Elizabeth dips the wooden spoon into the large clay pot and begins to stir slowly, producing warm, spicy vapors that rise to tickle her nose. She inhales deeply and thinks of garlic, of images of home.
She envisions herself in a kitchen with broad paned windows overlooking a sprawling green yard. The sounds that greet her ears are the hum of conversation from the dining room and the clatter of a table being set. She wraps her hands around the limp brown leaves (basil) and tears them before sprinkling the herb into her stew. She slices the thin-skinned vegetable (tomato), and the juices trail down her wrist as she transfers wedges into the pot. Absently, she wipes her fingers on her worn and tired shirt and imagines it a bright red apron proclaiming "'Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers."
Ronon appears beside her, arms full of tubers (potatoes) and deposits them onto the flat, wooden surface. "All peeled. You want me to chop?"
Elizabeth nods and he grabs her discarded knife, fingers wrapping firmly around the handle. He switches it to his left and sucks at the juice on his right palm.
"Sticky," he explains.
She smiles.
--
"Sixty, seventy, I don't know," Radek answers anxiously, sliding his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.
"Too many," John summarizes. He pushes off from his perch on the edge of his chair. "And how is it that we didn't detect this sooner?"
"Long-range sensors were disabled," Radek admits. "We didn't even realize they weren't functional. Someone has been altering the program coding and –"
"And citywide life sign detectors are also jammed," Rodney finishes hurriedly. "We're trying to get them back online but they're cutting in and out. It's as if someone –"
"And the ZPM?" she cuts him off. When all is said and done she'll worry about the why and the how, and possibly the who, but for now she doesn't have time to concern herself with things that won't help get them out of this.
McKay shakes his head without losing focus, continuing to punch numbers into his data pad. "There's not enough power to withstand an attack of this magnitude. Even if we combined everything we've got and somehow managed to get the shield powered up, there's no way it would hold against an all out assault. Elizabeth," he looks up finally, voice tight with fear, "we may already have Wraith in the city."
Elizabeth nods to acknowledge the conclusion she's already drawn. She weaves her fingers together tightly and takes a moment to draw a single deep breath and clear her head. This wasn't the way it was supposed to end. But it was certainly one of the possibilities, she reminds herself. A possibility for which they had long ago been forced to prepare.
She meets Rodney's eyes. "Send the coordinates of our current alpha and delta sites to the SGC and then disable the gate's ability to dial intergalactically. I want to leave no possibility that the Wraith will be able to reach Earth." She turns to John. "Once that's done, begin to evacuate the city and the mainland to the alternate sites. Make sure that we evenly disburse the marines and scientists. I want both groups to take with them sufficient supplies to survive for at least two weeks. Everyone should be out of here in –" she looks to Rodney for a timeframe.
He throws his hands up helplessly. "The ships will be here in less than four hours."
"Well then," she continues, forcing an air of calm determination though it's the antithesis of her current mental state, "let's make sure Atlantis isn't still standing."
--
"It was nothing like that," Rodney explains to Elizabeth while hunching protectively over his small bowl of stew. "That tall tale was decidedly more dramatic than the way it actually played out."
"Right. I'm the one who exaggerates stories," John rejoins before sipping at the spoonful of broth that's poised on his lips. He hisses as the liquid burns his tongue but doesn't slow his consumption.
"You're making it sound like you're some kind of hero when really it was only the size of a housecat."
John shifts on the log to bring himself closer to the fire. "A feral housecat."
"If it were feral it wouldn't be a –" Rodney cuts himself off, unsure of which bit of logic to refute. "Feral housecats are the same size as domesticated ones."
"Physically maybe."
"Oh, please."
Ronon grunts, dragging the back of his hand across his unshaven mouth. "Did you kill it?"
A cool wind blows as Elizabeth continues to listen, her stomach filling with the warmth of the meal, her soul with their company. It wasn't always like this, she remembers, but it has been lately, and she thinks that maybe – just maybe – they've settled.
They've finally built a home.
