Damaged Goods, Chapter 8
Title: Damaged Goods
Fandom/Pairing: SGA, John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: PG-13 (will go up in future chapters)
Spoilers: Runner, Vegas
Summary: AU: Ronon's immune to the wraith. Detective John Sheppard doesn't die in the Las Vegas desert. It would probably be easier if the opposites of both were true.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
All chapters available on AO3, or start with the master post Dreamwidth or Livejournal
Even with Weir's surprising support, it's an hour before John manages to convince Woolsey that the chaos in the bathroom did not actually represent a massive threat to global security. Even so, he waits in the infirmary's waiting room for half an hour before the door opens. John gets a quick glimpse of two guards moving about inside as Keller steps out, her face lined with tension.
"He came to when we were getting him on the table," she holds the door open, beckons him inside. John's pretty sure she's skimming over something unpleasant when she continues. "We put him under in order to treat him, so don't worry when he doesn't move."
"But he's okay?" They're walking past the guards to an isolated recovery room at the far end of the infirmary. Inside, another guard is chatting to the two medics as they take gauze and sterile bandages out of the supply cabinet.
Eight's lying face down on the gurney, ankles, legs, arms and wrists secured with heavy leather belts, probably to help ensure that the IV he's hooked into has half a chance of staying seated. They've dressed him in scrub pants that aren't quite long enough, and though it's been cleaned off, the wound on his spine is still there.
It's been cleaned up quite a bit. The bump on his spine has been cut away, revealing a slick dark green something that's horrifying to look at. Only slightly less so is the rectangular patch just to the left; it's about one inch by two, and the skin's been carefully removed, down to the dermis. What's left is bleeding slightly, wet, maybe, with what John hopes is antibiotic gel. It's a little like looking at a puzzle with a few pieces missing. The only thing that stops it from looking like a truly gruesome crime scene is the steady rise and fall of Eight's back as he breathes.
Many of the incision scars- regardless of age- seem to radiate out from that point; some of them are visible even in the exposed dermis. Most of the incisions streak jaggedly out over the surface of Eight's skin, to the left and up towards his shoulder.
Keller brushes one of the dreadlocks off of Eight's back, even though it's not in the way. "We were able to remove the more superficial parts, but he's fighting a minor infection. With antibiotics, it's nothing to worry about. I'm still waiting on several test results to come back to be sure, but mostly, he's dehydrated and undernourished." Her eyes dart again to the implant with distaste. "But the implant, it's definitely wraith in design, and it's fused to his vertebra. McKay's already confirmed that it's transmitting a signal, but it's going to be a few hours before he and Zelenka are ready to make a report. By the time I've had a chance to go over his scans, they'll probably have something."
John keeps his eyes on the scars, mostly to avoid looking at the transmitter. They're short, choppy and jagged, and very few of them land close enough to the device to have done any good. John withdraws his fingers- he'd been so close to tracing the scars out over Eight's back, hadn't even realized it- before he straightens again.
There's little doubt, but it's easy enough to make the case. Wrapping his right arm around over his own left shoulder experimentally, he twists so Keller can see. His fingers just brush against the point where a knife, held in that hand, could've broken the skin. Now that he's sure, he can say it.
"He tried cutting it out himself." He wants to laugh, wants to march up to Woolsey's office with the news- Eight isn't allied with the wraith! He didn't want the device, tried taking it out! He wants this to mean a lot more than what it might actually be.
Instead, he asks, "Do you think you'll be able to remove it?"
"If this were an emergency, I'd be more willing, but I'd rather bring in another set of eyes than risk it needlessly." Nodding to the medics, who move in to start bandaging Eight's back, she leads John to the door and says no more until they're on the other side; when she does continue, she speaks carefully. "It'll take some time. There's going to be a certain amount of bureaucratic finagling, since the best surgeon for the job is on Atlantis." Taking a breath, she gets to what she's been building towards. "And I'm going to need to convince the IOA that it's worth doing."
"Isn't the fact that the wraith might get a lock on his transmission reason enough?"
"Ideally, yes. But practically... the time, complications and expense-" she bites her lip, doesn't need to continue, because John's already thinking it. They don't need Eight alive to stop the threat from coming.
