Please see first chapter for disclaimer, rating, warnings, pairings, etc.
Part 13/24
-Chapter 13-
Turmoil
-Atlantis – Past -
Teyla raised the bouquet of wildflowers Ronon had given her to her nose, smiling up at him as he gently guided her away from the excitement of the Harvest Festival. Now they walked quietly through the tall grass side by side, content to enjoy their silent companionship.
The wind brushed through her loose hair, lifting it from her neck and tickling it across her cheeks. Slightly irritated, she pushed the stray strands away, reaching for the band around her wrist so she could gather the thick strands back into a ponytail.
All through the process she could feel Ronon's eyes on her--thoughtful, gentle. It brought warmth to her cheeks she hoped he wouldn't notice. Perhaps he'd think it was just leftover from the warmth of the fire she'd been standing beside when he'd drawn her away to walk through the fields.
"Sheppard told me that today's your birthday." Ronon's voice was hoarse when he spoke, but Teyla wasn't bothered by the roughness.
"He was correct." She could barely force her voice above a whisper. She stopped walking at the exact same moment as Ronon, turning to face him as he tipped his head down to look at her. The starlight played in his eyes, whose endless green depths stole her breath.
Ronon raised his right hand, closed into a fist. "I got you this." He opened his hand; a necklace fell free from its shelter, dangling from his fingers and catching the distant flicker of the campfires. It sparkled like fallen stars, like the firelight it was reflecting. "Happy birthday, Teyla."
"Oh, Ronon. . ." She reached up her hand to touch the cool earth-toned beads. She trailed her fingers up the necklace until they met his hand. She raised her eyes to meet his again, swallowing hard when she saw his expression. "It is so beautiful." Was she just talking about the necklace? she wondered.
A smile—boyish, shy, so unlike him but somehow right just the same—played across his lips and danced in his eyes. He undid the catch and reached behind her neck to clasp it. She read so many emotions in his eyes, each warring for domination. She couldn't look away as she shivered slightly, icy chills slipping down her spine.
Ronon's fingers lightly brushed her jaw as he withdrew his hands. She attempted to tame the wild fluttering in her heart and her stomach. Kiss me. . . She wasn't sure if she'd said it aloud, or if those words had merely been a random thought in her mind. Either way, his hands stopped their withdrawal, instead moving to cup her face as he tipped his head down. He gazed into her eyes as though searching for some sort of permission before he leaned forward that extra little space and kissed her.
She rose on her tiptoes slightly, resting the hand with the bouquet against his waist to steady herself. His hands, work-roughened and strong, still seemed so gentle as he trailed one down her arm to take her hand; the other slid around the back of her neck to tangle in the loose strands dangling from her ponytail. At the same time, almost of its own accord, her free hand moved to twine in his dreadlocks.
The kiss was so intoxicating that, when he slowly drew away from her, she found she never wanted him to stop. Again, Ronon, please--
"Teyla, I. . ." He looked away from her as though ashamed of his actions.
She brushed her fingers over his lips, silencing him. Then she placed her hand against the side of his face, gently forcing him to return his gaze to her. "Do not speak," she whispered. A smile burst from her heart, blooming across her lips and dancing in her eyes. "And do not regret the kiss we just shared. . . I know that I do not."
Ronon smiled again. His eyes slowly lit, not just from the starlight from above, but with a light from deep within him. The look whispered softly of what could one day be, if they were patient and hopeful. For a moment, with the starlight in his eyes and the firelight making his skin glow the color of warm honey, she saw Ronon as the man he could be. Or perhaps it was as he once had been: still that proud and strong warrior; but with a gentle, tender side as well. He withdrew his hand from behind her neck, fingers lightly brushing across her necklace as he did so.
She swallowed hard, feeling the intensity of Ronon's gaze pierce straight to the deepest, most secret part of her heart. She longed to have the freedom to love this man for the rest of their lives.
And maybe, just for the night of her birthday, she could dare to dream that her most secret of hopes had come true.
Teyla woke with a smile on her lips, joy and love abounding in her heart. Warmth seeped slowly through her veins and to her heart, mingling with her current joy. I can hardly believe this is really true!
She rolled over onto her side and focused her eyes on the vase of flowers sitting on her nightstand. In the two weeks or so since Ronon had presented them to her, they had begun to wilt. But their beauty was no less dimmed in her eyes.
Ronon. Even just thinking about him gave her a reason to smile. She reached out a hand, brushing it over the soft petals of the flowers; then picked up the necklace from its place just to the side of the vase. She cradled the necklace in one hand, running the fingers of the other over the smooth beads. He loves me.
