deep hook twist
for trishkafibble, more of that thing where Ronon makes balloon animals. Falls between this one and this one.
*
At first, Ronon finds himself to be all thumbs in the wrong place, his fingers having forgotten the knack of the twist, the fold, the knot. The first fistful of drellas take five or more tries each to inflate, or go spinning around the room after escaping his clumsy grasp. He can’t picture properly what shapes he wants to make, or how to make them, can’t remember why he wanted to do this in the first place.
The drellas dig deep grooves around his knuckles when he tries to tie them shut. A couple of them explode, too much air inside too small a space, too rigid to bend as required. The sudden bang makes him flinch every time, despite the safety of his room, the knowledge that someone else stands watch for the night and he truly has nothing to fear.
(He never flinches at the sound of gun-fire.)
Eventually, though, he begins to remember the feel of it, the way the drellas flex and bend, the trick for getting them to curl and loop around on themselves. Heads and bodies become recognizable as such, and flowers and hats and all the rest of it. For a while, he hums an old tune from his childhood, learned so young that he doesn’t know its title or half the words, though the sound is drowned out by the squeak and moan of the drellas as they're inflated and knotted. His creations grow more and more elaborate, and when the sky finally begins to turn grey, he’s run out of drellas and breath. The floor of his room has filled with brilliantly-colored sculptures, the corners heaped, his bed half-buried.
Sheppard shows up to go running soon after that, while Ronon’s still sucking on his abused fingers and trying to decide whether there’s any point in going to bed-and what he’s going to do with his night’s work. His whole face lights up when he sees the current state of Ronon’s room.
“Cool,” he says, and it’s his idea to scatter the drellas across the city, in front of doors and on workbenches and inside transporters. He commandeers a couple of Marines coming off guard-duty to help with the distribution, and the four of them finish just as the sun balances on the horizon.
They eat breakfast in silence together, Sheppard pulling rank to get them food before the kitchen officially opens. It reminds Ronon a little of being with his squad in the Specialist corps after running a successful all-night mission, everyone drained and quiet but satisfied. Although he’s not sure what Sheppard has to be satisfied about.
Walther and Goodman, the two Marines, trudge off as soon as they’ve finished gulping down their meals, but Ronon and Sheppard sit together for a while, watching people stumble in and notice the drella sculptures on the tables. For every blank look, there’s at least two smiles, and despite his lack of sleep and still-sore fingers, Ronon finds himself smiling just a little bit too.
*
At first, Ronon finds himself to be all thumbs in the wrong place, his fingers having forgotten the knack of the twist, the fold, the knot. The first fistful of drellas take five or more tries each to inflate, or go spinning around the room after escaping his clumsy grasp. He can’t picture properly what shapes he wants to make, or how to make them, can’t remember why he wanted to do this in the first place.
The drellas dig deep grooves around his knuckles when he tries to tie them shut. A couple of them explode, too much air inside too small a space, too rigid to bend as required. The sudden bang makes him flinch every time, despite the safety of his room, the knowledge that someone else stands watch for the night and he truly has nothing to fear.
(He never flinches at the sound of gun-fire.)
Eventually, though, he begins to remember the feel of it, the way the drellas flex and bend, the trick for getting them to curl and loop around on themselves. Heads and bodies become recognizable as such, and flowers and hats and all the rest of it. For a while, he hums an old tune from his childhood, learned so young that he doesn’t know its title or half the words, though the sound is drowned out by the squeak and moan of the drellas as they're inflated and knotted. His creations grow more and more elaborate, and when the sky finally begins to turn grey, he’s run out of drellas and breath. The floor of his room has filled with brilliantly-colored sculptures, the corners heaped, his bed half-buried.
Sheppard shows up to go running soon after that, while Ronon’s still sucking on his abused fingers and trying to decide whether there’s any point in going to bed-and what he’s going to do with his night’s work. His whole face lights up when he sees the current state of Ronon’s room.
“Cool,” he says, and it’s his idea to scatter the drellas across the city, in front of doors and on workbenches and inside transporters. He commandeers a couple of Marines coming off guard-duty to help with the distribution, and the four of them finish just as the sun balances on the horizon.
They eat breakfast in silence together, Sheppard pulling rank to get them food before the kitchen officially opens. It reminds Ronon a little of being with his squad in the Specialist corps after running a successful all-night mission, everyone drained and quiet but satisfied. Although he’s not sure what Sheppard has to be satisfied about.
Walther and Goodman, the two Marines, trudge off as soon as they’ve finished gulping down their meals, but Ronon and Sheppard sit together for a while, watching people stumble in and notice the drella sculptures on the tables. For every blank look, there’s at least two smiles, and despite his lack of sleep and still-sore fingers, Ronon finds himself smiling just a little bit too.