New SGA story: Salutation to the Dawn, part 2 of 4
oo0oo
Radek hears them arguing over the ambient hum of the mess. Or rather, he hears the waterfall of Rodney’s words, punctuated by Ronon’s low, growling voice. He looks up as Colonel Sheppard sets his tray down in the space across from him.
“Hey, Doc,” Sheppard says pleasantly. Radek is very grateful he does not say, What’s up, Doc?, as he has so often previously; it was mildly amusing perhaps the first time he heard it, not so much the twentieth.
“Dr. Zelenka,” Teyla says from his left, and he turns to pull out the chair for her. His mother would be appalled that he did not rise to seat her, but he had quickly lost what few social graces he once possessed while in Antarctica. The Americans had shown little appreciation for old-fashioned manners, and he thinks that Teyla would find such behavior puzzling, as she is completely self-sufficient. She smiles at him and settles with a feline grace he finds quite appealing. Teyla is a truly beautiful woman, all warm bronzes and coppers, smooth and sleek, delightful to the eye. But even so, he finds her intelligence, her self-possession, her innate kindness even more appealing.
“No,” Ronon says, quite loudly, and Radek finds his attention pulled in that direction. His blood quickens a little as he sees Ronon standing next to Rodney in the food line, tall and broad-shouldered and utterly striking. Rodney appears unfazed by Ronon’s refusal, and begins talking again as they move down the line.
“What do they argue about?” Radek asks. He thinks perhaps he looks too long, and shifts his gaze to Colonel Sheppard.
Sheppard pokes suspiciously at the food on his plate, as if he expects it to make a break for freedom. Radek thinks that it is not an impossibility, here. “Oh, you know, the usual. Conflicting views of the unification theory, the harmonics of sub-molecular particles, how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. Really important stuff.”
“Dr. McKay desires to more closely examine Ronon’s sidearm,” Teyla elaborates, stirring her tea. “He wishes to take it apart to discover how it works.”
“As if that’ll happen,” Sheppard says. “I think he sleeps with the damn thing.” He cuts a piece of meat, then sniffs it before popping it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. It appears to meet his standards, and he begins eating in earnest.
“I agree, it is highly unlikely,” Teyla says, and Radek almost misses her words, because the image in his mind’s eye of Ronon, smooth and naked, dark against the pale sheets of his bed is quite...distracting, as well as wholly non-productive. He shakes the appealing picture out of his head and takes another drink of his own tea.
“If you would just-“
“No, McKay.” Ronon’s voice is very final as he puts his tray down on the table to Sheppard’s right. Rodney rolls his eyes and sits to Sheppard’s left. His cheeks are flushed with the heat of argument, his blue eyes very bright, and he practically vibrates with frustration. Ronon looks mostly unperturbed, though he moves more jerkily than normal, perhaps a sign of his own annoyance.
“Now, boys, play nice,” Sheppard drawls. “Or there’ll be no recess after lunch.”
“Look, Colonel, you’re his commanding officer. Can’t you just order him to let me take a look at it?”
Sheppard blinks. He glances over to Ronon, who has stopped in mid-chew to lean forward and look around him at Rodney with an expression that would send most men scurrying away in terror. It has little effect on Rodney, who has opened his mouth to say something else. Sheppard turns back to Rodney. “Um, that would be a no, in fact, a hell, no, McKay,” Sheppard says firmly. “I like all my limbs arranged just the way they are, thanks.”
“I think perhaps you would have better luck changing the laws of physics, Rodney,” Radek says, glancing from Ronon’s thunderous expression to Rodney’s mulish one. Certainly, Radek’s fingers itch to take apart Ronon’s weapon, a one-of-a kind piece, to examine all the components and discover how it works but he is a wiser man than Rodney to press the issue. This weapon has helped to keep Ronon alive for seven years against the Wraith, and Radek understands his reluctance to part with it.
“Fine. Just fine. Stand in the way of the acquisition of possibly vital knowledge-“
“So, Doc Z,” Sheppard says brightly to Radek, running over Rodney’s impending rant with the ease of familiarity, “How’s that research going on the Wraith stunner?”
