Fic - "Memories" - 50ficlets challenge
Title: Memories
Author: Kazlynh
Claim: Table 3/Ronon Dex
Prompt: #3 Sweet
Fandom: SGA
Rating: U
Word Count: 1119
Summary: Ronon finds a drinking buddy
“Hey…”
“Ronon…” Carson Becket rose to his feet. “Hello… Is everything okay?”
The big Satedan had been offworld with Teyla, trading with a village they had established contact with the previous month. It should have been a peaceful, non-eventful outing but, in this galaxy you could never be sure of anything.
“It’s fine,” Ronon told him. “They said in the infirmary that you’d gone off duty…”
He held out a small, woven satchel, “Teyla’s taken stuff to Elizabeth Weir, so I said I’d bring this to you…”
A slow smile spread its way across Carson Beckett’s face. “Come away in, Big Man!”
Ronon moved into Carson’s quarters, handing over the satchel to the doctor. Cradling his precious cargo Carson turned and walked over to the table. “If this is what I think it is…”
Teyla had said nothing about what was in the bag, only that Carson had asked for it and Ronon watched, intrigued, as Carson pulled one of the pottery flagons from the satchel.
Putting the bag down, Carson broke the seal on the bottle and sniffed. The grin that spread across Carson’s face told Ronon that the bottles contained what the doctor had hoped.
“It is!” Carson sighed happily.
Grinning at Ronon, he offered, “Sit yourself down! This stuff shouldn’t be drunk alone! And as I’m off duty tomorrow, there’ll be no harm in a wee glass or two!”
He turned, heading over to another unit for two glasses, continuing, “Of course, it’s not a Speyside single malt...”
“A what?” Ronon asked, sinking into one of the chairs.
Glasses in hand, Carson turned, looking at him, “Whisky, lad. The amber nectar…”
Ronon quirked an eyebrow, giving him a flat look.
“Don’t tell me you’re a beer man?” Carson derided, heading back towards him.
“The stuff Sheppard drinks?” Ronon asked.
“Aye,” Carson confirmed.
Ronon pulled a face. “I like it stronger… Back home we had atopae… distilled from a root vegetable. It was strong. Burned all the way down when you drank it straight…”
“Sounds something like Earth vodka,” Carson mused. “That’s made from a root vegetable too: a potato… This, however,” he went on, heading across to where Ronon sat, “is the Pegasus galaxy’s version of mead…”
Ronon quirked an eyebrow again, “Mead?”
“Aye,” Carson confirmed, sitting opposite him and putting the glasses down on the low table. “The Vikings brought it over to Scotland.”
“Vikings?”
“Aye,” Carson confirmed. “A warrior race from Scandinavia… Actually,” he considered, “they have a lot in common with what you’ve told me of your people… You should look them up. They’d arrive from across the North Sea in longboats,” he went on, pouring the golden liquid into the glasses, “and send raiding parties ashore. They managed to set up colonies in some places…”
He put the bottle down, continuing, “In fact, my grannie used to joke that half the population of Scotland are related to half the population of Norway… Here, lad,” he offered, picking up a glass and handing it to Ronon. “Wrap your tongue around that… Slainte!” he finished, holding up his glass in salute.
Ronon lifted his own glass, announcing, “Strength always!” Then he took a careful mouthful of the liquid. It was thick, strong and sweet. He swallowed, feeling the mead slide a warm trail down his throat into his belly.
“Well?” Carson asked.
Ronon nodded, a small smile pulling at his lips. “It’s good… Sweet…”
“It’s made from honey…” Carson grinned, sitting back in the chair. “I remember when I was a wee lad, if it was really cold on Guy Fawkes Night then my grannie would have mead warming on the cooker for us when we got in from watching the fireworks… She’d put cinnamon and orange slices in it. A wee glass of that, then a hot bath and into bed…”
He sighed softly, looking into his glass, “Whenever I smell this stuff, I remember the smell of the fireworks and the smoke from the bonfires too…”
Ronon listened to Carson talk, savouring the mead. The doctor’s story had sparked the brief impression of a memory but, buried beneath seven years of not allowing himself to remember the past, the memory eluded him.
He let it go, trusting that it would come back more clearly if he didn’t think about it. “So,” he asked, “Guy Fawkes… is that some sort of religious ceremony?”
