Damaged Goods, Chapter 15
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. :)
"You do anything to hurt him, I'm not manning the chair when the wraith arrive."
John's had better ideas than this, and he's plenty of time- days now- to talk himself out of it, but the conversation hadn't quite turned that way. Maybe he'd known it wouldn't hold up if he said it out loud too soon. Maybe he'd worried at how hard he'd mean it once he did, and had superstitiously let the words build up inside him until now, accruing some imaginary power.
Imaginary being the operative word. Woolsey, Coolidge, Caldwell and General O'Neill stare back at him over the conference room table, none of them looking particularly impressed, but it doesn't change anything. McKay, down at the far end, won't even make eye contact.
He's been locked up for three days. There hadn't been much else to find down there by way of bargaining chips. Just long bouts of quiet in between conversations that went mostly nowhere.
---
He halts in the middle of his cell, suddenly. He has his answer, and it's startlingly simple.
He's a nobody, sure, and it's melodramatic as hell, but it's also leverage. The IOA might be foolish, but they're not suicidal. They need him. Without him in the chair when the wraith come, they're leaving themselves, leaving the entire planet open.
Ronon's on the floor of his cell, staring frozenly up at him, as if he's acutely aware that everything in the world depended on the next words out of John's mouth. As ego-stroking as it is- and it is, it really, truly is- as of right now, John hasn't disappointed him yet.
He shakes his head. "Gotta see what happens, first." The staring's getting a bit hard to handle, so he sits down on his bunk. It's impossible to tell how much time really passes- it feels like an eternity- when Ronon coughs.
"Thanks," he says. "Whatever it is." He seems oddly embarrassed.
"Don't thank me until it works," John mutters, staring again at his feet.
---
In the wake of his announcement, John's fighting the urge to stare at his feet again when Caldwell finally breaks the silence. "So, what. You'd put him over the safety of the entire planet?"
"And there it is," Coolidge interrupts, rocking back in the chair as if John's handed him everything he could ever want on a silver platter. He swivels his head to share his triumph. "You were wondering, Woolsey, where Sheppard's allegiances really lie? I believe we have our answer."
"Who the hell ever said anything about hurting the alien, anyhow?" O'Neill interrupts Woolsey's sputtering reply with a skeptical glance.
"If I'm jumping to conclusions," John grinds out, "it's only because so far, he's been kidnapped, imprisoned, forced to fight a wraith to the death with his bare hands, and for all their talk about integrating him, they've done nothing to indicate that they're taking it seriously. Their one offer, to remove the tracking device stuck into his spine, they've withdrawn. And in case you haven't heard, it acts like a beacon. It'll draw the wraith straight here."
"Is that true?" Caldwell turns on McKay, fixing him with a serious, heavy look.
McKay frowns, shooting John an unreadable look as he pokes at his tablet. "They'll be able to find his exact location from Mars. And before you ask, no, that wasn't hyperbole." He turns the tablet around so they can see, and points at the screen. "You want to see the math?"
"I most adamantly do not, O'Neill rolls his eyes, and despite everything, John's starting to like the guy. Caldwell, though, reaches for the tablet. "Look. Everyone. I've heard all this already. What I don't understand, however, is how the IOA's justifying keeping Sheppard incarcerated. For cryin' out loud, Coolidge, he's just trying to do what you hired him to do."
"That decision was made independently by my colleague," he gestures to Woolsey without looking at him. "As I'm sure you've seen the reports regarding the recent internal restructuring of the-"
"Screw the restructuring," O'Neill interrupts. "We've got more important things to worry about than your bureaucratic posturing, or haven't you heard?"
"Might I point out that the military has no jurisdiction over-"
"Did the man not just say that I don't care? And if you want to talk jurisdiction, maybe you shouldn't be unlawfully detaining American citizens against their will."
"We are perfectly within our rights, as he has clearly allied himself with a-"
"Sheppard's not a complete jerk to the other guy you're treating like crap. Is that what you're about to tell me? 'Cause as far as I can tell, that's all you've got on him. Oh, and the other guy? Dex? I actually read his file. We dropped the ball with him, plain and simple. If he's our enemy, it's probably because we've done everything humanly possible to turn him against us."
"You haven't even met the man."
