Work Text:
It rains the day he finds her, crouched at the foot of a Stargate, her back against the ancient stone landing. Her dark hair is plastered wet against her cheeks and throat, and she's wearing what looks like mismatched pieces of body armour, the metallic plating on her arms and chest scored and scratched in places. When she lifts her head at the sound of their approach, her face is thinner than he remembers, sharper; exhaustion hollows in the spaces beneath her eyes.
But she's alive.
Behind him, Rodney breathes out a stunned, "oh my God."
Elizabeth's gaze flicks past John briefly, cataloguing the others automatically before returning to him again, rain beading on her cheeks.
John realises dimly that he has forgotten how to breathe and forces himself to exhale. To think past the avalanche of adrenaline currently crashing through him. To focus on the rainwater running down the back of his neck beneath his jacket collar, and the faint shake of the ground beneath his boots when thunder cracks overhead.
He lowers his weapon slowly, and crosses his arms over the butt of his weapon.
"So," he manages, his voice rough, "ready to come home, then?"
Like she merely wandered off for an afternoon instead of vanishing into hell all those months ago. Like it's common and normal and routine for him to find her.
Elizabeth stares at him another long second.
Then she pushes wet strands of hair back from her face and rises carefully to her feet. John notices the stiffness immediately. Injury? Fatigue? Maybe both. She sways once before steadying herself.
"I'm not the one who's late," she says, almost primly.
He laughs.
The sound tears itself out of him unexpectedly, halfway to something broken, because the only other option would be collapsing right here in the mud in front of everyone. Relief surges through him so violently it borders on nausea. His vision blurs briefly and he tells himself it is only rain in his eyes.
Then he's moving before he consciously decides to.
He closes the distance between them in four fast strides and pulls her against him hard enough that she gasps. She is cold, her rain-soaked armor pressing against his chest while her hands fist instinctively in the webbing on the back of his jacket like she needs the physical confirmation that he is real.
Months of guilt crash through him all at once -- every report filed, every failed search, every night spent staring at her empty chair in the briefing room pretending he had accepted her death when he absolutely had not. He remembers leaving her behind. He remembers the helpless certainty that he would never forgive himself for surviving her.
Now she is here.
Breathing against his throat.
Alive.
Her forehead presses briefly against his shoulder. He feels the sharp hitch of her breathing beneath the trembling laugh she tries unsuccessfully to suppress.
Behind them, Teyla quietly says, "we should secure the perimeter."
Ronon answers immediately, understanding the dismissal for what it is.
John barely hears either of them.
Elizabeth finally pulls back just enough to look at him properly. Rain tracks slowly down her face. There is dirt smeared along one temple and a healing cut near her jawline. He catalogues every detail automatically, greedily, as if afraid she might vanish again if he looks away too long.
"You came," she says softly.
The words hit harder than they should.
John swallows once.
"Yeah," he says. "Always."
The End