Radek glances over to Rodney, who has toned down his complaints to muttering between bites of food, then turns his attention back to Sheppard. Last week Sheppard had sauntered into Radek’s lab, and asked the same question. Radek had launched into a detailed explanation of the power cells-the consumption curves had been surprisingly elegant and wonderfully exciting-before realizing that Sheppard had lost track of the conversation approximately eleven sentences in, and looked glazed and a little shocky. Sheppard is bright enough that Radek sometimes forgets even he gets lost in the details that Radek loves so much.
“It goes well,” Radek answers simply. “We are still not even close to production, however.” He gives a one-shouldered shrug. “But I continue to study it in the hopes that one day, we shall be.”
“I have faith that you will,” Teyla says. “Such a weapon would be of tremendous benefit.”
“No kidding. Think of the ammunition we’d save. It takes a lot of firepower to drop one of those long-haired bastards. A weapon similar to a zat, with multiple settings would be really useful,” Sheppard says. "Particularly, god forbid, if we don't have access to resupply of our weapons and ammo for some reason or another." He opens up his pudding cup, frowns at it, and hands it to Rodney. Radek suspects it is as much peace offering as any dislike of the dessert. “And, speaking of ammunition, it’s been two weeks, Doc. You're slacking off. Lt. Ruiz tells me that it's time for your target practice again.”
Radek sighs. He should be grateful that Sheppard allows him a week between practices, instead of the twice-weekly schedule the others must endure. “What day, then?”
“Hmm. Tonight? I know you don’t need it as often, but it never hurts to keep up valuable skills.” One side of his mouth quirks up into the quirky, closed-mouth smile he uses so effectively to charm others. Fortunately, Radek is immune to its strength. Well. Mostly.
“Very well. After 2300 hours?”
“Cool. I think Stackhouse is on duty then. I’ll give him a heads up that you’ll be coming.”
“I hope you’re suitably grateful, Radek,” Rodney says. He scrapes out the last of the pudding, then peers into the depths of the cup, as if he might have missed a molecule of chocolate. “Sergeant Stackhouse is easy. I always had Bates.”
Sheppard grins, though there's a shade of sadness to it as well; Sergeant Bates had been shipped back to Earth in the first wave of injured, and Radek has heard nothing more of him. “There’s a reason you always had Bates. He’s the only one you could never bully.”
“Bully, schmully,” Rodney says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “It isn’t my fault that some people take constructive criticism so poorly. Honestly, you’d think that the military wouldn’t be so sensitive.”
“McKay, every single one of them wanted to kill you. I practically had to wrestle the gun out of Lieutenant Fowler’s hands before he shot your sorry ass and tossed you off the east pier.” Sheppard lounges back into his chair, appealing loose-limbed lanky grace.
“I’m not surprised,” Ronon says, and ignores Rodney’s glare. He looks at Sheppard instead. “You make all the scientists learn to shoot?”
“Before the Daedalus came with reinforcements, we didn’t have a large military contingent. Hell, we still don’t. Everyone had to learn to defend themselves. It wasn’t...optimal, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and all that, y’know?” He loses some of his boneless sprawl, and his expression darkens. “We lost forty-three of our people in the siege-soldiers and scientists and Athosians. We came through the Gate with fewer than two hundred people.”
“Still, we must consider it a victory,” Teyla says gently. “The Wraith did not gain access to the Gate, and through that, a passageway to your galaxy. Those we lost did not die in vain. They sacrificed to save billions of others. Always, we must keep that in mind.”
“Yeah,” Sheppard says and rubs his face and scrubs his hand through his unruly hair. It does not, in Radek’s opinion, look appreciably worse afterwards. “So, anyway. The geeks-um, the scientists,” Sheppard amends quickly as Rodney’s elbow slams into his ribs, “practice twice weekly. Zelenka doesn’t need as much. He was in the army, so he has the basics down. He didn’t need much coaching-it all came back to him pretty quickly.”
“The threat of horrific death does tend to jog the memory,” Radek agrees. He takes another sip of tea, but it is cold now.