---
John meanders down to the chair room, grabs the tablet from the seat before sitting down. Zelenka's added some more commands he thinks John should know; for the most part they're requests for diagnostics, trajectory analyses, and something that looks like a predictive modeling unit. The images, when the come floating above him are shakier than they've been. Anyone else watching would know that his concentration's not where it should be.
He's at it for maybe thirty minutes when he gives up all pretense, and is just sitting up and checking his watch- it's finally about time to go home- when there's an announcement on the PA system.
John Sheppard, report to the infirmary. Sheppard to the infirmary.
The chair powers down the moment he stands, and John can see from halfway down the hall that it's going to take a few moments for the elevator to arrive, so he takes the stairs down two by two, trying to prepare himself for the chaos he knows he's going to find.
It's therefore surprising when he finds one of the medics from earlier- John should probably know his name by now but doesn't ask- standing outside the infirmary.
"Good," he says, opening the door. "We weren't sure if you'd left for the day."
Dr. Keller is standing outside the door to Eight's room, and smiles tiredly when she sees him. She's changed her clothing, looks like she's about ready to hit the gym on her way home.
"He's about to come out of it," she says. "I thought it might help if you were here when he does. If you don't mind hanging out for a bit?" She's got dimples when she grins, and might be flashing them deliberately. John's too tired to come up with a reason to fight them.
---
Ronon notices the cold first, then the light bleeding through his eyelids, but it's the tight binding on his wrists that kicks him into wakefulness. There's not much to see here- it's too bright and he's lying on his stomach; his shoulders and legs are bound as well. The air moving over the bare skin of his back tells him all he needs to know about his lack of clothing.
"Hey," there's a voice, John's, and a dark blur as he shifts into Ronon's field of vision. "Hey, it's all right. You're in the infirmary. Hospital." Ronon's eyes close reflexively, but John doesn't stop talking. "The doctors wanted to make sure you were okay after you went down earlier. Do you remember what happened?"
It's hard to concentrate, there's something floating in his head, smudging the edges of his thoughts, but he remembers tile and guns, the thought of escape, the stinging shock that ended it. Slowly, he tests his bonds again. They're still there. Something's stuck to his arm, down into the bones, another implant, maybe, to match the one in his back.
He'd pushed back too far, and they'd shown their hand, and if he could just get some leverage, he could fight this off of him- he's been tied down, but the bed they've tied him to doesn't feel sturdy, he could bring it down if he shifts his weight quickly enough, maybe something will shake loose.
"Hey," John's voice again, and there's something warm on Ronon's shoulder. The voice is closer, now. "Relax, okay? We can get you out of here if you just stay calm." The look at me is unspoken, but Ronon imagines he hears it anyway, and opens his eyes again.
John's face is less than an arm span away, if Ronon could reach, and it's hard to focus on it, hard to read the expression he's wearing. Ronon glances down towards his shoulder, can just see that it's John's hand resting there. The moment his eyes hang on to it, John withdraws quickly, his hands moving out of sight. He's moving to the side as a second person- Ronon hadn't even realized there was one- comes into view.
"Hi, I'm Jennifer," the woman's voice is friendly and quiet but Ronon recognizes her enough- she'd been the one to inject him with whatever it is that's clouding his head. He's been unconscious, tied down, and he doesn't know for how long. Doesn't know what they did to him.
Her expression turns to worry. "Easy," she says. "Shh. I'm a doctor. We wanted to make sure you were okay, and to get a look. At." She stumbles, glances towards Ronon's shoulder. "You're running a slight fever. That's your body fighting off an infection. We're doing what we can to help. That stinging in your hand," Ronon flinches at the brush of something next to the implant, startling her. "We're giving you medicine to make you feel better. Cleaned and dressed your wounds, and I took a look at that device in your back."
Ronon's already to immobilized to freeze, but the impulse is there nonetheless. "It's wired into your spine and will require surgery to remove it. Would you like that?"
Would you like that?
---
Eight's turning his head, burying his face against his own shoulder and Keller's looking at John like he's supposed to have any idea what the hell is going on and gesturing at the nearest restraint.
"Hey," he tries to buy some time. As far as he can tell, Eight's listening, and Keller's nodding. "You don't have to answer that right now. I'm going to undo the restraints, let you sit up, but you have to promise not to attack, or we'll have to leave them on, okay?"
