The Landlord
By Rey
Teal'c attempts to live "normally" among the Taur'i civilians for the second time, soon after the first. For various reasons, he chooses to board in a flat above a bakery, sharing it with the bakery's owner, one Henry Evans… otherwise Harry James Potter.
In hindsight, he should have chosen another place… maybe… or not.
(Multicrossover, with Harry Potter and Stargate: SG-1 as the main fandoms. Canon up to Stargate: SG-1 Episode 8.7: Affinity and Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince.)
Author's notes: Folks, I'd like to confess that I have never written from SG-1's POV, before, while this story is from Teal'c's first-person POV. This fandom is still quite new to me, as well, so, for all that, please pardon the lack of detail and depth. Oh, and this will be a rather short story, as hinted by the title: It is purely character study and development, with a chance to be more – most likely in a sequel or just in our imagination, that.
1. The Mystery Man
The three-story building that houses the dessert shop – absurdly named Magical Munches – sits on a generous plot of land just inside of the city. To call it a café would be more apt, according to Major Carter, as the building is surrounded by landscaped gardens and ponds , and people can choose to sit by them to enjoy the scenery they offer. But whatever the name is, or however it is laid out, the property remains a place to eat and relax, like Major Carter sometimes does in her "down time."
The eatery is about two years old, while the property has sat there for much longer beforehand, or so Major Carter said. The owner and sole keeper of the shop is a young man with red hair and blue eyes by the name of Henry Evans. He lives on the topmost level of the building, and has agreed to share the space there with "an unintrusive tenant."
Well, I would like to think that I fit the criterion. And Major Carter agreed.
O-O-O-O
Magical Munches is very, very busy, presently. It is visible even before O'Neill's car that brings me and my comrades enters through the open front gate of the property. The paved parking area that lies right beyond the gate is full of cars and motorcycles, even a small truck, and people mill about in small crowds among the greeneries beyond the parking area.
O'Neill makes a low sound of disappointment, as he carefully guides the car on the lane between the rows of parked vehicles. "Damn. Wanna try their fishing," he grumbles. Then, in a louder voice, he addresses Major Carter who sits on the back passenger row with me, "Call that friend of yours, will you, Carter? See if that fishing-pier seating is still available? I'll try to find the nearest parking lot and we can walk from there if he says yes."
"We're here for Teal'c, you know, Jack, not for your fishing," Daniel Jackson pipes in amusedly from his seat to O'Neill's right, while Major Carter is executing O'Neill's order.
"Two birds with one stone. Ever heard of that, Danny-Boy?" O'Neill rebuts readily. "You don't mind, do you, Teal'c?" He glances to me through the car's rearview mirror.
"I do not, O'Neill," I affirm, giving him a small smile, then add as a playful afterthought, "As long as you do not jeopardise my chances of having another experience living among the Taur'i civilians."
It is always nice, to be able to talk so to one's superior, something that I would never have dreamt of doing to Apophis or another Goa'uld. And as Daniel Jackson breaks into laughter while O'Neill pouts theatrically, I revel afresh that this superior is also my friend.
O-O-O-O
Henry Evans is a striking person, in my opinion, despite his unassuming clothes and behaviour. The most apparent aspect that I notice about him is that he carries himself like a warrior on leave, instead of an ignorant civilian. His eyes are watchful and take in everything quickly and thoroughly, while his bearing signifies readiness to move at a moment's notice. I would not be surprised if he had a few small weapons concealed about his person and would utilise them quickly and unhesitatingly, even when he is noting down our meals at present.
It would be a boon and a problem, should he accept me living here when not on mission. It would be hard to conceal what I and my comrades do with Stargate Command; and yet, it would be a pleasure to once again live in close quarters with a fellow warrior in a more domestic setting, like what I experienced on Chulak.
But for now, I am going to enjoy the sight of O'Neill trying to wheedle Henry Evans about renting this small deck jutting out onto the side of a large pond on a semi-permanent basis.
