Damaged Goods Chapter 13/?
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. :)
Ronon's sitting on his bunk when John exits the elevator, hunched over with the palms of his hands pressed against his eyes. It doesn't bode well, but John asks, anyway.
"How're you doing?"
Dropping his hand, Ronon squints up at him. He's a little pale, and he's not smiling, but what John's been expecting is so much worse. "Head hurts."
"I'll bet. Look. I'm sorry about what happened." With the guards waiting at the top of the elevator, stunners at the ready in the event of an escape attempt, there's nobody down here to unlock the door for John, either, so he leaves it open as he steps inside. If Ronon feels slightly less backed into a corner, so much the better. "And for what it's worth, I had no part in it."
"The doctor said." Ronon nods. "You were with your people."
"Yeah." John doesn't know what to say; honestly, he'd been expecting Ronon to be in much rougher shape, and he doesn't want to be thinking about Dave and Dad and the life outside this facility that he still, apparently, lays claim to. Ronon's blinking, trying to focus on him. "Do you need to go see her again? For your head?"
"It's just a stunner headache." Suddenly, Ronon's looking at him like he's amused, or relieved, or maybe even bordering on happy, and it's derailing as hell. "Ah, well. Okay. Anyway. She'll be down again later today, maybe you should mention it. How's your back doing?"
"Tore some stitches. Think the doctors fixed them while I was under." He shrugs stiffly, and a moment goes by where John's honestly not doing much that scoping out the side of his neck, running down behind the collar of his shirt, until Ronon's words snap him out of it. "Why did they do that?"
"Stitch you up?"
"Let me fight the wraith."
"Let you?" John blinks. Oh.
His confusion prompts Ronon to gesture over at the empty cell, as if to clarify. "I thought you were all trying to starve it to death."
"They got some new intel. The wraith's presence, I'm guessing, made them nervous." Sitting down at the floor, he catches Ronon's glance towards the open, unguarded door. When he doesn't move for it, John continues. "Anyhow. Timing worked out so that someone decided it would be a good idea to test you. One, they wanted to know if you were resistant to having the wraith feed on you. But they also wanted to see what you'd do, locked in a room with one. If the two of you would act like allies or enemies."
Ronon's raised eyebrow is so skeptically unimpressed that John snorts. "For what it's worth, I think you managed to change a few minds. They're still working out the details, but they're talking integration."
"What?"
"Making you a part of the operation. I think their hope is that you'll be grateful enough to stick around and help out once the surgeon's arrived from Atlantis to remove your tracker. Though objective number one, far as I'm concerned, is upgrading your accommodations at the very least. This floor sucks."
For whatever reason, Ronon actually does smile. Then he shifts, moving along towards the rear wall and nodding down at the space he's just cleared on the bunk. He doesn't even make a break for the door when John's distracted by the arduous task of standing. Maybe he's waiting to strangle you, he catches himself thinking, and it's a shitty derailment. He's the one who's supposed to be on Ronon's side in all of this. If he can't convince himself, there's no way he'll be able to convince anyone who matters.
It's telling, though, how Ronon stiffens ever so slightly when John sits down next to him. John's not the only one testing the waters, here.
"You seem...better," John says, scanning him close up. "Than before, I mean. Last week."
Maybe they're not there yet, but Ronon raises his chin in the direction of the now empty cell as if that's all the explanation that's needed. Maybe the scenery hasn't changed as much as Ronon would like, but it's a start.
Refusing to be exasperated, John tries again, goes back to the point he'd meant to make before. "You said they let you fight the wraith."
"I'm not so good at sitting around, so..."
He's missing the point entirely. "You do get that they were putting you in a position where you could've gotten killed, right? They didn't even give you a weapon."
"Didn't need one. Found one anyway." Ronon's tone could mean anything from I've fought with less, to your people are weak and pathetic.
"Yeah, well. I don't like it. I mean. You don't throw people away like that. Or, well, put them in a situation where that's a possible outcome, you know?"
Ronon gives it some thought, actually turns to look at John and frowns, as if John's the one missing the point. "They didn't throw me away. They got out of my way." There's annoyance in Ronon's eyes- that probably never goes away, not completely- but he's not angry, and part of John really wants him to be, to understand how fucked this all is. But what Ronon says next knocks it out of his head completely. "But thanks, though. For checking."
