[nano] Stained Glass Masquerade

[kittydesade]

Her people had excelled in adapting what they had to hand, to make it fit into their lives. That was no less true for Wraith fighting techniques, as well as her own people's traditional stances and moves. It might have been a gamble. It likely was a gamble, but if he thought he was remembering something or had some skill at something, he might feel less idle and useless. He was already starting to show signs of restlessness.

And the fighting moves she was teaching him were not so dissimilar from Wraith moves. Moves that, even if his mind had been wiped clean, his body should remember.

"Defend…" Slow and careful. At least at first. "Defend, parry. Strike."

He was doing all right. And perhaps it was because he was doing all right, or perhaps it was because she couldn't quite forget what he was, even for a sparring session.

The next series of blows came without verbal cues, and fast. Too fast for him to catch up or keep up but she knocked him to the ground anyway. And felt a little good about it. And then felt guilty about feeling good.

"Ow…" He clutched at his chest where she'd hit him, rolling onto his knees.

Her tone was something of an apology. "It is all about catching your opponent… off-balance." A lovely choice of words, that. She kept her mask up, a fighting instructor. Sparring partner. A friend.

It was somewhat startling to realize that she really did feel as though she could be his friend.

"You succeeded." He was still out of breath. She didn't move to help him up, but she wouldn't really have moved to help Sheppard up either unless they were done for the day. And she and Michael were far from done.

He pulled himself to his feet after a moment, at least appearing to be ready to try again. She wouldn't give him a chance to change his mind. "Now you try."

Michael shook his head. "I can't do those moves." He sounded so certain of that. It was strange, coming from a Wraith. Which was when she realized that it felt strange to be thinking of him as Wraith.

Confusion and ambivalence could only harm them both. She backed up a pace or two, took a stance. "Oh yes you can."

"You keep saying I'm a good fighter…"

The way he looked at her. Offhand, but with so much trust. She nodded, perhaps a little breathless herself. "You are. Very good."

"All right," he shrugged. They resumed.

Physical memory, she was reminded, came back much quicker than other types. On the next pass his movements were smoother, more instinctive, and he made a little exclamation of delight to find he really could do this, as she'd said. Another pass, and this time she went on the offensive again, following up the sequence of moves she had taught him with the attack she'd used before. This time, he was ready for her.

The blow to the chest was blocked, and before she realized that the kick had been deflected as well he had caught her by the leg and interrupted her attack, his other hand on her chest and now he was pinning her to the floor. With his hand on her chest. Like a Wraith.

She had barely enough time to register the he was not draining her life away, that his pleased laughter was that of a human who had learned he could perform a particular task or movement, that there was nothing sinister about this at all. And then Ronon had him, grabbed him, lifted him by the throat and held him against the wall, his feet nearly a foot off the floor.

"Ronon!" She had to stop this. "We were sparring as part of his physical therapy, let him go."

Everybody held their breath. Except Michael, who was choking.

"NOW!"

Ronon dropped him. Michael landed on his feet but quickly fell to his knees, struggling for breath. "I'm sorry," he gasped out, and Teyla wondered if she should find it strange that those with the first words out of his mouth. Again, instinctive. Why did it surprise her so much that a Wraith should apologize for anything?

"I'm sorry," he said again, but Ronon was gone already. "I didn't mean..."

Teyla shook her head, moving over to him, her hand moving to his shoulder as he stood and before she realized. "You did nothing wrong," she told him. It was important that he know that. "Ronon is..." but she couldn't think of any word to explain what had just happened. Not any word that was sanctioned by Weir and wouldn't endanger the lie.

"Ronon is very aggressive," she decided, even though it was clearly an understatement and an inadequate explanation at best. "And he is very protective of me. He may not believe you are fully recovered."

Michael nodded. He understood protective, it seemed. Teyla still wondered, although by now her mind was too full of thoughts to wonder on any particular one of them for long.

"You said we were friends," he asked, straightening and looking up at her. "Does that have something to do with it?"

Teyla started to protest that it didn't, and then stopped. She truly wasn't sure. Not that she and Michael had been friends before, but that they were friends now, that might very well have something to do with it. And what that said about her, and Ronon, and Michael, that was another one of those things she didn't want to speculate on.

"It might," she said, with a smile. He gave her some sort of look she couldn't decipher yet and dropped it.

