Disclaimer: Don’t sue. I am poor. Trust me when I say it’d be a waste of your time.
Archived: Command Dynamics, Atlantica, my LJ. Anywhere else, just ask.

Author’s Notes: This is just where the muse took me… and I don’t always trust her leadership skills. Many thanks to phrenitis for the initial ficlet snippet and wingsfan for betaing (I’m working on the payment as we speak). My first real Atlantis fic. Feedback is mightily appreciated.


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i/ Moment

She takes a picture of him when he's asleep, his face half in shadow, his body curled to the side with legs stretched out haphazardly over the bedspread.

They have a play for the camera when she shows the picture to him – he's more adept at pinning her to the mattress, but he's horribly ticklish and she wins.

No one will ever see it, she promises.

She, unknowingly, lies to him.


ii/ Work

She’s late yet again for one of their meetings (even though she’s the one that called him there). He opts for her chair, because it is much more comfortable than the complementary ‘visitor’s seat’ on the other side of the desk, and he is too tired from recent missions to voluntarily stay on his feet. He tries to sit still, enjoy the rare moment of having nothing to do, but finds that he can’t. Almost on their own accord, his fingers start picking through the various files and trinkets that litter the top of her desk.

He really doesn’t mean to go through all of her things. The drawers of her desk are just too tempting though and before he knows it, he’s nonchalantly shifting through the contents of one. In the back of his mind he already knows that, if she would happen to walk in on him now, his lame excuse of Oh, I was looking for a paperclip would never fly.

It is tucked in a book. Between pages seventy-two and seventy-three, John Sheppard is sleeping peacefully amongst opposing military and political arguments in one of Doctor Weir’s many books on diplomatic fairness.

He chuckles lightly to himself at her reading choice. Like she really needs any help in that area.

He wonders if it’s just a coincidence that she chose the chapter entitled “Strengthening Relations.”

He senses her presence seconds before she clears her throat from her stance in the doorway. His head snaps up to look at her, face holding the most innocent expression that he can muster. She cocks her head slightly and raises an eyebrow at him, a slightly amused grin playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Major, as much as I appreciate the gesture, I think I can manage to clean up my own desk,” she says, her tone light.

He realizes that he still has the book in front of him, photograph in hand. If she had been anyone else, he would have known they were coming; been able to quickly slip the evidence back to its original place. She has a tendency of doing that to him, mentally short-circuiting his brain.

He both loves and hates that weakness.

She walks around to the other side of the desk, standing slightly bent over next to him as one hand rests on the back of the chair and the other reaches for the photograph in his hand. He moves as she goes to grasp it and she playfully scolds him with a “John” that is anything but admonishing.

Instead, he looks up at her with a full-on pout and a cheeky “I’m just lookin.” He can’t help but follow that with a wink, and her smile instantly changes into something more dangerous.

There are several sides to this woman that no one on base, other than a particular few, has ever been privy to. As she leans down closer to him now, he can see the strong façade of Doctor Weir slipping away, replaced by something that is not even Elizabeth. This is the woman who makes him smile just by looking at her, the woman who makes him scream her name as he comes, the only woman he has ever been with who makes him miss the feeling of her arms securely around him late at night.

Her face stops inches from his, balancing precariously on the line between professionalism and impropriety. He knows that she won’t go any further. Even now, it’s pushing things, the clear glass walls of her office not allowing for any type of misstep.

The hand that has been reaching for the picture stops its progress and dips below the edge of the table, John’s breath hitching as it comes to rest on his upper thigh. He stares straight ahead, willing himself to breathe evenly, to not look at her. From outside the office, he knows that there is nothing suspicious about their positions, him sitting in the chair looking at something while she peers over his shoulder. She has strategically placed herself in a position to block any outsiders from seeing a simple hand placement.

He thinks she’s becoming too good at this whole ‘Sheppard Manipulation’ thing.

The brush of her arm against his back burns through him and he can feel his arousal starting to heighten as the fingers on his thigh trace light patterns just south of where he is practically groaning for them to be. He knows that he has things to do, things that will not get done if he sits here much longer entertaining thoughts of ravishing the leader of Atlantis right in her office. Her fingers add just a little more pressure then, sweeping up to ghost a touch across the arousal he was desperately trying to keep in control.