Five words that can't mean as much as John's making them mean, and Ronon's looking away again, staring at his own hands. John nods at nothing, hopes it means yeah or maybe even you're welcome, but Ronon seems more comfortable with this new silence than John is. The fact that Ronon's finally decided that it's okay to speak first, however, goes a long way to assuage the slowly building awkwardness.
"So why do they want me working for them? Your planet is large enough for the wraith to be interested. Your forces must be strong enough to fight."
"Yeah, but most of them don't know that we exist, let alone the rest of it. This facility here, life on other worlds, all of it. It's all a secret." Not for the first time, John's taken aback at the fact that the secret's been this well kept. "I only found out about it a few months ago. There are still, literally, billions of people who don't have a clue."
Ronon stiffens minutely, and too late, John realizes that he's just thrown this uneasy camaraderie right out the window.
---
Ronon's dreamt of an existence where the threat of the wraith is unknown, but hearing that it's real is like a slap in the face. Billions of people. There are billions of people, here, and they don't know, because the people in charge hoard the knowledge.
And the wraith are coming, because the wraith will always come, and- Ronon can't even think, but apparently he can still move. He stands, puts his back against the wall just to feel the sharp spray of pain sparking down his spine and out towards his limbs; looking at John would hurt more.
Two small ships had come through the gate outside the capital; both had been shot down before reaching the city walls. Word spread quickly of the Satedan victory, but inside the command hall, the mood had been grave. The northern observatory had reported in; their telescopes had picked up two large hives entering Satedan orbit.
The order had been given nearly an hour ago. All over the city, people were packing and heading out to the ring for evacuation. Ronon had been at the base, awaiting his orders; he'd seen Kell's face fall as the second report came in. Three more hives had been spotted in the southern skies, moving much more quickly than the first two.
They've already lost, they just don't know it yet. Ronon's orders haven't changed, but the objective has. It's not about victory any more, it's about ensuring that there's anything left at all for the survivors to come back to once the danger has passed.
There won't be many survivors. There's just not enough time.
Ronon fights his way against the tides of people swarming towards the city gates; it's slow going, but it could be so much worse. Few are carrying anything more than a day's supplies. Still, though, small children are crying, and the tensions are already high. The rioting hasn't started yet. Soon, though, it will. As long as the inevitable is held back long enough to get Melena out to the ring, the lie will be worth it.
Finally, the apartment he shares with Melena is in sight, down at the end of the block. She has to be there, has to be packed and ready to go. Everything's gone so badly today, he needs this one thing to go right. If she can make it through the gate-
Rounding the fence, he nearly collides with two of his neighbors, an young couple who work in the schools, whose names Ronon can't afford to remember right now. He's helping her with her bag as they join the throng; she catches Ronon's eye and nods in something like resigned sympathy. They don't know about the new directive, or the documents that they'll need to get through the ring. Nobody here does but Ronon.
He pats at his pocket as he nods back, and says nothing as he passes. He'd signed everything over to Kell, the insured Satedan accounts, and the Bersi and Sinetian ones as well, and in return had obtained one piece of paper that's worth more than all of them combined. It's a simple document, handwritten, that identifies Melena's appointment as medic, and it would be meaningless were it not for Kell's seal.
Ronon enters quickly and slams the door shut on the people outside. Taking the stairs two at a time, he can hear the radio playing in their apartment. Melena's listening, she doesn't know yet, and Ronon finds himself absurdly pausing before opening the door. He's going to have to convince her, he'll have to promise to win this, and right now, Ronon knows, he's no better than the Chieftain's empty promises, telling Sateda that there's a future, that they'll all survive.
---
John's seen suspects suddenly realize the immensity of their actions in the interview room, so badly that they'd confess to crimes committed ten years before they'd been born. He knows of defendants on vehicular manslaughter charges holding up through their trial and conviction, only to be blindsided by it weeks or months later, and sat for hours with a woman who'd turned herself in ten seconds after shooting her husband in the chest. He's also met one or two murderers who'd been clinically unable to feel any remorse at all, and anyway, this is a lot of things, but it's not a homicide.
