New SGA story: Salutation to the Dawn part 4 of 4

[pierson]

oo0oo

It is still the grey of very early morning when Radek wakes with a start at Ronon's deep, "Zelenka. Wake up. Breakfast." He pulls the cover down from his face and blinks sleepily, but Ronon is little more than a dark blur against the warm light of the main room streaming in from the open sliding panel. He wipes his hand over his face, rolls to the side of the bed--what a luxury, to have so much room in a bed--and fumbles for his glasses. Warm hands close over his, and he finds the chill steel frames of his glasses in his hand. More awake, he looks upward again, focusing on Ronon, who unexpectedly stands at his bedside. Ronon's mouth quirks in a little smile. "Come on. It'll be here soon."

And then he is gone again before Radek can slide his glasses onto his face, as quickly and silently as he'd appeared. Strange, Radek thinks, then pries himself from his warm bed, cursing the chill. Quickly showering and shaving and combing his hair, he dresses in one of his uniforms and steps out into the living area. There he finds the center fire pit crackling, spreading welcome warmth through the room, the scent of spicy tea competing with that of firewood. Ronon already sits at a low table, eating. Radek settles on a pillow beside him, and Ronon pushes a teapot in his direction.

"Kamura will be taking us to the main computer labs," Ronon says, then lifts a bowl of pale golden soup to his lips and drinks. The curve of his mouth on the thin blue porcelain, the long smooth line of his throat as he swallows is very arresting, very distracting, and Radek jerks his attention back to his own tray. Soup, a plate of still-steaming black flatbread, a bowl of eggs with bright green shells, another bowl of purple strawberry-shaped fruit the size of his fist. Radek takes a sip of the tea, and contemplates the green eggs. There should be ham, he thinks.

"Have you been there before? To the computer labs, I mean."

Ronon sets the now-empty bowl back on his tray and his pink tongue flicks over his full lower lip. "With McKay, once. Mostly Teyla went with him because she's good with people. McKay, not so much."

Radek can't help but laugh; it is so true. "Rodney has many fine qualities, though tact is not one of them," he says, and Ronon snorts. Radek takes an egg from the bowl and begins to peel it; he expects white beneath the shell, but sees cobalt blue instead, and the very strangeness of it makes him pause.

"Go ahead," Ronon says, and leans in closely enough that Radek feels the brush of long hair against his arm, smells leather and warmth and spicy tea. "You should be more willing to try new things, sometimes."

Radek slants a glance in Ronon's direction. "And if I don't like it?"

Ronon reaches for one of the fruits. "You don't know if you don't try." His teeth flash whitely, biting into the fruit. "Just because something is different doesn't make it bad."

With a little nod of acknowledgment, Radek finishes peeling the egg and cuts it in half. The yolk is vibrant orange, and when he takes a small bite, it tastes of regular egg. He's definitely surprised and somewhat disappointed, and when he looks over, Ronon's expression is amused. "Perhaps you are right," Radek says after he finishes the egg and takes a sip of tea. "I have never considered myself provincial, but maybe I was wrong, yes?"

"Maybe," Ronon says with a shrug. "Never too late to change, though."

By the time they finish their meal and Radek packs his laptop and other equipment, Kamura arrives. They set off for the computer center, walking again, though Radek doesn't mind. The day is bright and beautiful again, the air fresh and filled with scent of blooming flowers. He sees no transport vehicles other than those pulled by the deer-antelope and the air is free of exhaust. At his question, Kamura explains that all transport of goods and people takes place via extensive subway lines, and any overland transport lies far from sight, leaving their environment without the stamp of modern living that Radek finds familiar. The Narans value the lifestyle of their ancestors--Radek hears the lack of capitalization in the word--and have worked at preserving it. They are not hiding their technology from the Wraith, as so many other cultures do, given their shield offers excellent protection, but rather preserving an aesthetic ideal. Radek does not have to speak much, as Kamura is cheerfully voluble, but any questions he asks, Kamura answers readily. Radek wonders at Kamura's openness and willingness to share; it seems out of step with every other culture he's read about in reports. It doesn't seem to fit in with the typical Pegasus wariness. They were extremely pleased to exchange shield technology for modern medical technology and treatments; the next trip to Nara will consist of medical machinery, the techs to teach them how to use them, doctors to consult with and show techniques, and medications. It is a fair enough trade, one type of protection for another.

Their main computer center is almost identical to the Great Hall but tiled with red instead of green. Once inside, they do not leave their shoes at the entrance. Instead they enter an elevator and go down several levels. It only makes sense that they protect what has given them the freedom to live without the fear that stalks every other people in Pegasus, to develop into an advanced culture. When the elevator doors open they step out into brightly-lit hallways that seem little different than any research facility on Earth. The flowing robes and sandals of the scientists moving about look at odds with their equivalent of laptops and ear comms; Radek had begun to fall into the slower rhythms of life above ground, and it seems jarring to see bustling busyness, though it is far more familiar.

Jichi Sei is in charge of their computer science and although he greets them politely with a little bow it is very clear he is not pleased with their presence; his dark eyes practically snap with hostility. It is such a marked difference from Kamura's friendly charm that Radek finds himself momentarily taken aback. A glance at Kamura shows him displeased, most likely with Jichi's attitude, but diplomatically and probably wisely he refrains from saying anything in their presence. Radek's certain that words will be exchanged later, in privacy--were Radek in Kamura's place, he certainly would. But regardless of Jichi's own feelings about the matter, he leads them into the control room.