With a groan, he relinquishes his hold on the paper, all but thrusting it at her. She grins triumphantly and her hand immediately leaves its perch on his leg to grab it.

He’s not sure whether he should be relieved or disappointed. Although deep down, he’s sure it’s the latter.

She is straightened up by this point, looking innocuously through the files on her desk, a step or two away from him. The picture is nowhere in sight and he wonders how she was able to slip it into hiding so fast. Once again, she has short-circuited one of the perfected skills that he prides himself on.

“Shall we get down to business, Major?” she asks.

He nods decisively, mumbling a deep, “You are an evil woman, Elizabeth.”

She smiles knowingly at him, holding in her laughter.


iii/ Beach

Ford had insisted on christening all of the tracts of beaches with inane, surfer nicknames – Blue Lagoon, Crabber’s Cove, Surfer’s Paradise – which had stuck, surprisingly well, with the inhabitants of the ancient city. It had taken all of John’s negotiating skills (and the forfeiture of all his remaining chocolate) to keep one nice-sized piece of the undisturbed beaches out of the Lieutenant’s overzealous reach.

It doesn’t have a name, but it doesn’t necessarily need one. Whenever he mentions going to the beach, she always knows where he means. Everyone else does as well. It’s an unspoken rule among the Atlantis crew that certain questions shouldn’t be asked, and certain privacies need to be respected.

She asks him now if he can get her bag from where she left it in the Puddle Jumper. Seeing her lying naked and content next to him on the towel that they’ve spread across the warm sand, he can’t help but oblige.

It’s been far too long since he has seen her this relaxed, without the ever-present lines of worry that mar her facial features as the leader of Atlantis.

He walks unabashedly naked to the open hatch of their transport, finding her bag right where she said it would be next to the co-pilot’s chair. Not that she had sat in it for more than two minutes the entire trip. It was pretty damn easy to fly a ship when you could do it all with your mind, especially such a familiar straight shot as their trip from Atlantis to the mainland. He was lucky that was all he had to do, particularly since his hands (as well as various other parts of his anatomy) were preoccupied with the lean body squirming in his lap for the duration of the flight.

Neither of them had really been too concerned with the whole flying thing until the point when she was on her knees in front of him and had him to the point where he was thrusting into her, eyes rolled back in his head as he groaned her name. With his release, came several seconds of nothingness as he tried to compose himself. As the lights in the Jumper had dimmed and they lost some altitude, they had mutually decided to postpone any further activities until they had made landfall.

Things had been tense on Atlantis as of late and between briefings, treaties, and skirmishes, the two leaders of Atlantis had rarely been able to see one another on anything other than an entirely professional level (with the notable exception of the broom closet incident).

Standing in the doorway at the rear of the Puddle Jumper, skin salty and warm from the welcome combination of sea and sun, his eyes take in his surroundings.

Thank god for the power of being an authority figure.

He trots back over to the blanket where she is laying on her stomach now, feet extending over the edge of the fabric as her toes draw idle patterns in the sand that she cannot see. His shadow falls across her he draws nearer and Elizabeth turns her head to look up at him, seeing her in the reflection of his sunglasses, the only thing he insists on wearing while here. She closes her eyes again and, with a small sigh, tries to begin another light doze.

John falls to his knees beside her, thoroughly enjoying the view of her toned body (he loves the curve of her lower back, the swell of the edge of her breast as it lies beneath her), and reaches into her bag to grab the sunscreen that she had requested. His fingers unexpectantly hit the hard edge of a book spine and he groans to himself. To her, he chides “Elizabeeeth” and she opens her eyes again to see him slowly pulling the offensive object. It’s not a book, but a binder; one that he knows is full of briefings and mission reports. He looks at her pointedly and she at least has the good grace to look guilty.

He sighs heavily, dramatically. “You know the rules. No. Work. Allowed.” And before she can stop him, he is on his feet again, heading for the water’s edge.

