Damaged Goods, Chapter 11/?
Title: Damaged Goods
Fandom/Pairing: SGA, John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: PG-13 (will go up in future chapters)
Spoilers: Runner, Vegas
Summary: AU: Ronon's immune to the wraith. Detective John Sheppard doesn't die in the Las Vegas desert. It would probably be easier if the opposites of both were true.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
All chapters available on AO3, or start with the master post Dreamwidth or Livejournal. And there's a Soundtrack available as well. :)
The house has been painfully quiet all day, but it won't be once the guests start to arrive. Tessa's sent Dave to the store for supplies and banned everyone from the kitchen while Becky hangs out in the living room, distractedly paging through a textbook.
John, for his part, is reaching the breaking point. He heads up into his room, listening carefully to make sure he's the only one on the floor before taking out his phone. Keller's line, once it's forwarded from her desk to her cell, goes directly to voice mail, but McKay picks up on the second ring.
"Hi John." he sounds puzzled. "I'm... sorry about your father?" There's a pause. "Sorry, ah. Keller told me what happened."
"That's actually part of why I'm calling," John says. "Her phone didn't even ring before going to voicemail."
There's a silence from McKay's line that either means that he's looking for notes, or that he's working on three other things at the same time. "She should be....yes. She's on a plane right now. Ah..."
"What?"
"Um. Apparently this thing with your father being...Yes. Well. She's taken a few days to go visit her family. Her mother hasn't been doing so well, and. You know."
"Oh." John's not sure that he does, but honestly, he's not thinking about that part of the equation. "Anyway. I was just trying to see if there was anything I needed to know about Ronon."
"Who?"
"Number Eight?"
"Right. Of course. Yes. Keller checked on him last night before she came home, said everything was fine. The appropriate personnel have been notified and he's being taken care of. Meals, meds, everything, and the camera's still in place. They're supposed to contact you if anything happens."
But is anyone talking to him? It sounds pathetic to his own ears; he doesn't ask. "Before she came home?"
"Er. Before she went home. Yes."
"Uh huh."
McKay sputters. "What?"
"Nothing."
"Well then. If that's all? I've got work to do."
"Then I'll let you get to it. Thanks, McKay."
"Sure thing. And. Ah. Sorry again about...you know."
"Thanks."
---
Yesterday had been unbearable. Of the hundred or so other guests, few had anything worth saying. Even fewer had let that stop them. Then there'd been the speeches. Dave's had been great. Rehearsed, honest. He'd meant all of it. John had managed to string some words together and still hasn't remembered what they were. He's fairly certain some of them were lies, but nobody's called him on it, not even Dave.
Now, at least, that the coffin's being lowered into the grave, everyone is silent.
Any minute now, they'll be leaving this place before the noisy and distinctly un-ceremonial task of backfilling the grave happens. As he shakes the last stranger's hand on the way back to the line of cars, John catches a glimpse of the Bobcat in the open garage on the edge of the graveyard. Two men in green-gray uniforms are smoking, laughing about someone, too far away for anyone to hear.
John's so jealous of them his teeth ache.
---
Tessa insists that he stay on for another day, help them go through some of the leftovers. The only reason John agrees is that he knows the three of them have decided to drive Becky back to school over the weekend. Nobody's going to awkwardly insist that he stay past tomorrow. He does, however, get online and set up his flight back home, and then, because home means work means Ronon, he calls the facility. It's too late to catch Woolsey, but he leaves a message.
"How's Ronon doing?" John asks, once he's filled the voicemail in on his itinerary. "You don't have to, ah, call me back or anything. Just... idly wondering so I can hit the ground running when I come in Monday."
He hangs up once he's run out of words. Lying's getting easier by the day.
---
Velasquez is short and dark, and tries to make eye contact but fails. Ronon doesn't know what he's supposed to say to him, or how to get him to tell him the things he really needs to know, and doesn't much look at him, either.
What have your people decided? When is John coming back? Why won't you people tell me anything? How long are you going to keep me down here?
Under the vigil of the guards who'd just finished escorting him to the showers- this time without incident- he changes his bandages, warning him of every move he makes. In between, Velasquez fills the space with questions that might not be as idle as they sound. Is his hair as heavy is it looks, and where did the beads come from, and tell me about the tattoo?
