Work Text:
Elizabeth watches Teyla’s expression closely as she closes her eyes, opens her mouth, and allows Elizabeth feed her a piece of the sticky bun in her hand. The batch is wonky and a little on the pallid side, but the warming scent of cinnamon and sweet frosting fills the room. It brings her back to her childhood, baking in the kitchen with her mom, decades before she’d heard of wormholes and Ancients and Atlantis. Genii and Wraith. Replicators.
“Oh,” says Teyla as she opens her eyes and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Is that a good ‘oh’? Or...” asks Elizabeth. She’s nervous, more so than a cinnamon bun necessitates, but the recipe is her Nana’s and she so desperately wants Teyla to be a part of this first batch; a little bit of family history which feels so important in light of the past few weeks.
“It is delightful,” says Teyla, her mouth curling at the corners, and Elizabeth knows her words to be true. Teyla has never lied to her; she wouldn’t start now over something so benign as baked goods.
Teyla’s smile has always lit up the room, but more recently it has lit up Elizabeth’s heart. This time it settles the churning in her stomach. She’s been struggling to reconnect with her humanity since Rodney found a way to restore her consciousness into a body that looks and walks and talks like her old one. It’s not exactly a clone of herself but isn’t not a clone either. She’s getting used to it, day by day, moment by moment, but it’s the quieter moments like this that help the most. Something in this small success feels like the last link in the chain that connects her to her roots; the spicy-sweet memories of her grandmother, and then her mother, both gone now but still a part of her.
Teyla would understand this if Elizabeth told her. If anyone shares this kind of familial longing, it’s the woman who fought so hard to return her people to their home from Michael’s clutches. Elizabeth has no small measure of guilt that she wasn’t around to help, but Teyla doesn’t consider her absence something to regret; rather she refuses to dwell on the time lost and focuses on the time left instead, and as Torren comes rushing into the kitchen and Teyla’s smile widens even more, Elizabeth finally lets go of all the last stressor holding her back and gives in to this single moment of joy. What could she possibly find to complain about, here in this cabin with the snow falling silently outside and her family toasty and warm inside?
“Lizz-bit! Lizz-bit!” says Torren, raising his chubby little arms up to her with absolute certainty that she will lift him into hers. She does, and he presses his warm hands to her cheeks, saying her name over and over because he knows it makes her smile. Elizabeth delights in the way the lingering traces of his father’s accent beautify her name in Torren’s mouth, how he reaches for her as often as he does his birth mother, and how she never knew she wanted a child until Teyla placed him confidently in her arms as she recovered in the infirmary on Atlantis.
He’s bigger now, heavier, stronger, and when he’s done being held, he wriggles out of her arms only to make grabby hands at her so he can pull her in the direction he wants to go.
“You go on ahead,” says Teyla, when Elizabeth raises a brow at her. “I will clean this up.”
Elizabeth quickly splits the rest of the bun between the three of them, then lets Torren take her hand with his free one and follows him across the living space to the front door, where he stuffs his chunk of bun in his mouth and sets to pulling on his wellington boots—bright green, with dinosaurs (“Rawr!”) and handles. Elizabeth pulls on her own—dark green, no handles—and her down-filled winter jacket, only pausing once to tell Torren that no, he can’t go outside in just his t-shirt and yes, he has to wear a jacket and mittens. She lets him skip the hat though, on account of the snow having ceased its assault on the cabin.
The moment Elizabeth opens the door, Torren barrels through the gap between her leg and the door frame and toddles down the porch steps. The snow is almost as deep as his wellies are tall, but he powers through until he finds the perfect spot, then crouches down and starts playing with the snow. Elizabeth is thinking of snow angels, or maybe snow bunnies, and is completely unprepared for the snowball that clips her ear and lands in her hood.
Torren’s giggles at her surprise are infectious, and she laughs too, even as she reaches down to craft her own projectile weapon. She’s careful not to pack her snowballs too hard, but he gives no such quarter; assaulting her in a drive-by snow shower, one after another after another, pummelling her into a defeat that he graciously accepts with a soggy kiss to her cold cheek. He’s tired, puffed out from the excitement, so Elizabeth carries him indoors and lays him down on the couch. He’s already half asleep by the time she removes his outerwear, and she tucks him up in a blanket as she eyes the dwindling log pile on the hearth.
But something is...off.
Torren’s breath has evened out into a quiet, sleepy huff, and the fire’s embers are crackling gently. It’s not that there’s a strange sound, it’s that there are sounds missing; where there should be a clinking of dishes and a thudding of cupboards coming from the kitchen, there’s only silence. Elizabeth strains to listen, not so much worried but curious. Teyla is graceful and stealthy just about everywhere you could put her, but stick her in a kitchen and she is as a bull in a china shop. Finally, there’s a quiet crinkling of waxed paper, followed by what can only be described as a contented snuffling.
Elizabeth calls out—quietly, in deference to the sleeping child next to her. “Are you eating another bun?”
“No!” The voice that answers her sounds devastated by her suspicion but is betrayed by the full mouth and loud chewing.
Elizabeth grins as she heads into the kitchen, where Teyla is standing next to the counter defiantly, one hand ostensibly reaching for a dishcloth, the other hidden behind her back. It’s as much an admission of guilt as anything can be, but it’s the smudge of frosting on Teyla’s cheek that seals her fate.
Elizabeth reaches out and wipes it off with her thumb, and they both laugh at the utter silliness of the moment. Teyla places the remains of the bun she pilfered on the counter and reaches for Elizabeth’s retreating hand. Elizabeth has made these buns for many people, and indeed made this particular batch not only for Teyla and Torren but also for Rodney and John when they visit later in the afternoon. Food is a universal language of love, and Elizabeth finds it easier to say it with baked goods than words, despite a decades-long diplomatic career.
This is the first time in her life, though, that someone has licked her thumb clean of frosting with their tongue.