Monday Afternoon
John thinks, but is not certain, that this thing between them began on a Wednesday. If he asked Elizabeth she would tell him it was Tuesday. They would disagree, perhaps even argue, but they don't. It's not a relationship, John reminds himself, it's only a fling.
And who cares what day a fling began?
It was actually a Monday in February the first time they had sex. The afternoon that John and his team saved Atlantis for the third or was it fourth? - time.
Elizabeth's frustration at having to sit wait for the kids to come home was beginning to show, she realised. She practically vibrated with pent-up energy each time a team was overdue. So, really, was it any wonder that when his hand grazed the small of her back on the way to the transport tube she turned around and launched herself at him?
If he was surprised to find her tongue against his lips and her hands beneath his shirt, he hid it well. She tells herself it was no more than he expected, but if she asked him about it he would change 'expected' to 'hoped'. Of course, she doesn't ask. After all, they don't really talk.
Three months later they've developed a pattern - meet, screw, then leave. Despite the lack of conversation, John almost starts to believe there's more to it than just sex. A notion quickly dispelled the first (and second, and third, andŠ) time he tries to stay the night.
He thinks he's made a breakthrough the night Elizabeth doesn't usher him from the bed before he can fall asleep. He wakes up alone the next morning, and as he hunts for his socks he tries not to picture her sneaking from her own quarters in the dead of night.
Of course, he fails, and so he doesn't try to stay again.
It has been almost a year by the time Elizabeth finally breaks her self-imposed rule against sleepovers. It seems she has finally grown comfortable enough to fall asleep with John in the room. He understands, however, that he is still not permitted to touch her while she's sleeping.
It's baby-steps that they're taking, John thinks, and spooned against her back with his arm around her waist he wearily wonders how long until she wakes and realises he's breaking her rules.
In the middle of the night, with Elizabeth asleep and his arm draped across her stomach, this thing (that he dares not call a relationship, still) feels real. It feels like who they are, or at least who they could be.
In daylight, around the briefing room table, with clothes, lip gloss, and Elizabeth's impenetrable veneer between them, it just feels like something they do. Something they could stop doing at any time, without a word.
John prefers the night feeling. He often wonders which feeling Elizabeth prefers, even pretends that he's going to ask her, but he knows that he won't. He's afraid their answers won't agree. Afraid they will.