Braver New World
Ronon Dex and Amelia Banks, the gate tech that the Satedan definitely has a soft spot for, but won't admit it, not even to John, are the last to leave the balcony. They're the only two left, she notes, and she wonders if she should be the next to go. Kanaan waits for her, as does their child who can't get enough of his mother's touch. But, Teyla doesn't leave, not just yet. She's curious...and not just about the name of the massive bridge which looms beyond Atlantis. She wonders what is going through the colonel's mind, after the incredulous travails they've been through, and what more lies ahead for all who are intimately involved with the Ancients' stalwart city.
It is hard for her to keep from thinking what lies ahead for them, specifically, two people who have grown apart, and yet unwilling to admit that anything has changed between them, aside from she having had another man's baby.
"Nice view," he comments a second time; his eyes remain unfocused on San Francisco's fire red sentinel, guarding the mouth of its majestic bay. Elegantly, the cloaked city had managed to invade its undisputed territory. This time, there is the unmistakable suggestion of invitation lodged in his tone of voice. 'Let's talk; really say at least one thing that doesn't sound forced. Okay? I'll try, if you will,' he toys with.
Teyla nods and equably concurs, "Indeed, it is." When she speaks again, she sounds neither distant nor detached. "I am sure there are many more here on Earth, John." She contemplates sights she wonders if she will ever see. There's no telling how long the duration of their stay will be. She harbors a burning desire to actually see at least one of these unseen sights he has whetted her appetite for, before they depart as eventually they must.
"Damn right there are." Sights he has missed, but has visited in his dreams in the Pegasus galaxy, many nights.
"What is this bridge called?"
John turns to cast thoughtful eyes upon the woman he once thought he knew fairly well. In the same train of thought, he reflects, how well can any man really know a woman, a woman he has feelings for, but decides his feelings are out of place, unrequited. "It's called The Golden Gate Bridge. San Francisco's. Another city." He cants his head in the city by the bay's direction and smiles, more to himself. He wanted to live here once when he was a much younger man than he is today. He had even gone as far as staying for short whiles, getting used to the pulse of this place, but just as with so many things in his life, the place wasn't what he thought it was and so he gave up on the idea of becoming a resident.
"Even from here, it looks to be interesting." Momentarily, she wonders whether John noticed that she lessened the distance that doesn't befit her mood between them by her inching closer to him. She is on his world now, cognizant concerning the knowledge he commands of all he surveys. She is a stranger, needing to feel connected to him, yearning to understand the strangeness he has told her bits and pieces about that beckon beyond Atlantis' invisible barrier. Impressive militaristic vessels upon the undulating water have left the bridge in their wake as they advance on the city's new site.
To Teyla's controlled elation, she sees that being closer to her is something John also wants.
They stand aligned, with a mere hairbreadth separating their bodies as they lean upon the balcony's railing.
'There,' he thinks, but dares not say. What should he say? Nothing that makes her feel weird, he knows. Still and all, it's slippery to think, 'that's better,' and he's smiling again as though with the erasure of the space between them, there's a metaphor lurking in there somewhere.
"Uh, hey...you know, permission to clear out of here for a bit...to uh, visit friends and family, not actually in that order, will be granted. I've already gotten the word." He knows where he wants to go with this, but it suddenly strikes him that getting there is only half the battle. Will he keep his track record intact, starting something he has no intention of finishing? What right does he have, asking her to go anywhere or do anything with him that could involve more than he has a right to expect--especially now? 'She moved on. What about you, Johnny Boy? She's got a baby that isn't ours. Her heart belongs to another man who's right here, looking after said child. You're overstepping that boundary, and you know it...' It just doesn't feel right the way it's been left, shaded in ambituity.
The faintest wisp of his personal hounding, 'Is it really too late? How can it be over when our getting started never got off the ground?' bugs him to distraction, being at its worse whenever she's near, which is why avoiding her has been his solution of choice. The vagary of non-involvement becomes as comfortable as old shoes which, one vows, will never be thrown out.
"Who will you visit, John?" she asks, leaping light years ahead of him, with an engaging smile gracing her moist lips. She goes to stand back from him, thinking he desires space. When he blinks, with a look of instantaneous surprise, she moves no further, not a muscle. When she smiles, he does too, without over thinking it to death. That bouquet of a smile of hers is all he needs.
"I'm tracking more along the lines of what to visit, not who..." Quietly sucking in breath, he just puts it out there, feeling his temperature rise even before he asks. He refuses to acknowledge how hard his heart beats. As long as she can't hear it, he's covered. "Can I make a suggestion, that is, if it's all right..."
Silence rears its unpredictable head, and the feeling that he's made another mistake in a long line of many with her, leaves him convinced that leaving well enough alone suits him fine. 'Sure it does'...he badgers, 'and the Wraith problem doesn't exist anymore--not!'
"Why, of course, John."
He has never heard the sound of his name float in the air before and it transfixes him rather neatly. "Come with me to New York City?" How had he managed to make that more of a demand than a question, he demands of himself. "And Kanaan and the little guy too, of course. There are sights and then there're sights; the Big Apple's got them of every description imaginable. We'll have a ball."
She feels her heartbeats up their pace..... "Are you sure? All three of us?"
They exchange bemused facial expressions, as though meeting for the first time, which had gone better than this is, he thinks in resignation that is kicking and screaming.
"Uh...unless you three have something against having fun."
Out there, he'd put it, and there it would stay. It was time he showed her he'd accepted her new life and had no trouble running with it. A package deal that included her was better than not having her at all.
'If she picks it up and runs with it, then off we go. Go on, Teyla, pick it up, or tell me where to stick it, if it's not a great idea.' He has to wince, knowing he must look like a kid whose kite won't clear the ground. 'On second thought, maybe it's better if you don't take me up on this. What the hell am I thinking? Complication sucks. Who knows better, huh? You made your choice. Better you don't know how complicated I can make it...'
His heart tells his brain to shut-up for half a second because, for once, it knows best what their owner wants, what he has wanted for a long time. Over thinking this matter to the point of clouding the immediacy has routinely gotten in the way, making him miserable and rendering him upset with himself and whatever world he happens to be on, at large.
John glances out at the waning streaks of light as nightfall's delicate colors pervade the vast western sky. With a fidgety sigh, he waits for her to bow out gracefully, always with a grace intrinsic to her radiance. He sighs again, louder this time, waiting for her verdict. He's not sure what he wants, he tells himself, looks at her and holds his breath.
Teyla slips her arm through the gap bordering his, and feels as though she has already made the journey home. While the team, Woolsey and Banks had been here, she had wanted to do this, recapture the closeness she once had had with him, reaffirm the bond they had forged with that first touch of their foreheads.