Eight's back rises and falls again, one deep breath that stutters on its way out. Eventually, his head moves in what John decides is assent. With a wary glance at the guards, who've had their stunners at the ready ever since this weird half-conversation started, he moves closer. "I'm going to do your left hand first."
Eight's gone rigid, still as John finagles the strap open. "I'm moving up to the shoulder now, okay? Once it's gone, I want you to look down at your right hand so you can see why you need to be careful with it when the strap comes off."
This is where it'll get tricky. For Keller's benefit as much as Eight's, he explains the next step. "Jennifer is going to help you move it so you don't get hurt." This time, Eight nods, his head already shifting against the gurney. Once the restraint's been undone and threaded out from underneath his hair, his back twitches.
"You're doing good," Keller says, stepping closer. John moves back out of their way, careful to keep Eight's face in sight and the needle out of sight. It's disturbing enough to look at taped in place; John doesn't want to see what it looks like getting ripped out. Eight slowly pushes himself up with his left arm to look back over his shoulder, watching as Keller unbuckles the strap, her hands moving more slowly than they need to, she's got one hand steadying Eight's- he's letting her- and the other steadying his arm, holding the drip line in place as she steers it towards Eight's shoulder.
"It's a saline drip," Keller explains. "I know you can feel the needle under your skin. Does it hurt?"
Eight shakes his head minutely, his eyes never wavering from the needle. They've probably given him painkillers. Then again, he hadn't complained about the festering wounds on his back, either.
"You're on the drip because you were dehydrated," she explains after a moment spent skimming over further details that she's thankfully deciding not to offer. Her next question, unsurprisingly, gets more of a reaction from Eight. "Do you want me to take it out?"
Eight nods, risks a glance at her and then at John before focusing again on his hand, flexing his fingers experimentally.
"This will be easier if you're sitting up," she decides, moving back. "Don't move yet, we'll help you when it's time, okay?" Not waiting for an answer, she steps back to give John room to move. The kicks he's been expecting don't come when he undoes the straps around Eight's ankles. He steadies the gurney as Keller maneuvers the stand around to the other side. "Okay. Can you try and stand up?"
Careful of his right hand, Eight slides off the gurney, wavering slightly as he stands. He catches himself, though, his posture going ramrod straight as Keller brings the gurney down a few inches.
"Okay. Sit down. Let me take that out." She's looking at Eight's hand when she says it, and Eight's looking at her. John's the only one who sees the relief in his eyes. For a moment, it looks like he might actually smile.
---
Once the needle's removed and the insertion point's cleaned, Ronon supposes he should feel grateful, or thankful or something. As it turns out, though, the needle was a distraction. He's sitting on the gurney wearing nothing but thin pants, he's cold and outnumbered and doesn't know what's coming next. It's a little surprising when Jennifer is the first one to leave. The guards at the door step aside to let her pass, but they're both still covering his position. It's clear that they're expecting him to take the opening.
He's just too tired. Running's not a viable option right now, and even if it were, he doesn't know where to run to. He doesn't know what to do with himself. He closes his eyes on all of it, just for a moment.
"Your clothes," John says. "It's taking a while. In the meantime, here." Ronon opens his eyes. The robe is bright orange, but softer than it looks when he takes it but Ronon doesn't understand why John's giving it to him. He puts it on, anyway. The skin of his back feels tight when he pushes his arm out through the sleeve, but the pain's far away, like everything else is, here.
"Sorry," John says. The robe's an apology, then, for what's coming next. "You ready to go back?"
---
Eight's quiet on the way back to the cell- not that he's a talkative one, but he seems docile, now, enough that John catches himself hoping that it's just the sedatives that are still sitting in his system. Eight's face, caught in glimpses, reveals nothing. John can't actually tell if he's disappointed to be going back to his cell, or too high to care, or plotting his next escape attempt.
Worse, if Eight's going into lockdown mentally as well as physically, then everything back in the infirmary is really nothing more than a wasted play. He can stab at the buttons on the elevator as hard as he wants, but nothing's changed.
Eight steps off the elevator first, the Marines following closely behind. Between the bright orange and the stunners they make a bizarre hunting party, but nobody here would probably get or want the reference, so he keeps his mouth shut. Eight's cell door is opened and he walks in without fanfare.
