Casting Dice [SGA]
TITLE: Casting Dice
RATING: PG.
SUMMARY: (Stargate: Atlantis) Sun, rain, wind, aliens. Teyla/Ronon.
14 Valentines: Women in Academia
Injuries. Recovery.
Grounded.
Three days of careful movements, of slowly skulking around the city; they are both restless, and she tells herself that it is for Ronon's benefit that she gathers a lunch and brings them to a sun-drenched balcony.
It is a quiet meal, as it so often is with him; sometimes she thinks that Ronon has a very strict heirarchy in his head: safety, food, everything else, and does not deviate from it except in extreme circumstances, but it is well. She has known people with worse priorities, and takes the quiet as a gift.
While they are grounded, John has his own duties in the city, and Rodney is quite happy to be sequestered in his lab, but the only sky she has seen lately is through the windows of her quarters. It is good to feel the warmth on her skin as she sits with a smooth wall at her back, legs stretched out in front of her, slowly crushing sun-warmed fruits in her mouth.
Ronon finishes his own meal, and reclines carefully on his uninjured side, brown and pale gold against the blue of the city and the sky. He pulls bits of bread off a loaf, idly rolling them between his fingers.
It is an incredible luxury, she thinks, to do nothing but sit and watch the light glitter on the water, to feel sunlight on her bare toes while the city bustles behind her back. She lets her eyes drift closed for a moment.
A rustle comes from beside her. Even wearing soft clothes and recovering from a wound, Ronon does not rustle unless he wants to, so she opens one eye and looks at him.
He has taken the bread and pinched a handful of little four-pointed shapes, tiny pyramids that he is carefully touching to a broken berry, staining one point of each pink.
She smiles at the recognition of the game, and picks a handful of dice up to cast. "I have not played in years," she says, and he nods. The same for him. It does not surprise her; the game is common among all of the worlds where she has traveled, save for Atlantis, and he has not had much time for play in his years Running.
It has been a long time also since she has played, but they fall into the game like they were bred to it, something theirs alone, and they play for hours until the sun starts to dip down, gold reflections on the sea, and she makes a small noise of regret that has nothing to do with her losing throw.
Duty, as it always must, calls, so Ronon tosses the crumbling dice over the edge of the balcony, and holds out a hand to help her as she carefully levers herself up on her uninjured leg.
"Perhaps we can make our own set," she says, and he smiles. Something to remind them, here in this city filled with people from a distant galaxy; something of home, a game to play in the sun.
***
Back to strength.
Teyla is tired of the gym. Tired of soft mats and quiet lighting, of controlled surroundings; she has been used to training in all conditions, outside fighting on uneven terrain with sticks snapping under her feet, dodging around trees.
She mentions as much to Ronon once, and he raises his eyebrows and says, "I'll see what I can do."
She is not so surprised, then, when he comes to knock at her door one evening and invites her out with a jerk of his head, looking pleased with himself, like a little boy with a gift.
They emerge from the transporter at the edge of a large open area in one of the protected lees of the city, one with shallow steps down to the sea. Usually it is used as a place to relax on a hot day and plunge into the ocean (and, occasionally, enjoy a twilight meal, juicy charred meat and iced drinks), but on this summer's evening the plaza is deserted due to the rain.
Water sheets down from the sky and sluices across the rough-textured honeycomb tiles; it catches the light from the city, constantly reflecting in movement, and drums in the puddles. It is loud and glaring and so perfectly distracting that Teyla raises her face to the sky and for a moment lets the water run over her face and hair and start to soak into her clothes.
Ronon says nothing, just shrugs off his shirt to hang it in the overhang of the alcove where it will, hopefully, stay dry, and strides out into the rain, shaking his head like a dog as he acclimates himself to it.
They are both rapidly becoming drenched in the warm summer rain; Teyla's hair swings to cling wetly to the side of her face and her boots squelch unpleasantly as she circles Ronon.
He strikes first--she lets him--and then they are off, a flurry of instinct, unthinking movement, boots scraping wetly on the tile and water flying from Ronon's hair as he spins. It's too dangerous for many of the movements she would normally consider, too likely a slip and fall, so she finds herself scaling back, deciding that in this, as in so many other things, the simple things are the best, and goes on the offensive, lunging and striking and dancing between the drops.
It is exactly what she needed, this fast, exhausting fight in a place where on another night she would recline on the steps with this man who understands fighting in the night rains, and watch the stars emerge from the sky.
But tonight is not a night for stillness any more than it is a night for delicate dabbling in the water. They strike and spin and move gradually closer to the sea, back-and-forth, until she takes advantage of an opening and manages to flips Ronon over the edge--and he flings out an arm to catch her and drag her off-balance, and with an extremely undignified shriek, she too falls over the edge.
They hit the water almost together and kick up to the surface laughing, emerging from the ocean just as wet as before. Teyla paddles to the ledge and hauls herself out one knee at a time to perch on the tiled ledge, her feet still underwater. Ronon emerges from the rain-dappled sea in one movement, erupting like a water spirit, twisting up to sit next to her, looking extremely satisfied. No doubt he thinks he won the match.