Contentedly, John surveys the bounty she has granted him. He strives for cavalier, but knows he is failing miserably, which is gratifying in a peculiar way. He's the one trembling, not Teyla, never Teyla.
Softly, she tells him, "Seeing sights you have described countless times, having images to go along with your descriptions. Yes, John, it will be fun."
Capping his concurrence with a satisfied smile, he beams out across the Pacific, "Yes, it will."
"I know Kanaan will agree."
'He'd better...' John silently obligates. Wincing, being careful that Teyla didn't see, he reproves himself for the possessiveness which he has never entirely ditched. Will he ever stop feeling that way about her? Worry starts in on him again.
~*~*~*~
That evening, John is about to leave his quarters to pay McKay a visit, something about his wanting him to see what the city's current energy levels are. Before he gets to activate his door, he hears he has a visitor so he opens to find Teyla there. He says her name, and she tries to downplay her uncertainty. "What's up?"
"John..."
'Uh...oh...' He waits before jumping to any assumption, but his hunch feels like a sure thing. "Teyla?" he restates.
"Kanaan does not wish to leave Atlantis. He made it quite clear he will not."
'Well, that's that,' John finalizes. He puts a chipper spin on, "You know what they say, 'you can take the man out of the Pegasus galaxy, but not the galaxy out of the man.'"
"He has no interest in this world. His only thought is for our returning to Athos one day. When he is back where he truly belongs, then he will leave."
"Can't blame the man. He's been through a lot." Nodding, not in agreement, but in resignation, John assumes, "In fact, I can honestly say I get how he feels." The man hadn't signed on as an explorer, let alone being a forced participant in a mutant Wraith's experiment.
"He will remain with Torren, allowing me to explore your world with you."
John notices the nifty emphasis Teyla had put on that. "And he's... He's okay with that?" He looks at her as though his brain ordered his ears to hear what he wanted to hear.
"Why should he not be, 'okay with' his decision?" she innocently asks, unfamiliar with John's peculiar manner.
Engaging in mental brain wringing, John squeezes out an answer. "Well...it won't be a mission, exactly."
"I told him you will be showing me fascinating aspects of your world, John. Did I misinform him?" Teyla's eyes widen in response to the colonel's flustered facial expression.
He tells himself to go easy. "No, no. Not at all. It's what's going to happen; I'll show you as much as possible in the time allotted, which isn't all that much" His eyes search her guileless ones. "But, he won't mind it being only you and me? You told him, right? No team?"
"Yes," Teyla says just as adamantly as she'd said before, beginning to wonder if the colonel has had a change of heart about his commitment. "I told him, John, and by all means, he wants me to go...with you."
'Enlightened, these Athosians,' Sheppard spontaneously confers, as his eyes convivially light up. "Then, away we go." As Teyla returns his generous smile, he adds, "Pack light."
~*~*~*~
"A little under three and a half hours. See, I told you." John takes another glance at his watch, then does a visual check of where they are in the taxicab line. It's nearly two o'clock in the afternoon, Eastern Standard time. La Guardia is crowded, but the mesh of harried travelers isn't as tangled as it once was, John notes, impressed with the streamlining renovations which have butted the bustling airport into the twenty-first century.
The heavenly weather of San Francisco seems to have followed them here to the 'Big Apple.' Springtime in New York City, John thinks, waxing pensive, as a gentle, carbon monoxide laced waft of breeze fondles a stubbled cheek. "Nice weather, huh?" he speaks to her. Expecting to hear her concurrence, but doesn't, he frowns, then notes that she'd become distracted, quite taken with a bona fide heart stealer. Behind them, a couple stands with their young child with glowing rosy cheeks, in his mother's arms, snuggling. Worry lines crease John's forehead as preoccupation overlaid with recrimination overcomes him. 'She misses Torren,' the discouraging thought nags. The idea that his flying off with the baby's mother underscores selfishness, his, and the colonel sighs, suddenly quite irked with himself.
He's all set to first beef, then apologize about the slipup he thinks he's made, but Teyla turns her head to gaze at him obliquely and interrupts his recrimination fest. "Are we behind schedule, John?" she harmlessly asks.
Sounding dazed, since his thinking had facilely transported him back to the Ancient's renowned city, languishing in the Pacific, he replies offhandedly, "Uh...huh?" The little sandy-haired boy is older than Torren, but not a wit cuter. "You know, Tey--"
"Is waiting here taking more time than you anticipated?"
Looking stymied, Sheppard asks with his eyes what is she talking about. "Than I...anticipated?"
"Yes. Are we late for what you have planned for us to do once we reach Man-hat?" She quakes with pent-up anticipation building within herself.
"Manhattan." Recovering from clueless land, he bolsters, "No, no. We're not late at all, plenty of time. We've got reservations good for holding our rooms for twenty-four hours, so the hotel won't be giving them away. No, we're good." Switching gears, he reminds, "This is your trip, Teyla. I'm your tour guide."
"You are my guide who must guide me in everything since I am truly the one who is, as you say, new in town."
John marvels at the renovations to La Guardia a second time and he freely confesses, "It's been ages since I've been here. If they've made massive changes, there's a good chance I won't recognize places like I used to. Just to be on the safe side, I'll consult a map."
It's their turn to jump into a waiting cab, the one with its trunk popped for luggage they don't have. Thanks to gate travel, they excel at traveling light. The compact shoulder bags they tote hold all they need for this hiatus. As they load themselves into the cab, the agile driver hops out to close down the trunk. Back in the driver's seat, he questions in English that is delicately accented, "Where to?"
John's crooked smile comes readily. "The Plaza!" The smirk he wears adorns his thought. Stargate Command figured that an all expenses paid good time on them was the least that could be done for two of their weary defenders holding the line against the latest extra-Galactic threat. In aside to Teyla he says, "It's a really nice place. You'll like it."
~*~*~*~
Her smile, the one refusing to abandon her face, proves that he is correct, hands down. From the moment she steps out of the cab to step into her room, gracing it, the Plaza has her bedazzled. They have adjoining rooms; hers is especially lovely, beyond her wildest imagination even if given the freest reign to make something up. As she is about to check out her bathroom, she hears a knock upon the connecting door. "Yes, John."
He pokes his head in. "Hey..."
Teyla shifts around to take him in. "Hello." Sounding as pleased as his smile looks, she says, "These quarters are remarkable."
His smile broadens and there is triumph in the timbre of his voice. "I'm glad you think so." While putting himself into her room, he asks, "Hungry?"
"I'm more excited than anything else. Central Park reminds me of that world bathed in forests we visited not long ago."