John nods at the Marines- shift change is in half an hour and they've got paperwork to do- and hangs back when they leave, but he can't think of anything to say. He needs to get going on his long drive back to his empty apartment. He needs beer, food, TV, and bed, and enough luck to keep Mad Marlene from coming down looking for her dead cat. It's this thought that sends up the white flag; his brain's just not up to this right now.
But he's just aware enough of the situation to want to leave Eight with more than a dark room and a bathrobe. The orange makes him look huge, bigger than he really is, and easier to find should he manage to escape, but the effect is offset by blue hospital scrubs and bare feet. Eight's shoulders are hunched, his hands jammed into his pockets, and his face is tilted towards the floor; these are what destroy the illusion entirely.
John's thinking about socks- he could stop on his way in, tomorrow- when Eight speaks.
"Was she telling the truth?"
"About?" The moment it's out of his mouth, he knows where it's going and realizes that this is what they should have been talking about for the past twenty minutes. The selfish part of him wants nothing to do with it, wants to leave. From anyone else, this interaction here would be nothing. For the two of them, though, it could be anything. He rallies.
"The tracker." Eight clears his throat like the words are costing him something. "Taking it out."
"Yeah. She hopes so, anyway. It might take a while. We're going to need to bring in a specialist." Eight shifts, going so far as to glance up at the word, and John catches his eye, tries to hold it. "Thing is, it's not a done deal. Might not be her call, when it comes down to it. I have to convince people that it's worth the effort."
He can feel Eight's disappointment even through the glass and the mask that's telling John nothing, and his eyes shoot over to the wraith lounging on the cot in the other cell. The monster's actually easier to
look at right now.
Eight hasn't moved, when John looks back. For all John knows, he'll stand there all night, waiting.
John sighs. "So look. I guess the point is this. If I'm going to do that, you're going to have to help me out, okay?"
Eight's eyes wander towards John's hands again, so John shoves them in his pockets, not wanting to give him the dodge. It seems to work.
"What do you want?"
"A name would be a good start."
Eight brings his elbows to his sides, either from nerves or the cold, but he's standing a bit taller. "Ronon," he says. "My name's Ronon Dex."
---
Chapter 9
Fandom/Pairing: SGA, John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: PG-13 (will go up in future chapters)
Spoilers: Runner, Vegas
Summary: AU: Ronon's immune to the wraith. Detective John Sheppard doesn't die in the Las Vegas desert. It would probably be easier if the opposites of both were true.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
All chapters available on AO3, or start with the master post Dreamwidth or Livejournal
Even with Weir's surprising support, it's an hour before John manages to convince Woolsey that the chaos in the bathroom did not actually represent a massive threat to global security. Even so, he waits in the infirmary's waiting room for half an hour before the door opens. John gets a quick glimpse of two guards moving about inside as Keller steps out, her face lined with tension.
"He came to when we were getting him on the table," she holds the door open, beckons him inside. John's pretty sure she's skimming over something unpleasant when she continues. "We put him under in order to treat him, so don't worry when he doesn't move."
"But he's okay?" They're walking past the guards to an isolated recovery room at the far end of the infirmary. Inside, another guard is chatting to the two medics as they take gauze and sterile bandages out of the supply cabinet.
Eight's lying face down on the gurney, ankles, legs, arms and wrists secured with heavy leather belts, probably to help ensure that the IV he's hooked into has half a chance of staying seated. They've dressed him in scrub pants that aren't quite long enough, and though it's been cleaned off, the wound on his spine is still there.
It's been cleaned up quite a bit. The bump on his spine has been cut away, revealing a slick dark green something that's horrifying to look at. Only slightly less so is the rectangular patch just to the left; it's about one inch by two, and the skin's been carefully removed, down to the dermis. What's left is bleeding slightly, wet, maybe, with what John hopes is antibiotic gel. It's a little like looking at a puzzle with a few pieces missing. The only thing that stops it from looking like a truly gruesome crime scene is the steady rise and fall of Eight's back as he breathes.
Many of the incision scars- regardless of age- seem to radiate out from that point; some of them are visible even in the exposed dermis. Most of the incisions streak jaggedly out over the surface of Eight's skin, to the left and up towards his shoulder.