Within, it is cool and the lighting pleasantly soft. All the walls seem to be taken up by computer banks, lights blinking in sequences Radek can't judge at a glance. In the center stand several consoles where people work; at their entrance, several look up curiously and Radek nods at them in greeting. One, a woman with close-cropped spiky hair that makes Radek think of Colonel Sheppard's messy hair, looks up and smiles warmly. Radek nods at her, then wonders if that was appropriate when she stops what she is doing and comes over to them. Like most of the Narans, she is tall than he and and slim, and the patterns of her robe bring out the bronze color of her skin and bright brown eyes. Radek isn't surprised when her gaze drifts to Ronon, but is surprised when it returns to him, both speculative and approving. He feels his eyebrows go up, then feels his ears grow warm before he glances away, almost missing Jichi Sei's introduction.

"This is Erihana Sei, my second," Jichi says, the stiffness in his voice spoiling its light tenor tones. "She will be working with you, Zelenka Sei. Please feel free to ask for anything that you require." The last comes out grudgingly, with unconcealed ill grace.

"Zelenka Sei," Erihana says, and her voice is low and pleasant, a distinct contrast to Jichi's. "I am honored to be working with you. I hope our relationship shall be fruitful."

"That is my wish as well." Radek thinks he is less awkward with the bow he offers, given how many times he's already done it. "My companion is Ronon Dex." He isn't quite sure if it is politically proper to introduce him as his bodyguard, so he doesn't. Ronon sets down the cases he carries, flexes his big hands, and nods. A glance at Ronon, solemn and serious and imposing makes him understand that he doesn't have to explain Ronon's position to anyone. It is clearly evident.

"Ah yes, I remember you," Erihana says with a warm smile. "You were here with McKay Sei before, yes? We welcome you back."

"Now that we have exchanged pleasantries, I will take my leave of you," Jichi says, and bows, the movement abrupt and perfunctory. He turns and sweeps away quickly, his robes rustling like leaves in the trees. Radek watches him go, puzzled about the hostility. He wonders if Rodney had done or said something insulting--more than probable--or if Jichi simply doesn't agree with the decision to share technology. Radek wonders if he should be worried; he has a vivid imagination and can picture all kinds of possible problems if Jichi's dislike is not his alone. The scientists at dinner last night had all seemed pleasant, agreeable, in line with the decision for trade between their two peoples, yet... He pushes the thought away--there is little point in thinking along those lines when their relationship with the Narans to this point has been overwhelmingly positive.

"Unfortunately, I too have duties that call me away," Kamura says. His expression lies in smooth lines, but Radek can tell he is both embarrassed and angry at his compatriot's behavior. "Please feel free to call me for questions or assistance, although here, Erihana Sei is far more capable than I." He bows again, smiles, then follows Jichi, his steps brisk and sure.

Radek thinks to say something, but holds his tongue, because he is not certain that he should ask anything about what has just transpired. Erihana bows then says, "Please come with me, Zelenka Sei, and we may begin."

He looks up questioningly at Ronon, who simply shrugs, and they follow Erihana Sei deeper into the computer lab.

It does not take long for Radek to become absorbed in examination of the computer and shield systems--it is based in a science different than that of the Ancients--and Erihana works by his side, soft low voice patient, explaining. Radek discovers that she is ferociously intelligent and clever, and has the gift of explaining things in the most direct way. Radek relaxes around her, and does not realize the passage of time until he hears Ronon say, "Zelenka," in a manner which suggests it is not the first time he has tried to get his attention. Radek blinks owlishly up at him, straightening his glasses on his nose. "Yes, yes, what?"

Ronon looks amused rather than annoyed in spite of his gruff voice. "It's been hours. Time to eat."

"Is it?" Radek doesn't bother to look at his watch as he didn't set it to local time, but the growl of his belly informs him that it has been a long time since breakfast. "Oh. Yes. I suppose so. Thank you, Ronon."

Radek disconnects his notebook as Erihana takes her leave of them, saying that she needs to contact her daughter. Radek tucks his notebook under his arm and follows Ronon, trying not to watch how the leather, worn and soft-looking, curves over his thighs. But as they walk he cannot help noticing how Ronon's pants lace intriguingly in the back--why, he wonders--but before he can formulate a probable reason they reach a little room just down the hallway, set up for them to eat lunch.

After they settle onto floor cushions, Ronon pours a cup of tea and sets it beside Radek's bowl of soup before pouring his own. The scent rises to Radek's nose and he wonders if perhaps they can trade for this tea, as well; it is a delight. As he picks up his cup he realizes that Ronon served him tea, something he's never seen him do for anyone else. It's another odd piece to the puzzle.

"When I work, I pay no heed to anyone or anything else, and I am sorry. Were you bored?" He glances over and sees Ronon looking surprised for a moment before reaching for the same type of bread they'd had last night. Apparently, no one has ever asked him this.

"No, not really," Ronon says and takes a bite of bread before reaching into a pocket of his vest, pulling out what looks like a gameboy. "One of the Marines let me borrow it."