"Minus the horse drawn carriages. It looked like you enjoyed the ride."
"I did. The ride and feeding our docile horse afterwards. His driver was considerate indulging me."
"Well I'm glad you enjoyed it that much. Speaking of feeding, now it's our turn. There's a great restaurant here. I mean, come on...it's the Plaza."
"I enjoyed what was served aboard the air vessel during our journey here."
John's ready chuckling fills the room and he gently corrects, "Here it's called an airplane; just plane for short... And you call that *food*." After she nods, he remarks, "I mean *real* food, not something that resembles what's in our field packs. So..."
"So," she intercepts, knowing that he expects her to tell him she's all for his idea. She has one of her own which precludes having a meal right this instant. Her excitement spurs her to the handsome desk near the window that affords a bird's eye view of The Park to pick up a sizeable book that is crammed with visitor suggestions. Opening to the page that had caught her attention, she goes to John to announce, "I wish to see this." She points to the advertised production in question, arching an eyebrow.
Both of John's eyebrows are arched. "Ballet?" Incredulity blatantly saturates his tone.
"Yes, John. Jennifer once referred to its excitement and beauty."
The idea of 'Jennifer minding her own business,' slams his brain. Implausibility still reigns supreme in his voice when he says, sounding caught off guard, "Yeah, but I mean, Teyla... Your first night...well..." He takes quick note of the crepuscular shadings of the New York skyline, dramatic in its sibylline scope, and he tries to put himself in her place. Before he can stop himself, he contributes, "Not night yet, exactly, but getting there. New York's nightlife percolates, and you pick seeing folks prancing around in tutus and tights?"
"Is it not beautiful?" she asks with an innocence that he finds hard to mow down.
"Well...I suppose....so--if you go in for it."
"Jennifer has seen many ballets. She speaks so highly of it. I wish to see for myself. You..." Teyla says as softly as snow falling, "from what I am hearing, are one who has something against it."
With his eyes darting to match the hemming and hawing his voice is laden with, he replies, "No I don't. Not really. I've...well, I can't say I've ever been to one."
Pleased with his answer, she rejoins, "Then, we will go so you can judge for yourself whether it is for you or not."
John returns her smile of contentment, decidedly discontent. *She's got that down cold,* whizzes through his brain. The colonel, amazed over the size of the barrel she has him over concedes, "Yeah, okay. *Fine.*" He pivots on a heel, muttering a discouraging word he doesn't want her to hear. "We've got to dress for this, y'know."
"Yes...Jennifer informed me that the occasion merits it."
"The *occasion,*" John accentuates, simpering, to complement the affected wiggle of his head. "The *occasion,*" he repeats as he goes through the door, back to his room, as though he's walking the last mile. Before closing his door, he insists, "We can grab a bite before. Hot dogs or burgers, at least. My stomach growls during the show, don't blame me." To his four superbly detailed walls, behind his closed door he confesses, "All these years I've managed to evade Ballet. Nancy, for all her fine-tuned wheedling never got me to go, ever, and now this. I have an ironclad appointment with la-dee-da. B-day's, tonight--oh, crap. Teyla, I wouldn't do this for *any* other woman...but, you." His mouth watered. "I feel like hot dogs..."
*~*~*~*
'Lincoln Center, as I've never seen it before,' John thinks, as his eyes roam where they will. Literally, he never had since this was his first time here at the cultural landmark. New York City had undergone some major facelifts and the improvements were just that, big ones, which were worth every plentiful penny, in his estimation. The Met is all aglow, lit up like Atlantis on a clear, cloudless night, ablaze with a fire which burned from within. Atlantis, John pines. When he thinks her name, the customary tingling courses through him and he smiles his secret smile, enlivened by the connection that more and more defines who he has become. He glances at his watch again, seeing that it's nearing seven thirty. The larger of the two clocks set in a monolith of granite fused with bronze is five minutes fast.
Firmly held in his hand are two tickets for this night's performance; they weren't as expensive as he'd imagined they'd be. Okay, maybe this won't be so bad. The folks constituting the sizeable throng, patiently waiting to be let into the Met are classy and Teyla and he don't look out of place; snugly, they fit right in.. The Plaza has everything the wanting to be well-dressed gent and lady could ask for. He hates tuxs, but this one isn't exactly a straitjacket. Several women in the crowd haven't been exactly timid about letting their unsolicited approval be known. John Sheppard being acknowledged as a markedly handsome man is like stating that processed rice is white.
Grinning somewhat wolfishly, John checks Teyla out for as many times as he already has and admiration has him sidling up even closer beside her. She lends life and verve to the spaghetti strapped, clingy, eggshell chiffon creation as though she had expressly had a custom tailoring session for it. Suggestively subtle, he lets slip, "Romeo and Juliet...now, wouldn't ya know it, huh?" Teyla arches an eyebrow, questioning his peculiar remark. John wastes no time tacking on, "Guess they knew we were coming."
Having no familiarity with the Shakespearean tour de force, Teyla simply nods in companionable agreement. "Did you inform them?"
"No," John says as though he'd just pulled his head out of a hole dug in sand. 'Watch that,' he inwardly admonishes himself, 'she's not exactly your date, remember?' He weighs whether he should explain what he meant by what he'd said. "You'll see," he waffles, avoiding eye contact.
Turning her head to look closely at a poster for the advertised American Ballet Theater's program, Teyla broaches, "What should I know about this presentation?"
People are being let in, and it causes conviviality to radiate from John's eyes. In a conspiratorial breath, he tells her, "Love gone wrong." His eyebrows jauntily rise and fall in unison upon his face.. "Way, way wrong."
"In what way?" she persists, knowing how much he relishes shrouding things she knows nothing about in cryptic plumage. She embellishes her naiveté with intrinsic discernment which shines from her provocative eyes.
Milking the mystery for all it's worth as they move with the crowd toward a pair of the opera house's impressive solid glass doors, John breathes, "It'll be a whole lot better if I don't spoil it for you, so I won't. One thing though, and I guess Jennifer must've already told you, the performers don't talk. It's all dancing, and that's all I'm saying."
"She explained that ballet is a story told by interpretive dance coupled with pantomime, pantomime and...acting." Just as uncompromisingly, Teyla replies, "Very well, John, I appreciate your wanting me to remain unspoiled."
The comment, having sounded open ended to him, goads John to respond, "I know you do. The un-spoiler, that's me."
They exchange an odd look, sensing that there are layers to his intentions. In an effort to stay together amid the surging crush of human bodies, John snags her shoulders by settling his arm on them and digging the fingers of his right hand into her upper arm's pliable flesh. Their odd look changes to one of acceptance and the Athosian beauty smiles into the hand branding ownership.