They began again, slower, this time. There were no more large dramatic moves, and they went at half speed. They were both cooling down from the excitement of a few moments ago, by mutual and unspoken agreement. She taught him a couple more routines, and went over them with him at the same slow pace to make sure he remembered them all. He learned very, very quickly.

As the minutes slid by and put distance between them and Ronon's outburst, they both grew more relaxed. She offered, after he'd paused to towel off his face and neck, to stop.

"No way," he grinned. "This is the best I've felt in days."

That was only slightly unnerving. She smiled back, inclined her head. They started again, faster, this time.

He quickly became no more than another sparring partner to her, any one of the Marines on the base, any one of her people on the continent. They exchanged blows, back and forth, just hard enough to be felt and careful not to do any real damage. He was smiling more, she noticed. And not the sort of smile that delights in violence, just a smile of a man accomplishing something. It was even attractive on him, and just as she thought that she realized it must have shown on her face.

Because the next thing he did, the next time he had her pinned to the wall, was to kiss her.

Instantly, almost, she remembered what it was like when Sheppard had done this, in very much the same circumstances. Except that Sheppard had been a human who was turning into, essentially, a Wraith. And Michael was a Wraith who didn't know he was anything other than human.

And Sheppard had been so much more aggressive. Taking her, holding her head in place, where Michael barely moved except to cover those last few inches of space between them and place his lips on hers, shyly.

And when she didn't kiss back he retreated.

"I'm... sorry." This was much more embarrassment and less choking. "I thought we were, I mean..."

"No," Teyla smiled a little. "We were never anything more than friends." Although she could certainly imagine being more than friends with a soldier who approached her with such care. If not in the realm of likelihood, then certainly in the vicinity of possibility.

"Well, at least I can blame that on my amnesia?" But he seemed relieved that she wasn't offended.

"It was very flattering," she agreed. "Even if it was not as appropriate to our relationship as you thought."

He laughed a little, and Teyla realized he was actually blushing. "Maybe we better stop for the day," he suggested.

"If you like."

It was, she decided, after he'd left and as she was settling in to meditate before the shower and dinner, probably a good thing that Ronon hadn't seen that. It was one thing, and very easy, to interpret his hand on her chest as an instinct or intent to feed. It would've been quite another thing for Ronon to have seen that kiss.



Their next sparring session did not end so pleasantly.

He'd been distracted the whole time. She called a halt to it before they had gone more than half an hour, after she had dumped him on the mats no less than three times. It was as much for his safety as for her peace of mind that she suggested they stop and talk about whatever was bothering him.

She hadn't really expected that what was bothering him would bother her so much. That it would be something so mundane and so familiar as bad dreams. And not just any bad dreams, but those bad dreams.

Not nightmares. Or perhaps they were nightmares, but not the sort of thing most people meant when they talked about nightmares. Something else, some dark reflection of what she was inside. They had never talked about it after they discovered what had been done to her. She had almost managed to willfully forget.

Perhaps it was perfectly natural that Michael should have dreams of being a Wraith. After all, he had been one. But what did that mean, when she had had the same dream? A Wraith masquerading as a human, a human taught to be a Wraith, or vice versa. Inside out, outside in, one of them was the inverse of the other and she wasn't sure which one was who.

And those lies she had told. His dreams were not shared by most of Atlantis; as far as she knew she was the only other one to have them. Dreams of being fed on by wraith, yes, dreams of being attacked, eaten alive. Dreams of being what they feared the most? Of becoming their most primal enemy? Never. Only her, and after numerous talks about how it was understandable and part of the aftermath of trauma, she'd stopped talking to anyone about them.

Except Michael. Now, Michael.

The dreams wouldn't go away. She knew that, and because she knew that she wanted to tell him the truth. Why none of Dr. Beckett's tranquilizers and sedatives would work, why none of Dr. Heightmeyer's counseling would alleviate the dreams. But they had overruled her, and as long as the experiment was still in play and she was still on Atlantis, she would obey.

That didn't mean she had to like it.

Teyla opened her eyes, deciding that meditation was not likely to be feasible in the next hour or so, and opted for a shower instead. Thinking, and she closed her eyes under the water stream, that perhaps now might be a good time to go visit her fellows on the mainland. Get away from all of these confusing and conflicting reactions that would, in time, only serve to confuse the poor man.

Which would then leave him all alone on Atlantis with Ronon, Sheppard, and Weir. And Dr. Beckett. One out of four was not the sort of odds she felt comfortable leaving him with.