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For as long as she can remember, Teyla has known the Genii. She has known the sweet, grassy scent of their homeland and the dark flavor of their native brew until they are as familiar as her own damp Athosian moss and bitter tea. She has known the company of their sons and daughters, until the day comes when the ground opens up and it turns out that she has known nothing all along.
*** ***
After the coup, Teyla allows Ronon to join in her search. She has become accustomed to his presence, a constant silhouette at the edge of her sight, and most importantly, he understands about things that are best left unmentioned.
Scanning the horizon, she wipes her forehead and waits. Ronon is late, which means that Colonel Sheppard will ask questions—more than he has already been asking, his voice in her headset, casual and unalarmed—and she does not wish to lie any more than she feels she already has been. “Hurry,” she murmurs into the distance, just as Ronon’s tall shape appears, moving forward at a quick pace.
When he catches up, they both start jogging toward the jumper. “Nothing,” he says curtly—nothing, he had said last week, and the day before that, always nothing—and her throat tightens with keen disappointment as she nods her thanks.
Rodney is already in the jumper, busy with whatever work he’d brought with him, but Colonel Sheppard watches them closely as they approach. “Nice of you to join us,” he drawls. “Out making nice with the natives?”
She follows his gaze. Ronon’s knuckles are bloodied, and for nothing.
At times like this, what she is doing seems undeniably wrong. The hunt, the secrets, and the way she allows Ronon to push a little harder than she normally might, for the sake of success. At times like this, shame kindles in her belly, hot and foreign, until she remembers that there is no shame in seeking one’s roots, no matter how far into the world they may have burrowed.
“Just a little misunderstanding,” Ronon says, which earns him another hard look from Sheppard before they strap themselves into their seats and leave behind another dead end.
***
“You want to stop?” Ronon asks later that night. No one else comes to her room, but Ronon always has, from the very beginning.
“I cannot stop.” It is a new experience, to carry out an unchecked compulsion without remorse. Sometimes she feels that she and Dr. Weir are the only ones with any restraint at all, but now that honor is left to Elizabeth. Teyla rarely wants anything, but this she wants this with the same relentless determination she has always brought to the cause of her people. The fact that this cause is hers alone is a constant source of uneasiness that she ignores as well as she knows how.
“Just making sure.” Ronon is unarmed and hoarse with exhaustion when he rolls onto her bed, taking no care for the fine coverings she has been given over the years. With a heavy sigh, he rests his head on a round yellow pillow and rolls onto his back. “I’ve heard about her,” he says. “She tried to kill you.”
There are six candles on her shelf; she lights them methodically, one at a time, left to right. Her hand had been steady that day, and it remains so today as she extinguishes the match. “It is a private matter,” she says firmly.
“Will she try again?” Tendrils of smoke curl patterns in the space around Ronon’s face, breaking their form when he exhales loudly. Teyla closes her eyes and breathes in the scent, like so many bonfires of sweet dried grass.
“I do not know."
***
“We have a problem,” Colonel Sheppard says from the other side of the table, where he is slouched casually in his seat. Too casually.
Teyla glances around the table; Elizabeth is conspicuously absent and Rodney’s expression is distracted, if not a little confused. Ronon reveals nothing.
“A problem?” she asks.
“Is this a life or death problem, or a somebody spilled coffee in the jumper problem?” Rodney demands.
“I’m hoping it’s the second one,” Colonel Sheppard says, shifting an irritated glance toward Rodney. “But we’ll talk about that coffee thing later.”
Rodney appears utterly unconcerned.
“The problem,” Colonel Sheppard says conversationally, “Is that we seem to have some trust issues with our team. And I really don’t like finding out that two of my people are off on some vigilante mission by themselves.”
“It is not that,” Teyla says quickly. “Colonel Sheppard, I wish her no harm.”
“Then why don’t you tell me what it is, because I sure don’t like the look of it, so far.”
She nods, her hands pressed down onto her lap. She will explain herself, and perhaps Sheppard will understand that there are some things of which it is impossible to let go. Then again, perhaps not, for Colonel Sheppard has never seemed troubled to leave the women whom have so reluctantly parted from his embrace, his cool eyes sliding away from them and onto his next mission even while his mouth is still stained with the color of their kisses.
But she has become adept at explaining things to the Atlanteans on their terms; it is one of her gifts. “Sora has been missing for many months. I have merely been making inquiries.”
Rodney jerks slightly in his seat, a flurry of emotions passing over his face with a swiftness that only Rodney can seem to manage. When he speaks, his voice is slightly off; shaded by a fine edge of betrayal. “Sora?”
“I did not see the harm in looking for an old friend.”
“Old friend? More like an old enemy with a grudge the size of—well, about the size of the knife she tried to put in you.”
“The Genii are our allies,” she replies firmly. “I am doing nothing wrong.”
“I’m not saying you are!” Colonel Sheppard leans forward and raps the table impatiently with his fist. “We just need to know what you’re doing so that we can have your back, do you get that? Jesus, you two! Why didn’t you say anything?”
Ronon shrugs. “Wasn’t mine to tell,” he says, even though she suspects he has often wanted to ask the same question.
“Does this mean you do not mind if I look for Sora?”
