Title: The Best Portion

Author: pierson

Pairing: Teyla/Carson

Rating: NC-17

Word Count:  30,206

Betae:  rosewildeirish, kyrdwyn

Summary: That best portion of a good man's life/His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.

Recipient: hermioneorourke, who requested "Teyla/Rodney/Carson, or any version of it."  Well. Two out of three ain't bad, as the song says.

The Best Portion

That best portion of a good man's life,
His little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and of love.
        William Wordsworth

When they had stepped out of the back of the jumper onto Suelta, it had been early morning, the air crisp and cold with autumn, everything painted with a sharp silver-white wash of frost.  It had crackled loudly beneath her boots, and the scent of icy leaves and grasses, keen as a fine blade, had risen to her nose. For a moment Teyla had been reminded of Athos, could remember standing at the door of her dwelling wrapped in a warm blanket and the even warmer arms of Kathal, watching the sun rise over the far hills white with snow. She'd smiled at the memory, then carefully tucked it away into the box in her mind that held all such treasures.  Dr. Beckett had closed the jumper hatch, cloaked it, and Teyla had fallen into step with him and Dr. Gasquet, the expedition's dentist, as they strode toward the village, Beckett's breath a white cloud around him as he spoke of nothing and everything, very much like Rodney and yet not.

And now it is late afternoon, and the sun slides toward rest.  Autumn lies golden on the hills like a sleek cat sunning itself beneath the skies, and the breeze lifts her hair away from her neck, flips the ripening leaves on the trees from scarlet to gold, from purple to lavender, from russet to tan. Overhead a small treebiter and an orange-feathered skimmer chatter angrily, squabbling in the branches above them, and a couple of leaves float down.  One lands on Dr. Beckett's broad shoulder, bright golden against the blackness of his tee shirt, and flutters downward, skimming over the bunch of biceps as he wields the small shovel, then flutters to the churned dark earth beside his left boot.  Teyla's eyes watch the roll of shoulders as Beckett works; she had never before today paid heed to how strong, how solid he is, as he hides always beneath his long white physican's coat or the bulk of his mission jacket and tac vest.  Somehow it makes her restless, looking at the strength of his bared arms and his thick thighs beneath black BDUs, and she glances away, quickly, scanning the forest for any signs of danger.

Danal's voice rises in a laugh and when Teyla looks back, he is tugging at Beckett's wrist, pulling him down to kneel in the rich black forest loam, and their fingers scrabble for the curving, twisting roots of the kirthat.  Their heads, dark and silver, are close together, and Beckett's laughter, rich and warm, twines with Danal's higher tones as Danal's trained root-hunter tries to dig with them, yelping in apparent happiness, long floppy ears bouncing in their faces.

"Away with you, crazy thing," Danal says fondly, and gently pushes the brown and cream spotted animal aside.  He breaks off a piece of root and gives it a toss over his shoulder, and the creature leaps over Danal's bent back in pursuit of the root, yipping before finding the root and settling down to gnaw at it.

"Back on my planet," Beckett says, "we have similar animals-well, perhaps not exactly similar, as yours is more like a hound than ours, which is more of a...well, no actually in fact, a swine, yes-which we use to hunt a specific kind of fungus which we call truffles.  They're quite the delicacy on my world."  He has a lovely voice, Teyla thinks, not for the first time, low and rolling and musical, his accent different than either Rodney's or Colonel Sheppard's, or Dr. Zelenka's, strangely soothing, and yet not.  "Teyla, do the Athosians have anything like this?"

"I am afraid not, Dr. Beckett," she replies.  "We have traditionally had very few domesticated animals, given our nomadic way of life.  We do have hunting cats-I believe Colonel Sheppard called them panthers?--although not much else.  Other peoples like us do have small herds, but we have always found it much easier without them, preferring to hunt or trade for what we need.  Our interest in farming and herding is actually quite recent."

"Ah, give it up, you damn bloody thing," Beckett says, his voice strained as he pulls, trying to unearth the kirthat, tangled in the roots of the tree that spreads above them.  Danal half-rises to help him, but then with a sharp crack, the root gives way and Beckett tumbles over backwards in a spray of dirt and surprisingly filthy-sounding curses.

Teyla unfolds her crossed arms from their resting place atop the butt of the P90 clipped to her tac vest before stepping over to where Beckett lies sprawled over the leaves.  He blinks up at her, his eyes very blue and surprised, though why he should be when Teyla knew herself such a thing was likely to happen is beyond her understanding.

But then he grins, widely enough that  it engraves dimples deeply into his cheeks, and he suddenly looks a hand-span of years younger.  Bowed by the weight of responsibilities and decisions his life had not prepared him to make, he always looks worried, older than his actual age.  He holds up the pale green twisted root triumphantly, and it showers a little more dirt down upon him, but he obviously does not mind.

"I trust you are not injured, Dr. Beckett," she says gravely, though she cannot help the twitch of one corner of her mouth, because for a moment, he makes her think of Jinto when he was very young.

"Ach, no," he says, and takes Teyla's offered hand.  She braces herself, and together, they pull him to his feet, staggering a little as his foot slips on a gnarled tree root.  "Nothing injured but pride, my dear," he says, brushing dirt from his shirt.  He has a smear of it across his cheek, and for a heartbeat Teyla thinks of wiping it away with her thumb, but instead folds her hands together to make them behave.

"I think, perhaps, that as the sun is westering, we should consider heading back toward the village," Teyla says as Beckett gives Danal the root, who in turn tucks it carefully into a covered basket.

"We've been at it since lunch," Danal says, standing and shoveling dirt back in around the tree roots.  And he does look tired and perhaps a bit paler than he normally does.  He turns to make a loud, disapproving "tcha!" sound at the root-hound, which had begun nosing about the basket.  It sits back and cocks its head, pink tongue lolling out, ears perked, and Teyla thinks it looks quite unabashed at the reprimand.  "I think we have enough to show for an afternoon's work."

"Aye, then.  I'm in favor of calling a halt to it.  I'm afraid I'm not quite accustomed to physical labor anymore," Beckett says, and rolls his shoulders.  In spite of the growing chill, the short-cropped hair at the nape of his neck is wet with sweat, as is the collar of his tee shirt.  "I'll be quite stiff tomorrow, most likely."

As he brushes at the dirt on his arms and knees and the seat of his BDUs, Teyla says, "Perhaps you should have accepted my offer to take my turn at digging.  I feel that I have not adequately contributed to the afternoon's tasks."

"Ah, now don't be thinking that, Teyla," Beckett replies. "I found it much easier to work, knowing that you were here with a P90 to keep at bay things with big teeth and claws.  Just because I don't often turn my hand to things such as this doesn't mean I can't.  Or shouldn't.  At any rate, it certainly won't hurt me to expend a few calories."  He grins again, gentle self-depreciation, rubbing his hands together to remove the worst of the dirt.

Teyla does not agree with his assessment; privately she thinks Beckett is a fine example of a man.  He is not overly muscular, nor lean, but he has a reassuring solidness, broad like Rodney, and is more than strong enough to do what he does.  She is not blind to his appeal: those fine, expressive blue eyes, the generous curve of his often-smiling mouth, his thick dark brown hair beginning to show silver, the broad shoulders, but she has never considered herself so shallow that she bases a person's worth on his appearance.  He is highly intelligent, is kind and compassionate, his heart huge, and those are the qualities of most value.

He shrugs into his jacket and shoulders the shovel while Danal gets the basket full of kirthat roots.  The scent-hunter bounds ahead of them as they make their way back to Danal's village. Beckett walks ahead with Danal and Teyla takes their six. The Sueltan homeworld is generally a peaceful place; Colonel Sheppard would never have allowed just the three of them here if it were not, but Teyla knows just how often things go awry when the Atlanteans are involved, and so it pays to be constantly watchful.  Both doctors, but particularly Dr. Beckett, as their chief physician, are far too valuable assets to risk.  

Indeed, it would have been better tactically for Beckett to remain on Atlantis and send Hamas, his assistant, to trade for the kirthat, which can be made into a powerful antibiotic medication, but Teyla understands why Beckett insisted on going himself, though he fusses at both piloting and at gate travel.  She thinks he misses contact with people-though he treats everyone in Atlantis, it is not the same as those living ordinary lives, with ordinary concerns.  She has heard him say that although he has spent most of his time in research, he spent a short while in a trauma center for the experience, which has certainly proved useful during his time on Atlantis.  

As part of their trade, he spent the morning conducting exams for those wishing them, and will do the same tomorrow.  Dr. Gasquet has worked all day in the village providing dental care, and like Beckett, will continue tomorrow.  It is a fair trade, services for a good variety of useful herbs, and one the Sueltans, favored trading partners of the Athosians, were happy to make.  The day after tomorrow, they will return to Atlantis with baskets of kirthat, huge bundles of samsa, good for making a pain-relieving tea, dried prem and sauney berries, both good for making healing ointments, and pratala, especially good for burns.  The back of the jumper will smell like autumn in Suelta, sweet and slightly musty, a blessed relief; too often it smells of coppery blood and bitter fear.

"Perhaps next time you'll be a bit more careful, then, eh?"

Teyla holds the man's leg-his name is Bara, she thinks-carefully, the quick-setting plaster splint still warm beneath her fingers.  She moves her hands as needed while Dr. Beckett wraps brown elastic bandages around and around Bara's leg, securing the splint in place, his big hands surprisingly nimble and deft.  When he reaches the knee, he fastens the bandages in place with clips and gives Bara's kneecap a little pat.

"Well, I didn't intend to be kicked by the olaka," Bara says sourly.  "I didn't wake up this morning and say, 'oh yes, I want to have my leg broken today.'"

Beckett grins, and Bara sounds enough like Rodney that Teyla feels her own mouth curve.  She eases Bara's leg down to the cloth-covered table that serves as Dr. Beckett's makeshift examination area, and Bara scowls at his swollen toes.

"Aye, well, at least you made it a clean break.  Should heal well in..." Beckett pauses in gathering up the plastic wrappers of his supplies and tips his head thoughtfully as he looks at her, "...Teyla, would you happen to know how six weeks translates into Sueltan time units?"

Teyla thinks for a moment, converting from Atlantean time.  "Four cycles," she says decisively.

"Thank you," he says, and turns his attention back to Bara.  "It should be healed in four cycles, as you're otherwise a healthy young man."  

Bara scowls at him.  "How am I supposed to work on my farm?"

"You'll have to have help. You've a handful of brothers if I'm not mistaken, and your people seem to be a friendly sort, so there should be no shortage of those who can offer a hand.  I'll speak to Danal before I go in the morning, and see what we can arrange for you.  He'll come to visit and check on how you're doing in a couple of days, anyway."

Beckett stuffs the wrappers into a bag to take back to Atlantis for disposal.  "Put no weight on it, now.  I'm serious about that."  When Bara's face takes on a stubborn cast, Beckett's eyes narrow a bit, his chin lifts and his expression firms into one she has seen him use effectively on Rodney at his most difficult.  His easy affability fades, quickly changing into the serious sternness of a healer who will not be questioned.  "It will heal nicely if you do as I've instructed.  If not, if you muck it up by doing things you oughtn't, it could heal badly, leaving you with a permanent limp, or possibly even an amputation.  Listen to what I say, Bara.  It's much more difficult farming with only one leg, and I'd rather you weren't forced to do such a thing simply because you were too thick-headed to obey instructions."

Bara glares at him and Beckett returns it, implacable, arms folded across his chest, and finally it is Bara who looks away.  "Fine.  I will do as you tell me."

"There's a good lad," Beckett says, and unfolds his arms, reaching out to squeeze Bara's shoulder.  "Now off with you, and keep your leg elevated to reduce the swelling.  Take the samsa tea as you need it for pain-it's far better, actually, than anything that I could leave with you."

Teyla steps aside when Bara's brothers move in, slinging his arms across their shoulders, balancing him as he hops away from the table.  One of the brothers coughs, and Beckett frowns at him.  "Hold there, lad," he says. "I don't recall examining you, and that cough sounds off."

The man turns slightly.  Definitely Bara's brother, with that fierce slice of nose, Teyla thinks.  He makes a dismissive motion.  "Ah, 'tis nothing.  I get it every year at this time.  Danal gives me tea for it, and it eventually goes away."  

Beckett's frown grows deeper, and Teyla can almost see his mind flipping efficiently through the list of patients he has seen today.  If she concentrates, she can remember three people with a cough.  None of the patients had any other symptoms and so it had not seemed significant, at least to her.  Beckett had listened to them, but let them go after asking them about it and apparently finding no other reason to keep them.

Without waiting for Beckett to say anything else, they begin hobbling out.  Halfway to the door Bara stops, and looks over his shoulder.  "I did not thank you, Dr. Beckett.  My mother would box my ears for such rudeness.  So, thank you."

"Aye, I know well what you mean.  My own mother has a quick hand, herself."  The frown lifts and Beckett smiles and waves before Bara begins hobbling away.  

"I must confess, Dr. Beckett, that it amuses me to think that your mother would do such a thing," Teyla says with a smile.  And it does, because Teyla has seen pictures of Dr. Beckett's mother-she is a tiny woman, with the same bright, smiling blue eyes as her son and to think of her smacking the back of her son's head is worth much.

Dr. Beckett laughs, and it is as warm as summer sun on her skin.  "I was quite the handful as a boy.  Precocious, and given to speaking my mind when perhaps discretion might've been a better choice.  My mother always had just cause, I will say."

Teyla does not doubt it.  For all of Beckett's generally good nature, he does have a sharp tongue when provoked, and does not like it when he is not taken seriously.  He is, along with Colonel Sheppard, one of the very few who can handle Rodney at his worst.  Although he often seems timid or unsure when he is out of the infirmary or his labs or staff meetings, in those places, his own element, he is not.  She has heard Dr. Weir say that he is "an iron fist in a velvet glove" and although the expression is unfamiliar, the concept is not.

"Is that the last of them, then?" Beckett asks, and Teyla looks around the screens the Sueltans had put up for their privacy.  They had set up Beckett's and Gasquet's examination and treatment areas at opposite ends of the large Great Hall.  The sunlight that makes it through the thick, rippled glass of the windows is weak, so the doctors have collected a variety of oil lamps to increase the light they require in order to work.  Dr. Gasquet has already torn down his area and left, most likely to rest before the feast that will be given this evening in their honor. She does not know Dr. Gasquet well; he had earlier refused her offers of assistance, though he did it with a quick bright smile that made her think of the one Dr. Zelenka uses when he is busy and wishes to be left in peace but does not want to be particularly rude.

"I believe it so, Dr. Beckett," Teyla replies.  "I see no one else."

"Thank god," Beckett says, and when she looks back, she catches him in a backwards stretch, and his black tee shirt rides up, showing her a small bit of soft-looking pale belly with a line of dark hair.  She looks away and busies herself with pulling the sheets from the table.  "I could use a bit of a kip before dinner-it's been a long day."

"We will soon be back in Atlantis, and you will be able to rest in your own bed," Teyla says.

"Oh, it isn't that," Beckett replies, coming out of his stretch.  "I'm quite comfortable here.  Whilst in residency-that's actual hands-on experience for medical students-we worked insanely long hours.  I could go to sleep standing against a wall.  Quite literally.  I'm merely sore from digging, as I thought I would be."

He pours hand cleansing gel in his palm and then works it into his skin.  The sharp scent makes her nose sting, overriding the comfortable scent of burning anjerel wood in the huge fireplace. He passes her the bottle, and she uses it, though she would much rather use the grass-scented soap the Sueltans make.  She glances up to see him watching her with the peculiar piercing intensity he has for everyone, and she opens her mouth to ask him if something is wrong, but then he smiles and turns away to begin packing up all his equipment, his musical voice light and easy as he talks of the upcoming feast and loading the herbs and roots into the jumper and of Danal's skill as a healer.

When they have packed everything away, they pick up the heavy cases and move them all to Beckett's quarters.  The Sueltans have lodged them in guest rooms across the hall from one another in the home of Enlyn, the town's leader.  The rooms are not large, but warm and comfortable, and Teyla feels safe here.  

Together they wrestle all the cases into Beckett's room, leaving them by the door for ease in moving tomorrow.  Although Teyla believes they would be safe left in the Great Hall, Dr. Beckett has been particularly careful with all his equipment and medications since the disaster following Ellia's theft and use of untested retrovirus.  He cannot change the past, but he will not endanger anyone else through trusting others.  It is a wise choice, gained through unfortunate and painful experience, but still Teyla does not like to see how Beckett's open and innate trust of others has been compromised.  It seems to have dimmed him, if only a little.

When they have arranged the cases to his satisfaction, Teyla nods at him and steps across the hallway to her own room; a time of rest does seem a good idea.  As she opens her door, Dr. Beckett clears his throat, and she turns back.  He shifts from one foot to the other, and it catches her eye, because normally, Dr. Beckett does not have many nervous mannerisms. He looks up at her, and the right corner of his mouth crooks upward, deepening the dimple in that cheek.  It is unexpectedly charming.

"Thank you, Teyla, for all your assistance in the past two days.  I do appreciate what you've done-what you continue to do for all of us.  I'm not sure if I ever have said as much, but I'm very glad you're with us on Atlantis."