What he's seeing in Ronon's face is disgust, and it's still in his eyes when he finally levels his gaze in John's direction. His posture, though, loosens.
"The experiment. They get what you need from me?"
Managing a nod, John scowls at Ronon's low fatalistic tone, dimly realizing that what he's seeing in the slump of his shoulders isn't relaxation but resignation, and he wants to shake it from him, break him out of this, but Ronon's already speaking.
"Then kill me or set me free."
John can do neither, and before he can even start to begin explaining it, Ronon's eyes dim, as if he's already decided which it's going to be.
---
Ronon had finally settled in about an hour ago, but the light of him lying on his side on the cot isn't at all enlightening. John knows he's missed something, and staring at the security feed from the privacy of his own office isn't doing any good. There's no useful monologue, no sudden revelations. Just Ronon, on his side on the cot. He might be sleeping; more likely he's just tuning out. His face is nearly relaxed, but for the frown that never entirely disappears.
John doesn't blame him, but he doesn't know how to help. He wants to, though, badly. And that, as much as anything, should be setting off the warning bells. His objectivity is shot to hell.
It would be one thing if he could couch it as commitment to his work, or even an idle empathy for the underdog. That really, all he's been doing for the past half hour is staring at Ronon's mouth, the corner of his jaw like he's cataloguing every last detail? Or entertaining fleeting impulses to storm down there, wrap an arm carefully over Ronon's shoulders, and make everything better.
Only he doesn't know how to do that. His voyeuristic eye on the security feed is really the only way to convince himself that he's doing anything at all. The email to Woolsey he's been trying to compose isn't even half finished- he hasn't been able to go more than a sentence without the vitriol seeping through onto the screen. Another day or two, maybe, and he'll be able to sort it out.
The only thing he knows for certain is that he'll be stopping at the liquor store on the way home. He'll probably need groceries, too, and hell, he still has to unpack. Technically, he's not even back yet.
Footsteps in the hall drag his attention away from the junk mail that's probably piled up at the apartment during his absence, and he sits up in his chair as McKay, not bothering to knock, swings the door open and invites himself inside.
"So," McKay hasn't shaved in two days, and the lines in his face are deeply set, he seems to be running on fumes and determination. "In case you haven't heard. Turns out we've been having some issues with the sensors at two of our deep space observation posts, they've been skewing our calculations. The new telemetry data from our deep space sensors indicates that the wraith are going to be getting here not in three and a half weeks, but in eight days. So. How's your day going?"
John's blindsided by the reminder of why they're all actually here. This was the intel Woolsey had mentioned; the fact that he'd forgotten so completely about it is galling, and the instinctive panic is hard to swallow around. Perspective, however, doesn't make the processing any easier. "Seriously?"
McKay's grin is thin and humorless. "The chair's down for the day so we can remove some of the failsafes. Should get rid of that half-second firing lag. We'll have it up and running before the day's out. But we're going to need you down there first thing in the morning to make sure the adjustments haven't opened up any new issues." There are dark circles under his eyes, and he needs a shave even though it's not that late in the day yet. "So how'd it go with the IOA?"
"They didn't trust Ronon in the first place, and this stunt they pulled hasn't put them too high up on his list, either. On top of that, I don't have enough clout with the IOA to move things along, so convincing Ronon that we're worth the effort is pretty much a wash."
"What would you do if you did?"
"If the IOA is serious about integration, we need him out of that cell. Right now, they're using the tracker as an excuse to stall, and Ronon needs to hear what's going on from somebody other than me." Seeing as how my credibility's pretty much in the gutter, he nearly adds. But the reality of it isn't any less hard to admit. "I can mediate, sure, but right now I'm just the messenger. We need everyone at the table." He shifts his screen to show McKay his sent messages, lets him take over to click through all seven of them. There's only one response, a vague "we're working on it," from the building operations supervisor. It would almost be heartening if that line hadn't been immediately followed by the inevitable. "As soon as it's cleared by the IOA."
