[nano] Stained Glass Masquerade
Dec. 6th, 2007 09:25 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesadeWalking through a Wraith ship was no longer a nightmare sensation that reduced her to a child again, quivering and fearful. Michael's memories turned it into something like home, although underneath there was still the awareness that they were the enemy, that she was food. From him, the awareness that was sad and lingering, that this was no longer home and never could be again. The images were blurry and drifted as he took her on a tour of his Hive ship, information now three years old or so. Not for the sake of intelligence or even learning more about Wraith culture, but simply sharing.
They sat crosslegged across from each other, hands clasped around each other's hands and foreheads touching. A part of her culture and a part of his, sharing memories. It seemed oddly natural to share memories. To trade experiences back and forth, her learning how to fight at the bantos, his learning hand to hand combat as a young child tusseling with other children.
[What is this?]
They asked it, over and over again, focusing on one particular memory that was incomprehensible or incoherent to them, until they weren't even saying it mind to mind anymore but conveying a sense of query.
Teyla gasped when she came out of it, sweating, breathing hard, had to step away for a little while and bring herself back. He waited, watching her, still seated on the floor and calm enough that she was grateful for his steadying influence. He seemed unsure of whether or not she would come back at first. After the second time he didn't seem to worry so much.
It was a more intimate experience than she was used to, and while she was no longer so apprehensive of being in an intimate situation with a Wraith, the fact remained that he was essentially crawling down into her soul and seeing her private thoughts and imaginings in a way she had never believed another person could. Not uninvited, of course, never that. He had told her, when it had come up in conversation and gently with repetition, that he would not invade her mind. And, between his words and his actions, she believed him. Had faith in his sincerity, as strange as that sounded when she tried to explain it out loud.
And yet if that explanation would have sounded strange to John had she tried to tell him, it would have been eclipsed by Michael himself. He smiled, a real smile of companionship and other things as yet too new to their relationship to name. They talked, moved around each other calmly and quietly, as two friends might in any other place or circumstance.
In fact, apart from his hands and his eyes, certain aspects of his face, it was hard to remember sometimes that he was a Wraith at all.
It was hard to believe that so little time had passed, either.
"Why is it that you no longer seem to hate us?" she did ask, once, during a brief respite from their exchange sessions.
He smiled at her. "Why is it you no longer seem to hate me?"
"I never hated you," she corrected him, but she smiled back. "I was angry with you, yes, but that is not the same thing. I …"
She stopped. He waited.
"I do not know. Perhaps it is because we seem to understand each other better now than we ever did. I reserve the right to be angry with you in the future," she pointed a finger at him, and he laughed with her. "But I do not think I could hate you now."
Michael's eyes dropped to the floor, something weighing on his mind, or perhaps unwilling to let her see how that affected him. She reached out, one hand light on his shoulder, but didn't otherwise move.
"You think I don't hate you anymore," he said to the floor. "But you would be wrong."
There was a threat underneath the words, and the same weariness that he had had since she came to him after the rescue. The only difference was that this time the weariness seemed to be more on the surface, threaded all through his voice and making it rougher than his usual deep tones. Making it waver. He turned, sat down heavily. Teyla watched him for a long moment before she found herself kneeling in front of him.
"Not all of us."
"No. Not all of you." His hands curled around hers automatically. They needed to touch each other these days, she found. Even when they weren't joined mind to mind, as though they needed the security of that connection.
"We turned your life upside down and took away your home, your family…" She didn't mean to make him remember and yet she wasn't quite ready to let the subject drop, not yet. "I cannot imagine how you wouldn't hate us, some part of you, at least."
He didn't answer for a time. Her fingers traced along the edge of his hand, wrist to the tip of his thumb and back again. It was an intimate gesture that seemed so much less out of place than it would have the last time they spoke.
"There are times when I do hate … certain people," he said, and she wondered until she realized who those certain people must be. "For what they have done to me. But they are all beyond my reach, and what good does it do to continue to …"
He trailed off there, and she thought about reaching for him, mind-to-mind, to see what it was he meant to say or at least the shape of it. She did want to know, if he wanted to tell her. His fingers laced through hers and she barely noticed, extending her mental invitation and query without so much as a second thought. It was reflex by now, almost, to ask him in that way.
Sadness, and weariness, and not knowing what to do. Where to go. He was sitting here in limbo, wasting time when she was not here and stealing moments when she was. Hate no longer kept him busy, and he had nothing else. The emptiness she felt in small part when their minds separated after one of their sessions was constantly with him, the loss of his Hive. And when they touched, he was no longer alone, but it was only a finite source of relief.
She wished it didn't have to be that way. Wanted to offer to bring him back to Atlantis, but they both knew how that would turn out. Even if no other person on Atlantis remembered who he was or what he had done, there was Ronon. And Sheppard, now, for different reasons. He was amused that Sheppard thought of him that way; a Wraith was hardly a suitable romantic rival. And, was there some truth to that?
She thought, perhaps, there might be.