“Of course I do! She lied to you for years; it’s not like we can trust her. Not to mention,” he says pointedly, “the small matter of her very personal vendetta against one of my team.” He shakes his head, frowning, and exchanges a series of unreadable expressions with Rodney before sighing and rubbing at his face with both hands. “Look, I understand that you want some kind of closure. I get that.”
So he understands, in spite of himself. Relief begins to unfurl in her throat, releasing the tight set of her shoulders, softening her spine. “And you wish to help me?”
“Not likely,” Rodney mutters darkly.
“McKay…”
“What? Come on, Colonel! I saw her when we were holding her here; a spoiled, manipulative brat. And I would also like to point out that our encounters with the Genii after long periods of time have never been pleasant, as they tend to take that time and use it to hatch elaborate plans to kill us!”
“Do you believe the same of Ladon?”
“The Genii are probably fine for now,” Sheppard says before Rodney can say anything further. “For a while. But Sora hasn’t been living with them, not since Kolya’s disappearance. She might not even know about the new alliance.”
“I have thought of that,” Teyla admits. “I believe that she is lost in many ways. It is why I need to find her.”
“Yes, because we’ve had the best luck with going after people who don’t want to be found,” Rodney complains, but there isn’t any heat behind it; and she can see that he has already conceded.
***
On the outside, Teyla is infinitely patient. She has been blessed with a stillness that serves her well, but beneath that surface there is a reserve of ceaseless conflict over the things which she wants for herself. Sora—even this new, bitter version of the girl—has always been one of those things. There have been times, during Teyla’s time on Atlantis, when the temptation has arisen to unburden herself the way that sharing always seems to do, but there are so many things the Atlanteans do not speak of, and this may be one of them.
Eventually, it doesn’t seem to matter, because in her search she gives up too much of herself—just the fact that she is looking for Sora tells more than she would like—and she is certain that they can see every motive that drives her. If this is true, then they do not seem to mind, because they have joined her wholeheartedly in the task.
When they finally find Sora, it is on a sweltering, godforsaken planet that Colonel Sheppard chose randomly from the Ancient database. She is weak, but that does not prevent her from fighting them every step of the way. She first manages to wrestle Rodney’s weapon from his grip, and has the barrel jammed against his neck where he kneels, furious, in the dirt, when Teyla catches up to them. Her eyes, when she sees Teyla, are wild and wounded, but yes, she is still the same girl, even with her curls hidden and bound by a dirty scarf.
“Sora, no!” Teyla chides, as though that has ever done any good, and then it is no longer an issue because Ronon is quicker than Sora will ever be, and he attacks from behind.
***
“What do we do with her?”
“Bring her back,” Teyla replies. “She needs medical care.”
Rodney makes an angry sound and kicks at the dusty ground. “Oh, that’s great. Once again, give the killers the top-notch medical care, completely ignoring the fact that if Ronon hadn’t shown up, I would by the one lying there. Only, I really don’t think Carson has figured out a way to mend a huge hole in the neck!”
“Settle down, McKay,” Colonel Sheppard says, but his tone is always more telling than his words, and he means to soothe, not reprimand. “Teyla’s right; we should take her to Carson. Besides, isn’t that the point? We found her so Teyla could take care of whatever business they’ve got.”
“Thank you,” she says, and lifts her eyes to Ronon. “Thank you all.”
“Hey, we’ve all been there,” Colonel Sheppard says cheerfully, to which Teyla thinks that yes, they certainly have. She is just glad that he was the one to say it.
***
“Now, what happened to this lovely thing?” Dr. Beckett asks when Ronon brings Sora into the infirmary and unceremoniously deposits here on the nearest available bed.
Elizabeth has followed them from the gate room, and she stands at a distance, arms folded over her chest, and arches an eyebrow at Carson. “This lovely thing beat you unconscious not even a year ago,” she says.
“What?” Carson fusses gently over Sora, sidestepping his nurses as he takes her vitals and frowns at what he sees. “Don’t be ridiculous; she’s just a wee child!”
Colonel Sheppard clears his throat and looks away. Elizabeth and Rodney, on the other hand, do nothing to conceal their amusement.
“She was larger at the time,” Teyla assures the doctor. “A formidable opponent, trained to kill.” Carson’s forehead remains creased with dismay, but he seems to accept her words.
She cannot look away from Sora, who does appear small and fragile on the narrow mattress. The room grows crowded with busy medical personnel and most of the senior staff. If only everyone would leave, then Teyla would be free to release some of the tension in her back, her face, everywhere she forces herself to remain stiff and unreadable. If only they would leave, she could really look at Sora the way she wants to. And Teyla has been under Carson’s care in the past, so it is no surprise when he catches her eye before standing upright and saying, “All right, I need everyone out but for essential personnel. And Teyla, love, I’m sure your friend will want a familiar face when she comes round.”
Ronon lingers as long as possible until Dr. Beckett threatens to have him physically removed. “I am fine,” she tells him, but he seems doubtful. His expression had gone dark when Elizabeth had mentioned Sora’s assault on Carson, and she cannot blame him. A doctor should not be a casualty of war.
“Thank you,” she says when everyone is gone.
