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When she sees the Wraith, her whole body goes cold.
“Don’t do this,” she begs through the screen, and her plea is directed at Kolya, but her eyes are glued to John and the fear she sees on his face. She says again, “Don’t do it,” and remembers the barrel of a gun that didn’t go off, remembers that sometimes, Kolya backs off from his threats once his point is made.
This time he doesn’t.
Sympathetic pain hits her in the chest, radiating to her fingers. It feels like all the air is knocked out of her, but she can still shout “Stop! Stop!” until, by all mercies, he does. John is shaking, but alive, and she can hardly talk when she tells Kolya that he crossed a line.
He gives his deadline. The video feed shuts down, and the gate afterward. The silence is deafening, and she knows everyone is looking at her.
Her voice barely sounds like hers when she says, “I need a minute.”
*
She takes that minute in her office. The walls are glass and she remains standing, pressing her hands hard into the desk to try and stop their shaking.
She can still feel the echoes of shock sparking in her extremities. It’s a new sensation, something different than she’s felt before, but then, this is the first time she’s seen this particular nightmare come to life. She has never seen a Wraith feed on anyone before, and even if she had, it’s never been—
Her eyes fall to the coffee mug John brought her that morning, and she breathes out slowly through pursed lips. John has been in mortal danger before on her watch, but not since they’ve been doing this.
Perhaps, if she weren’t so shaken, she could find it in her to pretend that what she’s feeling for him is nothing more than the intimate friendship they’ve been building for years, that the little dates they’ve been on in the aftermath of her nanite encounter weren’t dates at all. It’s been nothing explicit, nothing they needed to talk about, but they’ve had dinner together more nights than not, and starlit ocean walks afterward. They spent a few late nights in an out of the way lounge with a beautiful view, reading silently next to each other, and she barely remembers a word of the book in her hands but remembers everything about how it sounds when he turns a page.
“Elizabeth?”
It’s Teyla, her face lined with concern. Teyla, who has lived in the shadow of the Wraith her whole life and lost dozens of her people, who lost her father, who’s as close to John as almost anyone—and she’s here now, looking like Elizabeth is the one who deserves comfort.
Elizabeth glances at the coffee mug again and wonders if John said something, or if the new levity in him is as obvious to Teyla as it is to her. If Teyla has seen that same change in Elizabeth herself.
“Not now,” Elizabeth says, as kindly as she can. She can’t be comforted yet, because John needs her hard, at her best, undistracted. Her hands aren’t shaking anymore. “I’ll be ready in a moment.”
Teyla nods. “We are in the conference room, Doctor Weir.”
Her title is enough. She squares her shoulders and takes a full breath, feeling calm come over her like a thick coat over her shoulders. “I’m ready now.”
*
The second time, she’s ready for it. The pain she feels isn’t hers, and she shoves it to the side, forces herself to look directly at him while the Wraith feeds. We’ll get to you, she promises silently, just hold on, John, we’ll find you. Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on—
He does, and it’s over, and she exhales around the lump in her throat.
*
She feels Teyla watching her, lending her strength. She feels Ronon watching her, misplacing his blame. She feels Rodney and Carson, pleading.
She looks straight ahead at Ladon, who shows no fear. He understands, as well as she does, that she told the truth when she said she wouldn’t trade the life of a foreign head of state to terrorists, that the alliance that protects both their peoples must come first, that she will let John die on the altar of those principles.
He won’t, though. He can’t. She believes, against all odds, that he’ll make it through this alive, because she can’t allow herself to think anything else.
*
The third time, when it’s clear he’s going to die and she’s going to watch, she lets it hit her, lets the strange sensation in her chest flood her body until her every cell is crying out for one last chance.
Every nebulous feeling she’s held for him over the years coalesces into something as solid as a hand on her chest, and it hurts. She’s been in love before, but it has never been this. Those men were always safe, behind the lines, far from even the relative danger she faced as a well-protected diplomat on planet Earth.
The men and women she loves here have never been safe. She has cared for John and Rodney as members of her family almost since they met, and came to think of Teyla the same way. She feels so much care and affection for Ronon and Lorne and all the others she’s close to that sometimes her desire for them to be safe fogs her vision of what’s important. She knew that this tentative more-than-friends she’s exploring with John would change things, but she didn’t think it would change this, because she thought she was already as compromised as she could be.
But here he’s dying, and she can’t breathe, and it is different, because what she wants most is a chance to touch him and tell him how much he matters to her. It’s important that he knows, and that’s what she finds herself thinking this time. Not hold on, because if anything, she aches for his suffering to stop, but I’m here, I’m here, even when she’s thousands of light years and a video feed away. I’m with you, John, I’m here, I’m—
She feels like she is, like for a moment they’re sharing a body, like when the string snaps, she’ll feel it in herself too.
To her surprise, to Kolya’s surprise, the Wraith stops.
*
Two hours pass. Three.
“None of us are saying what we’re all thinking here,” Rodney says, as the minutes tick by.