“Huh,” Ronon says and Radek feels the weight of his gaze as Ronon studies and reassesses him. Radek’s chin lifts a little as he returns the look steadily. He had not liked being dismissed as soft and helpless though compared to the military around him he is, physically; he has spent too many years in classrooms and labs. Ronon’s gaze is direct, intense, and sends a little quiver of excitement down Radek’s body to pool warmly low in his belly. It is a good feeling; it makes him feel alive, but it is not even remotely appropriate, and he forces his attention elsewhere.
“But even those who go out into the field need to practice,” Sheppard says and crooks an eyebrow in Rodney’s direction. “Sometimes, a lot.”
“Very amusing, Colonel,” Rodney says sourly. “I do recall saving your ‘sorry ass’ on more than one occasion.”
“Of course you did, Rodney,” Sheppard says with an outrageous condescension carefully calculated to wind up Rodney into a rage. It amuses Radek; Sheppard clearly enjoys squabbling with Rodney as much as Rodney likes arguing with him.
Radek loses track of Rodney’s reply as Simpson slides into the empty chair beside him. “Radek,” she says without prelude. She is his second in Lab Four, and has never stood on formality. “What will you take for my turn at the sewage tanks tomorrow?”
“It is a filthy task, so everyone must take a work shift,” Radek says solemnly. “It is hardly fair to others to trade out your turn.” He bites the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning, because he is certainly willing to take her time, if the price is right.
“Oh, don’t be an ass,” Simpson replies with a scowl. “You know you’ll trade if you have enough incentive.”
Radek leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “Perhaps. What do you offer?”
“Four oranges,” she says promptly. It is indeed a good offer, very tempting, but Radek thinks he can perhaps get a better one. Maintenance on the tanks generally takes an entire afternoon and leaves one smelling less than optimal, no matter how much protective gear one wears.
“Ah. But last week, Dr. Onohua gave me four nectarines and three apples to work with Dr. Parrish on the hydroponics bay.” Onohua has absolutely no patience with Parrish, though Radek finds his enthusiasm and talkativeness oddly charming.
“Fine,” Simpson says with an exasperated roll of her blue eyes. “Four oranges, four apples, then.”
Radek scratches his chin, scruff rough against his fingers. “Silverstein offered a pineapple-whole and uncut-two bananas, and two apples to take an entire week of Gateroom diagnostics with Rodney. I think that the tanks are a far worse duty than that.”
“I don’t know about that,” Simpson says doubtfully, glancing across the table.
“Hel-lo, sitting right here!”
Radek waves away Rodney’s protest. “Well?” he asks Simpson.
“Fine. Four oranges, four apples, and two Asian pears, damn you.”
“Asian pears?” He hasn’t tasted those for years. Radek extends his hand. “It is done.”
Simpson shakes his hand once briskly, and to her credit, doesn’t try to break his fingers. “You’re an avaricious bastard, Radek.”
“Most certainly, but one with much delicious fruit,” Radek replies with satisfaction and watches her stomp away, blonde-brown hair swinging behind her. He knows she has a date with Captain Deschanel later that evening, and no matter how hard one scrubs in the shower, the smell seems to cling for a day or so--certainly not conducive to romantic meetings. Perhaps he should not take such advantage of her, but it does not do to show favoritism. Later, he will quietly change the schedule to give her private lab time to work on one of her pet projects as a sort of compensation.
“Remind me never to play poker with you, Doc,” Sheppard says, his expression vastly amused as Radek turns back to his table companions.
“Perhaps we should be taking Dr. Zelenka with us on our trading expeditions,” Teyla says with a smile, and squeezes his wrist gently.
Radek shrugs. “Maintenance on the sewage treatment tanks is a most filthy job, but I would have done it for the pears alone.”
“What’s poker?” Ronon asks.
There is a moment of silence, then Rodney says earnestly, “I would be very glad to teach you, my large and barbaric friend. So very glad.”
“Leave your sidearm behind if you take him up on his offer,” Sheppard says to Ronon. “It’s too much paperwork when violence erupts outside of a mission.” He pauses, thoughtful. “And your knives. And your garrotte. And your sword. Hell, just don’t let him teach you.”
