Damaged Goods, Chapter 16/?
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. And there's a Soundtrack available as well. :)
John's casting a critical eye over him, managing to frown and grin at the same time.
"You look good," he says.
Ronon shifts, trying to get used to the shirt that settles too lightly over his skin, leaving his arms bare. The jeans, he's decided, are better than the too-short fatigues- On loan from Teal'c, apparently- that he'd been given to try on first. Wearing borrowed clothes is nothing new- everything he has is stolen- but it's been a long time since how they looked were of any importance.
Then again, John had never been there to grin in satisfaction at his appearance. The thin material of the shirt stretches against his back as he brings his shoulders back, drags against the bandages he'd somehow forgotten were there.
This isn't going to work.
"I still don't look anything like your people," he says, tugging at his hair. It's rough and corded as it ever was, nothing at all like the short styles worn by all of John's men, but if he cuts it off, his tracker will be visible to all. John seems to understand this, a frown furrowing his brow before he shakes his head.
"Nah, you'll fit in more than you think, soon as we get out of here. You look great." John's startled gaze shifts down to Ronon's shoulders and stays there, and Ronon finds himself wanting to show off, but he's not sure how it works, here.
---
Ronon follows mutely as John leads him to meet the security retinue. They, too, are wearing clothes more similar to John's and his own than their usual uniforms. Though Ronon understands uniforms, and what they're for, it's surprising how easier it is to be around them when they're gone. Still, though, the overall effect is that the soldiers are, like him, going on an undercover operation into John's territory.
Ronon's been up to this level before, had peered down the hallway at the dim gray light shining through the glass doors. It's not until he's blinded upon their opening that Ronon realizes that the glass had been stained to keep out the sunlight.
There's so much of it. So little of anything else that it's startling.
There are billions of people on this planet, and so much space. No trees, no cover, and he knows he's supposed to be treating it all like he's seen it before, but there's nobody but John and the guards to watch as he turns, squinting, on the concrete, trying to take it all in.
The air's too hot to breathe, this world is dead, the wraith have already come, culled and burned everything to the ground. Nothing's left, not even ashes, just this scarred, lifeless landscape but John's in front of him, suddenly, his hand gripping Ronon's arm.
"Hey." Tugging until they're both turned around, John points across the desert. "Shit. Sorry. Look. We're heading that way." Just over the horizon, the glint of glass and metal can be seen through the haze. It's insubstantial and crystalline, likely to disappear the moment Ronon blinks, but John doesn't seem worried.
He finds himself nodding, moves his eyes only reluctantly.
"Let's get out of here, yeah? There's AC in the truck."
Ronon's not sure what AC is, but John's people tend to give the shortest names to the most important things, and it's probably something they need. The heat inside the truck is stultifying, when John opens the door before walking around the front, waving at the guards getting into a truck of their own, and he, too, pauses to let the heat rush out before climbing inside.
"Take this," John tugs a strap from behind his left shoulder; there's a matching one behind Ronon's right, and he follows John's movement, drawing it down and across his lap. "It's just a precaution," John explains, the tips of his fingers brushing his own hip. "Plug it in here."
It's not until they're pulling out that the strap tightens slightly against his chest, and it if weren't for the fact that John seems unaffected, it would be a problem. As it is, though, the memory of too many wraith pods is faint, barely alarming. It's too bright, here, for the threat to feel real, though he knows it's just an illusion, that darkness can provide even more safety than sunlight.
"So yeah. Sorry about that. Didn't mean to spring this all on you after you've been cooped up for so long."
"It's okay." There's a mirror sticking out of the side of the truck. If Ronon leans right, puts his shoulder against the door, he can see the guards following them, and while they're keeping up, they're making no effort to gain on them. They're just following. Not hunting. "Where are we going?"
John shrugs. "I don't really know. Got some time to figure it out before we get there, but I promise it'll be more fun than hanging out at the base. If we had more time, I'd drag you out to Colorado, maybe, or California, but." He shrugs, and when he speaks again, it's quieter, almost apprehensive "There's really not much we can do in the meantime, but. Well. I figured. