My first SGA fic, and the first fanfic I've written in a long time, so forgive me if it's not wonderful. >.

He woke up to find her sitting at the foot of his bed, her face dead white and her knees pulled up to her chest, staring. Just staring.

He sat up slowly, afraid he would scare her. "Elizabeth?" he whispered, shaking the sleep from his eyes. She didn't respond, just sat there, rocking back and forth slightly.

"Elizabeth. What happened?" He kept his voice gentle, soft, so unlike his normal bravado tone. She was nothing like the normal strong, woman he knew, who led the city through countless attacks, who could work through any problem thrown at her. Tonight, she looked defenseless. He realized how small she was, her thing arms wrapped around her bony knees, her face gaunt and pale in the moonlight.

Still, she didn't answer.

He reached out slowly, not knowing what else to do, just wanting to touch her and make sure she was still real, that she wasn't just a ghost. The Elizabeth he knew would never let him see her like this. The Elizabeth he knew wouldn't be here at all.

"Elizabeth," he murmured again. She wouldn't look at him. She wouldn't make contact, wouldn't let others touch her. She isolated herself, like she always did. She buried herself in her work and her job, and he worried sometimes that she forgot she was human.

He brushed her arm with a feather-light touch, and she jumped as if he'd hit her. Her eyes widened and focused on his for just a moment, and then went back to staring at nothing. And what he saw in them shook him, scared him more than her presence did. Because what he saw was nothing. Emptiness. Her eyes were flat, dead, devoid of their usual spark.

She was still sitting curled at the end of his bed, still rocking and shaking. Her fingers were gripping the sides of her arms so tightly they'd turned bright white, and he was afraid her nails would dig into her skin so deeply they'd cut. Her hair was messy, unkempt, ragged curls falling into her face. But she didn't notice. She didn't seem to notice anything.

He wondered how long she'd been sitting there, lost in her own nightmare.

He reached out again, his fingers taunt and shaking with tension, afraid that if he touched her she might scream, or leave, or break. But he couldn't let her alone like this; she was always alone, always so alone, and it had been all he could do to not touch her before. Not to prove to her that human contact wasn't toxic. But she'd always been so strong.

Now that she looked so broken, he was afraid it was too late.

He touched her arm again and this time she didn't react at all, made no sign that she was even aware he was in the same room. He moved his hand down her arm; her fingers were cold, ice cold, and so thin. Gently, gently, he pried her nails out from her skin, uncurling them from their death grip. As soon as he'd done so, they clenched tightly again, but this time around his own hand. He wondered that such frail fingers could squeeze with such strength, wondering if she was putting everything she had into that one point of contact, holding on to him as if he was all that was keeping her from falling.

He moved his other hand out and brushed it lightly against her hair, moving a stray strand out of her face so he could see her eyes. And slowly, slowly, she looked up at him, making real eye contact for the first time since she'd appeared like a ghost in his room. Her stormy gray eyes caught and held his, begging for something he couldn't understand. They were dry, too dry, but shining so brightly he could have sworn they were streaming tears.

He smoothed her hair back again, trying to think of something to say, something meaningful, something helpful, but he came up blank. So he just whispered her name again, hopeful that maybe that time she would respond.

And that time, she did.

With a fierce desperation that shocked him, she suddenly lurched forward and threw her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his shoulder. He felt her fingers claw at his back as she shook, and he wrapped his own arms tightly around her, crushing her to him, rocking her gently and whispering meaningless words in her ear. She wasn't crying; she never cried. But her silent despair was so much worse than weeping could ever be.

He wondered how long she'd been holding back, how long she'd been struggling behind her façade of professionalism and independence. How long she had ached to just let go, to let someone else hold her up for once. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. All he knew was that he was relieved she'd finally chosen to trust him.

The slight body in his arms was convulsing now, horribly, and a shock of worry hit him. Something was very wrong. He realized that he could feel every rib through her shirt, that her arms on his back dug into his skin unnaturally. Whatever this was, it wasn't a passing gloom. He reached up with one hand to stroke her hair gently, whispering, "Elizabeth, talk to me. Tell me what's wrong."

But she didn't hear him, or didn't want to. She just kept her arms locked around him, her face hidden, and he could do nothing but hold her, and hope that it was enough.

Her shaking figure began to calm, gradually, the nails digging into his back tear with less force. Her ragged breathing was hot on his neck, intoxicating him and making it impossible to think about anything but the woman in his arms. His hand methodically moved up and down her back, soothing, calming, trying to give her some semblance of stability.

From the way she clutched at him, so desperately, he was afraid that he was all that was holding her up. And he was terrified that he wouldn't be enough.

After many long minutes had passed, she finally lay quiet in his embrace. Her breathing evened out, slight, moist puffs on his neck, but her face was pressed just as firmly against him as it had been since she first threw herself at him. Her arms loosened and dangled lightly around him, but he kept his just as tightly around her, afraid to let her go. Afraid she'd fall to pieces if he let her.

When her shirt had begun to scratch against his bare chest, and her hair to tickle his face intolerably, he slowly began to lie back down, keeping her pressed against him, asleep. He laid his head down against his pillow and let hers hit beside it, her eyes still closed, her body still limp. She stirred weakly, her eyes fluttering open for an instant, focusing on him, and then drifting closed again. He reached down and grabbed a blanket, pulling it carefully over both of them, and then lay on his side, just staring at her sleeping figure. She looked so innocent, so vulnerable while she was asleep. She looked real.

He tenderly ran his hands through her soft hair, hoping that maybe he could sooth her dreams. She stirred once more, murmuring meaningless words, and then settled down again, letting out a small sigh, unconsciously clutching at the sheets under her. He put his hand in hers so she gripped his fingers instead, nearly as tightly as before, and she seemed to calm, her whole body relaxing for the first time that evening.

He closed his eyes, and smiled.

There may be more, depending on my muse. I'd appreciate reviews, love to know what you think