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taking care of business (SGA, John & Teyla)
taking care of business ~ John & Teyla, 1000 wds
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tielan at ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
fandom_stocking. Originally posted here at fandom_stocking.
John blinks. His chest feels heavy, his eyes hot and swollen. Movement draws his attention to a small window that admits the only light in the room.
Crouched before the low window, Teyla throws back the bolt of the old rifle in her hands with a loud metallic snap. She must've found it around here somewhere -- it's not a type he's familiar with, and definitely not Atlantis issue. Teyla isn't wearing her Atlantis gear, either. She's in a rough, woollen-looking tunic and trousers, leaving her arms bare and revealing glimpses of the smooth muscles rippling under her lean arms.
John doesn't remember the name of this world -- doesn't remember much, to be honest. There's a scratchy wool blanket draped over him, a lumpy and musty-smelling mattress beneath. The low ceiling is draped in dust-coated cobwebs. John blinks up at it, then twists his head on the pillow -- it smells of dust and a rank stink that might be mice -- to watch Teyla again.
She fires out the window, one swift sure shot. There's a scream outside, a fingernail-edge grating noise -- not a human scream. Teyla cranks the bolt and ejects a casing that rolls across the plank floor. John watches it roll under the pole frame propping up his bed. His head is vibrating with fever, and he doesn't know how they got here or where the rest of the team is, but he thinks that Teyla's probably got it under control.
Sensing him watching her, she turns and gives John a quick smile. He smiles back. Then she stands to fire again.
"An hour or two," she says, and his time sense has skipped somehow, because she is leaning over him. "Not more than that."
<i>Until what?</i> he wonders, sick and dazed. Until Rodney and Ronon find them? Or are Rodney and Ronon dead? An hour or two until their unknown enemies torch the abandoned cabin with them in it? But Teyla touches his forehead with her cool hand, and he is drawn under, down, down, <i>safe.</i>
***
He wakes again to see her dragging furniture in front of the door: a table and some chairs, a big cabinet, all made of heavy, unfinished planks that look like they were split with an axe. "John," she says when she notices him watching her, and he realizes that he may have been staring for some time. She looks tired; her hair is spilling out of her braid, her face smudged with dirt.
"Yeah?" he answers in a croak, and she breaks into a smile. She's beautiful either way: tired and serious, drawn with strain, or grinning like a girl. But he thinks he likes the second way best.
"It is all right," she tells him. "It will be well." And she goes back to blockading the door.
"You ..." he begins. He's hot, tired and sore; he's having more trouble thinking than he really thinks he should be. "You okay?"
She flashes him another quick, brilliant smile, with something heartbreakingly soft underneath. "Yes, John. I am well."
He sinks down again, into the hot, smothering darkness.
***
When John opens his eyes again, he's now lying on his side, facing the single small room of the cabin. Teyla is moving about quietly, with the rifle slung over her shoulder. He watches her set a cracked pottery jug on the table --most of the furniture has been dragged away from the door now, except for the heavy plank cabinet -- and then search among the odds and ends on the dusty, crooked shelf beside the door. She shakes dust and dead spiders out of a shallow bowl and slops some water from the jug into it.
She looks around and sees him. Her quicksilver smile flickers again. She brings the bowl of water, sets it on the floor and pulls out the hem of her T-shirt, using her knife to cut off a swatch of it. This she dips in the water and then runs across his forehead. She hasn't bothered to clean herself up; her hair still straggles from her lopsided ponytail across her dusty-smeared cheeks. She's sweated enough that John can smell it, but it isn't unpleasant. It just smells like Teyla.
"They are gone now," she says as she wipes down his face
"Good," John manages, not quite willing to admit that he hasn't a clue who "they" are.
Teyla pulls back the collar of his shirt to bathe his neck and the upper part of his chest. "Did you hear my conversation with Rodney?" John gives his head a little shake, making his temples throb. "He has just broken orbit in the jumper. We will be off this world soon."
Right, there was a spacegate. Everything's still jumbled up in his head, and John's too tired to bother trying to sort it out just now, especially when Teyla laces her fingers through his. She dips the rag again, squeezing the water out one-handed, and continues to run it gently over his face.
"Too bad," he mumbles. "Not a bad vacation spot. Built a hotel and casino, buy some flamethrowers, and truck in a few tons of white sand, and we'll be all set."
Teyla lays the wet cloth across his forehead and then cards her fingers through his sweat-damp hair. "I think you should rest," she says, but there is a smile in her voice.
"Wake me if anything tries to kill us."
"You will wake soon enough, when we must move you to the jumper." Her fingers stroke through his hair in a slow, steady rhythm, and he closes his eyes.
When he wakes again it's to a world fragmented into bits and pieces, brief moments of awareness -- a sharp jolt of pain, Rodney saying "Sorry!", a glimpse of blue sky overhead. The world slows and steadies, settling into the vibration of the jumper under his back and hips, the distant sound of Rodney's running monologue and Ronon's terse interjections. There's a blanket over him, smelling like starch and the infirmary rather than dust and mice, and the gray ceiling of the jumper has replaced the low beams of the cabin.
But Teyla still holds his hand, and her warm fingers remain laced through his, as the cool wash of the Stargate carries him home.