O-O-O-O
"I'll never understand how you could have so many customers on a weekday, while it isn't a meal rush," Major Carter remarks as she absent-mindedly fiddles with a small, broken wristwatch that Henry Evans has just delivered to her alongside our meals.
"You know it's a trade secret, right, Sam?" Henry Evans grins affably. "It's your fault for not calling me before you came here. Now you got to wait till I have time to show you round."
"Eh, um, sorry, but why didn't you hire assistants for this?" Daniel Jackson puts in; uncertainly, as he often does when outside of the matters that he is an expert in.
"Oh, I do," Henry Evans laughs. "They just don't show themselves. Quite shy. So here I am, the front of the business."
I raise an eyebrow. There is something behind his words that niggles at me. But I do not know Henry Evans yet, so I shall not pry, for now. It would not do if he judged me intrusive before I had the chance to attempt living here.
He takes off with a brief goodbye when the individuals seated at the adjacent pier calls for his attention. the only persons who reply to his farewell are Daniel Jackson and I, however, as Major Carter is already deep in her tinkering of the broken wristwatch, while occasionally reaching out for her dish of flavoured potato slices.
As for O'Neill, well, he has been deeply enjoying both his fishing and the morning sunlight warming us, contented as I have ever seen him, and he has not spoken a word after failing to wheedle Henry Evans for renting this pier for his use on a semi-permanent basis.
And then Daniel Jackson, too, falls into reverie, idly sketching runes with a felt-tipped pen on a piece of cloth that Major Carter once explained is for protecting a person's attire from spills from food and drink while eating.
It leaves me enjoying my own dishes of lasagna and garlic bread in peace, without removing myself from the companionship of those I cherish as brothers and sister.
It is perfect.
O-O-O-O
"Mister Jackson, is it? Might I ask you something?" Henry Evans, taking a rest from serving his customers, seats himself uninvited between Major Carter and Daniel Jackson, and stares at the written-on serviettes that litter the surface of the table before the latter. His gaze is unreadable, but I spied shock flitting past his countenance before it shut down.
"Where did you see those squiggles?" he asks when Daniel Jackson hums absent-mindedly. "Where did you learn them?"
Learn. My mind catches on that word. Learn. So, apparently, Henry Evans does not really think that what Daniel Jackson has written are mere "squiggles".
"Oh, um, erh, places, different places, lots of places," Daniel Jackson flounders, apparently having been torn mid-thought from his next piece of writing. "Lectures, dictionaries, reference books, archeological sites…." He catches himself before he can say more, and I am relieved that he still has the presence of mind not to disclose more sensitive information to this semi-civilian.
Henry Evans contemplates Daniel Jackson for a moment longer, then switches his attention to me.
The full force of his gaze is… staggering. It is impassive as I first thought, but at the same time there are immense power and shadows and otherness lurking behind it, like a sturdy-looking sheet of ice covering the surface of a deep, dark body of water full of unknown creatures.
Henry Evans is far more dangerous than any single Goa'uld. Henry Evans is not a human, either, of Taur'i or otherwise, although he is in the guise of one.
Henry Evans also somehow reminds me of someone else who bore the same eye colour, shape and depth, a Jaffa older than Master Bra'tac, but I have to set aside such similarity for the time being, as he addresses me directly, "Will you keep secrets for the sake of another person, Mister Teal'c?"
Will, not can, I note. Henry Evans is apparently not only powerful, but also quite perceptive, to be able to judge one's character after so brief an acquaintance. I wonder what he will get out of observing me, then, should we share a living space with each other in the coming days.
But I am no novice in such matter, myself, and perhaps he noticed this, as well, hence his question. He asks not only for his own sake but also for the sake of those he protects.
So I tell him, frankly, "As long as the secrets are not harmful to my person and interests or those of whom I protect or answer to."
"And what would you constitute 'harmful'?" he inquires further.
O'Neill has stopped enjoying his fishing by now, judging from the stiffening of his back and shoulders as seen from the corner of my eye. His reaction most likely stems from the questioning, but I do not mind the inquiries, myself. Henry Evans really seems to be taking steps to protect himself and/or others by digging into my intentions, and I can relate to that.