Ronon chews, dark eyes on Sheppard. “Is that an order?” His voice is serious, but Radek sees a glint of humor flash across his expression, there and gone so quickly he would have missed it had he not been watching so closely. The Colonel is not the only one on their team who enjoys teasing Rodney.
“Yes. For the good of the team, consider that an order,” Sheppard says decisively.
"Okay,” Ronon rumbles, and takes a huge swallow of water.
“Oh, come on, Colonel!”
Sheppard raises a hand, and surprisingly, Rodney closes his mouth. “McKay. Remember the chess game between C3PO and Chewbacca in The Empire Strikes Back? I’m thinking maybe you should take that as a serious example, here.”
Rodney leans forward and lets his eyes sweep over Ronon, who raises an eyebrow in return. “Hmm,” Rodney says. “Maybe you do have a point besides the one on your head, after all.”
“Of course I do,” Sheppard replies sweetly. He gathers himself up and rises, picking up his tray. “Okay, boys and girls. Time to do OERs." His mouth twists in a moue of dislike; even in an entirely different galaxy, paperwork is a constant. "If I’m not back in four hours, someone send out a search party. With flame-throwers.”
Radek is amused when both he and Teyla nod in unison. His attention already elsewhere, Rodney waves his hand dismissively, and Ronon grunts a “Later.” Radek watches the Colonel dump his tray and leave the room, his loose stride oddly graceful.
When he turns his attention back to his companions, he sees the calculating gleam in Rodney’s eyes. “Ronon-“
“No,” Ronon replies, his attention on his huge slice of cake. The kitchen staff generally gives Ronon double portions of everything, particularly sweets, given he is so appreciative of their skills.
“But I-“
“No,” Ronon says, his voice dropping low enough that Radek is certain he can feel it vibrate at the base of his spine; it makes him shiver, just a little.
“You don’t even-“
“No.”
“Okay! Fine!” Rodney throws up his hands in exasperation. It is not often that someone can thwart Rodney, who usually steamrollers over anything and everyone in his path, and Radek finds it endlessly amusing to see it actually happen. He feels the corners of his mouth twitch upward but he does not dare laugh aloud, though it costs him dearly. Rodney glares balefully in his direction. “When you’re finished, laughing boy, I’m pretty sure you have some work to do in the lab.”
“More than likely, yes,” Radek agrees cheerfully. He has been the focus of Rodney’s scowls for so long that they have ceased to have an appreciable effect upon him. “I shall be there momentarily. I do not think the work will grow legs and scamper away.” He pauses a moment. “Although here, I would not be terribly surprised if it happened.”
Rodney picks up his tray and sweeps from the room in a thunderous cloud. When Radek glances back, Ronon looks up and drops a swift wink, his expression amused. Radek blinks in surprise, and feels warmth creep up his throat.
“Dr. McKay is certainly...persistent,” Teyla says and her smooth voice ripples with amusement of her own. “In the proper circumstances, it is frequently one of his better characteristics.” Unspoken is the and at times, it is not, but Radek hears it anyway. “I must take my leave of you, Dr. Zelenka. Thank you for keeping me company during lunch.” Her smile for him is as warm as the sun, and Radek cannot help but return it.
“I’m gone too,” Ronon says and gulps down the last of his milk. Radek helplessly watches the smooth movements of his throat as he does so, and bites the tip of his tongue when Ronon wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Such a sight should not be so distracting but the fact remains that it is.
Radek watches them leave together, young and sleek and beautiful, all the things that he is not, and chastises himself. He considers himself an intelligent, logical man, but the desires of the body? They have little to do with either of those two traits. He knows what he feels is unattainable, foolish.
But still, but still.