"Thank you, John," she speaks a moment before he is surrendering their tickets to the taker, a slight, bookish young woman, going through her routine as though it were a labor of love..
"I'm not sitting through this..." He nods agreeably, thanking the taker who returns the tickets after scanning them. "Without you. It's not like you dragged me here, but, well...I'm just sayin'."
"So, you would rather not be here to witness this."
'Teyla,' drenched in prickly exacerbation, races in his mind loudly, and he quickly rectifies, "No. That's not what I meant." The most honest answer he can give her gushes from his mouth, "What I mean is--your being here makes me want to see this."
"So my absence would keep you away."
"Okay...well, yeah. Going to the ballet wouldn't be my first choice, nor my second or third...fourth, fifth. Sixth. Hey, I'm being honest, and you like honesty."
"I do. Thank you for your honesty, John."
"You're welcome," he amiably returns, feeling less than honest with her and himself with the words leaving his mouth. 'Conditional honesty, more like,' he superimposes on himself.
They climb the plush carpeted steps of velvety red in unison, which blossom outward from ground level in oval fashion, bound for the Grand Tier. Their seats are in row A, dead center, a perfect bird's eye view of the venerable venue and the dancers, trained to perfection, who will be gracing that renowned stage.
They are the first arrivals for their row. Teyla follows behind John as he leads them to their seats. He's glad that they aren't a mystery to locate, unlike many of the mysteries still buried within Atlantis, which McKay likes nothing better than to confound him with, mysteries that Rodney would like nothing better than spending the rest of his life wrestling with.
Teyla sits, and before John does, he bends from the waist to survey the colorful milieu of ballet aficionados filling the seats directly below on the orchestra level. He whistles, genuflects in Teyla's direction and remarks, "The ballet Russe a la Prokofiev...looks like it's going to be a packed crowd tonight." Then he sits with a pleased as punch look to go along with the smirk lurking in his eyes. "Bet you thought all I know is Cash, popcorn, surfing and P-nineties. I googled on the laptop in the room before getting into the monkey suit. I like being knowledgeable when I can. Believe nothing McKay thinks he knows about me."
Teyla cants her head at him, with a smile on her face that leaves him wishing he hadn't missed the many opportunities he already has with her. She begins perusing the Playbill program. Not that she knows, of course, but she wonders all sorts of inquisitive things about the performers. Aloud, she reads, "Gillian Murphy as Juliet and Ethan Stiefel as Romeo. They are," and she remarks haltingly, "principals?"
John leafs through his own program after he pulls it out from under himself, having sat on it. "Here's Murphy." He points her out to Teyla, having located the accomplished dancer in the gallery of Principal dancers towards the back of the program. Flipping the page, he finds Stiefel. "They're the stars of the show," he deciphers. "The lead dancers. The rest of them back them up. You know. The way you, Ronon and I have McKay's back off-world, on and in Atlantis."
"Ah, I see," she says, the obscurity resolved.
"Only difference is we do it in BDUs, not tights and tutus." He's about to say something else but is interrupted by people, a tall, short-haired attractive woman, a vision in slinky strapless elegance, and her much shorter male companion, who need to come through the row to get to their seats. Teyla and John are obliged to rise from theirs to let the couple pass.
"So sorry....excuse us," the doe-eyed brunette with a lovely smile atones, making sure she isn't stepping on any toes; the bulky man doesn't say anything.. His gruffness does the talking for him. "Thanks ever so much."
"Not at all," John says just as indulgently, ignoring her escort's dearth of common courtesy. He returns her generous smile and looks after the pair as they seat themselves alongside him. As circumstance would have it, her seat is next to John's; he doesn't mind at all...not at all. "Anytime." Reseating himself and lowering his voice considerably, John remarks to Teyla, "Our neighbors."
She nods with eyes conveying her tacit approval. "When does the performance begin?"
John had just finished asking himself that very question. The ticket had eight p.m. printed on it; he gives his watch another glance, noticing that it's about to be five minutes past the hour. "Your guess is as good as mine." Sounding more positive, he tosses, "I'm guessing any moment now." No sooner have his words left his mouth when the house lights in the distinctive guise of illuminated snowflakes begin rising to the opera house's strikingly high ceiling. "Looks like all systems are go," he tells Teyla with a jaunty smirk lounging on his face.
The cultured woman sitting alongside him says with a nod, "It's all so exciting, always... Don't you agree?"
When John realizes that she's speaking to him and not her grumpy companion, who has his cell phone still out, he strives to sound as conversational. "Always." The audience is bathed in darkness, which hides his smile from the lovely ladies flanking him. Abruptly, applause breaks out. Caught off guard by the conductor for the evening's appearance and journey to his podium, John imitates what everybody else is doing and applauds too. He notices that Teyla had begun to clap before him. "I guess it's customary," he spells out.
"Thank you, John," she whispers, on the cusp of the applause dying down. It's not what she said, but how she said it that makes him struggle for his next breath.
"You're welcome." And even he has no idea what to expect as the symphony plunges into the romantic ballet's exquisite overture.
"Romeo and Juliet is my favorite ballet, bar none. I adore it even more than Giselle, and Giselle is divine," the brunette imparts with a reverence that makes the Lt. Colonel stare wide-eyed at the curtained stage. "I've lost count how many times I've seen both, with every conceivable combination of dancing principals paired."
"This is our first ballet," John mutedly confesses and is promptly shushed into silence by contiguous folks ruffled by his comment's being just loud enough to spoil the overture for them. 'Geeks,' he grumps to himself.
"Wonderful," the effusing aficionado barely whispers; by her tone it's clear that conversation is at an end.
The curtain is opening for Act One, Scene One to begin...
Not what I expected, John thinks following the well-choreographed fight scene in the very first scene when the Montagues and Capulets square off in the stylized marketplace. This might not be so bad after all. The swordplay was drenched in realism; several times he had held his breath in sheer anticipation of a dancer's true demise. He sneaks a glance at Teyla to see that he isn't alone. She is just as absorbed by the theatrical enchantment as he is; the mystification on her face captivates him. The scenes have moved on; it is now the sixth of Act One...the balcony intermezzo where Romeo and Juliet dance the famed pas de deux, professing their love for each other. Chancing it, stringently mindful to keep his voice below low so as not to set off World War III, he places his mouth comfortably close to her ear and submits, "Different, huh?"
She nods, unable to tear her eyes away from the charismatic, addictive make-believe unfolding on stage as interpreted by the gifted dancers. Before he knows what to make of it, Teyla is humming, softly humming the refrain from the spellbinding movement. Amazingly, no one around them raises a voice of complaint.