“This is better for me, as well,” he reassures her, and Teyla finally feels comfortable enough to approach the bed. It is the nearest she has been to Sora since their terrible fight, and she is so changed, so pale beneath her freckled, sun-reddened cheeks that she does not appear real. The changes are what emphasize exactly how long it has been. It has been such a long time, months and months during which Teyla had discovered how closely she had harbored the belief that someday…
She refuses to think of things that do not matter. There is blood on Sora’s pillow, and the sight twists something inside Teyla’s chest until it feels like something is breaking, sharp and jagged where she least expects it.
“She’s going to be fine; just a bit weak right now,” Carson says from just behind her, his hand a gentle weight on her back. He remains there, a comforting presence, and together they watch Sora wake slowly, her eyelashes fluttering against her face, a deceptively innocent picture. Teyla wants to step away almost as much as she wants to reach for her.
When Sora sees her for the first time, a bolt of realization transforms her face from sedate to alarmed, searching already for a way out.
“You are injured,” Teyla says. “You have probably been given something for the pain, as well.”
“Aye.” When Carson steps out from behind Teyla, Sora draws back, her mouth hardening into a thin line. “Ah, so you remember me, then?” he asks, chuckling lightly as he checks her vitals again. “Don’t you worry; we take good care of all our patients here in Atlantis. Now, I’m going to let Teyla help you tidy up a bit, all right?”
Sora averts her eyes and says nothing.
The basin Carson brings holds warm water with the faint scent of soap, along with a soft dry cloth. Teyla has many misgivings about this task, but she does not like the sight of blood caked on Sora’s skin so she wets the cloth and coaxes Sora’s fist open, unfolding the tightly curled fingers one by one and wiping the dirt and grime away as gently as she can manage. When her hands are clean, Teyla wipes a clean path up her arms, careful of the bruises she finds, and goes to work on the stubborn slope of her jaw.
“Your hair will have to wait until later,” she says. It is hopelessly tangled, a mess of flattened, blood-matted curls.
“Just cut it off,” Sora whispers.
Teyla pauses in her work, unsettled by something in Sora’s tone. “I could not do that,” she says carefully. “Among my people, you are known for your hair. And for your sweet disposition,” she adds, smiling when Carson looks up abruptly, unable to hide his shock. But it is true, every word. Sora has been a favorite for as long as Teyla can remember, noticed for her curls and loved for her easy smile.
“Never mind that,” Carson says. “As soon as you’re feeling better, a good shampoo will take care of that mess.”
“I will help you,” Teyla says. While she works, she feels Sora’s eyes on her, and wonders what she is thinking, what she sees in her face. “If you are not still too angry with me.”
“I’m not angry,” Sora replies, and no, she doesn’t sound angry. She sounds like nothing at all.
***
“You had no right to bring me here,” Sora says, watching sullenly as Teyla turns on the bathroom faucet. “I’m not staying.”
“I know.” But for now, Teyla’s hands are spilling over with red-gold curls, and Sora allows it, obediently bending her head to the generous flush of water. Teyla watches the pink hue bleed into the sink until it is almost gone, and then works a thick shampoo into the mess. “This is a special shampoo from—from the Atlanteans’ home world.” She catches herself just in time. “It is very different than our own. On a world with no threat from the Wraith, they devote much time to the perfection of such things as food and soap.”
Sora remains silent. It is a long time since the days when she had strolled through the grass in her peculiar way of dress, all flouncing skirts and well-placed curves. Teyla had always found Sora’s girlish ribbons fascinating, exotic, so different from her own tastes. To see Sora in the sensible lines of a uniform had been shocking, and yet Teyla had found that version just as appealing. And now…
At one time, Sora would have allowed this without the stiffness in her back, the tight clench of her jaw. At one time, she would have been awed by Atlantis, amused by tales of foreign worlds, and would have given Teyla the coy tilt of her head. Now, she is bent silently over a sink, her thoughts entirely hidden.
“I am almost finished,” Teyla sighs after the first lather has begun to rinse clean. “Dr. Beckett says that you should rest for a few days. You must be tired.”
Sora’s eyes are two bright spots in her dull face, shining in the mirror like dark wet stones from the river. “I’m not,” she says, but when Teyla is finished, she wanders to the bed all the same. “Am I a prisoner?” she asks, taking everything in slowly, the towel falling from her shoulders as she sits.
“Of course not.” Teyla curls her hands around the heaven wooden shelf on which she keeps her belongings. It is better to remain here, a safe distance from the most unpredictable person she has ever known.
“Then why am I here, Teyla?”
The question has been a long time coming. It is nothing that Ronon and the others have not been asking her for weeks. Why, why, as though none of them have ever followed instinct to the exclusion of reason.
“Is it because of this?” She holds Teyla’s gaze, shadows of the same question passing over her smooth face. When she unzips her top, her breasts are small and perfect.
“Of course not.” Teyla looks away, and welcomes the first stirrings of frustration that churn beneath her skin and give sufficient distraction from the emotions she has no use for; things like regret, fear, and pity.
“I’m not stupid; I know we were…” Sora trails off with a small laugh, a bitter sound. “But it doesn’t matter, now, does it? Commander Kolya says that is the problem with you Athosians; you’re always living in the past.”
“I am my past.”
“Be whatever you like. Just leave me out of it.”
Teyla can do nothing but nod, because Sora’s words mean nothing when she is sitting there on Teyla’s bed, bare from the waist up and sulking up at Teyla as though she is looking for a fight. Her shoulders glisten beneath the mass of damp hair that spirals against her skin like a pack of sleek, furtive serpents; like a sign to be read in the bottom of a teacup.
