Happy Anniversary, siriaeve!

[trinityofone]

siriaeve and I first met a year ago today! We met in front of Trinity's campanile, recognizing each other thanks to her purple coat and my stripy bag. We went to Dublin's first Starbucks (which, since it appeared not long after my arrival, I still blame myself for), where I ordered a Frappuccino and she (foolish newbie!) had tea. Then she told me about her gay cows and thus, a friendship was born!

Siria, I'm so, so glad I met you this year. I can't quantify it. In fact, I'm going to be very John-like and do almost anything to avoid actually having to talk about my feelings, so instead, I wrote you fic.

Well, a ficlet. A very sad attempt at Rodney/Teyla. But I tried!

*huge transcontinental hugs*

Title: Lingua Franca
Rating: PG
Pairing: Rodney/Teyla
Length: ~700 words
Summary: "Does it bother you that we do not speak the same language?"
A/N: For siriaeve, on our anniversary. And in memory of pot holders and presses.
A/N2: I may have committed a major Stargate fandom faux pas in writing this. More notes at end, but if it really bothers you, just pretend it’s AU.

Lingua Franca

"Does it bother you that we do not speak the same language?"

At first Teyla thinks that he is speaking metaphorically, which is unlike him. Rodney is refreshingly straightforward. Then it comes to her and her brow furrows—such an odd question. Growing up in the Pegasus Galaxy, it is something one so rarely thinks about.

She tells him that. "And it doesn't affect the way we communicate. Does it?" she asks him, holding a finger gently to his lips.

He folds his hand over hers. "No," he admits. "But it does make it sound as if you do not know how to use contractions." He frowns. "I have told you that, right?"

She smiles against his skin. "Yes, Rodney. It does the same for you."

His mouth twists down. "Weird."

She shifts a little, moving in closer. It feels good to lie beside him: he's like a furnace, pumping out heat. She can feel tension leave her body with every moment she's with him, which when they first met was something she would have never imagined.

Rodney's shoulders are still tense, however. She would say, You think too much, except that would mean protesting against one of the very things she likes most about him. He's thoughtful, and in so many, unexpected senses of the word. Even now he looks at her as if to ask, Are you comfortable? then shifts his arm to be more supportive of her neck without even having to hear the answer.

She thinks they communicate just fine.

But, "You don't like anything you don't understand," she says.

"In a word? No. I mean," a frustrated sigh, "it is not even consistent! Some languages translate, others do not—what is that about? And I get why the Ancients wanted to keep their language separate, but how come going through the gate did not suddenly enable me to understand Zelenka when he is swearing at me in Czech?"

"I'm always happy to translate for you," Teyla says, and swallows a yawn.

"Sorry." Rodney seems to realize what time it is. "I do not know why I am even thinking about this. Who am I, Daniel Jackson?"

"It's fine," Teyla says. Although she is tired, it's restful just to lie here and think about things. She places a hand on his bare chest, just above his belly. "You make a very cunning linguist."

She can feel him start, feel him tilt his head and blink at her. She tries to close her eyes and play innocent, but a smile creeps onto her face.

"See!" Rodney says finally. "How does that joke even translate?

"Do you mean it?" he asks a moment later, for once a modest quaver in his voice.

"Oh, yes," she says, and she does. "I'd have thought my meaning earlier tonight could have been understood in any language."

He blushes. "Well. Thanks. And you— I know I have said it before, but it is a subject on which I can be uncharacteristically inarticulate—"

"I know, Rodney." She tilts her head up and kisses him, eyes closed. She opens them as she draws away, though his remain fluttering, closed. Even in the darkness she can make out the gentle fall of his eyelashes.

"I just," he says a little while later, long after she thought he'd drifted off to sleep. "What if it stopped working?"

"You'd fix it," she says instantly, confident.

"What if I could not? Er," he adds, "as inconceivable as that may be."

She finds his hand again. "You would teach me English. And I would teach you Athosian."

He nods, seeming to accept this. "I am a very fast learner."

She doesn't know if he means the action in proof of this statement; she doesn't think so. But he shifts his body, rolls to look at her, until they are both sideways, face to face on the bed. Then gently, he brings his forehead down to rest against hers.

"I wish I could hear what it sounds like," he says. "I am sure it is beautiful."

Pressed together, she looks down into his eyes. "There are a lot of things," she tells him, "that I would like you to one day hear from my lips."

With one finger she draws the letters over his heart, where he will always be able to read them.

---

NOTES:

1. Okay, so (as I’m sure many, many people have said before) the canonical language thing REALLY DOESN’T MAKES SENSE. I like the idea that the Stargate does something Babel fishy to your brain…although that doesn’t explain why Daniel had to do all that translating in the movie and S1. We’re just gonna go with the theory that those planets had something that interfered with the Babel fish technology. And…well, actually, this is a subject deserving of a much longer fic, which I kind of want to write now…do you see what you do to me, Siria? *unfairly blames this on you*

2. Siria, I actually wrote you a little McKay/Sheppard ficlet, too, but something about it’s still bugging me. I may still post it later today, though. It is our anniversary, after all. =)