Warmth gathers in her chest.  She does not expect the approval or gratitude of others, but it is always pleasant to receive it on occasion.  "You are welcome, Dr. Beckett.  I am glad to have made my home with your people, and have come to like as well as respect and admire those around me.  You have...always treated me with kindness and respect, and for that I am most grateful.  Your friendship has always meant much to me."

Beckett has a mobile, lively face, and in that moment, several expressions chase across it, too quickly for Teyla to catch the tail of any of them, but the one that finally settles across his features  is pleased, with a wash of something else she cannot easily define.  He is not as easily-read as Rodney, though far easier than Colonel Sheppard, who masks everything behind an easy affability.  "Thank you, Teyla," he says simply, and steps back into his room.  "I'll see you later.  Rest well, dear."

The door closes behind him, gently.  For a moment Teyla's attention remains fixed on it, her mind turning in curious circles.  It had seemed as if he wanted to say something but had at the last moment decided he should not.  He is not a man given to holding his tongue if it is important, so she dismisses it; if he wishes to say something, he shall, eventually. She turns to her own room, thinking a small nap might be just the perfect thing before the celebration tonight.

The sun the next morning is sharp and bright, the air crisp against Teyla's cheeks, and the scent of burning wood fragrant.  Teyla feels invigorated; she has always loved the autumn best of all the seasons, and in Atlantis, always encased in a metal shell, one day feels much like the next, so this is a gift.

Drs. Beckett and Gasquet do not find the morning quite so cheerful or energizing, and Teyla hides a smile.  She had warned them last night of the strength of the ale, but most foolishly, they had not heeded her.  Dr. Beckett wears sunglasses against the brightness, and Dr. Gasquet is pale and withdrawn, his brow creasing with every loud noise.  Unfortunately, loading the cases of medical equipment and supplies on the back of a big olaka-drawn wagon to take back to the jumper is not quiet work-the chatter of those helping to load baskets and bundles of herbs, and the ear-piercing squalling of the olaka are enough to make even her head pound, and she had not had nearly as much ale as they had.

Dr. Gasquet swears low and continuously in his own language, his voice rough.  Teyla takes mercy on him and steps over to help him load his trunks. He frowns at her, evidently decides it makes his head hurt too much to bother arguing with her, and allows her to help him.  She had been puzzled at first by the Atlantean men's initial reluctance to let her help lift, push, or pull heavy objects, and more than a little insulted, especially as she is stronger than many of them.  After she had spoken sharply to more than one on that matter, Dr. Weir had pulled her aside to explain chivalry, and while she had understood the concept, though she came to understand they truly meant no insult, still, it had grated on her.  She is not an invalid, not a child, not weak and in need of either protection or for someone to take her share of the work.  Almost all of them have finally accepted this, though occasionally she still finds one, like Dr. Gasquet, who still believes otherwise.

"Ach." After Dr. Beckett loads the last of his cases, he leans against the high sides of the wagon, pressing his forehead against his folded arms.  "I think there is not enough acetaminophen in the entire bloody universe to help my head," he says, his voice muffled.  "May the lord have mercy on my wretched soul."  

The exposed nape of his neck looks curiously vulnerable, and Teyla has the sudden urge to run her fingertips along the smooth line, from the collar of his field jacket to the prickle of short hair at his hairline.  She knows now that his dark brown hair is very thick and crisp-springy against her fingertips instead of soft, like it looks.  She knows what he feels like, loose-limbed and lax and heavy against her. She knows how her arms feel around him, knows what he smells like, masculine and musky, overlaid with the contrasting scents of alcohol and woodsmoke.  She knows how the backs of his fingers feel stroking down her cheek, so gently.  She knows how dark his eyes can get.

She knows all these things because she had helped him to bed last night after he had drank far too much at the feast.  They had careened from one wall to the other in Enlyn's home, her arms tightly around him, attempting to hold him steady, one of his arms draped heavily over her shoulders.  It had taken three tries to get the door to his room open and stagger through it, bouncing off the door jambs, and once in, it was more a controlled fall in the direction of his bed than anything resembling walking.  He had landed mostly on the bed, but enough on her that it had knocked the breath momentarily from her.  

It had taken determined wriggling to slide from beneath him because evidently, he was an affectionate drunk, all carelessly-thrown arms and legs and happy murmurs in his own rolling tongue. Once she had gotten free, an easy task as he was pliable and amiably agreeable, she had tugged off his boots, thrown a blanket over him against the night chill and left him to sleep away the ale, intending to return to her own room and the warmth of her bed there.  As she reached  the door, she had paused when he had called her name.

He had draped an arm over his eyes, but moved it aside when she returned to stand over him. His eyes had opened, hazy and dark, almost all pupil, and his fair cheeks had flushed brightly.  

"Ah, Teyla," he had said softly, his words almost unintelligible between his thickened accent and the slur of drink. "Such a very lovely young lady you are.  So intelligent.  So gifted."  He had raised a hand, and she had not shied away-this was after all Dr. Beckett, who could never harm her in any way-and he had trailed the backs of his fingers down her cheek, a surprisingly sweet, gentle touch.

She had caught his hand as his thumb had traced just beneath her lower lip, eased it down upon his stomach. "You must sleep now, Dr. Beckett," she had said, and he had let out a deep, soulful sigh.

"Aye, indeed," he had replied softly.  "Sleep.  Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care," he had said and although she had not been certain, it had sounded more like something from a poem or song than an original observation.  "It is all I am allowed, after all, and precious little even of that."  He had rolled over and a moment later, despite his words, she had heard his breathing even out.  Teyla had not been certain then, nor as she ate breakfast this morning, exactly why she had run her hand through his hair and over his shoulder before leaving him to his rest, but it had seemed the right thing to do.  

Teyla blinks, back to the present as Beckett pushes away from the wagon.  "Well, now, let's be done with this," he says, businesslike even though he has a line etched between his eyebrows.  "Teyla, Dr. Gasquet, have we everything loaded?"

Gasquet mutters what sounded like an affirmative in his own language, and then Beckett runs his hand over everything in the wagon to be certain it had been well-secured, though they all had seen one of the younger Sueltans crawling all over, tying everything down not a moment before.

Danal appears at the corner of the wagon.  He looks as pale as Dr. Gasquet if not more so, enough that Teyla steps forward, concerned.  "Danal. Are you ill?"

"I'm fine, Teyla," he says, and makes an effort to smile, though it falls far short of the usual brilliance of his smiles.  "I'd think that after all these years, I'd learn my tolerance for ale."  

Teyla frowns, although the ale truly had flowed quite freely last night.  But as many times as she has traded with the Sueltans, she has never seen Danal drink to excess.  "If you say as much," Teyla replies, "then I have little choice but to believe you, as you are after all the healer and not I."

"Very true, and how I wish my patients could hear your words so they would cease arguing with me."  Danal pats her arm, and bends his head down to touch her forehead with his.  "Bright days to you, Teyla Emmagen.  Thank you for bringing the healers to us-it was indeed a good trade."

"You are more than welcome, Danal," she says, and pulls back with a smile.  "May we trade again soon."

Danal steps over to Dr. Beckett, who immediately pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head.  Teyla approves; only by looking into a man's eyes can one see him truly, and Dr. Beckett understands this, though the light clearly pains his aching head.  He is clearly not quite certain of the type of farewell customs the Sueltans use, but he appears open and friendly.

Danal grasps both forearms of Dr. Beckett and squeezes gently, pressing his left cheek to Beckett's right, then pulls back, and Beckett repeats the gesture, a little awkwardly, though Teyla gives him credit for the effort.  The Atlanteans are not much given to ritual touching, she has noted.

"Many thanks to you, Dr. Beckett," Danal says formally.  "It is always a pleasure to work with healers from other worlds, and your gifts, your medicines, are strong.  I only hope that you will return and share with us again. I think there is much we can learn from one another."

"Aye, there is," Beckett replies, "and I would be very pleased to return once more.  I'll talk to our leader, Dr. Weir, about arranging more regular visits."

"Bright days to you, Dr. Beckett," Danal says, and moves away to speak to Dr. Gasquet in much the same way.

Dr. Beckett stands for a moment watching Danal, a little frown tugging at his mouth, but then pulls the sunglasses back down onto his nose, and some of the tension in his shoulders visibly melts away.  He hops onto the back of the wagon with surprising grace and makes himself comfortable amongst the herbs, his feet dangling slightly off the ground.  Teyla sees Dr. Gasquet climb onto the front seat of the wagon with the driver-evidently he had won the right to ride there in a quick little hand game Beckett called "rock-paper-scissors," a game not very different than the ones Athosian children play--leaving Beckett to ride with her in the back.  She does not mind, as Beckett is generally more cheerful and talkative than Dr. Gasquet.

Teyla hops up beside Beckett and settles in just in time before the wagon lurches forward, the driver clucking to the olakas drawing it.  It will take almost one Atlantean hour to return to where the jumper lies parked and cloaked.

Beckett leans back, cushioning his head against a sheaf of dried herbs.  He is so quiet for a moment that Teyla thinks he has fallen asleep much in the same way he had told her yesterday, and her eyes track over the bright, golden countryside, storing up the memory for the days when she is so weary of metal walls that she thinks she will suffocate, unable to draw a full breath.  When her attention returns to him, he stirs.

"I'm not quite sure," he says hesitantly, "if I have anything I should apologize for."

He still wears the sunglasses, but Teyla knows he watches her.  She would prefer to see his eyes, but he is clearly embarrassed, fearing the worst of his own behavior last night.  "No, you have done nothing for which you should feel shame.  You were...affectionate, but not overly so."

Color flushes across his pale cheeks, and he rubs at the back of his neck.  "Well, that's a blessing, at least.  Though I suspect had I gotten too fresh, I wouldn't be able even to move now."

"Fresh?"  Teyla cocks her head curiously.  The Atlanteans have many sayings and most of them make little sense to her, determined by a culture vastly different from her own.

"'Fresh' means.  Um.  Sexually aggressive."  Beckett looks as if he would rather be anywhere but sitting beside her, that if he tries hard enough, he can will himself into invisibility.

"Ah.  Then no, Dr. Beckett, you were not...'fresh.'  I can assure you of that."  She thinks back to the night before.  "If anything, you were more melancholic."

He makes a little snorting noise.  "I'm a Scot," he says, as if that should explain everything.

Teyla decides to let that slide away and ask later what it means.  "I do have a question to ask of you, if you would not mind to answer."

"Ah."  He pushes up the sunglasses and scrubs at his face with one hand.  He looks very worn, face rough with night beard and violet smears beneath his eyes.  "I suppose I could at least listen to the question.  Go on, then."

Teyla pauses.  Perhaps she should have asked last night, but he had fallen asleep before she could, and it is perhaps too intimate a question for the unforgiving light of day.  Beckett, in spite of his easy, friendly charm, is a very private person, and for all the times they've worked together in Atlantis and offworld, they have never before spoken of truly personal matters.  Perhaps they should not now, but he has proved to be a staunch, loyal friend, and he so obviously felt pain last night; she wishes to help if she can.

But before she can ask, she catches movement out of the corner of her eye, and she snaps to attention, hands firmly on her P90.  From behind them, mounted on one of the ungainly-looking but surprisingly fleet olakas, comes a rider from town.  As he draws closer, she can see it is Aral, one of Enlyn's sons.  Beckett calls to the wagon-driver to stop, and she slides from the cart, alert and at ready, centered.

"Dr. Beckett," Aral calls as he reins in his mount with a spray of dirt.  "Dr. Beckett, we need you to return if you can," he says breathlessly.  "Danal has fallen suddenly ill, and we need you to return.  I don't think he's the only one, either.  Please."

The weariness slides away from Beckett as Teyla turns to look at him, replaced by that piercing intensity.  She has seen him transform like this before, his own personal problems fading away, replaced by a crisp, cool professionalism that calms everyone around him, that makes them believe he can heal them, save them.  He reaches into the back of the cart and pulls out his backpack of most-used supplies and shoulders into it.  

"How many?" he asks. Teyla had wondered why so few had been there to say goodbye to them; usually the Sueltans are an effusive people, their farewells cheerful and enthusiastic.  She had simply attributed it to far too much ale the night before. Evidently, she had been very wrong.

"I'm not sure.  Many.  Mother sent me after you in the hopes you'd not yet returned to your home world.  Danal collapsed a few moments after you left, and his apprentice is worried.  His breathing does not sound good."

"Can you take me back more quickly on this...thing?"  Beckett gestures at the long-legged olaka.

"Yes.  Hop on."  Aral kicks out of a stirrup, and Beckett puts his foot into it.  Teyla pushes, Aral pulls, and Beckett manages to scramble on behind the young man, the beast skittering nervously to one side.

"I shall go on to the Gate and contact Dr. Weir to inform her that we will be late.  Do you wish me to  ask for assistance?" She seizes the leg of Beckett's BDUs and pulls hard to keep him from sliding off the other side of the olaka.

Beckett takes handfuls of Aral's tunic to anchor himself in place.  "No.  Not until I see what's going on here.  He said there were several ill, and if it's an epidemic, I'd rather not bring in anyone else to become infected.  Send supplies, though.  Speaking of which, hand me that black case.  It has a portable liquid oxygen unit.  Sounds like I'll be needing it.  Have Atlantis send more."

Teyla pries out the indicated case from the others, and hands it up to Beckett.  "I understand.  As quickly as I can, I will bring back the wagon and Dr. Gasquet," Teyla says.

She sees movement from the corner of her eye, and Dr. Gasquet hops from the wagon, dragging a backpack with him and says, "Wait, Beckett.  Here.  I have extra protective gear here-masks and gloves and gowns.  If it's airborne, we're probably already contaminated, but if not, you'll need them."  

"Thanks, man," Beckett says, and then Aral wheels the beast around, sending them pelting toward town.  

"Dr. Biro is on call in the infirmary now.  Do you need for me to send her?"  Dr. Weir's voice sounds calm, but concerned on the radio link.

Before her shimmers the blue event horizon, rippling gently as if the breeze that tugs at her hair disturbs its surface as well.

"No, Dr. Beckett was quite firm about not sending anyone else in the event that it is truly an epidemic.  He did ask for additional supplies, but I am not sure what that constitutes.  Dr. Gasquet, would you perhaps know what Dr. Beckett would need?"

Dr. Gasquet frowns at her.  "I'm a dentist--what would I know?"  When Teyla looks at him levelly, he says, "Very well.  At least intravenous start kits and fluids.  Beckett did say to send liquid oxygen setups, as many as possible. Respiratory treatment supplies as well, I would imagine.  Some wide-spectrum antibiotics would not be amiss."

"Thank you, Dr. Gasquet. Why don't I speak with Dr. Biro, and see what else she recommends."  Dr. Weir replies smoothly.  "Teyla, I'm going to close down the Gate until we have all the supplies at hand and ready to send to you.  Will you be all right until then?"

"I believe so," Teyla says.  "We have a large wagon here, and we can unload it while we wait.  There is also a ramp leading down from the Gate, so if you put the supplies on wheeled carts, you could just push them through without exposing anyone else."

"We'll rig up something like that.  In half an hour, we should have everything gathered, and we'll open up the Gate again to send it through."

Teyla glances at her watch.  "That should be good. I will expect to hear from you then."

"Weir out."  The event horizon flashes, and disappears.

Teyla turns back to the wagon, and they start planning what and where to unload.  By the time they have done that and sorted through things, the Gate blooms into existence, and Atlantis begins sending through carts of supplies.  With the last cart comes a figure clad in one of the big blue-grey containment suits, carrying a duffle bag.  Teyla feels Malan, their driver, stiffen beside her, hand reaching for the knife at his belt, but he stops as he evidently realizes that Teyla and Dr. Gasquet are not reacting in alarm.  It is not until the figure turns that Teyla can see the face behind the clear plexiglass face shield.  Glasses, lank light-colored hair, a bright, curious expression.

"Dr. Biro," Teyla says, somewhat surprised.  "Dr. Beckett was quite insistent that no one come through."

"Men," the doctor says with a roll of her eyes, "they think they can handle everything themselves.  I'll deal with Carson, don't worry.  Besides," she says with a wave of her gloved hand, "I think I'm more than adequately protected, here."  Her voice has a tinny sound from the comm unit of the suit. Already she sweats; Teyla knows from experience just how hot it is within the suits.  

"Teyla."  It is Dr. Weir's voice in her earpiece.  "Obviously, you're getting help whether Carson wanted it or not.  I suspect that if it is something major, he'll be very glad to see her.  I'd like for you to report back in six hours-that should give them a chance to see what's going on.  But if you need help before then, dial us up, and we'll be glad to help."

"Understood, Dr. Weir.  And thank you."  Teyla cuts the radio, and the wormhole closes.

While Teyla had felt curiously abandoned when Dr. Beckett handed her personal medical care over to Biro about a year and a half ago, she understands the reasoning for his actions.  He cannot truly care for everyone, and it is more logical to divide patients amongst all the physicians in order to provide the best care for all.  Besides, she has grown to like Dr. Biro, who says exactly what she thinks when she thinks it-not to the degree of Rodney, of course, because no one is that brutally frank-and who is friendly and assertive.  Biro has always dealt well and fairly with her.