"I'm doing one better, right now," O'Neill jerks his chin towards the doorway. "Carter and Teal'c are down with him right now. And yes, before you ask, their assessment does carry more weight than yours. Once they're done, one of two things will happen. Either we'll be dialing Atlantis to remove a potential threat against global security, or we'll be asking him what he wants to do. And the IOA, I'm certain, will be very keen to make up for how crappily he's been treated."
Coolidge sneers, red faced and angry. "Who's posturing now?"
"Look. I know the IOA has historically been, oh, what's the word... terrible at the big picture, so I'll spell it out for you. Again. In a few days, we are going to be set upon by space vampires bent on wiping us from existence. In order for us to mount any sort of defense, we're going to need allies. Sheppard's our last line of defense, he's there to pick up whatever breaks through. He's literally the guy with the most powerful weapons we've got, so consider yourself lucky that he called me. Because he could have gone to the chair room instead, and we'd all be having a much different conversation." O'Neill pauses for breath and consideration. "Mostly, I think, it involve a lot of screaming and crying." Caldwell rolls his eyes; he's not the only one, but John's finding it awfully hard not to laugh. It's made worse when O'Neill catches his eye, fighting a grin of his own.
"Now. Like I said, Sheppard's our backup, but he's not the only ally we need to consider. Does anyone besides Caldwell, here, even know how many ships we've got? Anyone?"
"Sixteen," Woolsey mutters quietly, cleaning his glasses. He's not having nearly as much fun as O'Neill, and from the waxen expression on his face, it's been like this for days.
"Wrong," O'Neill shakes his head. "We've got three, maybe four. The Daedalus, Apollo, and the Odyssey. If we're very lucky, the George Hammond will be ready for launch by the end of the week. You want to know who those other thirteen ships belong to? Yeah. The Asgard."
John's heard the term in the cafeteria, but doesn't understand. "Um. Who're the Asgard?"
"Our allies," Caldwell sighs, glancing up from McKay's tablet. "They've got some of the most advanced technology in the universe, which they don't like sharing. Or using. And they're...picky, about how we go about things. You'll never win an ethics debate with any of them." Woolsey hums worriedly as his eyes widen, already realizing where this is going, but O'Neill merely nods.
"Exactly. They picked up our chatter about Dex over the past few days. Convincing them to help out was hard enough in the first place, and now they're pissed at us. Oddly enough, kidnapping and holding people against their will? Not the best way to make the Asgard's Christmas card list. They're this close to pulling out."
Coolidge's face has gone slack. He's lost all his bluster, and he's trying to speak, but can't get the words out. John fills the opening. "Can't you talk to them?"
"Yes. But words won't mean anything if we can't convince them that we do right by our allies. All of them. Including Ronon Dex."
---
John's head is spinning. Apart from O'Neill's glib order for Coolidge to apologize, and his own repeated assurances that he'd man the chair no matter what happens, he's been released without ceremony. At least for the duration of the recess, until they reconvene, with Ronon this time, to hash out the rest. O'Neill follows right on his heels as he heads down the hall, and when they stop at the elevator, regards him speculatively.
"So." He waves his hand vaguely at John. "All this..."
"Posturing," John nods, crossing his arms and wondering what the next crisis is going to be. "It's okay. You can say it."
"...was because of the guy downstairs?"
Yes. "No. It was because of the guys in the conference room." He cuts himself off before he starts bitching again. He's already won, more or less. No sense whining.
"They've always been monumentally paranoid, mostly about the wrong things. Which means it's our job to work around them when with can't work with them, so." O'Neill shrugs. "You're doing fine."
"How I'm doing doesn't really enter into it," John points out, stepping into the elevator. "It's up to your people, now."
---
Ronon finds himself drawn to the sigil on Teal'c's forehead- it's metal, branded into the skin, and the symbol is unfamiliar, but Teal'c's bearing leaves little doubt. It's a military insignia, possibly indicating his rank. His eyes had landed only once, heavily, on Ronon's neck in mutual assessment. Habit. Instinct maybe.
Teal'c radiates an angry sort of calm. He's quiet, turning over every word he says and holding them until the moment they'll carry the most weight. But sometimes, when Carter is asking her questions- could you tell me what happened on Sateda, or okay, since you arrived, what have you been told- there's a hint of amusement that shows through
Like the sigil, Ronon doesn't understand Teal'c's sense of humor, either.
Carter is more obviously tense, though she doesn't seem nervous, just agitated, maybe frustrated. She smiles often, sympathetically, and though she seems at first quick to trust, she's careful. She asks him question after question, but listens more than she speaks.