John smirks. He's heard her sing many times before; she has a beautiful voice, melodic, strong and true. No one in their right mind would dare say otherwise or tell her to can it. On each of those occasions he's been enthralled by it. Her gossamer timbre lends to the magic in the air this night, in no way detracting from the ethereal beauty of this most special of special moments of the ballet. Once more, his mouth cozies up to her ear and he whispers, "Nice...very." Not thinking twice about it, his lips pay homage to her earlobe, feeling her tremble a little as his lips linger against her achingly pleasant skin.
He trembles, then; not a bad thing considering all those other times when he was either freezing to death, beyond exhaustion, beaten nearly to a bloody pulp coupled with being scared out of his wits. She tilts her head ever so slightly, not away from him, but closer to him....an invitation? Has it suddenly gotten PX34214 hotter in here? It's scorching, the planet's version of Earth's Gobi Desert with a heat wave. Reason isn't interfering with his overwhelming urge to pepper the spot where his nose is nuzzling with playful nips. He acts on it, and when Teyla sighs, what remains of rationality flies clean out of his head.
"Teyla," he murmurs against her cheek with eyes half-closed, and it's cathartic when he senses her head turning so their lips may touch.
The curtain, in the throes of closing, the resounding applause, the turned-up lights and the immediate rise in the noise level within the opera house thwacks John back into the tangibility of the moment. He doesn't need to see his face in a mirror to know its tattle-tale flushed. His heartbeat is rapid-fire. It's the first intermission. The audience sparks alive with hive-like activity. People in their row wish to get by so they can use the restrooms or refresh their dry palates with something alcoholic and bubbly.
"Excuse us again, won't you?" the brunette poses. As she minces her way delicately past Sheppard, she tells him, "It's all very affecting, for it being your first time. I'm Margo, by the way." Her companion, having reached the end of the row already gives her an impatient expression and decides he'll meet her out in the foyer. "Milton can be the accomplished boor when he sets his mind to it," she relates in a tone that is neither scolding nor patronizing.
The Lt. Colonel flattens his palm against his chest and identifies, "I'm John, and," he cants his head obligingly at the Athosian, "my friend Teyla."
"Charmed, to be sure. Darling, I love your dress," Margo graciously extends as she brushes past them.. See you shortly. We're parched." It's clear, by the way she floats up the stairs leading to the foyer, that the svelte, lithe woman, somewhere in her early forties, has had a ballet class or two or three.
When Teyla and he take their seats again, John says, "One perky, congenial representative for the ballet set, I'd say."
Thoughtfully, she contemplates his face with its easy-goingness about it, rewarded in knowing that it's that quality she has come to count on him for.
It isn't hard for him to see that she's still caught up in what happened moments before the lights went up and the spell was instantaneously broken. 'Okay, I'm not dreaming, for once. We both wanted to, and I would've if the intermission hadn't interrupted--full-out, on her lips, so the ballet geeks could get an eyeful of a real life love disconnection. Does my wanting to make me a bad person?'
John picks up the awkward slack with the greatest dexterity, as he so adroitly can at the most 'out there' times. "So...what do you think this far in?" Her veiled look of bemusement makes him wonder whether she'll answer him or not.
"John?" is all she says. How she spoke his name, as though its use was a lasso roping him in, closes his mouth. 'What would you have me think?' darts through her mind. 'What are you thinking?'
He judges that voicing the first thing that seized his mind would be out of place since Teyla's face is calling him out. It's never easy not losing himself in her eyes. He meets hers more easily than he thought he has courage for and with no hint of apology admits, "Check...what *was* that about, huh?"
Her buttery, indulgent smile is her reply, along with eyes that prod him for a truthful answer. 'If that's perfume, if that *is* what it is, she's wearing, it's intoxicating; but I was drunk long before this, just too typically me to do anything about the way I've felt about her since Day One.'
He breathes in deeply, and shrugging yields, "It just felt right..."
"And how does *this* feel?" Her eyes are riveted to his face wherein stark surprise seems to have taken up thorough residency. Without any further accompaniment of words, Teyla grasps his nearest hand and squeezes it hard.
Wordlessness orchestrates the moment as John raises her elegant hand to his mouth so his lips may pay homage to the supple give of her knuckles, the gentle fragrance of her skin that sends his mind reeling further than it already is. "Forbidden," he owns up, quite surprised by the smoldering intensity of her eyes.
There is a shift in the noise level, signaling that the masses are returning to the theater for the ballet's resumption.
Should they stay, or will he say they should go, leave now so he can shout from the rooftops how much he cares--how much he's always cared for her and will never stop? Kanaan or no Kanaan being in the picture...little Torren... He hastily reassesses. 'What right do I have? I promised I wouldn't make it complicated,' he ruefully reminds himself, and stops thinking as he squeezes his heavy-lidded eyes shut. He tells himself he's already taken it where no decent man should, if that man has any decency at all in him. 'It goes no further, that's an order,' he silently barks at himself. 'Take the trouble you can make back over that line and stay put--where you belong! She's just going along with what she thinks I want, and I have no right wanting what I want.'
With a nudge, Teyla whispers, "I understand...if you wish, we may go."
Opening his eyes which are flooded with the deepest gratitude, he's about to reply when awareness of Margo and her man returning distracts him. Making a quick getaway was never better.
"We're baaa-ack," the convivial ballet-lover blissfully announces, with a mellowed-out looking Milton in tow; their hands look as though they're welded together.
Milton opens his mouth for the first time as Margo and he amble by them. "It won't be long now, pal," he gloats in passing. "Who's-ever idea it was having just ONE intermission for this gets my vote. My favorite scenes are coming soon. They croak so I can go home and catch the Knicks game I DVR'd. Bring it on!"
"Oh, Milton--really!" Margo huffs, giving his hand a good yank. He practically drops like a sack of bricks into his seat. Shaking her head, and ripping her eyes away from him, she abstracts, "I don't know what gets into him. Every season it's the same thing, his feigning complete lack of interest."
"I guess ballet has that effect on some people," John conjectures. He shifts his line of sight from the cultured highbrow and her smirking malcontent to Teyla, who still has tight hold of his hand.. So Margo doesn't hear, he says, "Really? You'd leave now, if I wanted to?"
"Yes, John. Is it what you wish?"
The lights in the majestic opera house wink off and the answer is left up in the air. Darkness, having settled over the house once more, gives him the excuse, though, to cozy up to her inviting ear again. His whisper is below a sub-basement when he says, "You're enjoying this; we'll leave when it's over."