She rolls her eyes at his actions and calls his name. But when he continues walking, she gets worried at what he might do and reluctantly pushes herself up to run after him. He is walking purposefully to where the waves are crashing along the beach, waving the binder in the air above his head. Like so many other things that they do, it’s just a game, and she decides to play along. Running up, she grabs a hold of the bicep holding her papers, trying ineffectively to pull it back down to her. He laughs, knowing that there is no way she is going to win this physical battle, and triumphantly marches on even as she continues to cling to him.

Her attempts pause for just a moment and he thinks that maybe she is already tired of this game. Seconds later he finds himself doubled up on the ground, her fingers skittering across his stomach as she tickles him unmercifully.

He doesn’t think it’s fair that she found his weakness so easily.

Somehow, John manages to grab both of her wrists, pulling her arms out from between them and taking the opportunity to roll her onto her back, her naked body flush with his. His lips find hers and the kiss is slow, the fuel to sustain the flame simmering deep within both of them. She wants to run her hands up his back, across his shoulders, fingernails biting into his skin as he thrusts into her. But the sand grinding between them is uncomfortable, and they cannot help but pull away from one another. He winks at her, climbing to his feet as he extends his hand in a chivalrous offering.

Elizabeth accepts, rising to her feet, and he bends down with his free hand to grab the forgotten binder. Several papers worm their way out, most likely knocked loose from their roughhousing, and he grabs at them with sandy fingers, chaotically shoving them back to where they belong. She picks up one that flutters to the ground near her feet and he can see that it’s that photograph again, notably more weather-beaten than the last time he had seen it.

He thinks he should make her another copy, but remembers that Atlantis is on the verge of running out of paper.

“What is with you and this picture?” he questions, taking it from her hand and securely placing it deep in the binder pocket. By now they’ve reached the blanket again and he tosses her distasteful reading material onto it. It will be the last time he sees it.

She shrugs, answering with a coy “Because I like it” and, almost as an afterthought, softly adds, “And it’s the only picture I have of you.”

He’s not sure why that statement pleases him so much.

His eyes lock with hers, the fingers of their joined hands tangling together.

She chuckles and shakes her head, “Oh God, I can almost see your ego swelling.”

He waggles his eyebrows at her and growls, “Just my ego?”

Her full-bodied laugh carries across the open beach, as he scopes her up and begins to wade into the warm, salty water.


iv/ Party

It’s her third birthday since they discovered Atlantis, almost two years since they discovered one another.

She still hasn’t figured out how he knows he knew her birthday, although from bits and pieces that she had gotten over the years, it might have had something to do with a certain Scottish doctor who couldn’t hold his liquor.

Her first present had been the container that she had cremated herself in. She can’t imagine ever considering that thought to be normal, yet she is not as uneasy about it as she could be.

Last year’s present from him had been even simpler, yet far more complicated. Sex. And lots of it. In between one of their sessions while she was trying to regain some of her energy, he had laid his head on her stomach, thumbs tracing lazy patterns across her breasts, and proclaimed that it was the ‘most work put in to any present’ that he had ever given. She had laughed, so deep in her throat that it could have almost been considered a purr. Her fingers had reached down and traced his hairline as she mockingly murmured, “Poor baby.”

This year there is an actual party, although it is sheer coincidence that her birthday falls on the same day. Bates’ latest recon mission had resulted in a fully functional ZPM (Elizabeth doesn’t think that she is ever going to hear the end of John’s grumblings of, “That was supposed to be my mission…”). McKay and Zelenka are like two kids in a candy store, giddy at the concept that, in the very near future, Atlantis will reconnect with Earth.

Elizabeth still isn’t sure how she feels about that. And she knows exactly why she is so conflicted.

He can feel the sudden tenseness in her shoulders and leans forward slightly to nuzzle the curls of her hair. It immediately relaxes her, making her sigh deeply and lean back against the comfortingly firmness of his chest. The air is slightly chilly tonight, a welcome change from the mugginess that accompanies most of the days. She likes the stars here, how she can see each and every one of them all the way down to the horizon, unlike on Earth where the bright lights of cities dull the effect.