John knows when McKay reaches the words because he snorts and shakes his head. "Idiots, the lot of them. Typical." His smirk is conspiratorial when he straightens, and John's hanging on every word before they're even spoken. "Here's what you've got to do."
It's another two hours of emails and runarounds before he manages to arrange the conference call. While Colonel Carter, at Cheyenne Mountain, sounds furious, General O'Neill's glee carries even more clearly all the way from Washington. "You're telling me that you'd like me to pull rank and bitchslap the IOA around their own conference table? Of course I'm in."
There's a mild surge in background noise when Dr. Jackson takes his phone off mute. "With your permission, Sheppard, I'd like to bring Teal'c in to consult." he says. "He's got more experience as an off-worlder dealing with the IOA than anyone-"
"Hey!" An unidentified woman is speaking on Jackson's line. She's not close to the phone, but her voice carries. "I have plenty myself, you know, and I'm not currently a billion light years away. And I'm friendly, and so very bored-"
Jackson hurries to speak over her, his tone long-suffering. "-and isn't likely to cause an interplanetary incident running around your base." The moment the words are out, the background noise- and woman's voice- is cut off abruptly.
"I don't know, Daniel, it sounds like that's exactly what's needed," O'Neill says to the hole the noise leaves.
"Don't encourage her," Jackson comes back online just long enough to get the words out, then comes back to add, "Also? I hate you."
"Then it's all set," Carter cuts in. "I'll dial Atlantis before the day's out, let Dr. Weir know what's going on, see if she has any ideas."
"We haven't even arrived, and you're doubting my diplomatic abilities?"
"No, I'm sure of them," Carter bites back, and John's smiling not so much at the specifics of the back and forth, but the fact that it's present at all. "And Daniel? Vala? Sounds like you two are going stir crazy down there. You go ahead and see if Teal'c can fit us in."
"Thank you," Jackson and the woman- Vala, apparently- answer in unison.
Another three minutes, and they've arranged to arrive in three days.
Another five minutes after that, and John's office door is kicked down by standard-issue boots, and if the plastic restraints clutched in Markham's fist aren't enough, three guns, held low and ready, spell it out nicely.
Chapter 14
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. :)
Ronon's sitting on his bunk when John exits the elevator, hunched over with the palms of his hands pressed against his eyes. It doesn't bode well, but John asks, anyway.
"How're you doing?"
Dropping his hand, Ronon squints up at him. He's a little pale, and he's not smiling, but what John's been expecting is so much worse. "Head hurts."
"I'll bet. Look. I'm sorry about what happened." With the guards waiting at the top of the elevator, stunners at the ready in the event of an escape attempt, there's nobody down here to unlock the door for John, either, so he leaves it open as he steps inside. If Ronon feels slightly less backed into a corner, so much the better. "And for what it's worth, I had no part in it."
"The doctor said." Ronon nods. "You were with your people."
"Yeah." John doesn't know what to say; honestly, he'd been expecting Ronon to be in much rougher shape, and he doesn't want to be thinking about Dave and Dad and the life outside this facility that he still, apparently, lays claim to. Ronon's blinking, trying to focus on him. "Do you need to go see her again? For your head?"
"It's just a stunner headache." Suddenly, Ronon's looking at him like he's amused, or relieved, or maybe even bordering on happy, and it's derailing as hell. "Ah, well. Okay. Anyway. She'll be down again later today, maybe you should mention it. How's your back doing?"
"Tore some stitches. Think the doctors fixed them while I was under." He shrugs stiffly, and a moment goes by where John's honestly not doing much that scoping out the side of his neck, running down behind the collar of his shirt, until Ronon's words snap him out of it. "Why did they do that?"
"Stitch you up?"
"Let me fight the wraith."
"Let you?" John blinks. Oh.
His confusion prompts Ronon to gesture over at the empty cell, as if to clarify. "I thought you were all trying to starve it to death."
"They got some new intel. The wraith's presence, I'm guessing, made them nervous." Sitting down at the floor, he catches Ronon's glance towards the open, unguarded door. When he doesn't move for it, John continues. "Anyhow. Timing worked out so that someone decided it would be a good idea to test you. One, they wanted to know if you were resistant to having the wraith feed on you. But they also wanted to see what you'd do, locked in a room with one. If the two of you would act like allies or enemies."
