[nano] Stained Glass Masquerade
Dec. 7th, 2007 07:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kittydesade[A/N: If Michael really is Teyla's baby's father I will laugh my shapely ass off.]
She didn't want to leave. It had been such a short time since Sheppard had flown her back out to him and it already seemed too short a span of days. Which was odd, Michael reminded her with a wry smile, when considering how apprehensive she had been at first.
They had come to know each other so very much more in that short span of days, was her reply. And was that so hard to believe?
Not really. They were alike in the strangest ways, both of them the unwilling subject of experiments that altered their very genetic makeup, stranding them with one foot in a world not their own. Her Wraith DNA, his human, and both of them were freaks even among their own people. Although, to be sure, her people welcomed her more than his ever had. It no longer bothered him to talk about it, covering the well-trod conversational ground with a weary acceptance.
Easier to accept, perhaps, with her there. With her there, he wasn't so alone.
And she could accept that, too, finally. Understand what they had taken from him, the emptiness of being all alone inside his own head. It had hit on her at some point when they had separated, the contrast between the warmth and proximity of his mind to hers, and the cold emptiness of being isolated. It was like stepping from a slightly humid and comfortingly heated enclosure into the middle of, perhaps not a snowstorm, but a barren and chilled rock landscape. Not even the malevolent lie of life that a wind could sometimes give. Nothingness.
"And when I am gone…" she said, in a momentary flash of worry for him, his mental well-being.
He smiled, one hand covering hers. "Then I will have the memory of what passed between us and the hope that you will come back," he told her, and she had the feeling he was saying it more to reassure her than because it was true. "Which is more than I have had in a long time."
Which was possibly true. There was no hope to be had for him now, that any Wraith ship would take him in. She was different.
Teyla smiled a little ruefully. "If my people …" If she had known what had happened to them she would have invited him back to them. At least to a part, perhaps, a few friends she thought she could trust to be open-minded enough to make friends. But they were no longer on New Athos and she did not know what happened to them, and grief made her words swell in her throat.
In a manner characteristic of what they had become, Michael took her into his arms and held her tightly. It was what everyone on Atlantis had been waiting for since they had learned of the disappearance of the Athosians, and yet she had held herself apart and strong. For some reason, she didn't know why. Perhaps she simply didn't want them to think that she was incapable of handling adversity.
Which, Michael's thought implied, was ridiculous. If they were such people that would look down on her or ridicule her for mourning or raging at the loss of her people, then they were not worthy companions. Not worthy, perhaps, might be an unusual or inaccurate sentiment, and her reply held more than a little dry amusement at the overtones of his thinking.
But, no. That had simply been her mistaken perception, her reflex, to hide away. And in hiding, force herself to be strong, not to break, because once she broke…
She wouldn't be sure she could stop herself. He knew.
It was the knowing that undid her. Not simply someone, Ronon, telling her he understood. Being able to know that Michael felt as keenly as she did the loss, the unknowing whether or not friends and family were dead or alive, being able to feel it as he did and having him bear it away like a person with a jar of leeches that had drained the poison off, she went to pieces.
Before she quite knew what she was doing she was sobbing into his shoulder, fingers curled tight in his coat. And he eased her to the bench and sat down and drew her close against him, holding her.
"Teyla."
She wasn't sure if he was trying to get her attention or simply giving her a point upon which to anchor herself, rather than losing her in their combined loneliness and her newly-aggravated pain. She swallowed and tried to think of what acknowledgement was appropriate, and then realized that the simple act of thinking it was enough to tell him she had heard him.
Telepathy, clearly, was still something to get used to. His fingers smoothed through her hair, over her cheek, brushing the tears away. Cool against her flushed skin, and the contact only made her cling tighter to what was real, to someone who was still here and hadn't left, hadn't become strange. Hadn't turned into her nightmare, which brought on a twanging note of dissonant irony. He had started out as her nightmare.
Not anymore. She wasn't afraid of him anymore. She meant to prove it but he tucked her head firmly under his chin and kept her cradled in his arms. She wasn't thinking rationally. He was there for comfort, warmth, solidity. For companionship, nothing more right now.
"I'm sorry…" she whispered, although she was having trouble remember what in specific she felt sorry about.
"Shh…"
Everything was jumbled up and turned inside out and rocking around. She couldn't seem to keep her thoughts straight in her head, let alone her emotions. He steadied her as best he could, humming what sounded like some sort of lilting tune or lullaby. It took her a moment to realize that the humming was taking place inside of her head as well as out.
Not only a lullaby, a Wraith lullaby, or what passed for one among their kind. No words, apparently to a Wraith lullaby, only song and simplistic images. The comfort came, not from the lullaby itself, but from the sense that this was something he had done before. Teyla found herself thinking of Ellia, of Wraith children, and again wondering what Michael had left behind.
The song faltered, fell silent, if silent was the word for it.
No more of such things, for either of them. Not unless they somehow managed to carve out their own corner of the universe and make it safe for everyone they cared for, and that was passing unlikely. She felt his bitter smile in her mind more than against her hair, and held him a little tighter.
