SGA Fic - Rule Number Four
Title: Rule Number Four
Rating: PG for language and very, very, very mild hurt.
Characters: John, Ronon
Summary: Tag to Broken Ties. "Rule number four, for the love of everything, if you value your life, never spar with Ronon when he's pissed." Written for susnn for the help_haiti auction. Hope you enjoy:D Many, many, many thanks to my excellent beta, wildcat88
Rule Number Four
The majority of marines liked to refer to sparring as Fight Club, not because said majority had an unhealthy obsession with the movie... not entirely. Sparring had its rules, a hell of a lot more than the movie with completely different reasons for being thought up, but there was no doubting the inspiration.
Rule number one, you never talk about the sparring sessions, because there were a lot of skittish civilians out there just looking for an excuse to get out of the mandatory self-defense courses, despite the fact that the courses were totally different from sparring (fewer bruised egos and ice-packs). Rule number two, don't forget rule number one, because it was a pain in the ass trying to sift the excuses from the truth. Rule number three, no hitting below the belt. It's rude, and the medics would rather not deal with the aftermath
Rule number four, for the love of everything, if you value your life, never spar with Ronon when he's pissed.
The fourth rule John had added after having to replace two dummies and a punching bag. The way John figured it, and because he knew how stupid and reckless anger could make a man, Ronon had enough self-control not to punch a hole into someone's body. But that didn't mean there wouldn't be damage.
Which was why it was a miracle that John's stomach hadn't squirmed its way out of his body. He was about to break rule number four, his rule. He was about to spar with Ronon, and Ronon had been far from happy since fighting his way out of the mother of all enzyme overdoses a week ago.
But the way John also figured it, a week wasn't quite long enough for Ronon to get back into top form. Right?
Yeah, try telling that to the bag he gutted with his bare hands.
John swallowed hard, gripping the straps to his gym bag until his knuckles blanched. He watched as Ronon pummeled a dummy using his fists and feet, and tried to take comfort in the fact that the dummy was still in one piece.
But John's final figuring was that Ronon needed this. He'd been a humming coil of tension since the withdrawal, quiet even for him (not even giving any of the team his usual greeting grunt at meals), running until he dropped when he was supposed to be walking and overall looking like he wanted to rip something's head off. But the real kicker wasn't until Teyla had taken him off-world on a trade run, hoping to help him find his calm with wide-open spaces. He'd pulled a gun on a merchant who had grabbed Teyla's arm to get her attention. Everyone knew merchants did that, and no one really cared as long as all hands stayed within sight.
Teyla had said it: Ronon was in dire need of release. Meditation was out of the picture. Teyla had said she'd offered, Ronon had replied with an emphatic no, then another punching bag was found dead with a hole through its center.
Crap, what the hell am I thinking? If John's heart beat any harder, it was going to lay him flat before Ronon had a chance to.
But this was Ronon, and pissed or not, he only killed in a fit of rage if you had dead-pale skin, sharp teeth and a feeding hand. Human and not pointing a gun at him, he pulled his punches. And, again, Ronon needed... well... he needed something, if not this. Time, yes. Definitely time - John got that. But something else, something more, and if letting Ronon kick his ass wasn't it, then he was all out of ideas other than taking Ronon out to the nearest hive ship and letting him blow it to hell, but no way would Woolsey sanction it.
With a rigid snap of his spine, John steeled himself, then forced his body to relax in its usual slouch saying loud and clear “hell, no, I'm not nervous.” Or not, because his spine started to ache. John forced his legs to carry him into the gym anyway.
“Hey, buddy,” he said.
Ronon hopped back from the dummy long enough to glance over his shoulder, then hopped back and resumed pummeling.
John tossed the bag to the bench, freeing his hand to clench and unclench, loosening the tight muscles of his fingers. He watched Ronon, more like stared, taking in every sharp move and every bunched muscle.
Then he swallowed and said, “So... wanna spar?” And barely ducked the leg suddenly swinging in his direction. “I'll take that as a yes.” John stepped back as Ronon stalked forward.
John only had time for a quick, seriously, what the hell am I doing? when Ronon shot forward in a tackle that slammed John into the wall and the air out of his lungs. Then it was fight, fight, fight as though they were off-world and their lives really did depend on it. John's years of sparring with both Teyla and Ronon had given him enough edge to last, even get in a few shots of his own. Ronon slammed him to the floor, then John found himself slamming Ronon to the floor. Ronon leaped to his feet and kicked out, getting John in the chest. John crashed to the mat, but with enough sense to ram his foot into Ronon's stomach before John's lungs even had a chance to remember how to work. John followed up with a roll to his feet and tackled Ronon.
Ronon grabbed him and flipped him over his shoulder.
Maybe it was the single stream of concentration forcing him to keep his mind in the fight, but John could not recall a time when the sparring had been this intense. There were no breaks, not even a pause to skip back and regain their space. They smacked each other to the floor, rolled or hopped to their feet, and charged over and over. Kicking, punching, flipping and like hell Ronon wasn't in top form. He let John get back to his feet, even let him spit blood out of his mouth, but that was about it.
Then another kick to the chest, a blow to the face and John was down and couldn't get up. Everything was caught up in a nauseating tilt-o-whirl that had him digging his fingers into the mat to hold on. It was also hard to breathe; not impossible, but it made him wish it wasn't so damn necessary because, damn it friggin' ow!. Ditto with his hip. Now that he was down, and no further abuse forthcoming, a lot of aches and pains were announcing their appearance with too much fanfare.
