelry of a feast, but today, it is quite different. Dr. Beckett and the Sueltans have set up cots all along the outside perimeter of the hall, and a dismayingly large number of them have found occupants. Teyla sees pale faces, flushed faces, sweaty faces, hears coughing, hears wheezes, hears hacking into cloths, hears retching. The smell of sweat, of sickness, lies heavy in the air.
They thread through the people bringing in sick friends and relatives, through those helping as they can, to reach Dr. Beckett, who kneels beside the cot of a young woman, inserting an IV quickly into her arm, his face creased in concentration.
Dr. Biro waits until he tapes down the IV, and then says, ”It's just like you, Carson, to hog all the fun for yourself.”
Beckett's head swings up, and he blinks in surprise, then frowns, the expression clear even though the lower half of his face remains hidden behind one of the surgical masks. ”Anne. I thought I said...”
”You say a lot of things, many of which I cheerfully ignore. Shut up and accept the help,” Biro says pleasantly. ”I can do triage for a while, since it's a madhouse, but actually, I might be more help in starting an analysis of whatever this might be.” She looks around at those lying in beds.
For a moment Beckett looks as if he wishes to say something else, perhaps something sharp, but then clearly realizes it is foolish to argue over her presence as she is already here in the midst of it all. ”That would be lovely. It's a good idea, as I've rather had my hands full since returning here.” He turns back to his patient, pats the woman's shoulder and offers her a smile, then rises and turns to them.
”You look like hell,” Biro says, tipping her head to study him critically. ”You're not sick, are you?”
”No, just hung over,” Beckett says shortly, stripping off his latex gloves as he leads them away to a quieter corner. He strips off the gown as well, tucking them into one of the large hazardous waste bags they always bring with them from Atlantis. He scrubs his hands with soap and water as he speaks. ”Yesterday, while doing exams, I'd noted a few coughs, but nothing seemed really significant. It seems to have become so, relatively quickly. Patients present with inconsistent symptoms-cough, fever, malaise, nausea, myalgia, tachypnea, headache, sore throat-in any and every combination. It's odd, aye.”
Biro nods. ”It could be any of dozens of Earth-similar organisms. Pity we don't have an epidemiologist on staff-would've come in handy. But, we'll figure out what it is. In the meantime, Gasquet knows how to start an IV, right? I'll put him on that and in getting people settled in. I'll start in on the labwork, run some basic tests. I brought in equipment I thought might be useful.” She turns away, and strides toward the door, a small bundle of determination.
Beckett pours more of the disinfectant gel into his hands and then redresses in a fresh gown and gloves and mask. He does, as Biro said, 'look like hell,' what she can see of his face pale and his eyes reddened, a line engraved between his brows. Teyla reaches out and puts her hand on his forearm, fingers tightening slightly, offering a bit of comfort. ”What can I do to help you, Dr. Beckett?”
”Firstly, remove all your iso gear, wash, and disinfect. Then,” he says, tearing off several pills from two different strips of foil-packed meds as she does as he had instructed, ”let me take a sample of your blood and get a throat swab. After, I want you to gear back up, take these, one of each every six hours. They're antiviral medications and broad-spectrum antibiotics. I'm not sure exactly what we're dealing with here, but there's nothing like striking the first blow of the battle, right?” He disappears for a moment, returns, and takes several vials of her blood and uses a swab on the back of her throat. Afterward, as she dresses in the gear again, he unzips the bags she had brought with her and sets them on a long table to see what is there. ”Bless you for bringing supplies. I hadn't enough with me in my pack, just the basic things.”
”There are many more crates from Atlantis outside, including a naquadah generator for powering the equipment they sent. Perhaps I could get everything unloaded, then organize it for you. I am not skilled in more than rudimentary health care, and you have others to do that.”
”A naquadah generator, eh? That's a bit of overkill, I'd say. And I'll wager Rodney almost had a calf at having to give it up to us.” He picks out a handful of packages of tubing, needles, and a couple of bags of fluid. ”I'll appreciate anything you can do,” Beckett replies. Though she cannot see the corner of his mouth curling up, she can see the little lines at the corner of his eyes deepen a bit. But it is a tired, half-hearted attempt at a smile. And then he is gone again, diving back into the milling crowd, calling for Rhan, Danal's apprentice.
Teyla is an organizer by inclination; she likes order, likes for things to make sense, though they so seldom do. So she finds Malan, and together they unload the wagon, stacking the boxes around and beneath the long feast tables in the Great Hall. She unloads everything, and sets out like items in neat rows or piles for ease of use. The medical equipment is too complex-she has no idea what most of it is, and so merely opens the cases for the doctors to do with as they will.
And lastly is the naquadah generator, and she firmly squelches down the little wriggle of discomfort at the sight. It looks so small and innocuous in its box, but she well remembers the power it possesses from the time Colonel Sheppard set one off above Atlantis to shut down the nanovirus with an EMP wave. But no matter how nervous it makes her, it is still the simplest way to provide the power they need. Teyla does not read any of their languages very well; life has been far too hectic to allow anything but the most cursory of an education. But the engineers have provided a clear and easy to understand color-coded diagram for her to use in setting up a power center, and at the bottom of the diagram is Rodney's blocky script: Don't be stupid and blow yourself up. Biro had told her that if Teyla could do the basics, she could connect everything else, and it should be fairly simple; the generators are, as Rodney has said, fairly idiot-proof, and after the nanovirus incident, Rodney had given all the command staff a demonstration as to how to connect and disconnect them safely, in the event that he or any of his staff could not. She had not liked the implications of that, but acknowledged that it was indeed good to know how to do such things. Knowledge is never wasted; it will serve her well this day.
After she has done that, she begins helping people settle into beds, giving them water, sponging them off if they are hot or nauseated, offering what smiles and kind words she has to comfort. Danal's condition is of particular concern; he does not look well at all, and has difficulty breathing, though he now has oxygen. Teyla stops to speak quietly to him, to hold his hand, to smooth the white hair from his flushed, fiery face, but he works too hard at drawing each breath to do more than lie with eyes closed.
Beckett and Biro thread in and out of her attention, working quickly and on the surface, calmly. Biro checks over the generator and the simplified power station and then sets up the lab equipment before settling in with her samples. Beckett is much more difficult to track, always in motion, but when she catches him in passing and gets a terse report of the current situation from him, she can almost feel the concern and worry radiating from him. She then finds a saddled olaka, rides out to the Gate, dials in, and gives Dr. Weir his assessment of the situation. Beckett does not think it looks promising, given the speed at which this disease has developed and spread, but he will have more to say in the next day, after Biro completes some of her analysis and study. At the moment they are busy dealing with simply getting everyone settled and as stable as possible as they come in for help.