It is not the first time Teyla has been in this position with Sora, but this time, it is far more difficult to walk away.
***
Of course, Atlantis has its own perception of Sora: bitch, and cold, and ice princess. Teyla first hears it whispered in the corridors, and then more boldly declared in the mess hall. It has been a long time since anyone has called her these names that she puzzles over why it has started again until she realizes that Sora, not she, is the object of their gossip.
Teyla tries to time their meals so they have as much privacy as possible. For the first day or two, they manage in relative peace, but on the third day they are at a corner table eating in silence when Colonel Sheppard, Ronon, and Dr. McKay appear and head straight for them with clear intent. After their slightly forced greetings, there is an awkward pause, and then Rodney gives Sheppard an exasperated look until Sheppard clears his throat and says, “So, how about that coup?”
Teyla’s head snaps up, her breath catching in her throat. They have no right. It had been agreed that Teyla would handle this, and Sora is still far too hostile and withdrawn for Teyla to have spoken to her about anything this important.
“Working out well so far,” Rodney says, utterly unbelievable in every way. He has always been terrible at deception. “Yep, I think Ladon is turning out to be an excellent leader for the Genii.”
Sora’s gaze flickers toward Rodney and then away, bored, back to her plate.
Sheppard nods at Rodney’s words, but all his attention is fixed on Sora. “I’d hate to think there were any rogue factions out there, threatening that new peace,” he says. Does he think he is discreet? Does he even care? Teyla gives him a look to let him know that he will pay for this later, and he shrugs guiltily, tipping his head toward Ronon, shifting the blame. “Tell me, Sora,” he says conversationally. “What do you think of Ladon?”
Teyla does not expect her to answer, but Sora narrows her eyes on Sheppard and says, “Commander Kolya has always said that if we had just one scientist like Dr. McKay, we would have defeated the Wraith long ago.”
Rodney straightens in his seat and glows with pleasure. “Well, I suppose that’s true,” he says thoughtfully. “But only because he would probably threaten my life on a daily basis until I did something morally reprehensible—yet undeniably brilliant—in order to get ahead.”
“That sounds like the Kolya I know.” The words are spoken too harshly, and it is the wrong thing to say if he wants to keep talking to Sora, because she shuts him out the seconds the words are spoken.
“I don’t know him,” Ronon says. “But I’ve heard stories. About you, too,” he says, resting his elbows on the table and leaning in, too near to Sora’s space. His large fists and flexed biceps are useful when interrogating the enemy, but seeing them used on Sora is wrong, and Teyla pushes him back with a gentle hand on the center of his chest.
Rodney stops eating for a moment, his eyes wide and startled, and Colonel Sheppard just shakes his head.
Always reluctant to retreat, Ronon glowers at Sora, until Teyla is a breath away from excusing herself from the table just to diffuse the tension. She opens her mouth to say her goodbyes, when she feels a touch at the small of her back, a soft trailing of fingers that lead to an open palm, pressed to the bare skin just above her waist.
The gossip had been wrong. It startles Teyla to discover exactly how wrong everyone has been about Sora, because she is nothing like ice. Instead, her hand radiates a heat that spreads across Teyla’s skin and sweeps right through to her belly.
Rodney has said something, and Sheppard is arguing with him, but she does not know over what. It is difficult to focus on anything but each subtle slip of Sora’s fingers. At her side, Sora eats an orange by the slice, leisurely, one-handed.
Across the table, Ronon has not taken eyes from her, his scowl deepening until he stands abruptly, jarring the table enough to raise a loud protest from Rodney, but he is angry, and does not acknowledge Rodney nor apologize. When he is gone, Sora’s hand falls away, leaving Teyla with cooling dampness on her back and a lingering tension in her thighs.
***
They are silent all the way back to Teyla’s rooms, and only when the door closes behind them does Sora react, whirling to face her, bright splotches of color on her cheeks. “A coup? An alliance?” she demands, more to herself than to Teyla, as she paces the room. “I cannot believe it is so easy for everyone to go on as though nothing has happened.”
“They are not. Some are very unhappy with Kolya’s disappearance.”
“Not unhappy enough to do anything about it! No one dared to come with me; they all feared what Cowen might do.” This is not just a tantrum; there are tears wetting her cheeks, and Teyla recognizes the betrayed, stricken expression from the time her father had not emerged from the jumper with the rest. “The worst part,” she continues, sounding as though she is choking on every word, “Is that Cowen will not pay for what he has done.”
“He paid with his life. Is that not enough?”
Sora’s hands fall to her sides, defeated even as she shakes with fine tremors of fury. “No,” she says softly, and Teyla is caught by a wave of sympathy for the girl, who feels so deeply and struggles so violently against every obstacle, and yet is always left on the wrong side of victory.
“He was…not a good man,” Teyla concedes, at which Sora flings herself face-down on the bed.
The room is growing dark, and Teyla lights her candles slowly, using the familiar routine to soothe herself until the shelves are lined with sweet fragrant flames. When she turns, Sora’s expression is as it always has been: hard and unreadable. The only change is that she follows Teyla with her eyes, softened for the first time by curiosity, nothing more.