He probably would've wound up answering her even without John's insisting that he do so.
---
"We need this," John says, elbows on his knees, hands gesturing tiredly at nothing; sharp movements that don't fit with the quiet desperation in his voice. "I need you to do this. Just talk to them, the people that are coming are important, people will listen to them, it's not like. Me. They're our. Your. Best chance at getting out of here."
"Yeah. Okay." He wants to mean it for the right reasons, not entirely sure what they are any more. It's enough, though, if it'll wipe the defeated look in John's eyes.
---
Carter's finally run out of questions to ask about his tracker, and she's rocking back to glace up at Teal'c and another silent communication passes between them, but Ronon doesn't think they realize they're doing it. Teal'c had said himself that they'd been working together for over a decade.
It's heartening, though, that there are people on this world who aren't as alone as John is.
"So. Your turn," Carter finally says, stretching her back before leaning again over her crossed legs. "Do you have any questions for us?"
It's troubling that he has to think before speaking. "So. What's it like?"
"What's what like?" Carter frowns in confusion, but the question's for Teal'c, anyhow.
"It's an interesting place," Teal'c posits after a moment. "It has withstood the advances of many enemies over the years, and the population is great. Because of this, there are more cultures here, more variety than I've seen on any dozen other worlds. It is also, perhaps for the same reason, more complicated, and not without troubles. But even so, it is a world worth experiencing."
"Experiencing," Ronon repeats, risks a pointed glare at the room around him, the bare, stark walls, the artificial light. "Right."
"Some parts, more than others."
Ronon's trying to find the words. It takes him a minute, which surprisingly, he's allowed. "Are people happy here? The ones who don't know?"
Carter frowns as she contemplates. "There's enough here for us to be happy, sad, angry, lonely or tired. All of it. And it doesn't change with the knowing." She gives Ronon a moment to process, but his mind's gone strangely blank. He can't think of anything more, but John's stepping off the elevator with another person Ronon hasn't met yet, and the moment's passed.
"You guys ready?"
"We are," Teal'c replies, helping Carter to her feet. John opens the cell, and Ronon watches them step out.
"You too," John says, eyes boring into him like he's looking for answers, and the smile is obviously more for Ronon's benefit than his own. "Time to face the music." It's another interesting choice of words, but he's learning to translate them.
---
John's silent, but he hasn't left Ronon's side since they've arrived. Carter gives her report, lengthy and surprisingly organized, given her lack of preparation time, but when it's Teal'c's turn to speak, he says only one word in agreement.
"Indeed."
"Well, that's good enough for me," O'Neill nods, smirking at the IOA representatives gathered around the table. "And, in case anyone was wondering, good enough for the Asgard. So I guess all that's left is to ask Mr. Dex-"
"With permission, Sir," Caldwell says, "there is a matter that came up for discussion during the recess."
"Go ahead."
"We've got backup plans for our backup plans, but as you know, there's been one thing we haven't been able to work around. Mr. Dex's implant acts like a beacon."
"Yes. Because that problem hasn't been brought up eight billion times today."
"You're misunderstanding me, General. It acts like a beacon. The wraith will be drawn right here. Where our defenses are greatest, which means that if he's here, the odds are good that the wraith will choose to target us instead of, say, Akron or Paris. We'll have more success fighting any who arrive if they're all heading right at us."
"Maybe," John finally interjects, not looking at Ronon. "But the deal was, if Ronon passed inspection, he would get to final say where-"
Ronon's grabbing his arm before he can finish, before Ronon himself even knows why. He finds himself shaking his head, too, and it's startling, to have so many faces turning so expectantly towards him. Even though he'd been the basis of this entire conversation.
"It's a good strategy," is all he can manage at first. It's not as if he's been asked, or anything, but it doesn't change the facts.
And it's not as if they've offered or asked, or anything, but- and it's blindsiding, but- it's the first time this tracker's meant anything beyond running.
John snorts, shakes his head, but doesn't move to dislodge him when he glares up at him. "Keeping you locked up isn't actually what we were going for, here, you know." He's right. Ronon wonders if the others can read him as well as John can, if they know that right now, he's wishing he'd kept silent.
"If they come," he begins, but it sounds ridiculous, given the preparations they seem to have already made, and his voice is too loud in the room. "When they come, then. Let me out to fight."