It is fully dark by the time she returns, and there are even more patients in the Great Hall than before. Teyla recognizes faces she had seen looking fine and healthy not even two days ago. She has seen illnesses spread through her people, though indeed not this quickly, and although she does not have any of the healer's arts, she knows that the faster a disease runs through a village, the worse the illness usually is. Fear settles low in her belly, hard and cold, because she loves the Sueltans, has many friends amongst them, and would not see them survive repeated cullings of the Wraith only to die in a plague.
Beckett stands over a man, running one of the Ancient medical scanners over his body, frowning fiercely all the while at whatever the screen tells him. He scribbles notes on a piece of the thick local paper, and tucks it into a little bag tied to the foot of the bed, a way, Teyla supposes, to avoid losing his notes.
When he turns away, Teyla sees he looks even more tired than he did before, but then he has been working constantly since mid-morning. He blinks his reddened eyes, bringing up one hand to rub, stopping the motion halfway there as he clearly realizes what he is about to do, but when Rhan steps up to him, Beckett's shoulders square a little, and he offers a half smile, tilting his head to listen to whatever Rhan has to say.
When her own belly grumbles, she realizes that she has not eaten since early morning. She changes out her gear again-Beckett had been very emphatic about not leaving the ward or returning to it without doing so, and changing between each patient, with all the attendant washing and disinfecting-and follows her nose to the kitchen of the Great Hall. It is a huge place that smells wonderfully of spicy stew and fresh bread, peopled by those volunteering to help, supplying food for the workers and broth and bread for the patients. When Teyla explains she would be grateful if they would give her food for Dr. Beckett, as he has not eaten since the night before, they comply happily, for he has become well-liked in a short period of time and they are grateful for his help now. They load a tray with two bowls of the stew-her belly had growled again, embarrassingly-a chunk of bread, a quarter wheel of cheese, and a pot of fragrant hot tea.
Part Two
Author: Deirdre
Pairing: Teyla/Carson
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 30,222
Betae: rosewildeirish, kyrdwyn Alpha reading and endless encouragement by mice1900, sithdragn, and dark_cygnet.
Summary: That best portion of a good man's life/His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
Author's Notes: Written for the sga_santa secret santa ficathon. Recipient: hermioneorourke, who requested "Teyla/Rodney/Carson, or any version of it." Well. Two out of three ain't bad, as the song says.
The Best Portion
by Deirdre
November, 2006
That best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
William Wordsworth
When they had stepped out of the back of the jumper onto Suelta, it had been early morning, the air crisp and cold with autumn, everything painted with a sharp silver-white wash of frost. It had crackled loudly beneath her boots, and the scent of icy leaves and grasses, keen as a fine blade, had risen to her nose. For a moment Teyla had been reminded of Athos, could remember standing at the door of her dwelling wrapped in a warm blanket and the even warmer arms of Kathal, watching the sun rise over the far hills white with snow. She'd smiled at the memory, then carefully tucked it away into the box in her mind that held all such treasures. Dr. Beckett had closed the jumper hatch, cloaked it, and Teyla had fallen into step with him and Dr. Gasquet, the expedition's dentist, as they strode toward the village, Beckett's breath a white cloud around him as he spoke of nothing and everything, very much like Rodney and yet not.
And now it is late afternoon, and the sun slides toward rest. Autumn lies golden on the hills like a sleek cat sunning itself beneath the skies, and the breeze lifts her hair away from her neck, flips the ripening leaves on the trees from scarlet to gold, from purple to lavender, from russet to tan. Overhead a small treebiter and an orange-feathered skimmer chatter angrily, squabbling in the branches above them, and a couple of leaves float down. One lands on Dr. Beckett's broad shoulder, bright golden against the blackness of his tee shirt, and flutters downward, skimming over the bunch of biceps as he wields the small shovel, then flutters to the churned dark earth beside his left boot. Teyla's eyes watch the roll of shoulders as Beckett works; she had never before today paid heed to how strong, how solid he is, as he hides always beneath his long white physican's coat or the bulk of his mission jacket and tac vest. Somehow it makes her restless, looking at the strength of his bared arms and his thick thighs beneath black BDUs, and she glances away, quickly, scanning the forest for any signs of danger.
Danal's voice rises in a laugh and when Teyla looks back, he is tugging at Beckett's wrist, pulling him down to kneel in the rich black forest loam, and their fingers scrabble for the curving, twisting roots of the kirthat. Their heads, dark and silver, are close together, and Beckett's laughter, rich and warm, twines with Danal's higher tones as Danal's trained root-hunter tries to dig with them, yelping in apparent happiness, long floppy ears bouncing in their faces.
”Away with you, crazy thing,” Danal says fondly, and gently pushes the brown and cream spotted animal aside. He breaks off a piece of root and gives it a toss over his shoulder, and the creature leaps over Danal's bent back in pursuit of the root, yipping before finding the root and settling down to gnaw at it.
”Back on my planet,” Beckett says, ”we have similar animals-well, perhaps not exactly similar, as yours is more like a hound than ours, which is more of a...well, no actually in fact, a swine, yes-which we use to hunt a specific kind of fungus which we call truffles. They're quite the delicacy on my world.” He has a lovely voice, Teyla thinks, not for the first time, low and rolling and musical, his accent different than either Rodney's or Colonel Sheppard's, or Dr. Zelenka's, strangely soothing, and yet not. ”Teyla, do the Athosians have anything like this?”
”I am afraid not, Dr. Beckett,” she replies. ”We have traditionally had very few domesticated animals, given our nomadic way of life. We do have hunting cats-I believe Colonel Sheppard called them panthers?--although not much else. Other peoples like us do have small herds, but we have always found it much easier without them, preferring to hunt or trade for what we need. Our interest in farming and herding is actually quite recent.”
”Ah, give it up, you damn bloody thing,” Beckett says, his voice strained as he pulls, trying to unearth the kirthat, tangled in the roots of the tree that spreads above them. Danal half-rises to help him, but then with a sharp crack, the root gives way and Beckett tumbles over backwards in a spray of dirt and surprisingly filthy-sounding curses.
Teyla unfolds her crossed arms from their resting place atop the butt of the P90 clipped to her tac vest before stepping over to where Beckett lies sprawled over the leaves. He blinks up at her, his eyes very blue and surprised, though why he should be when Teyla knew herself such a thing was likely to happen is beyond her understanding.
But then he grins, widely enough that it engraves dimples deeply into his cheeks, and he suddenly looks a hand-span of years younger. Bowed by the weight of responsibilities and decisions his life had not prepared him to make, he always looks worried, older than his actual age. He holds up the pale green twisted root triumphantly, and it showers a little more dirt down upon him, but he obviously does not mind.