Radek takes it and clicks it on. "Ah, Tetris," he says, and pushes up his glasses again. "Yes, I have seen many people play this, though I personally have not. I prefer chess, myself." He clicks it off and hands it back to Ronon, and it disappears again into the vest.

"What's chess?"

His soup has vegetables cut into the shapes of fish and flowers. "It is a game of strategy, in which you must capture or incapacitate your opponent's king." Radek finds himself putting down his spoon and sketching out a board in the air, hands moving over the imaginary board. "Black and white pieces, carved to resemble people and other objects. A game that requires perception and intuition."

"Mn. Is that the one those two guys play in the mess all the time?"

"Ah. Drs. Østergaard and Kuzenkova, yes. They play daily. Their current game has spanned...two weeks, I believe."

Ronon pours a mug of water and drains half of it at once; a trickle escapes and winds down the long curve of his throat, which causes Radek's gesturing hands to falter for a moment. "Looks boring."

Radek draws himself up. "But it is not! It is much like life--we must contend with adversaries and competitors to gain our goals, and the outcome of our actions depend on careful thought, or perhaps the lack of it. The player must consider all the consequences of his actions, the relation of all pieces and their situations. It teaches caution and foresight. It is very exciting, not boring at all."

Ronon looks amused; his eyes laugh, even if his mouth only curls slightly as he watches the animated flutter of Radek's hands. "You any good at it?"

Radek cannot help his grin, a little proud, a little fierce. "Oh yes. I am very good."

For a long moment Ronon looks at him, the laughter in his eyes sliding into something speculative that makes Radek's pulse thump loudly in his ears, makes his mouth dry in spite of the sip of tea he'd just taken. His grin softens at the edges a little and he holds Ronon's gaze, but it is a difficult thing. Just before he begins to feel truly uncomfortable, ready to look away, Ronon does, reaching for the bowl of the pale pink berries that sits between them. Radek picks up his cup of tea, and the heat seeps through the thin blue porcelain, warming his suddenly-cold fingers. Before he loses his nerve, he says, "I could. Teach you, if you'd like."

"You think I'd like a boring game?" One of his sharply-angled brows raises and Radek isn't sure if he's being teased, or not.

"I think you would like a game which allows you to use the mind you try to keep hidden behind hair and leather and guns and bad table manners." One hand gestures to each thing as he speaks. "And, as you said this morning, you don't know if you like something unless you try." Radek's chin lifts a little; the words are Ronon's own, parroted back to him.

Ronon's laugh is sharp, as if it surprises him, then mellows into something deep and very pleasant. Radek's grin grows wider again, more confident. He's pleased that he was able to make Ronon laugh; he cannot recall ever hearing it before. He'd like to hear it again because it makes him feel warm.

"Maybe," Ronon allows, his expression still relaxed with amusement, less edged with tension than before. "We'll see."

Radek shrugs with one shoulder. "That is better than a refusal, I suppose," he says. The plate beside his bowl has compressed balls of pale grain wrapped in a strip of dark green--grass or leaf, perhaps?--and he nudges them with a finger before picking one up. The scent reminds him of ginger, spicy-sweet.

"It's good. Eat. Erihana will be back soon," Ronon says. "We can take a walk later, before supper. If you want."

"Yes, I would like that," Radek answers. He smiles, then takes a bite of the grain ball. He finds that sweet fruit fills the interior. Ronon is right--it is good. Radek hums in pleasure, and looks up to see Ronon smiling back at him.

oo0oo

Radek finds his days slipping into a routine far unlike those on Atlantis. The pace here is different, slower, more relaxed; they do not have the pressure of a thousand and one things going wrong at once. As deeply as Radek loves Atlantis, the city takes a terrible toll from them, every glorious discovery exacting a price. In Inou, Radek can concentrate on study, and it is a luxury, like the most expensive chocolate or the finest wine. No one calls him every half hour to resolve a dispute or to run across the city because something is on the verge of explosion and slowly, knots in his back that he hasn't even been aware of began to ease. He enjoys working with Erihana; she challenges him even as she teaches him and their computer and shields systems are fascinating, not based on Ancient systems as he'd first expected, but on one different--another old culture, perhaps not as old as the Ancients, but as long-gone as they. He can see an influence of the Ancients, but there are clever and innovative twists that are definitely not Ancient, delightful and fresh and innovative to his eyes. He wishes Rodney could be with him to share this, even as the small, petty boy within him wants to crow with glee that this is all his to discover and enjoy first.

He occasionally glances up from his work, looking for a tall, familiar figure. Ronon is never very far away from him, no matter how many times Erihana moves them to show him this or this, or wait, you must see this now, Zelenka Sei, and Ronon never complains until it is time to eat. For the first couple of days, he occupied himself with the gameboy, but apparently he tired of that and Radek now sees him more often with what looks to be a large leather-bound book and pencil, his brow furrowing in concentration.