In the first months they started dating, they began to do this. Sneaking up to any unoccupied balcony, dinner in hand, to point to alien constellations and designate private names to their random creations.

Now, the remains of her birthday dinner of MREs lay next to them. John initially had tried to cook something more edible but had failed spectacularly. She had giggled when he finally admitted it to her and then had kissed away the pout that formed on his lips. They had slipped out of the party relatively unnoticed, both showing up at the festivities for only a minimum amount of time to make sure that things had been going well.

From their current perch floors above the Control Room, they can hear the revelry still going full swing as the delighted partygoers continue their celebration. Occasionally, they can distinguish the shouts of one of their comrades (a drunken Ford has the most unbelievable laugh and Zelenka babbles incoherently in Czech once he has hit a certain point). Jinto and several of his friends have found their way to one of the outdoor catwalks and she is momentarily reminded of how sad she will be when they leave. Teyla informed them last week that, following their Ancestor’s wishes, they are preparing to return to their home world. The Athosians will be leaving Atlantis in two days, and Elizabeth (as well as a number of people on the expedition) will miss them.

John sighs deeply and she snuggles closer to him, turning slightly so that she can smell the light musk of his sweat as it mingles with the sea air that blows over them.

“Your turn,” she mumbles sleepily into his chest, the slight movement of her throat pleasantly tickling him.

He thinks for a second before pointing to a star that they have both neglected thusfar and states, “Elizabeth.” She shifts slightly in his loose grip to ask what he wants.

“No,” he whispers. “That one,” he points to the star again, “is named Elizabeth.”

She looks in the direction of his indication and immediately knows that he is referring to the large, slightly red one off to their right.

“Your turn,” he says cheekily, daring her to try and top him. She resists the urge to stick out her tongue at him and instead lifts her eyes to search the sky. ‘It had to be a sign,’ she thinks later, as the streak of light cuts through the ebony sky. She points to it quickly and he, already looking up, catches the end of it before it’s gone.

“Oh, that is so not cool.” He breathes, unable to believe that she can be that lucky. “Why am I a shooting star? I can’t even look at myself when I want to.”

“Pleeease, John.” She rolls her eyes, knowing the playful exasperation in her voice is obvious. “Do you really think that you would be able to be anything other than that one?”

He laughs loudly in understanding and as she feels the vibrations move from his chest through her, she doesn’t think that she has ever felt so alive before.

He places a chaste kiss on her temple.

They sit in silence, a mutual understanding that words would clutter the atmosphere too much right now. She shivers as the night grows older, an undeniably more potent chill in the air. He reaches around and drapes her jacket over her as she whispers her thanks. She curls under it, fingers gently gripping the edges, feeling the slight crinkle of the photograph that she had hurriedly stuffed in her pocket earlier that day. It had ended up there after a scramble to Carson’s office, her hastily flipping through the reports that the good doctor had taken from her desk that morning. Apparently, the Scot had picked up everything on her desktop, mistakenly thinking it was his. She had found the photograph, peeking out between two mission reports at the bottom of the pile, and shoved it into her pocket as Carson himself had walked around the corner.

She smiles into the softness of John’s T-shirt at both the frantic memory and the knowledge that she was able to salvage her possession.

Elizabeth knows she is going to have to be more careful.

When he breaks the silence surrounding them, his confession stuns her. He tells her that some day, some day soon, he wants to have a child with her. She smiles at the assertion and is inclined to agree with him, which is odd considering that she has never really wanted children until now. As she leans in to kiss him, she almost can hear their rambunctious playing behind her; two boys, both with the adorably unruly spikes of their father’s dark hair. She knows instinctively that they will also have that flyboy smile that John has long ago perfected – although she’s certain that a touch of the Weir genes will be able to take just enough of the overwhelming cockiness out of it.

He hits her with a double whammy now, softly musing, “Maybe we should look into getting married at some point when we get back to Earth.” He suddenly looks unsure of himself, as if he has crossed some invisible line, and his gaze drops from her eyes to study the floor.

