New HP/SGA fusion fic: Go Far
Title: Go Far
Pairing: Ron/Malfoy-ish, implied Sheppard/McKay
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,300+
Summary: The Pegasus Galaxy wanted Ron dead.
Warning: As should be obvious above, this is a HP/SGA fusion fic. Non-magic.
A/N: Self-indulgent stuff and nonsense. If you’re unfamiliar with my HP stuff, I tend to go my own way with the characters. If you’re familiar with my HP stuff, I haven’t written Ron and Draco in a long time, so bear with my less than stellar Brit cadence. Massive thanks go to druidspell for the beta, helpful comments & suggestions, and all around encouragement.
Go Far
Ron regretted his decision to hopscotch into the Pegasus Galaxy about once every two weeks or so. It usually had something to do with the astrophysicists, because Ron’s expertise was admittedly non-verbal, and the physicists mainly equated silence with faulty brain cells - until proven otherwise, at least, since Colonel Sheppard tended to lounge about with a quiet smirk and even Dr. McKay seemed to hold a gruff sort of affection for the bloke.
But it was hard for a xenobiologist - the xenobiologist, since Hernandez had headed back to Earth with the last Daedalus trip - to prove his intelligence while elbows-deep in slothmonkey droppings. He’d inherited the things from Hernandez and they were nasty, and if Ron had his druthers they’d be shipped off to wherever the hell they came from. He doubted, though, that Weir’d go for the complete shutdown of an experiment for no bloody reason beyond the fact that they stank. Really, really badly.
In the monthly databursts to the SGC, Ron sent five page nonsense emails to his sister, quick notes of assurance to his mum, Finch-Fletchly’s filthy comics to his brothers and Harry, and they weren’t quite lies, really.
He was alive and healthy.
He was a little miserable, but they were better off not knowing that. Everything else was classified.
*
“Don’t get used to this, Weasley,” Malfoy breathed. He was covered in blood; splattered over his BDUs, flecked across his face. His hands were red, slippery, as he pressed down on Ron’s leg.
Ron hardly ever went off-world.
Malfoy was a physicist, but he knew his way around a 9mm and could handle a P-90 when needed. He was on Lieutenant Miller’s team, with Samuels and Lee. He didn’t like Ron.
The feeling was entirely mutual, because Malfoy was a pompous arse, except Ron was bleeding out into the ground, and everything was a little fuzzy. His eyes fluttered closed, and his leg had long since started to go numb, and Malfoy was muttering under his breath, an almost soothing litany.
And then he growled, “Goddamn it, Weasley, stay with me,” jamming his hands down harder, and Ron let out a weak squawk of pain.
“Sstop,” he slurred, eyes watering, pooling at the corners before dripping down to itch his ears. He wanted the oblivion. “Hurts.”
“Of course it fucking does,” Malfoy ground out, his moron silent but damning. “Beckett’ll be here soon, and I swear if you’ve made me get disgustingly bloody for no fucking reason at all, I’ll kill you.”
“Little.” Ron gasped as a thread of pain shot up from his leg, cramping his abdomen. “Little late for those sorts of threats,” he panted. It was kind of funny. He wouldn’t have thought Malfoy cared one way or the other, but he guessed loyalty to the expedition stretched pretty far.
They’d needed him this time out, at least. The big cats on P37-M44 had been hunting in a pattern they couldn’t quite discern, terrorizing the natives in sudden unfamiliar viciousness. Ron thought he’d traced it down to a scent, a plant from a fairly new seed the natives had acquired and cultivated, but they’d need to bring Neville in on it to be sure. Of course, that didn’t help him then. Nothing probably could.
His vision started to gray again, going blurry at the edges, and Malfoy’s pale, sharp face loomed above him, thin lips in a tight scowl.
“’m okay,” Ron murmured.
“Weasley,” he shouted, but he sounded far away, tinny. “Weasley, you pathetic, lumbering fuckwit, stay with me.”
Ron tried to smile at the note of panic in Malfoy’s voice, at the way ‘fuckwit’ almost seemed just this side of affectionate, but then his body seized up in an intense thrall of pain, and he slipped into black.
*
Hermione had his hand when he woke up. She was passed out with her head on the edge of his mattress, and he traced the tips of her fingers, the short, bitten nails, the chewed cuts in her cuticles. She hardly ever made it out of her office, out from behind the piles of Ancient artifacts and the large-screened database console that she was sure would show her the secrets of the entire universe and beyond. The fact that she hadn’t been a part of the original expedition made her a bit overzealous to catch up.
Not that he thought she ever meant to ignore him, but Ron was pretty sure he had to’ve almost died for her to be there, asleep at his bedside.
He couldn’t feel his leg, but he could see it, so that was something.
“How’re you feeling, lad?” Carson asked in a soft voice, flicking aside the curtain around his bed.
Ron rolled his head towards him, accepted a few sips of water from the straw Carson slipped between his lips. “Fine,” he said thickly.
Carson patted his arm. “Good, good. Pain?”
He thought for a moment, but there was nothing besides a dull ache, and considering the injury, he must’ve been on some heavy duty drugs. “S’okay,” he managed. “Leg?”
“You’re a very lucky man, Ron,” Carson said, but his mouth was frowning. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, torn muscle over a broken bone, but we’ve patched you up just fine. Should be walking again in no time at all.”
“Malfoy...”
“Did just what he should have,” Carson finished for him, and Ron had known that, of course, but it was still a little surreal.
The mattress shifted as Hermione stirred, her hand clenching and then relaxing in Ron’s. And then she tightened her grip again, as if suddenly remembering where she was, and her head jerked up, amber eyes bloodshot and hair a complete ratty halo framing her pale face. “Ron!”
“’Lo.” Ron smiled tiredly as she ran a palm up his arm, gaining her feet to lean over and press an awkwardly angled hug against him.