Teyla flipped over onto her back and grinned up at the ceiling, clasping the necklace against her chest. She'd never felt this happy, content—complete—before now. It was wonderful.
Then reality seeped through the warmth left by her dream. The Wraith will be here tomorrow. Somehow, even knowing that couldn't take away her happiness. She might be living her last few days. But if indeed they were, they would be the best of her life. Now she knew that the man she loved also loved her, she could face whatever came, be it death or life.
She held up her necklace again, fingering the beads; sat up and secured it around her neck. For a moment she gazed across the room at the reflection of herself in the mirror hanging there. Looking into her own eyes, she reaffirmed what she already knew.
"Whenever my last day with Ronon Dex comes, I will cherish it—and him—and every single moment from now until then." She smiled again. Slipping out of bed, she hurried to get dressed so she could begin fulfilling that wonderful promise to herself.
-Atlantis – Past -
The door of his temporary quarters abruptly whooshing open interrupted Ronon's study of the ceiling. Reflexes honed by years of Running kicked him halfway to his feet even as he recognized his earlier self standing just outside. Sheppard is right; this is weird. He took in the body language of folded arms and rigid stance first, then the familiar tightness around eyes and mouth. Doesn't look like he's slept much either. Very deliberately, he let out his breath and eased back down onto the cot. Still, he couldn't resist flinging out a small challenge. "So, have you come to try to break my neck?"
Dex entered the room. He sat down uninvited on a folding chair, all without taking his eyes off Ronon. His lips drew back slightly from his teeth: challenge noted and declined. "Not this time. Actually, I think I'm here to thank you."
That was so unexpected, Ronon's jaw nearly dropped; but he quickly masked his surprise. "Huh. Thought you were mad at me for kissing Teyla."
"I was. Now, though," Dex hesitated, then sighed heavily and dragged his hands down his face. "I knew the moment I saw the way you looked at her, I knew Teyla was going to die. I've seen that look before—I've worn it before. I was mad at you for not being there. I was mad at myself for not being there."
Ronon had to swallow twice before he could say sardonically, "Funny, I thought the exact same thing about you." All humor vanished though as he went on harshly, "At least it was fast for Melena. It wasn't for Teyla."
An awkward silence descended over the room. The tension stretched to the snapping point.
The words finally wrenched themselves out of Dex. "Teyla. How did she--?"
Ronon flinched, fiercely rubbing his eyes to try to eradicate the image seared into his mind. Burning; screaming; Teyla's flawless skin ravaged by the blazing flames. He made a deep, unconscious noise of pain in his throat. "The explosion. She-- Ancestors." It was a plea for control, for patience, for relief.
Dex sat stonily in his seat; the only movement he exhibited was a slight twitch in his jaw. Ronon's voice was ragged when he finally spoke again. "She must have been standing only a few feet away from the wall when the explosion hit. It trapped her under so much debris, injured her so badly, she couldn't escape the fire that came after. That was what really--" His hands clenched into fists; he longed to hit something, anything with them. "She died -- three months later. The burns, the internal injuries -- they sent her into a coma. She never woke up."
Dex sat for a long time, digesting the information slowly and painfully. At last he looked up again, obviously fighting to control the anger rising in him again. Ronon went ahead and answered the question before it could be asked. "I was with Sheppard and a bunch of Marines defending the entrance to the control tower. Teyla and a few others had gone to extract Weir and a team of scientists from where they were pinned down in the Science and Research tower. The transporters were down, so they had to walk it." He rubbed his eyes again. "I know that even if I'd been there I could have done nothing to save her. But maybe I could have kept her from suffering alone. Maybe I could have told her. . ." He rested his heavy head in his hands.
"I have." Dex's voice was as low and hoarse as Ronon's. Ronon lifted his head to lock eyes with him. "Thanks to you, I've told Teyla the truth." The anguish in his eyes pierced Ronon. "It can't happen again."
"It won't. That's why I'm here." His next words had all the weight of a vow. "I'm going to stop it – no matter what it takes."
-Atlantis – Past-
Why am I so cold?
Elizabeth extended an arm aching with chill, groping for the blanket she'd surely only kicked off during her sleep. Only very gradually did she realize that she was still fully dressed except for her radio headset and lying on top of her still-made bed.
Memory slammed Elizabeth like a sucker punch, and she sat bolt upright. Her head gave a vicious retaliatory throb; she grabbed at her forehead and sank back down. She remembered stumbling through the doors into her quarters the night before; she remembered ripping off the headset and giving it a random pitch before throwing herself onto her bed.