It pleases Radek, if only on an aesthetic level, to see him so. Ronon has huge hands but they are surprisingly graceful, long-fingered; playing a piano or cello would be physically easy for him, and holding a pencil or pen does not look as out of place as Radek had thought it might. A large portion of Atlantis had dismissed Ronon early on as an illiterate, violent barbarian, and for whatever reason--camouflage, perhaps?--Ronon has not disabused anyone of the notion. Radek despises that general assumption because it is illogical, sloppy thinking. Before their culling and destruction, Sateda had been a culture almost on a par with Earth's, and Ronon had been in their military services, the recipient of advanced training, if Specialist meant the same thing. While most of the Earth military are not on the same intellectual level as the majority of the science department, they are far from stupid, in spite of what Rodney says loudly and often. Ronon is no different from them. The ability to fight, to shoot a gun, has no impact on native intelligence, as anyone who knows Colonel Sheppard and Major Lorne surely realize. Ronon never says much, but he is observant and quick and adaptable, his eyes bright and intelligent. Radek often wonders what Ronon works on in his book, what secrets it holds, but Ronon doesn't seem inclined to share, tucking the book into a messenger bag when it is time to go, and so Radek respects his privacy.

Though Radek is very curious, indeed.

After the workday--and like the sensible Simpson and Kusanagi, Erihana has definite ideas of workday hours--he and Ronon walk. The days are glorious, and after the dimly-lit halls of Atlantis, the calm paleness of the Naran computer labs, the colors seem almost super-saturated, too bright, particularly the greens. They walk through Inou, looking at the architecture, the extensive gardens, at whatever catches their eye. They discover an outdoor café where they can sit outside in the sun and drink tea or pale pink peach-flavored wine and watch people go about their daily lives. Small bright orange and blue birds cheep and hop at their feet, looking for crumbs; Ronon usually buys the Naran equivalent of a cookie just to crumble and feed to them. Radek knows the anthropology department would cheerfully commit acts of violence to have this kind of privilege, and he makes a mental note to ask Rodney to send a few with the next upcoming mission.

On the eighth day, Rest Day, insists Erihana, on one of their walks outside the city they find an orchard of trees covered with pale lavender blossoms. The owner of the orchard tells them the trees bear the momno fruit used to make the pink wine Radek so enjoys. The breeze swirls the peachy scent all around them along with showers of tiny pale petals that catch in their hair, on their shirts and jackets. Radek glances over and sees Ronon standing with his face tipped up toward the sun, the aggression leached from him and looking as at peace and as relaxed as Radek--or anyone else on Atlantis, most likely--has ever seen him. It is a gift to see Ronon such, Radek thinks, and he commits to memory the sight of Ronon's dreadlocks dusted with petals, caught in his beard, nestled at the hollow of his throat, bright against his honey-colored skin. He looks young, impossibly beautiful, and when Ronon opens his eyes and looks down at Radek, his full mouth curving into a smile startling in its sweetness, the breath catches in Radek's chest, because yes. Ronon reaches down and brushes petals from Radek's shoulder and if the fleeting touch of fingertips against his throat makes Radek's heart flutter, he says nothing, because such a moment should not have words. Ronon's hand folds over the top of Radek's shoulder and squeezes lightly, warmly. "Probably should head back to Inou," Ronon says, and so they do.

Later, after they have had dinner with Kamura and a handful of the other department heads, as Radek undresses to shower he finds flower petals beneath his shirt. When he presses them between his fingers, the scent that rises to his nose, still sweet, makes him smile in remembrance.

oo0oo

At the back of their shared main room, they have a set of doors that slide open to reveal a small garden of mosses and graceful broad-leaved plants and the lithe twist of a tree that bears pink blossoms, all hidden from any neighbors by a stone wall wreathed in red-leaved vines. As the days have gone on, Radek has discovered that he likes to sit on the edge of the veranda, his bare feet on the stone step tucked behind the hem of his robe, soaking in the warmth of the early morning sun before going to the computer center. He cradles a cup of the last of the breakfast tea in his hands and watches as Ronon exercises.

Initially he had been uncertain of doing so, but Ronon doesn't seem to mind an audience. He is probably well-accustomed to it, given he spends a great deal of his time on Atlantis working with the Marines. Or as Rodney says with a mix of admiration and derision, beating the hell out of them just for fun. At any rate, Ronon exercises daily even here, his focus intense and admirable, and Radek watches him. Ronon usually works barefooted in a pair of sweatpants and a white tee shirt with the sleeves cut off, his heavy dreads pulled back from his face and off his neck by a leather thong. Today Ronon exercises with his sword and it is mesmerizing to watch; he has such control, confidence, grace. Although Radek knows it is a series of set forms to focus the mind and body, it looks like a dance, one movement flowing into another, and the sun runs quick bright fingers over the edge of his sword blade, over the shine of sweat on his skin. If Ronon is always this fast and nimble, if the swings and thrusts of his arms are this powerful, he must indeed be an inspiring and intimidating sight in actual battle. Not that Radek wishes to see such a thing, no. The thought makes him shiver, and not with enjoyment.

Eventually Ronon slows, and begins a series of stretches. Radek finishes his tea. It will not be long before Ronon goes to shower and dress, before they need to leave and meet Erihana. After a moment, Ronon sits down next to him, sword across his knees. He smells warm, salty with sweat, musky. Radek thinks it probably should be unpleasant, but it is not, instead rather strangely appealing. He wants to put his nose to Ronon's throat, right over the tattoo, and inhale deeply. Ronon picks up a red jug of water and drinks deeply from it. As Radek watches a drop of sweat snakes down his temple and cheek. The hair that has not been caught in dreadlocks curls madly on Ronon's forehead and in front of his ears, and looks like it would be soft when clean. Radek has an urge to reach up, to let it twine around his fingers, and grips his teacup tightly to make his hands behave.