“Oh god, Ron, you almost died,” she rushed out, pulling back to give him a stern-browed look. “Don’t do it again.”
He let out a hoarse laugh. “I’ll try.”
*
Ron had some impressive scarring. Four deep gouges across the entire span of his right thigh, puckered white and pink. Seamus thought it was brilliant, but Seamus was off his nut half the time. He was an anthropologist, and it was common knowledge that anthropologists were only slightly less demented than botanists.
His bone was set and healed, if a bit stiff. Standing too long made him sore, and sitting too long locked him up, and he couldn’t squat or bend his leg without the skin pulling, and whether or not he was actually tearing the muscle was a moot point beyond the pain. It felt like it’d opened up again, so he made a conscious effort to keep his leg stretched out while he moved. Which made him limp a little, but he’d been mauled by a cat roughly the size of a rhino, so he figured he could count himself lucky all he ended up with were scratch marks and a broken gait.
He’d tried, once, to thank Malfoy.
He’d cornered him in his quarters, since he’d rather gnaw his leg off than publicly prostrate himself at the wanker’s feet, and Malfoy had glowered at him after answering the door, arms crossed over his chest - which had been bare and blindingly pale, damn it, and he’d still been on a bit of pain killers, so the staring really had not been his fault. Of course, Malfoy took exception to it, tilting his head up at an arrogant angle, mouth twisting into a sneer.
Ron had grumbled something semi-solicitous, bowing his head with a hand wrapped over his nape, and then, at the blond’s continued disdainful silence, he’d limped away.
So. He was alive. Damaged, but alive, and at least his slothmonkeys wouldn’t starve.
*
“So I was thinking,” Seamus’ voice crackled over the comm. link, “you never have any fun.”
“I have fun,” Ron protested, watching the water idly as it lapped at his boots. It wasn’t his fault the galaxy was about to be swallowed up by life-sucking space vampires. In the grand scheme of things, he wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing there. Alien dog-beasts and spiderbats and slothmonkeys weren’t going to save the universe, even if they made for really interesting non-publishable papers. “I... um. I’ve been playing chess with someone in the common lounge.”
“Who?”
“No clue. It’s just set up, and I haven’t caught him moving any pieces yet.” It was a good game, too; ongoing ever since he’d been up and about again after the incident. Whoever it was knew what they were doing, and the challenge to keep a step ahead actually had Ron grinning from time to time.
“How exciting,” Seamus said dryly, and Ron could practically hear his eyes roll.
The water was up to his ankles, waterlogging the hems of his trousers, the wetness seeping up almost to his knees. “What’s taking so long?” Ron asked calmly. The important thing was to maintain his cool, and not panic.
“You used to have a temper,” Seamus went on, ignoring the question.
That was probably a bad sign, but Ron was still game for a little off-topic-ness. It was better than obsessing about the rapidly filling chamber off the collapsed south pier. He’d been observing a pod of huge almost-whales, recording their whistles and chirrups and play, when Atlantis had reported a structure failure, shutting down his remote corner of the city and then promptly starting a self-destruct on the affected area. Ron hadn’t made the inner door in time.
He took a deep, cleansing breath and focused on Seamus’ voice. “Yeah?”
“Remember your spectacular rows with Dr. Whosawhatsits at Area 51?”
Ron scrunched up his face in thought, scrubbed a hand over his shorn red hair. “Sybil?”
“Right, that pug-faced bird with the missing teeth. Looked like a gargoyle if you caught her in just the right light. Now that was entertainment.” He sounded a little wistful.
“So,” Ron tugged on his trousers absently, “you think that was me having fun?” Sybil had just given him pounding headaches, and kept trying to liberate his lab animals. Never mind that they were alien lab animals, and potentially harmful to the Earth’s varied ecosystems.
“All right, well.” Seamus paused. “Maybe that was me having fun at your expense.”
“A fine line,” Ron muttered. The sea water was really cold. And dark. He couldn’t see his feet anymore. “Have they sent anyone?”
Seamus sighed. “Your whole third of the city’s in shutdown. They have to override quite a few transporters and doors first.”
“Of course.” He’d have to start treading soon. He wasn’t so sure how long his bum leg would last. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but just-”
“If you know that, mate, then don’t tell me.”
“Seamus,” Ron thumped his head against the sealed door, “tell my family, will you? Dr. Weir’ll have McKay do it and-Seamus!” The Irishman was making la, la, la sounds and humming loudly and generally being a complete arse about it. “Seamus, I’m bloody serious!”
“You didn’t survive a fucking near-evisceration to drown, Ron, so I don’t. Want. To. Hear. It.”
It was kind of sweet. In a weird, Seamus way. That didn’t change the fact, though, that the water was past his chest and getting deeper by the second.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. His fingers felt like ice. “What do you think I should do for fun?” he asked finally.
“Finch-Fletchly’s teaching the Athosians how to play rugby.”
“What do you think I should do for fun that won’t snap my leg back in half?” Ron clarified blandly.
“Oh, right. Well, there’s always puddlejumpers.”
“Puddlejumpers hate me,” Ron groused. They really did, too. It didn’t make any sense, since Ron had a fairly strong natural gene, but none of the ‘jumpers liked him. Number five tolerated him on short runs, but numbers two and three refused to even start for him, and the rest jerked temperamentally all over the sky until someone else settled into the pilot seat.
“Sex?”
Ron groaned. “Seamus.” The nightmare of having - and losing - a relationship in the closed society of Altantis was something Ron didn’t really want to deal with.
“What? It’s fun. You’re probably the only one who’s not-”
“If you’re done chatting with your girlfriend, Weasley,” a voice drawled, cutting off Seamus’ frequency.
Ron blinked. “Malfoy?”
“How high is the water?” he demanded sharply.
