Disclaimer: The usual: I don’t own them. Please don’t sue.

Spoilers: Some general season 4 spoilers

A/N: Sorry for my lack of writing—real life has a remarkable ability to eat up your time. This fic is a response to the spoilers I have read about season 4 and about Elizabeth’s leave-taking. It will probably be AU, since I have no idea how TPTB are handling all of it, but we’ll just have to wait and see.

- - -

Exodus
- - -

Elizabeth hates saying good-bye.

He doesn’t know why he can remember that, but he does. She had said it once to him, a long time ago, when Atlantis had first been introduced to the Athosian home brew. They’d all been celebrating the discovery in the mess hall, and he and Elizabeth had found themselves relatively alone (well, technically alone—the passed out marines and scientists couldn’t hear their conversation anyway). Alcohol was good for a lot of things—in Dr. Weir’s case, it was good at loosening her usually stoic tongue.

Of course, she’d used a lot of elaborate words to describe her feelings toward farewells, but he’d been to busy studying the startling green of her eyes to get anything but the gist of what she was saying.

They’ve had a lot of conversations since then—both professional and introspective—but right now, none of them are sticking in his brain quite like that one.

He straightens his shoulders a little more, stands a little taller, as he watches her reach out to Ronon. If things were different, he might’ve smiled at the surprise on Elizabeth’s face when the tall Satedan, instead of grasping her outstretched hand, pulls her into a bear hug that engulfs her slim frame.

But John is in no mood to smile. Behind him stands most of the Atlantis expedition—the ones who could steal away from their work—and, a little off to the side, stand the newest additions to the city, including the new leader. He doesn’t know what to think of Sam Carter taking command right now, but he’s pretty damn sure that he won’t be sitting in her office during those late nights, laughing about the antics of their friends.

Elizabeth’s moved on to Teyla now, a slight blush in her cheeks as she embraces her friend, and he realizes that she looks amazingly calm for all that the colour is once again draining from her face. For a moment he wonders if she’s actually come to accept her fate. A week ago, he would have snorted in laughter at the thought of Dr. Weir willingly leaving her city. But now he can’t be so sure. She’s managed to get through Sam’s transition to power with no outward emotion save for a frown or two. Even when he’d helped her carry the last boxes out of her office, even when she’d passed by her desk one last time and seen Carter’s pictures sitting where her jar had once presided, she hadn’t done much. He wonders if he’d only imagined seeing the tiny shake in her hand as she ran her fingers across the metal surface.

Elizabeth was always good at hiding her emotions, but lately, it seems like she’s mastered it. At least, that’s what he thinks until she moves from Teyla and walks over to him, stepping close to his composed frame.

When her green eyes meet his, he suddenly realizes that she’s not doing such a good job of hiding as he had first thought. Her mouth is a thin, almost invisible line and there’s a distinct sheen to her eyes that grows brighter when she looks up at him. Her knuckles whiten as her hand clutches her bag tighter to her side, but she says nothing.

Words aren’t really needed anymore. The right words have all been said, and the words he would’ve liked to say to her aren’t worth the effort now. He can’t bring himself to add to her burden, not when she’s obviously cracking in two over leaving already. He figures that what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her—what he doesn’t want to accept is how much it will hurt him to keep what he’s felt hidden.

Today’s not about him though, or his feelings or how much he wants to yell and throw things and drag Elizabeth back with him to her office, sit her down and keep her there. It’s about good-byes, and letting go, no matter how much he wants to hang on. Life has taught him a lot of things, and he’s still learning its cruelest lesson—nothing lasts forever, especially when it’s good.

There’s an unfamiliar ache in his throat as he catches sight of the trembling that plagues her delicate fingers when her hand lifts towards him. Slowly, he reaches out, his callused palm covering the soft skin of hers. A handshake is informal, and it feels sort of absurd, but he can’t bring himself to do much more than that. If he hugs her, he might never let her go.