Then John groaned, “What the hell was I thinking?” Though what reached his ears sounded more like “Wht hll thing.”
He flinched from Ronon's hand when it lowered in a peace offering to help John back to his feet. John hadn't meant to flinch - hell, had never flinched before - but it happened against his will, as did the hesitancy to take that hand.
“You okay?” Ronon asked.
John looked up. It was usually mandatory to ask that, as though Ronon's mom had enforced it in the Dex household along with “please” and “thank you.” It was usually accompanied by a smug, amused grin you wanted nothing more than to wipe off.
Not this time. This time, Ronon was frowning, and his tone John could have sworn had held a hint of concern. It was good enough for John's paranoid brain; he took the hand for Ronon to haul him to his feet.
Double ow. It hurt, full of throbs and stabs and aches and pains that were going to haunt John for days to come. When he walked to his bag to grab his water bottle, his hip protested it. When he bent to unzip the bag, his chest on the left side protested even louder.
“You okay?” Ronon asked again, slathering on a little extra concern that was hard to miss.
John waved him off as he gulped the water, then gasped, “I'll live.” Which, of course, he would, barring any internal bleeding. Sadly, John knew enough about internal bleeding to know what it usually felt like. Still, it was a bit too soon to pass it off as not a possibility. Sometimes those bleeders could be damn sneaky.
John tried not to groan or look unhappy, because as soon as he was out of the gym it would be off to the infirmary, just to play it safe. Ronon knew how to pull his punches, but sometimes he got a little too slap-happy... literally.
John saw Ronon out of the corner of his eye give a curt nod. Ronon was shiny with sweat, breathing hard, looking pretty exhausted and most likely tapped out for the day. John could only hope that meant mission accomplished. If not, then at least it meant the dummy would last a little longer.
---------------------------
“You let Ronon beat you up?” Keller said, incredulous, even a little horrified. Maybe she was reprimanding John, or maybe she was truly horrified; John couldn't really tell. Her reactions were often a little more than what was called for; like a twitchy eye or cheek, it was her personal brand of tick.
Yet John still felt chagrined, though he sat on the gurney like he usually did - slouched, fingers curled loosely over the edge and legs swinging. “Yep.”
Keller's nose wrinkled. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“Sure that was a good idea?”
John gestured at his stiff and, no doubt, colorful face. “Would I be here if it was?”
“Why?”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” The verdict was still out whether it would be a good idea in the long run. John was a mite concerned that he may have hurried from the gym without realizing he was hurrying.
Keller sighed and patted the paper-covered gurney. “Stretch out. I'll get the scanner.”
John did as told, gingerly, grunting from further bodily complaints. Keller returned with a tech and the scanner in tow. And while the tech handled the easy-going scanner to pass over John's body, Keller manned the screen, waiting for the results.
John grimaced when he heard her suck air through her teeth. It never boded well when any doctor did that. “Well, the good news is nothing's bleeding on the inside. Bad news.” She peeked around the screen to give him a sympathetic look. “You cracked a rib.”
John scowled. He wanted to say that it was Ronon who did the cracking, except he was the one who gave Ronon the can of whoop-ass to open on him.
Instead, he muttered, “Goody.”
“You know the drill,” Keller said. She helped ease John upright as soon as the scanner was rolled away, then had a nurse bring a gown. It wasn't a big deal - the infirmary liked hard copies, but the Ancient scanners refused to oblige, which meant falling back on the tried and true method of X-rays. Keller promised that it wasn't much of a crack, so thin and short that it shouldn't take too long to heal. Which would have been the case, anyway, even without the crack because his hip was bruised to the bone and several muscles in his shoulders and back a tad overtaxed. Nothing major.
It still added up to a lot of downtime, light duty and definitely no going off-world. So, basically, pretty much what John and his team had been doing since Ronon's withdrawal.
It also meant drugs, which John was the most unhappy about. It wasn't a macho thing - he hated pain as much as the next guy even if he was good at ignoring it - he simply despised with a passion the way some drugs made his brain feel like a puddle of watery pudding.
Keller, however, knew how to take pity on a patient, and gave him something during the day that would take the edge off without flooring him, and the flooring stuff he would take at night when it would most matter.
“And, uh...” Keller said just as John was about to leave with pills in hand. She winced. “Maybe... maybe it might be a good idea not to tell Ronon what happened? Because... well... you know, with what happened then and what happened now and it's pretty obvious he's not taking then well...”
“Wasn't planning on saying anything, Doc,” John said. He shrugged. “It's not like we haven't damaged each other before.”
“To the point of breaking bones?”
“Cracking,” John countered with a raised a finger. “And a very small, quick to heal crack. No big deal. Nothing to bring up. It's all good.”
Keller's nod was rigid. “Good.”
“Great. Can I go?”
Keller waved him off like a teacher dismissing her most problematic student. John kind of took offense to it.
-----------------------------
“You let Ronon beat you up!” Rodney shrilled, and succeeded where Keller had failed in making it sound like an accusation.
“Ronon beats me up every time we spar,” John said around a sufficiently chewed mouthful of chicken fried steak. “I just,” he shrugged, “let him tenderize me a little more. No big deal.”
But Rodney jabbed a fork in the general direction of John's torso. “Uh, I think a particular crack in a particular bone would beg to differ.”