The rain is still pounding on the tiles and their heads. It rinses the salt from their skin as Teyla pulls his head down to touch foreheads with Ronon. "Thank you," she says over the sound of water on water, thank you for this moment. His hands come up to cup her face, and his mouth is warm like summer nights, and his skin is slippery with rain.
They squeeze themselves out in the alcove, sluicing the water from their skin and then toweling off as best they can to go from "dripping" to "soaked."
Her bare feet leave wet prints in the hallways, and when he bows his head to say good night, in the corridor in front of her doors, where people pass and try not to stare, she can see the droplets still hanging to his eyelashes and from his ears, and she says again, "Thank you."
***
The Ancestors built their city to be beautiful, it is true, but either they were not paying much attention to the acoustics of the place or the weather patterns changed much in the intervening years, because when winter is coming on, the wind howls outside Ronon's quarters, an eerie hollow sound like an omen.
"I don't mind," he says, and shrugs. They're playing at dice again, a quiet night, just the two of them, when nobody has to ask explanations about the game and nobody makes references to things they will have to question.
Teyla likes spending time with the others--the team movie nights, or tea with Elizabeth--but Ronon is the closest thing she has to home in this city.
So she draws her feet up under herself, curling up in the chair cozily, and sips from her mug as she waits for her turn.
The dice are wooden now, another product of Ronon's free time, and he picks them up one at a time, delicately between thumb and forefinger to gather them in his palm, and then spills the handful, counting and recalculating again and again until he says, "Damn," and marks his score on the paper, leaning back.
She gathers up the dice and shakes them in her hand, but before she throws, Ronon suddenly says, "How about a wager?"
Teyla blinks and slowly raises her eyes to meet his. "If you wish. What would you stake?"
"Stay the night," he says, and this is a new game between them, yes, but one about which there need be no explanations.
She pretends to consider, and the wind howls again, high and strong, across Ronon's window as she drops the dice from one hand to the other. "And if I win?" she says.
He reaches a hand across the table to her. "Stay the night," he says. His gaze meets hers, as it always does, without guile, the one man in the city who never pretends to feel something he does not--or to not feel something he does. For all that they come from different worlds, they are alike now: the aliens in this city of aliens, and it almost seems as though they have been waiting for this moment since he took his place beside her.
"Very well," she says, and takes his hand, dropping the dice onto the table where they bounce and clatter in counterpoint to the howling wind.
Neither of them see how the dice land.
RATING: PG.
SUMMARY: (Stargate: Atlantis) Sun, rain, wind, aliens. Teyla/Ronon.
14 Valentines: Women in Academia
Injuries. Recovery.
Grounded.
Three days of careful movements, of slowly skulking around the city; they are both restless, and she tells herself that it is for Ronon's benefit that she gathers a lunch and brings them to a sun-drenched balcony.
It is a quiet meal, as it so often is with him; sometimes she thinks that Ronon has a very strict heirarchy in his head: safety, food, everything else, and does not deviate from it except in extreme circumstances, but it is well. She has known people with worse priorities, and takes the quiet as a gift.
While they are grounded, John has his own duties in the city, and Rodney is quite happy to be sequestered in his lab, but the only sky she has seen lately is through the windows of her quarters. It is good to feel the warmth on her skin as she sits with a smooth wall at her back, legs stretched out in front of her, slowly crushing sun-warmed fruits in her mouth.
Ronon finishes his own meal, and reclines carefully on his uninjured side, brown and pale gold against the blue of the city and the sky. He pulls bits of bread off a loaf, idly rolling them between his fingers.
It is an incredible luxury, she thinks, to do nothing but sit and watch the light glitter on the water, to feel sunlight on her bare toes while the city bustles behind her back. She lets her eyes drift closed for a moment.
A rustle comes from beside her. Even wearing soft clothes and recovering from a wound, Ronon does not rustle unless he wants to, so she opens one eye and looks at him.
He has taken the bread and pinched a handful of little four-pointed shapes, tiny pyramids that he is carefully touching to a broken berry, staining one point of each pink.
She smiles at the recognition of the game, and picks a handful of dice up to cast. "I have not played in years," she says, and he nods. The same for him. It does not surprise her; the game is common among all of the worlds where she has traveled, save for Atlantis, and he has not had much time for play in his years Running.
It has been a long time also since she has played, but they fall into the game like they were bred to it, something theirs alone, and they play for hours until the sun starts to dip down, gold reflections on the sea, and she makes a small noise of regret that has nothing to do with her losing throw.
Duty, as it always must, calls, so Ronon tosses the crumbling dice over the edge of the balcony, and holds out a hand to help her as she carefully levers herself up on her uninjured leg.
"Perhaps we can make our own set," she says, and he smiles. Something to remind them, here in this city filled with people from a distant galaxy; something of home, a game to play in the sun.
***
Back to strength.
