third time's a charm (1/1)
Title: third time's a charm
Author: somehowunbroken
Fandom: SGA/SG1
Characters: John, Ronon, Cam, Daniel
Word Count: 5,040
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con, violence, torture, character death (but not a main character)
Notes: Set in the hazy post-series future, after Atlantis returns to Pegasus. For sian1359, my recipient in this year's sheppard_hc exchange. Happy holidays, and I hope you enjoy!
It’s a joint mission, a sort of Pegasus meet-and-greet, and John hates his life some days, because dragging SG-1 around to their trading partners makes him feel like a damn zookeeper. The problem is, he’s not sure who’s the zoo - the Pegasus natives and assorted members of SG-1 are gawking at each other pretty much equally. John sighs and pastes on his placate-the-natives smile, the one that he brings out when things start going pear-shaped, and claps his arm across Jackson’s back. “Sorry, folks,” he tells the Nilarian contingent, “but if I don’t get the Doc here back to Atlantis by curfew, his dad will never let me take him out again.”
There’s an assortment of reactions - confusion from the Nilari, a glare from Jackson, and snorted laughter from Mitchell and Ronon, who know that O’Neill’s waiting for them pretty much right at the Gate in Atlantis. John just steers Jackson away from the village and up the path. Mission accomplished, or well enough; they’ll even be back early enough for John to nab the last of the butterscotch pudding from the mess if this keeps up.
Fifteen seconds later, John wants to kick his own ass, because seriously, why would he even have thought that when there was still a chance for things to go terribly, terribly wrong? Because those are Genii hats and Genii uniforms and, yeah, that’s Kolya, the rat bastard, practically preening with that smug little smile on his face.
“Kolya,” John spits, and Kolya smiles - actually smiles - in response.
“Colonel Sheppard,” he drawls out. “I had the feeling you might be in the area today.” Kolya shifts and John gets a glimpse of Ailen, one of the Nilari townspeople, held in a chokehold. John snarls and takes half a step forward, and Kolya laughs. “Let him go, Vira.”
The young woman with her arm around Ailen’s throat suddenly releases her grip and shoves at his back, and Ailen stumbles off the path and hits his knees, scrambling further into the brush. The assorted Genii laugh.
“Let me guess,” Mitchell says brightly. “Friends of yours, Sheppard?”
Mitchell’s been a friend for years, and John knows from several personal experiences that the man is damn good to have on your side in a fight. His sense of humor, however, makes John want to punch him at times.
“Remember that dog I told you I kicked?” John snaps back, waits for Mitchell’s nod, and jerks his head at the group. “Meet Kolya.”
“Enough,” Kolya says almost lazily, and the Genii snap to attention immediately, leveling their weapons at John. All of the weapons, John realizes; not a single one is spared for the other three men, and that spells trouble if John’s ever heard it. “Follow along, Colonel.” He takes a few steps towards the Gate and one of the guards detaches from the group to punch in an address that John can’t see from his position. Kolya turns back to face the three men with John. “You’ll all come as well,” he adds, as if it’s an afterthought. “Resist, and Colonel Sheppard starts breathing through a few new holes in his chest.”
John can feel Mitchell swearing in the back of his skull as solidly as he can feel Ronon practically vibrating in his coat with the urge to snap Koyla’s ribs one by one. Jackson is oddly silent, a small frown on his features as he reaches to scratch behind his ear, but he starts walking when the rest of them move to follow Kolya’s merry band of terrorists through the event horizon.
The planet they gate to is cold and damp and smells weird, which kind of fits with John’s idea of what Kolya’s evil lair would be like, if he’d given it much thought in the past. The four of them are shoved along a path, muddy and narrow, until they reach a dilapidated Genii-style house, complete with secret underground bunker circa World War Two. Mitchell whistles as they’re shoved below ground and into a cell.
“Nice place you got here,” he says, insanely cheerful, as a guard searches him and strips his weapons away. “Very Berlin, 1946. I like it.”
“Mitchell,” John hisses, but the guard doesn’t react at all as he pulls knife after knife from various places on Mitchell’s body. John stares and counts, and Mitchell grins as he catches John’s eye.
“Gotta hope they miss one,” he says, and John just wants to make him stop smiling, because it’s got to be pissing everyone off, and -
Oh. Oh, right, John realizes as the guard pulls knife number nine from somewhere in Mitchell’s pants. Distraction, because he’s used to being the leader and used to taking one for the team. John glares in Mitchell’s direction - I’m on to you - because this is his enemy, his galaxy, and it’s fucking well his responsibility, not Mitchell’s.
“They will, unless they strip-search you,” John tosses back as blandly as he can manage. Mitchell’s grin disappears for a split-second - I got this, don’t worry, don’t do this - before it slips back into place, and he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it off in one smooth motion before dropping it to the floor.
The guard actually takes a step back and John swears pretty violently in his head, because it’s so Mitchell that John could just kill him. The guard recovers in less time than John thought he might and steps back into Mitchell’s personal space, calmly swinging the butt of his gun into Mitchell’s solar plexus. Mitchell chokes and bends forward a little, which is more than John’s ever seen him react to anything, and he’s three steps from Mitchell when Kolya’s voice ghosts into the room.
“Leave him be, Colonel Sheppard.” John stops instantly, because the guard now has the barrel of the gun buried in Mitchell’s stomach. He’s looking over John’s shoulder, face perfectly blank as he looks at what John can only assume is Kolya. “Another step, and Amic here will put a bullet through your friend’s stomach.”
John takes a careful breath, clenching his fists as the guards in front of Ronon and Jackson point their guns at the other men. Kolya’s chuckle sounds half-insane as he walks up right behind John.
“You see, Colonel Sheppard, I’ve learned a few things about you,” he says in a conversational tone. “I’ve learned that I can hit you and hurt you and give you to a Wraith for its midday meal, but you’ll just spit in my face and refuse to give me what I want.” His smile is twisted. “There’s nothing I can do to you that will make you give me what I’m looking for. So, I asked myself, what could I do to get what I want from you?”
John can already tell where this is going. He doesn’t like it, and the urge to reach behind him and strangle Kolya is tempered only by the fact that the rest of his team would be dead before he could get a good throttling in, were he to try it.
“You’re so self-sacrificing and noble,” Kolya continues, and it’s an accusation, not a compliment. “I realized that hurting you would never give me anything but my own satisfaction. No, if I were to get what I wanted, I’d have to hurt those close to you.”