Keller brushes one of the dreadlocks off of Eight's back, even though it's not in the way. "We were able to remove the more superficial parts, but he's fighting a minor infection. With antibiotics, it's nothing to worry about. I'm still waiting on several test results to come back to be sure, but mostly, he's dehydrated and undernourished." Her eyes dart again to the implant with distaste. "But the implant, it's definitely wraith in design, and it's fused to his vertebra. McKay's already confirmed that it's transmitting a signal, but it's going to be a few hours before he and Zelenka are ready to make a report. By the time I've had a chance to go over his scans, they'll probably have something."
John keeps his eyes on the scars, mostly to avoid looking at the transmitter. They're short, choppy and jagged, and very few of them land close enough to the device to have done any good. John withdraws his fingers- he'd been so close to tracing the scars out over Eight's back, hadn't even realized it- before he straightens again.
There's little doubt, but it's easy enough to make the case. Wrapping his right arm around over his own left shoulder experimentally, he twists so Keller can see. His fingers just brush against the point where a knife, held in that hand, could've broken the skin. Now that he's sure, he can say it.
"He tried cutting it out himself." He wants to laugh, wants to march up to Woolsey's office with the news- Eight isn't allied with the wraith! He didn't want the device, tried taking it out! He wants this to mean a lot more than what it might actually be.
Instead, he asks, "Do you think you'll be able to remove it?"
"If this were an emergency, I'd be more willing, but I'd rather bring in another set of eyes than risk it needlessly." Nodding to the medics, who move in to start bandaging Eight's back, she leads John to the door and says no more until they're on the other side; when she does continue, she speaks carefully. "It'll take some time. There's going to be a certain amount of bureaucratic finagling, since the best surgeon for the job is on Atlantis." Taking a breath, she gets to what she's been building towards. "And I'm going to need to convince the IOA that it's worth doing."
"Isn't the fact that the wraith might get a lock on his transmission reason enough?"
"Ideally, yes. But practically... the time, complications and expense-" she bites her lip, doesn't need to continue, because John's already thinking it. They don't need Eight alive to stop the threat from coming.
---
John meanders down to the chair room, grabs the tablet from the seat before sitting down. Zelenka's added some more commands he thinks John should know; for the most part they're requests for diagnostics, trajectory analyses, and something that looks like a predictive modeling unit. The images, when the come floating above him are shakier than they've been. Anyone else watching would know that his concentration's not where it should be.
He's at it for maybe thirty minutes when he gives up all pretense, and is just sitting up and checking his watch- it's finally about time to go home- when there's an announcement on the PA system.
John Sheppard, report to the infirmary. Sheppard to the infirmary.
The chair powers down the moment he stands, and John can see from halfway down the hall that it's going to take a few moments for the elevator to arrive, so he takes the stairs down two by two, trying to prepare himself for the chaos he knows he's going to find.
It's therefore surprising when he finds one of the medics from earlier- John should probably know his name by now but doesn't ask- standing outside the infirmary.
"Good," he says, opening the door. "We weren't sure if you'd left for the day."
Dr. Keller is standing outside the door to Eight's room, and smiles tiredly when she sees him. She's changed her clothing, looks like she's about ready to hit the gym on her way home.
"He's about to come out of it," she says. "I thought it might help if you were here when he does. If you don't mind hanging out for a bit?" She's got dimples when she grins, and might be flashing them deliberately. John's too tired to come up with a reason to fight them.
---
Ronon notices the cold first, then the light bleeding through his eyelids, but it's the tight binding on his wrists that kicks him into wakefulness. There's not much to see here- it's too bright and he's lying on his stomach; his shoulders and legs are bound as well. The air moving over the bare skin of his back tells him all he needs to know about his lack of clothing.
"Hey," there's a voice, John's, and a dark blur as he shifts into Ronon's field of vision. "Hey, it's all right. You're in the infirmary. Hospital." Ronon's eyes close reflexively, but John doesn't stop talking. "The doctors wanted to make sure you were okay after you went down earlier. Do you remember what happened?"
It's hard to concentrate, there's something floating in his head, smudging the edges of his thoughts, but he remembers tile and guns, the thought of escape, the stinging shock that ended it. Slowly, he tests his bonds again. They're still there. Something's stuck to his arm, down into the bones, another implant, maybe, to match the one in his back.