It startled him, but not half so much as she startled herself when she realized she had closed the distance between them. Neither Wraith nor human anymore, not any one thing particularly, he was simply Michael to her. And Michael was someone she cared for, very much. Perhaps even in the way that the kiss, the way her lips touched his and held there, was only the natural conclusion of their many conversations both aloud and not so much.
They sat crosslegged across from each other, hands clasped around each other's hands and foreheads touching. A part of her culture and a part of his, sharing memories. It seemed oddly natural to share memories. To trade experiences back and forth, her learning how to fight at the bantos, his learning hand to hand combat as a young child tusseling with other children.
[What is this?]
They asked it, over and over again, focusing on one particular memory that was incomprehensible or incoherent to them, until they weren't even saying it mind to mind anymore but conveying a sense of query.
Teyla gasped when she came out of it, sweating, breathing hard, had to step away for a little while and bring herself back. He waited, watching her, still seated on the floor and calm enough that she was grateful for his steadying influence. He seemed unsure of whether or not she would come back at first. After the second time he didn't seem to worry so much.
It was a more intimate experience than she was used to, and while she was no longer so apprehensive of being in an intimate situation with a Wraith, the fact remained that he was essentially crawling down into her soul and seeing her private thoughts and imaginings in a way she had never believed another person could. Not uninvited, of course, never that. He had told her, when it had come up in conversation and gently with repetition, that he would not invade her mind. And, between his words and his actions, she believed him. Had faith in his sincerity, as strange as that sounded when she tried to explain it out loud.
And yet if that explanation would have sounded strange to John had she tried to tell him, it would have been eclipsed by Michael himself. He smiled, a real smile of companionship and other things as yet too new to their relationship to name. They talked, moved around each other calmly and quietly, as two friends might in any other place or circumstance.
In fact, apart from his hands and his eyes, certain aspects of his face, it was hard to remember sometimes that he was a Wraith at all.
It was hard to believe that so little time had passed, either.
"Why is it that you no longer seem to hate us?" she did ask, once, during a brief respite from their exchange sessions.
He smiled at her. "Why is it you no longer seem to hate me?"
"I never hated you," she corrected him, but she smiled back. "I was angry with you, yes, but that is not the same thing. I …"
She stopped. He waited.
"I do not know. Perhaps it is because we seem to understand each other better now than we ever did. I reserve the right to be angry with you in the future," she pointed a finger at him, and he laughed with her. "But I do not think I could hate you now."
Michael's eyes dropped to the floor, something weighing on his mind, or perhaps unwilling to let her see how that affected him. She reached out, one hand light on his shoulder, but didn't otherwise move.
"You think I don't hate you anymore," he said to the floor. "But you would be wrong."
There was a threat underneath the words, and the same weariness that he had had since she came to him after the rescue. The only difference was that this time the weariness seemed to be more on the surface, threaded all through his voice and making it rougher than his usual deep tones. Making it waver. He turned, sat down heavily. Teyla watched him for a long moment before she found herself kneeling in front of him.
"Not all of us."
"No. Not all of you." His hands curled around hers automatically. They needed to touch each other these days, she found. Even when they weren't joined mind to mind, as though they needed the security of that connection.
"We turned your life upside down and took away your home, your family…" She didn't mean to make him remember and yet she wasn't quite ready to let the subject drop, not yet. "I cannot imagine how you wouldn't hate us, some part of you, at least."
He didn't answer for a time. Her fingers traced along the edge of his hand, wrist to the tip of his thumb and back again. It was an intimate gesture that seemed so much less out of place than it would have the last time they spoke.
"There are times when I do hate … certain people," he said, and she wondered until she realized who those certain people must be. "For what they have done to me. But they are all beyond my reach, and what good does it do to continue to …"
He trailed off there, and she thought about reaching for him, mind-to-mind, to see what it was he meant to say or at least the shape of it. She did want to know, if he wanted to tell her. His fingers laced through hers and she barely noticed, extending her mental invitation and query without so much as a second thought. It was reflex by now, almost, to ask him in that way.
Sadness, and weariness, and not knowing what to do. Where to go. He was sitting here in limbo, wasting time when she was not here and stealing moments when she was. Hate no longer kept him busy, and he had nothing else. The emptiness she felt in small part when their minds separated after one of their sessions was constantly with him, the loss of his Hive. And when they touched, he was no longer alone, but it was only a finite source of relief.
She wished it didn't have to be that way. Wanted to offer to bring him back to Atlantis, but they both knew how that would turn out. Even if no other person on Atlantis remembered who he was or what he had done, there was Ronon. And Sheppard, now, for different reasons. He was amused that Sheppard thought of him that way; a Wraith was hardly a suitable romantic rival. And, was there some truth to that?
She thought, perhaps, there might be.
It startled him, but not half so much as she startled herself when she realized she had closed the distance between them. Neither Wraith nor human anymore, not any one thing particularly, he was simply Michael to her. And Michael was someone she cared for, very much. Perhaps even in the way that the kiss, the way her lips touched his and held there, was only the natural conclusion of their many conversations both aloud and not so much.