Carson shook his head, taking another drink before answering, “No… but religion played its part. It celebrates the foiling of a plot to kill the ruling classes of England by blowing up the parliament building… the ruling classes being of one religion and the plotters of another…”
Ronon took that in then frowned, asking, “So… why would you celebrate? You’re not English…”
Chuckling, Carson agreed, “No… but the English Queen Elizabeth had died with no children. Her closest relative was the Scottish king… who took the crown of England as well as Scotland… James the First of England and Sixth of Scotland, who was the plotters’ main target… They’d have been successful too if someone hadn’t got suspicious of Fawkes. They searched the parliament buildings and found the barrels of gunpowder. Fawkes and the other plotters were arrested and executed… Remember, remember the fifth of November,” Carson quoted, “Gunpowder, treason and plot!”
“So you lit bonfires to celebrate?”
“Bonfires and fireworks,” Carson confirmed.
“Fireworks?”
“Tell you what,” Carson suggested, “Next fifth of November, why don’t you come back home with me? Then you can see for yourself... What about that?”
Ronon didn’t answer. The elusive memory had flashed back into life, coalescing finally into clarity. Ronon swallowed hard, closing his eyes, emotion washing over him as the memories came alive.
Carson frowned, giving the big Satedan a few moments before asking, “Ronon? Is everything okay?”
The question brought Ronon back to the present. Taking a deep breath, he nodded, “Yeah…”
He opened his eyes, looking across at Carson. “When I was small,” he began, “when I was ill, my grandfather would take a measure of atopae, heat it with a poker from the fire then add sugar and some warmroot juice. He’d top up the cup with warm milk.”
The memory tugged a soft smile onto Ronon’s lips, “Being ill wasn’t good, but drinking that tonic, leaning against my grandfather while he read to me… That’s a good memory… I had forgotten…”
Carson said nothing but he picked up the bottle, leaned forward and topped up Ronon’s drink. “This,” he told Ronon, refilling his own glass, “calls for a toast.”
Putting the bottle down, he held up his mead. “To good memories and good friends.”
Sitting forward, knocking his glass gently against Carson’s, Ronon smiled. “Good memories and good friends…”
Author: Kazlynh
Claim: Table 3/Ronon Dex
Prompt: #3 Sweet
Fandom: SGA
Rating: U
Word Count: 1119
Summary: Ronon finds a drinking buddy
“Hey…”
“Ronon…” Carson Becket rose to his feet. “Hello… Is everything okay?”
The big Satedan had been offworld with Teyla, trading with a village they had established contact with the previous month. It should have been a peaceful, non-eventful outing but, in this galaxy you could never be sure of anything.
“It’s fine,” Ronon told him. “They said in the infirmary that you’d gone off duty…”
He held out a small, woven satchel, “Teyla’s taken stuff to Elizabeth Weir, so I said I’d bring this to you…”
A slow smile spread its way across Carson Beckett’s face. “Come away in, Big Man!”
Ronon moved into Carson’s quarters, handing over the satchel to the doctor. Cradling his precious cargo Carson turned and walked over to the table. “If this is what I think it is…”
Teyla had said nothing about what was in the bag, only that Carson had asked for it and Ronon watched, intrigued, as Carson pulled one of the pottery flagons from the satchel.
Putting the bag down, Carson broke the seal on the bottle and sniffed. The grin that spread across Carson’s face told Ronon that the bottles contained what the doctor had hoped.
“It is!” Carson sighed happily.
Grinning at Ronon, he offered, “Sit yourself down! This stuff shouldn’t be drunk alone! And as I’m off duty tomorrow, there’ll be no harm in a wee glass or two!”
He turned, heading over to another unit for two glasses, continuing, “Of course, it’s not a Speyside single malt...”
“A what?” Ronon asked, sinking into one of the chairs.
Glasses in hand, Carson turned, looking at him, “Whisky, lad. The amber nectar…”
Ronon quirked an eyebrow, giving him a flat look.
“Don’t tell me you’re a beer man?” Carson derided, heading back towards him.
“The stuff Sheppard drinks?” Ronon asked.
“Aye,” Carson confirmed.