There’s a hiss from John’s left, and when he turns there’s blood trailing down Jackson’s arm. The woman in front of him - Vira, John recalls from before - is wiping a knife absently across her pants, blood smearing as she moves her hand.
Kolya is right behind John when he chuckles again, and John fights the urge to elbow him in the stomach, to turn and grab his face and smash it down into John’s knee. “I think that I have a much better chance of getting what I need this way, don’t you?”
They’re chained to the manacles in the wall - cliché, but effective - and the guards leave, until it’s just Kolya in the cell with them. He stands tall in front of John, smiling that deranged little smile as he speaks. “I’ll give you a list of what I want, Colonel, and then give you and your compatriots some time to talk it over.”
“I’m not giving you anything,” John spits out, looking straight at Kolya and narrowing his eyes.
Kolya keeps the smile pasted to his face. “I need the stores of C4 that you keep in Atlantis, your stock of P90s and 9mms, ammunition, and medical supplies.” He pauses. “And your Puddlejumpers too, I think.” The grin stretches. “After all, I’ll need something big to test the C4 on, won’t I?”
With that, Kolya turns and walks out of the room.
There’s silence in the cell for a few stretched-out seconds, until Mitchell gives a low whistle. “Wow, Sheppard, when you make enemies you don’t fuck around, do you?”
“Thought he was dead,” Ronon snarls.
John shrugs as well as he can while shackled to the wall. “So did I.”
“He will be,” Ronon replies, and it sounds like a threat and a promise all at once. “Soon.”
John turns his head and surveys Jackson. The man hasn’t said a word since arriving at the compound. “Hey, Doc,” he tries, and Jackson turns to face him. “How’s the arm?”
“Oh, you know,” Jackson says dryly. “Just another day in the Pegasus Galaxy, from what I hear.”
Right now, John can only agree.
Kolya drops by later - it’s probably about an hour, in John’s estimation - and he’s got a few of his minions with him. “Your decision, Colonel?” he asks.
“Go to hell,” John snarls back. Koyla’s head dips a little, looking like he’d expected the answer, and he leaves.
The minions stay. They advance, actually, until they’re all clustered around Mitchell. Mitchell shoots John a cocky grin as the soldiers lay into him, which he keeps up for as long as he can through the grunts of pain. When the soldiers pull back and leave, Mitchell is sagging in the chains that hold him to the wall, eyes closed and breathing in regulated shallow gasps.
“Mitchell,” Jackson calls, shuffling in Mitchell’s direction but stopped by the chains. “Hey. Cameron.”
“Yeah,” Mitchell grunts out, eyes still closed. “M’okay. They cracked a rib.” He breathes in a little more deeply, coughs, spits what John hopes isn’t blood. “Possibly more than one.”
“Fuckers,” John rages, banging his hands uselessly against the wall. “Maybe I could-”
“Finish that thought and I’ll kick your ass, Sheppard,” Mitchell says warningly, and beat to hell or not, John believes him. “Lorne’s used to pulling your fat out of the fire by this point, right? Hang in there. They’ll find us.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken, Colonel Mitchell,” Kolya’s voice slithers across the room. “The devices you have in your bodies that reveal your location have been disabled. There’s no way your friends will find you before I’ve killed you all.”
“Pleasant,” Jackson says calmly. “Listen, Commander Kolya-”
“Have you changed your mind, Colonel Sheppard?” Kolya says, not raising his voice at all but still easily heard over Jackson’s speech.
John closes his eyes. “Go to hell,” he repeats, and if he means it a little more but stands behind it a little less, he’s probably the only one who notices.
They walk towards Ronon this time, and the taller man gives them a feral grin and kicks out at the nearest one, sending him sprawling to the ground with a satisfying crunch. The rest descend upon him quickly, lashing out with fists and beating him with guns and what appears to be an inelegant version of Teyla’s bantos rods. John doesn’t watch this time, but he can hear the repeated sounds of fists and wood and metal hitting skin along with Ronon’s gritted gasps.
“Ronon,” John says when the guards exit, but Ronon doesn’t answer. There’s blood everywhere, running down his arms and face and into his shirt, and his head is dangling down on his chest. “Ronon!”
“He’s alive,” Mitchell’s voice sounds from Ronon’s other side. “Sheppard, calm down. He’s still breathing. He’ll be fine.”
“Doubtful,” John snarls, but Mitchell’s only trying to help and it’s not like there’s anything any of them can do about it right now, anyway, so John takes in a deep breath. “Yeah. Still breathing.”
“What’s the plan?” Jackson asks, and John tilts his head back to rest against the cell wall, because he’d known the question would come but he has no fucking idea what to say.
“We wait,” Mitchell finally replies when it’s apparent that John’s not going to. It’s his leader voice, full of cocky confidence, and John can tell that Mitchell knows he’s not fooling anyone, but it’s easier to go with what’s expected of you than to admit defeat. “We wait and we try to come up with something, so by the time Lorne gets his shit together and finds us, we’re already gone.”
It’s more of a plan than the rest of them have come up with so John mutters an agreement and spends the next hour or so listening to Jackson and Mitchell bounce ideas off of one another while he waits for Ronon to wake up.
He does, finally, with a sound that John’s never heard from the man before. “Ronon?” John asks, and Ronon makes the sound again. “You okay, buddy?”
“No,” Ronon mumbles. “Fuzzy. Leg’s hurt.”
“All of you’s hurt,” Mitchell says evenly, and John shoots him a glare but Mitchell’s looking carefully at Ronon. “Ronon. Can you lift your head and look at me?”
Ronon seems to debate it for a minute before he slowly tilts his head back and looks in Mitchell’s direction. Mitchell nods. “Remember my name?”
Ronon’s brow creases a little. “Fuzzy,” he repeats, and John realizes that Mitchell is trying to check for a concussion. “You’re with Teal’c and Carter.”
“Yeah,” Mitchell encourages. “Cam Mitchell.”
“Mitchell,” Ronon repeats. “Colonel.”
“There you go,” Mitchell says easily, and he finally looks at John. “He’ll be fine.”
“Leg’s hurt,” Ronon repeats. “Broken.”
John can’t see Ronon’s legs - between the awkward angle and the darkness of the room, they’re hidden pretty well from view, but John has no doubt that even a concussed Ronon knows what a broken leg feels like.
“Okay,” Mitchell replies evenly. “We can work with that.”
“Plan?” Ronon asks, his head tilting up, eyes clearing a little.