”I trust you are not injured, Dr. Beckett,” she says gravely, though she cannot help the twitch of one corner of her mouth, because for a moment, he makes her think of Jinto when he was very young.
”Ach, no,” he says, and takes Teyla's offered hand. She braces herself, and together, they pull him to his feet, staggering a little as his foot slips on a gnarled tree root. ”Nothing injured but pride, my dear,” he says, brushing dirt from his shirt. He has a smear of it across his cheek, and for a heartbeat Teyla thinks of wiping it away with her thumb, but instead folds her hands together to make them behave.
”I think, perhaps, that as the sun is westering, we should consider heading back toward the village,” Teyla says as Beckett gives Danal the root, who in turn tucks it carefully into a covered basket.
”We've been at it since lunch,” Danal says, standing and shoveling dirt back in around the tree roots. And he does look tired and perhaps a bit paler than he normally does. He turns to make a loud, disapproving ”tcha!” sound at the root-hound, which had begun nosing about the basket. It sits back and cocks its head, pink tongue lolling out, ears perked, and Teyla thinks it looks quite unabashed at the reprimand. ”I think we have enough to show for an afternoon's work.”
”Aye, then. I'm in favor of calling a halt to it. I'm afraid I'm not quite accustomed to physical labor anymore,” Beckett says, and rolls his shoulders. In spite of the growing chill, the short-cropped hair at the nape of his neck is wet with sweat, as is the collar of his tee shirt. ”I'll be quite stiff tomorrow, most likely.”
As he brushes at the dirt on his arms and knees and the seat of his BDUs, Teyla says, ”Perhaps you should have accepted my offer to take my turn at digging. I feel that I have not adequately contributed to the afternoon's tasks.”
”Ah, now don't be thinking that, Teyla,” Beckett replies. ”I found it much easier to work, knowing that you were here with a P90 to keep at bay things with big teeth and claws. Just because I don't often turn my hand to things such as this doesn't mean I can't. Or shouldn't. At any rate, it certainly won't hurt me to expend a few calories.” He grins again, gentle self-depreciation, rubbing his hands together to remove the worst of the dirt.
Teyla does not agree with his assessment; privately she thinks Beckett is a fine example of a man. He is not overly muscular, nor lean, but he has a reassuring solidness, broad like Rodney, and is more than strong enough to do what he does. She is not blind to his appeal: those fine, expressive blue eyes, the generous curve of his often-smiling mouth, his thick dark brown hair beginning to show silver, the broad shoulders, but she has never considered herself so shallow that she bases a person's worth on his appearance. He is highly intelligent, is kind and compassionate, his heart huge, and those are the qualities of most value.
He shrugs into his jacket and shoulders the shovel while Danal gets the basket full of kirthat roots. The scent-hunter bounds ahead of them as they make their way back to Danal's village. Beckett walks ahead with Danal and Teyla takes their six. The Sueltan homeworld is generally a peaceful place; Colonel Sheppard would never have allowed just the three of them here if it were not, but Teyla knows just how often things go awry when the Atlanteans are involved, and so it pays to be constantly watchful. Both doctors, but particularly Dr. Beckett, as their chief physician, are far too valuable assets to risk.
Indeed, it would have been better tactically for Beckett to remain on Atlantis and send Hamas, his assistant, to trade for the kirthat, which can be made into a powerful antibiotic medication, but Teyla understands why Beckett insisted on going himself, though he fusses at both piloting and at gate travel. She thinks he misses contact with people-though he treats everyone in Atlantis, it is not the same as those living ordinary lives, with ordinary concerns. She has heard him say that although he has spent most of his time in research, he spent a short while in a trauma center for the experience, which has certainly proved useful during his time on Atlantis.
As part of their trade, he spent the morning conducting exams for those wishing them, and will do the same tomorrow. Dr. Gasquet has worked all day in the village providing dental care, and like Beckett, will continue tomorrow. It is a fair trade, services for a good variety of useful herbs, and one the Sueltans, favored trading partners of the Athosians, were happy to make. The day after tomorrow, they will return to Atlantis with baskets of kirthat, huge bundles of samsa, good for making a pain-relieving tea, dried prem and sauney berries, both good for making healing ointments, and pratala, especially good for burns. The back of the jumper will smell like autumn in Suelta, sweet and slightly musty, a blessed relief; too often it smells of coppery blood and bitter fear.
§§§
”Perhaps next time you'll be a bit more careful, then, eh?”
Teyla holds the man's leg-his name is Bara, she thinks-carefully, the quick-setting plaster splint still warm beneath her fingers. She moves her hands as needed while Dr. Beckett wraps brown elastic bandages around and around Bara's leg, securing the splint in place, his big hands surprisingly nimble and deft. When he reaches the knee, he fastens the bandages in place with clips and gives Bara's kneecap a little pat.
”Well, I didn't intend to be kicked by the olaka,” Bara says sourly. ”I didn't wake up this morning and say, 'oh yes, I want to have my leg broken today.'”
Beckett grins, and Bara sounds enough like Rodney that Teyla feels her own mouth curve. She eases Bara's leg down to the cloth-covered table that serves as Dr. Beckett's makeshift examination area, and Bara scowls at his swollen toes.
”Aye, well, at least you made it a clean break. Should heal well in...” Beckett pauses in gathering up the plastic wrappers of his supplies and tips his head thoughtfully as he looks at her, ”...Teyla, would you happen to know how six weeks translates into Sueltan time units?”
Teyla thinks for a moment, converting from Atlantean time. ”Four cycles,” she says decisively.
”Thank you,” he says, and turns his attention back to Bara. ”It should be healed in four cycles, as you're otherwise a healthy young man.”
Bara scowls at him. ”How am I supposed to work on my farm?”
”You'll have to have help. You've a handful of brothers if I'm not mistaken, and your people seem to be a friendly sort, so there should be no shortage of those who can offer a hand. I'll speak to Danal before I go in the morning, and see what we can arrange for you. He'll come to visit and check on how you're doing in a couple of days, anyway.”
Beckett stuffs the wrappers into a bag to take back to Atlantis for disposal. ”Put no weight on it, now. I'm serious about that.” When Bara's face takes on a stubborn cast, Beckett's eyes narrow a bit, his chin lifts and his expression firms into one she has seen him use effectively on Rodney at his most difficult. His easy affability fades, quickly changing into the serious sternness of a healer who will not be questioned. ”It will heal nicely if you do as I've instructed. If not, if you muck it up by doing things you oughtn't, it could heal badly, leaving you with a permanent limp, or possibly even an amputation. Listen to what I say, Bara. It's much more difficult farming with only one leg, and I'd rather you weren't forced to do such a thing simply because you were too thick-headed to obey instructions.”
