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ALIVE
It wasn’t often that one looked death straight in the face and survived, but that’s how John felt. And even though the Wraith had ultimately been his savior, John had seen the face of the grim reaper and it was the face of a Wraith. But he was safe and he was home now and the last place he wanted to be was the infirmary, but he forced himself to sit quietly on the exam table; he’d long ago realized that the one way to escape Beckett’s hovering was to cooperate with whatever the doctor required. And apparently today the doctor required much poking, prodding and drawing of endless tubes of blood—as if that would somehow convince him that it was indeed John Sheppard who sat on his exam table and not some young imposter.
The curtain that shielded him from rest of the infirmary rustled and when John looked up, expecting to see Carson, Elizabeth stood there instead. Her expression was still grim, her eyes solemn and reflecting that curious mixture of relief and sympathy he’d glimpsed when they thought he wasn’t looking.
“Carson says he’s just about finished. That you’re good as new—maybe better.”
John wasn’t sure he felt good as new or even the ubiquitous ‘better’. He could feel the old man stirring feebly inside him, weak and helpless. But he knew from the look in Elizabeth’s eyes that she needed him to be the same John Sheppard he’d been before Koyla and the Wraith had used him, so he forced a cocky smile to his face. “Never better,” he quipped lightly. “Though I wouldn’t quite recommend a Wraith feeding on you as the fountain of youth just yet.”
His glib comment had the desired effect, he could see the subtle relaxation of her shoulders and her lips curved in a slight smile before she was once more serious. “We thought we had lost you.”
He didn’t tell her that they had lost him, that even now the old man inside him clawed with gnarled fingers at his guts. “It was close,” was all he would say, at least to Elizabeth. Her nod of agreement was slow in coming and then Beckett pulled back the curtain and he was saved from the rather awkward silence that now stretched between them as he tried to reassure her with a confidence he was far from feeling.
“Aye then,” Carson said briskly, “I think that’s everything, Colonel.”
Not wanting to waste another moment, John jumped lightly off the cart then and heedless of Elizabeth or Carson, yanked off the gown the nurse had insisted he wear for the exam, even when he’d refused to take off his trousers. He was vaguely aware of their eyes on him as he reached for his pullover and he wondered if the feedings had left some visible mark on him, as if he’d been somehow branded by the repeated abuse. Resisting the urge to look down at his chest, John tugged his shirt into place and picked up his jacket, brushing past Elizabeth and Carson, anxious to leave the infirmary.
“John?”
He paused at the doorway and looked back at her. Both she and Carson had the same concerned and almost pitying look in their eyes and John wondered how long it would be before they could look at him and not feel guilty because of what had happened to him.
“I won’t order you to see Doctor Heightmeyer, but if you need to talk…” Her voice trailed off and while John had nothing against the psychologist, the last thing he wanted right now was to talk to anymore doctors. But he knew how the game was played.
“Don’t worry,” he reassured them. “I know the routine.” His reply seemed to satisfy them, at least for the moment and he left, deliberately ignoring the hushed voices that could only be discussing one thing—him.
Of course, he acknowledged wryly, as he made his way through the maze of hallways that led from the infirmary to his private quarters, there really wasn’t a routine for what had happened to him. He doubted Heightmeyer had a chapter in any of her books regarding near death and renewal at the hands of the Wraith—or how to banish the cold feel of death that still clung to him.
The relief he felt as the door to his quarters slid shut behind him and he saw her on his bed was a feeling he didn’t want to analyze too closely. She was here and that was all that mattered. Her eyes glittered brightly, brimming with love and understanding and when she held out her hand to him, John strode quickly across the room and into her arms. She was warm and soft and so blessedly familiar against him that John felt the control he’d worked so hard to maintain since his return to Atlantis start to unravel.
“Teyla,” he groaned softly, his mouth seeking hers with a hunger that rivaled even that of the Wraith that had fed upon him. The thought of being with her again had been the one hope he’d clung to during his captivity and she had been the last vision in the old man’s mind when he’d told the Wraith to end it. But it wasn’t the dying old man in her arms, begging for one final kiss, nor was it the John Sheppard who had left Atlantis almost a week earlier on a mission to meet with the Genii. The man who kissed her with a desperation that should have frightened him had been born anew as a unique combination of both.
John’s hands were trembling as he tugged at the buttons on her top, roughly pushing the material aside, exposing her breasts to his mouth and his touch. She arched beneath him, a low moan confirming her pleasure when his lips trailed greedy kisses down her throat to her breast before latching onto the already tight peak. He was dimly aware that her hands pulled eagerly at his shirt and he groaned against her breast when her nails scored a path down his back.
Rearing back onto his knees, John moved his hands in a light caress down her firm stomach before catching his fingers in the low waistband of her skirt. She lifted her hips as he pulled it off, fierce arousal coursing through him when he realized she didn’t have any panties on. Her smile was delightfully smug when he glanced up at her face and he saw that she had already squirmed out of her top. She was beautiful and he ached with desire, his heart pounding and his blood racing through his body as if he was once again running for his life. But he wasn’t, he forced himself to remember, he was back where he belonged, safe in his lover’s arms.
John quickly tugged his shirt off and flung it to the floor. His eyes feasted on her as she lay before him, her eyes dreamy with passion and her smile had turned languid while she watched him strip. It seemed to take a lifetime before he was free of his clothing and as he struggled out of his boots and trousers, he couldn’t help but wonder which John Sheppard she saw when she looked at him. He hadn’t had a mirror in the prison, but he knew he had changed, he’d felt the wrinkles, could feel the weakness that filled him as his body aged and been helpless against it. And she had seen it, they had all been witness to his degradation.
“John,” she murmured, reaching for him as if nothing had changed since the last time they’d made love. He shuddered briefly when her hand trailed lightly over his chest, the image of the Wraith touching him momentarily clouding his mind and he sharply thrust the image away. Koyla and his Wraith had already stolen so much from him, John refused to let them taint this too.
With a low growl, John covered her body with his, her arms and legs automatically cradling him. She was soft and welcoming and he was starving. The old man clung feverishly to him, but John’s renewed strength and vigor raged through his body until it coalesced into a hunger so violent that for one fleeting moment John knew how the Wraith had felt during that final feeding; the death lurking deep inside him swept away in the power of life.
If he was less than gentle as he thrust into her, she didn’t protest, her soft cry at his deep penetration one of pleasure, not pain. He moved heavily against her, feeling more alive with every passing moment, banishing the feeble cries of the old man to the deep recesses in his subconscious where all his demons resided. One day he might have to confront them, but that day wasn’t today, not while he held Teyla in his arms and willingly surrendered to the woman who gave meaning to his life. Groaning her name, John collapsed on her soft body, trembling against her in the powerful aftermath of his release, the exquisite pleasure still echoing through his body.
“How do you feel?” she whispered softly, her fingers combing lazily through his hair.
He lifted his head and looked down at her, trying to see past his fears and insecurities. It didn’t matter anymore which John Sheppard she saw when she looked at him, not when he saw the light of unconditional love shining in her dark eyes. “Alive.”
THE END