--
The musty smell of Teyla's perspiration mixes with the smoke of electrical fires and Elizabeth's eyes water as she gasps for air. Her fingers dig into light brown flesh as she tries futilely to pry the Athosian's forearm from her throat.
Ronon lifts his gun and aims it, his finger dancing anxiously above the trigger.
"Teyla," John continues his attempt to get through to her, "I know you're still in there somewhere." He licks his lips and eases toward her. "You need to let Elizabeth go. The self destruct is going off in – Rodney?"
"Two minutes and eighteen seconds," McKay calls over his shoulder, continuing his frantic effort to unscramble whatever Teyla has done to the doors. The pulse of the alarm is barely audible between explosions now.
"And we need to get out of here," John finishes with a fervor Elizabeth can't quite bring herself to match. They're much farther than two minutes from the Stargate.
"I will not release her." Teyla's voice is altered – unfamiliar and deep and chilling. She adjusts her grip as she bares her teeth and Elizabeth manages to slide an inch lower, dropping her elbow to hover just under Teyla's floating ribs. After a quick glance at John, Elizabeth thrusts hard into Teyla's gut, causing her captor to release her hold slightly. With a strong burst of energy she pries herself free and dives to the floor just as John and Ronon step forward.
Teyla growls and hisses, writhing with an internal struggle Elizabeth knows all too well.
"Get us out of here, Teyla," John instructs, his voice rising slightly. "We need to get out of the city."
She shakes her head and, for just a moment, Elizabeth thinks she see's a note of recognition in those deep brown eyes. In halting, disjointed paces, Teyla works her way toward a terrified Rodney, walking as if weighed down by misguided muscles, torn in two directions and struggling to break free. Two feet from the control panel she stops but her body refuses to still. Slowly her hand rises. Her torso contorts awkwardly and she twists at her waist, turning away from the door. The pistol shakes as it comes to rest against her own temple.
"Teyla," Elizabeth dissuades warily, but the Athosian makes no indication that she hears. Instead, she keeps her eyes trained on John, deep and pleading, and the request is unmistakable. Forgive me.
The final alarm sounds and he lunges for her a moment before she pulls the trigger. The city shakes and Elizabeth screams.
--
She eases herself onto the hammock and tugs at the leather binding in her hair, releasing rich brown curls that tumble to her shoulders and sweep across her back. She slips off her shoes, her pants and shirt, and tucks herself neatly beneath the covers, a heavy sigh sinking her further into the soft, forgiving material.
"Goodnight, Elizabeth," Rodney calls from his hammock nearby, his voice thick with slumber. "Goodnight Ronon."
Elizabeth wishes them both goodnights and Ronon allows a guttural hum of acknowledgment from deep in his throat.
In the beginning they had slept alone, but it hadn't taken long to realize that the abstract rules of society and Earth held scant value when compared to the steady sound of someone else's breathing. She knows now there is little that surpasses the comfort she finds in Rodney's soft nocturnal mumblings or the constant rhythm of Ronon snoring – the calm of falling asleep and waking up in a place that isn't quite as desolate as the world in their dreams.
The wooden door creeks slowly open and John enters, smelling of smoke and dust and darkness. He toes off his shoes and removes his clothing before lifting the blankets and sliding in next to Elizabeth.
The weight of his body buckles the cloth, bringing her closer to his warmth and causing the skin of his legs to brush against her own. His hand finds hers and their fingers tangle.
Her dreams are sweeter.
--
She hears the heavily muffled sound of John calling her name and struggles to find the strength to blink open her eyes. Her head is pounding like a bass drum and her body burns with a steady ache. She tries to recall the last thing that happened and remembers only the tremors of the exploding city and visions of Teyla crumpling to the floor.
"Elizabeth?" His voice is still muffled but louder, closer perhaps. She manages to pry her eyes open.
The world is thick and blue and it takes her longer than is reasonable to realize she's looking at it through an opaque sheet of crystal. Her hands splay across her cage and her breathing becomes rapid.
"Relax, Elizabeth," his blurry figure reassures her. "It's some sort of escape pod. There's a latch on the inside, down by your left hip."
She takes a shallow breath and fumbles until she finds what he's described. Her fingers wrap around the mechanism and pull, causing half of her shell to fold open like an envelope.