John shook his head as though Rodney were trying to exaggerate the consequences which, in a way, he was. “We've damaged each other before.”
“Not that kind of damage!”
John winced and patted the air one-handed. “Keep it down, McKay.” Had John his way, and knew how to cover a bad limp, he wouldn't have said anything about the consequences of helping Ronon blow off some steam in the first place. But McKay had days when he was a lot more observant than he should have been, honing in on both the limp and John favoring his side like long-range sensors picking up a fleet of hive ships. And, of course, he had to greet John with a “What the hell happened to you?” That got Teyla curious, and firm about not taking “I'm fine” for an answer.
“No, I will not keep it down,” Rodney hissed just above a whisper. “He could have killed you!”
John, bristling, tossed his fork down. It bounced off the tray and clattered onto the table. “No.” He stabbed a finger at Rodney's face. “He wouldn't. And you keep your mouth shut about this. It's not a big deal. Damage happens.”
“Not like this it doesn't,” Rodney sneered, stabbing his mashed potatoes with extra fervor. Then he tossed his own fork down. “And he needs to know. He needs to know what he's capable of before he goes cracking someone else's body.”
John narrowed his eyes. “No, he doesn't.”
“Yes, he does. He's a big boy; he can take it. It's not like we've had to spare his fragile widdle feelings before. Why should now be any different?”
Because Ronon had been through hell, was still going through something that was making him not-Ronon, and John didn't want to add to whatever that something was.
What John said was, “Because it's not a big deal. No reason to make it a big deal.” Which was just as much the truth. It wasn't a big deal. Given the number of times they'd sent each other to the infirmary for stitches, really, it was only a matter of time before one of their fights resulted in too-deep bruises and a cracked bone or two.
And big boy or not, stoic hard-ass or not, no one could say what was really going on in that dreadlocked head of Ronon's. What John did know was that when you survived something that put you through the wringer and left you high and dry, everything that followed had the potential to add hairline cracks to what was left of the fortifications meant to keep you going. The cracks didn't mean you eventually fell apart, but they made the push forward a little harder, like walking through water into mud then into quicksand.
John glanced Teyla's way to gauge her reaction. Her silence carried a lot of possibilities and it was tempting to translate it as muted agreement. Except it could just as easily be her playing it smart and staying out of it.
Teyla, her mouth mostly occupied with a piece of orange, bowed her head ever so slightly: not so much an absolute agreement as Teyla sanctioning John's reasoning, because she was sympathetic like that and did not like anyone being hurt on an emotional level when they did not have to be.
Then her eyes darted to and from the entrance to the mess hall, a warning glance that was easy to read. John's own flicking gaze showed him Ronon striding into the mess like a man with a purpose. He grabbed a tray, grabbed food - sparse for him - then headed toward his usual spot at their usual table next to the balcony.
John turned a glare on McKay. “Not. A. Word.”
“Or what?” Rodney challenged, glaring right back.
“Or say goodbye to your damn Battlestar Galactica DVDs.”
Rodney actually paled, rearing his head back. “You're the one who asked to borrow them!”
John shrugged, unrepentant, turning back to his food right when Ronon planted himself at the table. The man didn't even acknowledge any of them with so much as a look, just dug right in as though anxious to get the eating part of his day over with.
“So,” Rodney said, inciting John to stare at him - long, hard and packed full of dire promises. Rodney cleared his throat uneasily. “How was your day, Ronon?”
John closed his eyes because, yeah, like that was any more subtle and harmless - Rodney McKay, nemesis to all things small talk related, making small talk.
But it got Ronon to look up, even if it was to regard McKay as though he'd grown another head. He said, “Fine,” though it sounded almost like a snarl, and he returned to his shoveling. Or started to when he looked John's way - once, twice, a double-take with a flutter of mild alarm at what John knew to be the abstract design that was his own face: lots of bruises with a few mild cuts thrown in for extra color.
John tried not to wince. He'd actually forgotten about the bruises. Yes, the usual reward for a good spar, but like with the cracked rib and deeply bruised hip, a little more than what was normal for them. But John had honestly thought it the lesser of two evils and, therefore, not something Ronon would notice.
He was definitely noticing it now.
“You okay?” Ronon asked.
John blinked. “Uh... yeah, fine. Why?”
Ronon stared at him for a count of ten, then finally refocused on his food, just long enough to finish it off before picking up and leaving. John exchanged a bewildered look with Teyla. What he got from McKay was long-suffering annoyance.
“I want my DVDs back,” Rodney said. He shoveled potatoes into his mouth and said around them, “Now.”
------------------------
Ronon was a hard man to find when he didn't want to be found, but as big as Atlantis was, there were only so many places he could go. Asking around after Ronon, plus Chuck narrowing possible locations down from the 'gate room sensors eventually brought John limping to the west pier, his hip and ribs killing him.
John was well aware that the discomfort had slicked him up with a little sweat, and figured a little color had drained itself from his face as well. Ronon was standing on the edge of the pier but close enough to the door to hear it when it opened. After looking up to see who was intruding on his non-fortress of solitude, the anger dropped from Ronon's features and he turned to face John full-on.
“You okay?” Ronon asked, arms slightly akimbo as though getting ready in case John dropped.
So, apparently, John looked a lot worse than he'd thought. Or Ronon was feeling guilty. John had the bad feeling it was the latter, because Ronon was doing an excellent impression of a kicked puppy.