Biro goes through all their supplies quickly, her questions unceasing.  Most of them Teyla cannot answer, though she does think to tell her of the people with the coughs, to which Biro makes a thoughtful humming sound.  When things are to Biro's satisfaction, they drive back in to town.

They are on the outskirts when Teyla radios Beckett to tell him they have brought the requested supplies.

"Aye, that's good," he says, and sounds distracted.  "Bring everything to the Great Hall.  That's where I've set up my ward.  No, man, over there," he says, obviously speaking with someone else.  

"How are things there?"

"Busy.  Come along now, I need another set of hands here.  Beckett out."

He clicks off abruptly, and Teyla turns to Malan.  "Please take us to the Great Hall.  Dr. Biro, he sounds very busy.  No doubt he will be most pleased to see you."

"I doubt that," Biro says with a grin.  "Given that I went against his direct order.  But he'll change his mind soon enough.  No one ever turns down help."

Biro then insists they all dress in the gowns, gloves and masks she had brought with her for their own protection, though Teyla wonders what use it is to do so if they have already been exposed to whatever disease affects the Sueltans.  When they pull up before the Great Hall, Dr. Biro is out of the wagon almost before it stops moving, her movements made more awkward by the suit, and Teyla seizes two bags and follows on her heels.  Any of the medical staff of Atlantis, any healer she has known, have never hesitated to plunge in and help others, regardless of the danger to themselves.  Bravery, Teyla knows, does not merely mean meeting a foe on a battlefield.

Yesterday the Great Hall had been calm save for the occasional crying of babies or young children, and later, the revelry of a feast, but today, it is quite different.  Dr. Beckett and the Sueltans have set up cots all along the outside perimeter of the hall, and a dismayingly large number of them have found occupants.  Teyla sees pale faces, flushed faces, sweaty faces, hears coughing, hears wheezes, hears hacking into cloths, hears retching.  The smell of sweat, of sickness, lies heavy in the air.

They thread through the people bringing in sick friends and relatives, through those helping as they can, to reach Dr. Beckett, who kneels beside the cot of a young woman, inserting an IV quickly into her arm, his face creased in concentration.

Dr. Biro waits until he tapes down the IV, and then says, "It's just like you, Carson, to hog all the fun for yourself."

Beckett's head swings up, and he blinks in surprise, then frowns, the expression clear even though the lower half of his face remains hidden behind one of the surgical masks.  "Anne.  I thought I said..."

"You say a lot of things, many of which I cheerfully ignore.  Shut up and accept the help," Biro says pleasantly.  "I can do triage for a while, since it's a madhouse, but actually, I might be more help in starting an analysis of whatever this might be."  She looks around at those lying in beds.

For a moment Beckett looks as if he wishes to say something else, perhaps something sharp,  but then clearly realizes it is foolish to argue over her presence as she is already here in the midst of it all.  "That would be lovely.  It's a good idea, as I've rather had my hands full since returning here."  He turns back to his patient, pats the woman's shoulder and offers her a smile, then rises and turns to them.  

"You look like hell," Biro says, tipping her head to study him critically.  "You're not sick, are you?"

"No, just hung over," Beckett says shortly, stripping off his latex gloves as he leads them away to a quieter corner.  He strips off the gown as well, tucking them into one of the large hazardous waste bags they always bring with them from Atlantis.  He scrubs his hands with soap and water as he speaks. "Yesterday, while doing exams, I'd noted a few coughs, but nothing seemed really significant.  It seems to have become so, relatively quickly.  Patients present with inconsistent symptoms-cough, fever, malaise, nausea, myalgia, tachypnea, headache, sore throat-in any and every combination.  It's odd, aye."

Biro nods.  "It could be any of dozens of Earth-similar organisms.  Pity we don't have an epidemiologist on staff-would've come in handy.  But, we'll figure out what it is.  In the meantime, Gasquet knows how to start an IV, right?  I'll put him on that and in getting people settled in.  I'll start in on the labwork, run some basic tests.  I brought in equipment I thought might be useful."  She turns away,  and strides toward the door, a small bundle of determination.

Beckett pours more of the disinfectant gel into his hands and then redresses in a fresh gown and gloves and mask.  He does, as Biro said, 'look like hell,' what she can see of his face pale and his eyes reddened, a line engraved between his brows.  Teyla reaches out and puts her hand on his forearm, fingers tightening slightly, offering a bit of comfort.  "What can I do to help you, Dr. Beckett?"

"Firstly, remove all your iso gear, wash, and disinfect.  Then," he says, tearing off  several pills from two different strips of foil-packed meds as she does as he had instructed, "let me take a sample of your blood and get a throat swab.  After, I want you to gear back up, take these, one of each every six hours.  They're antiviral medications and broad-spectrum antibiotics.  I'm not sure exactly what we're dealing with here, but there's nothing like striking the first blow of the battle, right?"  He disappears for a moment, returns, and takes several vials of her blood and uses a swab on the back of her throat.  Afterward, as she dresses in the gear again, he unzips the bags she had brought with her and sets them on a long table to see what is there.  "Bless you for bringing supplies.  I hadn't enough with me in my pack, just the basic things."

"There are many more crates from Atlantis outside, including a naquadah generator for powering the equipment they sent.  Perhaps I could get everything unloaded, then organize it for you.  I am not  skilled in more than rudimentary health care, and you have others to do that."

"A naquadah generator, eh?  That's a bit of overkill, I'd say.  And I'll wager Rodney almost had a calf at having to give it up to us."  He picks out a handful of packages of tubing, needles, and a couple of bags of fluid.  "I'll appreciate anything you can do," Beckett replies.  Though she cannot see the corner of his mouth curling up, she can see the little lines at the corner of his eyes deepen a bit.  But it is a tired, half-hearted attempt at a smile.  And then he is gone again, diving back into the milling crowd, calling for Rhan, Danal's apprentice.

Teyla is an organizer by inclination; she likes order, likes for things to make sense, though they so seldom do.  So she finds Malan, and together they unload the wagon, stacking the boxes around and beneath the long feast tables in the Great Hall.  She unloads everything, and sets out like items in neat rows or piles for ease of use.  The medical equipment is too complex-she has no idea what most of it is, and so merely opens the cases for the doctors to do with as they will.

And lastly is the naquadah generator, and she firmly squelches down the little wriggle of discomfort at the sight.  It looks so small and innocuous in its box, but she well remembers the power it possesses from the time Colonel Sheppard set one off above Atlantis to shut down the nanovirus with an EMP wave.  But no matter how nervous it makes her, it is still the simplest way to provide the power they need.  Teyla does not read any of their languages very well; life has been far too hectic to allow anything but the most cursory of an education.  But the engineers have provided a clear and easy to understand color-coded diagram for her to use in setting up a power center, and at the bottom of the diagram is Rodney's blocky script:  Don't be stupid and blow yourself up.  Biro had told her that if Teyla could do the basics, she could connect everything else, and it should be fairly simple; the generators are, as Rodney has said, fairly idiot-proof, and after the nanovirus incident, Rodney had given all the command staff a demonstration as to how to connect and disconnect them safely, in the event that he or any of his staff could not.  She had not liked the implications of that, but acknowledged that it was indeed good to know how to do such things.  Knowledge is never wasted; it will serve her well this day.

After she has done that, she begins helping people settle into beds, giving them water, sponging them off if they are hot or nauseated, offering what smiles and kind words she has to comfort.  Danal's condition is of particular concern; he does not look well at all, and has difficulty breathing, though he now has oxygen.  Teyla stops to speak quietly to him, to hold his hand, to smooth the white hair from his flushed, fiery face, but he works too hard at drawing each breath to do more than lie with eyes closed.  

Beckett and Biro thread in and out of her attention, working quickly and on the surface, calmly.  Biro checks over the generator and the simplified power station and then sets up the lab equipment before settling in with her samples.   Beckett is much more difficult to track, always in motion, but when she catches him in passing and gets a terse report of the current situation from him, she can almost feel the concern and worry radiating from him.  She then finds a saddled olaka, rides out to the Gate, dials in, and gives Dr. Weir his assessment of the situation.  Beckett does not think it looks promising, given the speed at which this disease has developed and spread, but he will have more to say in the next day, after Biro completes some of her analysis and study.  At the moment they are busy dealing with simply getting everyone settled and as stable as possible as they come in for help.

It is fully dark by the time she returns, and there are even more patients in the Great Hall than before.  Teyla recognizes faces she had seen looking fine and healthy not even two days ago.  She has seen illnesses spread through her people, though indeed not this quickly, and although she does not have any of the healer's arts, she knows that the faster a disease runs through a village, the worse the illness usually is.  Fear settles low in her belly, hard and cold, because she loves the Sueltans, has many friends amongst them, and would not see them survive repeated cullings of the Wraith only to die in a plague.

Beckett stands over a man, running one of the Ancient medical scanners over his body, frowning fiercely all the while at whatever the screen tells him.  He scribbles notes on a piece of the thick local paper, and tucks it into a little bag tied to the foot of the bed, a way, Teyla supposes, to avoid losing his notes.

When he turns away, Teyla sees he looks even more tired than he did before, but then he has been working constantly since mid-morning.  He blinks his reddened eyes, bringing up one hand to rub, stopping the motion halfway there as he clearly realizes what he is about to do, but when Rhan steps up to him, Beckett's shoulders square a little, and he offers a half smile, tilting his head to listen to whatever Rhan has to say.

When her own belly grumbles, she realizes that she has not eaten since early morning. She changes out her gear again-Beckett had been very emphatic about not leaving the ward or returning to it without doing so, and changing between each patient, with all the attendant washing and disinfecting-and follows her nose to the kitchen of the Great Hall.  It is a huge place that smells wonderfully of spicy stew and fresh bread, peopled by those volunteering to help, supplying food for the workers and broth and bread for the patients.  When Teyla explains she would be grateful if they would give her food for Dr. Beckett, as he has not eaten since the night before, they comply happily, for he has become well-liked in a short period of time and they are grateful for his help now. They load a tray with two bowls of the stew-her belly had growled again, embarrassingly-a chunk of bread, a quarter wheel of cheese, and a pot of fragrant hot tea.

Teyla returns to the ward and sets everything down on a table in the far corner, far enough away for Beckett to have a moment's quiet, but close enough he can act quickly if needed.  Getting Dr. Beckett to the food, however, is a whole different matter.

"Honestly, I don't have the time, Teyla," he says, and words tumble together rubbing against one another like cats.  He tries to turn away from her, but she catches his forearm, her grip easy but implacable.  With a frown, he glances down at her hand and then back up, and she remembers he does not like to be pushed or manhandled by anyone.  Gently she slides her hand down his forearm and circles his wrist, before slipping her hand into his, squeezing slightly.

"You have the steadiest hands I have ever seen," she says, softening her voice, making it smooth and calming as possible, the voice she uses for the times whenever the situation she faces has gone problematical.  "But now I feel a tremor.  Please, sit and eat, for just a moment.  You cannot care for your patients if you do not care for yourself."

He watches her a span of heartbeats, and she cannot tell which way he will go, for she has seen how very stubborn he can be. But then the frown crease fades from between his eyebrows, and his fingers wrap around hers, big and surprisingly strong, chill.  She wishes she could feel skin against skin intead of feeling everything muffled through latex, but there is nothing to be done about it.  "Aye, you're right, my dear," he says finally.  His eyes crinkle as he offers a small smile.  "There is a saying on Earth--'Physician, heal thyself'--and I should take those words to heart, I suppose."  He glances around.  "If I don't leave the ward, perhaps," he muses. "And everyone seems to be settled, if only for a moment.  Perhaps I could take a wee bit of time for myself."

"I did not think you would wish to leave," Teyla says, and draws him toward the back corner of the hall, where it is dimmer and slightly quieter.  He does not release her hand, and she does not pull free, partially because she is almost afraid he will slip back to work if she does, and partially because she likes it. It has been a long time since she has shared something so simple, yet so comforting with someone.

He lets go her hand as they shed their gear, wash, and sit, positioning himself so he can see his ward easily, and Teyla settles in beside him, long years of training and experience making her unwilling to sit with her back exposed to others, even friends, sitting closely enough that their elbows brush.  She pours tea for him and swirls a spoon of honey into it before offering it to him.  He sighs then takes it from her, gratefully, breathing in the fragrance.  "Oh, it's lovely," he murmurs after taking a sip.  "Exactly what I needed."

Teyla passes him a bowl of the soup and then places the bread and cheese between them.  The scent of the soup makes her mouth water, and she tears off a chunk of bread to dip into the bowl.  It proves as good to the tongue as it is to the nose, and she applies herself to her meal with a will. She has always had a great appreciation for well-cooked food, because she has absolutely no skill in that area herself.

She happens to glance up and finds Beckett watching her with undiluted interest, fingers wrapped tightly around his mug of tea, cheeks slightly flushed, and eyes dark.  Teyla pauses, spoon halfway to her mouth. Beckett sets down his mug of tea and slowly reaches forward.  "You have something...here," he says, and his voice drops low enough on the last word that Teyla thinks for a moment she can feel it vibrate deep within her body.  His thumb slides over the corner of her mouth, and her lips part entirely on their own, her cheek turning slightly into his touch.

"Oh," he says softly, and slowly pulls away, but his face is too expressive.  He looks down into his tea a moment, and when he looks up again, he has wiped away the want and schooled his face to its usual pleasant expression.  He clears his throat and says, "Thank you for bringing me something to eat.  You didn't have to do such a thing."

Teyla wants to touch the tip of her tongue to the corner of her mouth, where his thumb had rested for a brief moment, but she does not.  Heat slides down her belly, pulses between her thighs, a quick hot flutter of pleasure.  Such a small thing should not have such an effect on her, but it remains that it does. She has worked hard to keep this part of her separate from the Atlanteans, to make them view her as a whole person instead of merely a potential sexual partner; it seems they have difficulty accepting that she could be both with a lessening of neither.  The deep ties of friendship and trust, the ability to work with them as an equal partner, have always outweighed the feelings of desire she might otherwise have allowed herself to feel for some of them.  Those feelings she takes to certain close friends amongst her people, though it has been months since she has allowed herself even that.  Perhaps she should not deny this part of herself for so long; she feels suddenly out of balance.  For a moment, she allows herself to remember how solid and strong he had felt in her arms, thinks of how his voice slides over her, soft and thick like a fine pelt of fur, then pushes everything back into the box in her mind and closes it securely.  Here, now, is not the place for such things, and she will deal with her own reactions later.

"Do not be concerned, Dr. Beckett.  It was no hardship, as I myself needed to eat.  We must keep up our strength for those who now depend on us."  And that reminder of their current situation should slide them back neatly into their appointed roles; Teyla is well-accustomed to deflecting unwanted advances.  Though in all honesty, she cannot say that this is either precisely unwanted or an advance.  Beckett has always been so careful to never cross her carefully-drawn lines, and she suspects it is only his tiredness, his worry, that allowed him such a slip.

"As you say," Beckett says, and it is as if the past few moments have never happened, with Beckett retreating behind the need to eat and rest, if only for a few moments.  But it is not truly a rest; he talks of the disease that runs through the Sueltans, of the difficulty in setting up an effective quarantine when the people cannot or will not understand, of what they might or could do to contain the spread, and the need for cleanliness of linen, clothing, their environment.

Teyla likes that Beckett has the ability to set forth what needs done without the condescension or criticism of Rodney, without the slip into unintelligible scientific jargon that most of the scientists cannot seem to avoid.  She knows herself far from stupid; years of working with the Atlanteans and her own innate abilities to pick up and adapt quickly and easily to new information have made her well able to keep pace with what goes on in Atlantis, but she can admit without self-censure when things are beyond her abilities.

When he has finished his meal, and has drained his cup of tea, Beckett sighs.  "I'd best be getting back to work.  Also I need to check with Anne how she's coming along, if she's spotted anything significant."  He drums his fingers on the tabletop a moment, watching Biro.  "And we'd best be thinking of returning her to Atlantis.  She's been in the suit for nine hours by my estimation.  Those things are abominably hot, and she hasn't had a drink since she put it on.  The last thing we need is for her to topple over with heat prostration and dehydration."

His blue, blue eyes slide over to her, follow the curve of her mouth for a heartbeat or two, then skip back up to her eyes.  "If you start feeling feverish, let me know immediately," he says, and although the words are clinical, the tone is not, and Teyla nods in acknowledgement at the unspoken be careful, now.

A moment later he has garbed up again and stands beside Biro, their heads as close as possible over a computer screen that washes Biro's faceplate an eerie blue.  Teyla replaces all her protective gear and sets to work doing what she can-cleaning with a strong bleach and water solution, washing linens and clothes in the hot water heated by the generator, providing water and broth, wiping off sweat and other less clean substances, and whatever else she find to do to help.  It is not easy work, nor pleasant, but still it fills her with satisfaction to know that she helps, that she makes a difference, if only a little.  She keeps an eye on the doctors, and sees them both gesturing emphatically, but hears remarkably little yelling, because Beckett tends to keep a tighter rein on his temper than most other scientists she has worked with before. In comparison, Rodney and Dr. Zelenka in full argument mode are a contentious wonder to behold, if extremely hard on the ears.