"Ronon." John nudges his arm, his voice quiet though it's clear all can hear him. "You're saying that
you'd willingly remain confined, if-"
"While it seems you all have made up your minds," Coolidge spits petulantly, "the fact remains that despite Mr. Dex's purest intentions, given the opportunity, Mr. Dex may prove to be a flight risk."
O'Neill rolls his eyes. "Does anyone else see the irony in worrying about the flight risk posed by a man who's essentially visible from space?" He glances around the table, his expression brooking no argument. "No? Good. Now. What's the plan?"
---
Ronon's given an ID badge that grants him fairly wide access to the facility, and is assigned a bunk in the facility's barracks, and though some of the military personnel seem uneasy with the arrangement, it's not until the next morning that John realizes, belatedly, that they're not the only ones.
"How'd you sleep?"
Ronon's more interested in contemplating his breakfast- waffles, on Teal'c's recommendation, than answering. Maybe it's just the light coming in from the windows- the cafeteria has the best lighting of the entire facility- but the shadows under his eyes seem even more pronounced. "Fine," he says, in between mouthfuls. "You?"
Though he's smiling, he's not so much interested in John's answer as he is in deflecting. He's putting up a good front, though glancing across the table at him before his eyes dart away again, tracking McKay's movement towards the coffee pot across the room. A second ago it had been Lorne and Parrish, sitting down a few tables over.
"Fine." John finds that he's not particularly up to discussing how his first night of freedom had gone, either. He'd returned to his stuffy apartment to find an impressive pile of bills and junk mail. There'd also been a card from Nancy that had been more apology than condolence. Even after all this time, she still apparently knew exactly what he needed to hear when he least wanted to hear it. He'd been heating up a can of soup when Mad Marlene had stopped by to ask if he'd seen her cat. Whether or not she'd even noticed he'd been gone was anybody's guess, but he hadn't been able to decide which was more depressing.
It was the air conditioner, however, that most ruined his night. Objectively, he'd known it hadn't been any more or less broken than it had been when he'd left, but the rasps and rattles ricocheted through his skull often enough that sleep was out of the question. By midnight he'd been so frustrated that he'd started considering heading back to the facility to check up on Ronon, just to get away from the noise.
Mostly to get away from the noise.
By one, the annoyance had set in. Ronon was fine. The barracks weren't the Hilton, but they were a far sight better than the lonely, small cell. His longer leash meant he could check out the grounds, if he wanted. Use the gym or watch television when he got bored. He could talk to people without having guns pointed in his face. And if John had lost sleep thinking about it, at least he'd been able to blame it on the air conditioner.
It's not until Ronon's sitting across from him eating waffles while cataloguing the comings and goings of every single person in the room that John suspects that maybe jealousy had been too optimistic a reaction. It's not until they're done eating, though, that he's sure of it.
"So. You're cleared for chaperoned excursions off the grounds," John says as he stands, neglecting to mention the second string of chaperones who will most likely be following Ronon's tracker from the security post, but it's unlikely Ronon senses that he's leaving anything out, given the way he redoubles his attention on his plate. "And hey, you might as well see first hand what it is you've volunteered to fight for, right?"
Ronon frowns, a little disbelieving. "You sure it's all right?"
"We're going to need to get you a change of clothes," John muses, mentally reviewing the guidelines Woolsey had emailed him. The list, thankfully, hadn't been all that long, and John suspects it has more to do with Teal'c and O'Neill's previous history than any actual analysis on the IOA's part.
Civilian clothing. Blend in. Minimize direct contact with other civilians. All personnel are forbidden from carrying weapons off-base, and visitors are not allowed access to same unless circumstances dictate that engagement with enemy forces is necessary. All decisions regarding necessary engagement will be at the discretion of the supervisory security agents, as will all logistical and tactical decisions.
Turns out, they'd had a protocol in place for this eventuality- they'd had one all this time, because aliens showing up for a tour of Earth isn't even a novelty.
Not that it's worth getting angry about now.
The wraith are going to be here in less than a week, and the fate of the world might literally prove to rest on their shoulders, but they've got three, maybe four days left before they've got to fight. And Las Vegas might not be where he'd want to spend his final days, might not even feel like reality any more, but it's what he's got.
But he's got Ronon, too, who's picking up his own tray and following him back to the counter, and who might be the only person here who gets what it has to feel like, knowing that the world's about to end. Who's turned out to be the only person that John's even thought of spending his very last days with.
It's not much, but it's what he's got, and it's starting to feel like it's more than he'd ever had.