Instead, he shifts his attention to the sword on Ronon's lap. It is clearly handmade, worked from metal and bone. Nearly a meter long from hilt to sword tip, it is savagely elegant. Radek has never before seen it close at hand, and he's both fascinated and appalled. The hilt is the upper part of an arm bone, and the crossguard looks like and is a Wraith jawbone, complete with sharp-looking teeth. What he'd thought was silk cord wrapped around the hilt for a good grip, ending in a long cord with a tassel, is braided white Wraith hair. His stomach gives a little lurch, but the greater part of him admires the sheer ingenuity of design, if not the bloodthirstiness of the materials used.

"The metal comes from a Wraith ship," Ronon says, setting down the red jug, now empty. "I made it before I got my gun. Had to have something to use against them. Takes a lot of ammunition to bring one down, but taking off their heads is quick and efficient, if you can get close enough. And they don't get back up again, like they do sometimes from other weapons." One shoulder rolls into a shrug. "It's the getting close enough part that's tricky."

"So I would think," Radek replies. He reaches out and touches the hilt gingerly. He's not sure if it is from an arm or leg--anatomy was never one of his interests--but the rounded end of the bone serves as the pommel. He pulls back his hand and looks up at Ronon. "You are very clever, to use materials at hand. Very ingenious. I would not have thought to make something like this. I am afraid they would've caught me very quickly." The thought sends a chill spidering down his spine in spite of the warmth of the sun.

Ronon looks pleased at Radek's compliments, and his mouth curls for a moment into a smile. Radek thinks that people should compliment Ronon more, offer him kind words, because he clearly gets so few of them. That is a pity, truly.

"Don't know about that," Ronon says in reaction to Radek's last statement. "I figure you'd think of a trap for them, then take their weapons. You're really smart. And McKay says never to piss you off--that you're good at the kind of sneaky revenge that no one can pin on you."

Radek laughs, and rubs at the back of his neck. "When one has always been smaller than everyone else, one necessarily becomes adept at such things," he says.

Ronon's smile slips into a wicked grin. "I'll have to remember to stay on your good side, I guess. Good thing I want to be anyway," he says and flows to his feet and padding into the apartment, sword in hand. Radek watches Ronon's bare ankles until he disappears, thoughtful. That? Is interesting. Very much so, and Radek turns it over in his mind, considering, until Ronon calls from within, "Zelenka! Erihana's gonna yell if we're late!"

With a smile, Radek shoves to his feet, barely avoiding tripping on his robe. He picks up the red jug as well as his tea cup and steps into the apartment. "I take it back. You are not a brave man, but a little boy afraid of a woman's sharp tongue."

"Not afraid," Ronon calls from his own room. "But if I piss her off, she won't bring any more sweets. And she's a good cook. So get ready already."

Radek laughs, deposits the glassware on the low table with the remains of their breakfast, then goes to get dressed, because Ronon definitely has a point.

oo0oo

On their twelfth night on Nara Radek sits at the low table in the main room going through his notes, tapping his pen against his lower lip as he reads, occasionally making additions or clarifications. Radek's notes on the Naran tech are extensive, and besides all the information on his notebook computer, he's filled four yellow legal pads with diagrams and scribbled notes in both English and Czech. He forgets sometimes and lapses into his native language while writing if he's absorbed in something, which generally makes Rodney yell and wave around whatever Radek's written, a noisy but moderately entertaining side effect. At Ronon's scheduled check-in during the afternoon, Atlantis had requested that they return, and he expects that tomorrow Rodney will be both complaining vociferously about his Czech and spluttering in delight over Radek's findings. Radek believes they can adapt at least part of this tech to their own, and although it will take considerable work and modification, he believes the effort worthwhile. His fingers fairly itch with the urge to make things, and oh, how he loves that; his mother had once told him that he'd begun taking things apart and putting them back together at age three, and nothing in their apartment had been safe from his tinkering. Already his brain has begun sketching out half a dozen projects with a dozen others murmuring sweetly in the back of his mind. No matter how time consuming, how difficult it is, he looks forward to the work, because to keep everyone and Atlantis safe? He cannot imagine anything he would not offer up for such a thing.

Ronon sits next to him, close enough that their knees touch, a bit of warmth he savors. He'd sat down next to Radek at some point in the evening after their dinner, and Radek had merely glanced up at him and smiled before diving back into his work. But now Radek stops and takes the time to look at him, because he is not certain he will have such an opportunity again once they return home. Ronon is a man of muscle and bone and hard angles, but the lamplight is generous to him, painting him with a soft brush. Radek finds himself intrigued by small things: the three dark moles high on his cheekbone next to his eye, how long his black eyelashes are, the soft-looking curls of hair that contrast with the matted heaviness of dreadlocks slithering over his shoulder and back, the heavy leather wristguards peeking from beneath the long sleeves of his shirt.