Bara glares at him and Beckett returns it, implacable, arms folded across his chest, and finally it is Bara who looks away. ”Fine. I will do as you tell me.”
”There's a good lad,” Beckett says, and unfolds his arms, reaching out to squeeze Bara's shoulder. ”Now off with you, and keep your leg elevated to reduce the swelling. Take the samsa tea as you need it for pain-it's far better, actually, than anything that I could leave with you.”
Teyla steps aside when Bara's brothers move in, slinging his arms across their shoulders, balancing him as he hops away from the table. One of the brothers coughs, and Beckett frowns at him. ”Hold there, lad,” he says. ”I don't recall examining you, and that cough sounds off.”
The man turns slightly. Definitely Bara's brother, with that fierce slice of nose, Teyla thinks. He makes a dismissive motion. ”Ah, 'tis nothing. I get it every year at this time. Danal gives me tea for it, and it eventually goes away.”
Beckett's frown grows deeper, and Teyla can almost see his mind flipping efficiently through the list of patients he has seen today. If she concentrates, she can remember three people with a cough. None of the patients had any other symptoms and so it had not seemed significant, at least to her. Beckett had listened to them, but let them go after asking them about it and apparently finding no other reason to keep them.
Without waiting for Beckett to say anything else, they begin hobbling out. Halfway to the door Bara stops, and looks over his shoulder. ”I did not thank you, Dr. Beckett. My mother would box my ears for such rudeness. So, thank you.”
”Aye, I know well what you mean. My own mother has a quick hand, herself.” The frown lifts and Beckett smiles and waves before Bara begins hobbling away.
”I must confess, Dr. Beckett, that it amuses me to think that your mother would do such a thing,” Teyla says with a smile. And it does, because Teyla has seen pictures of Dr. Beckett's mother-she is a tiny woman, with the same bright, smiling blue eyes as her son and to think of her smacking the back of her son's head is worth much.
Dr. Beckett laughs, and it is as warm as summer sun on her skin. ”I was quite the handful as a boy. Precocious, and given to speaking my mind when perhaps discretion might've been a better choice. My mother always had just cause, I will say.”
Teyla does not doubt it. For all of Beckett's generally good nature, he does have a sharp tongue when provoked, and does not like it when he is not taken seriously. He is, along with Colonel Sheppard, one of the very few who can handle Rodney at his worst. Although he often seems timid or unsure when he is out of the infirmary or his labs or staff meetings, in those places, his own element, he is not. She has heard Dr. Weir say that he is ”an iron fist in a velvet glove” and although the expression is unfamiliar, the concept is not.
”Is that the last of them, then?” Beckett asks, and Teyla looks around the screens the Sueltans had put up for their privacy. They had set up Beckett's and Gasquet's examination and treatment areas at opposite ends of the large Great Hall. The sunlight that makes it through the thick, rippled glass of the windows is weak, so the doctors have collected a variety of oil lamps to increase the light they require in order to work. Dr. Gasquet has already torn down his area and left, most likely to rest before the feast that will be given this evening in their honor. She does not know Dr. Gasquet well; he had earlier refused her offers of assistance, though he did it with a quick bright smile that made her think of the one Dr. Zelenka uses when he is busy and wishes to be left in peace but does not want to be particularly rude.
”I believe it so, Dr. Beckett,” Teyla replies. ”I see no one else.”
”Thank god,” Beckett says, and when she looks back, she catches him in a backwards stretch, and his black tee shirt rides up, showing her a small bit of soft-looking pale belly with a line of dark hair. She looks away and busies herself with pulling the sheets from the table. ”I could use a bit of a kip before dinner-it's been a long day.”
”We will soon be back in Atlantis, and you will be able to rest in your own bed,” Teyla says.
”Oh, it isn't that,” Beckett replies, coming out of his stretch. ”I'm quite comfortable here. Whilst in residency-that's actual hands-on experience for medical students-we worked insanely long hours. I could go to sleep standing against a wall. Quite literally. I'm merely sore from digging, as I thought I would be.”
He pours hand cleansing gel in his palm and then works it into his skin. The sharp scent makes her nose sting, overriding the comfortable scent of burning anjerel wood in the huge fireplace. He passes her the bottle, and she uses it, though she would much rather use the grass-scented soap the Sueltans make. She glances up to see him watching her with the peculiar piercing intensity he has for everyone, and she opens her mouth to ask him if something is wrong, but then he smiles and turns away to begin packing up all his equipment, his musical voice light and easy as he talks of the upcoming feast and loading the herbs and roots into the jumper and of Danal's skill as a healer.
When they have packed everything away, they pick up the heavy cases and move them all to Beckett's quarters. The Sueltans have lodged them in guest rooms across the hall from one another in the home of Enlyn, the town's leader. The rooms are not large, but warm and comfortable, and Teyla feels safe here.
Together they wrestle all the cases into Beckett's room, leaving them by the door for ease in moving tomorrow. Although Teyla believes they would be safe left in the Great Hall, Dr. Beckett has been particularly careful with all his equipment and medications since the disaster following Ellia's theft and use of untested retrovirus. He cannot change the past, but he will not endanger anyone else through trusting others. It is a wise choice, gained through unfortunate and painful experience, but still Teyla does not like to see how Beckett's open and innate trust of others has been compromised. It seems to have dimmed him, if only a little.
When they have arranged the cases to his satisfaction, Teyla nods at him and steps across the hallway to her own room; a time of rest does seem a good idea. As she opens her door, Dr. Beckett clears his throat, and she turns back. He shifts from one foot to the other, and it catches her eye, because normally, Dr. Beckett does not have many nervous mannerisms. He looks up at her, and the right corner of his mouth crooks upward, deepening the dimple in that cheek. It is unexpectedly charming.
”Thank you, Teyla, for all your assistance in the past two days. I do appreciate what you've done-what you continue to do for all of us. I'm not sure if I ever have said as much, but I'm very glad you're with us on Atlantis.”
Warmth gathers in her chest. She does not expect the approval or gratitude of others, but it is always pleasant to receive it on occasion. ”You are welcome, Dr. Beckett. I am glad to have made my home with your people, and have come to like as well as respect and admire those around me. You have...always treated me with kindness and respect, and for that I am most grateful. Your friendship has always meant much to me.”
Beckett has a mobile, lively face, and in that moment, several expressions chase across it, too quickly for Teyla to catch the tail of any of them, but the one that finally settles across his features is pleased, with a wash of something else she cannot easily define. He is not as easily-read as Rodney, though far easier than Colonel Sheppard, who masks everything behind an easy affability. ”Thank you, Teyla,” he says simply, and steps back into his room. ”I'll see you later. Rest well, dear.”