“Not really,” John tells him. “Got any ideas?”
Ronon makes a movement that’s probably meant to be a shrug. “Kill ‘em all, shoot our way out?”
John grins. “Oh yeah,” he says to Mitchell. “He’ll be fine.”
The four continue to think, occasionally tossing out ideas or half-formed plans, some more serious than others. A careful evaluation reveals that between them, they still have a block of C4 with a detonator, six knives (five are Ronon’s), and a bunch of twist-tie handcuffs that Jackson insists are a standard part of his offworld travel kit.
They fall silent when the sound of footsteps clatters down the hallway. Kolya appears in the doorway and sweeps his eyes around the room, settling on Ronon. “I see you’ve remained in the land of the living. Well done, Specialist Dex.”
Ronon spits on the ground and glares defiantly at Kolya who smiles placidly before turning to John. “Your decision, Colonel?”
“Go to hell,” John replies yet again, because really, he’s hoping the ground below Kolya’s feet somehow suddenly agrees with him and opens up to swallow the man alive.
Kolya’s smile turns cold, malicious, and that’s when John figures they’re getting into real trouble, because calm Kolya might be the batshit insane kind of dangerous, but angry Kolya brings calculated rage that can’t be reasoned with. John’s pretty sure, now, that barring some sort of miracle, he’s just doomed them all. It’s no longer about Kolya making ridiculous demands of John and Atlantis. No, now it’s personal, and John can tell the instant Kolya decides to kill them instead of holding them ransom, because his back straightens and his shoulders pull back and he turns crisply on his heel and nods to the guard at the door before walking out, head held high.
There’s going to be more torture first, John knows; Kolya never makes anything easy, not even death. It’ll be as drawn-out as possible, Kolya hurting them in as many ways as he can think to do, and he’ll probably let them starve or bleed out in the end rather than actually doing them the mercy of shooting them. John closes his eyes and tries not to think about the grisly death warrants he’s just signed.
“Chill out.” Mitchell’s voice cuts through John’s thoughts, and John lifts his head to glance at the other man. Mitchell’s still using the leader voice, but his face is an open book, and John can tell he believes what he’s saying when he continues. “We’ll figure something out.”
Mitchell believes that, he truly does, but he’s never been up against Kolya.
The guards enter then, dragging in some sort of box, which they set in the middle of the room with a thud. There are four metal loops sticking out of the box, two on the top and two on one of the sides, and John hears Jackson’s muttered curses as they all study it.
The guards crowd around John, fastening new restraints around his wrists and locking them tightly before undoing the original restraints and pulling John towards the box. His hands are lined up with the metal loops in the top of the box, and the guards make quick work of fastening John’s hands to the loops. John starts to clue in when he’s forced to kneel, his body leaning over the box, and his thighs are spread apart, each leg then fastened to one of the remaining loops. Jackson’s swearing increases in pitch and intensity as Mitchell starts protesting loudly in English and Ronon gasps painfully, probably trying to fight his way out of his chains even in his injured state.
“Go to hell,” John says evenly to the man behind him, who doesn’t say a word as he works John’s pants down, just enough to bare him. He can’t do anything, can’t get away, but he still jerks and tries to lean away as the man presses right up against him, hard cock against John’s ass, and John closes his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe as the man pushes in, no prep, no lube, nothing, and it fucking hurts like burning and stabbing, white hot heat in all the worst ways, fire up and down his spine as the man pulls out and shoves back in, over and over and over until he grunts and comes deep inside John’s body. He steps back and says something in a low voice that John can’t hear, and then there’s another pair of hand on his hips, another cock against his skin, another soldier pushing in roughly.
By the fourth one it doesn’t hurt as much; John’s loose enough that he can just lay his head down against the box and take it. He’s not sure if it helps or not that he can still hear Jackson swearing and Mitchell’s angry seething. Ronon’s not making any sound, nothing at all, and John’s pretty sure that means that Ronon is trying his damndest to get free, get over, get these guys off of John.
There are six in total, and John has no idea how long it takes for them to decide they’re done with him, only that when they finish they just leave the room, not bothering to put John back in his manacles on the wall or even to pull his pants back up. John’s pretty sure he’s bleeding, knows for fact that he’s full of come and that he feels dirtier than he ever has in his life, splayed open and fucked raw and left in position for when they decide it’s time for round two.
The others don’t say anything when the door finally closes, and John’s oddly grateful for it, though he’s pretty sure they just have no fucking clue what to say. There’s nothing to say, so he’s glad they don’t try.
The door opens again later and John doesn’t even lift his head, doesn’t even bother opening his eyes. Let them think they’ve broken him. It doesn’t matter right now.
But someone’s kneeling beside him, awkwardly reaching between his legs with a damp cloth, gently rubbing away what they can reach, and then small hands are pulling his pants back around his waist and John is absurdly, absurdly thankful for that small mercy. He finally opens his eyes and looks into the pale face of Vira, the same woman who had held Ailen captive and sliced Jackson’s arm earlier.
“Can you walk?” she asks him quietly. John closes his eyes and evaluates.
“Not without help,” he finally manages, and she nods as she leans over his body, reaching for the manacles at his wrists. She gives them a quick inspection and pulls two pins from her hair, inserting them into the locks and twisting expertly until they pop free. She releases his legs as well and John slumps to the side, but Vira catches him and sets him against the box.
“What are you doing?” Mitchell asks, and John can tell Mitchell’s trying to figure out if this is a trap or that miracle they’d all been hoping for. John’s trying to figure the same thing.
“That was wrong,” Vira spits out. “When Commander Kolya said he had a way to get supplies - I never thought -”
“That’s Kolya for you,” Ronon says, tone merciless. “He’ll get you what you want, but the price is usually a lot more than you thought you’d have to pay.”
Vira doesn’t respond, but she stands and makes her way to Jackson, freeing his hands from the wall before proceeding to Mitchell. She pauses before inserting her pins into his cuffs. “Are you going to attack me?”
Mitchell looks at her evenly. “Not right away, but don’t think that means I trust you.”
Vira nods and loosens Mitchell’s hands. Mitchell taps her on the shoulder and holds his hand out for the pins, and Vira looks at him, confused. Mitchell jerks his head to the door. “You want to help us, go get our weapons,” he tells her in a voice that John would obey, even in Vira’s shoes. It’s steel edged over murder, an order phrased as a suggestion.