As the salty sea air fills her lungs John clasps her hand and assists in easing her out of the pod. Her muscles are sore and tired and she's still not quite sure what's going on, but John's –
"John," she stumbles on her words, her fingers unconsciously reaching for his face but stopping just before she touches him, "your beard."
He puts a reflexive hand to his cheek and brushes his dark stubble as he meets her gaze. "Yeah, it seems we were in those things for a few days at least. I'm not exactly sure yet."
"I'd say about two weeks," Rodney's voice floats over the soft lap of waves and Elizabeth turns to find him crouched in the sand a few yards from her, hovering over a pod not unlike the one from which she's just emerged. Another scan of her surroundings finds Ronon looming in the distance, just at the edge of the tree line.
"Where are," she starts to ask, but can't complete the question as her eyes settle on a piece of curled and broken metal, then move systematically through the painfully familiar debris that litters the pale white shore.
"The mainland," John answers. "It appears that when the self-destruct blew it triggered some sort of built-in individualized escape. Rodney's trying to figure it out."
His hand trails lightly up her arm and he squeezes her shoulder. "Are you okay?"
She blinks away tears as images of Teyla, of Wraith, of things she'd rather forget swim to the surface. She turns to the ocean. She's not sure if it's a sunrise or a sunset but it's beautiful and rich, orange and gold and pink.
There is no Atlantis in the skyline.
"No," she answers softly. "No, I don't think so."
--
John stirs, drawing her from a peaceful slumber as he brings his lips to her ear. "There's something outside," he says quietly, his breath hot against her skin. "Stay here and don't make a sound."
She clutches the edge of the hammock, rocking slightly as John pulls himself to his feet, wordlessly communicating with Ronon across the darkened room. Shadows play out the scene as John slips efficiently into his pants and palms his knife, and Ronon grabs his gun before creeping slowly toward the door.
John motions to Rodney who skirts his way across the cabin to join Elizabeth on her bed.
Her pulse quickens and she strains to listen, to distinguish and identify foreign sounds from beneath the constant howling of the wind. She hears a faint whisper of words, of boots scraping rock, and suddenly she knows that it isn't something outside, it's someone.
For all of their searching thus far they'd been unable to find a second Stargate. She tenses as she considers the possibilities. Either they've been living for the past two and a half years with company they've never seen or a ship has come.
"Do you think?" Rodney asks softly. For some reason she finds she's unable to answer. Instead, she curls her fingers around his and squeezes.
John pulls the door open and Ronon levels his gun. She can't see anything from her position on the bed but she can hear soft shouts and makes out the words "friend" and "peace."
Ronon lowers his weapon and she cautiously picks her way toward the door, her heart still thrumming in her ears. Before she can reach the threshold she catches a glimpse of what's outside and stills. Military. SGC uniforms.
They've come for them.
"Colonel Sheppard?" a marine asks with audible disbelief. "You're alive, sir?"
"It seems so," John answers on an exhale.
Rodney jumps to his feet and brushes past her in his rush to the door. "What the hell took you so long?" the scientist demands. "What kind of half-ass rescue mission takes thirty months?"
"We didn't," another marine fumbles over his words. "It isn't a rescue – we came with the archeologists –" he cuts himself off again. "We didn't know, sir."
Elizabeth opens her mouth and takes a deep breath but says nothing. She turns back to her hammock and slowly pulls on her clothing. When she's finished she takes a moment to trail her hand along the coarse wood walls of their small cabin. Tuning her ears briefly back to the conversation outside she hears names and dates and apologies, but she listens to the sound of the ocean. And, though she can't quite swear to it, she thinks she hears a shift in the wind – a change of direction.
She looks again to the door and hugs her arms to her chest. She used to dream of being saved – dreams so vivid, so intense and real that she sometimes wondered if perhaps her days were nightmares and her nights the reality. She would wake in a cold sweat, dig her fingers into John's warm embrace to determine if he was truly there, and when she found he was, silent tears would fall. But now…
Intentional or not, it is a rescue – and they are going home.