John waved off Ronon's concern. “Fine. It only looks bad. My fault, anyway.” It was a fight not to give into the need to rub his hip. “Mind if I sit?” But unable wait for permission, he eased himself carefully down, letting his legs dangle over the edge. He looked up at Ronon, still standing, staring at his fidgeting hands picking at each other.
“Ronon?” John said.
Ronon looked at him. When John patted the patch of pier beside him, Ronon rolled his eyes then dropped with an ease that made John insanely jealous.
“Like I said,” John said. “My fault.” He shrugged. “You looked like you needed a good fi--”
“I could have killed you,” Ronon blurted.
John snorted with a lot of skepticism that had the kicked-puppy look immediately booted by fiery pride.
“You think I'm not capable of it?” Ronon said, stiffening, looking ready to rise and prove John wrong until John held up his hand in surrender.
“What! No! Not... damn it! Hell, yes, you could have killed me. I just meant, you know, that you wouldn't have. And you didn't. Because, well, you don't. Spar to kill, that is.”
Ronon, still fuming, tore his glare from John to pin it on the waves turning amber in the path of the setting sun.
“Given the right incentive...” Ronon said, pushing the words through a jaw that seemed to want to clench until his teeth broke.
John shook his head. “You're enzyme free, buddy.”
“I didn't say enzyme,” Ronon spat. “I was pissed, Sheppard. I was...” He trailed off, dropping his chin to his chest. “I don't know what I was thinking. Just wanted to fight. Probably wasn't thinking.” He looked at John and frowned deeply. “I could've--”
“No,” John cut in, shaking his head harder. “You wouldn't; you didn't. I wouldn't have fought you if I thought you would.”
And that, like flipping a switch, booted the anger out with the kicked-puppy. Ronon didn't smile, didn't even look as though he was skirting the edge of happy. If anything...
Hell, if anything, John thought he looked scared, and it was making John uneasy.
Ronon rarely did guilt. He never did scared. At least as far as John knew, making this a first and, therefore, a punch to the gut.
“What?” John prompted.
“Really?” Ronon asked, hopeful and timid, worse than his fear. It stripped years from him, giving John a sliver of an idea of what Ronon must have been like as a little kid. Really little, as in the age where try as you might to be brave, most of the time, it just wasn't possible.
“Yeah,” John said. “Believe me, buddy. I learned to trust you with my life pretty quick. A stint as a Wraith-worshiper isn't going to change that. Besides,” he patted his own chest, over the patch of marred skin he only ever saw when he looked close enough. He often looked close enough because, for him, it was hard not to. “I know... you know? That is, I get it. I don't care who you are...” John blew out a long, unsteady breath. “It feels too damn good.” And yet he still couldn't begin to imagine what it must feel like: the agony, replaced by that euphoria, over and over and over again. But he knew enough to get it.
Ronon looked away, back to his hands no longer fidgeting. “You know,” he began. “I didn't trust you. When you let that Wraith go, I thought that, maybe...” he trailed off with a small shake of his head. “I thought...” Either he couldn't remember what he'd thought, or had come up with so many negative possibilities that they were too many to list.
But, of course, topping that list would have been the Wraith having done something to get John to betray Atlantis.
“Understandable,” John said. “Roles reversed, I wouldn't have trusted me, either.”
“So, why do you trust me?” Ronon looked at him, daring him to answer. Ronon forced through gritted teeth, “I wasturned. And sometimes…” He swallowed. “Sometimes I miss it, that feeling, whenever I was restored. The strength, the ability to keep going. I miss it.”
“And you will,” John said.
“Which means I can still turn.”
“You won't,” John replied.
“How do you know that!” Ronon roared, so loud it made John flinch.
But John roared right back, “Because I know you!”
Ronon blinked. It wasn't a flinch, but at least John knew he had his attention, so he pushed on.
“I know you're pissed. Pissed about what the Wraith did to you, what Tyre did to you, and what they made you do. So pissed that you'd kill every Wraith in the damn galaxy then slit your own throat before presenting your chest for another session. I know you're angry, and that when you're angry you're pretty damn stubborn. Too stubborn to give in to doing what isn't in you to do. And that includes killing me in a damn sparring match.”
Then they were quiet, a somewhat uncomfortable quiet for John, leaving him too much time to wonder if he'd said the right thing or had just made matters worse, even if he did stand by what he said. He looked over at Ronon.
Ronon was collapsing in on himself, and it was another invisible punch to John's gut.
John said, “Sorry.”
“Don't,” Ronon replied. He rubbed his face. “Don't.”
John grimaced. “I'd kind of hoped a quick spar might help... or something.”
Ronon didn't reply to that.
“You were looking for a fight,” John said. He softened his features. “Sorry it didn't help.”
Now it was Ronon doing the shrugging. “I was looking for a fight,” he said. “Yeah, it didn't help.” He looked at John. “But I appreciate the effort.”
Grinning, John clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. And, hey, at least the self-defense dummies were spared another day. That's gotta count for something, right?”
Ronon snorted, shaking his head, but John thought he detected the smallest smile tugging at Ronon's lips. That in itself made the whole damn thing worth it. The hairline cracks don't leave in a day, or two days, or even a week or a month. For that reason, it was enough to know that the fortifications were still there.
“You okay?” John asked.
“Trying to be,” Ronon said. He sniffed. “Isn't easy.”
“It never is,” John said.
“But trying's worth it, right?”
“Always. I wouldn't have broken rule number four if it wasn't.”
The End.