Chapter 16
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. :)
"You do anything to hurt him, I'm not manning the chair when the wraith arrive."
John's had better ideas than this, and he's plenty of time- days now- to talk himself out of it, but the conversation hadn't quite turned that way. Maybe he'd known it wouldn't hold up if he said it out loud too soon. Maybe he'd worried at how hard he'd mean it once he did, and had superstitiously let the words build up inside him until now, accruing some imaginary power.
Imaginary being the operative word. Woolsey, Coolidge, Caldwell and General O'Neill stare back at him over the conference room table, none of them looking particularly impressed, but it doesn't change anything. McKay, down at the far end, won't even make eye contact.
He's been locked up for three days. There hadn't been much else to find down there by way of bargaining chips. Just long bouts of quiet in between conversations that went mostly nowhere.
---
He halts in the middle of his cell, suddenly. He has his answer, and it's startlingly simple.
He's a nobody, sure, and it's melodramatic as hell, but it's also leverage. The IOA might be foolish, but they're not suicidal. They need him. Without him in the chair when the wraith come, they're leaving themselves, leaving the entire planet open.
Ronon's on the floor of his cell, staring frozenly up at him, as if he's acutely aware that everything in the world depended on the next words out of John's mouth. As ego-stroking as it is- and it is, it really, truly is- as of right now, John hasn't disappointed him yet.
He shakes his head. "Gotta see what happens, first." The staring's getting a bit hard to handle, so he sits down on his bunk. It's impossible to tell how much time really passes- it feels like an eternity- when Ronon coughs.
"Thanks," he says. "Whatever it is." He seems oddly embarrassed.
"Don't thank me until it works," John mutters, staring again at his feet.
---
In the wake of his announcement, John's fighting the urge to stare at his feet again when Caldwell finally breaks the silence. "So, what. You'd put him over the safety of the entire planet?"
"And there it is," Coolidge interrupts, rocking back in the chair as if John's handed him everything he could ever want on a silver platter. He swivels his head to share his triumph. "You were wondering, Woolsey, where Sheppard's allegiances really lie? I believe we have our answer."
"Who the hell ever said anything about hurting the alien, anyhow?" O'Neill interrupts Woolsey's sputtering reply with a skeptical glance.
"If I'm jumping to conclusions," John grinds out, "it's only because so far, he's been kidnapped, imprisoned, forced to fight a wraith to the death with his bare hands, and for all their talk about integrating him, they've done nothing to indicate that they're taking it seriously. Their one offer, to remove the tracking device stuck into his spine, they've withdrawn. And in case you haven't heard, it acts like a beacon. It'll draw the wraith straight here."
"Is that true?" Caldwell turns on McKay, fixing him with a serious, heavy look.
McKay frowns, shooting John an unreadable look as he pokes at his tablet. "They'll be able to find his exact location from Mars. And before you ask, no, that wasn't hyperbole." He turns the tablet around so they can see, and points at the screen. "You want to see the math?"
"I most adamantly do not, O'Neill rolls his eyes, and despite everything, John's starting to like the guy. Caldwell, though, reaches for the tablet. "Look. Everyone. I've heard all this already. What I don't understand, however, is how the IOA's justifying keeping Sheppard incarcerated. For cryin' out loud, Coolidge, he's just trying to do what you hired him to do."
"That decision was made independently by my colleague," he gestures to Woolsey without looking at him. "As I'm sure you've seen the reports regarding the recent internal restructuring of the-"
"Screw the restructuring," O'Neill interrupts. "We've got more important things to worry about than your bureaucratic posturing, or haven't you heard?"
"Might I point out that the military has no jurisdiction over-"
"Did the man not just say that I don't care? And if you want to talk jurisdiction, maybe you shouldn't be unlawfully detaining American citizens against their will."
"We are perfectly within our rights, as he has clearly allied himself with a-"
"Sheppard's not a complete jerk to the other guy you're treating like crap. Is that what you're about to tell me? 'Cause as far as I can tell, that's all you've got on him. Oh, and the other guy? Dex? I actually read his file. We dropped the ball with him, plain and simple. If he's our enemy, it's probably because we've done everything humanly possible to turn him against us."
"You haven't even met the man."
"I'm doing one better, right now," O'Neill jerks his chin towards the doorway. "Carter and Teal'c are down with him right now. And yes, before you ask, their assessment does carry more weight than yours. Once they're done, one of two things will happen. Either we'll be dialing Atlantis to remove a potential threat against global security, or we'll be asking him what he wants to do. And the IOA, I'm certain, will be very keen to make up for how crappily he's been treated."