Jackson is already at John’s side, fingers probing gently at the bruises left by the shackles but not going any lower, when Mitchell calls his name. “You unlock the cuffs, I’ll catch him,” Mitchell says, and wraps a careful arm around Ronon’s waist as Jackson slips the pins into the cuffs. It takes him a little longer than it did Vira, but the cuffs tumble off quickly enough, and Ronon slumps into Mitchell’s side.
“Broken,” Ronon confirms, looking at his right leg with a grimace. “Didn’t break the skin, though, Probably a simple break.”
“Good news,” Mitchell tells him as they walk slowly to the box John’s still leaning on. Mitchell lowers Ronon until he’s sitting on the box, then crouches next to John. “Sheppard, you still with us?”
“Close enough,” John says, and the door opens again, Vira slipping back through with her arms full of weapons.
It’s an interesting procession, John thinks as they make their way to an alternate exit Vira knows about. Vira’s in the front, checking for other Genii as she leads them through the twisting underground complex; Mitchell is dragging Ronon along; Jackson has a solid arm around John’s waist, supporting a good deal of his weight. They’re all armed again, and John feels better now, holding his P90 and Beretta, than he had when Vira first cleaned him up.
“It’s not far form here,” Vira says finally, peering around yet another corner. “We should reach-”
A single shot rings out and Vira falls, crumpling into an undignified heap to the floor. John watches as Mitchell braces Ronon against the wall and pulls up his P90 in the same move; he’s a little surprised to find that Jackson’s doing pretty much the same thing with him. John shakes his head quickly and brings his own weapon up, looking around.
“You’re not getting out of here. Not today, Colonel,” Kolya’s voice floats from the other side of the corner. “Today, I kill you.”
“Not if I kill you first,” John says, wishing he could see, wishing he could aim and pull the trigger and shoot Kolya again and again, make sure he’s really and truly dead this time. John strains to listen, to hear where Kolya might be.
“Ah, but it’s my turn this time,” Kolya taunts. “Remember, you got to shoot me last time. We teach our children to take turns on my planet, Colonel. Do you not do the same on your Earth?”
John smirks, though Kolya can’t see it. “I was kicked out or nursery school, Kolya. Bad manners.”
Mitchell has his head cocked and eyes squinted, and John turns his head to look at the man. Mitchell throws a few hand signals and John nods once, sharply, as he calls out. “Hey, Kolya?”
“Colonel,” Kolya responds, sounding like he’s playing a game he’s sure he’s going to win.
“I’m cutting in line,” he sing-songs, and Mitchell jumps out and fires once before rolling to the other side of the hallway, and there’s only deafening silence.
Finally, Jackson speaks. “Got him, Mitchell?”
“Yeah,” Mitchell responds. “Chest. Should have gone near enough his heart.”
John struggles to stand the whole way up and rounds the corner, still leaning heavily on the wall. Kolya is down, a pool of blood slowly spreading away from his body, and his eyes are glassy and dim.
John shoots him twice in the forehead anyway. Better safe than having that fucking bastard turn up in his life yet again.
Jackson is crouching next to Vira when John returns. “She’s breathing,” he says quietly.
“Bring her,” John orders, and limps his way in the direction Vira had been indicating a few moments earlier. The group follows along, and John finds the staircase soon enough, leading his team into the open air.
The bunker is near enough to the Gate that they can walk there in fifteen minutes, even given their injuries. The Gate itself in entirely unguarded, and John smirks at Kolya’s arrogance before he dials to the Alpha site.
The Marines on the other side rush in to help as soon as they materialize, and John knows it’s been a bad day when re realizes that he’s grateful to hear Woolsey’s voice over the radio. “Kolya?” he repeats when John finishes the quick and dirty version.
John nods. “I’ll write it up for you later, Mr. Woolsey, but I think we all need to get to the infirmary.”
“Right, of course.” The man looks flustered, embarrassed, like he can’t believe he didn’t think of that. “Come on through, Colonel. We’re got the medical team waiting for you.”
Their visit to the infirmary is longer for John than it is for any of the others; they’re all dehydrated and overtired, but other than that, Jackson’s only got a slice on his arm and a few of Mitchell’s ribs are cracked. Ronon’s worse; his leg requires surgery, but he pulls through it well enough and is hobbling around on crutches before the first night is through. Even Vira is given a clean bill of health and assigned to guarded guest quarters after minor surgery and a day of observation.
John is a different story. He’s in one of the private rooms in the back, treated only by Carson and Nurse Marie, and it looks like his visitor list is pretty limited, too.
“I’m fine,” he tries to insist, but Carson frowns at him and Nurse Marie smiles, and John doesn’t get it until Dr. Faliere, Heightmeyer’s replacement, comes in on his second day in the bed.
“No,” he says when the short brunette sits down. “I’m fine, don’t want to talk about it. Go away.”
She just smiles and puts her notebook under her chair. “You’ll have to tell me eventually, Colonel, to get back on active duty. Might as well get it over with.”
John thinks about it for a minute - okay, he admits privately, he’s sulking - before he sighs and recounts the details to the woman, who nods along but doesn’t record anything doesn’t comment, doesn’t ask for anything further. When he finishes, she just nods again and stands to leave.
“What, that’s it?” John asks her, surprised.
Faliere smiles and shakes her head. “Of course not. But it’s enough for now.”
Jackson drops in and makes small talk, but it’s obvious he doesn’t know what to say, which John finds highly amusing. Jackson’s spent a lot of time at the bedsides of teammates, and yet he’s still not good at it.
Mitchell stops in, too, and looks him dead in the eye. “Sorry you couldn’t do it.”
John shrugs. “He’s dead. Good enough.”
”Still,” Mitchell says, and that’s all they say on the subject.
Ronon comes in after visiting hours are over, opening the door without making a sound even with the crutches and dropping into a chair beside the bed.
“I would have given him whatever he wanted,” John says after a while.
“Yeah.”
“I would have stayed if he’d let you go.”
“Yeah,” Ronon repeats. There’s more silence.
“He’s dead,” Ronon comments later.
“Very.”
“Dead forever this time.”
John lifts half his mouth into a smile. “Kind of a sad commentary on our lives at this point.”
Ronon matches John’s grin, and something in John lightens and flies away. Kolya’s dead, forever this time.
When he takes in a deep breath, he feels cleaner, refreshed, like breathing air that Kolya can’t any more is rejuvenating in itself.
“Hey,” John says as Ronon gets up to leave, and the taller man turns back. “Tell Faliere to stop by tomorrow. I’m ready to get out of here.”
