FIC: Brute
Title: Brute
Rating: PG
Genre: gen, I can't place it much more than that. A longish vignette.
Summary: Ronon's found a home in Atlantis.
Spoilers: General, before Sateda.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended.
Because I love Ronon too.
Incidentally, it was hell finding an icon for Ronon. Probably cause I didn't now where to look. But I adored wav's and snagged it. Also got a brand new icon for me, courtesy of azangal simply cause it was so beautiful, I had to have it.
Brute
The guys teased him at first. On those first days and nights spent waiting on other planets, Teyla and the other guys would sit and talk, bicker even. Ronon would look for good, dry wood and cut out a big enough bit with his big knife. Then with a smaller one, he’d sit with them, concentrating on bringing forms to life, sculpturing the wood into what he considered art. Sheppard disagreed.
“Why do you only make blobs?”
“They’re not blobs. They’re representations.”
“Representations?”
McKay was probably surprised he knew such a big word.
“Of concepts: truth, strength, death…love.”
“Huh.”
Sometimes he wonders what he’s doing with these people. Teyla reminds him.
“That is… power, no…strength?”
“Yeah.”
The next time he carved her a rose. Just because.
It was his introduction in Atlantis, him ruthlessly beating up marines, slamming Teyla to the floor. They didn’t know what to make of him and that’s essential to Earthlings. It keeps them on solid ground while they think every decision through, over and over and over again.
Personally his distinctions are simpler: friend, enemy. And his ability to determine which is which in the blink of an eye doesn’t make him a brute. It makes him an ex-runner. It just took them a while to catch on, except for Teyla. She always read him clearly.
When he was younger, his single-mindedness drove his teachers and then his instructors crazy. He was athletic and possessed an uncanny ability to repeat perfectly what he’d only been shown once. It kept him alive when everyone else on his unit died and it kept him on his feet for over seven years.
Maybe, if they’d backed off at first, given him time to realize all he’d lost or what lay ahead of him, then maybe they could have broken him. But as it is, Wraith aren’t patient.
They hunted him relentlessly and he kept running. After a while, he’d gone so far he couldn’t even think to stop or surrender, to lose. They cemented his hate and his resolve. He picked off the ones he could and survived not just because it was his vengeance, it became his very nature. Specialist Ronon Dex, runner.
That’s why he took to carving. It was good, it kept him centered, focused even when he was resting. Something to occupy his mind on the cold, cold nights when he couldn’t sleep because of nightmares or the possibility of a Wraith attack. He’d never had the patience to sit and skillfully carve a piece of wood. There had been girls, target practice, lakes to swim in, fields to run through and more girls… All that disappeared and the little, practical voice in his head reminded him wood was a universal raw material.
In the early days he’d carve her face over and over again. Melena. It kept him sane and it helped him remember that there was something else, another reality, a time when he’d been free and happy. He kept few things on him at all times, his gun, his knives and the latest piece of wood he was molding. Every time he finished, he left her behind. On most of the first worlds he ran through, she probably still lies, by the gate, a trace of his existence as a fugitive.
After a while he changed motif. His unit commander, his sister, and then eventually, he ended up making mostly abstract carvings. With all the people he’s lost, it would take him a lifetime spent in the company of ghosts to bring them all back to life.
But Sheppard and his team rescued him from that. It took him some time to even think the word, but it was a rescue, another way of life, a re-introduction to freedom. They brought him to a place filled with people and life.
Most of the time he felt numb. Like the blow dealt all those years ago was only starting to sink in. He’d had to learn so many things all over again. Table manners, social skills, saying hello in hallways. He mostly didn’t bother.
After he first lost his security detail, he did a lot of walking in the city. It was solid, built to last and impress. A manifestation of power and determination rarely seen in Pegasus. Satedans had been capable of it, but his world lay in ruins. Atlantis still stood, daunting and undefeated. He admired that.
He didn’t stay because there was nowhere else to go. He stayed because he saw lines of convergence, the arrival of people from another galaxy, the awakening of so many Wraith, even Teyla’s presence away from her people.
The fight was here, there was actually a possibility of killing every last Wraith. Not to kill some and wait a few hundred years for the rest of them. They were within reach now and the choice was instinctive, a part of him at the deepest level: enemy. So he stayed and fought.
He took orders from Sheppard because he recognized his skill, his valor and the way he made up for Ronon’s own shortcomings. He could be patient, circumspect, a leader. So Ronon followed.
He allowed Teyla to placate him, to manage his moods with kindness and firmness. He saw the fire in her, the pain and the personal discipline she enforced first and foremost. So he listened.
He indulged McKay who treated him like an imbecile and nagged him. It was the scientist’s way to be and even to welcome. So Ronon smiled.
Teyla received a few of his sculptures over the years. One of her, which prompted her to request one of each of them and he indulged her. So, one of each of them, a few abstract ones: strength, beauty, loss…. She keeps them on her windowsill. On the rare occasions he’s in her quarters, he looks over to find them in the same place, still dust-free, taken care of. It makes him feel the same.