Ron was swimming by then, tipping his chin above the surface. It hadn’t been all that long, and already his somewhat atrophied muscles were tiring out. His arms were strong, but his legs felt like dead weights. “Just about the top of the door,” he answered, and didn’t it figure that Malfoy was saving him again? The git wasn’t even an engineer, despite his limited expertise in Ancient tech - everyone picked up a few things here and there just from interacting with Atlantis on a daily basis. Ron spat out some water that’d run into his mouth and asked, “Why’d they send you?”
“Nearest to the scene,” Malfoy said darkly, then growled, “Is there anything you can hold on to?”
“No.” There wasn’t anything in the chamber but smooth lines of glass and metal.
“Well, this’ll be fun, then. Hang on, it’ll be a moment. Yes, Granger, unlike you, I actually move freely about the city, and know exactly which crystals to switch-”
“Ron!” Hermione interrupted. “Are you all right?”
“I’m-”
“As much as I’d love for Weasley to die a horrible watery death, Granger, could you move your fat arse and stick your finger right here, yes, hold that and don’t let go or I’ll be forced to tell Finch-Fletchly you crave his manly touch.”
He almost sounded cheery, which was a scary, scary emotion for Malfoy, and Ron mentally braced himself for the flood of water that would push him through the open door, skid him across the floor, and most likely knock him out on the opposite wall. It was just that kind of day.
*
Pneumonia. Bloody pneumonia, Carson had said, and Ron wouldn’t be the least surprised if Weir and McKay decided to ship him back to Earth on the next Daedalus run. He was a walking magnet for bad luck.
Bedridden for the most part, he was at least allowed to spend the days in his own quarters instead of the infirmary, but even then he was going completely mad with boredom. Seamus checked in a couple times daily - mainly just to let him know how much his slothmonkeys smelled, and once to tell him he’d seen Malfoy moving a chess piece in the common lounge - and Hannah stopped by to bring him food and check his vitals and generally badger him about drinking all his juice.
Hermione popped in twice, which was unprecedented and nice and a little weird. He loved the girl, but she was wound tight as a drum, and just watching her pace made him itch with restless energy he couldn’t do anything about.
His second week off duty, Ron was shuttled to the Athosian village for a change of scene and some fresh air.
It was approximately summer on the mainland, sunny and warm, with a cool breeze off the water, and Ron spent hours just inside the wooded edge of the beach, clad in pajama bottoms and a worn t-shirt, bare feet dug into the sand. Teal Spots, tiny peahens that nested in the thick brush, pecked the weeds where he’d crumbled a few bits of his biscuit. The bright blue cocks, alternately bolder and more cautious, milled just out of Ron’s reach, eyeing him warily, darting forward every once and a while to snatch the bread right out of his fingers.
A hacking cough scattered all of them, though, and Ron pressed both hands to his chest, curling over his knees, trying to stem the fit. It hurt his throat, the back of his mouth, and he shivered, breathing wetly as his body spasmed in exhausted aftershocks. It was getting better.
The Athosians fed him tea and thick stew. Hannah flew in once a day to check on him and pour syrup and pills down his throat. Besides the coughing, he was feeling close to normal.
Of course, normal in Pegasus was a far cry from normal anywhere else. If he was healthy enough to feed his slothmonkeys and miniature yaks, to study the trills of the nightjars on Krascen and how well they could be used as an early warning signal for the Wraith, then it didn’t matter that he had permanent shadows under his eyes, or that his skin was washed so pale even his freckles seemed faded.
The ocean was a quiet rush, the tide pulling out rapidly, leaving wide and shallow pools in the sandy spaces between rocks, the niches trapping life forms strangely similar to the ones that haunted the Earth’s sea depths.
Ron struggled to his feet, tugged the blanket he’d been sitting on around his shoulders, then made his way down the shoreline to throw back the stars.
*
The Pegasus Galaxy wanted Ron dead. That was the only explanation for it. And he honestly couldn’t believe they’d let him off-world again. Clearly, with him involved, something was bound to go wrong.
The monster above him grinned, revealing two rows of hideous gray teeth, and he lost his breath as a clawed hand slammed against his chest. The excruciating pain was almost familiar; the burn, the strain on his lungs, the cramps in his stomach.
Vaguely, he heard the low screech of a stunner, and then the Wraith jerked, dropping him like a broken puppet.
“Up. Now.”
“Ow,” Ron said, gasping, curling and uncurling his fingers as autonomy snuck back into his limbs.
A hand grasped his upper arm, tugging him to his feet. “Let’s go, Weasley.”
Ron swiveled his head to fix a blurry glare on Malfoy, competently decked out in his away science uniform, a Wraith stunner raised, alert for danger. Ron resented how at ease the ferrety little astrophysicist was in soldier mode. Back at the SGC, Malfoy had been notorious for his cowardice, though the command center had certainly been more reluctant to send their scientists out into the field, and Atlantis was a bit of a sink or swim situation. But give the blond a few heroic missions and suddenly he was fearless in the face of war.
Or not so fearless, perhaps, since he was staring at Ron a little anxiously after trying to hail Samuels. “He’s not answering,” he said.
“Okay.” They were on a hive ship, the three of them having been scooped up on the surface of PX5-933, along with a handful of Sodoreans. And since Colonel Sheppard insisted everyone take a course in hive ship survival - Rule #1: Knives Are Your Friends - it didn’t surprise Ron that Samuels and Malfoy had broken out of their cell.
He handed Ron a knife, the blade small, but lethally sharp. “They were headed for the hangar,” Malfoy said, and Ron knew ‘they’ meant they’d stolen a few Sodoreans from the Wraith’s dinner plate while busting out - Rule #2: No One Gets Left Behind, Except Freaky Wraith Worshippers, which led directly into Rule #3: Beware Pretty Girls.