The door closes behind him, gently. For a moment Teyla's attention remains fixed on it, her mind turning in curious circles. It had seemed as if he wanted to say something but had at the last moment decided he should not. He is not a man given to holding his tongue if it is important, so she dismisses it; if he wishes to say something, he shall, eventually. She turns to her own room, thinking a small nap might be just the perfect thing before the celebration tonight.
§§§
The sun the next morning is sharp and bright, the air crisp against Teyla's cheeks, and the scent of burning wood fragrant. Teyla feels invigorated; she has always loved the autumn best of all the seasons, and in Atlantis, always encased in a metal shell, one day feels much like the next, so this is a gift.
Drs. Beckett and Gasquet do not find the morning quite so cheerful or energizing, and Teyla hides a smile. She had warned them last night of the strength of the ale, but most foolishly, they had not heeded her. Dr. Beckett wears sunglasses against the brightness, and Dr. Gasquet is pale and withdrawn, his brow creasing with every loud noise. Unfortunately, loading the cases of medical equipment and supplies on the back of a big olaka-drawn wagon to take back to the jumper is not quiet work-the chatter of those helping to load baskets and bundles of herbs, and the ear-piercing squalling of the olaka are enough to make even her head pound, and she had not had nearly as much ale as they had.
Dr. Gasquet swears low and continuously in his own language, his voice rough. Teyla takes mercy on him and steps over to help him load his trunks. He frowns at her, evidently decides it makes his head hurt too much to bother arguing with her, and allows her to help him. She had been puzzled at first by the Atlantean men's initial reluctance to let her help lift, push, or pull heavy objects, and more than a little insulted, especially as she is stronger than many of them. After she had spoken sharply to more than one on that matter, Dr. Weir had pulled her aside to explain chivalry, and while she had understood the concept, though she came to understand they truly meant no insult, still, it had grated on her. She is not an invalid, not a child, not weak and in need of either protection or for someone to take her share of the work. Almost all of them have finally accepted this, though occasionally she still finds one, like Dr. Gasquet, who still believes otherwise.
”Ach.” After Dr. Beckett loads the last of his cases, he leans against the high sides of the wagon, pressing his forehead against his folded arms. ”I think there is not enough acetaminophen in the entire bloody universe to help my head,” he says, his voice muffled. ”May the lord have mercy on my wretched soul.”
The exposed nape of his neck looks curiously vulnerable, and Teyla has the sudden urge to run her fingertips along the smooth line, from the collar of his field jacket to the prickle of short hair at his hairline. She knows now that his dark brown hair is very thick and crisp-springy against her fingertips instead of soft, like it looks. She knows what he feels like, loose-limbed and lax and heavy against her. She knows how her arms feel around him, knows what he smells like, masculine and musky, overlaid with the contrasting scents of alcohol and woodsmoke. She knows how the backs of his fingers feel stroking down her cheek, so gently. She knows how dark his eyes can get.
She knows all these things because she had helped him to bed last night after he had drank far too much at the feast. They had careened from one wall to the other in Enlyn's home, her arms tightly around him, attempting to hold him steady, one of his arms draped heavily over her shoulders. It had taken three tries to get the door to his room open and stagger through it, bouncing off the door jambs, and once in, it was more a controlled fall in the direction of his bed than anything resembling walking. He had landed mostly on the bed, but enough on her that it had knocked the breath momentarily from her.
It had taken determined wriggling to slide from beneath him because evidently, he was an affectionate drunk, all carelessly-thrown arms and legs and happy murmurs in his own rolling tongue. Once she had gotten free, an easy task as he was pliable and amiably agreeable, she had tugged off his boots, thrown a blanket over him against the night chill and left him to sleep away the ale, intending to return to her own room and the warmth of her bed there. As she reached the door, she had paused when he had called her name.
He had draped an arm over his eyes, but moved it aside when she returned to stand over him. His eyes had opened, hazy and dark, almost all pupil, and his fair cheeks had flushed brightly.
”Ah, Teyla,” he had said softly, his words almost unintelligible between his thickened accent and the slur of drink. ”Such a very lovely young lady you are. So intelligent. So gifted.” He had raised a hand, and she had not shied away-this was after all Dr. Beckett, who could never harm her in any way-and he had trailed the backs of his fingers down her cheek, a surprisingly sweet, gentle touch.
She had caught his hand as his thumb had traced just beneath her lower lip, eased it down upon his stomach. ”You must sleep now, Dr. Beckett,” she had said, and he had let out a deep, soulful sigh.
”Aye, indeed,” he had replied softly. ”Sleep. Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care,” he had said and although she had not been certain, it had sounded more like something from a poem or song than an original observation. ”It is all I am allowed, after all, and precious little even of that.” He had rolled over and a moment later, despite his words, she had heard his breathing even out. Teyla had not been certain then, nor as she ate breakfast this morning, exactly why she had run her hand through his hair and over his shoulder before leaving him to his rest, but it had seemed the right thing to do.
Teyla blinks, back to the present as Beckett pushes away from the wagon. ”Well, now, let's be done with this,” he says, businesslike even though he has a line etched between his eyebrows. ”Teyla, Dr. Gasquet, have we everything loaded?”
Gasquet mutters what sounded like an affirmative in his own language, and then Beckett runs his hand over everything in the wagon to be certain it had been well-secured, though they all had seen one of the younger Sueltans crawling all over, tying everything down not a moment before.
Danal appears at the corner of the wagon. He looks as pale as Dr. Gasquet if not more so, enough that Teyla steps forward, concerned. ”Danal. Are you ill?”
”I'm fine, Teyla,” he says, and makes an effort to smile, though it falls far short of the usual brilliance of his smiles. ”I'd think that after all these years, I'd learn my tolerance for ale.”
Teyla frowns, although the ale truly had flowed quite freely last night. But as many times as she has traded with the Sueltans, she has never seen Danal drink to excess. ”If you say as much,” Teyla replies, ”then I have little choice but to believe you, as you are after all the healer and not I.”
”Very true, and how I wish my patients could hear your words so they would cease arguing with me.” Danal pats her arm, and bends his head down to touch her forehead with his. ”Bright days to you, Teyla Emmagen. Thank you for bringing the healers to us-it was indeed a good trade.”
”You are more than welcome, Danal,” she says, and pulls back with a smile. ”May we trade again soon.”
Danal steps over to Dr. Beckett, who immediately pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head. Teyla approves; only by looking into a man's eyes can one see him truly, and Dr. Beckett understands this, though the light clearly pains his aching head. He is clearly not quite certain of the type of farewell customs the Sueltans use, but he appears open and friendly.