Author: somehowunbroken
Fandom: SGA/SG1
Characters: John, Ronon, Cam, Daniel
Word Count: 5,040
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: non-con, violence, torture, character death (but not a main character)
Notes: Set in the hazy post-series future, after Atlantis returns to Pegasus. For sian1359, my recipient in this year's sheppard_hc exchange. Happy holidays, and I hope you enjoy!
It’s a joint mission, a sort of Pegasus meet-and-greet, and John hates his life some days, because dragging SG-1 around to their trading partners makes him feel like a damn zookeeper. The problem is, he’s not sure who’s the zoo - the Pegasus natives and assorted members of SG-1 are gawking at each other pretty much equally. John sighs and pastes on his placate-the-natives smile, the one that he brings out when things start going pear-shaped, and claps his arm across Jackson’s back. “Sorry, folks,” he tells the Nilarian contingent, “but if I don’t get the Doc here back to Atlantis by curfew, his dad will never let me take him out again.”
There’s an assortment of reactions - confusion from the Nilari, a glare from Jackson, and snorted laughter from Mitchell and Ronon, who know that O’Neill’s waiting for them pretty much right at the Gate in Atlantis. John just steers Jackson away from the village and up the path. Mission accomplished, or well enough; they’ll even be back early enough for John to nab the last of the butterscotch pudding from the mess if this keeps up.
Fifteen seconds later, John wants to kick his own ass, because seriously, why would he even have thought that when there was still a chance for things to go terribly, terribly wrong? Because those are Genii hats and Genii uniforms and, yeah, that’s Kolya, the rat bastard, practically preening with that smug little smile on his face.
“Kolya,” John spits, and Kolya smiles - actually smiles - in response.
“Colonel Sheppard,” he drawls out. “I had the feeling you might be in the area today.” Kolya shifts and John gets a glimpse of Ailen, one of the Nilari townspeople, held in a chokehold. John snarls and takes half a step forward, and Kolya laughs. “Let him go, Vira.”
The young woman with her arm around Ailen’s throat suddenly releases her grip and shoves at his back, and Ailen stumbles off the path and hits his knees, scrambling further into the brush. The assorted Genii laugh.
“Let me guess,” Mitchell says brightly. “Friends of yours, Sheppard?”
Mitchell’s been a friend for years, and John knows from several personal experiences that the man is damn good to have on your side in a fight. His sense of humor, however, makes John want to punch him at times.
“Remember that dog I told you I kicked?” John snaps back, waits for Mitchell’s nod, and jerks his head at the group. “Meet Kolya.”
“Enough,” Kolya says almost lazily, and the Genii snap to attention immediately, leveling their weapons at John. All of the weapons, John realizes; not a single one is spared for the other three men, and that spells trouble if John’s ever heard it. “Follow along, Colonel.” He takes a few steps towards the Gate and one of the guards detaches from the group to punch in an address that John can’t see from his position. Kolya turns back to face the three men with John. “You’ll all come as well,” he adds, as if it’s an afterthought. “Resist, and Colonel Sheppard starts breathing through a few new holes in his chest.”
John can feel Mitchell swearing in the back of his skull as solidly as he can feel Ronon practically vibrating in his coat with the urge to snap Koyla’s ribs one by one. Jackson is oddly silent, a small frown on his features as he reaches to scratch behind his ear, but he starts walking when the rest of them move to follow Kolya’s merry band of terrorists through the event horizon.
The planet they gate to is cold and damp and smells weird, which kind of fits with John’s idea of what Kolya’s evil lair would be like, if he’d given it much thought in the past. The four of them are shoved along a path, muddy and narrow, until they reach a dilapidated Genii-style house, complete with secret underground bunker circa World War Two. Mitchell whistles as they’re shoved below ground and into a cell.
“Nice place you got here,” he says, insanely cheerful, as a guard searches him and strips his weapons away. “Very Berlin, 1946. I like it.”
“Mitchell,” John hisses, but the guard doesn’t react at all as he pulls knife after knife from various places on Mitchell’s body. John stares and counts, and Mitchell grins as he catches John’s eye.
“Gotta hope they miss one,” he says, and John just wants to make him stop smiling, because it’s got to be pissing everyone off, and -
Oh. Oh, right, John realizes as the guard pulls knife number nine from somewhere in Mitchell’s pants. Distraction, because he’s used to being the leader and used to taking one for the team. John glares in Mitchell’s direction - I’m on to you - because this is his enemy, his galaxy, and it’s fucking well his responsibility, not Mitchell’s.
“They will, unless they strip-search you,” John tosses back as blandly as he can manage. Mitchell’s grin disappears for a split-second - I got this, don’t worry, don’t do this - before it slips back into place, and he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it off in one smooth motion before dropping it to the floor.
The guard actually takes a step back and John swears pretty violently in his head, because it’s so Mitchell that John could just kill him. The guard recovers in less time than John thought he might and steps back into Mitchell’s personal space, calmly swinging the butt of his gun into Mitchell’s solar plexus. Mitchell chokes and bends forward a little, which is more than John’s ever seen him react to anything, and he’s three steps from Mitchell when Kolya’s voice ghosts into the room.
“Leave him be, Colonel Sheppard.” John stops instantly, because the guard now has the barrel of the gun buried in Mitchell’s stomach. He’s looking over John’s shoulder, face perfectly blank as he looks at what John can only assume is Kolya. “Another step, and Amic here will put a bullet through your friend’s stomach.”
John takes a careful breath, clenching his fists as the guards in front of Ronon and Jackson point their guns at the other men. Kolya’s chuckle sounds half-insane as he walks up right behind John.
“You see, Colonel Sheppard, I’ve learned a few things about you,” he says in a conversational tone. “I’ve learned that I can hit you and hurt you and give you to a Wraith for its midday meal, but you’ll just spit in my face and refuse to give me what I want.” His smile is twisted. “There’s nothing I can do to you that will make you give me what I’m looking for. So, I asked myself, what could I do to get what I want from you?”
John can already tell where this is going. He doesn’t like it, and the urge to reach behind him and strangle Kolya is tempered only by the fact that the rest of his team would be dead before he could get a good throttling in, were he to try it.
“You’re so self-sacrificing and noble,” Kolya continues, and it’s an accusation, not a compliment. “I realized that hurting you would never give me anything but my own satisfaction. No, if I were to get what I wanted, I’d have to hurt those close to you.”