She nods against his parted lips, and he knows he has made the right decision. He's brought her far away from the ever-present horrors of the Pegasus Galaxy, allowing her to glimpse a stylized world of pretend on a stage inhabited by true artists of their craft, lavishly attired. And so he believes, until, to his outright surprise, her tear-stained face greets him following the curtain's coming down at the close of the final act. His loss for words isn't out of place in this instance.
"Truly a tragedy," Teyla whispers, her voice choked with pain and sorrow. "Their love died with them. Mistakenly, they believed there was no other way."
At Milton's insistence, Margo and he had gone as soon as Juliet did herself in upon discovering her youthful husband's lifeless body, no waiting for the curtain to fall. Their rustling passage in the darkness hadn't even been an annoyance; John was glad they had decided to leave to avoid having to say so long to the mismatched pair.
"What?" John anxiously asks, turning sharply into Teyla.
She cannot readily reply, still overcome by her emotions.
"I--I'm sorry...tha'--"
"No, John," she forces out.
"Because we didn't have to sta'--"
"It's a beautiful story...so tender, so filled with longing....so." She stops abruptly, sinking deeper into her trancelike contemplation, to finally express, "No matter the worlds...heartbreak, misunderstanding and regret transcend far beyond any barriers."
Her insight summarily impresses him. He's always known that she is deep, her spirituality nothing to be trifled with, but tonight, her perspicacity bowls him over, leaving him more in love with her than ever. Right here and now he accuses himself for having such feelings; he'd had his chance and had done nothing. His time has come and gone...hadn't it? Seriously, had he expected any attachment to him, her ardor for him to thrive on the next-to-nothing crumbs he'd barely thrown? There had been that one time, while contending with Wraith contamination coursing through him, when he'd violently acted on how he felt and had mauled her mouth with his in the gym.
But, that didn't count, was his argument, and it was a solid one. He hadn't been himself. After treatment and his return to normalcy, he'd apologized, making sure she understood that what he'd done would never happen again. They had lived with that, right?
The audience has thinned considerably, and still they linger. Their getting a move on is the practical thing to do, but neither one stirs. Breaking out of his truculent reverie, John taps Teyla's arm. "Let's go for coffee." She agrees with a smile, signaling his suggestion is the right one.
Sitting across from Lincoln Center in an open-air café, they treat each other to furtive glimpses and glances while sipping their coffees. The late night air is balmy, causing John to reflect how reminiscent of Atlantis' soothing zephyrs it is. New York City with cleaner air? Talk about wonders never ceasing. He begins to speculate about the duration of the ageless city-ship's stay. Yes, he sighs, fearing that it could be a lengthy one if the powers that be want it that way. Gall continues to rise. The conversation he's had with McKay inspires thoughtfulness, though.
["Yes, power's an issue, as I've said, ah for the record, any number of times into infinity,"] the theorizing genius had bluntly stated with his usual aplomb for self-assurance. ["Zelenka and I, well mostly me, are on it, of course. Leaving isn't the problem; getting back all the way is tenuous, as things now stand, and requires cooperation. Don't make the SGC out to be the bad guys just yet."]
The Lt. Colonel's focus shifts as he glimpses the Athosian's winsome smile as a present she unwraps in stages. "What?"
"You're thinking about Atlantis."
"Shows that much, does it?"
"It shows in your eyes." With her mug of coffee poised at her lips, Teyla says, "Thank you for this evening, John. One of the most memorable I will often reflect on with great fondness."
"You're welcome," proudly issues from him. Her dulcet voice wrests him from troubling feelings which feed his sneaking suspicion. Railing privately at bureaucracy has its limitations. "I'm glad at least we have this between us." His brow furrows, and he is dismayed that what had tumbled from his lips had gone uncensored.
"There are many things we have shared." Her nuance sets him up. "I trust we will share many more."
John finishes sipping coffee he barely tastes. He clears his throat from deep within, weighing up what he's feeling. "Many...more."
He starts, his breath addled, when Teyla, having set her mug down, works her hand into his as naturally as a baby kitten snuggling against its mother's body. "Yes, many..." Her firm but gentle squeeze of his hand seals the deal.
At a table, clearly within earshot, the bubbly woman seated across from her reticent companion rasps in delight--"YES! You bet I will!"
Breathing in a sharp breath, Teyla relinquishes, "Our worlds are very different."
"Different, as in bad? Or good?"
"Different as in...defining."
His lips quirk at that clarification. "Defining as in...uh...huh, how?" He ponders the evident look of mystification on her unreadable face, wondering where she's going with this. "I thought you were having a good time." His mouth closes of its own volition as his heart urges that he listen instead of commandeering the conversation.
"You know I am."
"Okay then."
"By defining, I mean distinctive, as contrasting as night and day, which is why..." She hesitates as though voicing what has been on her mind will take them to a place she isn't sure they should go, but, perhaps have postponed making the journey far too long. "Do differences define us, John?"
"Define us how?" he balks. Her hand feels misplaced, where it is, overly familiar, so she begins extracting it from his secure grip, which grows securer the more she tries freeing it. "No! Holding your hand suits me fine, always will. Relax." Interesting thing for him to say as he's feeling anything but. She stops instantly, recognizing and submitting to his commanding voice she would follow into battle, anywhere. "You're wrong there, Teyla, and you know it! There're more similarities than anything else, since...well since first meeting you. Remember?"
How could she forget? She never has, and never will for as long as she lives, and John Sheppard remains in her life. "Our pledge of friendship needed no words."
The urge to hang his head down is practically an involuntary reflex. "Yeah...friendship. The best of friends..."
"Which we have never stopped being, John. Despite..." Her eyes flit downward as though there is something on the table that arrests undivided attention. She doesn't trust the stability of her voice.
John's line of vision visits the identical spot she's become fascinated with, but he waits for her because he knows that if he speaks, it will come back to haunt him when he says it wrong. The hand holding Teyla's feels clammy, but he does nothing to free it when she holds his tighter. "Tell me, then."
Her delicate sigh touches him, as does her sudden vulnerability. "This is not simple to say."
'You're telling me,' bombinates his unuttered thoughts and his mettle is tested. 'Let her say what she needs to say,' he counsels himself. Whether he intentionally meant to put her on the spot or not, she's squarely there. He reckons though that since she was the one who headed them down this slippery slope, it's temptation incarnate, seeing where it takes them.
"The decision I made..." Nodding, she raises her head, knowing that looking him straight in his sincere eyes, which frankly speak his mind before he voices it, is what she must do. "To..." Her heart beats harder, more fiercely. "To bear another man's child.." The look of loss beclouding her eyes is withering.
Concisely, words cascade from him. "That's totally none of my business."
"But, your..."
