New Quick Fic: In The Room Where You Sleep (SGA, Sheppard/Dex pre-slash)
Title: In The Room Where You Sleep
Rating: G
Fandom/ Pairing: SGA Sheppard/Dex pre-slash
Summary: Ronon's still settling in on Atlantis, but he's not there yet.
A/N: Because estefee, because I need to get this out before I get too distracted again, and also because of this song.
Also available on AO3.
"Colonel Sheppard," Weir calls as he steps into the transporter. Coffee slushes over his fingertips as he turns to hold the door open. Keeping his tablet wedged under his arm, he wipes his hand on his legs as she joins him. "Thank you."
"No problem." Selecting the main tower, he steps back as the door closes. "You get McKay's projections?"
"In triplicate. I also got Zelenka's rebuttals, in case you were wondering how I'd be spending the better part of my morning. What about you?"
"Meeting with Lorne in an hour."
Weir's grin is more of a sympathetic wince. "Training logs?"
"As always."
She nods. "If you've got time before that..."
He shrugs, nods. "What d'you need?"
"Last night's security report should be in your inbox."
"Ronon?"
She nods. Of course it is.
"Third time this month?" The transporter door opens again; they're twenty steps from the gate room.
"That we know of," she agrees, stepping out. "Do what you can?"
"Yes ma'am," he says, lets the doors close again, and opens the report on his tablet. South pier, but that had been two hours ago. He could be anywhere by now. Glaring at the display on the wall, he guesses blindly, prods, and goes.
---
This time, it only takes him twenty minutes to find him. He's getting better at this.
He isn't getting any better at sneaking up on him, though. Ronon's already on his feet when the door slides open. It's just his eyes that haven't finished waking up yet.
"Sheppard." At least he's not pointing a blaster at him.
"Ronon," John nods. Thinks about handing over his coffee, but he's not sure where Ronon is in his fucked up cycle. "Just waking up?"
Ronon nods. It's not as certain as it could be. "Yeah." He rolls his shoulders out and down, and though the stretch doesn't reach his arms, he probably wants to. "What's up?"
"Startled Marines in the jumper bay at five in the morning."
At this, Ronon winces. "Sorry."
"I know. I know you don't mean any harm, it's just..." It's his turn to shrug.
Ronon's hands go into his pockets and he doesn't meet John's eyes, but he nods. It's not the first time they've had this conversation. "It looks like I'm scoping out your defenses."
He's not wrong, but that's not the point. "It looks like you're not sleeping at all."
Ronon smirks. There's too large a chance that this is the time it all comes down on him for there to be any humor in it. "Was sleeping when you got here."
"But it's not your room."
"Slept there yesterday."
"When?"
"After lunch. McKay was arguing with Zelenka about the power drain in tower nine."
John rubs a hand over his face, tries not to roll his eyes. "That was two days ago."
This time, Ronon looks at him square. "Guess I'm just used to longer days."
"Still?"
Another shrug.
He's got to be meeting with Lorne in ten minutes. "You know if this keeps happening, I'm supposed to confine you to your quarters." It's a lie; he's supposed to throw him in the brig. At least then they'd have half a chance of him sorting out his sleeping schedule, as much as he doesn't want to go there. At last Weir had agreed that re-tasking a security team to keep an eye on him 24/7 wasn't a preferred option; they've been stretched thin enough as it is.
But it's been weeks.
"I know," Ronon says, nodding, and there's a problem here, but neither of them want to admit it.
It's only been weeks.
---
Ronon's trying. He's trying so hard that it keeps him up at night. And that's the entire problem; they've got a routine, here, and Sheppard wants him to join in.
They work and rest and eat in shifts, predictable and too easily tracked. At night, he's supposed to sleep, and sometimes he does. He's supposed to be in his own quarters, and sometimes he is. But there's no need for trackers when returning to the same place over and over is no better than just staying there, and seven years can't be erased in three and a half weeks.
He thinks he's getting better. He's managed three nights in a row this week. The other nights, he's just careful. He keeps the door to his room closed, manages, for the most part, to avoid the guard patrols.
He steers clear of the lounge and mess hall; there's almost always someone with nothing better to do than attempt conversation, and he's just not there yet.