They fought a few drones for possession of Samuels and company along the way, and Lieutenant Miller radioed them as they slipped into the giant bay in the underbelly of the hive, a cloaked ‘jumper perched in the middle of a crossbeam. The smooth rescue was a testament to how well Sheppard had prepared them for the worst.
Carson told Ron he’d only lost two or three years. He didn’t think he’d miss them.
*
“Ron,” Hermione said, dropping down across from him and Seamus in the mess.
Ron shoveled a mound of reconstituted potatoes into his mouth and mumbled, “Yeah?”
She had her best I’m-worried-about-you expression set on her face, lips pursed.
He couldn’t think of anything - that week, at any rate - that would’ve warranted it, or that’d drag her out of her office in the middle of the day.
“I’m worried about you.”
“Guessed that,” Ron said, half-grinning.
She leaned forward against the table, voice lowering to a hush. “Are you really shagging Malfoy?” she asked. Seriously. With a straight face.
“What?” Ron spluttered, fork falling from suddenly numb fingers. “Am I... what?”
Seamus scooted closer. “So say the rumors,” he lilted.
Ron bounced his incredulous gaze between his friends. “Are you both insane?”
“He’s saved your life three times now,” Seamus pointed out.
“So? People save other people’s lives all the time here.”
“It’s a little like waltzing,” Seamus explained, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Over three and he’s practically branded you. Made his intentions... known.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Ron scowled. He knew all about the silly tradition Colonel Sheppard and Dr. McKay had started, but he was well aware that heroics were required on both sides, and Ron had yet to reciprocate where Malfoy was concerned. Besides, the colonel and McKay’s relationship had never been confirmed, and Ron tended to think the whole thing was a poorly planned joke.
“I hate to say it, Hermione, but you’re being stupid,” Ron groused, pushing his tray away. He’d lost his appetite.
“I heard the rumors, Ron, and thought I’d check to make sure you haven’t completely lost your mind,” she said, affronted. Hermione and Malfoy didn’t get along, either. He called her a bushy-haired mule, and she accused him of being an oversexed anorexic rodent.
“It’s only a matter of time, now,” Seamus said cheerily, ignoring both Ron’s and Hermione’s protests.
“Thank you for bringing this up in front of the leprechaun,” Ron griped at Hermione. She at least had the decency to blush.
Seamus grinned broadly. “Sweaty public sex in the lesser greenhouse is inevitable,” he went on. The lesser greenhouse was the equivalent of Make-out Point on Atlantis, secluded and heavily planted.
“I’m playing chess with him,” Ron insisted, exasperated, “and we’re never even in the lounge at the same time!”
Purposefully oblivious, Seamus started humming Love Is In The Air, and Ron buried his head in his hands with a groan.
*
“You’re fucking useless, Weasley,” Malfoy shouted up at him.
“Shut it,” Ron growled, digging through his pack, more to himself than the blond, who probably couldn’t hear him anyway. “God, where is it?”
“Radio Lee!”
Ron jerked his head over the side of the cliff. “D’you think I haven’t?” he asked incredulously - because, really, how stupid did he think Ron was? - then scrambled back towards his pack when Malfoy yelped, “Rope!” and slid several more inches down the steep incline. Shit.
How could he have possibly lost a coil of rope? Christ, maybe he was as much of an idiot as Malfoy thought. And then his scrabbling fingers curled over something braided at the bottom of the bag, and he yanked out the hemp rope with a fleeting pang of relief. It was thin and lightweight, but hopefully strong, and Ron tossed one end over to dangle... just shy of Malfoy’s reach. His luck was phenomenally bad.
And where the hell was Corporal Lee with the ‘jumper?
“Okay,” he muttered, sliding flat along the ridge. “Okay, we can make this work. Maybe.”
Gnarled, tough-rooted shrubs patched the high-altitude landscape, and Ron knotted the rope around the booted foot of his good leg, shimmying over the cliff edge and grasping the closest two with his hands, adding another 1.8 meters or so with his long body. Even straining his neck around, he couldn’t see if it was enough to make any difference, but then the rope pulled taut and there was a clack-slide of rocks tumbling down the cliff, and Ron was stretched out from Malfoy’s weight, grimacing as his knuckles went white against the rough bark.
Malfoy cursed under his breath as he made his way up the rope, movements measured until he clutched at the toe of Ron’s boot.
“All right, Malfoy?” Ron asked breathily, and Malfoy panted, “Fuck,” and, “Yeah,” and then slowly climbed Ron’s trousers, jacket, knees fumbling on the back of Ron’s shoulders as he shoved his way topside.
At the release of weight, Ron tipped his head forward into the rock, mentally preparing to haul himself up, but then slim fingers unexpectedly slipped around one of his wrists. He jerked his head back and blinked into Malfoy’s light gray eyes, noting the tired set of his mouth, the clotted scratches high on his cheekbone, the grime lining his jaw.
He let Malfoy help him up, let him shift his grip to clench the front of his shirt, let him tug him forward even after his knee caught the shaggy blue-green grass growing over the edge. They collapsed in an exhausted heap, rolling so Malfoy’s forehead pressed against the dip of Ron’s throat.
*
It was late, even for most of the insomniacs and workaholics that populated Atlantis. Ron wasn’t tired, but it was one of the few nights he didn’t feel like the entire universe was out to get him; one of the few times he actually thought his luck wasn’t so much bad as unfortunate, and slightly mentally challenged. He was still alive, at least, and that felt like a big, satisfying ‘fuck you’ to the world at large.
The city corridors were dim, the common lounge filled with an eerie glow of blue. Ron grinned down at the forfeited chess board, Malfoy’s white pieces gathered neatly on the table, his king a solitary, regal figure lying face down in the middle.
They’d played a good game.
With careful, deliberate movements, Ron set the board up again, starting from the corners and moving inward, alternating sides.
He left the first move for Malfoy, then went off to bed.