She wonders, in that moment, if it was always different with John. If, when she first saw him, the feeling of this man will be important to me was about more than the way he lit up the space above her with a brilliant display of stars. If some part of her already knew him, on a level she can’t explain. If so, that part has only grown stronger with time.
“No, Rodney, we’re not.”
She’s unshakably certain that when John Sheppard dies, she will know.
*
Miracle of miracles, he doesn’t.
She knows he’s whole and alive because Rodney tells her so over the radio, along with an absurd and clearly annoyed comment that they “need to run an errand.”
For the better part of an hour, she goes stir-crazy. All the contained energy pent up during the day feels like it’s clawing her insides, looking for a way out. She contacts Ladon to thank him, paces around her office, even thinks about going for a run if it wouldn’t take her far away from the Stargate and the off-world activation alarm that can’t come soon enough.
She refills the mug he brought her and drinks coffee, which is the last thing she needs, but the warmth of it in her hands makes her feel better.
Now she could use that conversation with Teyla, if she weren’t also off-world. Elizabeth stands on the balcony in the whipping wind and has one half of it with herself: She’s going to have to tell him. It would be unfair to dump that on him the second he makes it through the Stargate, but it can’t wait indefinitely. She cares about him, and she wants him to know. She cares about him, and she needs to know if they will explore it, or if they should stop doing all the little things that fuel it. She cares about him, and she was willing to let him die anyway.
She thinks, I never thought I’d be in this position, but if she considers how long John has featured in her unconscious dreams, how it makes her feel whenever the depth of his attachment to her shows in his eyes, that’s not entirely true.
Perhaps she never thought she’d be in this position, on a day like this. The others are used to her waiting in view of the Stargate, but that feels suddenly too exposed, so she’s hiding out on the balcony, waiting and hoping that when she sees him in one piece she’ll become herself again. That she’ll feel patient and composed, and won’t want things that will complicate their already complicated lives.
She waits outside by the ocean, breathing in salty air, her throat stinging with unshed tears.
*
She first sees him in the jumper bay. He’s surrounded by his team, all boisterous and slapping him on the back, and Elizabeth recognizes in them the rush of deferred energy she felt earlier, and recognizes in John the stark exhaustion underneath.
“Infirmary,” she orders, to peel him away from the pack. The infirmary is his least favorite place on Atlantis, according to him, but for once he looks deeply grateful for it.
She walks alongside him and can’t resist the urge to touch. He gives her that look she was thinking about on the balcony, a hundred miles deep, and her fingers go tighter around his arm until she forces herself to let go.
She asks, low: “Can I see you later?”
He nods. “I don’t know how long I’ll…” He waves at Carson, walking ahead of them.
“Later,” she says, and enough of her restless energy has calmed that it’s a relief to think she has a little space before they’re alone together. “Take your time.”
“But later, though,” he says, and her heart squeezes at his insistence.
She’s struck with a sharp desire to kiss him, to chase away the complicated collection of emotions she can see on his beautiful, youthful face, and that’s reason enough to take a step back. “I promise.”
*
When Carson calls her, John is no longer there.
“He’s in good shape,” Carson says, shaking his head. “It’s hard to believe anyone could make it through that, but it appears the Wraith successfully reversed the feeding process. There’s nearly no evidence of it having happened in the first place. It’s a remarkable breakthrough to even know it’s possible.”
Teyla has already filled her in on that unexpected development. It is difficult to accept this can be, she said, and she was too caught up in her own shifting perception of the universe for Elizabeth to derail the conversation into her personal life—a blessing, maybe, because the longer she sits with it, the quieter she wants to keep it. Teyla isn’t one to judge, or to gossip, but she’s been known to nudge Elizabeth out of her comfort zone, and she’s dangling far enough out of it already.
“Nearly no evidence?”
“He probably feels like he’s run three marathons back-to-back, but in a day or two, he’ll be fine. Perhaps better than fine, if his blood pressure is any indication. I’ve released him to quarters after he eats a decent meal. There’s no medical reason to keep him off-duty, but I’m sure a day of rest will do him good.”
“If he’ll take it.” John is like her—when he probably should take time to integrate the aftermath of an experience, he works even harder. When she assigned him to two weeks of half-days after being released from post-Iratus-bug medical supervision, John looked like she’d ordered him thrown to the lions.
Carson suggests, “Maybe if you encourage him.”
She startles, wondering what he saw in her today, in them the past month, but there’s nothing in Carson’s face except a familiar, tired smile. It’s the look of relief she has come to expect from him when a long day ends well, and she’s grateful for it.
She remembers her promise to John to see him later, and says: “I’ll do my best.”
*
He’s not in the mess hall, so she goes to his quarters. He’s sitting on the bed with a shaving mirror in his hand, looking exhausted and oh so alive.
“Just checking?” she asks, nodding to the mirror.
He gives her a fake smile. “John Sheppard, more or less.”