The flow of people coming in to Beckett's makeshift hospital starts to ebb as the night wears on, and Teyla is more than grateful, for weariness has hollowed her bones and filled them with lead.  She can only begin to imagine how Beckett and Gasquet must feel, and does not know how Biro has stayed on her feet; by her watch, Biro has been in the suit for close to thirteen hours, and Beckett has started to complain, quite colorfully if not loudly, that she needs to return to Atlantis and get out of the suit now.

Biro staggers away from the medical equipment and computers, heading for the back of the hall where Teyla and Beckett had taken their meal, and Beckett follows, harrassing her about how she should have returned three hours ago.  Biro pauses, looks around at her position in the room, and then reaches up and fumbles with the main zipper.  Beckett lets out a very undignified noise, but it is too late; she has opened up her suit, exposing herself to the same air they all breathe, and possible contamination.

Teyla has just slipped into new isolation garb, and so she seizes water and towels as Biro shakily strips out of the suit.  She wears shorts and a tee shirt, and both are plastered to her with sweat; she smells like a stable.  Teyla helps her to step out of it, gives her a jug of water, and holds Biro steady while she drinks and shakes against her.

Beckett can do nothing until he strips out of his own isolation gear, which he does, swearing low and ferocious under his breath. By the time he has finished, Teyla has draped a towel around Biro's shoulders.

"Just what the bloody hell were you thinking?  That was a totally daft thing to do!  Now you're stuck here with the rest of us, compromised!"

Biro grins, though it is more unsteady than normal.  "Come on, Carson.  You didn't really think I'd planned on going back and leaving you with all this, now did you?  I just wanted to get as much done working with specimens as I could while in the suit."

"I swear to all that's holy that I'm shipping you back on the next run of the Daedalus," he says, so clearly exasperated as he checks her over quickly.  "Let the SGC go grey over your antics instead of me."

"Think how boring it would be without me," Biro says, and drinks more water.

"How peaceful, you mean," Beckett says crossly.  

"Peaceful?  Certainly not.  You'll always have Rodney," Biro replies, and Teyla has to smile even as Beckett's mouth quirks upward.

"Aye, always," Beckett replies wryly.  But there is fondness there, for Teyla knows how much he likes Rodney, no matter how much he argues with him.  Rodney has that effect on everyone, Teyla herself included.  

"Dr. Biro, the villagers have set up a room for us to use for rest.  Perhaps you would like to do so.  After you wash up," Teyla adds in, striving for a diplomatic tone.  Teyla's own experience with a hazmat suit had left her washing for what felt like hours to be free of the stench of sweat and chemicals.

"Oh god yes, I reek.  Thanks, Teyla."

Biro slings an arm around Teyla's shoulders, and Teyla slips an arm around her waist, and they stagger off to their room.  Teyla is not surprised at Biro's headache and nausea and vomiting, and helps her to clean up and bathe, and wrestles her into clean soft clothes.  The Sueltans have put bedding along each wall of the room; it is on the floor, as they have used all available cots for the ward.  Gasquet has already claimed a pallet, and snores lightly.  Teyla is tired enough she knows she will not mind sleeping on the floor, and doubts that Beckett will complain when it is their turn for sleep.

Beckett comes back in, and in spite of Biro's fussing, puts an IV in her arm and an injection into her thigh, one for the dehydration and one for the nausea.  Teyla fetches a container with a lid to hold fresh water and a basin in the event she becomes nauseated again, and by the time she returns, Biro is soundly asleep.

"Such a stubborn woman," Beckett says when she rejoins him out in the ward, most of his concentration on regulating an IV for one of his patients.  "Incredibly intelligent, but a head like a brick."

Teyla cannot help her smile.  "As if you would act differently, Dr. Beckett," she says as he jots a note on the patient's chart and tucks it back into the bag at the foot of the bed.  "I know you, so you cannot fool me into thinking elsewise."

"Well," Beckett says with a wry sidewise glance.  "I shan't deny it.  I'm absolutely certain that somewhere in the genetic makeup of doctors there's a very large and active gene for stubbornness."

"I am quite convinced it is shared by everyone in Atlantis," Teyla replies with a bigger smile, handing him another set of latex gloves.

"And among the Athosians as well, then," he says, and then with a gleam in his eyes, adds, "Certain ones in particular."

"Really, Doctor, you should not speak of Halling in such a way," Teyla replies archly.

Beckett laughs, and she wishes for a moment she could see the deep dimples in his cheeks, hidden by the mask he wears.

He looks as if he will reply, but then a wheezing rasp from one of his patients catches his attention, and Beckett instantly turns to care for him, visibly shrugging off the greater part of his weariness, focused and intent once more.

From the angle of light pushing in through the wavy window glass, it is midmorning when Teyla awakes.  She blinks a couple of times and glances at her watch; only four hours since Beckett sent her to bed.  It is not enough rest-she aches all over, but she is not certain what woke her, until she hears it again, a soft little distressed sound that is perhaps what pulled her from sleep.

She rubs her bleary eyes and glances around.  Gasquet's pallet is empty, as is that of Biro.  Against the third wall, across from her own, is Beckett's pallet, and the noise comes from there. Sitting up, she takes a moment to collect herself, then shoves to her feet, wraps a blanket around her bare shoulders, and pads across the cold floor, shivering.

Beckett lies in a tangle of covers, moving restlessly, his brow creased in a frown even as he sleeps.  She is not certain when he actually came to his bed-certainly after Biro had woken, because he would never leave patients unattended, and Biro had been exhausted from the stress of working in the containment suit, had still been sleeping when Teyla staggered in after dawn.

His dreams are obviously not pleasant, and Teyla wonders if he thinks of Hoff; she cannot help but make comparisons, what with the need to rotate people on and off oxygen in order to share limited supplies, the continuous sound of coughing and wheezing that now fills the ward.  He shifts constantly, murmuring something in a roll of furry-sounding consonants that she cannot quite catch, his mouth caught in a frown, the violet smudges beneath his eyes from yesterday gone deeper, darker from exhaustion.  He has twisted in the covers enough that it only covers his lower belly and part of his upper thighs; she can see the edges of blue boxers.  His skin is as pale as cream, his chest deep and broad, smooth and hairless, his belly gently curved.  He is not hard and muscular as have been most of the men she has known, the fewer still she has shared a bed with, but there is strength in him, a reassuring solidity.  Her conscience pricks sharply at her; she should not look at him while he is so unguarded, but she cannot seem  to stop the skim of her eyes over him. Nor can she help the bloom of heat between her thighs brought about by the looking; she is not made of stone, but is as much flesh and blood and desire and need as any other.  Teyla kneels down beside him, wary of the reach of his arms, because living under constant stress and threat of the Wraith tends to make people waken violently, even if that is not their nature.  She hesitates a moment, then lays a hand on his shoulder.  His skin is cold in the autumn morning.

He does not waken, and she is not sure, but she thinks perhaps his restlessness loses the sharp edge of agitation.  Beneath her callused fingers, his skin is smooth and soft.  Teyla murmurs, "Carson.  Carson, be at ease," using his given name for fear his last name or title will bring him instantly awake, and he obviously needs his rest.

Teyla hums softly under her breath, a slow, sad song Charin had taught her years ago.  But it is calm and soothing to the ear, and evidently it works for him; it takes a few moments, but he finally eases into a deeper sleep, looking less troubled.  It is only when she removes her hand from his shoulder that she realizes she has been stroking, gently.

The rash of coldbumps over his skin makes Teyla remove the blanket from around her shoulders and spread it over him, carefully, so as not to wake him.  It is warm from her body, and he sighs as it settles over him.  She rises and pads back to her own pallet, arms wrapped tightly around herself, her own bare skin creeping with coldbumps.  At the foot of her bed lies another blanket, and she tosses it onto her bedding and crawls beneath it.  She shivers and presses her thighs tightly together, tucks her hands beneath her armpits, curling up as much as she can.  Daring a glance over in his direction, she sees he still rests easily. Deliberately she closes her eyes and wills herself back to sleep, trying to ignore the thrum of blood in her veins, the feelings that have no place here and now.

When she next wakes, Beckett's pallet is empty, though she has slept little more than another hour.  Hurriedly, she dresses, splashes cold water on her face, rakes  fingers through her hair and ties back her hair again.  Out in the ward, she see a flurry of activity around one bed, and as she pulls on isolation gear, she watches as Beckett, at the head of the cot, tips back  the patient's head to an acute angle and inserts something smoothly down the man's throat, and Biro hands him tubing while working at the dials of a machine set at bedside.  Their actions are smooth and practiced, a team which has worked well together for years, without a false or wasted movement.  

Teyla's eyes flick around and she sees that there is another in a like state, hooked up to one of the machines that she knows are respirators.  She notes with a sinking heart that it is Danal.  Evidently, while she had slept, things had become much worse.  She wishes she knew more of medicine, that she could do something of actual value to help them, but her skills lie in other areas.  Still, she does what she can, checking the generator, making sure there is plenty of hot water for washing, keeping supplies at hand, feeding patients, helping them take care of their needs, bathing them, cleaning up after them. She loses track of all the times she changes out of isolation gear into new, loses track of the hours as they pass.  Dr. Gasquet and Rhan and their helpers are equally busy; there are so many lying in cots, with more coming in seemingly every time she turns her head, and they all grow steadily worse.  Teyla thinks that the sound of their labored breathing will haunt her dreams the next time she sleeps.  As helpless as she feels, Beckett and Biro must feel a hundred times more so, and frustrated at their lack of progress.

Noon comes and goes, and Teyla gets food for them.  Gasquet and Rhan eat hurriedly, Biro sits for a moment tapping at her notebook as she bolts down anything set in front of her, but Teyla has to fetch Beckett and physically pull him away.  She has not seen him pause once over the course of the day, always doing something, never stopping.  

"You will come with me now," she says firmly, and starts stripping him out of the gear even as he protests, steers him over to the basins, and stands over him as he washes.  His face is dark and displeased at her presumptuousness, but she has learned that Beckett is much like Rodney, and will work until he drops in place, unless someone intervenes. He mutters under his breath, but the lilt and cadence of his words are in his own native tongue, and she does not understand them.  It is probably best she does not, she decides, steering him back to the corner furthest from the patients that they have designated for their meals, when they get to take them.

He does not sit, and even as he stands there, drinking heavily-honeyed tea, he moves, if only from one foot to another.  He is so obviously beyond tired that it makes her weary just to look at him.  Teyla says, "You should sit, and rest," and he shakes his head firmly.

"There's an animal-a fish, actually-back on Earth.  It's called a shark.  If it stops moving, stops swimming, it dies.  It's like that, after a fashion, for me.  If I sit, I'll sleep," he says.  His voice is husky with exhaustion, his words rolling heavily, his accent deeper and thicker than she has ever heard before.  He rubs at his reddened eyes.  "If I keep moving, I'll stay awake."

Teyla understands, even if she does not approve of how he drives himself.  She nods.  "How is Danal?"

Beckett's head turns back toward the ward, and scrubs a hand through his thick dark hair.  "Holding his own," he says at last.  "These sorts of things are always hardest on the elderly and the young.  Though Danal's healthy and as tough as the proverbial boot, nothing changes the fact that he's still in his eighties.  I wish I could say without reservation that he'll make it, but honestly, I just don't know.  The respirator will keep him going a wee bit longer, and I'm hoping that the discovery Anne and I made earlier will pan out before he loses the fight."  His shoulders sag.  "Anne lost one while I slept.  She came to get me to help with the intubations of the others."

Teyla reaches out and takes one of his big hands in hers.  It is cold, and she can feel the tremor caused by exhaustion.  "It did not happen because you slept," she says gently.  She should not have to say these things aloud, as Beckett is one of the most intelligent people she has ever met, as gifted, in his own field, as is Rodney in his, but she knows well that the heart does not always pay heed to the logic of the mind.  "You know this."

"Aye, I know it," he says softly.  "Sometimes, no matter how hard you work, how much you will it, the body can only bear so much.  It's a true pity that I can't take them back to Atlantis, to have access to all the equipment we have there, but the moment we step through the gate, she'd institute a quarantine and lockdown, and we'd all be trapped where we stood.  No. We'll have to deal with it here."

"Have you and Dr. Biro found the cause for this?"  His thumb strokes lightly over hers, and Teyla thinks he is not even aware of it.  Even though she seeks to offer comfort, this small, repetitive motion somehow calms her instead.

"Aye, we cultured it out this morning from her work yesterday-it's a preliminary finding, and we'll have to verify, but I think it's our beast.  There's a disease on Earth, highly communicable, called Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome, or SARS, for short.  This is similar to, though not identical to that.  The Earth-form is a nasty creature that doesn't respond well to conventional treatments.  Primarily, it's treated symptomatically there-um, by treating symptoms as they appear, and keeping an eye out for secondary problems that take advantage of a suppressed immune system, such as pneumonia, which is what we're doing here, until we can do better.  We're hoping that this won't be quite as difficult.  We're seeing now how it responds to different medications we have available. I hope to god that we have something that will work. Medicine is still very much a trial and error profession, no matter how fancy the equipment gets."

"I have faith that you will discover how to treat this and overcome it."  Teyla cannot help the upward curl of her mouth.  "You do have that stubborn gene in very large quantities, after all."

He looks down at her, and his tired eyes warm for just a moment.  "That I do.  But still, let's just hope that your faith in me isn't misplaced."

"I know that it is not," Teyla says, and reaches up to put her hands on his shoulders, tipping her head down a little, offering comfort.

Gently, he puts his hands on her shoulders and bends down to put his forehead to hers.  His breath is strong with the scent of tea and tiredness, his face dark with unshaved beard.  For a bare moment he goes still, then the fingertips of his right hand smooth an arc over the place where her neck meets shoulder as his thumb skates over her collarbone.  It is a simple, quick touch, there and gone almost before she feels it.  And then Beckett steps away, nods, and returns to his ward, leaving Teyla feeling unaccountably flushed.

Later, it takes the combined force of Teyla, Biro, Gasquet and Rhan, but they manage to oust him from the ward to sleep; he is starting to noticeably slow, and it takes too long for him to formulate answers to questions, his temper quick and his tongue sharp as any of his scalpels.  In this condition he is of no use to anyone, and possibly harmful, so he cedes to their logic and goes off to well-deserved sleep.  It would be a mercy if he did sleep, but when Teyla checks on him a couple of times, he is as restless as he was before, though he does settle at her light touch.

As late afternoon slides toward evening, Teyla gets a report from Biro, who is slightly more optimistic than Beckett, and rides out to the Gate.  She dials in and talks with Dr. Weir, who sounds very concerned at the diagnosis and who agrees, reluctantly, with Beckett's decision that they cannot bring the Sueltans to Atlantis.  

"It is a pity, yes," Teyla says solemnly.  "I have known many of them since I was a young girl.  It hurts to see them so ill and not be able to bring them to the medical wonders of Atlantis."

"Yes, I understand," Weir says, her voice sympathetic. "But we cannot allow ourselves to be exposed to such an aggressive disease.  And I think you'll agree that with an incubation rate of two or three days, we can safely call it aggressive."

"No, we cannot, I agree.  I remain confident that Drs. Beckett and Biro will find a way of dealing with this.  They have been very dedicated, have worked so very hard to save everyone here."

"Of that, I have no doubt," Weir replies.  "Keep us apprised of the situation, and let us know if there is anything further you need."

"I shall do that," Teyla says, and the Gate closes a moment after's Weir's farewell.

It is long past dark once again before Teyla rides back into town.  The streets are still and quiet save for a handful of sentries, a marked change from the usual evening crowd of friendly people milling around.  Beckett had insisted on instituting a quarantine to try and keep the healthy separated from the sick, but it had proved very difficult to implement, as family members had desired, understandably, to stay with their loved ones. He had been extraordinarily patient with fearful town elders with explanations as to why he wished it, why it was so terribly important, and he had eventually gotten his directions obeyed, but not without argument.  Fear often turns to anger, and it had in this instance, which is why the sentries are present, to preserve the peace, to keep everyone in place, and as safe as possible.

Teyla washes and gets into her gear-she is certain that she can now do this in her sleep-and enters the ward.  Within, Dr. Gasquet, Rhan, and the two volunteers chosen for their quick minds and willingness to work hard attend to the patients while Beckett and Biro confer over microscopes, notepads, Ancient scanners, and other medical machinery.  They appear very intent, their voices low and serious, their hand gestures short and sharp.  Their words are in the common language the Atlanteans share, but more of them are medical and scientific jargon she has no way to interpret.  Still, they do not look as if all is hopeless, and Teyla finds a measure of comfort in that.  Although she knows that what she has been doing has value, it is still somewhat disconcerting not to be in on the decision-making process, as she is with her own team.

She misses them with a sudden rush of something that feels almost like homesickness.  Ronon, sharp and quick and relentless with his surprisingly soft eyes and generous mouth that smiles more often now than before.  Rodney, undeniably brilliant, surprisingly brave, hiding a core of vulnerability behind a virulent sarcasm.  Colonel Sheppard, canny and clever, whose charm and open smile hide far more than they show.  She has been with them long enough that she has almost forgotten how she once worked entirely alone, independently, and now feels as if something vital has gone missing by not having them at her side.  But she would not wish them here, faced with the possibility of this disease that steals the breath, floods the lungs, causes other organs to fail, for any amount of her own discomfort.

