Old Music

Alli Snow

Lately, Teyla wishes that she had not introduced John Sheppard to the old Athosian ways of stave-fighting, not because he does poorly at it – he doesn’t, not anymore – or even because he’s improving – she’s proud of his progress, even if it does leave welts on her skin – but because it provides such fodder to the imagination. What was once an innocent pastime and immersion in the culture that birthed her is somehow different with him.

He always comes to their sessions appropriately clothed… too well-clothed, really, from neck to wrists to ankles. It leads her to wonder if he is ashamed of his body. From what little she has seen, there is no reason to be ashamed. Even though Athosian standards of beauty may differ from those of the people from Earth, Sheppard is an attractive man. She finds the light of him to be in his eyes.

The Ancestors help her. His eyes.

She images a session, the two of them, alone, at night; night appeals to her, for some reason, although night was always a thing to fear before, a darkness from which the Wraith might come. But he came out of the darkness, too, and although she knows he blames himself for much of their plight Teyla knows in her heart that he and his people may well be their only salvation.

Staves cut the air and crack against one another in the old music; Sheppard is always more apt when she imagines this, and the fight goes longer without a single solid strike, and her skin grows hot, then cool – the sea air against her body’s rising temperature – and his eyes are dark and quick and she finds herself caught in them and he lunges.

She is trapped between the wall and his body, and he kisses her.

She always pushes him away; even in fantasy she cannot deny that parcel of realism; pushing him away would be the only honorable thing to do, even as she fights the rising tide of her own blood. But he won’t be denied. He’s stubborn, John Sheppard is, and in this night in her mind he is determined to have her, to show that he’s been practicing, and her resistance is admittedly weak. Her hands cup his rough jaw; his hands find the slits in her long skirt with cunning ease.

And with the easy transition of a dream they find themselves in his bed, or hers – a bed in the city of the Ancestors, which one doesn’t really matter – a window open above their heads, her skin both chilled and warm, her hands fisted in his hair, his sliding along the curves of her body, the pleasant ache of a back arched and held too long…

It is the kind of vision she sees no need to share with Dr. Heightmeyer.

The next day, for a while, it seems strange and uncomfortable to meet his gaze; when he approaches she looks away – at breakfast, at another face - at anything but his eyes. It is foolish, but some primal part of her fears that he will stare down into her face and see it all, and think that it’s what she wants.

Because it isn’t. Really. It’s the furthest thing from her mind, Ancestors help her.

Yet she looks up – away from breakfast, away from that other face – and at him, directly at him.

And Sheppard averts his gaze, fidgeting and refusing to meet her eyes.

Teyla wonders what he dreams about.