"Loss of life, or health, or welfare, or freedom," I list carefully. "Matters, events, actions and intentions that will lead to such losses sooner or later, as well."
He nods, just as O'Neill finally turns round to face us and bluntly asks him why he asked me such questions.
He is not surprised at all by the fact that O'Neill has been listening in.
"I am one person in a community that would like to be just left alone," he explains calmly. "Sam knew about this much and didn't ask for more. But if Mister Teal'c still means to share the flat with me, we need to come to an arrangement of mutual disclosure. I refuse to have to hide things this big in my own home, and I would not be comfortable with my flatmate doing the same to me, too."
Ah, I was right.
I cock a querying eyebrow at him. "How many of you are on this world?" I rejoin, quietly.
He shrugs. "Compared to the whole population? Just a handful. Still many, though, if the number is isolated."
"A thousand? Hundred thousand? A million?" O'Neill pursues the matter, a little more aggressively than I would have thought.
Henry Evans tears his gaze away from me at last, and transfers it to O'Neill. Judging from the small, sharp breath that O'Neill has just taken, the latter has just been treated to the same inscrutable, inhuman look that I was treated to.
"I am not certain," our host says at length, slowly, as if thinking deeply while speaking. "I never cared to know. My homeland has a few thousand, though, I think."
"United kingdom?" O'Neill pries further. On Henry Evans' nod, he continues with, "Why're you so far away here?"
"New scenery," Henry Evans smiles, although it looks forced to me.
O'Neill apparently thinks similarly, for he opens his mouth again. But before he can speak, Henry Evans raises a hand, a not-so-surprisingly very commanding, lordly gesture, and preempts him, "Let's talk soon. I'll close up early. The regulars are used to that. I'll just make up for it tomorrow. I'm not comfortable talking in the open like this. If you'd pry away Sam and Mister Jackson from their toys, Sam could lead you to my living room."
"Should I know why Sam knows where your living room is?" O'Neill changes subjects just as quickly, but he seems to have relaxed a little.
Henry Evans grins. "Ask her," he says. "If she doesn't want you to know, it's her call."
And then, just so, he vanishes among the crowds of customers, greeting people here and there in his quiet, unassuming manner; invisible, unnoticeable, forgetable.
Yes, he is dangerous, very dangerous, this way.
O-O-O-O
"I tell you, he's not human," O'Neill blurts out when, just as our company reaches the top level of the building, Henry Evans is already waiting, seated in a single-seater couch on the corner between two adjoining walls that overlooks both the stairs we came from and the rest of the open living area beyond this egress point.
The young man raises an eyebrow and smirks, looking amused instead of offended by the honest assertion. Or perhaps he is amused by the way Daniel Jackson digs an elbow into O'Neill's ribs in reproach instead of by O'Neill's words. In any case, he welcomes us to sit in the other two couches – a two-seater and a three-seater, set at an angle to the single-seater he occupies – warmly enough.
Before any of the guests could greet him properly, however, he looks specifically at Daniel Jackson and asks, "Could I look at the napkins you drew on?"
"Uh, well, it's yours; I mean, the napkins are yours," Daniel Jackson, who has just settled into the two-seater beside Major Carter, stutters, caught off guard. "The writing is just… jibberish."
The eyebrow climbs higher on Henry Evans' forehead, practically blending with his ragged fringes. Something both calculating and pensive visits his countenance briefly, before it settles into an odd look caught between playful teasing and deadly gravity. "Jibberish can mean something, for the individuals who can read it," he posits carefully.
Daniel Jackson sits up straight and looks back intently at him. "You recognise what I was writing?"
Henry Evans shrugs.
The pieces of written-on squares of cloth change hands.
And then Henry Evans reads the symbols, silently, with barely an effort, as if he had read such script many, many times before.
O'Neill and I, seated at either end of the three-seater, stare at each other with widened eyes.
The symbols that Daniel Jackson drew on the squares of cloth belong to the script of the Ancients.