Of course she thinks of falling ill with this herself, of struggling for each breath-how could she not?  But she is careful and prudent and obeys Beckett's orders for contact with the patients, minimizing the risks to herself as much as possible.  She pushes the thought to the back of her mind and concentrates on what she can do to make the situation better, to be as much help as she can, to care for the caretakers as well as the patients, for worry eats away at one's strength and accomplishes little.  Her concern lies more with the others-for all of them of course, but for Beckett and Biro in particular, as they are the ones responsible for finding a way to fight this, a war which depends on patience, knowledge, experience and sheer dogged determination.

And if the thought of Beckett succumbing to this causes a sinking feeling in the pit of her belly, a twist of emotions stronger than those for the others, well.  She can  admit it, if only to herself.

The evening wears on into night, and eventually she gets them all to eat, and Biro and Gasquet retire to take their sleep shifts.  They had simply fallen into this arrangement without planning, and Teyla does not mind to be awake during most of the night hours; she had often taken this watch while offworld with her team, and the familiarity brings a sort of comfort.  Beckett does not seem to mind either; she has seen how he does not sleep well, regardless of when he makes the attempt. She thinks of his words on the night of the feast, of how he gets precious few hours of sleep, and she has seen this for herself here, wonders if it is so back in Atlantis, as well.  She thinks it perhaps is; Beckett has had to make far too many decisions she does not think he had ever been prepared to make, and they all lie heavily upon him.

Beckett moves through his patients, giving medications, listening to chests, checking monitors and respirators and oxygen setups.  Though he is hurried, he always has a kind word, a gentle touch, a moment of calm, an offer of hope.  And no less for her; when he passes her, the corners of his blue eyes crinkle in a smile that she cannot help but return.

It is long into the night, almost time for them to wake up Biro and Gasquet when the the battle turns in their favor. As she passes the place they have designated as lab space where he sits peering into a microscope, she hears him say softly, "Holy mother of god."

She moves to him, curious, and he switches out slides a couple of times, the set of his shoulders tense and tight; he makes her think of a hunting cat ready to pounce, all anticipation and tension.  At last he looks up at her from his microscope, the tiredness wiped from his expression, his eyes glinting with joy.  "We've found it, " he says, his voice husky.  "We've found a medication I think will kill it."

"I knew you would," Teyla says, and she cannot contain the warm joy that courses through her at such wonderful news.  "I knew my faith was not misplaced."

And then Beckett is on his feet, and Teyla reaches up to pull his forehead down against hers, but instead his arms go around her, and he lifts her up off her feet into a huge hug.  Her arms wrap so naturally around his shoulders, and the heat of his body feels wonderful in the chill room.  He squeezes hard enough to make her squeak against his neck, and his excitement and happiness rolls over her in a thick wave. For a moment his cheek presses against hers, and she can feel the prickle of rough beard even through their face masks.  She feels almost giddy, and she thinks that if they were not in gowns and gloves and masks, she would kiss him.

Beckett has always been very perceptive, quick to read those around him, and even though he is tired, that talent does not fail him now.  Somehow, the embrace changes subtly, and when he lowers her back to her feet, her body slides down his, slowly and deliberately.  For a heartbeat or two she stands between his sturdy thighs, and he is not unaffected; she can feel him, half-hard.  

When she looks up at him, she can see a faint flush high on his cheeks, but his blue eyes are direct and unapologetic.  His hands, big and broad and strong, tighten on her waist a moment, and then he steps back, his hands sliding away, lingeringly, as if he wishes to hold her longer.  Immediately, she misses his heat, the press of his chest against hers, the touch of his hands, the warm scent of his neck just below his ear.

"I'd best be rousting out Anne to share the good news," he says, after clearing his throat.  His voice still sounds deeper than it does normally, and Teyla cannot ignore-does not wish to ignore-the twisting, lancing ache of desire that arcs downward, that makes things tighten low in her belly.  "We.  We still have a bloody lot of work to do.  Discovery of a possible cure is just a step in the process."

"Yes. But at least you may see the destination at the end of the road, now," Teyla says, and is surprised at the steadiness of her voice, when she feels everything but that.

"Aye.  And that's a blessing.  This..." he gestures with a little wave of his hand, "...brings to mind memories of things I'd rather not think of again."

"But here is not the same as Hoff," Teyla says, and she notices how he flinches a little at the name, even after all this time.  "It is completely different circumstances."

"I know that it is," he says after a moment, and Teyla realizes why he has driven himself so hard here, besides the physician's innate impulse to help; he has never really forgiven either the Hoffans or himself for the events there.  But before she can say anything, he says briskly, "Let's get to work then, shall we?  Could you please wake Anne while I check on everyone again?"

"Certainly," she replies.  Beckett has pulled professionalism around himself as he would one of his long white coats.  Teyla understands; he is an intensely private person, and this has obviously brought things to the surface he does not wish to think of at this time.  And now is not the time to attempt to discuss them, not when they have so much to do.  Nor is it a time to indulge in thoughts and feelings that have nothing to do with the task at hand.  Later, Teyla promises herself, they will address what is between them, newly acknowledged.  She has been alone for too long, as has he, and perhaps together they may find a bit of warmth for themselves.

Teyla has never missed the comfort of sleep so much, ever.

Beckett is single-minded and driven, Biro no less so, and she has no hope of catching or understanding the quick sharp patter of their words, filled with phrases she does not understand, of math, of dosages and time frames of possible side effects and  half a dozen other considerations that she hears every time she passes them.  

There is no shortage of work for her hands to do, and so Teyla stays on her feet and does what she can.  She is aware when they first give their chosen medication to one patient, of how they watch him as a mother watches a new baby, full of apprehension, fear of the thousand things that could conceivably go wrong. She knows that Beckett has said before that they are physically identical with one another, of the same genetic stock, so what works for the Atlanteans should work as well for those in her own galaxy, but what seems simple and obvious so seldom is, she knows from experience.  As do they; Biro says something about "waiting for things to go pear-shaped," and although Teyla does not understand the idiom, she comprehends easily enough the idea behind it.

The result of the new medication is not something visibly dramatic; the patient does not miraculously rise from his bed.  Teyla did not exactly expect such a thing, but seeing him lying in his bed, seemingly unchanged, is somewhat anticlimatic after Beckett's excitement.  But Beckett and Biro seem pleased by the results on their scanners; she can feel their tension ratchet down a notch.

"It's a waiting game," Beckett says long hours later while they stand side by side and wash in the wavering glow of lamplight.  "We've given others the medication, and now wait and see how they react, what it does to the organism, and how quickly. But so far, everything looks like it's heading for a positive outcome.  I'm optimistic."  He tosses the towel into the basket at their feet, and although she can almost see his happiness, he still looks as bleary as she feels.  They have been on their feet for more hours than she can exactly recall, and she should be hungry, but all she feels is the heaviness of her limbs, the fuzziness of her mind, slowed to a walk instead of its usual sprint.

"Would you like to eat now?"

He gives it a moment's thought, then shakes his head.  "No, I'd rather sleep, honestly.  It's been a while since I've gone this long with so little.  I'm rather out of practice," he says, and offers a small smile, no more than a quirk upward of the left side of his mouth, but it still carves a deep dimple in that cheek.  "And you, love, must be exhausted."

"I am rather weary," Teyla admits.  "Rest would be most welcome."

"We can scrounge about later then, when we wake," he says, and turns toward the room where they sleep.  Biro catches him before he gets far, and Teyla goes on without him.  

Someone has set a fire, and the room is warmer than she expects.  She wishes desperately for a hot, soapy shower as she strips down to underwear and crawls beneath covers, but they all smell a bit ripe, so she is no more offensive than anyone else, and usually does not notice anyone else simply from constant exposure.  Shivering, she curls into a ball after tucking in the covers around herself as much as possible.  Before she even warms, though, sleep claims her.

Teyla is not certain how long she sleeps, but it is not long enough.  She opens her eyes to the flutter of firelight at the edge of her eye and the soft sound of Beckett's bad dreams.  Her head still feels blurry, and her body aches, but she looks over to where he lies, moving restlessly in his blankets.  Pulling up the blanket over her ears and eyes, her body clamors for rest and she seeks to return to sleep, but the little sounds of distress tug at her heart, and sleep slips away.

Teyla sits up, pushes her hair from her face, and looks across the room.  Beckett lies on his stomach, the covers kicked off, one hand knotted into a fist, brows and mouth drawn into a deep frown.  He looks so unhappy that she cannot ignore him.  With a sigh, she wraps her blanket around herself and pads over to him.

Kneeling down beside him, she reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder, as she had before.  His skin feels cold, and he shifts a little toward her, as if seeking more warmth.  He has a beautiful back, pale and smooth and broad, surprisingly muscular.  She likes the contrast between her skin tones and his as her fingers drift down the curve of his spine without conscious thought, until her fingers reach the waistband of his boxers, tugged askew by his position, drawn tight over the full curve of buttocks.

Beckett shifts, and one eye, just visible over the arc of biceps, opens slowly.  His eyelashes are not long, but thick, and he blinks again before he can focus on her.  "Teyla?"  His voice is rough with sleep.

"Shh, Carson," she says, and she hears the little hitch  in her voice when she says his name.  "You were having a nightmare."

"Ah, I'm sorry," he says, and turns enough to roll halfway to his side, rubbing at his eyes.  "I didn't mean to..."  Teyla's hand slides across his waist, and he shivers, though she thinks he does not do so from the cold. "Oh," he says.

Carson's eyes fix on her, moving from sleep-tossed hair to bare feet, before returning to her face.  He pulls up a knee slightly, thigh half-hiding his groin, but not before she had caught a glimpse of his thicking flesh barely concealed by his boxers.

Her body, in spite of her weariness, responds with a warm little flutter low in her belly, and before her mind can catch up with her and give her reasons as to why she should wait, should not do this now, she slides the blanket from her shoulders and lies down beside him, tugging the blanket over the both of them.  As cold as his back had been, his chest, his belly, the fronts of his legs are not.  She wriggles and presses herself close to his heat, and when her bare breasts flatten against his chest, when her arm goes around his waist, she hears his soft, "Oh, Christ," as his whole body goes rigid.  With her face tucked against his neck and shoulder, she feels him swallow, hard.  His hands hover just above her skin, as if he is uncertain whether he may touch her.  "Teyla, maybe this isn't such a good idea.  You don't have to..."

"If you think that I do things I do not wish to do, then you have not been paying attention," she says, and her lips brush against his beard-prickly throat.  He smells of warm musk and sweat, of man, and she wants suddenly to taste him against her tongue, to feel tender flesh between her teeth.  Instead she runs her hand up his back, curls her hand over the top of his shoulder, and squeezes.  He shudders harder, and it is very gratifying.  "I am here because I want to be here."

"I.  Oh, dammit, very well."  For a moment, he hesitates, then slowly, very slowly, he starts relaxing against her, and his arm goes over her waist, hand lying in the curve of her lower back.  It feels warm and heavy there, and the tip of his smallest finger slips beneath the edge of her panties, his thumb stroking lightly over the curve of her hip.  If the heat of his body had not seeped into her, if she were not almost drunk with tiredness, she would want more, because he feels good against her, makes her feel alive, strong and female.

"Carson," she murmurs, "Sleep now. We will sort through everything later, I promise."

"Oh, that we will, without a doubt," he replies, and Teyla falls back to sleep, breathing in his scent, lulled by his heat and the gentle stroke of his thumb against her skin.

When next she wakes, it is to Biro's voice, calling Carson's name, telling him it is his turn for a shift, to get up and let her sleep, and Carson's slurred, husky, "Aye, I'm awake now.  Give me a moment, please."

Though she knows it is selfish, Teyla does not wish to open her eyes.  She is warm and comfortable with Carson snugged in closely behind her, thighs tucked in behind her own, his face in her hair; she can feel his breath ghost against the back of her ear.  The arm she lies on makes a good pillow, and his other arm curls over her waist, big hand cupping a breast.  For a moment she thinks he will pull away now that he is awake, but then he squeezes gently, and his thumb rubs slowly back and forth across the nipple, bringing it to stiff attention.  It is a sharp, wonderful ache that sends hot sensation zipping down her body, that makes heat and wetness bloom between her thighs.  Slowly she wriggles back a little against him, and he is hard, his erection nestled in the small of her back, a thick, solid bar of heat.

"Ah," he says, with a little catch in his voice, "perhaps it would be best if you didn't do that, love."  In spite of his words, his hips push against her as he gives her nipple a little tug, and the pleasure is so acute that Teyla cannot help the sound that escapes her, breathy and needy.  Her blood  rushes tumultuously through her body, pounds in a hard, heavy pulse between her legs. She cannot help the tremor that sweeps over her, through her, the tidal pull of desire, and the need to be filled, to take and give long-denied pleasure, drives away most thought.

She is not certain if she turned, or if he turned her to her back, and it does not matter as he leans above her on one elbow, looking down at her.  He still has dark smudges beneath his eyes, still looks exhausted, but his expression is one of wonder, as if he cannot believe she lies almost naked next to him.  Beyond that, is a tender, passionate regard, an almost tangible intensity that leaves no doubt that he feels the same pull she does.  

His eyes flick from her face, down to bare skin exposed by the twist of blanket around her waist. His hand is pale against her skin, so warm.  He tweaks her nipple once more, and her hips rise helplessly in response.  That little movement, the heat in her face, the way her breath catches, brings a pleased, wholly masculine smile to his face, and he slides his hand over the swell of her breast, up her throat, and curls his fingers around her jaw, tipping up her face for a kiss.

"My given name," he says, and Teyla shivers at the drop in his voice, the burr of his words.  "I want to hear you say it.  Please."

"Carson," Teyla says, wrapping her hand around his arm, pulling him closer.  "Carson. Kiss me, Carson."

His breath is morning-strong, but she does not care, her own likely the same, and his lips are slightly chapped, but so warm.  When the tip of his tongue slicks across the middle of her upper lip, requesting entry, she opens willingly for him, and oh, it is wonderful.  He kisses slowly, assuredly, his mouth generous with hers, his tongue teasing and clever, a kiss that begins sweetly but moves unhurriedly into heat, the kiss of a man who enjoys kissing for its own sake and not simply as a step on the path to sex.  Teyla does not know why she finds his skill surprising, because he has always been a man of focus and passion in regard to everything in life, and in this, he is no different.

Teyla likes the way his fingers stroke along her jaw, how his hand slides into her hair and cups the back of her neck in his palm, his touch gentle but ardent.  He slides a knee between hers, and presses his erection against her hip, moving steadily against her as he kisses her.  When he starts to pull away, she is not yet ready to give him up, and captures his lower lip in her teeth and tugs and bites down easily.  The sound he makes, a little surprised, much aroused, makes her blood sing in her veins.  Her own hands roam over his arms, his shoulders, over the back of his neck, through his thick hair, urging him closer, and when he resists, she flips them and swings a leg over, settling astride him.  The blankets slide down and  pool around them, but she is no longer cold.

"Oh, god," he says fervently as his eyes move slowly over her, belly and breasts, shoulders and face.  "You are so beautiful."  His hands curve over her legs, thumbs rubbing circles over tender inner thighs, moving slowly, surely upward, little touches of heat that pull a soft moan from her.  She can feel his erection, hot even through two layers of cloth, push against her, sliding between her legs as his hips make a little stuttering thrust upward.  Teyla feels hot and full, feels slick and melting, as if just the right touch will make her burst open from pleasure.

She leans forward, bracing herself on his shoulders, and her hair falls around them, curtaining their faces together.  His eyes are huge and black, and his mouth, dark pink from kisses, opens in a gasp.  It matches the one that comes from her as his hands slide up her thighs, and over her hips to spread over her backside and squeeze.  

"Shouldn't," he manages, but his hands do not stop moving, kneading.  "Need to get back to work.  No time."

"No," Teyla agrees, and she rubs her breasts across his chest for the drag and pull against her nipples; she wants his hands on her there, but does not wish him to stop kneading her backside.  She dips her head to lick over the arch of collarbone.  It tastes of salt sweat, the skin thin and fragile over bone, and she can feel the wild flutter of his pulse against her tongue in the little notch at the base of his throat.  "But I find I do not care in this moment," she murmurs against his skin, and bites down.

Carson arches upward, and his hands pull her hips down onto him; three quick grinding thrusts against her belly, and he makes a low, rough, choked-off sound and shudders, climaxing, his arms going around her and squeezing so tightly her ribs creak.  When she lifts her head from his chest, her mark lies across his collarbone, bright red-purple, and when she licks across it, hot.  The smell of him is sharp and strong, come and musk and sweat, and it arrows down to the center of her, makes her thighs clench helplessly.

He gasps through a spill of syllables before going limp, his hands sliding from her, face flushed bright, eyes fluttering closed.  She does not think she has ever seen him so relaxed, so at peace, and she loves that she made him feel so.  But that satisfaction does not help with the need that thrums through her, in her head, her veins, her belly. His dark lashes flutter, and he licks his lips before opening his eyes, which are so dark she can barely see a ring of blue around the pupil.

"Lovely," he says, voice hoarse.  "Wonderful."