She feels a pang in her chest, an echo of that strange sensation she had earlier, when she felt inextricably tied to him and he was dying. “Carson says you should take a day off to rest.”
“Yeah.” The smile falls away. “Did you come here to tell me that?”
She forces herself to breathe. Her fingers have knotted themselves together, and she pulls her hands apart. “No.”
He puts the mirror down, and then he scoots over on the bed, such a small movement that she wonders if it was a conscious action. Either way, she takes it as an invitation and joins him. From this distance, she can see all the fine lines on his face, and he’s so precious to her that she feels again the sting in her throat.
“I have to tell you something,” he says. “I’m not… maybe more than one thing.”
She reaches her hand over to cover his where it’s resting on the bed. She remembers sitting in the back of a puddle-jumper with him, his hand on her leg, after he pulled her into the most terrifying hug of her life. She was drowning then, and he offered her something she didn’t know she needed.
The silence stretches on until it’s awkward. Finally she prompts: “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I couldn’t do it,” he says. “I couldn’t do what you did.”
She swallows hard. “Yes, you could.”
He shakes his head. “At first… I used to think I was tougher than you, that I could make the calls you wouldn’t, but—” He looks up at her then, and she can’t begin to describe the look on his face, but she couldn’t move if she wanted to. “I…” He draws a sharp breath. “I care about you, and if it was you, I don’t think I could do it.”
She squeezes his hand. “Yes, you could.” She thinks about the nanites swimming in her blood, the undefined threat of them that keeps her up at night. “If it’s a choice between me and the city, you would. I need you to know that.”
He doesn’t agree out loud, but after a moment, he nods. “You know what I thought about in there?”
The tension is a little too thick, and she offers a tiny smile. “Escape, I hope.”
He smiles back. “Okay, mostly that.”
She squeezes his hand again, gently, then pulls back when she realizes her palms are sweating. “What else?”
His smile softens. “The look on your face. I’d walk through the gate and—yeah, like that.”
She chuckles, that same relief flooding her again. It’s a familiar feeling, after so many close calls. “You don’t have to get into so much trouble just to see my face, you know.”
“Yeah?”
Something shifts in the air between them, potent and heavy, and she can’t resist lifting her hand to his cheek. She brushes her thumb across the curve of his cheekbone, gently, and when he exhales, she feels her heart in her throat. She truly thought…
She can only whisper. “You’re really here.”
“More or less.”
“You said that before.” She keeps moving, tracing him. The connection coils in her belly, the warmth of his skin against the pad of her thumb, and he doesn’t pull away.
“Rodney said I came back younger.”
She touches the crow’s feet around his eyes with her index finger, gently runs the tip of her nail along one fine line, and he sighs. She promises him: “You look like you.”
When she draws her attention back from the details to his entire face, his pupils are blown wide. “Elizabeth,” he says, and she can hear the lust in his voice, tugging at her own. “I want to…”
He trails off with a groan, and he kisses her. His mouth is beautifully, painfully real against hers, soft and warm, and when she feels tears rising again, she lets them fall.
He presses his forehead to hers. “God, I hope—”
“I know,” she says, but she doesn’t, and as breathless as she is, it takes her a moment to realize that. “What?”
He grasps for her hands, takes one in each of his. “I don’t think I can stop this. Stop feeling this.”
It startles a laugh out of her, exposed and tear-streaked on his bed with both their hearts between them. “I guess we’ll have to figure it out, then.”
He looks so surprised that her heart squeezes anew. “Really?”
She pulls one hand away to brush her cheeks clean, and then submits to a long-held desire to run her fingers through his hair, run her thumb around the shell of his ear. “Yes, but not tonight.”
As if that were a sign, he cracks a yawn, and she follows suit.
“A day off tomorrow?” she prompts.
“If you have lunch with me.”
She smirks. “I didn’t realize this was a negotiation.”
He leans forward again, and she lets him kiss her. This one is gentle, and sweet, and full of promise.
“Lunch,” she agrees. And dinner, she assumes, as that has become their habit. And breakfast the day after, her mind supplies, making her blush, and she jumps up before that same impulse keeps him from his hard-earned sleep. “I’ll see you then.”
She turns back once, before she gets to the door, for one last look at his smile.
*
She’s tired, but too wired to sleep, so she goes back to her office.
He kissed me, she keeps thinking, and every time it feels like a relief to have that thought supplanting the one that said he almost died.
She writes the bones of the report. It’s easier to bear with the feel of him so fresh against her fingers, her mouth. He kissed me, she thinks, proof that he made it through alive, as she sketches out the horrors of the day. He wants to kiss me again.
When she’s done, she goes through her normal late-night routine—turning off her computer, gathering up the cups and dishes from the day—and pauses when she picks up the mug he brought her… was it just that morning?
On an impulse, she leaves it on her desk, for luck, until the next time he brings her coffee.
With a warm feeling in her chest, she turns off the light and heads to bed.
*end*