He'd pushed back too far, and they'd shown their hand, and if he could just get some leverage, he could fight this off of him- he's been tied down, but the bed they've tied him to doesn't feel sturdy, he could bring it down if he shifts his weight quickly enough, maybe something will shake loose.
"Hey," John's voice again, and there's something warm on Ronon's shoulder. The voice is closer, now. "Relax, okay? We can get you out of here if you just stay calm." The look at me is unspoken, but Ronon imagines he hears it anyway, and opens his eyes again.
John's face is less than an arm span away, if Ronon could reach, and it's hard to focus on it, hard to read the expression he's wearing. Ronon glances down towards his shoulder, can just see that it's John's hand resting there. The moment his eyes hang on to it, John withdraws quickly, his hands moving out of sight. He's moving to the side as a second person- Ronon hadn't even realized there was one- comes into view.
"Hi, I'm Jennifer," the woman's voice is friendly and quiet but Ronon recognizes her enough- she'd been the one to inject him with whatever it is that's clouding his head. He's been unconscious, tied down, and he doesn't know for how long. Doesn't know what they did to him.
Her expression turns to worry. "Easy," she says. "Shh. I'm a doctor. We wanted to make sure you were okay, and to get a look. At." She stumbles, glances towards Ronon's shoulder. "You're running a slight fever. That's your body fighting off an infection. We're doing what we can to help. That stinging in your hand," Ronon flinches at the brush of something next to the implant, startling her. "We're giving you medicine to make you feel better. Cleaned and dressed your wounds, and I took a look at that device in your back."
Ronon's already to immobilized to freeze, but the impulse is there nonetheless. "It's wired into your spine and will require surgery to remove it. Would you like that?"
Would you like that?
---
Eight's turning his head, burying his face against his own shoulder and Keller's looking at John like he's supposed to have any idea what the hell is going on and gesturing at the nearest restraint.
"Hey," he tries to buy some time. As far as he can tell, Eight's listening, and Keller's nodding. "You don't have to answer that right now. I'm going to undo the restraints, let you sit up, but you have to promise not to attack, or we'll have to leave them on, okay?"
Eight's back rises and falls again, one deep breath that stutters on its way out. Eventually, his head moves in what John decides is assent. With a wary glance at the guards, who've had their stunners at the ready ever since this weird half-conversation started, he moves closer. "I'm going to do your left hand first."
Eight's gone rigid, still as John finagles the strap open. "I'm moving up to the shoulder now, okay? Once it's gone, I want you to look down at your right hand so you can see why you need to be careful with it when the strap comes off."
This is where it'll get tricky. For Keller's benefit as much as Eight's, he explains the next step. "Jennifer is going to help you move it so you don't get hurt." This time, Eight nods, his head already shifting against the gurney. Once the restraint's been undone and threaded out from underneath his hair, his back twitches.
"You're doing good," Keller says, stepping closer. John moves back out of their way, careful to keep Eight's face in sight and the needle out of sight. It's disturbing enough to look at taped in place; John doesn't want to see what it looks like getting ripped out. Eight slowly pushes himself up with his left arm to look back over his shoulder, watching as Keller unbuckles the strap, her hands moving more slowly than they need to, she's got one hand steadying Eight's- he's letting her- and the other steadying his arm, holding the drip line in place as she steers it towards Eight's shoulder.
"It's a saline drip," Keller explains. "I know you can feel the needle under your skin. Does it hurt?"
Eight shakes his head minutely, his eyes never wavering from the needle. They've probably given him painkillers. Then again, he hadn't complained about the festering wounds on his back, either.
"You're on the drip because you were dehydrated," she explains after a moment spent skimming over further details that she's thankfully deciding not to offer. Her next question, unsurprisingly, gets more of a reaction from Eight. "Do you want me to take it out?"
Eight nods, risks a glance at her and then at John before focusing again on his hand, flexing his fingers experimentally.
"This will be easier if you're sitting up," she decides, moving back. "Don't move yet, we'll help you when it's time, okay?" Not waiting for an answer, she steps back to give John room to move. The kicks he's been expecting don't come when he undoes the straps around Eight's ankles. He steadies the gurney as Keller maneuvers the stand around to the other side. "Okay. Can you try and stand up?"
