i.
After a lifetime of living on Athos, living in her people’s tents and spending many nights out underneath the stars, during her first few months in Atlantis, the room that Teyla was assigned to seemed small, the walls tight, too close together. Even though she has now grown accustomed to it, every morning still, when she wakes, she walks to the nearest balcony and spends several minutes standing there, breathing.

Which is why it is odd, she thinks, that her room, her bed, should now feel so large.

It is true, yes, that she spent the previous three nights in Rodney’s bed, and that he spent the three before that in hers, but if anything, she thinks, she should be relishing the space, not lying awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking these thoughts.

Wishing that Rodney had been able to finish his project at a reasonable hour this evening.

That he had not said, "Listen, I’m sorry. I don’t know what time I’m going to be done here and I can’t leave this alone. I’ll see you in the morning, alright?" to which she had no choice but to respond by saying, "It is okay, Rodney," and "I understand."

It is odd that she feels glad when there is a familiar knocking at her door at 2 a.m., that she feels a sort of happy thrill when she opens the door to find Rodney leaning against the door jam, almost swaying, dark circles under his eyes. He blinks tiredly at her, says, "I’m sorry. I woke you. I just—"

She raises a finger to his lips, quieting him, then drops her hand to his sleeve, tugging him into the room. When the door is shut again, leaving them in darkness, she lifts her fingers to the zipper of his jacket, tugging it downward, and then easing the garment off of his shoulders. He is exhaustedly pliant beneath her hands, not moving until she encourages him towards her bed. Then he takes the initiative, pulling down the covers, sliding underneath them.

It is when they are lying together, their heads sharing one pillow, his hand resting heavy and warm on her hip, that she feels the soft, dry kiss he presses to the back of her head. It lingers even as she hears his breathing slow behind her, and then, thinking that it is odd that she should feel as comforted by this as she does, she is sliding down into slumber, too.
 

ii.
He reaches out to her, capturing a few strands of her hair in the hook of his fingers and brushing them behind her ear. His fingers trail down to her neck, his thumb coming up to rub at the line of her jaw, and his gaze is on her lips, his eyes half-lidded. She knows because she is watching him, too.

She is the one to raise a hand to his neck, though, to hold him still as she leans forward, her lips nearly brushing his, that breath of space between them charged and heavy. His breath is warm and damp against her skin, his lips mouthing air, but when he leans forward to close that space, she leans back, again, again, pulling him with her until they are halfway reclined on his couch, his weight real and comforting on top of her.

When he murmurs, "Please," she thinks, yes, and closes the gap between them.

iii.
She is sitting with him in the dining hall when word comes: Major Lorne, coming back through the Gate, ZPM in hand. "Rodney," Dr. Weir says over the radio, "we’ll meet you in the Control Room," and he says, "I’m on my way."

Teyla is sitting across from him so she is able to see the way that his eyes go wide, the way that his mouth opens and closes more than once before he answers, apparently struck speechless. She is able to see the moment that the knowledge truly registers, when he begins to shake with his excitement. His lips curve upwards, spread in a wide smile. "On my way," he says again. "On my way."

And indeed he is. Already he is standing up from the table, his fork with a carrot pierced on its spines still wrapped tightly in his fingers, but when he makes to leave with it, Teyla stands too, reaches out, and takes it from his hand. "Rodney," she says and he pauses. His fist is trembling underneath her touch, his need to be there now. "Rodney, go. I will be right behind you."

He only takes a step, though, before he turns to her again, takes a step back towards her. He reaches out for her, the move sudden, and the next thing she knows his fists are curled in her vest, pulling her to him. In the next instant, his lips are crushed against hers, their noses bumping and bending against each other, and then he is pushing away from her, saying, "Sorry, sorry, I’ve got to… go."

His smile is so wide, so bright, that she cannot help but smile in return.

"Go," she says again. "I will meet you there."

And then he is turning again, jogging towards the door, and as she follows him, albeit moving more slowly, the voices of the others in the dining hall rise behind her.

iv.
Fifteen minutes later, at the end of the dance, when Teyla’s blood is pounding in her veins to the beat of the stamping feet of the villagers on the tightly packed sand, she touches her forehead to Hikaro’s and says, "Thank you. It has been a pleasure, as always."

He responds with a smile, as he has responded with a smile since the first time they did this, when she had been leader of her people for only a few months, he the leader of his for only a year. "The pleasure," he says, "is mine."

In previous years, he might have said more, might have requested another dance later, but this year her eyes have already sought out Rodney where he is sitting with Hikaro’s wife, off to the side of the tent. They were talking science when Hikaro asked Teyla for their customary dance, two leaders joining their people together in friendship, and Rodney had only paused long enough to say, "Yes, yes. Have fun," before turning back to Hitari and saying, "Oh, oh. See, we call them electrons on Earth, because of the—"

He is not talking science any longer, though. He is staring at her as she approaches, a slowly boiling heat in his eyes—a reflection of the heat that Teyla feels in her own—and he does not even notice, she thinks, when Hitari stands and bows to him, taking her leave. Joining Hikaro, Teyla imagines, on the dance floor. He is leaning forward, his eyes never leaving her, her body, but as she draws close, he sits up straight on his bench again, like he knows, knows what she is going to do, and maybe he does. Maybe, she thinks, he is feeling the same things that she is.

Back in Atlantis, he would have stopped her. He would have stood up and started babbling, or his eyes would have gone wide, almost panicked as he looked around to see who might be watching. Not here, though, because here they are surrounded by Teyla’s people and friends of her people, not those that he must work with every day.

Here it is different, and that is why, she thinks, he does not do more than shift when she arrives, adjusting to her weight as she straddles him, her knees coming to rest on the bench on either side of his thighs. His hands rise, flutter over her shoulder blades for a moment, then slide downward over her sweat-damp shirt, pressing at the small of her back, then sliding lower still. Her arms are already over his shoulders, one bent to hold him to her, the other at the back of his head, her fingers buried in the soft strands of his hair.

As her mouth meets his, her lips already parted, she can feel beat of his heart against her breast, echoing the pounding of her own blood, the stamp of the villager’s feet on the sand behind them.

v.
The fourth time they kiss, he is still unsure. He stands too close to her for his intentions to be misread, but his back is too straight, he is tense beneath her hands, and the nervous energy that he is exuding seems to be a nearly tangible thing. He is looking down at her, his eyes wide with want, and maybe just a bit of fear, too. Wariness, as if he cannot believe that he is truly here, with her, like this.

For some reason, this makes her smile.

He opens his mouth, but before he can start talking, babbling, she reaches up to touch her finger to his lips, silencing him. She says, "Rodney, kiss me."

He does as she asks.