Pairing: Ron/Malfoy-ish, implied Sheppard/McKay
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,300+
Summary: The Pegasus Galaxy wanted Ron dead.
Warning: As should be obvious above, this is a HP/SGA fusion fic. Non-magic.
A/N: Self-indulgent stuff and nonsense. If you’re unfamiliar with my HP stuff, I tend to go my own way with the characters. If you’re familiar with my HP stuff, I haven’t written Ron and Draco in a long time, so bear with my less than stellar Brit cadence. Massive thanks go to druidspell for the beta, helpful comments & suggestions, and all around encouragement.
Go Far
Ron regretted his decision to hopscotch into the Pegasus Galaxy about once every two weeks or so. It usually had something to do with the astrophysicists, because Ron’s expertise was admittedly non-verbal, and the physicists mainly equated silence with faulty brain cells - until proven otherwise, at least, since Colonel Sheppard tended to lounge about with a quiet smirk and even Dr. McKay seemed to hold a gruff sort of affection for the bloke.
But it was hard for a xenobiologist - the xenobiologist, since Hernandez had headed back to Earth with the last Daedalus trip - to prove his intelligence while elbows-deep in slothmonkey droppings. He’d inherited the things from Hernandez and they were nasty, and if Ron had his druthers they’d be shipped off to wherever the hell they came from. He doubted, though, that Weir’d go for the complete shutdown of an experiment for no bloody reason beyond the fact that they stank. Really, really badly.
In the monthly databursts to the SGC, Ron sent five page nonsense emails to his sister, quick notes of assurance to his mum, Finch-Fletchly’s filthy comics to his brothers and Harry, and they weren’t quite lies, really.
He was alive and healthy.
He was a little miserable, but they were better off not knowing that. Everything else was classified.
*
“Don’t get used to this, Weasley,” Malfoy breathed. He was covered in blood; splattered over his BDUs, flecked across his face. His hands were red, slippery, as he pressed down on Ron’s leg.
Ron hardly ever went off-world.
Malfoy was a physicist, but he knew his way around a 9mm and could handle a P-90 when needed. He was on Lieutenant Miller’s team, with Samuels and Lee. He didn’t like Ron.
The feeling was entirely mutual, because Malfoy was a pompous arse, except Ron was bleeding out into the ground, and everything was a little fuzzy. His eyes fluttered closed, and his leg had long since started to go numb, and Malfoy was muttering under his breath, an almost soothing litany.
And then he growled, “Goddamn it, Weasley, stay with me,” jamming his hands down harder, and Ron let out a weak squawk of pain.
“Sstop,” he slurred, eyes watering, pooling at the corners before dripping down to itch his ears. He wanted the oblivion. “Hurts.”
“Of course it fucking does,” Malfoy ground out, his moron silent but damning. “Beckett’ll be here soon, and I swear if you’ve made me get disgustingly bloody for no fucking reason at all, I’ll kill you.”
“Little.” Ron gasped as a thread of pain shot up from his leg, cramping his abdomen. “Little late for those sorts of threats,” he panted. It was kind of funny. He wouldn’t have thought Malfoy cared one way or the other, but he guessed loyalty to the expedition stretched pretty far.
They’d needed him this time out, at least. The big cats on P37-M44 had been hunting in a pattern they couldn’t quite discern, terrorizing the natives in sudden unfamiliar viciousness. Ron thought he’d traced it down to a scent, a plant from a fairly new seed the natives had acquired and cultivated, but they’d need to bring Neville in on it to be sure. Of course, that didn’t help him then. Nothing probably could.
His vision started to gray again, going blurry at the edges, and Malfoy’s pale, sharp face loomed above him, thin lips in a tight scowl.
“’m okay,” Ron murmured.
“Weasley,” he shouted, but he sounded far away, tinny. “Weasley, you pathetic, lumbering fuckwit, stay with me.”
Ron tried to smile at the note of panic in Malfoy’s voice, at the way ‘fuckwit’ almost seemed just this side of affectionate, but then his body seized up in an intense thrall of pain, and he slipped into black.
*
Hermione had his hand when he woke up. She was passed out with her head on the edge of his mattress, and he traced the tips of her fingers, the short, bitten nails, the chewed cuts in her cuticles. She hardly ever made it out of her office, out from behind the piles of Ancient artifacts and the large-screened database console that she was sure would show her the secrets of the entire universe and beyond. The fact that she hadn’t been a part of the original expedition made her a bit overzealous to catch up.
Not that he thought she ever meant to ignore him, but Ron was pretty sure he had to’ve almost died for her to be there, asleep at his bedside.
He couldn’t feel his leg, but he could see it, so that was something.
“How’re you feeling, lad?” Carson asked in a soft voice, flicking aside the curtain around his bed.
Ron rolled his head towards him, accepted a few sips of water from the straw Carson slipped between his lips. “Fine,” he said thickly.
Carson patted his arm. “Good, good. Pain?”
He thought for a moment, but there was nothing besides a dull ache, and considering the injury, he must’ve been on some heavy duty drugs. “S’okay,” he managed. “Leg?”
“You’re a very lucky man, Ron,” Carson said, but his mouth was frowning. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, torn muscle over a broken bone, but we’ve patched you up just fine. Should be walking again in no time at all.”
“Malfoy...”
“Did just what he should have,” Carson finished for him, and Ron had known that, of course, but it was still a little surreal.
The mattress shifted as Hermione stirred, her hand clenching and then relaxing in Ron’s. And then she tightened her grip again, as if suddenly remembering where she was, and her head jerked up, amber eyes bloodshot and hair a complete ratty halo framing her pale face. “Ron!”
“’Lo.” Ron smiled tiredly as she ran a palm up his arm, gaining her feet to lean over and press an awkwardly angled hug against him.
“Oh god, Ron, you almost died,” she rushed out, pulling back to give him a stern-browed look. “Don’t do it again.”
