Outcast tag - Requiem in Deux
Title: Requiem in Deux
Author: Padawan_aneiki
Rating/Pairing: G/None
Characters: John and Ronon
Summary: In the aftermath of his father's death, John finds a little solace in a very familiar place. Written as an answer to the Ronon/John challenge and as a birthday present for Karri_kln1671...HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!
Requiem in Deux
John dropped his bag onto the floor, not even bothering to kick it under the bed; it had been a miserable handful of days and he had neither the energy nor the desire to deal with its contents. It would wait. He sat on the bed, perhaps a bit more heavily than he’d intended; aches and bruises announcing their presence to his brain as he did so. He lacked the energy to express his displeasure beyond a sharp hiss, although even that trailed away as fresh aches swept through his side with the quick breath.
From there it was a short trip to the pillow, his body protesting the motion all the way down, but once there, the lieutenant colonel exhaled gratefully. With the exception of his eyelids, John didn’t move a muscle for several long minutes, simply blinking up at the familiar high ceiling above him and feeling the warmth of a late afternoon sun shining through the window.
At last he gathered the will to move his arms; right hand tugging at the watchband on his left wrist. The chunky timepiece fell away with the motion and John fumbled along the nightstand without looking until he’d successfully deposited the watch upon it.
Part of him wanted to sleep; after everything, he knew he should sleep. His battered body demanded it but his battered brain resisted it. Hazel eyes continued to blink, stubbornly staring upward at a ceiling bare of details, and he wondered-not for the first time-if he was a heartless bastard because they were still dry.
Still dry.
The knock at the door was a short, sharp thud and at first John wondered if he’d imagined it, until after a long moment he heard a familiar gruff voice call out his name.
“Sheppard? You in there?”
John debated on ignoring the summons, but at last he chuffed out a soft sigh and called out, “C’mon in.”
The door slid aside to admit Ronon, and the former Runner somehow looked a heck’ve a lot taller when observed from a prone position. John groaned a little and made a halfhearted effort to push up from the bed. When Ronon shrugged and dropped into a nearby chair, John took that as his cue to stay put and he allowed one arm to flop over his eyes, effectively blocking out that ridiculously pristine ceiling and any look the Satedan was now giving him.
“You okay?” Ronon asked simply and directly, and John inhaled carefully and deeply, testing the limits of his sore body before making any sort of response.
“I’m good,” he finally answered, a slight shrug and then a grimace as it reminded him of every single finger-mark pressed into his neck. That blasted Replicator just about choked the living daylights out of him and he’d had an interesting time trying to keep his brother from staring outright in the time he’d taken on Earth before returning. John slowly moved, shifting his hand from his eyes to his throat and rubbing very carefully along the side of his neck.
He’d visited the freshly covered grave prior to his flight back to Colorado; as with so many things in his life, he’d gone to the cemetery alone. The Daedalus had broken orbit the day before to return to Pegasus and he’d never wished so badly to have the ship’s beam sweep him away as he had in that quiet graveyard. The return flight would leave him with too much time to think.
“Not what I meant,” Ronon said astutely, gesturing briefly toward the John’s cautious movement. “Keller said it’s not that bad.”
“Keller’s not the one who’s head is gonna fall off,” John grumbled irritably. His head throbbed in time to his heart and all he wanted at the moment was to sleep. Whether his brain would let him or not was another story.
John looked up as he spoke; empty air and ceiling hanging over him.
He should’ve known Nancy would be there. He just hadn’t thought; he hadn’t been any more prepared for that tangled mess of awkward emotions than he had for the news of his father’s sudden death. She’d been as beautiful as ever, of course. Black had always looked good on her; he couldn’t help but notice the way the dress accentuated her curves. There had been a time he’d had the right to notice.
John exhaled again into the empty space above him. For such a still, motionless expanse, it had weight. He could feel it crushing him into the bed like a giant hand and every inch of him ached with the strain.
No, John. Dad regretted what happened between you two...