Ronon pulled a face. “I like it stronger… Back home we had atopae… distilled from a root vegetable. It was strong. Burned all the way down when you drank it straight…”
“Sounds something like Earth vodka,” Carson mused. “That’s made from a root vegetable too: a potato… This, however,” he went on, heading across to where Ronon sat, “is the Pegasus galaxy’s version of mead…”
Ronon quirked an eyebrow again, “Mead?”
“Aye,” Carson confirmed, sitting opposite him and putting the glasses down on the low table. “The Vikings brought it over to Scotland.”
“Vikings?”
“Aye,” Carson confirmed. “A warrior race from Scandinavia… Actually,” he considered, “they have a lot in common with what you’ve told me of your people… You should look them up. They’d arrive from across the North Sea in longboats,” he went on, pouring the golden liquid into the glasses, “and send raiding parties ashore. They managed to set up colonies in some places…”
He put the bottle down, continuing, “In fact, my grannie used to joke that half the population of Scotland are related to half the population of Norway… Here, lad,” he offered, picking up a glass and handing it to Ronon. “Wrap your tongue around that… Slainte!” he finished, holding up his glass in salute.
Ronon lifted his own glass, announcing, “Strength always!” Then he took a careful mouthful of the liquid. It was thick, strong and sweet. He swallowed, feeling the mead slide a warm trail down his throat into his belly.
“Well?” Carson asked.
Ronon nodded, a small smile pulling at his lips. “It’s good… Sweet…”
“It’s made from honey…” Carson grinned, sitting back in the chair. “I remember when I was a wee lad, if it was really cold on Guy Fawkes Night then my grannie would have mead warming on the cooker for us when we got in from watching the fireworks… She’d put cinnamon and orange slices in it. A wee glass of that, then a hot bath and into bed…”
He sighed softly, looking into his glass, “Whenever I smell this stuff, I remember the smell of the fireworks and the smoke from the bonfires too…”
Ronon listened to Carson talk, savouring the mead. The doctor’s story had sparked the brief impression of a memory but, buried beneath seven years of not allowing himself to remember the past, the memory eluded him.
He let it go, trusting that it would come back more clearly if he didn’t think about it. “So,” he asked, “Guy Fawkes… is that some sort of religious ceremony?”
Carson shook his head, taking another drink before answering, “No… but religion played its part. It celebrates the foiling of a plot to kill the ruling classes of England by blowing up the parliament building… the ruling classes being of one religion and the plotters of another…”
Ronon took that in then frowned, asking, “So… why would you celebrate? You’re not English…”
Chuckling, Carson agreed, “No… but the English Queen Elizabeth had died with no children. Her closest relative was the Scottish king… who took the crown of England as well as Scotland… James the First of England and Sixth of Scotland, who was the plotters’ main target… They’d have been successful too if someone hadn’t got suspicious of Fawkes. They searched the parliament buildings and found the barrels of gunpowder. Fawkes and the other plotters were arrested and executed… Remember, remember the fifth of November,” Carson quoted, “Gunpowder, treason and plot!”
“So you lit bonfires to celebrate?”
“Bonfires and fireworks,” Carson confirmed.
“Fireworks?”
“Tell you what,” Carson suggested, “Next fifth of November, why don’t you come back home with me? Then you can see for yourself... What about that?”
Ronon didn’t answer. The elusive memory had flashed back into life, coalescing finally into clarity. Ronon swallowed hard, closing his eyes, emotion washing over him as the memories came alive.
Carson frowned, giving the big Satedan a few moments before asking, “Ronon? Is everything okay?”
The question brought Ronon back to the present. Taking a deep breath, he nodded, “Yeah…”
He opened his eyes, looking across at Carson. “When I was small,” he began, “when I was ill, my grandfather would take a measure of atopae, heat it with a poker from the fire then add sugar and some warmroot juice. He’d top up the cup with warm milk.”
The memory tugged a soft smile onto Ronon’s lips, “Being ill wasn’t good, but drinking that tonic, leaning against my grandfather while he read to me… That’s a good memory… I had forgotten…”
Carson said nothing but he picked up the bottle, leaned forward and topped up Ronon’s drink. “This,” he told Ronon, refilling his own glass, “calls for a toast.”
Putting the bottle down, he held up his mead. “To good memories and good friends.”
Sitting forward, knocking his glass gently against Carson’s, Ronon smiled. “Good memories and good friends…”