With a firm shake of his head he rises and gathers up his tray. Work. This is what he needs, this is what defines him, what gives him value here. Best to concentrate on something cerebral, something physical, instead of the hunger of his skin, the useless wash of hormones in his bloodstream that accomplishes nothing.
oo0oo
It is, Radek decides, somewhat ironic that at the practice range he finds a measure of peace. The room is dim but for the lighted targets at the end of the range, shadows curling in the corners of the room. The ear protectors muffle even the sharp report of the Beretta in his hands. He knows that Sergeant Stackhouse is somewhere about in the armory the next room over and that he is not truly alone, but still, somehow it feels as if he is. In this time and place he does not mind the feeling. It is actually rather meditative, his eyes and hands and body working together automatically to fill the center of the paper target’s chest with closely-bunched shots while his mind floats somewhere, a part of it occupied by equations on power consumption curves and the schematics of the wiring problem in the lab they re-opened last week.
Stackhouse had handed over the Beretta and ammunition, set him up with paper targets and then left him be after solemnly watching him fire through an entire clip, checking his form. Like all of them who have lived through the siege Stackhouse is not the same man; Radek remembers how cheerful he had once been, a friendly man with a smile and a kind word for everyone. And always in connection with Stackhouse he remembers Sergeant Markham, dark-eyed, dark-haired, almost pretty, never far from Stackhouse’s side until an attack from a Wraith dart took him in a blazing fireball. That Stackhouse had not been with him had been accidental, a command decision of Colonel Sheppard’s, and Radek remembers well the shock on all their faces in the Gateroom when Sergeant Bates reported him lost. But he remembers more the devastation in Stackhouse’s face. Radek knows well how Stackhouse felt, how he still feels. Surviving the death of a loved one is sometimes not the gift it first appears.
Although generally he finds peace on the firing range sometimes the sharp, smoky smells of cordite and gun oil take him back two decades to his mandated army service. It is not a memory that brings him ease. Most of the time he can shuffle the thoughts and emotions of that turbulent time to the back of his mind, but here, in spite of his best efforts, sometimes they creep back up to the forefront of his brain.
Radek frowns and ejects the empty clip, slamming home a fresh one. He takes a step to the side, to the next gallery with a fresh target and brings the pistol up, steadying it with his other hand. He methodically fills the center of the target with fourteen shots, all perfectly within kill range. The fifteenth shot he puts through the head and murmurs in Czech, “For you, Makarevich.”
Radek blinks and lowers the pistol. The wash of anger always surprises him. The emotion should have lost its power years ago but it has not yet weakened, thick and heavy like a pool of magma within his chest. It disturbs him, because he is not by nature a violent man. He rolls his shoulders, feeling the tightness of muscles that had been loose and relaxed mere moments ago. Reaching up, he tugs the ear protectors down to lie around his neck.
Suddenly he is very tired and with his free hand reaches up beneath his glasses to rub at his eyes. Perhaps he should try to sleep now, instead of returning to the labs. His sleep has never been quite the same since the metric ton of high-quality military amphetamines he had consumed in the two weeks before the attack on Atlantis, though Carson tells him that eventually, normal patterns will re-emerge. But it is difficult for him when loneliness and stress and anxiety try and smother him like some childhood night-terror when he lies down in his bed. While Peter lived he could wrap his arms around Peter’s lanky body, press his mouth to the nape of his neck, inhale the scent of his skin and pretend for a moment in the dark that things would be all right. He does not have that comfort now, and wrapping his arms around himself does not give him peace.
“Sheppard was right. You don’t need a lot of practice.”
Radek jumps and whirls, and without thought the Beretta comes up and steadies. Ronon stands there, his body relaxed, seemingly unperturbed by the pistol aimed at the center of his chest. Radek lets it drop back to his side, thumbing on the safety. “You are entirely too quiet,” he says sharply and the cold prickle of adrenaline spiders down his spine, down his arms, leaving them tingling, and he hates the tremor in his voice. He draws a deep breath. “I might have accidentally shot you.”
“Can’t help being quiet.” Ronon shrugs one broad shoulder. “You wouldn’t have shot me, anyway. Fourteen body shots, one head shot. I was watching. And counting.” His dark eyes flick to the target. “Mercy shot. Looks like you’ve done that before.”
“No. I am a scientist, not a soldier. I have never killed anyone face to face. I would prefer that it remain so, but I harbor no illusions. I have been merely fortunate in that I have not.”