At the end, though, as he's leaving, he finally looks Ronon in the face and says something worth hearing. "Just so you know, Doctor Keller is out until Monday, as is Mr. Sheppard."
Ronon frowns, thinks for a moment, but by the time he's got it, Velasquez is hastily explaining. "John Sheppard. He's still at his father's funeral, won't be back for two days." Grinning, now that he's got some traction, he continues. "In the meantime, the word going around is that the IOA is close to reaching a decision. Probably tomorrow. We'll keep you posted."
Careful not to push, Ronon manages to show that he's heard, nothing more.
Velasquez's grin lasts just a bit too long to be trusted.
---
It takes some time for Velasquez's words to sink in. John is at his father's funeral, and for the rest of the day, it's all Ronon can do to stop the memories from becoming too real. Being called down to the offices at the academy the night before his final tests were to take place, the dread as he'd walked down the corridor, and then hearing and not hearing the words, these things he ignores. By the time his father's funeral had been arranged, Ronon had been too numb to feel anything. There's little he can remember of that day with any certainty. The surprise, however, upon hearing of the rockslide- his father had died without battle or warning- and the floundering sensation of trying to guess how to feel, these are not so easily pushed down.
Ronon had figured he'd stopped missing his father, thought it small in comparison to missing his entire world, but he hasn't completely unlearned it yet, he'd just forgotten. Remembering doesn't help.
He doesn't know John or John's father. Doesn't need to know how to feel, either, but it doesn't stop it from happening, and tonight, when the lights suddenly go dark and no guards are here to see, it's almost a refuge.
There's too much happening in his head to lock any one thought down, but as he rubs his hands over his face and tries to stop another shudder from pulling at his bandages, hating John Sheppard doesn't seem as easy as he's been thinking. Not right now. And if John were here, maybe Ronon would try to explain it.
Maybe not.
---
Though it feels like he's barely just finished eating breakfast, it only means that they come bearing nothing but their guns when they step off the elevator. Their movements are more streamlined and quick than usual, and the one, Markham, is grinning a bit too widely. Even in the cell, Ronon makes them nervous.
"Well, Eight," Stackhouse seems willing enough to move past it. "The IOA is ready to meet with you. Unless you've got something more interesting going on?"
His heart skyrockets hard enough that Ronon stands without thinking. His voice, though, is thankfully unaffected. "Okay."
Markham opens the door, and Ronon is so careful right now, moving slowly and forcibly deaf to the thoughts that this could be the escape he'd been too distracted to prepare for. He steps into the elevator, arms straight down at his sides, and he's not surprised when a third guard joins the retinue when they arrive on level three.
The corridor is short, the room they guide him into large and open, but windowless. There are two chairs facing each other in the middle of the room, and he's waved to take a seat.
"It'll just be a minute," Stackhouse says as they leave. "Just hold tight."
Whatever that means.
Once they're gone, Ronon resumes his survey. Each of the four corners of the room has a camera; they all seem focused on him. Evidently, they've decided they can trust him in a room with one other person, but don't trust him enough not to watch every angle of the conversation.
He doesn't have time to formulate a statement, an explanation. Despite John, he doesn't actually know enough about these people, to know what they're going to want to talk about. His actions in the shower, probably. What he'd been doing on Sateda, again. What the hell he is to the wraith, that won't be a problem to answer. But why they should trust him?
Because he didn't break Markham's neck in the elevator. Didn't shoot Stackhouse with his own gun. Because he stayed in his cell because of John and hope and something like trust. Maybe that will be enough. Maybe it won't.
He's running strategy, trying to guess how many guards they'll send in to watch from the doorway. How he'd have to grab the person sitting in the chair across from him and use them to his advantage. Eight different ways to disarm them, no idea where he'll go once he gets the door open again. If it's even possible.
He forces his fingers not to twitch for a gun that's nowhere to be found.
Outside, there are footsteps approaching. Five sets. The strides of one are longer than the others, and he can't quite place it, can't think for all the anticipation that's building. He's not even sure what he's waiting for any more- a pardon, an excuse to attack, an opening- but in the next instant, it no longer matters. The door swings open.
The wraith's attacking before the door slams shut again.
Chapter 12
Fandom/Pairing: SGA, John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: PG-13 (will go up in future chapters)
Spoilers: Runner, Vegas
Summary: AU: Ronon's immune to the wraith. Detective John Sheppard doesn't die in the Las Vegas desert. It would probably be easier if the opposites of both were true.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
All chapters available on AO3, or start with the master post Dreamwidth or Livejournal. And there's a Soundtrack available as well. :)
The house has been painfully quiet all day, but it won't be once the guests start to arrive. Tessa's sent Dave to the store for supplies and banned everyone from the kitchen while Becky hangs out in the living room, distractedly paging through a textbook.
John, for his part, is reaching the breaking point. He heads up into his room, listening carefully to make sure he's the only one on the floor before taking out his phone. Keller's line, once it's forwarded from her desk to her cell, goes directly to voice mail, but McKay picks up on the second ring.
"Hi John." he sounds puzzled. "I'm... sorry about your father?" There's a pause. "Sorry, ah. Keller told me what happened."
"That's actually part of why I'm calling," John says. "Her phone didn't even ring before going to voicemail."
There's a silence from McKay's line that either means that he's looking for notes, or that he's working on three other things at the same time. "She should be....yes. She's on a plane right now. Ah..."
"What?"
"Um. Apparently this thing with your father being...Yes. Well. She's taken a few days to go visit her family. Her mother hasn't been doing so well, and. You know."
"Oh." John's not sure that he does, but honestly, he's not thinking about that part of the equation. "Anyway. I was just trying to see if there was anything I needed to know about Ronon."
"Who?"
"Number Eight?"
"Right. Of course. Yes. Keller checked on him last night before she came home, said everything was fine. The appropriate personnel have been notified and he's being taken care of. Meals, meds, everything, and the camera's still in place. They're supposed to contact you if anything happens."
But is anyone talking to him? It sounds pathetic to his own ears; he doesn't ask. "Before she came home?"
"Er. Before she went home. Yes."
"Uh huh."
McKay sputters. "What?"
"Nothing."
"Well then. If that's all? I've got work to do."
"Then I'll let you get to it. Thanks, McKay."
"Sure thing. And. Ah. Sorry again about...you know."
"Thanks."
---
Yesterday had been unbearable. Of the hundred or so other guests, few had anything worth saying. Even fewer had let that stop them. Then there'd been the speeches. Dave's had been great. Rehearsed, honest. He'd meant all of it. John had managed to string some words together and still hasn't remembered what they were. He's fairly certain some of them were lies, but nobody's called him on it, not even Dave.
Now, at least, that the coffin's being lowered into the grave, everyone is silent.
Any minute now, they'll be leaving this place before the noisy and distinctly un-ceremonial task of backfilling the grave happens. As he shakes the last stranger's hand on the way back to the line of cars, John catches a glimpse of the Bobcat in the open garage on the edge of the graveyard. Two men in green-gray uniforms are smoking, laughing about someone, too far away for anyone to hear.
John's so jealous of them his teeth ache.
---
Tessa insists that he stay on for another day, help them go through some of the leftovers. The only reason John agrees is that he knows the three of them have decided to drive Becky back to school over the weekend. Nobody's going to awkwardly insist that he stay past tomorrow. He does, however, get online and set up his flight back home, and then, because home means work means Ronon, he calls the facility. It's too late to catch Woolsey, but he leaves a message.
"How's Ronon doing?" John asks, once he's filled the voicemail in on his itinerary. "You don't have to, ah, call me back or anything. Just... idly wondering so I can hit the ground running when I come in Monday."
He hangs up once he's run out of words. Lying's getting easier by the day.
---
Velasquez is short and dark, and tries to make eye contact but fails. Ronon doesn't know what he's supposed to say to him, or how to get him to tell him the things he really needs to know, and doesn't much look at him, either.
What have your people decided? When is John coming back? Why won't you people tell me anything? How long are you going to keep me down here?
Under the vigil of the guards who'd just finished escorting him to the showers- this time without incident- he changes his bandages, warning him of every move he makes. In between, Velasquez fills the space with questions that might not be as idle as they sound. Is his hair as heavy is it looks, and where did the beads come from, and tell me about the tattoo?