It is a peaceful moment; there is no apparent cause for the frustration that constricts her throat, swallowing down the swell of discontent in her chest. She had thought that having Sora here would be enough; that Sora’s safety was her primary concern. Yet it is not enough, and she is glad that Sora is safe, but somehow, despite the fact that she is here, nothing has changed.
“It is time for my prayers,” she says, even though Sora has seen her meditate a hundred times. At one time, they would practice together, fingertips touching, imagining they could reach the ancients with their fervently good intentions alone.
Tonight, she sits on the edge of the bed and faces the door, legs folded beneath her, hands resting on her knees. Ronon’s stony exit from the mess hall, Colonel Sheppard’s judgment, the ever-present threat of the Wraith…it is a challenge to separate herself from everything, especially tonight.
Slowly, her breathing evens out and the tension begins to slowly diminish. Things are always so much clearer after she has emptied out her mind, and already, the ache of the past has lessened. The tranquility has settled in so entirely that when she feels Sora move nearer from behind, the press of bony knees against her backside, she does not flinch, even though the impression of danger shimmers across her skin.
She continues as she is, unwilling to break her focus just yet.
There are many things Sora could do from this position. If Ronon came through the door at this moment—which is entirely possible—he would take her down without asking questions; he would not agree with Teyla’s reasons for trusting, and rightfully so. The touch at her throat does not feel like a threat. She breathes easier when it comes, because it means that the waiting is over, and the soft drag of fingers down to the hollow of her throat means that it is possible for broken paths to be set straight, even if it has taken some degree of force.
The touch falls away. In the quiet room, there is only the sound of her own heartbeat and behind her, Sora, tumultuous even in her ragged breathing, and in the lush tremble of wanting something that has been forbidden by her rigid commander.
“You shouldn’t have brought me here,” she says, crossly, against the back of Teyla’s neck, but it feels like a kiss. “I was never as disciplined as you think. You are a fool to think things can ever be different, because I promise you, Teyla, whatever happens here, I will find Kolya, and my work will take me away from this.”
If it is supposed to put her off, it does not succeed, because she wants nothing more than to fall backward, to twist around until she can reach the sweet red curve of Sora’s mouth, and she does just that, pushing Sora onto the bed and breathing her own kiss into the tumble of curls that protect the place where her pulse thunders as strongly as a herd of wild game.
“No,” she admonishes, “You are foolish, but I allow it because of our history.” But she is already losing herself, and the satisfied purr that rolls its way up her spine when Sora melts into her is like Indian summer, green-gold fields and a damp, scorching heat that leaves wisps of steam in its wake. It is the way Sora has always been, nothing like the cool combatant everyone believes ought to be kept at arm’s length. No ice princess could kiss the way Sora does, open and panting, surging forward with hot, eager tongue until Teyla bites gently at her bottom lip, slowing her down, stroking her tongue across Sora’s at a leisurely pace.
They are going to do this, then. Teyla’s stomach clenches at the realization, and at the feel of Sora’s hands slipping beneath her waistband, sliding over her buttocks with warm, damp palms. “So fast,” she says breathlessly, but she understands. There are things she has been waiting to do, as well. Over the years she has imagined many ways to unravel the complicated ties of a bodice, but it is just as exciting to undo the line of buttons of a uniform, especially when she finds the faint perfume of Earth soap on Sora’s skin, and somehow, the fragrance of the Genii home world. Inhaling deeply, she tugs the fabric down, baring Sora’s body the way she wants to bare her own.
“You could stay here,” she murmurs into the corner of Sora’s mouth. “In Atlantis.” In response, Sora’s hands still on Teyla’s hips and she wrenches away, staring up at her with a hard expression.
“I won’t,” she says fiercely. “I would deliver Dr. McKay to Kolya today if I could, bound and alive, ready to work.”
The threat is sincere, but she is docile beneath Teyla’s touch, and her lips are still wet from their kisses, so she just smiles down at Sora and begins to methodically unlace her own top. “I do not believe you,” she says, and then the conversation is cut short because there is something familiar and startling about the unchecked longing on Sora’s face, something that has not changed over time. The surprising thing is that she allows Teyla to see it—it is not a slip; she possesses more control than that, so Teyla takes it as a gift and tries to return it with long, deep kisses that end with their legs twined together, moving in a rhythm that both of them seem to understand.
When she rolls to the side of the bed, Teyla knows her own face must be as red as Sora’s, a swell of heat on each cheek and between her legs where Sora’s thigh has been pressed, a constant clench and release of pressure as she had strained up toward Teyla, always wanting more.
Sora is wilted and beautiful where she lies, half-swallowed in the bedding and watching Teyla undress. She allows the removal of her pants when Teyla slips them down over her hips, ugly brown military slacks that have seen better days, and then there is nothing left to do.
Teyla pauses at the bedside, feeling the whole while that she is slipping backward, veering off course, which makes no sense because this cannot be a compromise when she has been so uncompromising in her pursuit of this very thing. Sora. By candlelight, Teyla’s shadow flickers against the wall, a dark enormous thing, like the entity that had once nearly devoured all the energy in Atlantis. Teyla understands what it must have been like for the creature, because there is nowhere for her to go but to the wealth of warmth waiting for her on the bed, and when she licks her way into Sora’s mouth, she knows that she is taking something that cannot be returned.
