Late at night, when Teyla curls up against John's bare chest and holds him in her sleep more securely then she would ever have held him awake, she dreams that her father disapproves. Sometimes, she can hear his voice in the recesses of her mind. It is faint, but the deep timber is entirely unmistakable. He asks her what she is doing. He asks her if she has forgotten her people. He asks her if she has mistaken strangers for her own.
Even the smallest moments of selfishness make her feel unworthy to carry the heavy mantel of leadership that she has beared since the tender age of 16. Her father had taught her the meaning of sacrifice. He taught her to catch others, even if she must fall.
When she sleeps with John, she feels like she is the one falling.
It shames her to admit that she likes the feeling.
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Even the smallest moments of selfishness make her feel unworthy to carry the heavy mantel of leadership that she has beared since the tender age of 16. Her father had taught her the meaning of sacrifice. He taught her to catch others, even if she must fall.
When she sleeps with John, she feels like she is the one falling.
It shames her to admit that she likes the feeling.