Ronon's book lies open on the table, his pencil moving over the pages with a soft rasping sound. Always curious, Radek leans in a little to peer over Ronon's arm; if Ronon doesn't want him to see what he's doing, he'll say as much. The paper is heavy parchment, obviously not from Earth, and writing covers the pages. It is in a bold hand, both angular and curving at once with numerous diacritical marks like his own Czech, and looks very similar to the tattoo on Ronon's neck. The written language is quite beautiful and his eyes follow Ronon's hand as he writes, working from right to left, deft and sure.

"Satedan," Ronon rumbles, and Radek looks up at him, though Ronon's attention remains on the paper. "K'sansket dialect. The province of K'san was where my home was, a long time ago. Before the Wraith."

He finishes his sentence, then sets down the pencil. Flipping to the back of the book--which is apparently the front--he skims through several pages before slowing, and Radek sees that not only has Ronon written, he's drawn pictures as well and they're very good, finely rendered with the same sureness as the writing. A beautiful laughing woman with a mass of curly hair, a broad-shouldered man working on peeling a fruit of some sort, six younger people, boys and girls, playing a game of some sort with a ball. Everyone looks enough like Ronon that Radek knows they must be family, long-gone. There are landscapes and pictures of a house, including what looks like an improbably-spotted cat sleeping on a chair in a pool of sunlight.

Later, the pictures change; a few authoritative men and women, more of younger men in uniforms. Ronon's military squad, most likely. And there are several of a young woman. Even Radek can see love drawn into the curve of her cheek, the flow of her wavy hair, the smile of her soft-looking mouth, the line of her hands. Ronon pauses to trace a fingertip down the long braid tumbling over her shoulder and says quietly, "Melena."

"I too have lost someone to the Wraith," Radek says just as softly.

"Yeah, I know," Ronon says, and turns the page.

For several pages there is only text, and then Radek sees sketches of different Stargates, and many, many addresses, with enough text written beneath each that Radek assumes the texts are descriptions of the indicated planets. Later, he sees faces he recognizes easily: Sheppard's smirky, closed-mouth grin; Rodney pontificating, including the Pointy Finger of Doom, as Simpson calls it; Teyla, caught in a graceful moment with her sticks; Elizabeth holding a cup of tea, looking into the distance; Carson, stethoscope in his ears, his expression intent. He sees many more--Cadman, Lorne, Campbell, Caldwell, Kavanagh, Halling and Jinto, his son. All have been caught in ordinary moments of life and Radek cannot help but be impressed by Ronon's observation and artistic skill.

And then he sees his picture.

Although there's no background, he's obviously in a lab, the curve of his spine caused from sitting hunched on one of the lab stools. His face is a study in concentration, his glasses halfway down his nose, his jaw shadowed with beard, his hair as always a flyaway mess. In one hand he has some bit of Ancient tech, and the other holds an electronic probe. The detail is remarkable, and Radek cannot help but feel a little flattered. He is not a handsome man and he knows it, but somehow, Ronon's skill makes him look kinetic even in his stillness. He looks interesting, almost striking, and he wonders if this is how Ronon always sees him.

Ronon keeps turning pages and Radek discovers more pictures, scientists and soldiers, animals and places he must have run across while away on missions, Atlantis herself. His gun, his sword, various knives. And surprisingly, many more pictures of Radek. One of him standing at his whiteboard with marker in hand, one of him working on the Wraith dart he has in pieces in Lab Four, another of him working on the Wraith stunner, another of him sitting in the mess, chin in hand, staring out into nothing, another of him working on his notebook. Ronon has clearly been watching him a long time; he sees a picture of hands peeling an orange, and they are his hands, without a doubt. There are far more of him than any other individual, even his team, and Radek's not certain what to make of it. He's pleased, flattered, overwhelmed, a little intimidated.

The latest picture is of him sitting on the edge of the veranda, bare toes curled and almost hidden behind his robe hem, his hands cradling his tea cup. Radek knows it is from the last time he watched Ronon in the garden. His expression here is engrossed and intent, the longing clear for anyone even remotely observant, and Ronon is very much so. He feels his cheeks grow warm; he thought he had better control of his face than that. Evidently, he is very wrong.

He knows Ronon watches him in this moment; he can feel the weight of his regard. Radek isn't sure if he should say anything, but can't help himself. He clears his throat a little, hopes for nonchalant, a little amused, and isn't sure he reaches either. "Interesting choice of subject."

"Interesting face," Ronon answers, his deep voice rough and warm.

And oh, at that tone, Radek has to look up at Ronon. Ronon watches him calmly, eyes as warm as his voice, alert and interested, his mouth curved into a smile. Heat rushes over Radek's skin, and the skitter of possibilities dances along his nerves. Ronon raises a hand slowly, clearly giving Radek a chance to move away if he so wishes; he cannot imagine doing so, not when this is what he has wanted for so long. Ronon's gaze fixes on him, and Radek's heart stutters just a little at the utter focus, the total engagement, as if Radek is the only thing on this beautiful world worth his attention. The backs of Ronon's fingers brush against his cheek, rasping a little over stubble, run over the line of Radek's jaw to his chin. Ronon's thumb slides over Radek's mouth, which parts on a soft sigh. His lips feel suddenly hot and tingly, and he wants Ronon's mouth against his own, wants to touch and taste and feel alive once again. Ronon's hand smells of parchment and graphite and leather, and when he slips just the tip of his thumb into Radek's mouth, sliding over soft inner lip, over the hard edges of his teeth, Radek can taste salt and sweet, and desire burns fiercely within him. He touches the tip of his tongue to Ronon's thumbnail, and Ronon moves his thumb away, cupping his face, carefully.