Ronon’s eyes rest on him once more. “Sheppard said you’d been in the army.”
“During my youth, my country had mandatory military service. I served, as was required. Fortunately, they realized that I served better as intellect than brawn, given I had none of the latter. Unfortunately, it took them long months to come to such a conclusion.”
“Small and scrawny?” Again that assessing look, as if Ronon can see every fault, every flaw, every small thing he might use to his advantage should the need arise. Radek knows it is the military mindset to think and evaluate in such a way, but he does not like being on the receiving end of such scrutiny.
Radek nods. “It was...difficult.” At eighteen, he had been even shorter and almost painfully slim, all jaw and nose, everything unhappily accentuated by close-cropped hair. Not pretty, not ever, but sometimes such things mattered not. ”It became less so as my marksmanship underwent radical improvements.”
“That always helps,” Ronon agrees. “You’re good enough to give anyone second thoughts about messing with you.”
It is Radek’s turn to shrug. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. It does not matter, now. I survived and became a scientist, a professor. And now I am here. I practice, and hope that when the time comes, when I must defend myself, I will remember my training.”
“Not ‘if” but ‘when.’”
Radek's chin lifts a notch. “I am not so foolish as to think the Wraith will not come again. They shall. You, of all men, should know how persistent, how relentless, how focused they are.”
“Yeah, I do. Nothing stops them. They don’t stop until everyone around them is dead.” Even in the semi-darkness Radek can see how Ronon’s dark eyes glitter, the flash of his bared teeth, the hard line of his body, the way his hands clench into fists at his sides. This threat Ronon knows intimately; it has been his own hell for seven years. Radek cannot even imagine such a horrific life.
“Yes. And so I practice. I do not wish to die, but I wish more not to die without a fight. I am not a brave man-I fear far too many things--but this, I know.” Radek studies the Beretta in his hand, the corners of his mouth curving down into a frown.
“Most people are braver than they think,” Ronon says. “It’s not always heroics. It’s doing what you have to do no matter how scared you are.”
“That may be,” Radek allows. “But it is not a convincing argument when one knows exactly what one faces. When one knows how one’s death will come. When one feels terror like a cold fist in the belly.” Radek slips the Beretta back into its holster at his thigh. He is so very tired and the thought of his bed, though cold and lonely, sounds appealing.
“No,” Ronon says, implacable. “That’s it, exactly. Feeling that, then fighting anyway. That’s courage. And all of you have it.”
“Thank you,” Radek says, because he knows Ronon is serious, and he suspects this is most likely the longest Ronon has spoken with anyone not his own team at any one time in perhaps years. He feels oddly flattered that it is to him Ronon takes the time to speak.
Ronon shrugs again. “Just sayin’.” He turns away, his movements sure and graceful, and Radek cannot help but watch; tired or not, he is still a man. When Ronon reaches the door he says, ”Don't forget to clean your sidearm before giving it back.” His thick ropy hair slides over his shoulder as he looks back, and Radek thinks he sees a hint of a smile before Ronon steps out into the hallway and disappears.
Radek stands for a moment watching the now-closed door, puzzled. He does not know why Ronon appeared to watch him practice; it is very strange. Perhaps it is merely curiosity to see how a civilian handles a weapon, because he knows that most of the military do not think much of their abilities out of the labs.
But it matters not. Radek pulls the ear protectors from around his neck, and with them dangling from his fingers, walks next door to the armory. Sergeant Stackhouse watches him as Radek cleans the gun carefully before giving it back. They never talk much, just the bare essentials, but it is not from dislike or disdain. If anything, the fact that they are survivors of shared hardship and tragedy makes Radek feel oddly bonded to Stackhouse, and words are simply unnecessary.
”Good night, Doc,” Stackhouse says quietly, and Radek nods at him before turning his steps toward his quarters, finally tired enough that he thinks sleep will come quickly for him. When finally he slides beneath his blankets, he hopes for a dreamless night. Sometimes he is fortunate, but most times he is not.
oo0oo
Part Three