Your Dad was always very good to me.
Take care, John.
I was the one who stayed.
“Sheppard? Hey, buddy.”
Ronon’s voice called him back from the accusing silence above, and John blinked a little, startled to find he’d lost several minutes to the crush of air and tendrils of regret. He swallowed convulsively and this time he forced himself to sit up, ignoring the multiple screams of protest from most of his muscles.
“Sorry,” he said lamely, reaching up to again rub his neck gingerly. “Kinda zoned out a minute, there; long week, y’know.”
“Yeah. Long week,” Ronon agreed, and those sharp, observant eyes were turned on him, and John shifted a little under the intense scrutiny. “C’mon, I know just what you need,” the Satedan announced abruptly, coming swiftly to his feet.
“I need some sleep,” John groused, but at Ronon’s disbelieving look, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and pushed up. His head screamed at him now, the headache thumping along in his temples. However, John followed Ronon out of his quarters, admittedly a little curious to know what the former Runner considered to be just what he needed.
John was surprised when Ronon passed by the gym without breaking his stride. “Uhh, Chewie?” he prompted as they continued on.
“What?” Ronon demanded, glancing at John in askance.
“Well,” John shrugged a little, wincing at the aches it produced. “It’s just that, normally, your idea of stress relief...or relaxation...or anger management...involves dragging me down here and beating the crap out of me.” Ronon’s wolfish grin did nothing to satiate John’s curiosity or alleviate any concern he might’ve had about getting his butt kicked in a sparring match.
There was no reply from the Satedan, however, until John realized they were heading for the jumper bay.
“Nice day out there,” Ronon shrugged a little. “Be a shame to waste it stuck inside.”
There was never very much in the way of reasoning or excuses to get John into a cockpit. From the time he’d been about ten years old, he’d known exactly what he’d wanted to be when he was an adult. True, the Air Force hadn’t been part of his plan as a pre-teen, but the result had been even better. Flying had been his destiny; John was as convinced of that as one could ever be of such things. His Apache and Blackhawk quals had been proud days. Even better, beyond his wildest dreams, were the little puddlejumpers he routinely flew in Pegasus. While they might be a little ungainly looking, they broke the freakin’ mach meter and responded to his touch like nothing else he’d ever flown. Part of that was the gene, of course, but still...
Still, John hesitated briefly at the ramp, his hands digging into his pockets.
“I, uh, appreciate the thought, buddy but I don’t know if it’s such a good...I mean I’m not even back on duty...”
“Already talked to Carter,” Ronon gave John a small half-smile; and a slight thump on the shoulder. “If you want we can go back to the gym...”
John shook his head resolutely and headed into the puddlejumper. Just like always, the little ship responded to the presence of the gene and lit up as he stepped inside, a faint tingle similar to the hum of the city raced down his spine and suddenly there was nothing more he wanted to do than go flying.
Sleep could wait. The sky beckoned as the bay roof opened up, and John closed his eyes briefly, breathing in the anticipation that always accompanied any flight. He was barely aware of Ronon getting comfortable in the co-pilot’s seat in those few moments between one breath and the next. When he opened his eyes, his hands were ready and the jumper rose into the air.
They’d been flying for nearly ten minutes in absolute silence before John spoke again, and his voice was soft, as if unwilling to break the silence that, up here was not smothering but at somewhere around mach four very freeing.
“I was ten years old when my Dad took me and David to an air show,” he said quietly, not looking at Ronon but staring straight ahead as flew at speed over the ocean far below. “It’s...you know, a lot of planes. Military planes, jets...I mean, nothing that can compare to this or even an F-302 but...” John inhaled slowly, deliberately. “I knew when we came home that day I wanted to be a pilot.” Ronon said nothing, simply slouched comfortably in the seat beside him, and John felt as though the air around him was not so close, the silence not so accusing. He banked the jumper, heading for the mainland.
The sun was beginning to set, a riot of colors on the far horizon.