Coolidge sneers, red faced and angry. "Who's posturing now?"
"Look. I know the IOA has historically been, oh, what's the word... terrible at the big picture, so I'll spell it out for you. Again. In a few days, we are going to be set upon by space vampires bent on wiping us from existence. In order for us to mount any sort of defense, we're going to need allies. Sheppard's our last line of defense, he's there to pick up whatever breaks through. He's literally the guy with the most powerful weapons we've got, so consider yourself lucky that he called me. Because he could have gone to the chair room instead, and we'd all be having a much different conversation." O'Neill pauses for breath and consideration. "Mostly, I think, it involve a lot of screaming and crying." Caldwell rolls his eyes; he's not the only one, but John's finding it awfully hard not to laugh. It's made worse when O'Neill catches his eye, fighting a grin of his own.
"Now. Like I said, Sheppard's our backup, but he's not the only ally we need to consider. Does anyone besides Caldwell, here, even know how many ships we've got? Anyone?"
"Sixteen," Woolsey mutters quietly, cleaning his glasses. He's not having nearly as much fun as O'Neill, and from the waxen expression on his face, it's been like this for days.
"Wrong," O'Neill shakes his head. "We've got three, maybe four. The Daedalus, Apollo, and the Odyssey. If we're very lucky, the George Hammond will be ready for launch by the end of the week. You want to know who those other thirteen ships belong to? Yeah. The Asgard."
John's heard the term in the cafeteria, but doesn't understand. "Um. Who're the Asgard?"
"Our allies," Caldwell sighs, glancing up from McKay's tablet. "They've got some of the most advanced technology in the universe, which they don't like sharing. Or using. And they're...picky, about how we go about things. You'll never win an ethics debate with any of them." Woolsey hums worriedly as his eyes widen, already realizing where this is going, but O'Neill merely nods.
"Exactly. They picked up our chatter about Dex over the past few days. Convincing them to help out was hard enough in the first place, and now they're pissed at us. Oddly enough, kidnapping and holding people against their will? Not the best way to make the Asgard's Christmas card list. They're this close to pulling out."
Coolidge's face has gone slack. He's lost all his bluster, and he's trying to speak, but can't get the words out. John fills the opening. "Can't you talk to them?"
"Yes. But words won't mean anything if we can't convince them that we do right by our allies. All of them. Including Ronon Dex."
---
John's head is spinning. Apart from O'Neill's glib order for Coolidge to apologize, and his own repeated assurances that he'd man the chair no matter what happens, he's been released without ceremony. At least for the duration of the recess, until they reconvene, with Ronon this time, to hash out the rest. O'Neill follows right on his heels as he heads down the hall, and when they stop at the elevator, regards him speculatively.
"So." He waves his hand vaguely at John. "All this..."
"Posturing," John nods, crossing his arms and wondering what the next crisis is going to be. "It's okay. You can say it."
"...was because of the guy downstairs?"
Yes. "No. It was because of the guys in the conference room." He cuts himself off before he starts bitching again. He's already won, more or less. No sense whining.
"They've always been monumentally paranoid, mostly about the wrong things. Which means it's our job to work around them when with can't work with them, so." O'Neill shrugs. "You're doing fine."
"How I'm doing doesn't really enter into it," John points out, stepping into the elevator. "It's up to your people, now."
---
Ronon finds himself drawn to the sigil on Teal'c's forehead- it's metal, branded into the skin, and the symbol is unfamiliar, but Teal'c's bearing leaves little doubt. It's a military insignia, possibly indicating his rank. His eyes had landed only once, heavily, on Ronon's neck in mutual assessment. Habit. Instinct maybe.
Teal'c radiates an angry sort of calm. He's quiet, turning over every word he says and holding them until the moment they'll carry the most weight. But sometimes, when Carter is asking her questions- could you tell me what happened on Sateda, or okay, since you arrived, what have you been told- there's a hint of amusement that shows through
Like the sigil, Ronon doesn't understand Teal'c's sense of humor, either.
Carter is more obviously tense, though she doesn't seem nervous, just agitated, maybe frustrated. She smiles often, sympathetically, and though she seems at first quick to trust, she's careful. She asks him question after question, but listens more than she speaks.