"Tell me I can," Ronon says, his voice dropping so low it vibrates in the base of Radek's spine, curls around him like an embrace. "Tell me."

"Yes, yes, kiss me now," Radek answers, and had he half a mind to care, he'd probably be embarrassed by his breathless eagerness. But he really doesn't care because he wants this, wants Ronon, so much.

Ronon leans in, tilting his head just enough to avoid the blade of Radek's nose, the frames of his glasses, and Radek stretches to meet him. Ronon's lips are full and soft so warm. The prickle of Ronon's goatee scrapes against his own scruff; he's always liked the sound of a man's beard against his face, the sharp sensation, the earthy realness of it, and it makes him shiver in delight. It's a strangely sweet kiss, gentle and easy and chaste, almost as if Ronon's unsure, which is odd and somehow endearing. His fingers slide over Radek's cheek, beneath his ear, then curve around the nape of his neck, fingers slipping through the hair that curls almost to his collar. Radek has always prided himself on his innate caution, has been the one to always temper Rodney's wild flights of genius, but in this, he does not wish prudence. He reaches for Ronon, his fingers catching and closing in the well-worn homespun shirt, and he isn't sure if he pulls himself to Ronon, or Ronon to him. It makes no difference; all that matters is the wonderful sensation of warmth and closeness after so long cold and alone.

The angle is awkward, and his back and knees begin to protest crankily and creakily, but Radek doesn't care because finally, Ronon's mouth opens to him and he feels the tentative touch of tongue to his own. When a noise of pleasure rumbles up from Radek's chest, it encourages Ronon to welcomed boldness. Ronon's other hand slides up Radek's chest and throat, callused palm delightfully rough on his skin. He wraps his fingers around Radek's jaw, tips his head slightly to an angle he likes better, and now clearly more confident, he dives in for more. His hesitation of before vanishes, and his mouth is wonderfully wet and warm, his tongue clever and slick against Radek's, the taste of his want and need exhilarating, heady.

Radek can happily do this for hours and has; he loves kissing. While he can do many things for himself this is the one thing he cannot, and he has missed the sweet intimacy of it. His blood rushes and sings through his veins before it plummets downward, pooling low in his belly, and he stirs, grows hard, just from this. Desire surges through him, thick and heavy and hot, and he feels so incredibly alive once more.

Ronon shifts, moves, and begins to ease Radek down onto the floor mats. Horizontal with Ronon is one of the best ideas ever--the possibilities are endless and dizzying in their sheer carnality--but unfortunately his body is in an uncomfortable twist, his knee has somehow caught beneath him, and no matter how much he wants to feel Ronon atop him, beside him, he cannot disregard simple body mechanics. Reluctantly he pulls away from Ronon's mouth with a lush, wet sound, arms wrapped around Ronon's shoulders, and gasps, ”Wait, no, stop-I do not bend this way.”

It takes Ronon a moment to process, a moment in which he holds Radek's weight easily, suspended centimeters above the mats. But then he smiles toothily and pulls them upright once more with an impressive effortlessness. "Sorry," Ronon says, but he doesn't look particularly repentant. He looks hungry, no, Radek thinks, starving, like a man who had not had a meal for a very long time, and who suddenly has everything he most desires. Radek can understand fully; once the uncomfortable catch and stretch of his body begins to fade, he's certain his own expression is little different.

Radek folds his hand over Ronon's and squeezes gently, thumb rubbing over Ronon's palm; it earns him a little shiver, and he likes that he can do that to someone so strong and self-confident. "Come to bed with me," Radek says softly. "We have both waited long enough, I think."

Ronon leans forward and slicks his mouth across Radek's, then his teeth close gently on Radek's lower lip, sending sensation spangling bright and electric down his body in a direct line to his erection which throbs, demanding and eager. "Too long," Ronon replies, so close that Radek feels the brush of Ronon's mouth against his own with each syllable. And then Ronon rocks to his feet with an athletic and enviable ease, bare feet and leather-clad legs that go on forever, and oh, the long, full curve of Ronon's own erection stretching the front of his pants. Radek rises to his knees, spreads his hands on Ronon's thighs, rubs his cheek against leather worn sinfully soft. It has been so long since he's had the the salt-bitter weight and thickness of a man in his mouth, sliding against his tongue. He's missed taking it in, missed it filling him up, missed the nudge against the back of his throat, the feeling of almost-too-much. Dragging his nose and mouth over the taut, tight, confined arc of erection, he can smell leather and musk and man, can feel the thick heat of him, and his mouth waters with need. As much as he desires this for himself, he wants more to make Ronon feel good, to feel as treasured, as valued, as he is. His hands wrap around Ronon's hips, thumbs rubbing over the sharp wedges of hipbones, and he wants to curse whomever decided that back-opening pants were a good idea, because they are most definitely not. Ronon's hands settle on him, one on his shoulder, one on his head, and their touch is gentle, with a slight tremor. Radek hadn't expected to find vulnerability or the wash of tenderness that follows this discovery. "Radek," Ronon says, and it is the first time he has called Radek by his given name. He can hear the unspoken please, and it is that which makes Radek gain his feet, makes him slip his hand into Ronon's, makes him smile and say, "Let us give one another pleasure, yes?"

