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sga_saturdayTITLE: Progressus
AUTHOR:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tielan
SUMMARY: Human beings are growing things - if they're not living and changing, they're just waiting to be put in the ground.
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: ~900
NOTES: It took way longer to write this than it should have. The story didn't decide what it was going to be until I got the title for it. *shakes head*
Progressus
Teyla's skin is soft under John's fingers as he skims his fingers around her throat, putting the necklace on for her.
In the cool evening, a gentle heat rises off her skin, and John smells forest and leaves, and something that he thinks is what warmed amber should smell like - golden and rich and with the weight of aeons behind it. Her eyes are steady on his as he fastens the clasp, and as he takes his hands away, he sees the measuring look in her eyes before her gaze drops to the silver disc and her finger traces across it.
It's not a bad look. It's better than the ones he's been getting for the last few years: What's wrong with him? Lost it in Afghanistan. Disobeyed orders. It's even better than the ones he got when he walked through the SGC: Who's that? Ancient gene-monkey for the expedition. Weir pulled the strings on O'Neill to have him here. He's a screwup.
From the careful look Teyla Emmagan gives him as he steps back and tries not to look like he was just coming onto her - because he really wasn't, or, at least, didn't intend to - she's reserving judgement on him.
John doesn't mind reserved judgement - he knows what he deserves; it's the snap ones that sting.
--
Following Carson's instructions to 'take it easy' after the injection of the tracking implant find John in the rec room, watching the latest transmission of Friday Night games from Earth. McKay grumbles about evil empires, but as far as John's concerned, it's thank you, iTunes!
The doors shift open, and he glances up as Teyla enters with a bowl in her arms.
"I brought popcorn," she announces - unnecessarily, since the waft of buttered popcorn preceded her into the room.
"That smells good." John lets her sit down on the couch and take a handful before reaching up in silent request for the bowl. Never get between Teyla and the popcorn.
She hands it over. "I could not find Ronon, but Dr. McKay was in his lab complaining about the implant to any who would listen. Does yours hurt as much as his?"
"McKay's doesn't hurt," John says as Brees passes to his wide receiver mere yards from the line, "he just thinks it does. How's yours?"
Teyla shrugs, and takes another handful of popcorn. "It is annoying like an itch but not unendurable. You?"
It's not an itch for John - at least, not one that he wants to scratch. It's a bit sore and a bit tender, but that's not the point. It's...kind of a reminder. That he's alive, and that someone will always come for him.
He wonders if 'a good kind of pain' really describes it.
--
John hesitates at the cross-corridor, then heads left instead of turning right towards his quarters. Nobody sees him go and he's relieved. He doesn't want questions. He doesn't want to make explanations.
The door slides back on silence and the dry-dust smell of a room left untenanted. He steps in and it shuts behind him, sealing him into Teyla's empty rooms and intensifying the ache that lives almost constantly under his breastbone these days.
Is it worse because there's no-one to tell? No family to notify. No husband to give the news of failure. Not even the Athosians to sit with and reassure that they're still looking.
There's no sign of her anywhere they look. They've followed the leads Carson left them before he went into stasis. They've asked questions in every marketplace between here and the edge of the galaxy. They've contacted all their allies, looking for the slightest bit of information about any of Michael's bases - including the Wraith, the Genii, and the Travellers.
Nothing, nothing, and nothing.
Michael has vanished without a trace, taking Teyla and her unborn child with him.
--
He's never quite sure how it happens, but sometime after Kanaan goes to live permanently among the Athosians and before Torren gets old enough to climb out of his playpen and into his mom's bed, John finds himself waking up in Teyla's quarters.
Specifically, in Teyla's bed, sprawled out in his boxer shorts, with her fingers skimming his breastbone in a light caress that sends shivers all over his body. He cracks open an eyelid, and finds her with one hand propping up her head, the other tracing across his skin, a weird kind of fascinated awe in her eyes as she looks at him.
John swallows around the lump in his throat, and takes a good deep breath of Athosian wool, Teyla-scent, and the smell of last night's sex. He holds it for a moment, then exhales.
Her eyes flicker up to his, and she smiles, warm and satisfied and...tender?
"Good morning."
It's been a while since he's done this - woken up next to someone who really mattered.
"Hey," he manages.
Then her mouth slides into his, warm and tangy and welcoming, and John's hands come up to cradle the back of her head and rest on the curve of her hip.
He got to trace those curves last night, darkness allowing him to be bold. He thought it might be different in the morning light. Embarrassing, maybe; a little terrifying, for sure.
Turns out it's as easy as the soar of a 'jumper into blue sky.