Teyla is tired of the gym. Tired of soft mats and quiet lighting, of controlled surroundings; she has been used to training in all conditions, outside fighting on uneven terrain with sticks snapping under her feet, dodging around trees.
She mentions as much to Ronon once, and he raises his eyebrows and says, "I'll see what I can do."
She is not so surprised, then, when he comes to knock at her door one evening and invites her out with a jerk of his head, looking pleased with himself, like a little boy with a gift.
They emerge from the transporter at the edge of a large open area in one of the protected lees of the city, one with shallow steps down to the sea. Usually it is used as a place to relax on a hot day and plunge into the ocean (and, occasionally, enjoy a twilight meal, juicy charred meat and iced drinks), but on this summer's evening the plaza is deserted due to the rain.
Water sheets down from the sky and sluices across the rough-textured honeycomb tiles; it catches the light from the city, constantly reflecting in movement, and drums in the puddles. It is loud and glaring and so perfectly distracting that Teyla raises her face to the sky and for a moment lets the water run over her face and hair and start to soak into her clothes.
Ronon says nothing, just shrugs off his shirt to hang it in the overhang of the alcove where it will, hopefully, stay dry, and strides out into the rain, shaking his head like a dog as he acclimates himself to it.
They are both rapidly becoming drenched in the warm summer rain; Teyla's hair swings to cling wetly to the side of her face and her boots squelch unpleasantly as she circles Ronon.
He strikes first--she lets him--and then they are off, a flurry of instinct, unthinking movement, boots scraping wetly on the tile and water flying from Ronon's hair as he spins. It's too dangerous for many of the movements she would normally consider, too likely a slip and fall, so she finds herself scaling back, deciding that in this, as in so many other things, the simple things are the best, and goes on the offensive, lunging and striking and dancing between the drops.
It is exactly what she needed, this fast, exhausting fight in a place where on another night she would recline on the steps with this man who understands fighting in the night rains, and watch the stars emerge from the sky.
But tonight is not a night for stillness any more than it is a night for delicate dabbling in the water. They strike and spin and move gradually closer to the sea, back-and-forth, until she takes advantage of an opening and manages to flips Ronon over the edge--and he flings out an arm to catch her and drag her off-balance, and with an extremely undignified shriek, she too falls over the edge.
They hit the water almost together and kick up to the surface laughing, emerging from the ocean just as wet as before. Teyla paddles to the ledge and hauls herself out one knee at a time to perch on the tiled ledge, her feet still underwater. Ronon emerges from the rain-dappled sea in one movement, erupting like a water spirit, twisting up to sit next to her, looking extremely satisfied. No doubt he thinks he won the match.
The rain is still pounding on the tiles and their heads. It rinses the salt from their skin as Teyla pulls his head down to touch foreheads with Ronon. "Thank you," she says over the sound of water on water, thank you for this moment. His hands come up to cup her face, and his mouth is warm like summer nights, and his skin is slippery with rain.
They squeeze themselves out in the alcove, sluicing the water from their skin and then toweling off as best they can to go from "dripping" to "soaked."
Her bare feet leave wet prints in the hallways, and when he bows his head to say good night, in the corridor in front of her doors, where people pass and try not to stare, she can see the droplets still hanging to his eyelashes and from his ears, and she says again, "Thank you."
***
The Ancestors built their city to be beautiful, it is true, but either they were not paying much attention to the acoustics of the place or the weather patterns changed much in the intervening years, because when winter is coming on, the wind howls outside Ronon's quarters, an eerie hollow sound like an omen.
"I don't mind," he says, and shrugs. They're playing at dice again, a quiet night, just the two of them, when nobody has to ask explanations about the game and nobody makes references to things they will have to question.
Teyla likes spending time with the others--the team movie nights, or tea with Elizabeth--but Ronon is the closest thing she has to home in this city.
So she draws her feet up under herself, curling up in the chair cozily, and sips from her mug as she waits for her turn.
The dice are wooden now, another product of Ronon's free time, and he picks them up one at a time, delicately between thumb and forefinger to gather them in his palm, and then spills the handful, counting and recalculating again and again until he says, "Damn," and marks his score on the paper, leaning back.
She gathers up the dice and shakes them in her hand, but before she throws, Ronon suddenly says, "How about a wager?"
Teyla blinks and slowly raises her eyes to meet his. "If you wish. What would you stake?"
"Stay the night," he says, and this is a new game between them, yes, but one about which there need be no explanations.
She pretends to consider, and the wind howls again, high and strong, across Ronon's window as she drops the dice from one hand to the other. "And if I win?" she says.
He reaches a hand across the table to her. "Stay the night," he says. His gaze meets hers, as it always does, without guile, the one man in the city who never pretends to feel something he does not--or to not feel something he does. For all that they come from different worlds, they are alike now: the aliens in this city of aliens, and it almost seems as though they have been waiting for this moment since he took his place beside her.
"Very well," she says, and takes his hand, dropping the dice onto the table where they bounce and clatter in counterpoint to the howling wind.
Neither of them see how the dice land.