The plot bunnies attacked when I realized the shirt I was wearing was the same color as Weir's. Apparently I don't know how to avoid cliches or how to end a story. Bah I don't even know what I was thinking.
Also, I don't own Liz or atlantis. Blast.
It was a shirt that drove her over the edge; led her to smash every breakable item that had the misfortune of being within her grasp. A plain red t-shirt, which now lay in a crumpled heap on the other side of the room. Elizabeth hadn't given it any notice at first, the offending shirt being one she had owned prior to the Atlantis mission. Weeks ago she had haphazardly unpacked the belongings she'd put in storage, throwing non-work clothes that looked clean into drawers without bothering to wash them. This morning she'd not paid much attention to her attire. She'd thrown on a pair of old jeans and grabbed the first t-shirt she found. She went about her Saturday – tidying up her flat in the morning was followed by a quick trip to the grocery store, lunch at a nearby café, and a stop at the library to return a few books. She returned home in the afternoon to relax, ironically enough.
At some point Elizabeth caught a glimpse of herself in her bathroom mirror. After a quick double take she noticed it. The shirt she was wearing. The color. The cut was a bit different, yes, and it was less form fitting than what she had been used to, but the color was an exact match. The top she donned was the exact same shade as those she had worn day after day in Atlantis. As she stared at her reflection, memories came flooding back. Thoughts, voices, images that had all been blocked out since her return to Earth hit her so fast she felt it physically. She staggered back against the wall. She remembered them, the people she had lost. She remembered the way they had sounded when they said her name, their voices crackling over the radio. She remembered they way they felt – one in particular as he wrapped his arms around her, holding her, protecting her. She could smell the salty ocean air that whipped through her hair those nights they stood together in silence on the balcony. She could also smell the blood. She slid to the floor as her shifting memory forced her to relive the more painful moments. Screams echoed in her head; cries of agony of those who has failed to hold their own against their foe.
"No!" She cried aloud, shaking her head fiercely to rid herself of the painful recollections. "Nonononono!"
Coming back to herself for a moment she stood, violently tearing the shirt over her head and off her body, finally throwing it across the room. She cried out again, this time in rage rather than pain. She didn't want to remember. She began throwing everything in reach to the floor, using the resulting noise to drown out the sound of her friends' screams. With nothing left to throw she collapsed in a sobbing heap on the floor. After it had happened she'd put on a brave face for her own sake as much as for that of the survivors. She hadn't allowed herself – couldn't allow herself – to grieve. She was Elizabeth Weir, leader of the expedition. She would not break, least of all in front of those who depended on her. She had returned to Earth shortly after. With those she held closest dead, there had been no reason for her to stay. She could no longer call upon a sense of duty and adventure to keep her doing her job. The city had changed in her eyes. Though it still stood in all its architectural glory, the Atlantis she had once loved, had once called home, was nothing but ruins.
Elizabeth returned to New York, a city she had lived in for many years before moving to DC, then later Atlantis. She was offered a job at the United Nations, which she was all too happy to take. She immersed herself in her work and forbade herself from thinking of Atlantis. But as these things do, the emotions she bottled up could not be contained forever. Somewhere in the depths of her mind she knew she would eventually explode, but she made a game of convincing herself otherwise. Today she lost.
Minutes ticked by as Elizabeth mourned. Her friends – no her family – her city, her lover. Finally drained of tears, Elizabeth raised her blotchy face and surveyed the room. There it was. The shirt. That damned shirt. Who would have thought that something as stupid as a shirt would finally bring her to her breaking point. Silly, really. And in a sudden change of wind, Elizabeth began to laugh at herself, sitting on the floor, half-clothed. A shirt. A freaking shirt.
"I'm falling apart." She giggled to herself in a half-insane fit. But she would get past it. She would survive. But she couldn't keep repressing the memories. She'd see a shrink, she decided, though she would have to change some details to avoid the classified bits. But she would make it, she promised herself. Eventually, she would be okay.