She didn't want to leave. It had been such a short time since Sheppard had flown her back out to him and it already seemed too short a span of days. Which was odd, Michael reminded her with a wry smile, when considering how apprehensive she had been at first.
They had come to know each other so very much more in that short span of days, was her reply. And was that so hard to believe?
Not really. They were alike in the strangest ways, both of them the unwilling subject of experiments that altered their very genetic makeup, stranding them with one foot in a world not their own. Her Wraith DNA, his human, and both of them were freaks even among their own people. Although, to be sure, her people welcomed her more than his ever had. It no longer bothered him to talk about it, covering the well-trod conversational ground with a weary acceptance.
Easier to accept, perhaps, with her there. With her there, he wasn't so alone.
And she could accept that, too, finally. Understand what they had taken from him, the emptiness of being all alone inside his own head. It had hit on her at some point when they had separated, the contrast between the warmth and proximity of his mind to hers, and the cold emptiness of being isolated. It was like stepping from a slightly humid and comfortingly heated enclosure into the middle of, perhaps not a snowstorm, but a barren and chilled rock landscape. Not even the malevolent lie of life that a wind could sometimes give. Nothingness.
"And when I am gone…" she said, in a momentary flash of worry for him, his mental well-being.
He smiled, one hand covering hers. "Then I will have the memory of what passed between us and the hope that you will come back," he told her, and she had the feeling he was saying it more to reassure her than because it was true. "Which is more than I have had in a long time."
Which was possibly true. There was no hope to be had for him now, that any Wraith ship would take him in. She was different.
Teyla smiled a little ruefully. "If my people …" If she had known what had happened to them she would have invited him back to them. At least to a part, perhaps, a few friends she thought she could trust to be open-minded enough to make friends. But they were no longer on New Athos and she did not know what happened to them, and grief made her words swell in her throat.
In a manner characteristic of what they had become, Michael took her into his arms and held her tightly. It was what everyone on Atlantis had been waiting for since they had learned of the disappearance of the Athosians, and yet she had held herself apart and strong. For some reason, she didn't know why. Perhaps she simply didn't want them to think that she was incapable of handling adversity.
Which, Michael's thought implied, was ridiculous. If they were such people that would look down on her or ridicule her for mourning or raging at the loss of her people, then they were not worthy companions. Not worthy, perhaps, might be an unusual or inaccurate sentiment, and her reply held more than a little dry amusement at the overtones of his thinking.
But, no. That had simply been her mistaken perception, her reflex, to hide away. And in hiding, force herself to be strong, not to break, because once she broke…
She wouldn't be sure she could stop herself. He knew.
It was the knowing that undid her. Not simply someone, Ronon, telling her he understood. Being able to know that Michael felt as keenly as she did the loss, the unknowing whether or not friends and family were dead or alive, being able to feel it as he did and having him bear it away like a person with a jar of leeches that had drained the poison off, she went to pieces.
Before she quite knew what she was doing she was sobbing into his shoulder, fingers curled tight in his coat. And he eased her to the bench and sat down and drew her close against him, holding her.
"Teyla."
She wasn't sure if he was trying to get her attention or simply giving her a point upon which to anchor herself, rather than losing her in their combined loneliness and her newly-aggravated pain. She swallowed and tried to think of what acknowledgement was appropriate, and then realized that the simple act of thinking it was enough to tell him she had heard him.
Telepathy, clearly, was still something to get used to. His fingers smoothed through her hair, over her cheek, brushing the tears away. Cool against her flushed skin, and the contact only made her cling tighter to what was real, to someone who was still here and hadn't left, hadn't become strange. Hadn't turned into her nightmare, which brought on a twanging note of dissonant irony. He had started out as her nightmare.
Not anymore. She wasn't afraid of him anymore. She meant to prove it but he tucked her head firmly under his chin and kept her cradled in his arms. She wasn't thinking rationally. He was there for comfort, warmth, solidity. For companionship, nothing more right now.
"I'm sorry…" she whispered, although she was having trouble remember what in specific she felt sorry about.
"Shh…"
Everything was jumbled up and turned inside out and rocking around. She couldn't seem to keep her thoughts straight in her head, let alone her emotions. He steadied her as best he could, humming what sounded like some sort of lilting tune or lullaby. It took her a moment to realize that the humming was taking place inside of her head as well as out.
Not only a lullaby, a Wraith lullaby, or what passed for one among their kind. No words, apparently to a Wraith lullaby, only song and simplistic images. The comfort came, not from the lullaby itself, but from the sense that this was something he had done before. Teyla found herself thinking of Ellia, of Wraith children, and again wondering what Michael had left behind.
The song faltered, fell silent, if silent was the word for it.
No more of such things, for either of them. Not unless they somehow managed to carve out their own corner of the universe and make it safe for everyone they cared for, and that was passing unlikely. She felt his bitter smile in her mind more than against her hair, and held him a little tighter.