There’s a hiss from John’s left, and when he turns there’s blood trailing down Jackson’s arm. The woman in front of him - Vira, John recalls from before - is wiping a knife absently across her pants, blood smearing as she moves her hand.
Kolya is right behind John when he chuckles again, and John fights the urge to elbow him in the stomach, to turn and grab his face and smash it down into John’s knee. “I think that I have a much better chance of getting what I need this way, don’t you?”
They’re chained to the manacles in the wall - cliché, but effective - and the guards leave, until it’s just Kolya in the cell with them. He stands tall in front of John, smiling that deranged little smile as he speaks. “I’ll give you a list of what I want, Colonel, and then give you and your compatriots some time to talk it over.”
“I’m not giving you anything,” John spits out, looking straight at Kolya and narrowing his eyes.
Kolya keeps the smile pasted to his face. “I need the stores of C4 that you keep in Atlantis, your stock of P90s and 9mms, ammunition, and medical supplies.” He pauses. “And your Puddlejumpers too, I think.” The grin stretches. “After all, I’ll need something big to test the C4 on, won’t I?”
With that, Kolya turns and walks out of the room.
There’s silence in the cell for a few stretched-out seconds, until Mitchell gives a low whistle. “Wow, Sheppard, when you make enemies you don’t fuck around, do you?”
“Thought he was dead,” Ronon snarls.
John shrugs as well as he can while shackled to the wall. “So did I.”
“He will be,” Ronon replies, and it sounds like a threat and a promise all at once. “Soon.”
John turns his head and surveys Jackson. The man hasn’t said a word since arriving at the compound. “Hey, Doc,” he tries, and Jackson turns to face him. “How’s the arm?”
“Oh, you know,” Jackson says dryly. “Just another day in the Pegasus Galaxy, from what I hear.”
Right now, John can only agree.
Kolya drops by later - it’s probably about an hour, in John’s estimation - and he’s got a few of his minions with him. “Your decision, Colonel?” he asks.
“Go to hell,” John snarls back. Koyla’s head dips a little, looking like he’d expected the answer, and he leaves.
The minions stay. They advance, actually, until they’re all clustered around Mitchell. Mitchell shoots John a cocky grin as the soldiers lay into him, which he keeps up for as long as he can through the grunts of pain. When the soldiers pull back and leave, Mitchell is sagging in the chains that hold him to the wall, eyes closed and breathing in regulated shallow gasps.
“Mitchell,” Jackson calls, shuffling in Mitchell’s direction but stopped by the chains. “Hey. Cameron.”
“Yeah,” Mitchell grunts out, eyes still closed. “M’okay. They cracked a rib.” He breathes in a little more deeply, coughs, spits what John hopes isn’t blood. “Possibly more than one.”
“Fuckers,” John rages, banging his hands uselessly against the wall. “Maybe I could-”
“Finish that thought and I’ll kick your ass, Sheppard,” Mitchell says warningly, and beat to hell or not, John believes him. “Lorne’s used to pulling your fat out of the fire by this point, right? Hang in there. They’ll find us.”
“That’s where you’re mistaken, Colonel Mitchell,” Kolya’s voice slithers across the room. “The devices you have in your bodies that reveal your location have been disabled. There’s no way your friends will find you before I’ve killed you all.”
“Pleasant,” Jackson says calmly. “Listen, Commander Kolya-”
“Have you changed your mind, Colonel Sheppard?” Kolya says, not raising his voice at all but still easily heard over Jackson’s speech.
John closes his eyes. “Go to hell,” he repeats, and if he means it a little more but stands behind it a little less, he’s probably the only one who notices.
They walk towards Ronon this time, and the taller man gives them a feral grin and kicks out at the nearest one, sending him sprawling to the ground with a satisfying crunch. The rest descend upon him quickly, lashing out with fists and beating him with guns and what appears to be an inelegant version of Teyla’s bantos rods. John doesn’t watch this time, but he can hear the repeated sounds of fists and wood and metal hitting skin along with Ronon’s gritted gasps.
“Ronon,” John says when the guards exit, but Ronon doesn’t answer. There’s blood everywhere, running down his arms and face and into his shirt, and his head is dangling down on his chest. “Ronon!”
“He’s alive,” Mitchell’s voice sounds from Ronon’s other side. “Sheppard, calm down. He’s still breathing. He’ll be fine.”
“Doubtful,” John snarls, but Mitchell’s only trying to help and it’s not like there’s anything any of them can do about it right now, anyway, so John takes in a deep breath. “Yeah. Still breathing.”
“What’s the plan?” Jackson asks, and John tilts his head back to rest against the cell wall, because he’d known the question would come but he has no fucking idea what to say.
“We wait,” Mitchell finally replies when it’s apparent that John’s not going to. It’s his leader voice, full of cocky confidence, and John can tell that Mitchell knows he’s not fooling anyone, but it’s easier to go with what’s expected of you than to admit defeat. “We wait and we try to come up with something, so by the time Lorne gets his shit together and finds us, we’re already gone.”
It’s more of a plan than the rest of them have come up with so John mutters an agreement and spends the next hour or so listening to Jackson and Mitchell bounce ideas off of one another while he waits for Ronon to wake up.
He does, finally, with a sound that John’s never heard from the man before. “Ronon?” John asks, and Ronon makes the sound again. “You okay, buddy?”
“No,” Ronon mumbles. “Fuzzy. Leg’s hurt.”
“All of you’s hurt,” Mitchell says evenly, and John shoots him a glare but Mitchell’s looking carefully at Ronon. “Ronon. Can you lift your head and look at me?”
Ronon seems to debate it for a minute before he slowly tilts his head back and looks in Mitchell’s direction. Mitchell nods. “Remember my name?”
Ronon’s brow creases a little. “Fuzzy,” he repeats, and John realizes that Mitchell is trying to check for a concussion. “You’re with Teal’c and Carter.”
“Yeah,” Mitchell encourages. “Cam Mitchell.”
“Mitchell,” Ronon repeats. “Colonel.”
“There you go,” Mitchell says easily, and he finally looks at John. “He’ll be fine.”
“Leg’s hurt,” Ronon repeats. “Broken.”
John can’t see Ronon’s legs - between the awkward angle and the darkness of the room, they’re hidden pretty well from view, but John has no doubt that even a concussed Ronon knows what a broken leg feels like.
“Okay,” Mitchell replies evenly. “We can work with that.”
“Plan?” Ronon asks, his head tilting up, eyes clearing a little.
“Not really,” John tells him. “Got any ideas?”
