All That's Left
John's pacing when Teyla gets back to their room.
Intellectually, he knows that her 'grounder' knowledge is too valuable to lose in a civilisation born and bred to space; but something in him whispered 'divide and conquer' when she was called to go with the hunting party down to the surface.
Fear makes him sharp as she shrugs out of her jacket. "Took you long enough."
"There were procedures to go through," she reminds him. "They lack the immunity to the surface air and dust that we do, so their disinfecting processes take time."
John frowns and crosses the room to frame the scrape on her shoulder, a bared weal gleaming scarlet between his fingers. "They didn't dress that for you?"
She regards him exasperated. "I knew you were waiting, so I denied that assistance was needed."
Chastised, John goes for the alcohol bottle and a scrap-strip as she hangs up the jacket in her closet, alongside the other bits and pieces that they've begged, bought, and bartered from their 'benefactors'. "I heard you brought back enough for two ships."
"The hireni herds were on the move," she says, sitting down on the bed, cross-legged. "And we were lucky to encounter several rahbuli just outside the camp." She hisses when John applies the alcohol-damped strip, but leans into his hand. "There are others - minor injuries. This was just today - a young buck eager to protect his wives."
"Did he?"
"Yes," Teyla says, meeting his gaze steadily. "He did."
After a tense moment, John drops his gaze back to her shoulder. "Not much happened here," he lies.
If Teyla doesn't believe him, at least she doesn't challenge it. One hand reaches up to draw him down to her mouth, and she smells of fresh air and rich dirt - tastes of the memories of planets that John will never see again, of a ground that he'll never get to stand upon.
He eases her out of her clothing, familiar with the ties and bindings, with what she likes and wants in sex. She lets him have control of the undressing process, lets him touch and tease and taste her skin - leather and sweat and familiarity.
Home.
They're all that's left of Atlantis.
John needs this, and with her peculiar intuition, Teyla knows how much. When he strips himself of clothing, she meets him standing and her lips are incandescent between his as she skims his skin with her hands. Her palms are rough like fine sandpaper or a cat's tongue and desire flames up, burning John up inside. He wants and he wants it now.
When he pushes her down to the bed, Teyla's eyebrows rise, but she doesn't protest when he pushes her thighs apart. Nothing more than a sigh escapes her lips as he sheathes himself in her body. Her mouth opens beneath his, teases him, invites him to move as she shifts beneath him, impatient for the rhythm of lovemaking.
John bites her lips, her chin, her jaw. He nibbles her earlobe as he moves slightly, as though rubbing himself against her. Tiny movements that take most of his control, tormenting thrusts that begin to spark her gasps as his fingers trace her sides, as his chest rubs her nipples, as he moves in her just enough to keep her on the edge of the wave. Pleasure is a tide that rises a little with every thrust, every kiss, every touch, until Teyla's fingers clench in his hair and his back, and she groans and clenches around him.
And her murmur of his name breaks the wave he's been riding, shatters him, soars him, dumps him in a crash of salty grief and bitter guilt until he's washed up on the shores of their bed, panting.
- fin -