She had thought, as the door before her slid quietly open, and as she nodded the affirmative to the question of the armed guard—You sure you want to go in there alone?—to find him situated in one of the far corners of his cell, shrouded in shadow and lost from view. Instead she noticed him instantly, his form a large silhouette against the pale glow of the late evening that spilled in from the barred window. He had not bothered to turn as the door had opened, but as she took the two steps needed to be across the threshold, he half-turned to see who had entered. The glow from the window—mingled from the lights of the bridge, the city, and the moon—shone upon half his face, highlighting the tattoo that framed his eye and lined the skin of his brow. With the rest of his face lost to darkness, his was an unnerving visage and she was reminded suddenly of exactly who he was … what he was.
He did not speak. She had known he wouldn't. He remained absolutely still, the predatory amber of the one eye she could see focused intently upon her. The door hissed shut behind her, and the stillness in the room, the heavy silence that lay between them, was distinctly unsettling. She said then, "The stardrive is nearly repaired."
She could see, on the side of his face not lost to the shadows, the corner of his mouth tilt upwards slightly in his familiar, sardonic smile. "And you've come to tell me that when Atlantis is ready to depart back to the Pegasus galaxy, I'll be returning with it?"
She stared at him for a long moment, debating what answer to give and inwardly wondering why she'd even bothered to come and see him at all. The real reason, she was reluctantly forced to acknowledge, was the result of her inherent compassion, something she regarded as a strength most of the time but a considerable weakness otherwise. She'd come to tell him because she felt he deserved to know, despite his race, despite his nature. Studying him as he stood half in silhouette, features illuminated by a light from a planet and from stars that were so very different from those that either of them had known, she felt within her then something very akin to remorse.
"No need to apologize," he told her, as though her thoughts were visible in the air between them. "I know you well enough to know this was not your doing."
"Todd—"
"I sealed my fate," he told her with another small and humorless smile, "the moment I placed myself in their custody. Although, had I known what exactly would follow …"
"I am sorry!" she blurted suddenly. And with a sense of uncertain surprise, she realized she meant what she said. She was sorry. She rushed on to fill the hanging silence, attempting to vocalize what she was feeling for herself as much as for him. "You have been more help to us than any other over the years, you have risked your life several times, you have aided us when we needed it, you have—"
"Betrayed you," he interjected calmly.
"Yes," she said, and paused for a long moment before going on, her voice softer. "Yes. It was betrayal. But for understandable reasons—"
"Not according to Colonel Sheppard."
"Had we been in the same position, I believe our actions would have been the same."
"The difference being," he said, turning once again to behold the sights from beyond the prison window, "that I am Wraith. And for that transgression, I am never to return to Pegasus. I am to remain here, to become a subject in studies and tests by the human governments. I believe the relative term is lab rat."
The idiom, while not Athosian, was still one she was familiar with. "I wish," she told him, surprising herself yet again with the honesty with which she spoke, "that it was not to be so."
"Yes. I know." He had not turned. "And regardless of what you might believe, that knowledge has given me some comfort."
She tried to ignore that statement and further ignore the nervous flutters that those words sent skittering through her belly. "I have tried to speak with them on your behalf."
"To no avail, I'd imagine."
"I will try again."
"Do not."
"You cannot stay here." She whispered. She knew as well as he did that remaining on Earth, at the mercy of the leaders of Sheppard's people, was nothing more than a prolonged, torturous death sentence. He deserved better than that. Even if he was—
"I'm Wraith." He reminded her, finally turning fully to face her, clasping his hands behind his back as he did so. "You are one of the very few, I'm certain, to share this sentiment that I should be allowed to return. Sheppard seems content with the decision. McKay, I'm sure, has no qualms about it. And your friend Ronon will be delighted with the end result."
"They are not—"
"Yes, they are." He interrupted her smoothly, taking the four quick strides needed to be before her. "But you are not. You never have been."
Head tilted back in order to meet his gaze, she realized that in that moment, with only a few mere inches separating them, she felt no fear, no unease, nothing but a heavy and dull regret that there was nothing she could do to return him to his galaxy, to his kind. While she and Ronon would eventually rejoin their people, Todd would remain here, at the mercy of humans that held a greater capacity for cruelty and violence than any others she'd ever encountered.
"I am sorry," she told him again.
"I know."
Another lengthy silence fell, weighed down by everything unspoken, by the tumultuous history they shared between them. It was he that broke it, saying unexpectedly, "You would have made a good Queen."
And absurdly, she found herself smiling at this reminder of a time when they had worked in tandem, when she had been in disguise as a female Wraith. "I was a fine Queen."
His chuckle was low and short. "You were," he agreed with a nod. "The way you threatened me just before leaving my hive—it was very much as a true Queen would behave. For a moment I almost forgot …"
He trailed off, unwilling or perhaps unable to finish the sentence. And Teyla, watching him still with a faint smile curving her lips, found herself wanting to know what words he would have spoken, to know what new and labyrinthine depths they would have carried.
He turned and walked slowly back to the window, wrapping his hands about the bars and craning his head back in order to get a clearer view of the night sky beyond. "These stars are not my own," he said softly.
There was nothing more she could say.