Disclaimer: Not mine.

Obligatory Author's Note: Atlantis is the new pet fandom for me to dabble into randomly. So, as I'm new here and this was put down in just two hours or so, feel welcome to point out any mistakes. Thank you. Oh, and the italics indicate thought or memory or emphasis, whichever comes in handy.

Spoilers: Random and all over the place, for up to Sanctuary.

What She Wants

by onescape

There are not many ways to render Elizabeth Weir speechless. It seems the sight of Major Sheppard rushing out from a meeting after the Ancient priestess is one of them, though.

Luckily there is no one around to witness this lapse of normalcy in Elizabeth's behavior. A glimpse at her watch reveals that it's been only a minute (has it really?) since the show-down, so there's a chance she still has a few moments to herself before anybody will come looking for her in the face another impending disaster.

Because old habits die hard, she remains sitting painfully upright, hands folded in front of her. She stares at the wall, thinking.

There's no energy left in her to get mad at the lack of even a minimum of discipline her people have just displayed, scattering out like that. What a soap opera this has become...Whatever.

Funny how this incident answered not only the question of the priestess' origin, but also the other one, the question that Elizabeth only just realized had been on the tip of her tongue for a time now: Does John Sheppard care? And, How deeply?

Oh, she'd had a hunch about this since first seeing the woman. There were times when Elizabeth's intuition was correct to a fault.

She remembers watching the possessive hand Chaya'd layed on him just a while ago, in this room. She remembers the look of scathing disapproval in John's eyes, how cold and angry he seemed. And worse, how that coldness and anger had been directed at herself, such a new and hurtful experience.

Elizabeth feels ashamed, and, strangely, bereft of something she can't quite pinpoint. Or maybe she can, but doesn't wish to do so. It's not that important anyway.

No. It is important. This has led her decision-making askew. To allow Rodney to scan a for all ends and purposes harmless and pleasant guest in secret - that had been a transgression, a diplomatic faux-pas that she shouldn't have let happen. For no reason, let alone a partly personal one.

Let's hope Sheppard's charm will be at least of some use... enough for the Ancient not to turn her back on us completely, or worse.

At that Elizabeth smiles to herself wryly. She rakes a tired hand through her hair, then supports her chin, tapping the pen in her free hand on a partially filled sheet of paper. What a mess...she hates not being in the right.

There's an insistent memory waiting at the edge of her conscious thought. She really shouldn't, but it is a memory too...dare she say bittersweet?... to dismiss, so she lets herself indulge in it one more time.

"Are you okay?"

"...No."

"You will be."

Her shaking on the ground, wet and exhausted, and shell-shocked, and miserable, and the undisguised, true caring in his eyes. Shattering relief.

There's an anchor in the midst of all the chaos and violence, and it is the feeling of his fingers clasped firmly around hers.

How ridiculously flattered, how drugged on his presence she had felt then. It kept replaying in her mind for days, like that favourite highschool scenario of hers, with the geeky girl pushed to the ground by some stupid jock, her books flung all over the polished floor, and the dashing stranger, the new kid, who offers her a hand all of a sudden, and she stares at it wide-eyed. Then she accepts.

Elizabeth clamps a hand quickly over her mouth, lest someone outside the door hears her laugh.

None of that anymore, she tells herself sternly. Then her smile fades slightly, as she realizes the true implications of her statement. None of that anymore.

She now knows the answer, and while it doesn't make everything easier, it's a valid excuse not to.

John, she thinks. John Sheppard is quick to care, and he cares a lot. It's that easy, instant affection which makes John Shepard-the friend save their behinds day in and day out. It is also what makes John Sheppard-the charmer a very different man from the one that she, for a single, teetering moment in time, wished for.

Elizabeth doesn't desire the John Sheppard she knows now. He is like fire, which she doesn't need to touch to know how much it burns. Fire she would hate to see turned to ashes. She only wants the sun, and John is but a flickering reflection. There is nothing more there, not even in Simon, but it seems like that decision has been postponed indefinitely, now that John Sheppard isn't the one she needs, or wants.

Elizabeth feels very clear, and empty.

She looks down. While she wasn't paying attention, her hand had doodled on the paper of its own volition, rendering a big, bold, ornate S beneath her notes on Procul-Arian culture.

S like Simon, of course.

Or Superman.

Or stranger.

Or –

Elizabeth rotates the paper slightly and puts finishing touches on the sign for infinity, then crosses it out with a vengeance.

None of this anymore, she repeates standing up and slapping her hands on the desk. She glances at her wrist again. She's been in here for six minutes now.

There is an apology due.