Some nights he trains in the gym; occasionally Teyla shows up to spar with him and he can wear himself out enough that going to his own room to sleep isn't even an issue.
Some nights, despite himself, he prods around the library. Flips through books, tries to focus on the pictures. He can't read their language yet; he ignores the words as much as possible. If he's not careful, they'll warp on the page into something recognizable.
And then he'll blink, turn the page. The illusion will be gone, and he's blindsided all over again. All the Satedan poets are dead.
Mostly, he just explores. Less than a quarter of the city is regularly inhabited, and though he's learned not to stray so far out that he's a solitary blip on their life signs detectors, it's easy enough to stay out of sight. He'd evaded the wraith for years; scientists poking around at control panels while arguing with each other are nothing, by comparison.
Mostly, he just watches from wherever he's hidden himself. Sometimes, he sleeps.
He's starting to get used to the noise in the hallways, and he sleeps best when he can hear the signs of life. He's not sure if he can trust them all, yet, but he'll hear them shouting if something goes wrong. It's more security than he's had in years, more effective than their silent guard patrols.
And even they are preferable to the ones he'd heard on a thousand different worlds. Those had worn his friend's faces. Ara, Rakai. Tyre, Solen and the rest. On the good days, he'd hear them talking quietly outside the cave he'd found; he'd focus on their voices until the shaking subsisted enough to sleep. He'd catch the rustling of their movement in the trees because it was freezing, too cold for his hands to move, and there'd be a fire, soon. They'd always been just out of sight, but there.
On the bad days, he'd hear them singing songs about battles they'd lost. His name would be among the fallen, and he could squeeze his eyes shut, he could try but he could never block the sound.
Sometimes, even now, he still thinks he's dreaming, that he's imagining all of this to guard against what's coming the next time he opens his eyes. He dreams that Atlantis exists, that the stories are true. That there are people- living people- who fight back and believe they can win. People who are just wary of him, not afraid.
So far, every time he's opened his eyes, climbed up or down or out from wherever he's slept, they've been real. He's starting to expect it. It's becoming routine.
He's just not sure, yet, if it's a routine that'll end him.
---
The fourth time it happens, it's the middle of the afternoon, and John's up to his elbows in ammunition requisitions and report summaries for tomorrow's dial-in. Lorne calls it in on a private channel from sub-level two on pier seven.
"One of the motion sensors went off in the next corridor over, so we went down to check it out," Lorne says, stopping him outside the transporter when he arrives. This far down, the puddles on the floor look ominous, but for all John knows, it's why Ronon chose the place.
"Everyone okay?"
"Yes, sir. But if this keeps up, Grodin's going to insist that we seal this off completely, and-"
"And it's the only throughway to the grounding station on this pier," John finishes, grimacing. Honestly, he doesn't know that it would do any good anyway; Ronon would probably just find another way in. "Where is he?"
Lorne gestures to the side, at least, and not down the damp corridor. "We brought him back here. I know the standing orders, sir, I was there when you got them, but..."
John doesn't particularly want it to go on file either. Not with the IOA check in tomorrow.
"I got this," he says. "Thanks. Dismissed, etcetera."
He pretends to be interested in the water on the floor as his men clear out; Ronon's a ramrod-straight presence at the edge of his vision, unwilted but not coming any closer. He crosses his arms in front of himself when the transporter closes and John steps towards him. Like he's planning to fight John on this.
Or maybe he's just expecting the fight to come, one way or the other.
It's kind of what he does.
---
This is it, Ronon figures. This is where Sheppard's patience finally runs out.
Sheppard's got his orders, too, and his only real choices at this point are between the brig and the gate, incarceration or exile.
He can't say he hasn't been warned. He just wonders if Sheppard will let him choose.
Sheppard, though, all he does is lean against the wall, and this would be so much easier if he'd just shout instead.
"You look like hell," Sheppard smirks. "Did you at least manage to get some sleep this time, or where you just lurking?" He sounds resigned, and Ronon wants to laugh. This, too, has become a routine.
There's no point in lying, so he shakes his head. "They started packing up to move, so..." He shakes his head. Right now, they're just forestalling the inevitable. The least he can do is straighten his shoulders and meet it head on. "This it, then?"