Rating: PG for language and very, very, very mild hurt.
Characters: John, Ronon
Summary: Tag to Broken Ties. "Rule number four, for the love of everything, if you value your life, never spar with Ronon when he's pissed." Written for susnn for the help_haiti auction. Hope you enjoy:D Many, many, many thanks to my excellent beta, wildcat88
Rule Number Four
The majority of marines liked to refer to sparring as Fight Club, not because said majority had an unhealthy obsession with the movie... not entirely. Sparring had its rules, a hell of a lot more than the movie with completely different reasons for being thought up, but there was no doubting the inspiration.
Rule number one, you never talk about the sparring sessions, because there were a lot of skittish civilians out there just looking for an excuse to get out of the mandatory self-defense courses, despite the fact that the courses were totally different from sparring (fewer bruised egos and ice-packs). Rule number two, don't forget rule number one, because it was a pain in the ass trying to sift the excuses from the truth. Rule number three, no hitting below the belt. It's rude, and the medics would rather not deal with the aftermath
Rule number four, for the love of everything, if you value your life, never spar with Ronon when he's pissed.
The fourth rule John had added after having to replace two dummies and a punching bag. The way John figured it, and because he knew how stupid and reckless anger could make a man, Ronon had enough self-control not to punch a hole into someone's body. But that didn't mean there wouldn't be damage.
Which was why it was a miracle that John's stomach hadn't squirmed its way out of his body. He was about to break rule number four, his rule. He was about to spar with Ronon, and Ronon had been far from happy since fighting his way out of the mother of all enzyme overdoses a week ago.
But the way John also figured it, a week wasn't quite long enough for Ronon to get back into top form. Right?
Yeah, try telling that to the bag he gutted with his bare hands.
John swallowed hard, gripping the straps to his gym bag until his knuckles blanched. He watched as Ronon pummeled a dummy using his fists and feet, and tried to take comfort in the fact that the dummy was still in one piece.
But John's final figuring was that Ronon needed this. He'd been a humming coil of tension since the withdrawal, quiet even for him (not even giving any of the team his usual greeting grunt at meals), running until he dropped when he was supposed to be walking and overall looking like he wanted to rip something's head off. But the real kicker wasn't until Teyla had taken him off-world on a trade run, hoping to help him find his calm with wide-open spaces. He'd pulled a gun on a merchant who had grabbed Teyla's arm to get her attention. Everyone knew merchants did that, and no one really cared as long as all hands stayed within sight.
Teyla had said it: Ronon was in dire need of release. Meditation was out of the picture. Teyla had said she'd offered, Ronon had replied with an emphatic no, then another punching bag was found dead with a hole through its center.
Crap, what the hell am I thinking? If John's heart beat any harder, it was going to lay him flat before Ronon had a chance to.
But this was Ronon, and pissed or not, he only killed in a fit of rage if you had dead-pale skin, sharp teeth and a feeding hand. Human and not pointing a gun at him, he pulled his punches. And, again, Ronon needed... well... he needed something, if not this. Time, yes. Definitely time - John got that. But something else, something more, and if letting Ronon kick his ass wasn't it, then he was all out of ideas other than taking Ronon out to the nearest hive ship and letting him blow it to hell, but no way would Woolsey sanction it.
With a rigid snap of his spine, John steeled himself, then forced his body to relax in its usual slouch saying loud and clear “hell, no, I'm not nervous.” Or not, because his spine started to ache. John forced his legs to carry him into the gym anyway.
“Hey, buddy,” he said.
Ronon hopped back from the dummy long enough to glance over his shoulder, then hopped back and resumed pummeling.
John tossed the bag to the bench, freeing his hand to clench and unclench, loosening the tight muscles of his fingers. He watched Ronon, more like stared, taking in every sharp move and every bunched muscle.
Then he swallowed and said, “So... wanna spar?” And barely ducked the leg suddenly swinging in his direction. “I'll take that as a yes.” John stepped back as Ronon stalked forward.
John only had time for a quick, seriously, what the hell am I doing? when Ronon shot forward in a tackle that slammed John into the wall and the air out of his lungs. Then it was fight, fight, fight as though they were off-world and their lives really did depend on it. John's years of sparring with both Teyla and Ronon had given him enough edge to last, even get in a few shots of his own. Ronon slammed him to the floor, then John found himself slamming Ronon to the floor. Ronon leaped to his feet and kicked out, getting John in the chest. John crashed to the mat, but with enough sense to ram his foot into Ronon's stomach before John's lungs even had a chance to remember how to work. John followed up with a roll to his feet and tackled Ronon.
Ronon grabbed him and flipped him over his shoulder.
Maybe it was the single stream of concentration forcing him to keep his mind in the fight, but John could not recall a time when the sparring had been this intense. There were no breaks, not even a pause to skip back and regain their space. They smacked each other to the floor, rolled or hopped to their feet, and charged over and over. Kicking, punching, flipping and like hell Ronon wasn't in top form. He let John get back to his feet, even let him spit blood out of his mouth, but that was about it.
Then another kick to the chest, a blow to the face and John was down and couldn't get up. Everything was caught up in a nauseating tilt-o-whirl that had him digging his fingers into the mat to hold on. It was also hard to breathe; not impossible, but it made him wish it wasn't so damn necessary because, damn it friggin' ow!. Ditto with his hip. Now that he was down, and no further abuse forthcoming, a lot of aches and pains were announcing their appearance with too much fanfare.