She remembered crying like she would never run out of tears.
And she remembered why.
Her throat hurt; her mouth felt like a desert; and her eyes ached with a kind of hot scratchiness. That's the first time I've cried myself to sleep in how many years? She felt utterly worn out by weeping. She longed to creep under the blanket, pull it over her head, and block out the day. But she knew for her it wasn't an option.
She was Doctor Elizabeth Weir: leader of the Atlantis expedition, de facto governor of the City of the Ancients, the person everyone else looked to in times of crisis.
I'm a mess. Elizabeth carefully sat up again and avoided looking at herself in the mirror across the room as she ran her hands through her disheveled hair. Her mind was already busily at work, churning out reminders: The Wraith arrived tomorrow, the Daedalus today; plans to save Atlantis needed to be fine-tuned if not finalized. Oh, joy. On top of everything else, her mind flinched automatically away from what the euphemism represented, I have to brief Colonel Caldwell and Hermiod on this mess. They are so not going to be pleased with this situation.
Elizabeth stared at her watch, forcing her exhausted brain to concentrate on the numbers glaring back at her. If she got moving now, she would have just enough time for a cup of coffee before the ship arrived. Then she remembered that she needed to touch base with Rodney and Radek to check on their progress with the time-travel device. Another coffee on the run, she thought ruefully as she all but staggered toward the bathroom. Maybe John will bring me something later.
She froze. John. How am I going to face him – either him? I acted like a fool last night. But how was I supposed to take those words? She buried her face in her hands, resisting the temptation to start sobbing again. Is it true? Does he love me? Another thought struck her. Do I love him?
What would I ever do without him?
The realization slapped her across the face like a blast of cold water. She shivered at the terrifying thought. John Sheppard had become a part of her life, a part of her. Just thinking about losing him tore a hole in her heart. The Wraith were coming; it could happen. And even if they survived this time, the possibility was always out there waiting. John didn't have a nice, safe office job.
"What am I going to do?" The words came out in a groan. She took the few remaining steps into the bathroom. Her reflection in the mirror drew her. She leaned against the edge of the sink to stare into her own eyes. "I love him—so help me, I love him—but how can we possibly make this work?"
She wanted it to work out; she felt it so keenly that it was almost a physical ache in her heart. Never before had Elizabeth experienced feelings so strong, so completely unexplainable, about someone. It terrified her. Her relationship with Simon had been safe, predictable; she had been assured a stress-free happily-ever-after.
With John, everything was totally opposite. He embodied the unpredictable, at times even the reckless, but always because of driving passion. Everything he did, he did with one-hundred percent commitment. She admired that in him, even though the Air Force considered him a maverick, not totally trustworthy. He challenged her to see things in a different light, with different eyes. She'd thought they'd come to a unique understanding with each other; up until the night before, she'd been quite comfortable with it.
Comfortable! But blind – so very blind!
Simon had equaled security. John equaled never knowing what the next few hours would bring. Simon stood for familiarity. John represented a wild, crazy ride where anything could happen. During her time in Atlantis, her sense of adventure had grown and flourished. The wonders beyond her home planet and galaxy had been eagerly and willingly shared with John Sheppard; Simon had turned them down. Their balcony, with the most breathtaking view of the ocean and the sunset that they so much enjoyed sharing, symbolized the growing unity between them.
When did unity of purpose turn into love? At what point did it become something worth changing history for? At what point did I become worth the risk and the burden?
The haggard face in the mirror gave her no answers. Her emotional world had been knocked onto its ear; her physical world was about to be. For the time being, one had to take priority.
She was Doctor Elizabeth Weir: leader of the expedition to Atlantis, de facto governor of the City of the Ancients, the person everyone else looked to in times of crisis.
Tears were running down her face again. The question of her own worth had to be shelved for now. But Atlantis – yes, she decided, Atlantis was worth every risk they had to take in its defense. She would cling to that for now, and deal with the other later.
She erased all outward signs of her inward turbulence. Atlantis's leader must be the very image of calm, collected confidence. Nothing else could – or would – be allowed to show. Each step of her toilette became a bulwark to her determination, a stone in her inner defensive wall.
Her headset clicked in her ear just as she reassumed it. Chuck's voice said crisply, "Dr. Weir, Daedalus is requesting permission to land."
"Thank you. Permission granted. And please have all the members of Colonel Sheppard's team gather in Dr. McKay's lab." Elizabeth nodded to the image in the mirror, satisfied that it matched her voice: cool, matter-of-fact, in control.
She went out to fight in her own way for her city and its people.
To Be Continued. . .