Ronon's raised eyebrow is so skeptically unimpressed that John snorts. "For what it's worth, I think you managed to change a few minds. They're still working out the details, but they're talking integration."
"What?"
"Making you a part of the operation. I think their hope is that you'll be grateful enough to stick around and help out once the surgeon's arrived from Atlantis to remove your tracker. Though objective number one, far as I'm concerned, is upgrading your accommodations at the very least. This floor sucks."
For whatever reason, Ronon actually does smile. Then he shifts, moving along towards the rear wall and nodding down at the space he's just cleared on the bunk. He doesn't even make a break for the door when John's distracted by the arduous task of standing. Maybe he's waiting to strangle you, he catches himself thinking, and it's a shitty derailment. He's the one who's supposed to be on Ronon's side in all of this. If he can't convince himself, there's no way he'll be able to convince anyone who matters.
It's telling, though, how Ronon stiffens ever so slightly when John sits down next to him. John's not the only one testing the waters, here.
"You seem...better," John says, scanning him close up. "Than before, I mean. Last week."
Maybe they're not there yet, but Ronon raises his chin in the direction of the now empty cell as if that's all the explanation that's needed. Maybe the scenery hasn't changed as much as Ronon would like, but it's a start.
Refusing to be exasperated, John tries again, goes back to the point he'd meant to make before. "You said they let you fight the wraith."
"I'm not so good at sitting around, so..."
He's missing the point entirely. "You do get that they were putting you in a position where you could've gotten killed, right? They didn't even give you a weapon."
"Didn't need one. Found one anyway." Ronon's tone could mean anything from I've fought with less, to your people are weak and pathetic.
"Yeah, well. I don't like it. I mean. You don't throw people away like that. Or, well, put them in a situation where that's a possible outcome, you know?"
Ronon gives it some thought, actually turns to look at John and frowns, as if John's the one missing the point. "They didn't throw me away. They got out of my way." There's annoyance in Ronon's eyes- that probably never goes away, not completely- but he's not angry, and part of John really wants him to be, to understand how fucked this all is. But what Ronon says next knocks it out of his head completely. "But thanks, though. For checking."
Five words that can't mean as much as John's making them mean, and Ronon's looking away again, staring at his own hands. John nods at nothing, hopes it means yeah or maybe even you're welcome, but Ronon seems more comfortable with this new silence than John is. The fact that Ronon's finally decided that it's okay to speak first, however, goes a long way to assuage the slowly building awkwardness.
"So why do they want me working for them? Your planet is large enough for the wraith to be interested. Your forces must be strong enough to fight."
"Yeah, but most of them don't know that we exist, let alone the rest of it. This facility here, life on other worlds, all of it. It's all a secret." Not for the first time, John's taken aback at the fact that the secret's been this well kept. "I only found out about it a few months ago. There are still, literally, billions of people who don't have a clue."
Ronon stiffens minutely, and too late, John realizes that he's just thrown this uneasy camaraderie right out the window.
---
Ronon's dreamt of an existence where the threat of the wraith is unknown, but hearing that it's real is like a slap in the face. Billions of people. There are billions of people, here, and they don't know, because the people in charge hoard the knowledge.
And the wraith are coming, because the wraith will always come, and- Ronon can't even think, but apparently he can still move. He stands, puts his back against the wall just to feel the sharp spray of pain sparking down his spine and out towards his limbs; looking at John would hurt more.
Two small ships had come through the gate outside the capital; both had been shot down before reaching the city walls. Word spread quickly of the Satedan victory, but inside the command hall, the mood had been grave. The northern observatory had reported in; their telescopes had picked up two large hives entering Satedan orbit.
The order had been given nearly an hour ago. All over the city, people were packing and heading out to the ring for evacuation. Ronon had been at the base, awaiting his orders; he'd seen Kell's face fall as the second report came in. Three more hives had been spotted in the southern skies, moving much more quickly than the first two.
They've already lost, they just don't know it yet. Ronon's orders haven't changed, but the objective has. It's not about victory any more, it's about ensuring that there's anything left at all for the survivors to come back to once the danger has passed.
