Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. Original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended. The oh-so-beautiful lyrics of 'Head Over Feet' were written by Alanis Morissette and Glen Ballard. I haven't included the entire lyrics - go and google them if you don't know it - because I don't want to break the rules. Don't sue me, this is homage to all parties involved, nothing more. However... I am starting to think that my muse has gone on holidays to Madagascar and left the dodgier variety of plot bunny to nip at my ankles. What is the world coming to... songfic is bad, songfic is bad, songfic is bad - oh well. Who cares.

Have fun! This is terribly fluffy fic!

Head Over Feet

Everybody in Atlantis (except perhaps Doctor McKay and some of his more socially challenged colleagues) knew that Colonel John Sheppard had had brought his guitar to Atlantis. And everybody knew (well, except perhaps those same slightly out-of-the-loop scientists) that he wasn't the only musically-minded member of the expedition team. So nobody was really surprised (yes, yes, same exceptions made) when he slapped himself together a band and Saturday nights in the city - presuming that enough members happened to be there at the given time, and the sky wasn't in the process of falling in - became much more lively.

But when Carson Beckett, who liked the band but thought there were more egalitarian ways to have fun, suggested that Thursday nights be dedicated to karaoke, there had been some murmurings of surprise. Still, his suggestion had taken hold and - since karaoke was probably invented by a lower demon and people get such a kick out of making fools of themselves and seeing their friends do the same - Thursdays rapidly became more popular than Saturdays. It was simply too much fun to turn up and watch the humiliation, the odd piece of talent, and the glaringly unexpected.

Nothing, however, was more unexpected than the night that Doctor Weir sang. Oh, Elizabeth had been there most Thursdays. She liked music - she'd sung in choirs all through high school - and she thought it was important that she play a part in the social life of the expedition. But she hadn't sung, simply because karaoke wasn't really, in her opinion, the kind of thing that a leader should take up as a hobby. That was, at least, until the night that she truly had something to sing about. All of which explained why there was a sudden, eerie silence when she stood up in her jeans and t-shirt, in the wake of a very bad rendition of 'Hotel California' by Evan Lorne, and walked firmly towards him. All eyes fixed on her in astonishment as she took a mouthful of her beer, then held the bottle in one hand, and with the other caressed the microphone Lorne had passed her. You could have heard a pin drop in the moments before the music started up, and then they all recognised the song - which she surely must have organised beforehand - and Elizabeth started to sing.

I had no choice, but to hear you...

Oh, how tentative her voice was at first. She was too close to the microphone, she was realising suddenly that she hadn't sung in public for more years than she could think, and her mouth was dry with unexpected nerves. But then she sought him out, where he sat near the back of the room, his mouth hanging slightly open as though she'd stopped him in the middle of a conversation. At the sight of him, she smiled, her face and every inch of her body telling him who she was singing for, telling him that this was her public declaration, telling him that now the policies had changed, she wanted to be with him openly. How long had he been courting her - courting was the only word for it - in his soft, silent way? He deserved this much.

She'd never seen herself as the domesticated type. But in the time since she'd finally let her psychological barriers down and allowed herself to simply relax in his arms, she'd realised that she was. Maybe everyone was, in the hands of their soul mate? To come home to him, even in secret like it had been up till now, was more wonderful than anything else she had experienced in this galaxy. To simply know that at some stage, when all their work was done, when their long days were over, they would be there together, that he would be there for her in his gentle way - it was more amazing than anything she'd imagined.

You're so much braver than I gave you credit for...

Her eyebrows arched over the word 'brave', her hand with the beer moving out a little towards him, trying to show him she meant it. He stood up in his corner, glass in his hand, and shook his head humbly like he always did. There were no words that could express just how brave she thought he was. He always belittled his actions, as though the military types, the Sheppards of the world, were the brave ones. As though the fact that he could be afraid, and admit his fear, and act despite of it, wasn't ten thousand times more courageous...

You held your breath and the door for me -

Other men before him had been gentlemen with her. But for them, it had always been about class, and prestige, about their images of themselves and their places in society. Not with him. Elizabeth's eyes softened as she looked at him there in the shadows, as though to tell him that his was an unconscious, innate sort of charm. Sometimes she suspected that he didn't even think before he acted, was simply sweet by nature, his hand brushing hers as he reached out to help her...

Thanks for your patience.

And oh, what patience! How long had his eyes watched her like they did now, there at the back of the room, wide and astonished and yet gently accepting across the crowd between them? How long had it taken her to even notice him? How long would he have waited for her? Not like Simon, who had thought a year, just one year, was too much.

She would have spoken, expressed her feelings such a time ago, if she hadn't been so afraid of breaking their beautiful friendship, afraid because she had been blind to the deeper love that he had hidden from her, likewise not wanting to damage what they had. Elizabeth had been afraid of losing the late night conversations, the simple words of encouragement, the smile on his face when he met her in the hall or came to share lunch at her table. So many others had distanced themselves from her, and she had been distanced back, but he didn't seem to care that she was the leader. Respected her, yes, but only like he respected everyone else.

He put his glass to his mouth, drank, and then started to move slowly through the crowd. Everyone else was still too shocked by the sight of Elizabeth singing, by the fact that Elizabeth could sing, to have thought to follow where her eyes led.

I've never wanted something rational.
I am aware now... I am aware now...

At the word 'rational' a smile quirked on his lips. He knew the secret Elizabeth. Knew that the cool wall of reason, rationality, regulations, that she had constructed around herself with such skill, hid a different woman. Hid a woman much less sure of herself. A woman who had taken so long to admit how her own mind saw him. A woman who had taken so long recognise that she wanted him, that he was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

Finally, the crowd had shut their gaping mouths, and started to follow the gaze of her eyes as she tracked his progress through the crowd. And when they realised for whom she sang, they stared, but they still stayed silent. It was as though she had woven a spell through the room. She didn't even see their expressions. She only saw the man she sang for. She played her voice contentedly, confident now, through the last small stretch of music. By this time he had come to a halt directly in front of her. And then the music was gone and a babble of voices started up, and clapping, and laughter, and a few whistles -

But Elizabeth Weir simply relinquished the microphone, stepped forwards, and, taking Radek Zelenka's beaming face in her hands, she kissed him.