Danal grasps both forearms of Dr. Beckett and squeezes gently, pressing his left cheek to Beckett's right, then pulls back, and Beckett repeats the gesture, a little awkwardly, though Teyla gives him credit for the effort. The Atlanteans are not much given to ritual touching, she has noted.
”Many thanks to you, Dr. Beckett,” Danal says formally. ”It is always a pleasure to work with healers from other worlds, and your gifts, your medicines, are strong. I only hope that you will return and share with us again. I think there is much we can learn from one another.”
”Aye, there is,” Beckett replies, ”and I would be very pleased to return once more. I'll talk to our leader, Dr. Weir, about arranging more regular visits.”
”Bright days to you, Dr. Beckett,” Danal says, and moves away to speak to Dr. Gasquet in much the same way.
Dr. Beckett stands for a moment watching Danal, a little frown tugging at his mouth, but then pulls the sunglasses back down onto his nose, and some of the tension in his shoulders visibly melts away. He hops onto the back of the wagon with surprising grace and makes himself comfortable amongst the herbs, his feet dangling slightly off the ground. Teyla sees Dr. Gasquet climb onto the front seat of the wagon with the driver-evidently he had won the right to ride there in a quick little hand game Beckett called ”rock-paper-scissors,” a game not very different than the ones Athosian children play--leaving Beckett to ride with her in the back. She does not mind, as Beckett is generally more cheerful and talkative than Dr. Gasquet.
Teyla hops up beside Beckett and settles in just in time before the wagon lurches forward, the driver clucking to the olakas drawing it. It will take almost one Atlantean hour to return to where the jumper lies parked and cloaked.
Beckett leans back, cushioning his head against a sheaf of dried herbs. He is so quiet for a moment that Teyla thinks he has fallen asleep much in the same way he had told her yesterday, and her eyes track over the bright, golden countryside, storing up the memory for the days when she is so weary of metal walls that she thinks she will suffocate, unable to draw a full breath. When her attention returns to him, he stirs.
”I'm not quite sure,” he says hesitantly, ”if I have anything I should apologize for.”
He still wears the sunglasses, but Teyla knows he watches her. She would prefer to see his eyes, but he is clearly embarrassed, fearing the worst of his own behavior last night. ”No, you have done nothing for which you should feel shame. You were...affectionate, but not overly so.”
Color flushes across his pale cheeks, and he rubs at the back of his neck. ”Well, that's a blessing, at least. Though I suspect had I gotten too fresh, I wouldn't be able even to move now.”
”Fresh?” Teyla cocks her head curiously. The Atlanteans have many sayings and most of them make little sense to her, determined by a culture vastly different from her own.
”'Fresh' means. Um. Sexually aggressive.” Beckett looks as if he would rather be anywhere but sitting beside her, that if he tries hard enough, he can will himself into invisibility.
”Ah. Then no, Dr. Beckett, you were not...'fresh.' I can assure you of that.” She thinks back to the night before. ”If anything, you were more melancholic.”
He makes a little snorting noise. ”I'm a Scot,” he says, as if that should explain everything.
Teyla decides to let that slide away and ask later what it means. ”I do have a question to ask of you, if you would not mind to answer.”
”Ah.” He pushes up the sunglasses and scrubs at his face with one hand. He looks very worn, face rough with night beard and violet smears beneath his eyes. ”I suppose I could at least listen to the question. Go on, then.”
Teyla pauses. Perhaps she should have asked last night, but he had fallen asleep before she could, and it is perhaps too intimate a question for the unforgiving light of day. Beckett, in spite of his easy, friendly charm, is a very private person, and for all the times they've worked together in Atlantis and offworld, they have never before spoken of truly personal matters. Perhaps they should not now, but he has proved to be a staunch, loyal friend, and he so obviously felt pain last night; she wishes to help if she can.
But before she can ask, she catches movement out of the corner of her eye, and she snaps to attention, hands firmly on her P90. From behind them, mounted on one of the ungainly-looking but surprisingly fleet olakas, comes a rider from town. As he draws closer, she can see it is Aral, one of Enlyn's sons. Beckett calls to the wagon-driver to stop, and she slides from the cart, alert and at ready, centered.
”Dr. Beckett,” Aral calls as he reins in his mount with a spray of dirt. ”Dr. Beckett, we need you to return if you can,” he says breathlessly. ”Danal has fallen suddenly ill, and we need you to return. I don't think he's the only one, either. Please.”
The weariness slides away from Beckett as Teyla turns to look at him, replaced by that piercing intensity. She has seen him transform like this before, his own personal problems fading away, replaced by a crisp, cool professionalism that calms everyone around him, that makes them believe he can heal them, save them. He reaches into the back of the cart and pulls out his backpack of most-used supplies and shoulders into it.
”How many?” he asks. Teyla had wondered why so few had been there to say goodbye to them; usually the Sueltans are an effusive people, their farewells cheerful and enthusiastic. She had simply attributed it to far too much ale the night before. Evidently, she had been very wrong.
”I'm not sure. Many. Mother sent me after you in the hopes you'd not yet returned to your home world. Danal collapsed a few moments after you left, and his apprentice is worried. His breathing does not sound good.”
”Can you take me back more quickly on this...thing?” Beckett gestures at the long-legged olaka.
”Yes. Hop on.” Aral kicks out of a stirrup, and Beckett puts his foot into it. Teyla pushes, Aral pulls, and Beckett manages to scramble on behind the young man, the beast skittering nervously to one side.
”I shall go on to the Gate and contact Dr. Weir to inform her that we will be late. Do you wish me to ask for assistance?” She seizes the leg of Beckett's BDUs and pulls hard to keep him from sliding off the other side of the olaka.
Beckett takes handfuls of Aral's tunic to anchor himself in place. ”No. Not until I see what's going on here. He said there were several ill, and if it's an epidemic, I'd rather not bring in anyone else to become infected. Send supplies, though. Speaking of which, hand me that black case. It has a portable liquid oxygen unit. Sounds like I'll be needing it. Have Atlantis send more.”
Teyla pries out the indicated case from the others, and hands it up to Beckett. ”I understand. As quickly as I can, I will bring back the wagon and Dr. Gasquet,” Teyla says.
She sees movement from the corner of her eye, and Dr. Gasquet hops from the wagon, dragging a backpack with him and says, ”Wait, Beckett. Here. I have extra protective gear here-masks and gloves and gowns. If it's airborne, we're probably already contaminated, but if not, you'll need them.”
”Thanks, man,” Beckett says, and then Aral wheels the beast around, sending them pelting toward town.
§§§
”Dr. Biro is on call in the infirmary now. Do you need for me to send her?” Dr. Weir's voice sounds calm, but concerned on the radio link.