There are a hundred ways they could do this, and she is partial to a few favorite fantasies, but it has been so long since she has felt the delicate pull of a mouth at her breast or the click of a sudden gasp in her ear that she finds herself halfway there before she can even decide what ought to go where, and when. The inside of Sora’s thigh is wet when she shifts over Teyla, and Teyla has not been clumsy since she took up the sticks at thirteen, but her hands feel clumsy and rushed when she slides her fingers between Sora’s legs. They breathe together, and the unsteadiness bleeds away.
“Like this,” Sora whispers as she sits up and leans back, nearly out of Teyla’s reach. With an angling of her hips, with one leg slipped cleverly beneath Teyla’s thigh, she meets Teyla’s eyes right as she fits them together.
Teyla’s eyes fall shut, her limbs heavy with pleasure as Sora makes shocking, languorous circles with her hips right at the place where they share this need, soft and slick and satisfying in a way that her own fingers are not. “This is good,” Teyla says, but it is more than good; her thighs shake with it, the dull ache of wanting and the sparks of pleasure that dart through her with every pass.
Passivity has never been her way. Before long, she is moving just as voraciously against Sora, her fingers drifting down between them to rub with intent, tight circles over her own swollen flesh and then Sora’s. Somehow, the appreciative sounds Sora gives her are more exciting than even the sight of the two of them together, and when Sora clamps her thighs down on Teyla’s waist and trembles for long, gasping moments, Teyla pulses against the sudden pressure, lets it ripple through her for as long as possible, and then falls back into the covers, damp and sweating, with Sora’s bony knees still tangled around her waist.
Eventually, Sora crawls up her body and tucks herself into Teyla’s side, using one hand to cup the weight of her breast, an intimacy that Teyla finds very agreeable. She relaxes into the embrace and remains silent, for fear that if they speak, it will only be the same old words.
***
Teyla’s headset beeps from the bedside table just after dawn, and she rolls groggily toward the sound, untangling her fingers from Sora’s hair as she goes. It is Colonel Sheppard, who wants her to accompany Bates to the mainland to discuss security protocol with the Athosians.
She agrees to the task, which takes much longer than anticipated. It is past supper time when she returns to Atlantis. There are many things she needs to do, and talking to Ronon is one of them. She finds him on the west pier, where he is running laps with some marines, shouting creative insults at those who fall behind until they wheeze and stumble their way back into formation.
Teyla nods a greeting, and waits as he separates himself from the group. Like many other evenings, they stand at the railing and look out across the water, but it has never been like this. They have never disagreed so strongly. At first he says nothing, breathing hard from his run, but she knows he has something to say, and eventually he wipes his face with a towel and turns her way. “Did she know about the coup?”
It is almost humorous, the reversal of their positions, Ronon’s careful observation of her every move, as though she is the one who needs supervision. As though she is the one who lose their head and do something irreversibly dangerous.
“No. It was difficult for her to learn of it, and I cannot figure out how to help her,” she replies, and for some unknown reason, the corners of his eyes crinkle into the intimation of a smile.
“You spend too much time figuring things out. She’ll be gone before you can even admit what you’re doing.”
“She will leave sooner if you continue to treat her so unkindly.”
He makes a loud, disbelieving sound, his face screwed up with disdain. “She’s lucky Sheppard didn’t put her in the brig. She didn’t support the coup, which makes her just as much an enemy as the old Genii regime. If it were anyone but her, you’d see it.” He shakes his head and pushes himself back from the railing. “I don’t like it. Seeing you like this.”
“You helped me find her,” she replies, but he is looking off past her shoulder, at Colonel Sheppard, who is approaching with Sora at his side.
“Look who I found taking a walk all by herself,” Sheppard says cheerfully.
Sora, squinting into the evening sky, is wearing her dingy uniform that probably does little to soften Ronon’s opinion of her, because Ronon has never seen the girl who used to collect pale gold bundles of straw at summer’s end, and he has never seen her smile from beneath a wide-brimmed hat.
“She was looking for you, so I offered to escort her down here.” Sheppard’s tone is light and pleasant, but a taut wariness is evident in every line of his body. “And since I’ve got both of you here, I guess now is a good time to talk about the arrangements for Sora’s stay in Atlantis.”
“Arrangements,” Teyla repeats, equally polite, so preoccupied with Sheppard’s suggestion that when she glances at Sora, she is utterly unprepared for the way the girl holds her eyes, a swift, silent communication that is like a blow to the chest. It has been such a long time since they have looked at one another with anything other than infinitely frustrated emotions.
“Your quarters aren’t exactly roomy, and the rest of us would like to have Sora where we can keep an eye on her.”
“Thank you,” she says, and gives him a serene smile, the one she uses when he has done or said something unthinkably offensive. “But she will remain with me.”
“Hey, this comes from the top,” Sheppard tries to say, but she stops him before he can go any further.
“If that is true, then it is only because you made it so.” She includes Ronon in her accusation, aware of their disbelief, and the way Sora has moved to stand behind her, slightly off to the side.
She is not accustomed to arguing with Sheppard. Normally, her opinion can change his mind entirely, but they stand on the pier and debate Sora’s threat for long, fruitless minutes until Ronon is drawn up to his full height and her own slow-building anger is simmering beneath her skin.
As they argue, she can feel Sora’s increasing agitation; the effort of her silence, and just when Teyla feels an ultimatum rising up in her throat, the clutch of a hand at her waist.