Hazel eyes misted in the blaze of light and memories.
Author: Padawan_aneiki
Rating/Pairing: G/None
Characters: John and Ronon
Summary: In the aftermath of his father's death, John finds a little solace in a very familiar place. Written as an answer to the Ronon/John challenge and as a birthday present for Karri_kln1671...HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!
Requiem in Deux
John dropped his bag onto the floor, not even bothering to kick it under the bed; it had been a miserable handful of days and he had neither the energy nor the desire to deal with its contents. It would wait. He sat on the bed, perhaps a bit more heavily than he’d intended; aches and bruises announcing their presence to his brain as he did so. He lacked the energy to express his displeasure beyond a sharp hiss, although even that trailed away as fresh aches swept through his side with the quick breath.
From there it was a short trip to the pillow, his body protesting the motion all the way down, but once there, the lieutenant colonel exhaled gratefully. With the exception of his eyelids, John didn’t move a muscle for several long minutes, simply blinking up at the familiar high ceiling above him and feeling the warmth of a late afternoon sun shining through the window.
At last he gathered the will to move his arms; right hand tugging at the watchband on his left wrist. The chunky timepiece fell away with the motion and John fumbled along the nightstand without looking until he’d successfully deposited the watch upon it.
Part of him wanted to sleep; after everything, he knew he should sleep. His battered body demanded it but his battered brain resisted it. Hazel eyes continued to blink, stubbornly staring upward at a ceiling bare of details, and he wondered-not for the first time-if he was a heartless bastard because they were still dry.
Still dry.
The knock at the door was a short, sharp thud and at first John wondered if he’d imagined it, until after a long moment he heard a familiar gruff voice call out his name.
“Sheppard? You in there?”
John debated on ignoring the summons, but at last he chuffed out a soft sigh and called out, “C’mon in.”
The door slid aside to admit Ronon, and the former Runner somehow looked a heck’ve a lot taller when observed from a prone position. John groaned a little and made a halfhearted effort to push up from the bed. When Ronon shrugged and dropped into a nearby chair, John took that as his cue to stay put and he allowed one arm to flop over his eyes, effectively blocking out that ridiculously pristine ceiling and any look the Satedan was now giving him.
“You okay?” Ronon asked simply and directly, and John inhaled carefully and deeply, testing the limits of his sore body before making any sort of response.
“I’m good,” he finally answered, a slight shrug and then a grimace as it reminded him of every single finger-mark pressed into his neck. That blasted Replicator just about choked the living daylights out of him and he’d had an interesting time trying to keep his brother from staring outright in the time he’d taken on Earth before returning. John slowly moved, shifting his hand from his eyes to his throat and rubbing very carefully along the side of his neck.
He’d visited the freshly covered grave prior to his flight back to Colorado; as with so many things in his life, he’d gone to the cemetery alone. The Daedalus had broken orbit the day before to return to Pegasus and he’d never wished so badly to have the ship’s beam sweep him away as he had in that quiet graveyard. The return flight would leave him with too much time to think.
“Not what I meant,” Ronon said astutely, gesturing briefly toward the John’s cautious movement. “Keller said it’s not that bad.”
“Keller’s not the one who’s head is gonna fall off,” John grumbled irritably. His head throbbed in time to his heart and all he wanted at the moment was to sleep. Whether his brain would let him or not was another story.
John looked up as he spoke; empty air and ceiling hanging over him.
He should’ve known Nancy would be there. He just hadn’t thought; he hadn’t been any more prepared for that tangled mess of awkward emotions than he had for the news of his father’s sudden death. She’d been as beautiful as ever, of course. Black had always looked good on her; he couldn’t help but notice the way the dress accentuated her curves. There had been a time he’d had the right to notice.
John exhaled again into the empty space above him. For such a still, motionless expanse, it had weight. He could feel it crushing him into the bed like a giant hand and every inch of him ached with the strain.
No, John. Dad regretted what happened between you two...
Your Dad was always very good to me.