Then John groaned, “What the hell was I thinking?” Though what reached his ears sounded more like “Wht hll thing.”
He flinched from Ronon's hand when it lowered in a peace offering to help John back to his feet. John hadn't meant to flinch - hell, had never flinched before - but it happened against his will, as did the hesitancy to take that hand.
“You okay?” Ronon asked.
John looked up. It was usually mandatory to ask that, as though Ronon's mom had enforced it in the Dex household along with “please” and “thank you.” It was usually accompanied by a smug, amused grin you wanted nothing more than to wipe off.
Not this time. This time, Ronon was frowning, and his tone John could have sworn had held a hint of concern. It was good enough for John's paranoid brain; he took the hand for Ronon to haul him to his feet.
Double ow. It hurt, full of throbs and stabs and aches and pains that were going to haunt John for days to come. When he walked to his bag to grab his water bottle, his hip protested it. When he bent to unzip the bag, his chest on the left side protested even louder.
“You okay?” Ronon asked again, slathering on a little extra concern that was hard to miss.
John waved him off as he gulped the water, then gasped, “I'll live.” Which, of course, he would, barring any internal bleeding. Sadly, John knew enough about internal bleeding to know what it usually felt like. Still, it was a bit too soon to pass it off as not a possibility. Sometimes those bleeders could be damn sneaky.
John tried not to groan or look unhappy, because as soon as he was out of the gym it would be off to the infirmary, just to play it safe. Ronon knew how to pull his punches, but sometimes he got a little too slap-happy... literally.
John saw Ronon out of the corner of his eye give a curt nod. Ronon was shiny with sweat, breathing hard, looking pretty exhausted and most likely tapped out for the day. John could only hope that meant mission accomplished. If not, then at least it meant the dummy would last a little longer.
---------------------------
“You let Ronon beat you up?” Keller said, incredulous, even a little horrified. Maybe she was reprimanding John, or maybe she was truly horrified; John couldn't really tell. Her reactions were often a little more than what was called for; like a twitchy eye or cheek, it was her personal brand of tick.
Yet John still felt chagrined, though he sat on the gurney like he usually did - slouched, fingers curled loosely over the edge and legs swinging. “Yep.”
Keller's nose wrinkled. “Really?”
“Yep.”
“Sure that was a good idea?”
John gestured at his stiff and, no doubt, colorful face. “Would I be here if it was?”
“Why?”
“Seemed like a good idea at the time.” The verdict was still out whether it would be a good idea in the long run. John was a mite concerned that he may have hurried from the gym without realizing he was hurrying.
Keller sighed and patted the paper-covered gurney. “Stretch out. I'll get the scanner.”
John did as told, gingerly, grunting from further bodily complaints. Keller returned with a tech and the scanner in tow. And while the tech handled the easy-going scanner to pass over John's body, Keller manned the screen, waiting for the results.
John grimaced when he heard her suck air through her teeth. It never boded well when any doctor did that. “Well, the good news is nothing's bleeding on the inside. Bad news.” She peeked around the screen to give him a sympathetic look. “You cracked a rib.”
John scowled. He wanted to say that it was Ronon who did the cracking, except he was the one who gave Ronon the can of whoop-ass to open on him.
Instead, he muttered, “Goody.”
“You know the drill,” Keller said. She helped ease John upright as soon as the scanner was rolled away, then had a nurse bring a gown. It wasn't a big deal - the infirmary liked hard copies, but the Ancient scanners refused to oblige, which meant falling back on the tried and true method of X-rays. Keller promised that it wasn't much of a crack, so thin and short that it shouldn't take too long to heal. Which would have been the case, anyway, even without the crack because his hip was bruised to the bone and several muscles in his shoulders and back a tad overtaxed. Nothing major.
It still added up to a lot of downtime, light duty and definitely no going off-world. So, basically, pretty much what John and his team had been doing since Ronon's withdrawal.
It also meant drugs, which John was the most unhappy about. It wasn't a macho thing - he hated pain as much as the next guy even if he was good at ignoring it - he simply despised with a passion the way some drugs made his brain feel like a puddle of watery pudding.
Keller, however, knew how to take pity on a patient, and gave him something during the day that would take the edge off without flooring him, and the flooring stuff he would take at night when it would most matter.
“And, uh...” Keller said just as John was about to leave with pills in hand. She winced. “Maybe... maybe it might be a good idea not to tell Ronon what happened? Because... well... you know, with what happened then and what happened now and it's pretty obvious he's not taking then well...”
“Wasn't planning on saying anything, Doc,” John said. He shrugged. “It's not like we haven't damaged each other before.”
“To the point of breaking bones?”
“Cracking,” John countered with a raised a finger. “And a very small, quick to heal crack. No big deal. Nothing to bring up. It's all good.”
Keller's nod was rigid. “Good.”
“Great. Can I go?”
Keller waved him off like a teacher dismissing her most problematic student. John kind of took offense to it.
-----------------------------
“You let Ronon beat you up!” Rodney shrilled, and succeeded where Keller had failed in making it sound like an accusation.
“Ronon beats me up every time we spar,” John said around a sufficiently chewed mouthful of chicken fried steak. “I just,” he shrugged, “let him tenderize me a little more. No big deal.”
But Rodney jabbed a fork in the general direction of John's torso. “Uh, I think a particular crack in a particular bone would beg to differ.”