"Look, Teyla--" John cuts off his breath, wondering, close to audibly, if she's going to say what he has told himself over and over was never the case. "What's done is done."
"Your concern, John, and..." She struggles for clarity. "Your assumption that I feel nothing for you other than friendship. If my outspokenness offends you, I apologize. Perhaps expressing myself in this manner is presumptuous."
He hates it when his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, as the immediate air surrounding them makes it close to impossible to breathe. 'Offended? Me? Doesn't she listen to Rodney when he speaks to me?' Her judgment call ricochets through him. "Teyla, you aren't offending me. No way." He swipes up her mug and sniffs its cooling contents. "Nothing stronger than coffee, so I know you're not tipsy."
"Tipsy?"
"Rodney after guzzling more in-house joy juice than I did at Radek's poorly-planned second homecoming from M7G-677. Okay, to be fair, McKay walked a straighter line than I could in tipsy-land."
"Oh yes." Teyla smiles, as she always does when a fond memory is unlocked. "Tipsy. You and he climbed atop one of the mess tables and, you called it a chorus line."
"Minus flashy, revealing costumes."
Her expression changes, becoming one of more serious reflection, as though an itinerant Atlantis sea change has brought it on as it has on more than one occasion in their past. "That night, when...'Aaya' was killed." Her best friend's death....Aayala...had crushed her. A Wraith hunting party had stumbled upon her, tortured her before they'd fed, leaving the childhood friend a desiccated husk. "I turned to Kanaan for solace...I--" Her eyes glisten.
"Teyla, don't. You don't owe--don't do this to yourself. I'm not worth your feeling that pain all over again. Just, stop."
She ignored him. "Much has passed since Torren's birth; too much left unsaid." When she sees wistfulness in John's stormy eyes, she soothes, "Your strength is my strength, John. It has always been so. Your caring empowers me."
"Well, I..." If he says his caring pales in comparison to hers and stems from her being part of his team, it will ring untrue; she means far more to him than her being a teammate. He's certain that on some elemental level, Teyla already knows. "On-going caring..." His heart has raced scores of times before, but never like this, as though going into cardiac arrest is the most natural thing in the world. Defying death is one thing, defying his deep-seated feelings has him panicked. He can't mangle what she has chosen to have with a man she loves; he vows he won't tell her about the nights he's fallen asleep whispering her name like a litany because she was in Atlantis, safe and sound after escaping yet another brush with certain death. His lips have already betrayed him though, back in the opera house. He won't allow them to again...the willful Benedict Arnolds.
"I needed you that night..." Then, this soft-spoken, resilient woman of earth, wind, fire and sea chucks the figurative C4 that yokes the impossible together. "John, it was you I had wished to turn to, but I could not. You and Doctor McKay had left the city to meet with the Genii. Kanaan, Aayala and I grew up together. He and I found her and buried her that very night, then we comforted each other." Her next words were a muted sigh. "Torren is the tangible manifestation of that solace."
If she had actually slapped him in the face with her open hand, he could not have been more stunned. He feels naked, stripped of any vestige of composure he imagined he has. "I...I," he croaks, words failing him, and he says so. "I'm at a loss here." The skin of his neck is on fire. There is water on the table and he makes his grab, considering whether he should douse himself with it. Following his several gulps, he says, "Better..."
"And it is a relief telling you, finally," Teyla avows. "It never seemed the right time. Many times I felt we had grown so far apart, nothing I might have said would pave the way for us to be close again."
"Not close...again? Why would you think I need an explanation?" She looks troubled then. Did he really say that, really breathed life into words he sees hurt her? They've hurt her deeply. He's made a tried and true habit of it. 'You really are scared witless--admit it! Admit it and stop hurting her!'
"I hurt you. No, you have never, and never have to say so, but in here." With her fingers scribing circular motions, she indicates her heart. "Your words are few, John, but what you feel speaks louder than any words ever could."
"Here's the thing," he expels, before his nerve loses its backbone, "I'm not swift with relationships, so couple that with being a man of very few words." Hanging his head, he knows this won't come out right; it never does. "I think by saying nothing, someone I care about's supposed to know exactly what I feel, how I feel. So if you're talking hurt, I'm your man." Her smile, elicited by his last remark, inspires him to share more of what he has been harboring ever since the news about her pregnancy had bowled him over. He judges it's wiser not to tip all of his hand at once. "B-but you love Kanaan." His glitchy voice bothers him, a nuisance he'd be better off without, betraying his lack of confidence. He smiles to himself and awards, 'Casanova kicks my butt regularly, with Don Juan taking turns. Easy, boys...only got two cheeks.'
"Yes; for as long as we've known each other."
'Ouch, that smarts,' gongs in his mind; 'well, now you know, sport...nice touch making a fool of yourself back there in the dark when you couldn't keep your mouth off her....' It's been easy being hard on McKay and his neediness, his gauche approach with women. How is he any different? They're brothers in this department, whether McKay knows that or not, and it's better that he keep Rodney guessing, although John has a sinking feeling he sees through the charming disarming act. "That long," John accentuates, sounding out to sea, adrift in a leaky boat, well past the eye of a bad Atlantean storm, with no way to communicate with the city, his radio transmitter shot. "I get the drift; I'm in it," he lets slip, lobbing his eyes down to the cozy table for two. He's shallow-breathing, hoping she can't see him sweat.
"John, I feel that I must--I've wanted to tell you this for some time, and I judge the time is now." His eyes remain where they are, glued to the coffee stain he made when he was less than careful with the contents of the brimming mug. "That night Torren was conceived, it was your name I screamed in the throes of passion, not Kanaan's."
Eyes that were moored to the table, eyes radiating incredulity, are staring into hers, pointblank.. "W-what d-did you say?" John pushes out through a rough swallow.
Ignoring his half-hearted stab at incomprehension, Teyla allays, "It is you, John. Your excitement, intensity, desire I crave. It is you. Will always be you, *L'yali.* My heart."
Visibly struggling, and not caring that he is, along with squelching the riotous urge to blurt, 'Teyla, this is so sudden,' because if he did, even he would belt him one if he were her, the colonel stammers, "B-but you had his baby. You're parents, in it together."
With a stalwart edge to her voice, the Athosian acknowledges, "Yes, we are, but herein lies the difference in our worlds, John. My child was fathered by another man, an inescapable fact, as is my having stronger feelings for another whose claim on my heart surpasses bonds of friendship. I am free to honor my child and his father, but I am also empowered to express my feelings for you. Feelings I judged to be inappropriate and a mistake for me to express, until now."
If he understands her correctly...he opens his mouth, unsure of what will spill out. "Me too, 'cause, well it's me. We're friends who are more than just, well...friends."