Abruptly, Ronon stands down, rocking back on his heels and gesturing toward Sora, his face as unforgiving as if she were a Wraith. “This is the reason you brought her here?” he demands.
Sheppard falls back, too, and scratches at the back of his neck, elbow pointed at an awkward angle toward the sky. “Uh, yeah,” he says, grimacing as though it pains him. His face is inexplicably pink. “Ronon, maybe we should just-“
Teyla halts him with a raised hand. “You do not understand-”
“I think I understand this better than anybody!” Sheppard protests.
“-and I am not obligated to explain,” she says with an authority she does not feel. “Speak with Dr. Weir if need be, but Sora is to remain with me.” Before they can say anything further, she brushes past them, with Sora at her heels.
*** ***
When Teyla had been sixteen years old—old enough to know better, by all accounts—Sora had taken an interest in her father’s smoking pipe, which she proceeded to smuggle out of the house with an absurd degree of joyousness. Teyla had been doubtful about the wisdom of such an action, but allowed Sora to drag her through a wide meadow and down to the lake. Together, they had stretched out on the hidden bank and lay in the sun while Sora set about lighting a bowl of fragrant weed for their enjoyment.
It had been bitter, and they had coughed miserably, but Teyla had felt nothing but happiness as she had lain back in the grass, idly braiding the ribbons that always seemed to escape from beneath Sora’s hat. Later that afternoon, she had allowed Sora to weave them into her hair, feeling bashful and flattered; as though Sora had just shared a great secret.
Of course they had been discovered. A cousin of Sora’s, a boy a few years older, had stumbled upon them and yanked the pipe from Sora’s insolent hands, eager to tell her father.
She had been only fourteen and small for her age, but she had struck the boy in the face with her fist. He had bled from his nose and mouth, and Teyla values peace above all, but that does not change the fact that in that moment, she had looked at Sora, at her indignant fists and untidy curls, and found her beautiful.
*** ***
Sora is silent for the rest of the evening. She goes to bed early, and then wakes Teyla in the middle of the night with her mouth trailing across Teyla’s belly, every touch possessing a desperation it had not the last time. The next morning it is more of the same, a steady silence that frightens Teyla in its resemblance of biding time, as though Sora has already planned her escape.
When she does speak, it is always of Kolya, and of how wronged he has been by Cowen and the rest of the Genii. Teyla is about to stop her, unable to hear any more, but when Sora talks about the day she had discovered Kolya’s disappearance, she curls into herself and looks so broken that Teyla goes to her, instead, and holds on tightly. She is not yet ready to let go.
***
The mess hall is the heart of Atlantis, more so than the gate room or any designated recreational areas. If anything happens here, there is an audience for it, which is why her pulse quickens with anxiety when she enters and spies Sora near the back wall, faced off with Ronon, her posture rigid and defensive.
They are the focus of everyone in the room, their conversation full of sharply punctuated words that Teyla cannot hear, but none of the spectators seem to grasp the danger of the situation. Sora has regained her strength since coming to Atlantis, and has been trained by a ruthless regime. Teyla fears Ronon will underestimate her. Even if he does not, he fights to kill.
“You two should not be together,” she says when she approaches. She spares a moment to look for Sheppard, who is not nearby.
“I was about to say the same thing,” Ronon says contemptuously, staring darkly down into Sora’s face. He is a physical man who will go to any length to intimidate his opponent. All it takes is Ronon’s hand on the wall above Sora’s shoulder, and Teyla predicts it in the same breath it occurs.
Teyla shouts at them to stop, her voice lost in the uproar, and it is both surreal and terribly wrong that she cannot hear herself, yet can hear the sound of flesh hitting flesh and dishes toppling to the ground. Sora fights dirty, with frightening ferocity, but Ronon has the advantage of size and strength. It becomes apparent after less than a minute that he is going to defeat her, something Sora seems to fully realize—she has been trained in strategy, as well—because the next time she breaks free of his grip, she kicks a marine to the floor and relieves him of his sidearm.
***
“And then you attacked Ronon?” Dr. Weir paces the length of the interrogation room, considerably less relaxed than the last time Teyla had spoken with her.
“I merely relieved him of his weapon,” Teyla explains, more shaken than she will ever show. It does not matter. At the time, there had been no rational decision, merely action and reaction, and she had not known what was happening until her foot had connected with the hand in which Ronon wielded his knife.
“This is bullshit,” Sheppard mutters, pacing as restlessly as Dr. Weir, his hands on his hips. At the other end of the table, Ronon stares her down as though she has committed an unspeakable betrayal.
“Was I supposed to let you kill her?” she asks, lifting her chin in his direction.
“You weren’t supposed to let her kill me,” he says through gritted teeth. One eye is completely swollen shut.
“I would not. I do not believe she would have shot you.”
“He’s on your team!” Sheppard bursts out. Dr. Weir gives him a silencing look and pulls up a chair across from Teyla.
“Teyla, we’re worried about what it will look like if Sora is allowed to roam free in Atlantis from now on. Everyone saw the fight.”
She does not even disagree, and yet finds herself saying, “They have seen Ronon fight with many people.”
Dr. Weir’s head bobs thoughtfully from side to side in a reluctant concession. “Okay, but we still have a problem.”