There won't be many survivors. There's just not enough time.
Ronon fights his way against the tides of people swarming towards the city gates; it's slow going, but it could be so much worse. Few are carrying anything more than a day's supplies. Still, though, small children are crying, and the tensions are already high. The rioting hasn't started yet. Soon, though, it will. As long as the inevitable is held back long enough to get Melena out to the ring, the lie will be worth it.
Finally, the apartment he shares with Melena is in sight, down at the end of the block. She has to be there, has to be packed and ready to go. Everything's gone so badly today, he needs this one thing to go right. If she can make it through the gate-
Rounding the fence, he nearly collides with two of his neighbors, an young couple who work in the schools, whose names Ronon can't afford to remember right now. He's helping her with her bag as they join the throng; she catches Ronon's eye and nods in something like resigned sympathy. They don't know about the new directive, or the documents that they'll need to get through the ring. Nobody here does but Ronon.
He pats at his pocket as he nods back, and says nothing as he passes. He'd signed everything over to Kell, the insured Satedan accounts, and the Bersi and Sinetian ones as well, and in return had obtained one piece of paper that's worth more than all of them combined. It's a simple document, handwritten, that identifies Melena's appointment as medic, and it would be meaningless were it not for Kell's seal.
Ronon enters quickly and slams the door shut on the people outside. Taking the stairs two at a time, he can hear the radio playing in their apartment. Melena's listening, she doesn't know yet, and Ronon finds himself absurdly pausing before opening the door. He's going to have to convince her, he'll have to promise to win this, and right now, Ronon knows, he's no better than the Chieftain's empty promises, telling Sateda that there's a future, that they'll all survive.
---
John's seen suspects suddenly realize the immensity of their actions in the interview room, so badly that they'd confess to crimes committed ten years before they'd been born. He knows of defendants on vehicular manslaughter charges holding up through their trial and conviction, only to be blindsided by it weeks or months later, and sat for hours with a woman who'd turned herself in ten seconds after shooting her husband in the chest. He's also met one or two murderers who'd been clinically unable to feel any remorse at all, and anyway, this is a lot of things, but it's not a homicide.
What he's seeing in Ronon's face is disgust, and it's still in his eyes when he finally levels his gaze in John's direction. His posture, though, loosens.
"The experiment. They get what you need from me?"
Managing a nod, John scowls at Ronon's low fatalistic tone, dimly realizing that what he's seeing in the slump of his shoulders isn't relaxation but resignation, and he wants to shake it from him, break him out of this, but Ronon's already speaking.
"Then kill me or set me free."
John can do neither, and before he can even start to begin explaining it, Ronon's eyes dim, as if he's already decided which it's going to be.
---
Ronon had finally settled in about an hour ago, but the light of him lying on his side on the cot isn't at all enlightening. John knows he's missed something, and staring at the security feed from the privacy of his own office isn't doing any good. There's no useful monologue, no sudden revelations. Just Ronon, on his side on the cot. He might be sleeping; more likely he's just tuning out. His face is nearly relaxed, but for the frown that never entirely disappears.
John doesn't blame him, but he doesn't know how to help. He wants to, though, badly. And that, as much as anything, should be setting off the warning bells. His objectivity is shot to hell.
It would be one thing if he could couch it as commitment to his work, or even an idle empathy for the underdog. That really, all he's been doing for the past half hour is staring at Ronon's mouth, the corner of his jaw like he's cataloguing every last detail? Or entertaining fleeting impulses to storm down there, wrap an arm carefully over Ronon's shoulders, and make everything better.
Only he doesn't know how to do that. His voyeuristic eye on the security feed is really the only way to convince himself that he's doing anything at all. The email to Woolsey he's been trying to compose isn't even half finished- he hasn't been able to go more than a sentence without the vitriol seeping through onto the screen. Another day or two, maybe, and he'll be able to sort it out.
The only thing he knows for certain is that he'll be stopping at the liquor store on the way home. He'll probably need groceries, too, and hell, he still has to unpack. Technically, he's not even back yet.