Teyla shifts against him until she can rub against his leg. "I would like to experience wonderful for myself," she manages to grit out, and ah, that angle is good, she thinks, rocking and grinding down on his thigh.  A moment of that, and she can find release herself, she is so close.

Carson chuffs out a laugh, and rolls them.  The wall is cold against her bare back, and Teyla arches up with a hiss, but then it does not matter as his hand smoothes down her belly and slides beneath her panties.  His dark head bends over her breast, and she cannot help the low moan that escapes her when he begins to suckle, all hot, wet suction, as his fingers, deft and unerring, slip through her wetness and find just the right spot.

"Yes," she says, "oh yes, there," and then the fevered heat that slides through her, in skin and muscle and nerves, sends her thoughts skittering away, leaving her aware only of aching desire and the drive to completion.  She tries to open her legs wider, but he has her pinned between the wall and his body.  He lifts his head, releasing her nipple with a wet pop to watch her as his touch changes, thumb now circling as his fingers slip into her, stretching, thrusting, filling her.

"Come on now," he croons.  "Come for me, love."

Her elbow slams into the wall and her other hand tightens on his shoulder as she climaxes hard against his hand, inner muscles clasping hard and frantically against his fingers deep within her.  Pleasure, almost scalding in its intensity, pours over her, and she claps her hand over her mouth, muffling her helpless cry as orgasm grows and swells and blooms hotly within her.  

When the last of the trembling shivers over her, Carson eases his fingers from her, dragging them up her belly, leaving a moist trail.  When he brings them up and licks off the remaining wetness, savoring her flavor, the sight of his obvious pleasure in that makes her belly tighten and clench hard again.  

Her whole body thrums with repletion, and she thinks she can almost see as well as feel the pleasure shimmering over her skin.  Carson looks tired and happy and sated.  His smile for her is warm, his mouth warmer as he kisses her; his lips and tongue taste of her.  She wishes she knew what he tastes like, but he spent himself against her before she could discover his flavor for herself.

"Seeing you like that has to be one of the most glorious things I've ever seen," he says against her mouth, his fingers stroking over her cheek.  "If I live to be a hundred, I'll never forget it."  He tucks a sweaty strand of hair behind her ear.  "I wish we'd had more time.  You deserve to be appreciated, like a fine wine, like a perfect meal.  I'm afraid we've taken far too much as it is, though."

"There will be more time," Teyla promises, her hand smoothing over his shoulders, his chest, pausing to trace her mark on him, and she is pleased when he shivers.  "If you so wish it."

"I've wished it for a very long time," Carson admits, and Teyla sees the truth in his face, always so expressive.  "In all honesty, I just never thought I'd get a second look from you."

Teyla slides over him, pausing to kiss his mouth, and rolls to her feet easily.  She feels looser and more relaxed than she has in a very long time, satisfied, and she stretches, luxuriously.  "Why would you think such a thing?"

"Good god," he says, and she turns to see him watching her with a flattering appreciation.  "Have you bothered to look in a mirror?  It's been my experience that women as beautiful as you seldom show interest in my type."

"Then their foolishness is my gain, and I cannot be sorry for that," she says, and is rewarded by  his brilliant smile.  "I find you very pleasing, for many different reasons."  She offers him her hand and they pull him to his feet.  He makes an unhappy face and plucks at the front of his boxers, wet and dark from his climax. Teyla wishes she had been able to hold him in her hand, to stroke and taste him while hard, but there will be many more opportunities to do so.  

They dress quickly, stealing glances at one another, and Carson leaves first after catching her for a kiss sweet enough to make her smile against his mouth.  The room smells of them, of sex and musk and sweat, and she opens the window a little to air it out so that Biro and Gasquet will not find it so oppressive when they come to rest.  She rebuilds the fire, no more than coals at this point, and then steps out to work, tying back her hair. When Carson looks up at her from the screen of his notebook and his blue, blue eyes crinkle at the corners in a smile, she cannot help but return it in full, feeling warmer and more pleased than she has in recent memory, filled to the brim with hope and possibilities.

"We have the medical department working around the clock to produce sufficient quantities of the medication, so there should be no problem in supplying the Sueltans with what they need," Dr. Weir says through their comm link via the Gate.  "I'm just thankful that they were able to isolate the  organism and then find a medication that worked so quickly."

"Dr. Beckett said that it was, in his words, 'no more than bloody luck,' but I have seen how hard they have worked in the past few days, and I know that it is anything but that.  They were very determined.  Are very determined yet."  The event horizon of the Gate shimmers brightly in the cold night air, always in motion, but somehow serene, like gazing over a sun-sparkled lake.

"Did Carson say how much longer he would be holding everyone in quarantine? I can't imagine that it's been easy for anyone with all the precautions that have been necessary."

"Indeed it has not," Teyla replies, and looks down at her hands, reddened and chapped from all the washing and disinfecting, from the constant use of latex gloves.  "But no, he has not said anything in regard to that yet other than his desire to see the patients on antibiotics at least two more days before he makes a final decision."  The days on Suelta are shorter than the Atlantis standard and it is not difficult to calculate precise times, but she knows that Carson, left to his own devices, errs on the side of caution, and given what she has seen, she cannot blame him.

"If you can hold out just a little longer, I'll send reinforcements the moment he determines that it's safe to do so.  All of you are due a long-deserved rest once you get back home."

"It will be most welcomed," Teyla replies. She thinks longingly of her shower, of her soap that smells of Athosian spices, of her soft, comfortable bed, and she thinks of sharing all these with Carson.  In all likelihood they will sleep the better part of their first day back; they have not had much more than three or four hours of sleep at any one time, and even that frequently interrupted.  Given the volume of patients, the stress of working with the ill, she is beyond tired.

"Understood," Dr. Weir says.  "Did you need any other supplies at the moment?"

Teyla looks around at the chests of prepared antibiotics and other medical essentials she has yet to load into the cart she brought to the Gate.  "I think not.  It appears that you have given us almost everything that Dr. Beckett requested.  We appreciate your efforts."

"Not a problem," Dr. Weir says.  "I just wish we could do more for everyone, but even with regular runs of the Daedalus, our supplies are limited."  She pauses, and then Teyla can hear a thread of amusement in her voice when next she speaks.  "Oh, I'm to pass along Rodney's  congratulations that you've not blown up his valuable naquadah generator yet."

Teyla cannot help but grin.  "Please tell Rodney that I am most pleased by his faith in my abilities and that I will strive to remain...unblownup."

With a laugh, Dr. Weir signs off, and the Gate whooshes into nothingness.  

Working by lamplight, Teyla wrestles the boxes and containers into the back of the cart, secures them, and arrives back in town late into the night.  Unloading and helping Dr. Biro put everything where she wishes it takes another hour, and by the time they have finished, she is exhausted, her thoughts furry; except for a short nap caught in the afternoon, she has been up since long before dawn.  Though they had initially attempted to keep to regular shifts of a sort, it had proved to be impossible to maintain any kind of schedule, and so they sleep when they can, usually only when they are in imminent danger of literally falling over.  If nothing else, Teyla has gained a new appreciation for the dedication and hardiness of the medical staff.

Biro thanks her, and tells her that in the hours Teyla has been gone, most of the patients are showing a definite improvement, and the two who had been on respirators have been weaned from those to regular oxygen.  And that is news that she welcomes joyfully; it looks as if they will lose no more-they have lost seven to this disease-far too many.

She stops by Danal's bed, and although he lies still, it looks like a normal restful sleep, his breathing regular and even.  Although she wants to touch and reassure herself that he is fine, she does not, wishing to let him continue sleeping. She will say something to him tomorrow.

"Teyla," Biro says in her ear, and it is a testament to Teyla's tiredness and dulled awareness that she has not noticed Biro's approach.  "Go sleep.  Don't make me drag you there."

At this point, Biro probably could, Teyla thinks, though the woman looks as tired as she surely does.  Biro sleeps no more than the rest of them.  

"I think that I shall," Teyla replies, and offers Biro a half smile.  "Dragging will be entirely unneccessary."

"Finally, someone who actually listens to me.  How refreshing," Biro says with asperity, and Teyla's half smile goes to full.  "And Teyla?  For what it's worth, I'm glad for you and Carson.  He's a good man beneath all that Scots bullheadedness, and you'll be very good for him."  She tips her head to one side, curiously birdlike.  "If it's more than just stress relief, I mean.  Though I can't say there's anything wrong with just that, either."

Of course Teyla did not truly think that what they had done together would go unnoticed by anyone, but she had, for Carson's sake, wished it would go without comment.  She should have known better; this is Biro, after all.  But her words are wholly without malice; Biro seems genuinely pleased.  Teyla merely inclines her head in a non-answer because even though there is no true privacy in a population as small as that in Atlantis, she thinks that Carson likes to pretend that there is, and she will defer to his wishes until he says otherwise.  Biro smiles at her and pats her shoulder before Teyla goes to strip out of her gear and wash up.  

When she gets to their shared quarters, Carson is asleep, the only thing visible his shock of dark hair.  She pulls off her clothes, not caring where or how they fall, tugs on the blankets wrapped tightly around him-he has not been asleep long enough for the bad dreams to take him, and so sleeps soundly--until she unrolls enough to slide beneath.  With a sigh she curls around his back, her cheek pressing between his shoulder blades; he is so warm, like a fire.  He murmurs something that might be her name, fumbling for her hand, pressing it against his stomach beneath his own hand, before sliding back into sleep.  She follows a breath or two later.

It seems no time passes before Biro calls them, and Teyla struggles out of sleep, feeling so heavy, weighted by weariness that she can barely move.  Carson has curled around her at some point, and he strokes her belly, presses a kiss to the top of her shoulder, and whispers, "Sleep a bit more then, love, you were out late last night."  Teyla does not argue, and falls asleep again.

Biro rousts her out an hour later, apologetic, but she and Gasquet need to sleep, and so Teyla rises, pulls on her clothes, and goes to work.  Carson has left some of the tea for her, bread and cheese, and she eats quickly, looking at the wakening patients.

They look considerably better, even to her untrained eye-no pallor, no fever flush, no gasping for air like a caught fish brought to land.  Some still cough, but it lacks the horrible throat-tearing sound of before, and fewer now wear oxygen.  She has not had to clean up the results of unsteady stomachs for at least a day.  Clearly, the medication works for them, and as she sees no new faces since yesterday, she fervently hopes the disease has begun to run its course.

With her own breakfast taken, Teyla goes to the kitchen and begins bringing up broth and bread for the patients.  Most can now feed themselves, which makes the work of the caretakers much easier.  She and Aln and Nadna, the two volunteers, have worked out a system of caring for them, as Rhan and Dr. Gasquet work more with the physicians.  Nadna sleeps now, but Aln is about, and always has something optimistic to say, a kind word; she had traded with Teyla's father, years ago, and so Teyla had been glad to work with her, to see her again, though she wishes it had been under far different circumstances.

The day passes, as have the others, rapidly, filled with work.  Teyla watches Carson from the corner of her eye as he moves from patient to patient, giving medications, performing examinations, soft-spoken and gentle.  He always has a touch to offer, and that had been one of the things that first caught her eye when she came to live in Atlantis; unlike her own people, they do not touch often, spending most of their lives isolated from something that offers so much comfort.  Carson touches, connects, and unlike most Atlantean men, is not afraid or ashamed to let his emotions show; she likes this very much.

When Biro rises, she and Carson confer, dark and light heads close as they study lab results, charts and graphs and what appears to be a  blob surrounded by a halo.  She steps up closer between them to look at it, and Carson's hand rests lightly on her back.

"Is this it?  The cause of all this?" she asks.

"Aye, it is," Carson answers.  "The source of all our grief here.  Looks rather innocent, doesn't it?"

"It is almost pretty," Teyla observes, watching the representation spin on the screen, layers of red and blue and green, oddly-shaped internal parts of yellow and orange and purple.  

"Color enhancement," Biro replies, "so we can see the structure more clearly.  But yes, you're correct-it is almost pretty."

"I am no scientist, but it remains true in most situations that what appears most fair is often foul," Teyla says.

"Unfortunately, you're quite right in that," Carson says.  "And there's little to be done about it."  He makes a little musical hum, his eyes thoughtful.  "Anne and I will be taking samples shortly from all the afflicted.  We'll culture them, and see what, if anything, grows.  With a wee bit of luck we'll have beaten it."

"Cultures take twenty-four hours," Biro continues, "so we'll know late tomorrow.  And if nothing grows out, we can drop the quarantine and get some help in from Atlantis."  She rolls her shoulders, which are clearly drawn tight with tension.  "I for one will be glad for reinforcements.  Never thought I'd end up being a Jill-of-All-Trades."

"It never harmed anyone to learn a new skillset, and think of how it builds character," Carson says, and even behind his mask his grin is teasing.

"As you so frequently say, bugger off. My character has been fully constructed for some time, thank you," Biro says.  "And now my character and I will start collecting specimens.  Feel free to join me at any time."

And with that, she turns away to pick up supplies.  Aln has gone to rest, and Nadna has taken her place, glancing at them occasionally, curiosity very clearly written on his face. The Sueltans are traders, but their tech level is low, and everything the Atlanteans brought seems miraculous to them.  Teyla herself had thought so when first she and her people went to Atlantis, and even now, after all this time, the wonder has not worn away.  Often she wonders how far they could have advanced as a culture had the Wraith not culled them almost to extinction-hundreds of years ago and uncounted planets in the past, they had once been as advanced as the Satedans.  She is not sure anyone knows where they once originated.

Carson's hand slides down to her lower back, a little caress before leaning in closer.  "You look suddenly serious.  Are you all right, my dear?"

Teyla pushes away her thoughts, as it serves no purpose to dwell on an unchangable past.  She finds a smile and offers it to him.  "I am fine.  I was just...woolgathering, as you would say."

"I've been known to do a bit of that myself," Carson replies. His eyes suddenly crinkle in amusement.  "And there's a statement I'll never be saying in front of Rodney.  Lord, I'd never hear the end of it."

"No you would not," Teyla replies.  "He is quite tenacious."  She does not understand all the references they make, but fully understands the sentiment behind them.  Though they are frequently sharp and biting with one another, they are still good friends beneath it all, and she is very glad, for Rodney has so few of them.

They separate to their tasks, working steadily into the evening.  Teyla finds a moment to stop and speak with Danal, alert and awake, breathing with the help of oxygen.  She holds his cool hands in her own, wishing she could touch skin to skin, and tells him of the events of the past few days, as he has no memory of much of it.  When she steps away to work and to let him sleep, she feels bouyed by hope; Danal has been a part of her life since she was a small girl, going on diplomatic missions with her father, trading missions with her mother. She has so little stability in her world that she holds fiercely to everything and everyone she can.

When it is time to sleep, Teyla goes alone, as Carson and Biro are working on medications and premliminary test results.  She has given up any pretense of sleeping on her own pallet, and dragged her own over to his; with both sets of mats and blankets, she finds their bed much more comfortable.  Carson comes in sometime later, and she rouses at the brush of his beard-rough cheek, such a contrast with his soft, uncallused hands, his warm mouth.

"Lovely Teyla," Carson murmurs and pulls her close.  He is half hard against her, and she makes an effort to wake more fully, but he says, "No, sleep now."  Teyla feels her mouth curve into a little smile, and with a final kiss to the corner of her mouth, he wraps himself around her and she falls back to sleep, warm and content.

"We're ready to check lab results," Carson says the next evening, his voice low in her ear, and Teyla cannot prevent the little start; she had not heard him approach.  Partly that is from her slowed responses, but Carson is surprisingly light on his feet, and in his rubber-soled sneakers, he is almost silent.  "Ah, sorry," he says, and squeezes her shoulder gently.

"It is not a problem, Carson," she says, and closes the box of supplies she has open, resisting the urge to rub the back of her neck, where the hair has risen.

"I thought you might wish to be with us when we look at them, as you've worked as hard as anyone I've ever seen.  You deserve to be in on the news, for good or ill."

Teyla feels touched by his offer.  But then Carson has always treated her with respect, has never been condescending or considered her unintelligent because of her lack of formal education.  She cannot say that about everyone on Atlantis.  Warmth suffuses her, and she smiles up at him.  "Thank you," she says simply.

"Not a problem," he says, and they go to the table where Biro and Gasquet already wait, Biro bouncing a little on her toes.  Her excitement is contagious, and a little frisson of anticipation spiders down Teyla's spine.

Carson pulls her close so that she can see, and then hits a key on the laptop. At first, she cannot see what she should look for amidst the scroll of numbers, but Carson reaches forward and taps the screen where the words NO GROWTH NOTED AFTER 27 HOURS shine in blue script.

It isn't until Carson scrolls through multiple screens, and Teyla sees it on every report that Biro says, "Thank God," reaching to give Carson a quick hug, that Teyla really believes they have their weapon, their cure.  

There is a quick round of hugs and congratulatory back pats.  Carson holds her the tightest and longest, his blue eyes shining with happiness, and she squeezes him just as hard in return.  

