Title: Hands
Summary: It's her hands, surprisingly, that draw his attention first. Post-Kindred.
Characters: John, Teyla [Rodney, Ronon
Pairing: John/Teyla
Rating: K for a minor swear word.
It's her hands, surprisingly, that draw his attention first. They aren't what he remembers them being and he wonders how that can be. He noticed it first the night before at the briefing when she'd wrangled them around one another as she briefed him and Carter and the IOA about her time held prisoner by Michael. Then he'd noticed it that morning at breakfast when she'd delicately spooned cereal into her mouth. He didn't know what the difference was; he wasn't sure he wanted to know. When she'd left, Rodney and Ronon had jibed him for staring at her hands but John had brushed their words away with a swat of his hand.
But it's now that her hands are touching his that he really feels the difference. They're not as soft as they used to be, calloused by time and weather and work and he wonders if it's something new or if it's something that's changed over time and it's his renewed interest in her body that he's noticing it. Her hand in his is still delicate, still the same shape and size and strength – but it's different. He drops her hand, reluctantly, and assumes the stance she taught him. He can't normally knock her on her ass, so he's surprised that he's done it twice that night already.
They connect their sticks once, twice and John can feel already that he's got the upper hand. Her grip slips on her weapon and he uses his strength to urge from her hand, push her back against the wall and pin her hands above her head. He looks at them, now that they're in his line of vision, and notices that they look exactly the same as they had the last time he'd looked upon them. They're not different, he just thinks they are.
He drops his eyes to her face but she's not looking at him. He loosens his grip and her hands drop, though not to her sides but to his waist. He's surprised, again, when her head drops onto his chest lightly, forehead touching the scar from the wound that he'd received not so many weeks ago. Her breath warms his chest and it takes him a moment to urge his arms around her waist. He doesn't hold her because she's not exactly holding him. He circles her, ready to welcome her should she choose to be welcomed.
The wetness on his chest alerts him to her tears and he slides his arms further around her, pulling her body into his, tighter than he should but not tight enough, he thinks. She hides her face in his neck, different to the other times she's sought him for comfort. Normally, she turns her head from him; the hug implying closeness, the turn of her head implying distance. She doesn't distance herself from him tonight.
She grapples with the black t-shirt on his back, her nails digging into the skin underneath. It's not painful, it's not pleasant but it's necessary. The tears are hot and bitter, melding with the sweat on his neck. He can feel her loss as it pulls at the rim of his t-shirt and tugs it over his head and she studies his body with her hands and her fingers. He lets her touch him; she needs to, to reassure herself that he's real and that she's home and that Michael hasn't got her any more.
That bastard took so much from her that John can only let her take it back from his own body.
The tips of her fingers are rough against his chest and they catch on a few of his Spartan hairs. She looks up to his eyes and he sees her desolation, her loneliness, her loss and John cradles her face with his hands, soft and gentle. He strokes her cheek, swipes the tears away and lowers his forehead to hers.
It's more than he expected but still it's not enough.
She doesn't pull back, not for a long time and when she does, she holds her hand out to him and it's then he realises that it's not her hands that are different.
It's her.