An Absence of Words

Leaning back in her chair, Elizabeth only half-listens as Radek describes the state of technology on MF2-746. The rest of her attention is focused on John, sitting expressionless in the chair opposite Radek's.

He's worn almost the exact same face for weeks. He still played the role, still cracked the expected joke in the mess, smiled the warm smile when he visited the infirmary. The rest of the time he was like this.

Rodney had always brightened when John was around, right from the beginning. John's teasing had only made him brighten more. But then everyone liked getting attention from John, even her.

What she'd never noticed was how John brightened around Rodney, the way he'd extend the wall that was always around him until it enclosed two instead of one.

Radek is finished and Elizabeth nods her thanks. The four of them rise, heading for the door. "Colonel," she says and John turns toward her. When he looks at her, she can't find the words. "Never mind."

Looking out the window, she watches John walk away. He walks to one side of the hallway, as though Rodney was still there beside him. She'd never realized how often she saw them together until they weren't anymore.

***

That evening she has dinner with John and Carson in the mess. Lorne and Cadman join them halfway through. This is when she feels it most. Feels Rodney's absence like some kind of hull breach, and wouldn't he love that metaphor.

When John leaves, she follows him. She has no reason to. He hasn't done anything wrong.

He'd declined to speak at the memorial, claiming he was bad at public speaking and Rodney deserved better. Afterward Carson had given the first toast. John had raised his glass, but he'd put it down untouched.

He deserves to grieve, deserves a shoulder, an ear, something.

She knocks on the door to his quarters and he lets her in wordlessly. Forcing herself to look at him and not his surroundings, she tries to find the words.

"I'm fine," John says, his arms crossed in front of his chest.

He isn't and they both know it, but she has no proof, only instinct. "I'm not."

John nods, and she thinks that maybe it's an acknowledgment that he isn't fine either.

"I know you loved him," she says.

He turns away.

She places a hand on his shoulder, warm tension beneath her hand. "We all did."

John snorts. It's an unpleasant sound, bitten back laughter and derision. She has no idea who it's meant for, her or him. "He didn't know," John says.

"He knew you were friends," she answers, squeezing his shoulder.

"Exactly."

Oh.

John turns to look at her. She's seen him furious, scared and a few hundred other things, but she's never seen him like this. "He loved you," she knows the words are wrong even as she says them.

"I know."

She drops her hand. Grief, loss, rage, she has words for them. But she has no words for this, for betrayal by silence, for choices that can't be unmade. "We need you." They do. She doesn't know what Atlantis would be without John. She's the glue, but he's the inspiration, the hero in their midst.

"So did he."

Not as much as you needed him, she thinks. Out of words, she pulls him into her arms. He lets her.

She's the one who cries.