"What?" Sheppard frowns, confused, and shakes his head. "No, I just..." He pushes off from the wall, and nods towards the corridor leading back to the transporter. "Look. I get it, and we've been through this. Obviously it's going to take a while for you to get used to this place, and you're clearly not there yet. But. Do you trust me?"
"Yeah." He doesn't even have to think about it. He does, however, have to resist the urge to cross his arms.
"Then come on," Sheppard says, stepping into the transporter.
"Where are we going?"
Sheppard just punches at the display inside, without even looking.
---
It's not a solution, it's a stopgap. It's just better than explaining to the IOA that they've had to re-assign a security team to keep an eye on someone that they'd previously cleared. At least the hall's empty; John won't have to explain this.
He opens his door and gestures for Ronon to move on ahead, then follows him inside. Grabbing his laptop and tablet from the bed, he does what he can to de-clutter the desk enough to work.
"I've got another five or six hours of paperwork to do," he says. "You take the bed."
Ronon scowls back at him, because apparently, this needs to be explained.
"It's not your room. Nobody will think to look for you here, and even if they did, they know that I've got two months' worth of field reports that need to be summarized before tomorrow's dial-in. Teyla's going to be here in six hours and we're all going to grab dinner. She dialed in a while ago to say that the trade negotiations are crawling along, and that she'd very much like to hit some things. After dinner, if you're interested."
The scowl hasn't shifted, and Ronon's still avoiding his eyes, clearly uncomfortable despite his babbling.
"Or, ah... I could leave. So the noise wouldn't disturb you." He needs an answer, here. And Ronon, sometimes, needs to be ordered. "What d'you think?"
Ronon's gaze moves away the moment it lands on him. "It's... Stay. Noise is good."
"Okay, then," he replies, though all his response does is amplify the awkwardness. He takes a step back, and turns resolutely to the desk. Behind him, he can hear movement.
The laptop screen's gone dark; he can see Ronon reflected in the screen, climbing into his bed. It vanishes the moment he wakes it up again.
When he turns to look a few minutes later, Ronon is sleeping. For once, right where he's supposed to be.
Rating: G
Fandom/ Pairing: SGA Sheppard/Dex pre-slash
Summary: Ronon's still settling in on Atlantis, but he's not there yet.
A/N: Because estefee, because I need to get this out before I get too distracted again, and also because of this song.
Also available on AO3.
"Colonel Sheppard," Weir calls as he steps into the transporter. Coffee slushes over his fingertips as he turns to hold the door open. Keeping his tablet wedged under his arm, he wipes his hand on his legs as she joins him. "Thank you."
"No problem." Selecting the main tower, he steps back as the door closes. "You get McKay's projections?"
"In triplicate. I also got Zelenka's rebuttals, in case you were wondering how I'd be spending the better part of my morning. What about you?"
"Meeting with Lorne in an hour."
Weir's grin is more of a sympathetic wince. "Training logs?"
"As always."
She nods. "If you've got time before that..."
He shrugs, nods. "What d'you need?"
"Last night's security report should be in your inbox."
"Ronon?"
She nods. Of course it is.
"Third time this month?" The transporter door opens again; they're twenty steps from the gate room.
"That we know of," she agrees, stepping out. "Do what you can?"
"Yes ma'am," he says, lets the doors close again, and opens the report on his tablet. South pier, but that had been two hours ago. He could be anywhere by now. Glaring at the display on the wall, he guesses blindly, prods, and goes.
---
This time, it only takes him twenty minutes to find him. He's getting better at this.
He isn't getting any better at sneaking up on him, though. Ronon's already on his feet when the door slides open. It's just his eyes that haven't finished waking up yet.
"Sheppard." At least he's not pointing a blaster at him.
"Ronon," John nods. Thinks about handing over his coffee, but he's not sure where Ronon is in his fucked up cycle. "Just waking up?"
Ronon nods. It's not as certain as it could be. "Yeah." He rolls his shoulders out and down, and though the stretch doesn't reach his arms, he probably wants to. "What's up?"
"Startled Marines in the jumper bay at five in the morning."
At this, Ronon winces. "Sorry."
