A teeny tiny drabble that isn't beta'd.

Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine and hell, the plot's barely mine this time.

One last warning: This drabble is based entirely on confirmed season 4 spoilers. This is your last chance to turn around.


Okay, here we go.

You should probably be listening closer. You're standing here in the once Dr. Weir's, the now Col. Carter's office, head down in both shame and fatigue. Shame for loosing your people, fatigue from trying to find them. The new Colonel is talking, probably to you, but you aren't listening. The sounds wash around you, lulling your mind and dulling the pounding ache in your heart, and you try not to collapse, into tears or unconsciousness.

"... to the infirmary."

What? What about your people?

"Teyla, did you hear me? I want you to rest in the infirmary tonight."

You lift your head indolently. "What about my people?" You mouth moves slow and the words slur.

She glances at Col. Sheppard before turning to answer. You know they shared some thought in that glance, but you don't have the energy to figure out what.

"Teyla, as we just discussed..."

You open your mouth slightly and shake your head the smallest bit, admitting you weren't listening without admitting it.

She is hesitant. "We can't look for them now, and you are in now condition to go out again, not until you've rested up a bit. The stargate needs to reconfigure its address, and the Daedalus only just got to Earth. There is nothing that can be done right now. I'm sorry."

Her face holds sympathy, and you realize that everyone else's does too, even Rodney's. You want to spit at them all.

Your disgust must show on your face. John uncrosses his arms and takes a step closer to you. "Teyla, I know this can't be easy, I understand-"

"You understand?! What could you possibly understand?" You get a small burst of adrenaline, probably all of it that's left in your body. "All of my people! The last piece of my home! An entire race of people, gone! What do any of you possibly understand!?" You might be yelling. You might not care.

"Hey." Ronon wants you to stop yelling. Why should he care if you're angry? He's angry all the time.

You turn to him. "What?" Your words are venomous, and for the first time you feel slightly guilty.

He notices your anger and it reflects in his own eyes. "They may not get it, but don't you dare tell me what I do and don't understand. What about my people, huh?!"

You hate him. This man standing before you, strong and beautiful despite the years of running, of believing he was all that was left of Sateda. And here you stood, small and fragile, the only Athosian, and you can't comprehend how this man is who he is despite the pain he's felt and you know that you will never be as great a person as he.

Your fist connects with his face and the room is shocked for a millisecond. Someone touches your shoulder, intending to lead you to the infirmary. You scream, your mind thoughtless as every fear and painful thought and every fiber of failure and exhaustion collapse inside you and you want nothing more than to hurt the man before you as badly as you hurt now.

Your next punch is the last one you get in. You forgot how tired and unfocused you are, and he manages to block every swing after that.

He grabs your wrists tightly, painfully. You struggle against him but can't break loose and you scream deep in your throat from frustration.

"Let me go." You don't look into his eyes.

"No." He's considerably calmer than you are and you wish you could kill him.

You struggle against him again, but exhaustion is catching up and you may as well be struggling against a wall for all the good it does.

You can feel your wrists bruising beneath his hands, large enough to envelope your whole fist in them if he cared to.

"You are hurting me."

"I don't care."

You struggle uselessly. You growl through your teeth. "I hate you."

"I know."

Your eyes water and your vision fogs.

"I hate you!"

"I know."

You give a few more fruitless tugs at your arms, and when he finally lets them go you fall into him, sobbing and howling into his chest with the pads of your fingers pressing deep into the soft, worn leather of the back of his greatcoat.

His right hand is on your back, and his left holds your head tightly, but not painfully. His lips press against your scalp through the thick of your hair as he shushes you like a mother would her child.

He promises you that he will never stop helping you look for them. He says he can't, he owes you. You are the reason he found the last Satedans. They are the only words that you've heard all week that you actually believe, because he is the only one that understands, even more than you yourself do.