She finds his awkwardness endearing and laughs happily, eyes shining as she kisses him and tastes her own tears.


v/ War

Even through the sturdy walls of the city, they still can hear the Wraith darts screaming overhead. Someone (‘Rodney,’ Elizabeth dimly realizes) is yelling from the console behind her, shouting that they have to evacuate now or they might not have the chance.

She doesn’t hesitate. As she calls the order into her earpiece, Rodney quickly dials the Alpha Site and the comforting familiarity of the event horizon fills the room. Immediately, people start running toward it and she is minutely relieved with each person that successfully makes it away from here, away from death for now.

Outside, dozens lay dead on the outer catwalks and balconies, posts now unmanned. She knows that the first wave of Wraith are now on the ground, slowly making headway into the heart of the city. She allows herself to feel just a little smug with the knowledge that, by the time they reach the control room, there will be nothing left for them.

She waits as patiently as she can, considering the circumstances. Calling to the people she vowed years ago to protect, she knows that the last are almost to the gate room, falling back from their positions as the enemy spreads like a cancer through the city.

It’s only then that she realizes she hasn’t heard from him in almost an hour.

Her breath escapes in one harsh gasp, a painful constriction in her chest as she calls his name. She prays that maybe he has already gone through the gate, somehow sneaking by her with the rest of the survivors, tending to his wounded men.

But she knows that’s not the case. He would never go through without making sure that she was on the planet with him.

She calls his name again, her breath hitching involuntarily as she fights back an extremely unleaderly sob. Before she can lose much more of her composure, Rodney is again yelling at her, trying to make his voice heard over the blasts in the city which are creeping ever closer to their location.

Everyone else is gone, save the two of them and three other technicians, all of whom are looking at her expectantly. She whips around, face ashen both from the lack of response from John and what she is about to do. She locks eyes with Rodney and in them she can see his understanding, his unspoken apologies for the man that she had called a lover, and he, the most courageous of friends.

Both of them know there is no longer time for that now.

She nods tightly, slipping back on the now-tired mask of a leader that she wears so well. Her command of ‘Do it!’ is lost in yet another explosion, this one coming from the jumper bay overhead.

Rodney needs no encouragement, his fingers already typing furiously across the keyboard, entering in codes that she can not even begin to comprehend. They had devised a new system only weeks ago, and now she was glad that they had. It no longer needed joint approval from both her and John in order to begin the self-destruct.

They had a situation like this in mind when initially creating it, but none had thought they would ever actually have the need to use it.

If only they would have had more time, more of a warning, it might have been easier to at least prepare themselves. Reinforcements had arrived from Earth several months beforehand, but not long afterwards, their only fully functioning ZPM had experienced an overload and wiped out not only itself, but part of the East Pier. She wonders now if those soldiers still would have come if they had known the impossible circumstances would soon surround them. She has no doubt most are dead, or taken. Out of the hundreds of people who had been defending Atlantis hours ago, she had seen only a few dozen run through the gate. Now, with no way to dial Earth, and not nearly enough power to raise the shields, they are grossly outnumbered and exposed.

Rodney finishes his typing, pushing one last combination of about a dozen keys simultaneously. He looks up at her again, eyes tearing slightly (in horror or defeat, she’s not quite sure), and mutters “It’s done.”

She sucks in a trembling breath, closing her eyes tightly against the wave of loss that slams against her for the second time in ten minutes.

The great city of Atlantis is going to fall.

She holds little comfort in the fact that at least it is by their own hand and not that of the Wraith.

They have exactly two minutes until Atlantis blows to pieces around them. Rodney and the technicians are trashing the remaining computer terminals. The self-destruct and Stargate now are linked to internal clocks of the city itself. It would take the Wraith hours, if not days, to tap in and turn either off manually. In a minute and forty seconds, the Stargate will shut down, with the self-destruct detonating twenty seconds after that.

The final Ancient screen is shattered and Elizabeth only can watch in silent horror as the last bits of Ancient data, the knowledge of the greatest civilization they’ve ever known, is lost forever. The cadence of five pairs of running feet is accompanied by the tinkling of the breaking glass as they all bolt from Control Room to the gate waiting below them.