"I know. I know you don't mean any harm, it's just..." It's his turn to shrug.
Ronon's hands go into his pockets and he doesn't meet John's eyes, but he nods. It's not the first time they've had this conversation. "It looks like I'm scoping out your defenses."
He's not wrong, but that's not the point. "It looks like you're not sleeping at all."
Ronon smirks. There's too large a chance that this is the time it all comes down on him for there to be any humor in it. "Was sleeping when you got here."
"But it's not your room."
"Slept there yesterday."
"When?"
"After lunch. McKay was arguing with Zelenka about the power drain in tower nine."
John rubs a hand over his face, tries not to roll his eyes. "That was two days ago."
This time, Ronon looks at him square. "Guess I'm just used to longer days."
"Still?"
Another shrug.
He's got to be meeting with Lorne in ten minutes. "You know if this keeps happening, I'm supposed to confine you to your quarters." It's a lie; he's supposed to throw him in the brig. At least then they'd have half a chance of him sorting out his sleeping schedule, as much as he doesn't want to go there. At last Weir had agreed that re-tasking a security team to keep an eye on him 24/7 wasn't a preferred option; they've been stretched thin enough as it is.
But it's been weeks.
"I know," Ronon says, nodding, and there's a problem here, but neither of them want to admit it.
It's only been weeks.
---
Ronon's trying. He's trying so hard that it keeps him up at night. And that's the entire problem; they've got a routine, here, and Sheppard wants him to join in.
They work and rest and eat in shifts, predictable and too easily tracked. At night, he's supposed to sleep, and sometimes he does. He's supposed to be in his own quarters, and sometimes he is. But there's no need for trackers when returning to the same place over and over is no better than just staying there, and seven years can't be erased in three and a half weeks.
He thinks he's getting better. He's managed three nights in a row this week. The other nights, he's just careful. He keeps the door to his room closed, manages, for the most part, to avoid the guard patrols.
He steers clear of the lounge and mess hall; there's almost always someone with nothing better to do than attempt conversation, and he's just not there yet.
Some nights he trains in the gym; occasionally Teyla shows up to spar with him and he can wear himself out enough that going to his own room to sleep isn't even an issue.
Some nights, despite himself, he prods around the library. Flips through books, tries to focus on the pictures. He can't read their language yet; he ignores the words as much as possible. If he's not careful, they'll warp on the page into something recognizable.
And then he'll blink, turn the page. The illusion will be gone, and he's blindsided all over again. All the Satedan poets are dead.
Mostly, he just explores. Less than a quarter of the city is regularly inhabited, and though he's learned not to stray so far out that he's a solitary blip on their life signs detectors, it's easy enough to stay out of sight. He'd evaded the wraith for years; scientists poking around at control panels while arguing with each other are nothing, by comparison.
Mostly, he just watches from wherever he's hidden himself. Sometimes, he sleeps.
He's starting to get used to the noise in the hallways, and he sleeps best when he can hear the signs of life. He's not sure if he can trust them all, yet, but he'll hear them shouting if something goes wrong. It's more security than he's had in years, more effective than their silent guard patrols.
And even they are preferable to the ones he'd heard on a thousand different worlds. Those had worn his friend's faces. Ara, Rakai. Tyre, Solen and the rest. On the good days, he'd hear them talking quietly outside the cave he'd found; he'd focus on their voices until the shaking subsisted enough to sleep. He'd catch the rustling of their movement in the trees because it was freezing, too cold for his hands to move, and there'd be a fire, soon. They'd always been just out of sight, but there.
On the bad days, he'd hear them singing songs about battles they'd lost. His name would be among the fallen, and he could squeeze his eyes shut, he could try but he could never block the sound.
Sometimes, even now, he still thinks he's dreaming, that he's imagining all of this to guard against what's coming the next time he opens his eyes. He dreams that Atlantis exists, that the stories are true. That there are people- living people- who fight back and believe they can win. People who are just wary of him, not afraid.
So far, every time he's opened his eyes, climbed up or down or out from wherever he's slept, they've been real. He's starting to expect it. It's becoming routine.
He's just not sure, yet, if it's a routine that'll end him.