“I will keep her with me at all times,” Teyla says, knowing even as she speaks that it is not the solution, and she cannot look Ronon in the eye. Still, the need to go to Sora nags at her, a churning cloud of anxiety in her chest. “I will keep her away from Ronon and the others.”
“I don’t know,” Dr. Weir sighs. “For now, keep Sora restricted to your quarters. Do we need to post a guard?” she asks Sheppard, who gives Teyla a hard look.
“I think that would be best.”
***
Dr. Beckett makes disapproving sounds and stitches Sora’s forehead with the tiniest stitches Teyla has ever seen, “We wouldn’t want to scar that pretty face,” he tells her, but her expression is stone.
Teyla averts her eyes, folding her hands together against the desire to touch the soft curve of Sora’s mouth. It is not the time. She is beginning to think that it will never be time.
***
Ronon is in his room when Teyla goes looking for him. One of Ronon’s finest qualities is that he does not feign indifference, does not hide what he wants, or shadow his words with hidden meaning. When she enters, she feels the full force of his anger, and something that feels like distrust.
“I did not feel that you were in danger.” She can say that honestly, now that she has gone over the events in her mind, far more often than she would have liked.
Ronon swings his legs over the side of the bed to make room for her at his side.
Times like these, she wishes for Charin almost more than she can bear. Charin would have known how to sort out the hollow regret and the frustration of having something stolen that she identifies so strongly with Sora; with this entire situation. Charin, like Ronon, would be able to tell her what she does not wish to hear.
“When I brought her here, I could not have predicted so much…trouble.”
Ronon’s head is bent, his hair obscuring his face, when he says, “From what I hear of her, I don’t see how you could’ve expected anything but trouble.”
“The stories are incomplete,” she explains, her face suddenly stinging hot, her throat tight. “They do not know how it was before they came.” And woke the Wraith. “She was-“
“I get it,” he says, saving her the ordeal of attempting to speak, when she feels as though she is choking.
“Yes.”
The ocean sounds different in Atlantis than it does from the mainland. It gives them something to listen to during the long silence.
“What did she ask you to do?” Ronon finally asks. Never mind how he knows—he knows.
“What she asks is not too much,” Teyla says carefully. “She is within her rights.”
“Which means you’ve already complicated things way too much. You’re not actually considering it, are you?”
And this is the question that Teyla has been mulling over all night, because it is her duty to say no, and right now, here with Ronon, it would be easy to do. Sora had been correct—Kolya had been correct—about Athosians: right or wrong; old loyalties run so much deeper than new ones. For this reason, it is not as simple as merely refusing Sora.
First, she has to want to refuse her.
“I cannot do what she asks,” she says firmly. Her voice does not waver, but that does not change the fact that she cannot trust herself to do any one particular thing where Sora is concerned. All this time, she had remembered Sora’s sweet face, remembered her quick temper and remembered the appeal of her determination.
She had forgotten that Sora is the most unpredictable person she knows, and that in Sora’s company, she becomes the same.
“Sure.” Ronon’s hand is a comforting weight on the back of her neck. When he squeezes gently, it feels like forgiveness, and like the easiest bargain she has ever made.
***
She goes to the mainland the next day with Rodney and Colonel Sheppard. They are already in the jumper bay when she arrives, and before they see her, she catches snippets of Rodney’s agitated diatribe, “-she” and “hussy!” and “-tell Ladon, already.” The two of them jump apart when she comes around the side of the jumper. For their benefit, she pretends nothing is wrong, but Rodney is twitchy and flustered for the entire flight.
Her people flock to her, now that Charin is gone. There is always an issue to settle, comfort to give, work to be done. It has been a pleasant surprise that they often seek out Colonel Sheppard for advice, which makes things all the more easier for Teyla--she does not know how Charin did it on her own. The day is long and pleasant, and it is late when they return to Atlantis.
She shakes out her hair while she takes the corridor to her room. She will shower, and then fall asleep during her meditation. Later, when she has rested, Sora will be all too easy to awaken-
Teyla pauses at her door, a knot of fear settling in her belly. The guard is absent from his post.
Her rooms are empty. She stares at her bed for a moment, troubled by the smooth lines of the blanket. The neat arrangement of pillows, which normally give her a sense of satisfaction, are equally troubling.
She taps lightly at her headset, hesitates, and then shuts it off.
*** ***
Ronon is up early the next morning, swimming near the pier off his quarters, from a shallow dock that she follows to the end.
“Sora is gone,” she calls down to him, and is taken aback by the words, which had been so hard-edged where they’d nested resentfully inside her, and now emerge as innocuous as a morning song. Sora is gone. Gone as she was before, only this time she has left Teyla with a vague sense of where they stand; enough to suffice for the time being.
He says nothing, just bobs there in the water, a motion as soothing as the waves themselves. Most people do not find Ronon soothing; most Atlanteans draw away from him as from a threat, but Teyla has been drawn in from the beginning, so when he says, “Swim with me,” she unfastens her skirt and dives into the water.
“You look better today,” he says when she surfaces. “More like yourself.” Beneath the clinging droplets of water, his eye still appears tender and discolored. Today, his lip is split, as well. She cannot look at it or guess what it means, but she can send a great splash of gratitude in his direction, and can plunge toward the ocean floor, arms outstretched.
end. |