- fin -
AUTHOR:
tielanSUMMARY: Human beings are growing things - if they're not living and changing, they're just waiting to be put in the ground.
RATING: PG-13
WORD COUNT: ~900
NOTES: It took way longer to write this than it should have. The story didn't decide what it was going to be until I got the title for it. *shakes head*
Teyla's skin is soft under John's fingers as he skims his fingers around her throat, putting the necklace on for her.
In the cool evening, a gentle heat rises off her skin, and John smells forest and leaves, and something that he thinks is what warmed amber should smell like - golden and rich and with the weight of aeons behind it. Her eyes are steady on his as he fastens the clasp, and as he takes his hands away, he sees the measuring look in her eyes before her gaze drops to the silver disc and her finger traces across it.
It's not a bad look. It's better than the ones he's been getting for the last few years: What's wrong with him? Lost it in Afghanistan. Disobeyed orders. It's even better than the ones he got when he walked through the SGC: Who's that? Ancient gene-monkey for the expedition. Weir pulled the strings on O'Neill to have him here. He's a screwup.
From the careful look Teyla Emmagan gives him as he steps back and tries not to look like he was just coming onto her - because he really wasn't, or, at least, didn't intend to - she's reserving judgement on him.
John doesn't mind reserved judgement - he knows what he deserves; it's the snap ones that sting.
--
Following Carson's instructions to 'take it easy' after the injection of the tracking implant find John in the rec room, watching the latest transmission of Friday Night games from Earth. McKay grumbles about evil empires, but as far as John's concerned, it's thank you, iTunes!
The doors shift open, and he glances up as Teyla enters with a bowl in her arms.
"I brought popcorn," she announces - unnecessarily, since the waft of buttered popcorn preceded her into the room.
"That smells good." John lets her sit down on the couch and take a handful before reaching up in silent request for the bowl. Never get between Teyla and the popcorn.
She hands it over. "I could not find Ronon, but Dr. McKay was in his lab complaining about the implant to any who would listen. Does yours hurt as much as his?"
"McKay's doesn't hurt," John says as Brees passes to his wide receiver mere yards from the line, "he just thinks it does. How's yours?"
Teyla shrugs, and takes another handful of popcorn. "It is annoying like an itch but not unendurable. You?"
It's not an itch for John - at least, not one that he wants to scratch. It's a bit sore and a bit tender, but that's not the point. It's...kind of a reminder. That he's alive, and that someone will always come for him.
He wonders if 'a good kind of pain' really describes it.
--
John hesitates at the cross-corridor, then heads left instead of turning right towards his quarters. Nobody sees him go and he's relieved. He doesn't want questions. He doesn't want to make explanations.
The door slides back on silence and the dry-dust smell of a room left untenanted. He steps in and it shuts behind him, sealing him into Teyla's empty rooms and intensifying the ache that lives almost constantly under his breastbone these days.
Is it worse because there's no-one to tell? No family to notify. No husband to give the news of failure. Not even the Athosians to sit with and reassure that they're still looking.
There's no sign of her anywhere they look. They've followed the leads Carson left them before he went into stasis. They've asked questions in every marketplace between here and the edge of the galaxy. They've contacted all their allies, looking for the slightest bit of information about any of Michael's bases - including the Wraith, the Genii, and the Travellers.
Nothing, nothing, and nothing.
Michael has vanished without a trace, taking Teyla and her unborn child with him.
--
He's never quite sure how it happens, but sometime after Kanaan goes to live permanently among the Athosians and before Torren gets old enough to climb out of his playpen and into his mom's bed, John finds himself waking up in Teyla's quarters.
Specifically, in Teyla's bed, sprawled out in his boxer shorts, with her fingers skimming his breastbone in a light caress that sends shivers all over his body. He cracks open an eyelid, and finds her with one hand propping up her head, the other tracing across his skin, a weird kind of fascinated awe in her eyes as she looks at him.
John swallows around the lump in his throat, and takes a good deep breath of Athosian wool, Teyla-scent, and the smell of last night's sex. He holds it for a moment, then exhales.
Her eyes flicker up to his, and she smiles, warm and satisfied and...tender?
"Good morning."
It's been a while since he's done this - woken up next to someone who really mattered.
"Hey," he manages.
Then her mouth slides into his, warm and tangy and welcoming, and John's hands come up to cradle the back of her head and rest on the curve of her hip.
He got to trace those curves last night, darkness allowing him to be bold. He thought it might be different in the morning light. Embarrassing, maybe; a little terrifying, for sure.
Turns out it's as easy as the soar of a 'jumper into blue sky.
- fin -