He let out a hoarse laugh. “I’ll try.”
*
Ron had some impressive scarring. Four deep gouges across the entire span of his right thigh, puckered white and pink. Seamus thought it was brilliant, but Seamus was off his nut half the time. He was an anthropologist, and it was common knowledge that anthropologists were only slightly less demented than botanists.
His bone was set and healed, if a bit stiff. Standing too long made him sore, and sitting too long locked him up, and he couldn’t squat or bend his leg without the skin pulling, and whether or not he was actually tearing the muscle was a moot point beyond the pain. It felt like it’d opened up again, so he made a conscious effort to keep his leg stretched out while he moved. Which made him limp a little, but he’d been mauled by a cat roughly the size of a rhino, so he figured he could count himself lucky all he ended up with were scratch marks and a broken gait.
He’d tried, once, to thank Malfoy.
He’d cornered him in his quarters, since he’d rather gnaw his leg off than publicly prostrate himself at the wanker’s feet, and Malfoy had glowered at him after answering the door, arms crossed over his chest - which had been bare and blindingly pale, damn it, and he’d still been on a bit of pain killers, so the staring really had not been his fault. Of course, Malfoy took exception to it, tilting his head up at an arrogant angle, mouth twisting into a sneer.
Ron had grumbled something semi-solicitous, bowing his head with a hand wrapped over his nape, and then, at the blond’s continued disdainful silence, he’d limped away.
So. He was alive. Damaged, but alive, and at least his slothmonkeys wouldn’t starve.
*
“So I was thinking,” Seamus’ voice crackled over the comm. link, “you never have any fun.”
“I have fun,” Ron protested, watching the water idly as it lapped at his boots. It wasn’t his fault the galaxy was about to be swallowed up by life-sucking space vampires. In the grand scheme of things, he wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing there. Alien dog-beasts and spiderbats and slothmonkeys weren’t going to save the universe, even if they made for really interesting non-publishable papers. “I... um. I’ve been playing chess with someone in the common lounge.”
“Who?”
“No clue. It’s just set up, and I haven’t caught him moving any pieces yet.” It was a good game, too; ongoing ever since he’d been up and about again after the incident. Whoever it was knew what they were doing, and the challenge to keep a step ahead actually had Ron grinning from time to time.
“How exciting,” Seamus said dryly, and Ron could practically hear his eyes roll.
The water was up to his ankles, waterlogging the hems of his trousers, the wetness seeping up almost to his knees. “What’s taking so long?” Ron asked calmly. The important thing was to maintain his cool, and not panic.
“You used to have a temper,” Seamus went on, ignoring the question.
That was probably a bad sign, but Ron was still game for a little off-topic-ness. It was better than obsessing about the rapidly filling chamber off the collapsed south pier. He’d been observing a pod of huge almost-whales, recording their whistles and chirrups and play, when Atlantis had reported a structure failure, shutting down his remote corner of the city and then promptly starting a self-destruct on the affected area. Ron hadn’t made the inner door in time.
He took a deep, cleansing breath and focused on Seamus’ voice. “Yeah?”
“Remember your spectacular rows with Dr. Whosawhatsits at Area 51?”
Ron scrunched up his face in thought, scrubbed a hand over his shorn red hair. “Sybil?”
“Right, that pug-faced bird with the missing teeth. Looked like a gargoyle if you caught her in just the right light. Now that was entertainment.” He sounded a little wistful.
“So,” Ron tugged on his trousers absently, “you think that was me having fun?” Sybil had just given him pounding headaches, and kept trying to liberate his lab animals. Never mind that they were alien lab animals, and potentially harmful to the Earth’s varied ecosystems.
“All right, well.” Seamus paused. “Maybe that was me having fun at your expense.”
“A fine line,” Ron muttered. The sea water was really cold. And dark. He couldn’t see his feet anymore. “Have they sent anyone?”
Seamus sighed. “Your whole third of the city’s in shutdown. They have to override quite a few transporters and doors first.”
“Of course.” He’d have to start treading soon. He wasn’t so sure how long his bum leg would last. “Look, I know you don’t want to hear this, but just-”
“If you know that, mate, then don’t tell me.”
“Seamus,” Ron thumped his head against the sealed door, “tell my family, will you? Dr. Weir’ll have McKay do it and-Seamus!” The Irishman was making la, la, la sounds and humming loudly and generally being a complete arse about it. “Seamus, I’m bloody serious!”
“You didn’t survive a fucking near-evisceration to drown, Ron, so I don’t. Want. To. Hear. It.”
It was kind of sweet. In a weird, Seamus way. That didn’t change the fact, though, that the water was past his chest and getting deeper by the second.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. His fingers felt like ice. “What do you think I should do for fun?” he asked finally.
“Finch-Fletchly’s teaching the Athosians how to play rugby.”
“What do you think I should do for fun that won’t snap my leg back in half?” Ron clarified blandly.
“Oh, right. Well, there’s always puddlejumpers.”
“Puddlejumpers hate me,” Ron groused. They really did, too. It didn’t make any sense, since Ron had a fairly strong natural gene, but none of the ‘jumpers liked him. Number five tolerated him on short runs, but numbers two and three refused to even start for him, and the rest jerked temperamentally all over the sky until someone else settled into the pilot seat.
“Sex?”
Ron groaned. “Seamus.” The nightmare of having - and losing - a relationship in the closed society of Altantis was something Ron didn’t really want to deal with.
“What? It’s fun. You’re probably the only one who’s not-”
“If you’re done chatting with your girlfriend, Weasley,” a voice drawled, cutting off Seamus’ frequency.
Ron blinked. “Malfoy?”
“How high is the water?” he demanded sharply.