She’s staring at him, her eyes fixed on to his, and he sees the pain in her eyes. Gently, he runs his thumb across the back of her hand, trying to tell her, in his own way, that things will be all right. It’s a lie—a pretty clear one—but he’s not so good at the whole comfort thing, which is probably why he’s resorted to holding her hand (the coward that he is) and acting as if the last three years of friendship haven’t really happened.

Endings have a way of bringing lost beginnings to light, and even Colonel Sheppard isn’t immune to its seductive sway. Memories of the past flicker in his mind, along with some of the dreams that had rooted in his wandering brain. He has always thought, even during their rougher moments, that he and Elizabeth have some potential. There had, of course, been times when he had berated himself for being so stupid as to believe that a woman like her would even look twice at a guy like him. But when she smiled at him, when her face lit up and her eyes crinkled, he had felt those repressed hopes and longings rise perilously close to the surface. And sometimes, when she had reached out to touch him on those rare occasions, he had felt more than friendship being conveyed.

But all of that is lost now—all of those hints of a future, a different future than the lonely bachelor one he usually envisioned, are dissolving with each distinctive metallic whir that accompanies the setting of the gate coordinates.

The wormhole comes bursting through in its usual showy splendour, and John realizes belatedly that he’s still clinging to Elizabeth’s hand, and that they’ve been standing there for some time now.

He doesn’t see the pitying looks on his team’s faces, nor does he see Carter’s inquisitive stare. He only sees Elizabeth, framed by the rippling blue of the Stargate, and the first few tears that are sliding down her ashen cheeks.

A better man might have wiped those tears away, or finally succumbed to reasoning and held her close. But he’s a coward, and he’s in shock, and all of this is happening too quickly for him to take advantage of the seconds he has left with a woman he cares about a lot more than he had realized. They should have had more time, more warning, he thinks frantically. Suddenly the week that had dragged on forever has ended in the blink of an eye, and he doesn’t know how to keep the sudden panic clutching at his chest from spreading.

Their hands reluctantly drift from each other; Elizabeth’s goes to the slipping shoulder strap of her bag, and his goes into his pockets, where no one can see the fist it forms. For a moment, he thinks he sees her hesitate, but then she’s turning around and starting the long walk to the Stargate, accompanied by the marines that had been sent to bring her back to Earth.

It takes a hell of a lot of willpower to keep his place, to keep from running up to her and letting his hands slide around her form, the same form that is walking away from him one last time. Maybe it’s because it’s suddenly hit him that she’s leaving for good, or maybe because he’s suddenly realized that keeping his emotions in check was a dumb idea, but he wonders why he didn’t talk to her more often when he needed it, or hug her more when she needed it, or kiss her more when they both needed it. Pieces of the past are flying blindly through his head, and—if she had taken a second longer, a second to turn back and look at him—he thinks he would have finally gone to her and given her a proper farewell.

But she doesn’t turn back. She doesn’t sneak a quick glance. Her shoulders are squared and her footsteps are sure as she walks directly up to the Stargate and through the event horizon, leaving behind a group of people who can’t believe she’s actually gone.

The gate cuts out, the blue light disappears, and John lets his shoulders fall. Change is supposed to be a good thing, and normally he can take a few overhauls in his routine, but this is one change he doubts he’ll be able to handle so well. Rubbing absently at the muscles in his neck, John starts towards his quarters, ignoring the quiet crowds and his grieving friends. Elizabeth may not have died, but at the moment, the finality of her departure is hitting just as hard.

He knows the pain will fade eventually—it always does—but at the moment, the future is stretching out before his eyes in all of its bleak glory. The things that were left unsaid seem to hang low over his head, taunting him with what could have been. An image of that pale, beautiful face is imprinted in his memory, and he hopes that it’s not going to be the only picture he’ll have of her when the months have passed and Elizabeth Weir fades into anecdotes and allusions.

He hates himself a little more for letting her go so easily, so coldly, so unlike what he was feeling that he wonders if that person who had watched her leave was really a part of him. He hates departures, he hates change, and he hates watching chances slip through his fingers. He hates seeing his friends leave him, and hates the fact that he can do nothing more than move on each and every time.

John Sheppard hates good-byes too. And he’s getting damn tired of saying them.

- - -

end