Before Teyla shimmers the blue event horizon, rippling gently as if the breeze that tugs at her hair disturbs its surface as well.
”No, Dr. Beckett was quite firm about not sending anyone else in the event that it is truly an epidemic. He did ask for additional supplies, but I am not sure what that constitutes. Dr. Gasquet, would you perhaps know what Dr. Beckett would need?”
Dr. Gasquet frowns at her. ”I'm a dentist--what would I know?” When Teyla looks at him levelly, he says, ”Very well. At least intravenous start kits and fluids. Beckett did say to send liquid oxygen setups, as many as possible. Respiratory treatment supplies as well, I would imagine. Some wide-spectrum antibiotics would not be amiss.”
”Thank you, Dr. Gasquet. Why don't I speak with Dr. Biro, and see what else she recommends.” Dr. Weir replies smoothly. ”Teyla, I'm going to close down the Gate until we have all the supplies at hand and ready to send to you. Will you be all right until then?”
”I believe so,” Teyla says. ”We have a large wagon here, and we can unload it while we wait. There is also a ramp leading down from the Gate, so if you put the supplies on wheeled carts, you could just push them through without exposing anyone else.”
”We'll rig up something like that. In half an hour, we should have everything gathered, and we'll open up the Gate again to send it through.”
Teyla glances at her watch. ”That should be good. I will expect to hear from you then.”
”Weir out.” The event horizon flashes, and disappears.
Teyla turns back to the wagon, and they start planning what and where to unload. By the time they have done that and sorted through things, the Gate blooms into existence, and Atlantis begins sending through carts of supplies. With the last cart comes a figure clad in one of the big blue-grey containment suits, carrying a duffle bag. Teyla feels Malan, their driver, stiffen beside her, hand reaching for the knife at his belt, but he stops as he evidently realizes that Teyla and Dr. Gasquet are not reacting in alarm. It is not until the figure turns that Teyla can see the face behind the clear plexiglass face shield. Glasses, lank light-colored hair, a bright, curious expression.
”Dr. Biro,” Teyla says, somewhat surprised. ”Dr. Beckett was quite insistent that no one come through.”
”Men,” the doctor says with a roll of her eyes, ”they think they can handle everything themselves. I'll deal with Carson, don't worry. Besides,” she says with a wave of her gloved hand, ”I think I'm more than adequately protected, here.” Her voice has a tinny sound from the comm unit of the suit. Already she sweats; Teyla knows from experience just how hot it is within the suits.
”Teyla.” It is Dr. Weir's voice in her earpiece. ”Obviously, you're getting help whether Carson wanted it or not. I suspect that if it is something major, he'll be very glad to see her. I'd like for you to report back in six hours-that should give them a chance to see what's going on. But if you need help before then, dial us up, and we'll be glad to help.”
”Understood, Dr. Weir. And thank you.” Teyla cuts the radio, and the wormhole closes.
While Teyla had felt curiously abandoned when Dr. Beckett handed her personal medical care over to Biro about a year and a half ago, she understands the reasoning for his actions. He cannot truly care for everyone, and it is more logical to divide patients amongst all the physicians in order to provide the best care for all. Besides, she has grown to like Dr. Biro, who says exactly what she thinks when she thinks it-not to the degree of Rodney, of course, because no one is that brutally frank-and who is friendly and assertive. Biro has always dealt well and fairly with her.
Biro goes through all their supplies quickly, her questions unceasing. Most of them Teyla cannot answer, though she does think to tell her of the people with the coughs, to which Biro makes a thoughtful humming sound. When things are to Biro's satisfaction, they drive back in to town.
They are on the outskirts when Teyla radios Beckett to tell him they have brought the requested supplies.
”Aye, that's good,” he says, and sounds distracted. ”Bring everything to the Great Hall. That's where I've set up my ward. No, man, over there,” he says, obviously speaking with someone else.
”How are things there?”
”Busy. Come along now, I need another set of hands here. Beckett out.”
He clicks off abruptly, and Teyla turns to Malan. ”Please take us to the Great Hall. Dr. Biro, he sounds very busy. No doubt he will be most pleased to see you.”
”I doubt that,” Biro says with a grin. ”Given that I went against his direct order. But he'll change his mind soon enough. No one ever turns down help.”
Biro then insists they all dress in the gowns, gloves and masks she had brought with her for their own protection, though Teyla wonders what use it is to do so if they have already been exposed to whatever disease affects the Sueltans. When they pull up before the Great Hall, Dr. Biro is out of the wagon almost before it stops moving, her movements made more awkward by the suit, and Teyla seizes two bags and follows on her heels. Any of the medical staff of Atlantis, any healer she has known, have never hesitated to plunge in and help others, regardless of the danger to themselves. Bravery, Teyla knows, does not merely mean meeting a foe on a battlefield.
Yesterday the Great Hall had been calm save for the occasional crying of babies or young children, and later, the revelry of a feast, but today, it is quite different. Dr. Beckett and the Sueltans have set up cots all along the outside perimeter of the hall, and a dismayingly large number of them have found occupants. Teyla sees pale faces, flushed faces, sweaty faces, hears coughing, hears wheezes, hears hacking into cloths, hears retching. The smell of sweat, of sickness, lies heavy in the air.
They thread through the people bringing in sick friends and relatives, through those helping as they can, to reach Dr. Beckett, who kneels beside the cot of a young woman, inserting an IV quickly into her arm, his face creased in concentration.
Dr. Biro waits until he tapes down the IV, and then says, ”It's just like you, Carson, to hog all the fun for yourself.”
Beckett's head swings up, and he blinks in surprise, then frowns, the expression clear even though the lower half of his face remains hidden behind one of the surgical masks. ”Anne. I thought I said...”
”You say a lot of things, many of which I cheerfully ignore. Shut up and accept the help,” Biro says pleasantly. ”I can do triage for a while, since it's a madhouse, but actually, I might be more help in starting an analysis of whatever this might be.” She looks around at those lying in beds.
For a moment Beckett looks as if he wishes to say something else, perhaps something sharp, but then clearly realizes it is foolish to argue over her presence as she is already here in the midst of it all. ”That would be lovely. It's a good idea, as I've rather had my hands full since returning here.” He turns back to his patient, pats the woman's shoulder and offers her a smile, then rises and turns to them.
”You look like hell,” Biro says, tipping her head to study him critically. ”You're not sick, are you?”
”No, just hung over,” Beckett says shortly, stripping off his latex gloves as he leads them away to a quieter corner. He strips off the gown as well, tucking them into one of the large hazardous waste bags they always bring with them from Atlantis. He scrubs his hands with soap and water as he speaks. ”Yesterday, while doing exams, I'd noted a few coughs, but nothing seemed really significant. It seems to have become so, relatively quickly. Patients present with inconsistent symptoms-cough, fever, malaise, nausea, myalgia, tachypnea, headache, sore throat-in any and every combination. It's odd, aye.”