Ron was swimming by then, tipping his chin above the surface. It hadn’t been all that long, and already his somewhat atrophied muscles were tiring out. His arms were strong, but his legs felt like dead weights. “Just about the top of the door,” he answered, and didn’t it figure that Malfoy was saving him again? The git wasn’t even an engineer, despite his limited expertise in Ancient tech - everyone picked up a few things here and there just from interacting with Atlantis on a daily basis. Ron spat out some water that’d run into his mouth and asked, “Why’d they send you?”
“Nearest to the scene,” Malfoy said darkly, then growled, “Is there anything you can hold on to?”
“No.” There wasn’t anything in the chamber but smooth lines of glass and metal.
“Well, this’ll be fun, then. Hang on, it’ll be a moment. Yes, Granger, unlike you, I actually move freely about the city, and know exactly which crystals to switch-”
“Ron!” Hermione interrupted. “Are you all right?”
“I’m-”
“As much as I’d love for Weasley to die a horrible watery death, Granger, could you move your fat arse and stick your finger right here, yes, hold that and don’t let go or I’ll be forced to tell Finch-Fletchly you crave his manly touch.”
He almost sounded cheery, which was a scary, scary emotion for Malfoy, and Ron mentally braced himself for the flood of water that would push him through the open door, skid him across the floor, and most likely knock him out on the opposite wall. It was just that kind of day.
*
Pneumonia. Bloody pneumonia, Carson had said, and Ron wouldn’t be the least surprised if Weir and McKay decided to ship him back to Earth on the next Daedalus run. He was a walking magnet for bad luck.
Bedridden for the most part, he was at least allowed to spend the days in his own quarters instead of the infirmary, but even then he was going completely mad with boredom. Seamus checked in a couple times daily - mainly just to let him know how much his slothmonkeys smelled, and once to tell him he’d seen Malfoy moving a chess piece in the common lounge - and Hannah stopped by to bring him food and check his vitals and generally badger him about drinking all his juice.
Hermione popped in twice, which was unprecedented and nice and a little weird. He loved the girl, but she was wound tight as a drum, and just watching her pace made him itch with restless energy he couldn’t do anything about.
His second week off duty, Ron was shuttled to the Athosian village for a change of scene and some fresh air.
It was approximately summer on the mainland, sunny and warm, with a cool breeze off the water, and Ron spent hours just inside the wooded edge of the beach, clad in pajama bottoms and a worn t-shirt, bare feet dug into the sand. Teal Spots, tiny peahens that nested in the thick brush, pecked the weeds where he’d crumbled a few bits of his biscuit. The bright blue cocks, alternately bolder and more cautious, milled just out of Ron’s reach, eyeing him warily, darting forward every once and a while to snatch the bread right out of his fingers.
A hacking cough scattered all of them, though, and Ron pressed both hands to his chest, curling over his knees, trying to stem the fit. It hurt his throat, the back of his mouth, and he shivered, breathing wetly as his body spasmed in exhausted aftershocks. It was getting better.
The Athosians fed him tea and thick stew. Hannah flew in once a day to check on him and pour syrup and pills down his throat. Besides the coughing, he was feeling close to normal.
Of course, normal in Pegasus was a far cry from normal anywhere else. If he was healthy enough to feed his slothmonkeys and miniature yaks, to study the trills of the nightjars on Krascen and how well they could be used as an early warning signal for the Wraith, then it didn’t matter that he had permanent shadows under his eyes, or that his skin was washed so pale even his freckles seemed faded.
The ocean was a quiet rush, the tide pulling out rapidly, leaving wide and shallow pools in the sandy spaces between rocks, the niches trapping life forms strangely similar to the ones that haunted the Earth’s sea depths.
Ron struggled to his feet, tugged the blanket he’d been sitting on around his shoulders, then made his way down the shoreline to throw back the stars.
*
The Pegasus Galaxy wanted Ron dead. That was the only explanation for it. And he honestly couldn’t believe they’d let him off-world again. Clearly, with him involved, something was bound to go wrong.
The monster above him grinned, revealing two rows of hideous gray teeth, and he lost his breath as a clawed hand slammed against his chest. The excruciating pain was almost familiar; the burn, the strain on his lungs, the cramps in his stomach.
Vaguely, he heard the low screech of a stunner, and then the Wraith jerked, dropping him like a broken puppet.
“Up. Now.”
“Ow,” Ron said, gasping, curling and uncurling his fingers as autonomy snuck back into his limbs.
A hand grasped his upper arm, tugging him to his feet. “Let’s go, Weasley.”
Ron swiveled his head to fix a blurry glare on Malfoy, competently decked out in his away science uniform, a Wraith stunner raised, alert for danger. Ron resented how at ease the ferrety little astrophysicist was in soldier mode. Back at the SGC, Malfoy had been notorious for his cowardice, though the command center had certainly been more reluctant to send their scientists out into the field, and Atlantis was a bit of a sink or swim situation. But give the blond a few heroic missions and suddenly he was fearless in the face of war.
Or not so fearless, perhaps, since he was staring at Ron a little anxiously after trying to hail Samuels. “He’s not answering,” he said.
“Okay.” They were on a hive ship, the three of them having been scooped up on the surface of PX5-933, along with a handful of Sodoreans. And since Colonel Sheppard insisted everyone take a course in hive ship survival - Rule #1: Knives Are Your Friends - it didn’t surprise Ron that Samuels and Malfoy had broken out of their cell.
He handed Ron a knife, the blade small, but lethally sharp. “They were headed for the hangar,” Malfoy said, and Ron knew ‘they’ meant they’d stolen a few Sodoreans from the Wraith’s dinner plate while busting out - Rule #2: No One Gets Left Behind, Except Freaky Wraith Worshippers, which led directly into Rule #3: Beware Pretty Girls.