Take care, John.
I was the one who stayed.
“Sheppard? Hey, buddy.”
Ronon’s voice called him back from the accusing silence above, and John blinked a little, startled to find he’d lost several minutes to the crush of air and tendrils of regret. He swallowed convulsively and this time he forced himself to sit up, ignoring the multiple screams of protest from most of his muscles.
“Sorry,” he said lamely, reaching up to again rub his neck gingerly. “Kinda zoned out a minute, there; long week, y’know.”
“Yeah. Long week,” Ronon agreed, and those sharp, observant eyes were turned on him, and John shifted a little under the intense scrutiny. “C’mon, I know just what you need,” the Satedan announced abruptly, coming swiftly to his feet.
“I need some sleep,” John groused, but at Ronon’s disbelieving look, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and pushed up. His head screamed at him now, the headache thumping along in his temples. However, John followed Ronon out of his quarters, admittedly a little curious to know what the former Runner considered to be just what he needed.
John was surprised when Ronon passed by the gym without breaking his stride. “Uhh, Chewie?” he prompted as they continued on.
“What?” Ronon demanded, glancing at John in askance.
“Well,” John shrugged a little, wincing at the aches it produced. “It’s just that, normally, your idea of stress relief...or relaxation...or anger management...involves dragging me down here and beating the crap out of me.” Ronon’s wolfish grin did nothing to satiate John’s curiosity or alleviate any concern he might’ve had about getting his butt kicked in a sparring match.
There was no reply from the Satedan, however, until John realized they were heading for the jumper bay.
“Nice day out there,” Ronon shrugged a little. “Be a shame to waste it stuck inside.”
There was never very much in the way of reasoning or excuses to get John into a cockpit. From the time he’d been about ten years old, he’d known exactly what he’d wanted to be when he was an adult. True, the Air Force hadn’t been part of his plan as a pre-teen, but the result had been even better. Flying had been his destiny; John was as convinced of that as one could ever be of such things. His Apache and Blackhawk quals had been proud days. Even better, beyond his wildest dreams, were the little puddlejumpers he routinely flew in Pegasus. While they might be a little ungainly looking, they broke the freakin’ mach meter and responded to his touch like nothing else he’d ever flown. Part of that was the gene, of course, but still...
Still, John hesitated briefly at the ramp, his hands digging into his pockets.
“I, uh, appreciate the thought, buddy but I don’t know if it’s such a good...I mean I’m not even back on duty...”
“Already talked to Carter,” Ronon gave John a small half-smile; and a slight thump on the shoulder. “If you want we can go back to the gym...”
John shook his head resolutely and headed into the puddlejumper. Just like always, the little ship responded to the presence of the gene and lit up as he stepped inside, a faint tingle similar to the hum of the city raced down his spine and suddenly there was nothing more he wanted to do than go flying.
Sleep could wait. The sky beckoned as the bay roof opened up, and John closed his eyes briefly, breathing in the anticipation that always accompanied any flight. He was barely aware of Ronon getting comfortable in the co-pilot’s seat in those few moments between one breath and the next. When he opened his eyes, his hands were ready and the jumper rose into the air.
They’d been flying for nearly ten minutes in absolute silence before John spoke again, and his voice was soft, as if unwilling to break the silence that, up here was not smothering but at somewhere around mach four very freeing.
“I was ten years old when my Dad took me and David to an air show,” he said quietly, not looking at Ronon but staring straight ahead as flew at speed over the ocean far below. “It’s...you know, a lot of planes. Military planes, jets...I mean, nothing that can compare to this or even an F-302 but...” John inhaled slowly, deliberately. “I knew when we came home that day I wanted to be a pilot.” Ronon said nothing, simply slouched comfortably in the seat beside him, and John felt as though the air around him was not so close, the silence not so accusing. He banked the jumper, heading for the mainland.
The sun was beginning to set, a riot of colors on the far horizon.
Hazel eyes misted in the blaze of light and memories.