John shook his head as though Rodney were trying to exaggerate the consequences which, in a way, he was. “We've damaged each other before.”
“Not that kind of damage!”
John winced and patted the air one-handed. “Keep it down, McKay.” Had John his way, and knew how to cover a bad limp, he wouldn't have said anything about the consequences of helping Ronon blow off some steam in the first place. But McKay had days when he was a lot more observant than he should have been, honing in on both the limp and John favoring his side like long-range sensors picking up a fleet of hive ships. And, of course, he had to greet John with a “What the hell happened to you?” That got Teyla curious, and firm about not taking “I'm fine” for an answer.
“No, I will not keep it down,” Rodney hissed just above a whisper. “He could have killed you!”
John, bristling, tossed his fork down. It bounced off the tray and clattered onto the table. “No.” He stabbed a finger at Rodney's face. “He wouldn't. And you keep your mouth shut about this. It's not a big deal. Damage happens.”
“Not like this it doesn't,” Rodney sneered, stabbing his mashed potatoes with extra fervor. Then he tossed his own fork down. “And he needs to know. He needs to know what he's capable of before he goes cracking someone else's body.”
John narrowed his eyes. “No, he doesn't.”
“Yes, he does. He's a big boy; he can take it. It's not like we've had to spare his fragile widdle feelings before. Why should now be any different?”
Because Ronon had been through hell, was still going through something that was making him not-Ronon, and John didn't want to add to whatever that something was.
What John said was, “Because it's not a big deal. No reason to make it a big deal.” Which was just as much the truth. It wasn't a big deal. Given the number of times they'd sent each other to the infirmary for stitches, really, it was only a matter of time before one of their fights resulted in too-deep bruises and a cracked bone or two.
And big boy or not, stoic hard-ass or not, no one could say what was really going on in that dreadlocked head of Ronon's. What John did know was that when you survived something that put you through the wringer and left you high and dry, everything that followed had the potential to add hairline cracks to what was left of the fortifications meant to keep you going. The cracks didn't mean you eventually fell apart, but they made the push forward a little harder, like walking through water into mud then into quicksand.
John glanced Teyla's way to gauge her reaction. Her silence carried a lot of possibilities and it was tempting to translate it as muted agreement. Except it could just as easily be her playing it smart and staying out of it.
Teyla, her mouth mostly occupied with a piece of orange, bowed her head ever so slightly: not so much an absolute agreement as Teyla sanctioning John's reasoning, because she was sympathetic like that and did not like anyone being hurt on an emotional level when they did not have to be.
Then her eyes darted to and from the entrance to the mess hall, a warning glance that was easy to read. John's own flicking gaze showed him Ronon striding into the mess like a man with a purpose. He grabbed a tray, grabbed food - sparse for him - then headed toward his usual spot at their usual table next to the balcony.
John turned a glare on McKay. “Not. A. Word.”
“Or what?” Rodney challenged, glaring right back.
“Or say goodbye to your damn Battlestar Galactica DVDs.”
Rodney actually paled, rearing his head back. “You're the one who asked to borrow them!”
John shrugged, unrepentant, turning back to his food right when Ronon planted himself at the table. The man didn't even acknowledge any of them with so much as a look, just dug right in as though anxious to get the eating part of his day over with.
“So,” Rodney said, inciting John to stare at him - long, hard and packed full of dire promises. Rodney cleared his throat uneasily. “How was your day, Ronon?”
John closed his eyes because, yeah, like that was any more subtle and harmless - Rodney McKay, nemesis to all things small talk related, making small talk.
But it got Ronon to look up, even if it was to regard McKay as though he'd grown another head. He said, “Fine,” though it sounded almost like a snarl, and he returned to his shoveling. Or started to when he looked John's way - once, twice, a double-take with a flutter of mild alarm at what John knew to be the abstract design that was his own face: lots of bruises with a few mild cuts thrown in for extra color.
John tried not to wince. He'd actually forgotten about the bruises. Yes, the usual reward for a good spar, but like with the cracked rib and deeply bruised hip, a little more than what was normal for them. But John had honestly thought it the lesser of two evils and, therefore, not something Ronon would notice.
He was definitely noticing it now.
“You okay?” Ronon asked.
John blinked. “Uh... yeah, fine. Why?”
Ronon stared at him for a count of ten, then finally refocused on his food, just long enough to finish it off before picking up and leaving. John exchanged a bewildered look with Teyla. What he got from McKay was long-suffering annoyance.
“I want my DVDs back,” Rodney said. He shoveled potatoes into his mouth and said around them, “Now.”
------------------------
Ronon was a hard man to find when he didn't want to be found, but as big as Atlantis was, there were only so many places he could go. Asking around after Ronon, plus Chuck narrowing possible locations down from the 'gate room sensors eventually brought John limping to the west pier, his hip and ribs killing him.
John was well aware that the discomfort had slicked him up with a little sweat, and figured a little color had drained itself from his face as well. Ronon was standing on the edge of the pier but close enough to the door to hear it when it opened. After looking up to see who was intruding on his non-fortress of solitude, the anger dropped from Ronon's features and he turned to face John full-on.
“You okay?” Ronon asked, arms slightly akimbo as though getting ready in case John dropped.
So, apparently, John looked a lot worse than he'd thought. Or Ronon was feeling guilty. John had the bad feeling it was the latter, because Ronon was doing an excellent impression of a kicked puppy.