He probably would've wound up answering her even without John's insisting that he do so.
---
"We need this," John says, elbows on his knees, hands gesturing tiredly at nothing; sharp movements that don't fit with the quiet desperation in his voice. "I need you to do this. Just talk to them, the people that are coming are important, people will listen to them, it's not like. Me. They're our. Your. Best chance at getting out of here."
"Yeah. Okay." He wants to mean it for the right reasons, not entirely sure what they are any more. It's enough, though, if it'll wipe the defeated look in John's eyes.
---
Carter's finally run out of questions to ask about his tracker, and she's rocking back to glace up at Teal'c and another silent communication passes between them, but Ronon doesn't think they realize they're doing it. Teal'c had said himself that they'd been working together for over a decade.
It's heartening, though, that there are people on this world who aren't as alone as John is.
"So. Your turn," Carter finally says, stretching her back before leaning again over her crossed legs. "Do you have any questions for us?"
It's troubling that he has to think before speaking. "So. What's it like?"
"What's what like?" Carter frowns in confusion, but the question's for Teal'c, anyhow.
"It's an interesting place," Teal'c posits after a moment. "It has withstood the advances of many enemies over the years, and the population is great. Because of this, there are more cultures here, more variety than I've seen on any dozen other worlds. It is also, perhaps for the same reason, more complicated, and not without troubles. But even so, it is a world worth experiencing."
"Experiencing," Ronon repeats, risks a pointed glare at the room around him, the bare, stark walls, the artificial light. "Right."
"Some parts, more than others."
Ronon's trying to find the words. It takes him a minute, which surprisingly, he's allowed. "Are people happy here? The ones who don't know?"
Carter frowns as she contemplates. "There's enough here for us to be happy, sad, angry, lonely or tired. All of it. And it doesn't change with the knowing." She gives Ronon a moment to process, but his mind's gone strangely blank. He can't think of anything more, but John's stepping off the elevator with another person Ronon hasn't met yet, and the moment's passed.
"You guys ready?"
"We are," Teal'c replies, helping Carter to her feet. John opens the cell, and Ronon watches them step out.
"You too," John says, eyes boring into him like he's looking for answers, and the smile is obviously more for Ronon's benefit than his own. "Time to face the music." It's another interesting choice of words, but he's learning to translate them.
---
John's silent, but he hasn't left Ronon's side since they've arrived. Carter gives her report, lengthy and surprisingly organized, given her lack of preparation time, but when it's Teal'c's turn to speak, he says only one word in agreement.
"Indeed."
"Well, that's good enough for me," O'Neill nods, smirking at the IOA representatives gathered around the table. "And, in case anyone was wondering, good enough for the Asgard. So I guess all that's left is to ask Mr. Dex-"
"With permission, Sir," Caldwell says, "there is a matter that came up for discussion during the recess."
"Go ahead."
"We've got backup plans for our backup plans, but as you know, there's been one thing we haven't been able to work around. Mr. Dex's implant acts like a beacon."
"Yes. Because that problem hasn't been brought up eight billion times today."
"You're misunderstanding me, General. It acts like a beacon. The wraith will be drawn right here. Where our defenses are greatest, which means that if he's here, the odds are good that the wraith will choose to target us instead of, say, Akron or Paris. We'll have more success fighting any who arrive if they're all heading right at us."
"Maybe," John finally interjects, not looking at Ronon. "But the deal was, if Ronon passed inspection, he would get to final say where-"
Ronon's grabbing his arm before he can finish, before Ronon himself even knows why. He finds himself shaking his head, too, and it's startling, to have so many faces turning so expectantly towards him. Even though he'd been the basis of this entire conversation.
"It's a good strategy," is all he can manage at first. It's not as if he's been asked, or anything, but it doesn't change the facts.
And it's not as if they've offered or asked, or anything, but- and it's blindsiding, but- it's the first time this tracker's meant anything beyond running.
John snorts, shakes his head, but doesn't move to dislodge him when he glares up at him. "Keeping you locked up isn't actually what we were going for, here, you know." He's right. Ronon wonders if the others can read him as well as John can, if they know that right now, he's wishing he'd kept silent.
"If they come," he begins, but it sounds ridiculous, given the preparations they seem to have already made, and his voice is too loud in the room. "When they come, then. Let me out to fight."