Footsteps in the hall drag his attention away from the junk mail that's probably piled up at the apartment during his absence, and he sits up in his chair as McKay, not bothering to knock, swings the door open and invites himself inside.
"So," McKay hasn't shaved in two days, and the lines in his face are deeply set, he seems to be running on fumes and determination. "In case you haven't heard. Turns out we've been having some issues with the sensors at two of our deep space observation posts, they've been skewing our calculations. The new telemetry data from our deep space sensors indicates that the wraith are going to be getting here not in three and a half weeks, but in eight days. So. How's your day going?"
John's blindsided by the reminder of why they're all actually here. This was the intel Woolsey had mentioned; the fact that he'd forgotten so completely about it is galling, and the instinctive panic is hard to swallow around. Perspective, however, doesn't make the processing any easier. "Seriously?"
McKay's grin is thin and humorless. "The chair's down for the day so we can remove some of the failsafes. Should get rid of that half-second firing lag. We'll have it up and running before the day's out. But we're going to need you down there first thing in the morning to make sure the adjustments haven't opened up any new issues." There are dark circles under his eyes, and he needs a shave even though it's not that late in the day yet. "So how'd it go with the IOA?"
"They didn't trust Ronon in the first place, and this stunt they pulled hasn't put them too high up on his list, either. On top of that, I don't have enough clout with the IOA to move things along, so convincing Ronon that we're worth the effort is pretty much a wash."
"What would you do if you did?"
"If the IOA is serious about integration, we need him out of that cell. Right now, they're using the tracker as an excuse to stall, and Ronon needs to hear what's going on from somebody other than me." Seeing as how my credibility's pretty much in the gutter, he nearly adds. But the reality of it isn't any less hard to admit. "I can mediate, sure, but right now I'm just the messenger. We need everyone at the table." He shifts his screen to show McKay his sent messages, lets him take over to click through all seven of them. There's only one response, a vague "we're working on it," from the building operations supervisor. It would almost be heartening if that line hadn't been immediately followed by the inevitable. "As soon as it's cleared by the IOA."
John knows when McKay reaches the words because he snorts and shakes his head. "Idiots, the lot of them. Typical." His smirk is conspiratorial when he straightens, and John's hanging on every word before they're even spoken. "Here's what you've got to do."
It's another two hours of emails and runarounds before he manages to arrange the conference call. While Colonel Carter, at Cheyenne Mountain, sounds furious, General O'Neill's glee carries even more clearly all the way from Washington. "You're telling me that you'd like me to pull rank and bitchslap the IOA around their own conference table? Of course I'm in."
There's a mild surge in background noise when Dr. Jackson takes his phone off mute. "With your permission, Sheppard, I'd like to bring Teal'c in to consult." he says. "He's got more experience as an off-worlder dealing with the IOA than anyone-"
"Hey!" An unidentified woman is speaking on Jackson's line. She's not close to the phone, but her voice carries. "I have plenty myself, you know, and I'm not currently a billion light years away. And I'm friendly, and so very bored-"
Jackson hurries to speak over her, his tone long-suffering. "-and isn't likely to cause an interplanetary incident running around your base." The moment the words are out, the background noise- and woman's voice- is cut off abruptly.
"I don't know, Daniel, it sounds like that's exactly what's needed," O'Neill says to the hole the noise leaves.
"Don't encourage her," Jackson comes back online just long enough to get the words out, then comes back to add, "Also? I hate you."
"Then it's all set," Carter cuts in. "I'll dial Atlantis before the day's out, let Dr. Weir know what's going on, see if she has any ideas."
"We haven't even arrived, and you're doubting my diplomatic abilities?"
"No, I'm sure of them," Carter bites back, and John's smiling not so much at the specifics of the back and forth, but the fact that it's present at all. "And Daniel? Vala? Sounds like you two are going stir crazy down there. You go ahead and see if Teal'c can fit us in."
"Thank you," Jackson and the woman- Vala, apparently- answer in unison.
Another three minutes, and they've arranged to arrive in three days.
Another five minutes after that, and John's office door is kicked down by standard-issue boots, and if the plastic restraints clutched in Markham's fist aren't enough, three guns, held low and ready, spell it out nicely.
Chapter 14