Ronon makes a movement that’s probably meant to be a shrug. “Kill ‘em all, shoot our way out?”
John grins. “Oh yeah,” he says to Mitchell. “He’ll be fine.”
The four continue to think, occasionally tossing out ideas or half-formed plans, some more serious than others. A careful evaluation reveals that between them, they still have a block of C4 with a detonator, six knives (five are Ronon’s), and a bunch of twist-tie handcuffs that Jackson insists are a standard part of his offworld travel kit.
They fall silent when the sound of footsteps clatters down the hallway. Kolya appears in the doorway and sweeps his eyes around the room, settling on Ronon. “I see you’ve remained in the land of the living. Well done, Specialist Dex.”
Ronon spits on the ground and glares defiantly at Kolya who smiles placidly before turning to John. “Your decision, Colonel?”
“Go to hell,” John replies yet again, because really, he’s hoping the ground below Kolya’s feet somehow suddenly agrees with him and opens up to swallow the man alive.
Kolya’s smile turns cold, malicious, and that’s when John figures they’re getting into real trouble, because calm Kolya might be the batshit insane kind of dangerous, but angry Kolya brings calculated rage that can’t be reasoned with. John’s pretty sure, now, that barring some sort of miracle, he’s just doomed them all. It’s no longer about Kolya making ridiculous demands of John and Atlantis. No, now it’s personal, and John can tell the instant Kolya decides to kill them instead of holding them ransom, because his back straightens and his shoulders pull back and he turns crisply on his heel and nods to the guard at the door before walking out, head held high.
There’s going to be more torture first, John knows; Kolya never makes anything easy, not even death. It’ll be as drawn-out as possible, Kolya hurting them in as many ways as he can think to do, and he’ll probably let them starve or bleed out in the end rather than actually doing them the mercy of shooting them. John closes his eyes and tries not to think about the grisly death warrants he’s just signed.
“Chill out.” Mitchell’s voice cuts through John’s thoughts, and John lifts his head to glance at the other man. Mitchell’s still using the leader voice, but his face is an open book, and John can tell he believes what he’s saying when he continues. “We’ll figure something out.”
Mitchell believes that, he truly does, but he’s never been up against Kolya.
The guards enter then, dragging in some sort of box, which they set in the middle of the room with a thud. There are four metal loops sticking out of the box, two on the top and two on one of the sides, and John hears Jackson’s muttered curses as they all study it.
The guards crowd around John, fastening new restraints around his wrists and locking them tightly before undoing the original restraints and pulling John towards the box. His hands are lined up with the metal loops in the top of the box, and the guards make quick work of fastening John’s hands to the loops. John starts to clue in when he’s forced to kneel, his body leaning over the box, and his thighs are spread apart, each leg then fastened to one of the remaining loops. Jackson’s swearing increases in pitch and intensity as Mitchell starts protesting loudly in English and Ronon gasps painfully, probably trying to fight his way out of his chains even in his injured state.
“Go to hell,” John says evenly to the man behind him, who doesn’t say a word as he works John’s pants down, just enough to bare him. He can’t do anything, can’t get away, but he still jerks and tries to lean away as the man presses right up against him, hard cock against John’s ass, and John closes his eyes and tries to remember how to breathe as the man pushes in, no prep, no lube, nothing, and it fucking hurts like burning and stabbing, white hot heat in all the worst ways, fire up and down his spine as the man pulls out and shoves back in, over and over and over until he grunts and comes deep inside John’s body. He steps back and says something in a low voice that John can’t hear, and then there’s another pair of hand on his hips, another cock against his skin, another soldier pushing in roughly.
By the fourth one it doesn’t hurt as much; John’s loose enough that he can just lay his head down against the box and take it. He’s not sure if it helps or not that he can still hear Jackson swearing and Mitchell’s angry seething. Ronon’s not making any sound, nothing at all, and John’s pretty sure that means that Ronon is trying his damndest to get free, get over, get these guys off of John.
There are six in total, and John has no idea how long it takes for them to decide they’re done with him, only that when they finish they just leave the room, not bothering to put John back in his manacles on the wall or even to pull his pants back up. John’s pretty sure he’s bleeding, knows for fact that he’s full of come and that he feels dirtier than he ever has in his life, splayed open and fucked raw and left in position for when they decide it’s time for round two.
The others don’t say anything when the door finally closes, and John’s oddly grateful for it, though he’s pretty sure they just have no fucking clue what to say. There’s nothing to say, so he’s glad they don’t try.
The door opens again later and John doesn’t even lift his head, doesn’t even bother opening his eyes. Let them think they’ve broken him. It doesn’t matter right now.
But someone’s kneeling beside him, awkwardly reaching between his legs with a damp cloth, gently rubbing away what they can reach, and then small hands are pulling his pants back around his waist and John is absurdly, absurdly thankful for that small mercy. He finally opens his eyes and looks into the pale face of Vira, the same woman who had held Ailen captive and sliced Jackson’s arm earlier.
“Can you walk?” she asks him quietly. John closes his eyes and evaluates.
“Not without help,” he finally manages, and she nods as she leans over his body, reaching for the manacles at his wrists. She gives them a quick inspection and pulls two pins from her hair, inserting them into the locks and twisting expertly until they pop free. She releases his legs as well and John slumps to the side, but Vira catches him and sets him against the box.
“What are you doing?” Mitchell asks, and John can tell Mitchell’s trying to figure out if this is a trap or that miracle they’d all been hoping for. John’s trying to figure the same thing.
“That was wrong,” Vira spits out. “When Commander Kolya said he had a way to get supplies - I never thought -”
“That’s Kolya for you,” Ronon says, tone merciless. “He’ll get you what you want, but the price is usually a lot more than you thought you’d have to pay.”
Vira doesn’t respond, but she stands and makes her way to Jackson, freeing his hands from the wall before proceeding to Mitchell. She pauses before inserting her pins into his cuffs. “Are you going to attack me?”
Mitchell looks at her evenly. “Not right away, but don’t think that means I trust you.”
Vira nods and loosens Mitchell’s hands. Mitchell taps her on the shoulder and holds his hand out for the pins, and Vira looks at him, confused. Mitchell jerks his head to the door. “You want to help us, go get our weapons,” he tells her in a voice that John would obey, even in Vira’s shoes. It’s steel edged over murder, an order phrased as a suggestion.
