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"So what is all that about, then?" Rodney asks, apropos of nothing.
John is still in the melted phase of a very, very good sexual interlude. "Nnnnnnnnngggggghhhh?" he manages. He gathers his wits and shakes his head. "What is what about?"
Rodney scoffs. "Don't play stupid. This quest to be the perfect fighter and cultural emissary and leader, or whatever it's really about." John furrows his brow, completely lost, and eventually Rodney clarifies, "All your personal training with our very own warrior princess."
"I don't think she likes it when you refer to her that way, Rodney." John drags himself into a more-or-less upright position. "Aside from the Earth-centric cultural reference, it's disrespectful and reduces her to a sexualized stereotype."
Scowling, Rodney peers closely at John. "Elizabeth, are you in there?"
John grimaces. "Yeah, I might've been given a message to pass on to you. So knock it off, okay?"
"Sure, sure." Rodney waves a hand dismissively. "So?"
"So?" John mimics back at him, and then tackles Rodney and subjects him to a fierce raspberrying on the belly. By the time they're done wrestling and back in a make-out stage, Rodney seems to have forgotten all about his question.
*
"John, I want you to be careful." Elizabeth sounds so serious that John actually looks up from the duty roster.
He can't help it; he takes the bait. "Careful about what?"
Her eyes dart to the open door before she says, softly, "Careful about what you're doing with Teyla. We can't afford to assume that any of our cultural cues and expectations translate. If you're going to start something with her, you need to have a frank discussion first–"
"Whoa," John says, cutting her off. "'Start something?' I'm not starting anything with Teyla. We're friends."
Elizabeth lifts an eyebrow.
"Just friends. And I like sparring with her. New techniques could come in handy here, and it's a great way to work out." He waits for Elizabeth to stop looking skeptical. She doesn't. John sighs and takes his feet off her desk, doing his own check of the open door before leaning toward her. "Look, I've already, uh, started something with someone else. But it's the kind of thing I'm not supposed to tell you about, and you're not supposed to ask. Get my drift?"
Her face is speculative now. "Of course. I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions." She covers his hand with hers and adds, "And I'll respect your privacy. But if you ever want to talk, I don't consider conversations between friends to be asking or telling."
John nods. He's looking back down at his roster when he murmurs, "Thanks." Then without missing a beat he says, "Okay, Stackhouse for patrol at 1500. Next?"
*
Training with Teyla is the highlight of John's day, sometimes. She can read his moods like there's a sign over his head. He comes storming in angry and she takes him down, ruthlessly, until he has control of himself again. He's distracted and she drops stinging taps everywhere his guard is down. On days when he's exhausted, wrung out from writing letters home for the dead or from standing at Rodney's elbow until the crisis has passed, he can see Teyla sizing him up and deciding how much meditation is necessary to shorten their practice.
If it were anyone else, he'd bristle and snap that he didn't need to be taken care of. With Teyla, it's not condescension; it's just that she knows him that well.
As their practice winds down on an ordinary Tuesday-equivalent, John surprises them both by pressing his forehead to Teyla's. He huffs a short laugh, and finds himself explaining to Teyla's inquiring face that he can't always believe he came to another galaxy and found the best friends he's ever had. Teyla's lips curve into a soft smile and her eyes crinkle. She opens her mouth and what emerges is not wisdom or platitudes but just what John needs: "One more round?" And she flips one bantos rod in her hand, competent and matter-of-fact, and scores a hit on his ribs while he's still marveling.
*
No one had warned John how greedy Atlantis would be. No one told him how she would whisper in his mind at night and tug at his senses when she wanted his attention. He thinks O'Neill, that bastard, could have hinted at it. It happens all the time - in staff meetings and sparring sessions and a few times during blow-jobs - until John figures out how to tell the city that now is not the time. If it's really serious, she pushes back.
She had to push for his attention when the flotation tanks started flooding. He thought she was overreacting, that sinking an inch wasn't much to worry about, but Rodney screeched and ran out of the room when John mentioned it. The next time she pulled him mentally sideways it was to the drone storage room, filled with much-needed ammo. When she showed him something good - something he understood - it felt like an apology.
Atlantis yanks hard at John's mind in the midst of a practice fight with Teyla; he freezes and Teyla lands a hard blow on his forearm. She pulls her follow-up when she notices the look in his eyes. "She demands much of you."
John nods. "She was lonely a long time. Now that she has people here again, and someone who can hear her...." He shrugs. "She's learning about timing, and relative importance, but." He rubs absently at his arm and the bruise that's forming there. "Doesn't respect my safety much," he says and grins to make sure she knows it's a joke.
Teyla's answering smile is brief. "I shall be more attentive in the future." She tosses one rod into the air, tumbling end-over-end, and catches it without looking. "But do not think this means you can let your mind wander."
"Yeah. Thanks." John frowns. "Hey, gotta go. I need to find McKay. There's a problem." He's gone before Teyla can really answer, before Atlantis can shove at him again, but he knows that Teyla'll give him this too, one more thing that he needs. He can't guess why. He can only be grateful.
*
"Tell me, John, how long have you been 'seeing' Dr. McKay?" Teyla asks casually, bantos rods in her hands.
It's bad for John that he freezes at the shock of her question. She gets one foot behind his knee as she strikes his shoulder with the butt of a rod and he's flat on the floor in seconds. "Unnnnngggghhh," is the best he can manage, grimacing.
Teyla grins at him. She's been so accommodating of his moods, so willing to cut him slack for Atlantis's distractions, that John's almost forgotten how much she loves surprising and schooling him. "You cannot allow yourself to be immobilized by verbal assault," she chides. "You must clear your mind of all that is secondary to the fight. Only when you have your physical responses mastered can you afford to engage on other levels."
"Hell of a way to make that point," John mutters as he takes her hand and lets her pull him upright. "Teyla, that's not something I can talk about."
"Cannot, or will not?" She waits patiently while he struggles for words.
John shakes his head. "Both, I guess. It's– It's complicated. Someone in my position, someone in the military of my country, isn't supposed to–"
"Have relationships?" she guesses.
"Only certain kinds," he answers, bitter for a moment, and sighs. "I mean, all fraternizing is frowned upon, but anyone who gets caught in a same-sex relationship gets kicked out."
Teyla bumps her shoulder into his, companionable. "I– I do not understand, but I see what you mean. Rest assured, no one will hear anything incriminating from me."
John feels lighter, somehow, and better. He's relieved that Teyla can know this without anything changing and that she'll keep his secret. Some day, he resolves, he'll find out what Teyla needs from him. Until that day comes, he'll just keep trying to best her in this room and back her everywhere else.