"Wonderful news, undeniably," Carson says to them, "But this doesn't mean our work is done here.  Although the town elders have done a remarkable job of enforcing quarantine, we still need to send people around the town and into the outlying areas just to make certain we've not missed anything.  After fighting it this far, I'd hate to see a re-occurrence happen simply because we were lax at the last moment.  We've seen a few secondary infections, but I think we've gotten atop those in time. Most that still remain on oxygen I think we can begin weaning slowly.  And there will undoubtedly be last minute problems that crop up-I've yet to see things run absolutely smoothly, so expect it, and if nothing does happen, well, it's a lovely surprise, right?"

"I'll be glad to see the reinforcements from Atlantis," Biro says.  "I think we're all worn to the bone."

"And that's the bloody truth," Carson says.  "You've all done a wonderful job, worked harder than anyone could ask or expect, and you've done it without complaint.  I'm right proud of the lot of you.  If I could give raises or bonuses-not that they have any bearing here-I would."

Biro gives another little bounce.  "Well.  I happen to know that you have a bottle of  Glenmorangie you've kept hidden away from the rest of us, you selfish bastard, and that would do nicely."

Carson's chin lifts, but his smiling eyes spoil the effect.  "I'm not that proud of you," he says, and Biro laughs.  

Cheered and enlivened by the good news, they break apart, because there still remains more than enough work to do. Carson catches Teyla's hand before she can move away.  "I know that it's very late," he says, "and if you'd rather wait until morning, I couldn't blame you, but if you feel up to a trip to the Gate to call for a bit of help, I think we'd all be grateful."

It is indeed very late, but the news is so good, and help so close at hand that Teyla cannot possibly decline.  "I think I would rather go now.  I am not sure that sleep would come now even if I did try, so I cannot see the point in waiting."

"Thank you, Teyla," Carson says, and smiles at her.  He pats the table until he finds a pen, and a piece of paper, and scribbles something.  "This is a strictly volunteer mission, and I'd like for you to make that very clear if you would," he says as he writes.  "I'm not ordering anyone to come."

"From what I have seen, I do not think that there will be a shortage of people willing to help," Teyla replies, trying to read over his arm.

"Aye, we're all mad as hatters, the lot of us," he replies with a grin that she wishes she could see in its entirety.  He hands her the note, and Teyla glances over it again, but closer examination does not seem to help her decipher it.  "Ah, I'm a walking cliché," he says, and takes it back, flipping over the paper to write the list again, this time in clear, blocky script.  "Back home, doctors are noted for their abysmal writing," he says, and hands her the note again.  "I guess that holds true here, as well."

"It does not seem very wise given such responsibility," she says, and this time, she can read what he has written.

"Most of the things about us as a culture make no sense at all," Carson says agreeably, and that is true enough.  "Be careful, then," he says simply, with a gentle touch to her forearm, and Teyla smiles up at him before turning to leave.

By the time Teyla finds someone to get a saddled olaka for her, rides out to the Gate, gives her message to Dr. Cheung, the scientist in charge while Dr. Weir sleeps, and returns, it is the half-light of predawn.  Carson waits for her outside the Great Hall beneath a lantern hanging on a hook beside the door.  His hands are stuffed into his mission jacket pockets, his shoulders hunched against the cold, his breath a white cloud around him.  He looks tired and cold and miserable, but when he sees her, he smiles, and it is such a sweet smile that she cannot help but return it.

"You should not have waited," she says, gently chiding as she walks toward him, rubbing her hands together to warm them.  "I expected you to sleep.  I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

"As if I didn't know that.  I've never seen anyone more self-sufficient," Carson says, and shivers.  

Frost lies heavy and white on everything, the air has a bitter bite, and more than once on her journey Teyla had wished for something heavier than her mission jacket.  Her cheeks ache with the cold, and her fingers feel numb.

"I had to get all my notes in order for those coming, anyway," he says.  "I'll rest better knowing that I've done that."

"Why are you out here in the cold?"  She steps up to him, and he grins and gives a little shrug.

"Well.  I've not been outside in fresh air since this all began.  I'd started to think I'd forgotten what it smelled and felt like, so I thought I'd step out and rediscover it."

"And is it everything you dreamed it to be?"  Teyla cannot help but tease.

"Everything and more," he says cheekily.  He pulls his hands from his pockets and cups her face in his hands.  Compared to her skin, his is very warm, and his mouth on hers warmer yet, their breaths mingling whitely together.  His beard is prickly, but his lips soft, and the pleasure he takes in kissing her makes something within her soften and melt, like chocolate left out in the sun.  Teyla wraps her arms around him and gives herself over to sensation; it has truly been too long since she had a lover, and it is easy to forget how alive something as simple as kissing can make her feel.

He pulls away slowly, reluctantly, after a last suck on her lower lip.  "I'd give a king's ransom to not be so tired, to have time, to have privacy and a proper bed."  He wipes the wetness from her mouth with his thumb.  His face is soft with longing, and Teyla wonders if her own reflects it as well.

"I would give much for the same," she says.  "But we have none of those things, and in less than four hours we shall be busier than before.  If either of us wish any sleep, then we had best take it now before they arrive."  She runs her hand over his cheek; in another day or two, his beard will be long enough to be softer, though she thinks she prefers him without a beard to hide his features.

"Aye, true enough," he says, and the corners of his mouth curve up.  "Come along then, and we'll do the practical thing, if not the thing we want."  His hand in the small of her back guides her gently into the Great Hall, where the heat hits her like a hammer after the cold of outside.

When she crawls into their pallet, she removes only her boots and jacket, and after a moment's hesitation, Carson does the same, and curls around her.  She puts her cold hands under his shirt to warm them and he jumps and swears before laughing and allowing them to remain.  Teyla kisses him in apology, then again because she can, and when they are almost asleep, heavy and drowsy and warm, she kisses him again, a brush of lips over the corner of his mouth, simply because she likes it and she can.

Three and a half hours later, Teyla wakes to the arrival of the Atlantis medical team, led by Dr. Raavi and Dr. Borzakov.  She does not know either well; they are recent additions from the Daedalus.   Also present are a handful of nurses whose faces she recognizes simply from the repeated visits to the infirmary of her team, post-mission, and a dark-haired woman in science blue seen frequently with Dr. Zelenka.  And of course there are Marines, three of them, probably there at the insistence of Colonel Sheppard, given the sheer number of personnel now on-planet.  Everyone wears gowns and gloves and masks, at least until the doctors decide if enough time has passed since starting the medications that it is safe to work without them at no risk to themselves.

As Teyla had predicted, she finds herself very busy.  Dr. Vargas, the engineer, catches her first and together they check over the naquadah generator, their makeshift power center, and Vargas makes unhappy noises at the unruly tangle of heavy power cables and wires leading off to various pieces of medical equipment and to the power strips for their laptops.  It is not an elegant design, nor most likely as efficient as Vargas could make it, but neither Teyla or Biro are well-versed in that field, and to their credit, what they cobbled together has served them well for the past few days.

While Carson and Biro speak with the new doctors, Teyla, Aln, and Nadna speak with the nurses, filling them in with what they have done, what still needs to be done for the day, of the schedule of care they've set up.  It is reassuring and gratifying to see professionals approve of what they have done and how they have done it.  Aln and Nadna almost glow from the praise given them, and Teyla finds pleasure in that, because the two of them have worked so hard and deserve to hear appreciation.  They divide up the patients and nurses, and the three of them introduce the new staff, reassure the patients that all will be fine, that their care will be excellent.

By the time they have finished, it is late afternoon, and Teyla realizes she has not eaten since yesterday.  She brings food from the kitchen, sits in her usual place, and watches the whirl of activity as she eats.  Although she is very glad to see the people here to help, curiously, she feels displaced and at loose ends.  It is almost as if she has been running for a very long time and then suddenly slams into a wall, in an utter and complete stop.  Even more oddly than that, she feels a twinge of resentment.  She does not like housing these feelings, and turns them over in her mind, examining them carefully.

Perhaps it is because this has been her world, her responsibility, for many days, and while the greater part is happy and willing to give over everything to the new people and take a well-deserved time away, a small part feels fiercely possessive of all the patients with whom she has spent so much time.  Undoubtedly, the lack of rest, the irregular hours and meals, the unceasing worry, along with the inability to take time for the meditation that centers her, have left her feeling off-kilter, as if something is somehow slightly askew.  When she returns to Atlantis, catches up on her sleep, and resumes her meditiation, she will feel more herself.

After she finishes and returns her dishes, she puts her isolation gear back on hopefully for the last time, and visits the patients.  Because of the others, she has time to sit and talk with Danal for a few moments, who is awake and alert, who has a bright, engaged look, the same as before he fell ill.  His recovery seems assured now, though Teyla knows never to assume-it is almost like tempting fate.  But still, some of the heaviness weighing her down slips away, and she feels lighter, just for seeing his smile.

She says goodbye to the patients, leaving them with as many kind and encouraging words as she can find, then thanks Rhan, Aln, and Nadna for the opportunity and the privilege of working with them.  At one end of the ward, Carson and Dr. Borzakov are deep in conversation, and it does not necessarily look as if it is pleasant.  Carson has squared his shoulders and crossed his arms over his chest, and it makes him look bigger, broader, more intimidating, and his heavy brows are drawn down.  If she could see his mouth below the mask, she thinks it would be set in a straight, thin line.  Borzakov, a smaller man the size of Dr. Zelenka, matches him in an identical stance, apparently every bit as stubborn as Carson.  It seems to be a common trait amongst doctors, whether they are Atlantean or any other healer she has ever known.

They keep their voices low enough she cannot understand them and patients cannot hear them.  She is not certain how long they will argue, but she is too weary to wait for Carson's attention.  With a sigh, she strips off her isolation gear, washes and disinfects, and returns to their room to pack up.  Dr. Gasquet has already made noises about leaving now that reinforcements are here, and has packed up his own equipment, but it looks as if perhaps Carson and Biro are not quite ready.  A tiny part within her contemplates leaving Biro and Carson in the care of the Marines and returning to Atlantis.  She has no doubts that the Marines who came with them can offer more than adequate protection-she has sparred against them all, and she knows their strengths-but that is not the point.  It is more a matter of keeping faith with the trust those in Atlantis placed with her when she agreed to accompany them to Suelta.  It is her appointed task, and she will complete it, it is only weariness that makes her think such a thing at all.

After Teyla hunts down Malan and arranges for him to bring around the wagon they had used several days ago, Teyla then searches for and finds Biro typing rapidly in an out of the way corner, her expression focused and intent.  Biro does not look up as Teyla approaches, but stops for a bare second to point to several cases stacked by the outer door, out of the way.  "Things I'm taking back," she says, then swears and backspaces over whatever she had typed.  "Get one of those handsome, strapping young Marines to load them for us.  They're not doing much of anything other than flexing their muscles anyway.  It's good to give them purpose."

"Are you otherwise ready, Dr. Biro?" Teyla hesitates to ask, well-conditioned by Rodney to never interrupt typing.  But if Biro has not packed her personal belongings, Teyla can do so for her; she has little to do until they are all ready.

"Yes.  And more than willing to leave.  A hot shower, a hot meal, and a warm bed.  Those are my priorities, in that order.  Well.  After getting all this to the lab and getting the specimens stowed safely away, then they're my priorities."  She glances up and flashes a quick grin.

"And they are mine as well.  I find that I long for my shower and my soap with a strength previously reserved only for chocolate," Teyla replies, and Biro laughs, sharp and bright.

"That's a lot of longing, all right," she says.  "I'll be done in a few moments.  Gasquet was carrying on about leaving as well. Carson, the last time I saw, was arguing with Borzakov.  A Scot and a Russian.  It's bound to turn out badly."

Teyla does not bother to ask about the subject of their argument-it is their field, not hers, and does not concern her.  "I will see if I can convince Dr. Beckett that it is time to leave."

"You do that," Biro says absently, already absorbed again in what she types.  At first Teyla had taken offense at how most of the scientists would summarily dismiss her, but she has since learned they mean nothing negative by it; they seldom bother with the niceties of proper social conduct, their minds already running on to the next set of problems.  They treat her no differently than they treat their own comrades, so she lets it go.

She finally tracks Carson down, finding him speaking with Dr. Raavi, a tiny woman with huge dark eyes and a firm set to her jaw.  Carson's body language does not seem aggressive now, his hands describing arcs as he speaks.  Although she cannot hear his words, she can hear the lilt of his native tongue in his voice, the music there much more apparent when he is tired or stressed or annoyed.  She thinks she would like, sometime, to hear him speak in his own language, when he is happy; it would be quite pleasant to the ear.

When Dr. Raavi nods and turns away, Carson looks a little less troubled.  He makes a movement that she has seen often enough on Atlantis; had he been wearing his long white coat, he would have put his hands in the pockets.  As it is, he fumbles the movement into something else.  Teyla thinks that when they return, she will offer him one of the smooth stones that she keeps in her pocket to use as a focus to help calm herself.

"Dr. Beckett," she says, raising her voice, and he looks up.  She can see the flicker of thoughts through his eyes, the shuffle and catagorization of information; like Rodney, he never stops thinking, and even tired, he can outpace most.  Although she wishes to say, it is time to go home now, she does not, knowing that more demands will not be met well by him at this time, and tries a different road to the same destination.  "I came to see if you needed any help with last minute packing before we return to Atlantis."

Carson blinks at her, and she can see his focus shift.  He has shed his isolation gear, because he and Raavi were not close to patients, and he rubs his eyes.  "I think not," he says finally.  "Anne is the one with the samples.  I've only my laptops and backpack and my personal equipment.  Everything else stays here for Raavi and Borzakov."  The sharp little twist Carson gives to Dr. Borzakov's name proves that whatever they argued about, Carson remains angry beneath the surface calm.

"I will then start packing the wagon for our return trip to the jumper.  I do not think it will take very long, and will come to get you when we are finished."

"Aye, fine then," Carson replies, and Teyla can see that it is not fine, truly, but that he will not take issue with her, and Teyla is glad, because she is tired enough herself that she feels edgier, and to her shame she does not think it would take much of Carson's stubbornness to tip her into saying something she ordinarily would not.  She knows it is not Carson's fault, nor hers, but words said in anger are not easily forgotten.

Teyla inclines her head, then turns on her heel to find the Marines.  Fitzgerald and Jackson are willing to help, and between the three of them, it takes little time to load everyone's sample cases, equipment, and personal belongings.  Biro takes the front bench seat of the wagon with Malan, and Gasquet settles in amongst boxes and bags, along with Fitzgerald, who has decided to accompany them to help load everything into the jumper.  It leaves only Carson, and Teyla heaves a mental sigh and goes off to find him once more.  She had not thought it would be so difficult to pull him away.

Carson stands at the entrance to the ward, watching, his arms crossed over his chest.  Teyla steps up next to him, following the direction of his gaze.

"I too felt reluctance to leave them after caring for them so long," she says after a moment.  "I felt...that they were mine, that no one could care for them as I could.  It is foolish for me to think such a thing, is it not?"

Carson stirs, and some of the tension she feels radiating from him eases, if only a little. "No," he says finally.  "It isn't, really.  The act of nursing someone is intimate.  Not in the sexual sense, of course, but you've been close both physically and emotionally, you've been responsible for every aspect of their care, and they've depended on you for everything, even for their very lives.  You become involved, invested.  It's difficult to let go of that, sometimes."

"Yes," Teyla replies.  "I find it so.  But our lives are not here, now.  We have other responsibilities, and the Sueltans will be cared for as well as we could.  Better, given that it was you and Dr. Biro who found the cure, found the way to lift the quarantine so that more hands could come to help.  It is something of which you can be glad, Carson.  Let others continue on where you began, and be proud of what you have done.  All the lives you have saved."

For a handful of heartbeats Carson stands quiet and unmoving, but then he stirs, his hand folding over her shoulder, squeezing gently.  "One of the things I've always treasured about you is your ability to see things so clearly."  His mouth curves into a smile, small but true.  "Let's go home, shall we?"

"Yes," Teyla replies, and gives his fingers on her shoulder a quick stroke.  

Outside, the day is bright and sharp, and Teyla breathes in the scent of cold and woodsmoke and leaves, tucking it away in memory.  At the wagon, Carson settles while Teyla zips up her tac vest and clips on her P90.  She feels certain they will not need it, but cannot resist old habits; it is always best to be prepared for the unexpected.  Carson sits on the back of the wagon and moves over to give her room, and his thigh is warm against her own.

Once they arrive at the jumper and uncloak it they load in all their equipment as well as the supplies received in trade from the Sueltans, left beside the Gate, protected by a tarp.  When they close the back hatch, they are surrounded by the scents of autumn, dry and crisp, of herbs and spices, welcomed after nothing but days of the smell of sickness and sweat and fear. Biro takes the co-pilot's seat, and Teyla stands behind Carson who sits in the pilot's chair, one hand on his shoulder.  From the front viewscreen, Fitzgerald gives them a jaunty wave as they rise into the air, and then Carson dials the Gate, Teyla inputs her code, and they slide through the event horizon, toward Atlantis, home.

"Welcome back," Dr. Weir says through the radio as they brake to a stop and then begin lifting upward to the docking bay.  "It's good to see you home."

"And it's very good to be home," Carson replies, his attention on the controls, though by this time Atlantis has taken control of the whole docking procedure.  "Elizabeth.  Be advised that Atlantis may lock us down in quarantine once we open the hatch, even though we've been as careful as humanly possible.  If so, have Dr. Jameson initiate Protocol A."