~
This entry is also posted at http://friendshipper.dreamwidth.org/308720.html with
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tielan at fandom_stocking. Originally posted here at fandom_stocking.John blinks. His chest feels heavy, his eyes hot and swollen. Movement draws his attention to a small window that admits the only light in the room.
Crouched before the low window, Teyla throws back the bolt of the old rifle in her hands with a loud metallic snap. She must've found it around here somewhere -- it's not a type he's familiar with, and definitely not Atlantis issue. Teyla isn't wearing her Atlantis gear, either. She's in a rough, woollen-looking tunic and trousers, leaving her arms bare and revealing glimpses of the smooth muscles rippling under her lean arms.
John doesn't remember the name of this world -- doesn't remember much, to be honest. There's a scratchy wool blanket draped over him, a lumpy and musty-smelling mattress beneath. The low ceiling is draped in dust-coated cobwebs. John blinks up at it, then twists his head on the pillow -- it smells of dust and a rank stink that might be mice -- to watch Teyla again.
She fires out the window, one swift sure shot. There's a scream outside, a fingernail-edge grating noise -- not a human scream. Teyla cranks the bolt and ejects a casing that rolls across the plank floor. John watches it roll under the pole frame propping up his bed. His head is vibrating with fever, and he doesn't know how they got here or where the rest of the team is, but he thinks that Teyla's probably got it under control.
Sensing him watching her, she turns and gives John a quick smile. He smiles back. Then she stands to fire again.
"An hour or two," she says, and his time sense has skipped somehow, because she is leaning over him. "Not more than that."
<i>Until what?</i> he wonders, sick and dazed. Until Rodney and Ronon find them? Or are Rodney and Ronon dead? An hour or two until their unknown enemies torch the abandoned cabin with them in it? But Teyla touches his forehead with her cool hand, and he is drawn under, down, down, <i>safe.</i>
***
He wakes again to see her dragging furniture in front of the door: a table and some chairs, a big cabinet, all made of heavy, unfinished planks that look like they were split with an axe. "John," she says when she notices him watching her, and he realizes that he may have been staring for some time. She looks tired; her hair is spilling out of her braid, her face smudged with dirt.
"Yeah?" he answers in a croak, and she breaks into a smile. She's beautiful either way: tired and serious, drawn with strain, or grinning like a girl. But he thinks he likes the second way best.
"It is all right," she tells him. "It will be well." And she goes back to blockading the door.
"You ..." he begins. He's hot, tired and sore; he's having more trouble thinking than he really thinks he should be. "You okay?"
She flashes him another quick, brilliant smile, with something heartbreakingly soft underneath. "Yes, John. I am well."
He sinks down again, into the hot, smothering darkness.
***
When John opens his eyes again, he's now lying on his side, facing the single small room of the cabin. Teyla is moving about quietly, with the rifle slung over her shoulder. He watches her set a cracked pottery jug on the table --most of the furniture has been dragged away from the door now, except for the heavy plank cabinet -- and then search among the odds and ends on the dusty, crooked shelf beside the door. She shakes dust and dead spiders out of a shallow bowl and slops some water from the jug into it.
She looks around and sees him. Her quicksilver smile flickers again. She brings the bowl of water, sets it on the floor and pulls out the hem of her T-shirt, using her knife to cut off a swatch of it. This she dips in the water and then runs across his forehead. She hasn't bothered to clean herself up; her hair still straggles from her lopsided ponytail across her dusty-smeared cheeks. She's sweated enough that John can smell it, but it isn't unpleasant. It just smells like Teyla.
"They are gone now," she says as she wipes down his face
"Good," John manages, not quite willing to admit that he hasn't a clue who "they" are.
Teyla pulls back the collar of his shirt to bathe his neck and the upper part of his chest. "Did you hear my conversation with Rodney?" John gives his head a little shake, making his temples throb. "He has just broken orbit in the jumper. We will be off this world soon."
Right, there was a spacegate. Everything's still jumbled up in his head, and John's too tired to bother trying to sort it out just now, especially when Teyla laces her fingers through his. She dips the rag again, squeezing the water out one-handed, and continues to run it gently over his face.
"Too bad," he mumbles. "Not a bad vacation spot. Built a hotel and casino, buy some flamethrowers, and truck in a few tons of white sand, and we'll be all set."
Teyla lays the wet cloth across his forehead and then cards her fingers through his sweat-damp hair. "I think you should rest," she says, but there is a smile in her voice.
"Wake me if anything tries to kill us."
"You will wake soon enough, when we must move you to the jumper." Her fingers stroke through his hair in a slow, steady rhythm, and he closes his eyes.
When he wakes again it's to a world fragmented into bits and pieces, brief moments of awareness -- a sharp jolt of pain, Rodney saying "Sorry!", a glimpse of blue sky overhead. The world slows and steadies, settling into the vibration of the jumper under his back and hips, the distant sound of Rodney's running monologue and Ronon's terse interjections. There's a blanket over him, smelling like starch and the infirmary rather than dust and mice, and the gray ceiling of the jumper has replaced the low beams of the cabin.
But Teyla still holds his hand, and her warm fingers remain laced through his, as the cool wash of the Stargate carries him home.
~
This entry is also posted at http://friendshipper.dreamwidth.org/308720.html with
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