Her heart flutters slightly as she starts down the steps and she raises her hand to unconsciously rest over it, feeling the stiff paper of a worn photograph hidden in her jacket’s inner pocket. If nothing else, at least she has this part of him left with her.

Suddenly, at the bottom of the stairs, there’s a thumping staccato of footsteps to their left. The group of scientists turns instinctively as if to defend themselves, although none are really sure why seeing as how no one has a gun on them. Not that that would stop a number of incoming Wraith.

Instead, they find themselves face to face with their own people, four soldiers in all with eyes wary and guns drawn. Seeing humans rather than the Wraith they had expected, the two groups merge into one and run up the incline to the Stargate. Elizabeth notes that all four are covered in blood, one leaning heavily upon the shoulder of his comrade as he limps along as fast as his one good leg will allow. She cannot make out either of their faces, nor the face of the lead soldier, already up to the event horizon and turned around to cover their retreating figures. Somehow though, she knows that none of them are John.

The last of the soldiers falls into step behind her and (before his warm fingers, caked with the blood of the battle, reach for hers; before she hears the rough whisper of his voice murmuring her name into her ear; before she smells the sweat and gunpowder that cover him) she knows that he’s there.

Still running to the gate, she turns to look at him as they both hit the event horizon, the last ones out of the Lost City of Atlantis.

His lips find hers even as they exit into the chaos of the Alpha Site, soldiers and scientists all in various degrees of shock or injury. He tastes like everything she ever wanted but never realized she didn’t have, as sweat, blood, and tears cover both of their heated, exhausted bodies. She doesn’t think she can ever let go of him and, at the thought, tightens her fingers that are entwined with his. He squeezes back in reassurance.

The gate shuts off behind them and, galaxies away, Elizabeth imagines she can hear the explosion as hundreds of Wraith realize their mistake.

She smiles against his lips.


vi/ Mortality

She hides it in her underwear, slipping it down under the elastic waistband of her panties, praying each time when they search that they won’t find it. She knows some of the others have their own memories. She has seen several of the women (and a couple of the men) with a photograph or a letter, doing the same as her when the guards come around. Others have lockets, bracelets, the occasional amulet.

She doesn’t want to know where they hide those.

It has been weeks since the last time she had seen him, although it feels like much longer than that to her. It has only been days since she has seen anyone from her expedition, although it doesn’t feel like that much time has passed. The last, the forever faithful Lieutenant Ford, is imprinted as clearly on her mind as though it had happened only hours ago. Aiden (she had come to call them all by there first names, the need for formalities dropped soon after their initial imprisonment) had been there when they had come to take John away and, through some unspoken bond, the responsibility of her safety had been handed down to the junior officer. He had stood watch over her to the end, taking his duty as seriously as he could, although both of them had known that it was futile.

If the Wraith want you to leave, you leave.

It is easier for her to remember them taking Aiden away. Easier to remember the look of sheer terror barely concealed behind his military training than to remember the eyes of her lover. Easier to replay the Lieutenant’s hesitant steps out the door of the cell than the strong defiant march of the man who shared her heart. Easier to recall the moment when he broke several steps later, screaming and crying as he was hauled the rest of the way down the corridor, than to relive the mind-numbing silence of John as he walked away from her one final time.

Her mind knows he is dead long before she actually can bring herself to believe it.

She’s not sure if her thoughts cheapen the young Lieutenant’s death and she probably should feel guilty. But she doesn’t. Now, almost three weeks since she has seen him last (‘Is it fifteen or sixteen days now?’; she can’t remember) the emotional numbness is a blessing. Even if she wants to, she can’t feel the guilt. She sacrifices some of her happiest memories for that peace of mind. She figures it’s all a fair trade in the end.

There is no one left and she cannot will away the overwhelming feeling that she has failed them all, both here and in Atlantis. She was Odysseus, except that her ship had fallen into every pitfall along the way on their tragic voyage. Sirens and Cyclops have many forms across the galaxies.