Careful of his right hand, Eight slides off the gurney, wavering slightly as he stands. He catches himself, though, his posture going ramrod straight as Keller brings the gurney down a few inches.
"Okay. Sit down. Let me take that out." She's looking at Eight's hand when she says it, and Eight's looking at her. John's the only one who sees the relief in his eyes. For a moment, it looks like he might actually smile.
---
Once the needle's removed and the insertion point's cleaned, Ronon supposes he should feel grateful, or thankful or something. As it turns out, though, the needle was a distraction. He's sitting on the gurney wearing nothing but thin pants, he's cold and outnumbered and doesn't know what's coming next. It's a little surprising when Jennifer is the first one to leave. The guards at the door step aside to let her pass, but they're both still covering his position. It's clear that they're expecting him to take the opening.
He's just too tired. Running's not a viable option right now, and even if it were, he doesn't know where to run to. He doesn't know what to do with himself. He closes his eyes on all of it, just for a moment.
"Your clothes," John says. "It's taking a while. In the meantime, here." Ronon opens his eyes. The robe is bright orange, but softer than it looks when he takes it but Ronon doesn't understand why John's giving it to him. He puts it on, anyway. The skin of his back feels tight when he pushes his arm out through the sleeve, but the pain's far away, like everything else is, here.
"Sorry," John says. The robe's an apology, then, for what's coming next. "You ready to go back?"
---
Eight's quiet on the way back to the cell- not that he's a talkative one, but he seems docile, now, enough that John catches himself hoping that it's just the sedatives that are still sitting in his system. Eight's face, caught in glimpses, reveals nothing. John can't actually tell if he's disappointed to be going back to his cell, or too high to care, or plotting his next escape attempt.
Worse, if Eight's going into lockdown mentally as well as physically, then everything back in the infirmary is really nothing more than a wasted play. He can stab at the buttons on the elevator as hard as he wants, but nothing's changed.
Eight steps off the elevator first, the Marines following closely behind. Between the bright orange and the stunners they make a bizarre hunting party, but nobody here would probably get or want the reference, so he keeps his mouth shut. Eight's cell door is opened and he walks in without fanfare.
John nods at the Marines- shift change is in half an hour and they've got paperwork to do- and hangs back when they leave, but he can't think of anything to say. He needs to get going on his long drive back to his empty apartment. He needs beer, food, TV, and bed, and enough luck to keep Mad Marlene from coming down looking for her dead cat. It's this thought that sends up the white flag; his brain's just not up to this right now.
But he's just aware enough of the situation to want to leave Eight with more than a dark room and a bathrobe. The orange makes him look huge, bigger than he really is, and easier to find should he manage to escape, but the effect is offset by blue hospital scrubs and bare feet. Eight's shoulders are hunched, his hands jammed into his pockets, and his face is tilted towards the floor; these are what destroy the illusion entirely.
John's thinking about socks- he could stop on his way in, tomorrow- when Eight speaks.
"Was she telling the truth?"
"About?" The moment it's out of his mouth, he knows where it's going and realizes that this is what they should have been talking about for the past twenty minutes. The selfish part of him wants nothing to do with it, wants to leave. From anyone else, this interaction here would be nothing. For the two of them, though, it could be anything. He rallies.
"The tracker." Eight clears his throat like the words are costing him something. "Taking it out."
"Yeah. She hopes so, anyway. It might take a while. We're going to need to bring in a specialist." Eight shifts, going so far as to glance up at the word, and John catches his eye, tries to hold it. "Thing is, it's not a done deal. Might not be her call, when it comes down to it. I have to convince people that it's worth the effort."
He can feel Eight's disappointment even through the glass and the mask that's telling John nothing, and his eyes shoot over to the wraith lounging on the cot in the other cell. The monster's actually easier to
look at right now.
Eight hasn't moved, when John looks back. For all John knows, he'll stand there all night, waiting.
John sighs. "So look. I guess the point is this. If I'm going to do that, you're going to have to help me out, okay?"
Eight's eyes wander towards John's hands again, so John shoves them in his pockets, not wanting to give him the dodge. It seems to work.
"What do you want?"
"A name would be a good start."
Eight brings his elbows to his sides, either from nerves or the cold, but he's standing a bit taller. "Ronon," he says. "My name's Ronon Dex."
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Chapter 9