John waved off Ronon's concern. “Fine. It only looks bad. My fault, anyway.” It was a fight not to give into the need to rub his hip. “Mind if I sit?” But unable wait for permission, he eased himself carefully down, letting his legs dangle over the edge. He looked up at Ronon, still standing, staring at his fidgeting hands picking at each other.
“Ronon?” John said.
Ronon looked at him. When John patted the patch of pier beside him, Ronon rolled his eyes then dropped with an ease that made John insanely jealous.
“Like I said,” John said. “My fault.” He shrugged. “You looked like you needed a good fi--”
“I could have killed you,” Ronon blurted.
John snorted with a lot of skepticism that had the kicked-puppy look immediately booted by fiery pride.
“You think I'm not capable of it?” Ronon said, stiffening, looking ready to rise and prove John wrong until John held up his hand in surrender.
“What! No! Not... damn it! Hell, yes, you could have killed me. I just meant, you know, that you wouldn't have. And you didn't. Because, well, you don't. Spar to kill, that is.”
Ronon, still fuming, tore his glare from John to pin it on the waves turning amber in the path of the setting sun.
“Given the right incentive...” Ronon said, pushing the words through a jaw that seemed to want to clench until his teeth broke.
John shook his head. “You're enzyme free, buddy.”
“I didn't say enzyme,” Ronon spat. “I was pissed, Sheppard. I was...” He trailed off, dropping his chin to his chest. “I don't know what I was thinking. Just wanted to fight. Probably wasn't thinking.” He looked at John and frowned deeply. “I could've--”
“No,” John cut in, shaking his head harder. “You wouldn't; you didn't. I wouldn't have fought you if I thought you would.”
And that, like flipping a switch, booted the anger out with the kicked-puppy. Ronon didn't smile, didn't even look as though he was skirting the edge of happy. If anything...
Hell, if anything, John thought he looked scared, and it was making John uneasy.
Ronon rarely did guilt. He never did scared. At least as far as John knew, making this a first and, therefore, a punch to the gut.
“What?” John prompted.
“Really?” Ronon asked, hopeful and timid, worse than his fear. It stripped years from him, giving John a sliver of an idea of what Ronon must have been like as a little kid. Really little, as in the age where try as you might to be brave, most of the time, it just wasn't possible.
“Yeah,” John said. “Believe me, buddy. I learned to trust you with my life pretty quick. A stint as a Wraith-worshiper isn't going to change that. Besides,” he patted his own chest, over the patch of marred skin he only ever saw when he looked close enough. He often looked close enough because, for him, it was hard not to. “I know... you know? That is, I get it. I don't care who you are...” John blew out a long, unsteady breath. “It feels too damn good.” And yet he still couldn't begin to imagine what it must feel like: the agony, replaced by that euphoria, over and over and over again. But he knew enough to get it.
Ronon looked away, back to his hands no longer fidgeting. “You know,” he began. “I didn't trust you. When you let that Wraith go, I thought that, maybe...” he trailed off with a small shake of his head. “I thought...” Either he couldn't remember what he'd thought, or had come up with so many negative possibilities that they were too many to list.
But, of course, topping that list would have been the Wraith having done something to get John to betray Atlantis.
“Understandable,” John said. “Roles reversed, I wouldn't have trusted me, either.”
“So, why do you trust me?” Ronon looked at him, daring him to answer. Ronon forced through gritted teeth, “I wasturned. And sometimes…” He swallowed. “Sometimes I miss it, that feeling, whenever I was restored. The strength, the ability to keep going. I miss it.”
“And you will,” John said.
“Which means I can still turn.”
“You won't,” John replied.
“How do you know that!” Ronon roared, so loud it made John flinch.
But John roared right back, “Because I know you!”
Ronon blinked. It wasn't a flinch, but at least John knew he had his attention, so he pushed on.
“I know you're pissed. Pissed about what the Wraith did to you, what Tyre did to you, and what they made you do. So pissed that you'd kill every Wraith in the damn galaxy then slit your own throat before presenting your chest for another session. I know you're angry, and that when you're angry you're pretty damn stubborn. Too stubborn to give in to doing what isn't in you to do. And that includes killing me in a damn sparring match.”
Then they were quiet, a somewhat uncomfortable quiet for John, leaving him too much time to wonder if he'd said the right thing or had just made matters worse, even if he did stand by what he said. He looked over at Ronon.
Ronon was collapsing in on himself, and it was another invisible punch to John's gut.
John said, “Sorry.”
“Don't,” Ronon replied. He rubbed his face. “Don't.”
John grimaced. “I'd kind of hoped a quick spar might help... or something.”
Ronon didn't reply to that.
“You were looking for a fight,” John said. He softened his features. “Sorry it didn't help.”
Now it was Ronon doing the shrugging. “I was looking for a fight,” he said. “Yeah, it didn't help.” He looked at John. “But I appreciate the effort.”
Grinning, John clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. And, hey, at least the self-defense dummies were spared another day. That's gotta count for something, right?”
Ronon snorted, shaking his head, but John thought he detected the smallest smile tugging at Ronon's lips. That in itself made the whole damn thing worth it. The hairline cracks don't leave in a day, or two days, or even a week or a month. For that reason, it was enough to know that the fortifications were still there.
“You okay?” John asked.
“Trying to be,” Ronon said. He sniffed. “Isn't easy.”
“It never is,” John said.
“But trying's worth it, right?”
“Always. I wouldn't have broken rule number four if it wasn't.”
The End.