At the end, though, as he's leaving, he finally looks Ronon in the face and says something worth hearing. "Just so you know, Doctor Keller is out until Monday, as is Mr. Sheppard."
Ronon frowns, thinks for a moment, but by the time he's got it, Velasquez is hastily explaining. "John Sheppard. He's still at his father's funeral, won't be back for two days." Grinning, now that he's got some traction, he continues. "In the meantime, the word going around is that the IOA is close to reaching a decision. Probably tomorrow. We'll keep you posted."
Careful not to push, Ronon manages to show that he's heard, nothing more.
Velasquez's grin lasts just a bit too long to be trusted.
---
It takes some time for Velasquez's words to sink in. John is at his father's funeral, and for the rest of the day, it's all Ronon can do to stop the memories from becoming too real. Being called down to the offices at the academy the night before his final tests were to take place, the dread as he'd walked down the corridor, and then hearing and not hearing the words, these things he ignores. By the time his father's funeral had been arranged, Ronon had been too numb to feel anything. There's little he can remember of that day with any certainty. The surprise, however, upon hearing of the rockslide- his father had died without battle or warning- and the floundering sensation of trying to guess how to feel, these are not so easily pushed down.
Ronon had figured he'd stopped missing his father, thought it small in comparison to missing his entire world, but he hasn't completely unlearned it yet, he'd just forgotten. Remembering doesn't help.
He doesn't know John or John's father. Doesn't need to know how to feel, either, but it doesn't stop it from happening, and tonight, when the lights suddenly go dark and no guards are here to see, it's almost a refuge.
There's too much happening in his head to lock any one thought down, but as he rubs his hands over his face and tries to stop another shudder from pulling at his bandages, hating John Sheppard doesn't seem as easy as he's been thinking. Not right now. And if John were here, maybe Ronon would try to explain it.
Maybe not.
---
Though it feels like he's barely just finished eating breakfast, it only means that they come bearing nothing but their guns when they step off the elevator. Their movements are more streamlined and quick than usual, and the one, Markham, is grinning a bit too widely. Even in the cell, Ronon makes them nervous.
"Well, Eight," Stackhouse seems willing enough to move past it. "The IOA is ready to meet with you. Unless you've got something more interesting going on?"
His heart skyrockets hard enough that Ronon stands without thinking. His voice, though, is thankfully unaffected. "Okay."
Markham opens the door, and Ronon is so careful right now, moving slowly and forcibly deaf to the thoughts that this could be the escape he'd been too distracted to prepare for. He steps into the elevator, arms straight down at his sides, and he's not surprised when a third guard joins the retinue when they arrive on level three.
The corridor is short, the room they guide him into large and open, but windowless. There are two chairs facing each other in the middle of the room, and he's waved to take a seat.
"It'll just be a minute," Stackhouse says as they leave. "Just hold tight."
Whatever that means.
Once they're gone, Ronon resumes his survey. Each of the four corners of the room has a camera; they all seem focused on him. Evidently, they've decided they can trust him in a room with one other person, but don't trust him enough not to watch every angle of the conversation.
He doesn't have time to formulate a statement, an explanation. Despite John, he doesn't actually know enough about these people, to know what they're going to want to talk about. His actions in the shower, probably. What he'd been doing on Sateda, again. What the hell he is to the wraith, that won't be a problem to answer. But why they should trust him?
Because he didn't break Markham's neck in the elevator. Didn't shoot Stackhouse with his own gun. Because he stayed in his cell because of John and hope and something like trust. Maybe that will be enough. Maybe it won't.
He's running strategy, trying to guess how many guards they'll send in to watch from the doorway. How he'd have to grab the person sitting in the chair across from him and use them to his advantage. Eight different ways to disarm them, no idea where he'll go once he gets the door open again. If it's even possible.
He forces his fingers not to twitch for a gun that's nowhere to be found.
Outside, there are footsteps approaching. Five sets. The strides of one are longer than the others, and he can't quite place it, can't think for all the anticipation that's building. He's not even sure what he's waiting for any more- a pardon, an excuse to attack, an opening- but in the next instant, it no longer matters. The door swings open.
The wraith's attacking before the door slams shut again.
Chapter 12