"Understood," Dr. Weir replies.

Carson releases the hatch, and it thumps slightly as it hits the decking. They all look at one another, and then Carson gets up and walks out onto the ramp, his movements cautious, as if expecting an attack of some sort.  He steps out into the jumper bay, but no alarms go off, no secondary blast doors sliding closed to seal them in.  He smiles, and then the rest of them step out, and never has Teyla been so glad to have such an unremarkable welcome home.

The bay doors slide open, and Dr. Weir steps in with a smile.  "And there you all are," she says, her gaze taking in all of them.  "We've missed you."

"And I must say, I'm gratified that you didn't blow yourself up," Rodney says, stepping around the doorway, Colonel Sheppard and Ronon close behind.  "Um.  Not that I was particularly worried, or anything.  I did provide excellent instruction in how to set up the generator, after all."

"Of course you did, Rodney," Teyla says, warmed by their presence; she had not expected them to meet her, as it is late into Atlantis' evening though it was mid-afternoon on Suelta.  "I could not have done it without you."

She sees Sheppard roll his eyes, but Rodney smiles, pleased, and his hands move in some sort of complicated pattern that means something only to him. "Of course not.  I mean, you do have some natural, native intelligence, but even so, I doubt that without my clear and concise instructions you could have..."

Sheppard interrupts with an elbow to Rodney's ribs before Rodney can say anything else.  "Good to have you home, Teyla," he says, and the corner of his mouth crooks upward.  "And you brought back everyone in one piece."  His greenish eyes glint in amusement as they slide to Carson, standing at her side; he has, on occasion, had difficulties with Carson on away missions.  "Congratulations.  I'm not sure I'd have been able to do it."

Carson's chin lifts a little, but before he can say anything in reply, Ronon shoulders through them and grinning, pulls her into a brief, but heartfelt hug.  "Missed you.  Sheppard's been uppity since you were gone, and McKay's been an ass.  More than usual."

"Hey!  I'm standing right here and not deaf!" Rodney says, ruffled and offended.

"And of course you were your own sweet and gentle self all the time I was gone," Teyla replies, and Ronon's grin grows bigger.

"Of course," he replies, and then his nose wrinkles. "You should really take a shower.  You all smell like a herd of rasvaar."  His dark eyes laugh at her when she raises an eyebrow.

Biro most likely does not get the reference-highly insulting-but she laughs anyway.  "Yes, we're all pretty ripe by now," Biro says.  "I plan on using all the hot water in Atlantis when I hit the shower."

"And I think that's our cue to let you all go for some well-deserved rest," Dr. Weir says, rubbing her hands together.  "Everyone looks exhausted.  I think that Dr. Jameson and his assistants are perfectly capable of taking care of things for a while.  Go, shower, sleep.  Debriefing can wait until tomorrow sometime.  Carson, Anne, a word with you two before you go?"

"Of course, Elizabeth," Carson replies.  His hand brushes lightly over Teyla's arm.  "Rest well," he says softly.  "I'll see you later."

"Certainly," Teyla replies, and allows her team to lead her away, but she pauses at the bay door for one last glance back.  Carson stands next to Elizabeth, his head tilted to listen to whatever she says, but evidently he feels her gaze and looks up for a brief moment, his eyes growing warm.

As always, Rodney speaks almost non-stop as they walk toward her room, his words bright and sharp-edged, and their spiky cadence, quite unlike Carson's soft burr, comforts her.  His hands in his pockets, Sheppard ambles along at her side, the very picture of relaxation, though Teyla can almost feel the hum of tightly-leashed tension just beneath his skin.  Ronon walks along behind her, light on his feet, alert as a predator, his care and loyalty all the more precious because they earned it.  Though she is far from helpless, she feels reassured by them, safe and cared for; they will always be there for her.

At her door, they bid her good night, Ronon offering to get her something from the mess, which she declines; all she wants is a shower and to sleep.  Their attention warms her, makes her feel a part of something greater, and she finds herself pleased to discover that they had felt as off-kilter without her as she had without them.  Sheppard takes her tac vest and P90 to return to the armory, and his murmured, "Glad you're back," before he leaves, Ronon's nod, and Rodney's little farewell wave makes her smile.

She starts stripping the moment the door to her quarters slides closed behind her.  Her room is warm, smells comfortingly of candles and familiar herbs and spices, and her bed, with its heavy embroidered covers and pillows, has never looked so welcoming.  Stepping beneath the hot shower spray makes her moan in appreciation, and she washes and rinses and shampoos until she can no longer smell sickness and sweat on her skin, until she feels like herself once more, Suelta left behind in the water that swirls down the drain.  For a moment, the warm water sluicing down her body makes her think of the stroke of Carson's hand down her belly, and she shivers in remembrance of his confident, deft touch.

Cursorily drying off, she stumbles out of the bathroom and barely thinks to pull back the covers before tumbling into bed.  Pulling up the blankets around her shoulders, she thinks of how much she had liked feeling him curled around her, how she wishes she could feel him there again before she gives herself over into sleep.

Teyla sleeps fourteen hours.

When she finally wakes, she takes another shower simply because she can, then folds herself into a meditation posture, sinking down into herself, finding her center and her balance, setting her world back in its proper place.  After, feeling calm and serene and absolutely starving, she dresses and wanders down to the mess.  She sits with Dr. Zelenka, who is more than pleased to tell her tales of Rodney's antics while she was away.  Although his words are frequently sharp, she cannot miss the undercurrent of affection beneath them, and she idly wonders if Rodney knows just how deeply Dr. Zelenka's admiration of him runs, and how easily a word or gesture from Rodney could tip it into more.  She rather thinks not; Rodney is generally oblivious to such things, though he does, on occasion, show a shrewd perception that surprises them all.

Afterward, she goes down to command, and finds Dr. Weir still in her office, wading through some translation of Ancient for Rodney.  At Dr. Weir's gesture Teyla sits and gives her report on Suelta, although undoubtedly Carson and Biro have already given her far more useful scientific information.  Still, Dr. Weir always seems to value her input, her read of the situation and her knowledge of the cultures they encounter.  It is satisfying to have something of value to contribute toward the well-being of all.

Ronon pages her via her earpiece and wants to meet her at the firing range, so she bids farewell to Dr. Weir, whose attention returns to her translation as Teyla reaches the doorway, and goes to meet Ronon.

They work their way through several targets apiece using sidearms-they do not truly need the practice, but it is always beneficial--before Ronon stops to look at her.  Curious, Teyla pulls off her ear protection and lets them dangle around her neck.  Ronon studies her a moment, dark eyes steady, and were Teyla not accustomed to his silent intensity, it would unnerve her.  Instead says easily, "If you have something to say, perhaps you should say it."

"So.  You and Beckett?"

Teyla should have expected this, as Ronon misses nothing, ever, his mind quick and sharp and perceptive.  Still, she sees no reason to make it easy for him.  "What makes you think this?"

"Yesterday, I smelled him all over you when you returned from Suelta.  And when you were leaving, and turned back, I saw how he looked at you."  He gives a shrug, and it is like watching the mountains move.  "So, not hard to figure out, really."

Teyla tips her head as she ejects an empty clip and replaces it with a full one.  "And this concerns you in what way, Ronon?"

"If he hurts you, I'll break him in half," Ronon replies, and whirls to fire his pulse weapon, taking out the entire center of the target.  He twirls the weapon flashily before returning it to its holster.

"You will do no such thing," Teyla says, and without looking, empties the clip into her fresh target.  Ronon leans over her and looks at the target.  Teyla's glance shows every bullet but one went into the exact center.  Ronon raises a brow as he turns his attention back to her.

"Okay, maybe I won't," he says, his mouth quirking up in a grin."Looks like I won't need to."

"I assure you, I am fully capable of taking care of my own affairs," Teyla says firmly.  Ronon had made a bid for her affections when he had first come to Atlantis.  Though he is beautiful to the eye and she thinks he would be a tender, careful lover in spite of his gruffness, she had known then he was not what she wished.  He had taken her gentle rejection gracefully, and they have grown into a relationship that is more than friends, bonded together by blood and trust and ties deeper than those of family.

"Okay, then," Ronon says, slams a fresh clip into his Beretta and takes aim, and as simply as that, he drops the subject.

Affection and annoyance war equally within her at his presumed right to meddle in her private life, but affection eventually emerges as the winner.  "And, you will not loom.  You will not threaten.  You will not say anything untoward to Dr. Beckett, even in my behalf.  If you do, I promise your life here will not be worth the living," she says calmly, and is only partly jesting.

"You never let me have any fun," Ronon complains, and takes out another target.

"And that is my fun," Teyla replies with a smile before replacing her ear protectors and raising her sidearm once more.

After she leaves the firing range, Sheppard calls and wishes to spar, and she spends the next hour slamming him to the mat.  In truth, it is not as easy as that-he has practiced enough over the years that he is more a challenge for her now, quick, strong, surprisingly graceful.  If he had been instructed from a young age, he would be quite good, she thinks, perhaps even her equal, as she extends her hand and helps him up from the mat.  All the time they spar, he speaks to her casually, with the ease of their long acquaintance, of nothing and everything, but he is John Sheppard, and so she learns nothing truly important.  He was a puzzle the first time she saw him, his smile so open but his true self so closed away.  The years she has known him have not let her see much further into him than she did the day she met him, and she accepts that she will never truly know how deeply his thoughts and feelings run beneath his easy, surface charm.  Still, he has her loyalty, her faith, her affection, her trust, and he returns it in full.

Later, in the mess, Teyla is not surprised when Rodney slams his tray down on the table across from her; she had assumed when John had paged her, that Rodney would eventually catch her at some point during the day.  It is their way of reaffirming their bonds with one another; she herself has done it when one of them have gone offworld without her.  It is not often that they are separated, as she had been on Suelta, and she knows they had worried that she would contract the same disease, something that left them helpless, an enemy that none of them could fight.  So Rodney sits with her, and as it is Rodney, she does not have to contribute much to the conversation. She lets his running monologue wash over her, familiar and comfortable and reassuring; as long as Rodney talks, her world is relatively safe.  She knows that it is only the times when Rodney goes silent that things have gone terribly, terribly wrong.  After he has finished eating he gives her a thousand words that can be distilled down to four:  I'm glad you're safe, then picks up his tray and leaves.  She sits for a moment longer with a bemused smile; for all the talking they both do, neither Sheppard nor Rodney can say what they feel.

As she prepares for bed later, rubbing cream into her skin and then brushing out her hair, she reflects that while this is not the life she had as a young girl once imagined, it is a life that gives her purpose, is suited to her talents and skills, and filled with those who care for her and for whom she cares just as much in return.  Although she is the leader of her people, it is now in name only; Halling has shouldered the day to day responsibilities, because early on she believed that she could best fight the Wraith with the Atlanteans.  It had been the hardest decision she had ever made, but the one she feels is the most right, though it has left her feeling caught between two worlds, truly neither of one nor the other. It is a price she is willing to pay, though it leaves her lonely and separate from both.

When her door chimes late into the night, Teyla wraps a robe around herself and goes to answer.  She is not surprised to see Carson standing there; he had said he would see her, and Carson does not lie. He has obviously slept, showered, and shaved; his face is smooth, free from the perpetual stubble, and it makes him look younger.  Oddly, it seems to make his eyes appear even more blue, and she did not think that possible.  He wears a black sweater and jeans, and as she waves him in, he brings with him a subtle, spicy scent that she likes, very much.  She wants to put her nose to his throat and inhale deeply.

He turns as the door whooshes closed, and his eyes slide over her, taking in her robe and loose, unbound hair.  "Have I woken you?  I know it's late. Later than I had intended."

"No, Carson, you have not.  I expected you, actually.  I was reading."  She gives him the book in her hands, and watches as his face lights when he reads the title.

"Treasure Island," he says with a smile, flipping through the book.  "I remember reading this, oh...well, more years ago than I'm willing to admit," he says, looking up.  "Where did you get it?"

"I borrowed it from Sergeant Addams.  His smaller brother sent it to him three months ago, on the occasion of his birthday.  Last month, I borrowed Robinson Crusoe from Dr. Abelard, who obviously has a rather odd sense of humor for bringing it.  It is very interesting, reading what your culture has produced, though I read your language very slowly still.  In spite of what others think, we Athosians are not barbarians, and have a written language of our own.  We have simply lost so much so often, and in the struggle for survival have been slow to replace it."

"I'd imagine it is interesting for you," Carson says, and hands her the book.  She places it on her desk and turns back to him, folding her hands.  He has the air of a man who wants to say something, and she is patient enough to give him the time to say it.

Carson clears his throat.  "Firstly, I want to apologize for any and all instances of foul temper I displayed on Suelta.  I get sharp-tongued when tired and frustrated, and there was more than enough of both those things to go around."

"I took no offense. We were all of us tired and short with one another, and gave as well as we got."  Teyla's mouth curves up a little as she remembers one argument she had seen between Biro and Carson. "Dr. Biro certainly best of all."

"Aye, certainly," Carson says, and his smile is more sheepish as he undoubtedly remembers the same thing.  His eyes flick around the room, but keep returning to her, and the heat in them sparks an answering warmth deep within her, making things tighten low in her body.  "And the other thing I came to speak with you about.  Well." He draws a deep breath.  "I have no regret of what we did while on Suelta.  It was incredible.  Wonderful.  Something I'll never forget, ever.  I only wish we'd had more time and more privacy, because you deserved something better."

Teyla opens her mouth to speak, but he raises a hand.  "Please, love, let me finish, or I'll lose my nerve."  Teyla leans back against the desk and curls her fingers over the edge to keep from crossing her arms over her chest and appearing closed-off.  Carson nods in gratitude, and thinks for a moment, clearly choosing his words carefully.  "Thank you. Suelta was...difficult, a place filled with sickness and death and stress and exhaustion.  I know that sometimes, people get caught up in extremes of a situation, and do things they'd not ordinarily think to do.  They need a way to relieve some of the pressure, to find relief.  It's perhaps not wise, but it is a human reaction to such things.  A way to cheat death by having a go at life."  

Color flushes over his cheeks, and he rubs a hand over the back of his neck.  His accent has thickened, rolling over her in a soft, fuzzy wave.  "But then, the danger passes, and they return to their lives, and find that things are different.  And perhaps they regret what they've done.  As I said, I don't regret it, and I won't apologize for it.  I just wanted you to know that I...understand if you don't feel the same as I do.  And if you don't, I won't put any pressure on you to change your mind.  I respect you too much to try and force or cajole you into something you don't want."

He falls quiet, his eyes dark and intense, his chin lifted a little, looking almost as if he expects a blow.  Teyla licks her lips, and his eyes follow, helplessly.  He is utterly open, and if she so wished, she could hurt him, badly.  But this is Carson, gentle, compassionate, temperamental, stubborn, intelligent, generous, passionate Carson.  He has shown remarkable bravery coming to her like this, stating how he felt, how he obviously continues to feel.  She could not deliberately hurt him, not when she cares for him, as well.  

"Carson," she says at last.  "I am not a young girl caught up and led about by the desires of her body. I am governed by my mind, not my drives.  As I said before, no one ever forces me to do what I do not wish.  I knew what I wanted then."  She pushes away from the desk, watches his eyes darken and his flush deepen as she sways toward him.  "I know what I want now.  The two are the same."

She stops a hand's-width from him, looking up at him, and his eyes watch her hands as she unties the belt to her robe and lets it fall open, framing the smooth, naked lines of her body. Carson brings his hands up, fingertips skating along the arcs of her collarbones, slipping beneath the edges of the robe, pushing it off her shoulders.  It catches on her elbows as her hands knot in his sweater.

Teyla shivers and her nipples tighten almost painfully as his fingers skim over the outer curves of her breasts, then downward; his hands are big enough to almost span her waist.  He pulls her close, and his clothes are rough against her skin. It makes her shudder in need and anticipation, heat swirling through her, makes her wet.  He smells so good, clean skin and soap and that spice all combining into a scent that makes her knees weak, but beneath it all is Carson, male and musky and warm, and that is the scent she loves most of all.  

"Teyla," Carson murmurs, "Lovely Teyla," before leaning down for a kiss that is deep and wet and hot, that goes on and on until she grows dizzy from lack of enough air.  His hands move over her skin, igniting fires wherever they wander, and it is not only the kiss that makes her gasp for air.  He is hard against her belly, his erection thick  and long beneath his jeans, and she longs to hold it in her hand, to taste it on her tongue, to feel it push into her and fill her.

"Carson," she says when she can speak again, and shivers again when he leaves a trail of soft, sucking kisses down her throat, that coax a low, needy moan from her, make her push against him, needing to be closer. "We have time.  We have privacy.  We are not exhausted.  We have a bed.  What we did before was good-better than good-but I think we should try for excellent.  It may require repeated attempts to reach that level, but I for one am most willing to try."  She wearies of waiting and steers him toward her bed, his sweater fisted in her hands.

"Aye, many, many attempts," Carson says, and laughs, rich and warm, as she pushes him back onto her bed and slides astride his thighs, hands diving beneath his sweater as she leans down to taste his laugh against her tongue.

.:fin:.