Tell-tale thumps pound down the hallway and the occupants of the cell quickly freeze, glancing up in a sick anxiety. She doesn’t look at the door this time; she hasn’t since they took Ford. Either way, if it’s her time they will take her, whether she sees it coming or not.

She almost wishes they would this time.

Three Wraith walk into the cell, two of them purposefully striding to their chosen targets. The two men scream as the monsters grab a hold of their arms, wrenching them through the still-open doorway. As if reading her mind, the third Wraith stops in front of her. She doesn’t acknowledge it, but climbs slowly to her feet, unsteady legs wobbling beneath her. Like most others in the holding cell, she has wasted away to almost nothing and can only imagine the bones that must be showing through the gaunt, pale skin of her body.

As she stands, she forgets to make sure her prize is tucked away and watches, helplessly, as the Wraith’s hand shoots out to pull the paper from where it is peeking over the tops of her pants. He stares at it thoughtfully, the only person other than John and herself to ever see it, and she wants to vomit at the perversion that the creature might be seeping into it. The photo is old, torn and blood-splattered, and faded to the point of anonymity over the years. The picture, while mangled and old, is still fresh in her mind. She doubts that the Wraith can even make out what it is.

It moves to crumble the possession and her anguished cry of ‘No!’ fills the room, overcoming the screaming wails of terrified children and women still awaiting their deaths. It pauses, looking at her and she is completely unsure of what to do next. One of the other Wraith screams to the guard standing before her and, apparently deciding it is best not to cause more commotion, he grabs her arms and shoves her out of the cell, pushing the photograph into her weak hand.

She doesn’t even consider thanking it, but holds on to John, thumb comfortingly stroking over the slick surface before hiding it completely within her fist. The paper is clutched tightly in her hand, white knuckles daring anyone to attempt and pry it from her grip. It’s the first time that she thinks the phrase ‘over my dead body’ and literally means it.

Memories of long ago, a lifetime ago, seem to diffuse through her prize into her body. The sounds of Aiden Ford’s jingle bells during their first Christmas in Atlantis, the smiles of the Athosians as they welcome the first new child of their people into the Lost City, the feel of the cool breeze blowing off the vast ocean that surrounded them, the constant bickering of Doctors McKay and… well, everyone else.

And, of course, there are her personal memories. For the first time in weeks, she allows herself to remember him, remember loving him. She remembers his uncanny ability to make her laugh, regardless of the situation, and his knowing exactly when she needed it the most. She remembers the first time they kissed, something that both could have easily attributed to the Athosian wine, but neither of them did. She remembers sitting securely on the balcony between his outstretched legs, leaning back against his chest to watch the stars, feeling his breath tickle her neck, his heartbeat thump gently against her back. She remembers the way he tasted, in the mornings when her first conscious breath was stolen by his kisses or after he returned from a longer-than-usual mission when she would cling to him back in their quarters like their lives depended on it. Most of all, she remembers the way he felt, every curve of his body, every movement of his lips, every touch of his fingertips tracing over her naked skin.

She remembers a time when he was dozing naked across the bedspread, she had taken a picture, they had wrestled teasingly over it, and he had told her for the first time that he loved her.

Even as her physical body walks through one final doorway of the Wraith Hive ship, she is no longer aware of it. She’s back in Atlantis now, surrounded by people with whom she has gone through more experiences than she could ever imagine. They smile, wave, and a few even hug her. Carson wraps his arms protectively around her, his Scottish accent washing over her ears with greetings of “It’s good ta see ya Lassie.” McKay is as exuberant as ever, hugging her briefly before the human contact becomes a bit too stifling and he returns to the buffet. To the side, Lieutenant Ford, always the soldier, catches her eye as he stands surveying the crowd. She smiles at him and he smiles back before blushing slightly and ducking his head. When she looks at him again, he points upwards. She realizes that, for all the people in the room, the one she needs the most is missing. Taking the steps two at a time, she runs to the top, finally reaching the balcony that they had shared their first drink at during their first days in Atlantis.

He turns to look at her, winking as he teases, “Leave it to you to make a grand entrance.” And, although she is breathless from the run, she remembers how good it feels to laugh.