Biro nods. ”It could be any of dozens of Earth-similar organisms. Pity we don't have an epidemiologist on staff-would've come in handy. But, we'll figure out what it is. In the meantime, Gasquet knows how to start an IV, right? I'll put him on that and in getting people settled in. I'll start in on the labwork, run some basic tests. I brought in equipment I thought might be useful.” She turns away, and strides toward the door, a small bundle of determination.
Beckett pours more of the disinfectant gel into his hands and then redresses in a fresh gown and gloves and mask. He does, as Biro said, 'look like hell,' what she can see of his face pale and his eyes reddened, a line engraved between his brows. Teyla reaches out and puts her hand on his forearm, fingers tightening slightly, offering a bit of comfort. ”What can I do to help you, Dr. Beckett?”
”Firstly, remove all your iso gear, wash, and disinfect. Then,” he says, tearing off several pills from two different strips of foil-packed meds as she does as he had instructed, ”let me take a sample of your blood and get a throat swab. After, I want you to gear back up, take these, one of each every six hours. They're antiviral medications and broad-spectrum antibiotics. I'm not sure exactly what we're dealing with here, but there's nothing like striking the first blow of the battle, right?” He disappears for a moment, returns, and takes several vials of her blood and uses a swab on the back of her throat. Afterward, as she dresses in the gear again, he unzips the bags she had brought with her and sets them on a long table to see what is there. ”Bless you for bringing supplies. I hadn't enough with me in my pack, just the basic things.”
”There are many more crates from Atlantis outside, including a naquadah generator for powering the equipment they sent. Perhaps I could get everything unloaded, then organize it for you. I am not skilled in more than rudimentary health care, and you have others to do that.”
”A naquadah generator, eh? That's a bit of overkill, I'd say. And I'll wager Rodney almost had a calf at having to give it up to us.” He picks out a handful of packages of tubing, needles, and a couple of bags of fluid. ”I'll appreciate anything you can do,” Beckett replies. Though she cannot see the corner of his mouth curling up, she can see the little lines at the corner of his eyes deepen a bit. But it is a tired, half-hearted attempt at a smile. And then he is gone again, diving back into the milling crowd, calling for Rhan, Danal's apprentice.
Teyla is an organizer by inclination; she likes order, likes for things to make sense, though they so seldom do. So she finds Malan, and together they unload the wagon, stacking the boxes around and beneath the long feast tables in the Great Hall. She unloads everything, and sets out like items in neat rows or piles for ease of use. The medical equipment is too complex-she has no idea what most of it is, and so merely opens the cases for the doctors to do with as they will.
And lastly is the naquadah generator, and she firmly squelches down the little wriggle of discomfort at the sight. It looks so small and innocuous in its box, but she well remembers the power it possesses from the time Colonel Sheppard set one off above Atlantis to shut down the nanovirus with an EMP wave. But no matter how nervous it makes her, it is still the simplest way to provide the power they need. Teyla does not read any of their languages very well; life has been far too hectic to allow anything but the most cursory of an education. But the engineers have provided a clear and easy to understand color-coded diagram for her to use in setting up a power center, and at the bottom of the diagram is Rodney's blocky script: Don't be stupid and blow yourself up. Biro had told her that if Teyla could do the basics, she could connect everything else, and it should be fairly simple; the generators are, as Rodney has said, fairly idiot-proof, and after the nanovirus incident, Rodney had given all the command staff a demonstration as to how to connect and disconnect them safely, in the event that he or any of his staff could not. She had not liked the implications of that, but acknowledged that it was indeed good to know how to do such things. Knowledge is never wasted; it will serve her well this day.
After she has done that, she begins helping people settle into beds, giving them water, sponging them off if they are hot or nauseated, offering what smiles and kind words she has to comfort. Danal's condition is of particular concern; he does not look well at all, and has difficulty breathing, though he now has oxygen. Teyla stops to speak quietly to him, to hold his hand, to smooth the white hair from his flushed, fiery face, but he works too hard at drawing each breath to do more than lie with eyes closed.
Beckett and Biro thread in and out of her attention, working quickly and on the surface, calmly. Biro checks over the generator and the simplified power station and then sets up the lab equipment before settling in with her samples. Beckett is much more difficult to track, always in motion, but when she catches him in passing and gets a terse report of the current situation from him, she can almost feel the concern and worry radiating from him. She then finds a saddled olaka, rides out to the Gate, dials in, and gives Dr. Weir his assessment of the situation. Beckett does not think it looks promising, given the speed at which this disease has developed and spread, but he will have more to say in the next day, after Biro completes some of her analysis and study. At the moment they are busy dealing with simply getting everyone settled and as stable as possible as they come in for help.
It is fully dark by the time she returns, and there are even more patients in the Great Hall than before. Teyla recognizes faces she had seen looking fine and healthy not even two days ago. She has seen illnesses spread through her people, though indeed not this quickly, and although she does not have any of the healer's arts, she knows that the faster a disease runs through a village, the worse the illness usually is. Fear settles low in her belly, hard and cold, because she loves the Sueltans, has many friends amongst them, and would not see them survive repeated cullings of the Wraith only to die in a plague.
Beckett stands over a man, running one of the Ancient medical scanners over his body, frowning fiercely all the while at whatever the screen tells him. He scribbles notes on a piece of the thick local paper, and tucks it into a little bag tied to the foot of the bed, a way, Teyla supposes, to avoid losing his notes.
When he turns away, Teyla sees he looks even more tired than he did before, but then he has been working constantly since mid-morning. He blinks his reddened eyes, bringing up one hand to rub, stopping the motion halfway there as he clearly realizes what he is about to do, but when Rhan steps up to him, Beckett's shoulders square a little, and he offers a half smile, tilting his head to listen to whatever Rhan has to say.
When her own belly grumbles, she realizes that she has not eaten since early morning. She changes out her gear again-Beckett had been very emphatic about not leaving the ward or returning to it without doing so, and changing between each patient, with all the attendant washing and disinfecting-and follows her nose to the kitchen of the Great Hall. It is a huge place that smells wonderfully of spicy stew and fresh bread, peopled by those volunteering to help, supplying food for the workers and broth and bread for the patients. When Teyla explains she would be grateful if they would give her food for Dr. Beckett, as he has not eaten since the night before, they comply happily, for he has become well-liked in a short period of time and they are grateful for his help now. They load a tray with two bowls of the stew-her belly had growled again, embarrassingly-a chunk of bread, a quarter wheel of cheese, and a pot of fragrant hot tea.
Part Two