They fought a few drones for possession of Samuels and company along the way, and Lieutenant Miller radioed them as they slipped into the giant bay in the underbelly of the hive, a cloaked ‘jumper perched in the middle of a crossbeam. The smooth rescue was a testament to how well Sheppard had prepared them for the worst.
Carson told Ron he’d only lost two or three years. He didn’t think he’d miss them.
*
“Ron,” Hermione said, dropping down across from him and Seamus in the mess.
Ron shoveled a mound of reconstituted potatoes into his mouth and mumbled, “Yeah?”
She had her best I’m-worried-about-you expression set on her face, lips pursed.
He couldn’t think of anything - that week, at any rate - that would’ve warranted it, or that’d drag her out of her office in the middle of the day.
“I’m worried about you.”
“Guessed that,” Ron said, half-grinning.
She leaned forward against the table, voice lowering to a hush. “Are you really shagging Malfoy?” she asked. Seriously. With a straight face.
“What?” Ron spluttered, fork falling from suddenly numb fingers. “Am I... what?”
Seamus scooted closer. “So say the rumors,” he lilted.
Ron bounced his incredulous gaze between his friends. “Are you both insane?”
“He’s saved your life three times now,” Seamus pointed out.
“So? People save other people’s lives all the time here.”
“It’s a little like waltzing,” Seamus explained, eyes twinkling mischievously. “Over three and he’s practically branded you. Made his intentions... known.” He waggled his eyebrows.
Ron scowled. He knew all about the silly tradition Colonel Sheppard and Dr. McKay had started, but he was well aware that heroics were required on both sides, and Ron had yet to reciprocate where Malfoy was concerned. Besides, the colonel and McKay’s relationship had never been confirmed, and Ron tended to think the whole thing was a poorly planned joke.
“I hate to say it, Hermione, but you’re being stupid,” Ron groused, pushing his tray away. He’d lost his appetite.
“I heard the rumors, Ron, and thought I’d check to make sure you haven’t completely lost your mind,” she said, affronted. Hermione and Malfoy didn’t get along, either. He called her a bushy-haired mule, and she accused him of being an oversexed anorexic rodent.
“It’s only a matter of time, now,” Seamus said cheerily, ignoring both Ron’s and Hermione’s protests.
“Thank you for bringing this up in front of the leprechaun,” Ron griped at Hermione. She at least had the decency to blush.
Seamus grinned broadly. “Sweaty public sex in the lesser greenhouse is inevitable,” he went on. The lesser greenhouse was the equivalent of Make-out Point on Atlantis, secluded and heavily planted.
“I’m playing chess with him,” Ron insisted, exasperated, “and we’re never even in the lounge at the same time!”
Purposefully oblivious, Seamus started humming Love Is In The Air, and Ron buried his head in his hands with a groan.
*
“You’re fucking useless, Weasley,” Malfoy shouted up at him.
“Shut it,” Ron growled, digging through his pack, more to himself than the blond, who probably couldn’t hear him anyway. “God, where is it?”
“Radio Lee!”
Ron jerked his head over the side of the cliff. “D’you think I haven’t?” he asked incredulously - because, really, how stupid did he think Ron was? - then scrambled back towards his pack when Malfoy yelped, “Rope!” and slid several more inches down the steep incline. Shit.
How could he have possibly lost a coil of rope? Christ, maybe he was as much of an idiot as Malfoy thought. And then his scrabbling fingers curled over something braided at the bottom of the bag, and he yanked out the hemp rope with a fleeting pang of relief. It was thin and lightweight, but hopefully strong, and Ron tossed one end over to dangle... just shy of Malfoy’s reach. His luck was phenomenally bad.
And where the hell was Corporal Lee with the ‘jumper?
“Okay,” he muttered, sliding flat along the ridge. “Okay, we can make this work. Maybe.”
Gnarled, tough-rooted shrubs patched the high-altitude landscape, and Ron knotted the rope around the booted foot of his good leg, shimmying over the cliff edge and grasping the closest two with his hands, adding another 1.8 meters or so with his long body. Even straining his neck around, he couldn’t see if it was enough to make any difference, but then the rope pulled taut and there was a clack-slide of rocks tumbling down the cliff, and Ron was stretched out from Malfoy’s weight, grimacing as his knuckles went white against the rough bark.
Malfoy cursed under his breath as he made his way up the rope, movements measured until he clutched at the toe of Ron’s boot.
“All right, Malfoy?” Ron asked breathily, and Malfoy panted, “Fuck,” and, “Yeah,” and then slowly climbed Ron’s trousers, jacket, knees fumbling on the back of Ron’s shoulders as he shoved his way topside.
At the release of weight, Ron tipped his head forward into the rock, mentally preparing to haul himself up, but then slim fingers unexpectedly slipped around one of his wrists. He jerked his head back and blinked into Malfoy’s light gray eyes, noting the tired set of his mouth, the clotted scratches high on his cheekbone, the grime lining his jaw.
He let Malfoy help him up, let him shift his grip to clench the front of his shirt, let him tug him forward even after his knee caught the shaggy blue-green grass growing over the edge. They collapsed in an exhausted heap, rolling so Malfoy’s forehead pressed against the dip of Ron’s throat.
*
It was late, even for most of the insomniacs and workaholics that populated Atlantis. Ron wasn’t tired, but it was one of the few nights he didn’t feel like the entire universe was out to get him; one of the few times he actually thought his luck wasn’t so much bad as unfortunate, and slightly mentally challenged. He was still alive, at least, and that felt like a big, satisfying ‘fuck you’ to the world at large.
The city corridors were dim, the common lounge filled with an eerie glow of blue. Ron grinned down at the forfeited chess board, Malfoy’s white pieces gathered neatly on the table, his king a solitary, regal figure lying face down in the middle.
They’d played a good game.
With careful, deliberate movements, Ron set the board up again, starting from the corners and moving inward, alternating sides.
He left the first move for Malfoy, then went off to bed.