"John...I love you."
"Teyla..." Did his head swim just then, or was it Broadway?
"Yes, I know. There is no need--"
"Yeah, there is, despite Kanaan's being a hands-on dad; your loving him, and he loving you too. But, you're not in love with him."
"I love you."
"You've said so twice and I haven't even said I love you once."
"Only say what you truly feel, John."
"S'okay, I will; I love you, I'm in love with you, Teyla." On a bolder note, before losing his nerve, he wonders aloud, "So, ah? What now?"
She gives him that smile of hers with the one hundred plus wattage and he turns up the wattage of his own which has his face matching the glow on Teyla's. "John," she says, his name spoken in an undertone surfeited with promise, "you decide."
He grasps up her hand under the lingering, nearly palpable guiding influence of 'Romeo and Juliet.' Deep breaths, the kind needed to see him through one of his long runs, fill his lungs, the wind in his sails, and he gives his words just the right dominance. "I decide we make it we."
Her ethereal smile is all the invitation he needs. He stands, extending his hand to her gallantly as he has always thought he would if a moment such as this ever came. What happens next, he thinks, doesn't matter. What is happening now has him reeling. Teyla is speaking to him in a silken voice, all warm and inviting, seeing her how he has dreamed, many times, only to awaken acutely more indecisive. "We head back."
Patiently, she returns, "To the hotel....or home?"
"You know." John nods when his lips graze the softness of her sweet-scented scalp. It's ambrosial, holding her against himself, never letting her go, never having to.
"Home."
"Yeah," he confirms with a smile, leaving no room for doubt. Guesswork is ruled out; he's been hinting most of the night. "If we pack the next to nothing we have, we can be there early tomorrow."
As they walk arm in arm, Teyla replies somewhere in-between the territory of submissive and unyielding, "I have enjoyed what I have seen, what you have shown me, but..."
"No need to explain. There's here and Atlantis, and we belong in it." He touches his chest. "I feel her here, right where you are." He buries his nose in her fragrant roots. "I love you and her."
"Whom do you love more?"
"Who do you think?"
She feeds off the clutch of his feelings, finally spoken, emanating from him. "As I love you and respect Kanaan, combining what we can give to nurture Torren."
"Would you have any objections if I contributed to that nurturing too?"
The look of 'yes' on her face spoke louder than her affirmative answer. "'We' includes you, John. An honor you would bestow."
"Then, consider it bestowed, but you're honoring me."
They walk all the way from West 66th Street, along Broadway, to Columbus Circle, down 59th Street, to Fifth Avenue without realizing making the actual trip. They bounce thoughts about their city, lost worlds, cryptic races and danger extreme, mellowed by the distancing of time and present safety, off each another. They have never been happier, and it shows too all who judge them to be a couple sublimely enthralled with each other.
Before disappearing into their separate rooms, John makes it clear that there's no going back to pretending, and is she sure he's what she wants. Of course she ascertains his need for reassurance, so she gives him that. When she tells him she was never more sure of anything, her needing him every bit as much as he needs her, a look she has never seen on his face before silences them. Further conversation is put on hold temporarily.
They kiss, and after breaking their heated embrace, he emphatically insists, "I've never loved like this, my whole life," and Teyla believes him with all her heart because it is his heart she has believed in all along. There is hesitation before separating, one borne of wondering whether they should or shouldn't; they discuss, but in the end decide packing for home is the right thing to do. The next step deserves better than a quickie in the sack.
The drive to the airport is speedy; traffic is virtually non-existent at four a.m. going through the Midtown Tunnel to hook-up with the Long Island Expressway and the Grand Central Parkway. Booking the flight back to San Francisco is also an easy affair. By five-fifteen, with the promise of daybreak imminent, they are aboard the plane that is taxing down the runway, airborne in moments and California-bound.
~*~*~*~
"Welcome back, you two," McKay, zestily chomping at the bit, slings at them from an upper balcony upon their return. "Enjoy the sights?"
"What do you think, Rodney?" John swats back; the grouchy bark and scowl a tried and true facade. McKay welcoming them back is a nice touch. "Don't we look touristed-out enough for you?"
"No. No. As a matter of fact you look, ah." The celebrated saver-of-the-day seems at a loss until he quizzically retorts, "Conspiratorial."
Before his friend can latch onto that verbal straw, John deceptively cordial, retorts, "As a matter of fact, we are, McKay. The conquering tourists return conspiratorially, ready to get the hell back to Pegasus."
Teyla, lending support, offers, "New York City is a captivating--"
"Oh, please.. It's a cliché," McKay touts. "Like Paris."
"Paris!" John picks up like a fumbled football on a field strewn with bodies wearing helmets and soiled, bloodied jerseys. "Now, why didn't I think of that?" He gapes at his devoted traveling companion and slips off a wink he makes sure Rodney won't catch. "*Next time,*" his lips say unaccompanied by sound.
"*Yes,*" Teyla mouths, copying him.
"If there is one," he speaks aloud.
"If there is one what?" McKay querulously demands, anxious for the meagerest of crumbs begrudgingly tossed his way. What, he needy? Never! So Jennifer was re-thinking their relationship. That didn't mean she wanted to dump him, did it? "One what?"
As Teyla and John move along, dismissing themselves from the avid scientist's puzzled, critical sight, Sheppard rockets off, "We'll all have to wait and see, now won't we?"
They leave Rodney's snippy protestations of his not being given a straight answer behind. "Oh, come on. Well, that's just great. I have nothing better to do than be ignored!" Was he about to be dumped? He had to know, and know now, he reasons, looking over his shoulder and beating a quick path for the medical bay. If Jennifer wasn't there, he'd try her quarters, or the Mess. Dump him, what was she thinking? That's just it, McKay challenges, she wasn't, so off he flies.
Teyla regards John speculatively, then quizzes, "Is Paris as stimulating as New York City?"
Wagging his head with a shrewd smile, and a wink he sees she has no trouble returning, even before he says anything, John quips, "Oh, yeah. Way more. McKay is right on both scores. Shocker, right? New York's the iconic symbol for all-out hustle and bustle. Now, Paris...Paris is for lovers who know how to take their time." He stops and she does too. "Glad to be home?"
"I'm glad to be with you, having said what needed to be said, John."
"Yeah, nothing beats that. I don't care what galaxy you're from."
"Nor I..."
"So...let's go see the little guy. If he's anything at all like me, he's missed you."
Teyla's face lights up all over again. "Why do you think he bears your name as well?"
/
Braver New World von susieqla
Kapitel Bemerkung: Disclaimer: I own nothing; Atlantis belongs to its creators.
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