Rating: PG
Genre: gen, I can't place it much more than that. A longish vignette.
Summary: Ronon's found a home in Atlantis.
Spoilers: General, before Sateda.
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended.
Because I love Ronon too.
Incidentally, it was hell finding an icon for Ronon. Probably cause I didn't now where to look. But I adored wav's and snagged it. Also got a brand new icon for me, courtesy of azangal simply cause it was so beautiful, I had to have it.
Brute
The guys teased him at first. On those first days and nights spent waiting on other planets, Teyla and the other guys would sit and talk, bicker even. Ronon would look for good, dry wood and cut out a big enough bit with his big knife. Then with a smaller one, he’d sit with them, concentrating on bringing forms to life, sculpturing the wood into what he considered art. Sheppard disagreed.
“Why do you only make blobs?”
“They’re not blobs. They’re representations.”
“Representations?”
McKay was probably surprised he knew such a big word.
“Of concepts: truth, strength, death…love.”
“Huh.”
Sometimes he wonders what he’s doing with these people. Teyla reminds him.
“That is… power, no…strength?”
“Yeah.”
The next time he carved her a rose. Just because.
It was his introduction in Atlantis, him ruthlessly beating up marines, slamming Teyla to the floor. They didn’t know what to make of him and that’s essential to Earthlings. It keeps them on solid ground while they think every decision through, over and over and over again.
Personally his distinctions are simpler: friend, enemy. And his ability to determine which is which in the blink of an eye doesn’t make him a brute. It makes him an ex-runner. It just took them a while to catch on, except for Teyla. She always read him clearly.
When he was younger, his single-mindedness drove his teachers and then his instructors crazy. He was athletic and possessed an uncanny ability to repeat perfectly what he’d only been shown once. It kept him alive when everyone else on his unit died and it kept him on his feet for over seven years.
Maybe, if they’d backed off at first, given him time to realize all he’d lost or what lay ahead of him, then maybe they could have broken him. But as it is, Wraith aren’t patient.
They hunted him relentlessly and he kept running. After a while, he’d gone so far he couldn’t even think to stop or surrender, to lose. They cemented his hate and his resolve. He picked off the ones he could and survived not just because it was his vengeance, it became his very nature. Specialist Ronon Dex, runner.
That’s why he took to carving. It was good, it kept him centered, focused even when he was resting. Something to occupy his mind on the cold, cold nights when he couldn’t sleep because of nightmares or the possibility of a Wraith attack. He’d never had the patience to sit and skillfully carve a piece of wood. There had been girls, target practice, lakes to swim in, fields to run through and more girls… All that disappeared and the little, practical voice in his head reminded him wood was a universal raw material.
In the early days he’d carve her face over and over again. Melena. It kept him sane and it helped him remember that there was something else, another reality, a time when he’d been free and happy. He kept few things on him at all times, his gun, his knives and the latest piece of wood he was molding. Every time he finished, he left her behind. On most of the first worlds he ran through, she probably still lies, by the gate, a trace of his existence as a fugitive.
After a while he changed motif. His unit commander, his sister, and then eventually, he ended up making mostly abstract carvings. With all the people he’s lost, it would take him a lifetime spent in the company of ghosts to bring them all back to life.
But Sheppard and his team rescued him from that. It took him some time to even think the word, but it was a rescue, another way of life, a re-introduction to freedom. They brought him to a place filled with people and life.
Most of the time he felt numb. Like the blow dealt all those years ago was only starting to sink in. He’d had to learn so many things all over again. Table manners, social skills, saying hello in hallways. He mostly didn’t bother.
After he first lost his security detail, he did a lot of walking in the city. It was solid, built to last and impress. A manifestation of power and determination rarely seen in Pegasus. Satedans had been capable of it, but his world lay in ruins. Atlantis still stood, daunting and undefeated. He admired that.
He didn’t stay because there was nowhere else to go. He stayed because he saw lines of convergence, the arrival of people from another galaxy, the awakening of so many Wraith, even Teyla’s presence away from her people.
The fight was here, there was actually a possibility of killing every last Wraith. Not to kill some and wait a few hundred years for the rest of them. They were within reach now and the choice was instinctive, a part of him at the deepest level: enemy. So he stayed and fought.
He took orders from Sheppard because he recognized his skill, his valor and the way he made up for Ronon’s own shortcomings. He could be patient, circumspect, a leader. So Ronon followed.
He allowed Teyla to placate him, to manage his moods with kindness and firmness. He saw the fire in her, the pain and the personal discipline she enforced first and foremost. So he listened.
He indulged McKay who treated him like an imbecile and nagged him. It was the scientist’s way to be and even to welcome. So Ronon smiled.
Teyla received a few of his sculptures over the years. One of her, which prompted her to request one of each of them and he indulged her. So, one of each of them, a few abstract ones: strength, beauty, loss…. She keeps them on her windowsill. On the rare occasions he’s in her quarters, he looks over to find them in the same place, still dust-free, taken care of. It makes him feel the same.