Ronon's smile is brilliant, and it makes warmth blossom in Radek's chest. "Yeah," he replies, and squeezes Radek's hand before tugging them toward Radek's room.

oo0oo

"Thought I'd find you here."

Ronon's voice, low and rumbling in his ear, makes Radek jump and swear and drop his tools before swiveling around in his chair. His heart patters hard against his ribs, and he's almost certain he didn't let out a squeak before swearing. At least he hopes not. "You shall give me a heart attack, skulking about like that," he says severely, running his hands through his hair, which feels as if it stands on end; it probably does, now. In spite of his size, Ronon is amazingly quiet, and even in the relative silence of Radek's otherwise deserted lab, he hadn't heard him sneak in. "I will attach little jingling bells to you in order to give me fair warning of your approach. Like the cat in the children's story."

Ronon grins, completely unimpressed by the threat. "It'd just be more of a challenge," he says, and Radek has no doubt of that, nor any doubt that Ronon would find a way to overcome it. Radek knows just how clever Ronon is, and they have spent many pleasureable hours together as Radek has discovered firsthand just how much control Ronon has of his body. Certainly he knows how fine and soft his skin is, how he tastes and how he looks when he's incandescent in orgasm, knows the slick, sweaty slide of skin against skin, knows the size and shape of each scar gained through his unimaginably-hard life. He'd once foolishly thought that merely contemplating these things about Ronon was a distraction; in truth, the knowledge of them is much more so.

To say that Rodney had been surprised when he found out was an understatement of massive proportions. Although Rodney had quickly and loudly pronounced Radek's taste as execrable, had insisted that Radek should've just gone for the yeti-thing, as it was probably less expensive to feed and most likely cleaner, he had in almost the same breath told Radek in no uncertain terms that if he hurt Ronon in any way, he would be on a Gate team with Cadman and Parrishforever. Radek believed him, because once someone has slipped past Rodney's thick walls, they are his forever. He has no doubt Rodney made a similar statement to Ronon, though he wasn't sure exactly what sort of threat he'd use for Ronon, who was almost impossible to intimidate. Teyla had been pleased and supportive, and after a couple of what the hell? really? looks from Colonel Sheppard, he'd returned to his normal affable self.

Ronon leans in and kisses him, mouth moving softly, sweetly over his for a moment. Radek turns his head and sets his nose against the side of Ronon's neck. He smells faintly of sweat, of the spicy soap he gets from the Athosians, of the sharp scent of the infirmary, but the dreadlocks spilling against Radek's face still have the faint scent of fresh air, of alien plants growing beneath different suns. Radek smiles, and rubs his thumb over the sharp line of Ronon's jaw, an affectionate gesture. Ronon's hand slips beneath the back of Radek's shirt, fingertips tracing up and down the channel of his spine. Radek is still suprised at how tactile Ronon is, how much he loves to touch and be touched. He supposes it has something to do with all those years alone, and if Ronon wants to touch him, he certainly has no complaints about it.

"How was M38-293?" Radek sits back again, but reaches out and brushes away a little smudge of dirt from Ronon's cheekbone.

"In the harvest season. McKay sneezed all the time and complained. The people there thought he was funny, even when he called them mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging troglodytes." The insult rolls easily off Ronon's tongue; Radek's certain Rodney has called Ronon that often enough that he has it memorized now. Later, he thinks that Ronon will perhaps draw a picture of a red-face, mucousy Rodney in his journal, and Radek will laugh in response.

The journal remains a secret between the two of them, though Radek would be surprised if Teyla doesn't know of it, and perhaps have something similar of her own. For all their intelligence and capability, Radek thinks that they will always be viewed as lesser because they are alien. Nothing could be more erroneous, and he feels a little stir of indignant outrage on their behalf. Ronon had explained he didn't need defending, that the people who mattered most knew who he was, and besides, it made for good camouflage. It is true enough, Radek supposes, but still, he doesn't like it.

"Stop it," Ronon says, and reaches to smooth out the little lines between Radek's eyebrows. "I know what you're thinking. Doesn't matter. You think I'm smart, and you're the one who counts anyway, so."

Radek snorts, but waves a hand in acquiescence; this is one discussion he knows he will not win. "Well, yes. I have always thought such."

"I know," Ronon says with a smile. He reaches into one of the pockets of his voluminous leather coat, then holds out his hand to Radek. On his palm is a smooth-skinned scarlet fruit that makes Radek think of a very large plum. Radek looks from the fruit to Ronon's face, and then feels his own mouth curve. He reaches out, his fingers curling over the fruit, taking it from Ronon's palm. A clever mind, smiling dark eyes, soft full lips, and a surprisingly sweet nature, someone who makes him feel safe in the dark of night--Radek treasures the days he has now, full and well-lived, a gift in every sense of the word.

"Yes, always," Radek says, and leans in, his kiss a promise.

end