Jackson is already at John’s side, fingers probing gently at the bruises left by the shackles but not going any lower, when Mitchell calls his name. “You unlock the cuffs, I’ll catch him,” Mitchell says, and wraps a careful arm around Ronon’s waist as Jackson slips the pins into the cuffs. It takes him a little longer than it did Vira, but the cuffs tumble off quickly enough, and Ronon slumps into Mitchell’s side.
“Broken,” Ronon confirms, looking at his right leg with a grimace. “Didn’t break the skin, though, Probably a simple break.”
“Good news,” Mitchell tells him as they walk slowly to the box John’s still leaning on. Mitchell lowers Ronon until he’s sitting on the box, then crouches next to John. “Sheppard, you still with us?”
“Close enough,” John says, and the door opens again, Vira slipping back through with her arms full of weapons.
It’s an interesting procession, John thinks as they make their way to an alternate exit Vira knows about. Vira’s in the front, checking for other Genii as she leads them through the twisting underground complex; Mitchell is dragging Ronon along; Jackson has a solid arm around John’s waist, supporting a good deal of his weight. They’re all armed again, and John feels better now, holding his P90 and Beretta, than he had when Vira first cleaned him up.
“It’s not far form here,” Vira says finally, peering around yet another corner. “We should reach-”
A single shot rings out and Vira falls, crumpling into an undignified heap to the floor. John watches as Mitchell braces Ronon against the wall and pulls up his P90 in the same move; he’s a little surprised to find that Jackson’s doing pretty much the same thing with him. John shakes his head quickly and brings his own weapon up, looking around.
“You’re not getting out of here. Not today, Colonel,” Kolya’s voice floats from the other side of the corner. “Today, I kill you.”
“Not if I kill you first,” John says, wishing he could see, wishing he could aim and pull the trigger and shoot Kolya again and again, make sure he’s really and truly dead this time. John strains to listen, to hear where Kolya might be.
“Ah, but it’s my turn this time,” Kolya taunts. “Remember, you got to shoot me last time. We teach our children to take turns on my planet, Colonel. Do you not do the same on your Earth?”
John smirks, though Kolya can’t see it. “I was kicked out or nursery school, Kolya. Bad manners.”
Mitchell has his head cocked and eyes squinted, and John turns his head to look at the man. Mitchell throws a few hand signals and John nods once, sharply, as he calls out. “Hey, Kolya?”
“Colonel,” Kolya responds, sounding like he’s playing a game he’s sure he’s going to win.
“I’m cutting in line,” he sing-songs, and Mitchell jumps out and fires once before rolling to the other side of the hallway, and there’s only deafening silence.
Finally, Jackson speaks. “Got him, Mitchell?”
“Yeah,” Mitchell responds. “Chest. Should have gone near enough his heart.”
John struggles to stand the whole way up and rounds the corner, still leaning heavily on the wall. Kolya is down, a pool of blood slowly spreading away from his body, and his eyes are glassy and dim.
John shoots him twice in the forehead anyway. Better safe than having that fucking bastard turn up in his life yet again.
Jackson is crouching next to Vira when John returns. “She’s breathing,” he says quietly.
“Bring her,” John orders, and limps his way in the direction Vira had been indicating a few moments earlier. The group follows along, and John finds the staircase soon enough, leading his team into the open air.
The bunker is near enough to the Gate that they can walk there in fifteen minutes, even given their injuries. The Gate itself in entirely unguarded, and John smirks at Kolya’s arrogance before he dials to the Alpha site.
The Marines on the other side rush in to help as soon as they materialize, and John knows it’s been a bad day when re realizes that he’s grateful to hear Woolsey’s voice over the radio. “Kolya?” he repeats when John finishes the quick and dirty version.
John nods. “I’ll write it up for you later, Mr. Woolsey, but I think we all need to get to the infirmary.”
“Right, of course.” The man looks flustered, embarrassed, like he can’t believe he didn’t think of that. “Come on through, Colonel. We’re got the medical team waiting for you.”
Their visit to the infirmary is longer for John than it is for any of the others; they’re all dehydrated and overtired, but other than that, Jackson’s only got a slice on his arm and a few of Mitchell’s ribs are cracked. Ronon’s worse; his leg requires surgery, but he pulls through it well enough and is hobbling around on crutches before the first night is through. Even Vira is given a clean bill of health and assigned to guarded guest quarters after minor surgery and a day of observation.
John is a different story. He’s in one of the private rooms in the back, treated only by Carson and Nurse Marie, and it looks like his visitor list is pretty limited, too.
“I’m fine,” he tries to insist, but Carson frowns at him and Nurse Marie smiles, and John doesn’t get it until Dr. Faliere, Heightmeyer’s replacement, comes in on his second day in the bed.
“No,” he says when the short brunette sits down. “I’m fine, don’t want to talk about it. Go away.”
She just smiles and puts her notebook under her chair. “You’ll have to tell me eventually, Colonel, to get back on active duty. Might as well get it over with.”
John thinks about it for a minute - okay, he admits privately, he’s sulking - before he sighs and recounts the details to the woman, who nods along but doesn’t record anything doesn’t comment, doesn’t ask for anything further. When he finishes, she just nods again and stands to leave.
“What, that’s it?” John asks her, surprised.
Faliere smiles and shakes her head. “Of course not. But it’s enough for now.”
Jackson drops in and makes small talk, but it’s obvious he doesn’t know what to say, which John finds highly amusing. Jackson’s spent a lot of time at the bedsides of teammates, and yet he’s still not good at it.
Mitchell stops in, too, and looks him dead in the eye. “Sorry you couldn’t do it.”
John shrugs. “He’s dead. Good enough.”
”Still,” Mitchell says, and that’s all they say on the subject.
Ronon comes in after visiting hours are over, opening the door without making a sound even with the crutches and dropping into a chair beside the bed.
“I would have given him whatever he wanted,” John says after a while.
“Yeah.”
“I would have stayed if he’d let you go.”
“Yeah,” Ronon repeats. There’s more silence.
“He’s dead,” Ronon comments later.
“Very.”
“Dead forever this time.”
John lifts half his mouth into a smile. “Kind of a sad commentary on our lives at this point.”
Ronon matches John’s grin, and something in John lightens and flies away. Kolya’s dead, forever this time.
When he takes in a deep breath, he feels cleaner, refreshed, like breathing air that Kolya can’t any more is rejuvenating in itself.
“Hey,” John says as Ronon gets up to leave, and the taller man turns back. “Tell Faliere to stop by tomorrow. I’m ready to get out of here.”