"Ronon." John nudges his arm, his voice quiet though it's clear all can hear him. "You're saying that
you'd willingly remain confined, if-"
"While it seems you all have made up your minds," Coolidge spits petulantly, "the fact remains that despite Mr. Dex's purest intentions, given the opportunity, Mr. Dex may prove to be a flight risk."
O'Neill rolls his eyes. "Does anyone else see the irony in worrying about the flight risk posed by a man who's essentially visible from space?" He glances around the table, his expression brooking no argument. "No? Good. Now. What's the plan?"
---
Ronon's given an ID badge that grants him fairly wide access to the facility, and is assigned a bunk in the facility's barracks, and though some of the military personnel seem uneasy with the arrangement, it's not until the next morning that John realizes, belatedly, that they're not the only ones.
"How'd you sleep?"
Ronon's more interested in contemplating his breakfast- waffles, on Teal'c's recommendation, than answering. Maybe it's just the light coming in from the windows- the cafeteria has the best lighting of the entire facility- but the shadows under his eyes seem even more pronounced. "Fine," he says, in between mouthfuls. "You?"
Though he's smiling, he's not so much interested in John's answer as he is in deflecting. He's putting up a good front, though glancing across the table at him before his eyes dart away again, tracking McKay's movement towards the coffee pot across the room. A second ago it had been Lorne and Parrish, sitting down a few tables over.
"Fine." John finds that he's not particularly up to discussing how his first night of freedom had gone, either. He'd returned to his stuffy apartment to find an impressive pile of bills and junk mail. There'd also been a card from Nancy that had been more apology than condolence. Even after all this time, she still apparently knew exactly what he needed to hear when he least wanted to hear it. He'd been heating up a can of soup when Mad Marlene had stopped by to ask if he'd seen her cat. Whether or not she'd even noticed he'd been gone was anybody's guess, but he hadn't been able to decide which was more depressing.
It was the air conditioner, however, that most ruined his night. Objectively, he'd known it hadn't been any more or less broken than it had been when he'd left, but the rasps and rattles ricocheted through his skull often enough that sleep was out of the question. By midnight he'd been so frustrated that he'd started considering heading back to the facility to check up on Ronon, just to get away from the noise.
Mostly to get away from the noise.
By one, the annoyance had set in. Ronon was fine. The barracks weren't the Hilton, but they were a far sight better than the lonely, small cell. His longer leash meant he could check out the grounds, if he wanted. Use the gym or watch television when he got bored. He could talk to people without having guns pointed in his face. And if John had lost sleep thinking about it, at least he'd been able to blame it on the air conditioner.
It's not until Ronon's sitting across from him eating waffles while cataloguing the comings and goings of every single person in the room that John suspects that maybe jealousy had been too optimistic a reaction. It's not until they're done eating, though, that he's sure of it.
"So. You're cleared for chaperoned excursions off the grounds," John says as he stands, neglecting to mention the second string of chaperones who will most likely be following Ronon's tracker from the security post, but it's unlikely Ronon senses that he's leaving anything out, given the way he redoubles his attention on his plate. "And hey, you might as well see first hand what it is you've volunteered to fight for, right?"
Ronon frowns, a little disbelieving. "You sure it's all right?"
"We're going to need to get you a change of clothes," John muses, mentally reviewing the guidelines Woolsey had emailed him. The list, thankfully, hadn't been all that long, and John suspects it has more to do with Teal'c and O'Neill's previous history than any actual analysis on the IOA's part.
Civilian clothing. Blend in. Minimize direct contact with other civilians. All personnel are forbidden from carrying weapons off-base, and visitors are not allowed access to same unless circumstances dictate that engagement with enemy forces is necessary. All decisions regarding necessary engagement will be at the discretion of the supervisory security agents, as will all logistical and tactical decisions.
Turns out, they'd had a protocol in place for this eventuality- they'd had one all this time, because aliens showing up for a tour of Earth isn't even a novelty.
Not that it's worth getting angry about now.
The wraith are going to be here in less than a week, and the fate of the world might literally prove to rest on their shoulders, but they've got three, maybe four days left before they've got to fight. And Las Vegas might not be where he'd want to spend his final days, might not even feel like reality any more, but it's what he's got.
But he's got Ronon, too, who's picking up his own tray and following him back to the counter, and who might be the only person here who gets what it has to feel like, knowing that the world's about to end. Who's turned out to be the only person that John's even thought of spending his very last days with.
It's not much, but it's what he's got, and it's starting to feel like it's more than he'd ever had.
Chapter 16