---
The fourth time it happens, it's the middle of the afternoon, and John's up to his elbows in ammunition requisitions and report summaries for tomorrow's dial-in. Lorne calls it in on a private channel from sub-level two on pier seven.
"One of the motion sensors went off in the next corridor over, so we went down to check it out," Lorne says, stopping him outside the transporter when he arrives. This far down, the puddles on the floor look ominous, but for all John knows, it's why Ronon chose the place.
"Everyone okay?"
"Yes, sir. But if this keeps up, Grodin's going to insist that we seal this off completely, and-"
"And it's the only throughway to the grounding station on this pier," John finishes, grimacing. Honestly, he doesn't know that it would do any good anyway; Ronon would probably just find another way in. "Where is he?"
Lorne gestures to the side, at least, and not down the damp corridor. "We brought him back here. I know the standing orders, sir, I was there when you got them, but..."
John doesn't particularly want it to go on file either. Not with the IOA check in tomorrow.
"I got this," he says. "Thanks. Dismissed, etcetera."
He pretends to be interested in the water on the floor as his men clear out; Ronon's a ramrod-straight presence at the edge of his vision, unwilted but not coming any closer. He crosses his arms in front of himself when the transporter closes and John steps towards him. Like he's planning to fight John on this.
Or maybe he's just expecting the fight to come, one way or the other.
It's kind of what he does.
---
This is it, Ronon figures. This is where Sheppard's patience finally runs out.
Sheppard's got his orders, too, and his only real choices at this point are between the brig and the gate, incarceration or exile.
He can't say he hasn't been warned. He just wonders if Sheppard will let him choose.
Sheppard, though, all he does is lean against the wall, and this would be so much easier if he'd just shout instead.
"You look like hell," Sheppard smirks. "Did you at least manage to get some sleep this time, or where you just lurking?" He sounds resigned, and Ronon wants to laugh. This, too, has become a routine.
There's no point in lying, so he shakes his head. "They started packing up to move, so..." He shakes his head. Right now, they're just forestalling the inevitable. The least he can do is straighten his shoulders and meet it head on. "This it, then?"
"What?" Sheppard frowns, confused, and shakes his head. "No, I just..." He pushes off from the wall, and nods towards the corridor leading back to the transporter. "Look. I get it, and we've been through this. Obviously it's going to take a while for you to get used to this place, and you're clearly not there yet. But. Do you trust me?"
"Yeah." He doesn't even have to think about it. He does, however, have to resist the urge to cross his arms.
"Then come on," Sheppard says, stepping into the transporter.
"Where are we going?"
Sheppard just punches at the display inside, without even looking.
---
It's not a solution, it's a stopgap. It's just better than explaining to the IOA that they've had to re-assign a security team to keep an eye on someone that they'd previously cleared. At least the hall's empty; John won't have to explain this.
He opens his door and gestures for Ronon to move on ahead, then follows him inside. Grabbing his laptop and tablet from the bed, he does what he can to de-clutter the desk enough to work.
"I've got another five or six hours of paperwork to do," he says. "You take the bed."
Ronon scowls back at him, because apparently, this needs to be explained.
"It's not your room. Nobody will think to look for you here, and even if they did, they know that I've got two months' worth of field reports that need to be summarized before tomorrow's dial-in. Teyla's going to be here in six hours and we're all going to grab dinner. She dialed in a while ago to say that the trade negotiations are crawling along, and that she'd very much like to hit some things. After dinner, if you're interested."
The scowl hasn't shifted, and Ronon's still avoiding his eyes, clearly uncomfortable despite his babbling.
"Or, ah... I could leave. So the noise wouldn't disturb you." He needs an answer, here. And Ronon, sometimes, needs to be ordered. "What d'you think?"
Ronon's gaze moves away the moment it lands on him. "It's... Stay. Noise is good."
"Okay, then," he replies, though all his response does is amplify the awkwardness. He takes a step back, and turns resolutely to the desk. Behind him, he can hear movement.
The laptop screen's gone dark; he can see Ronon reflected in the screen, climbing into his bed. It vanishes the moment he wakes it up again.
When he turns to look a few minutes later, Ronon is sleeping. For once, right where he's supposed to be.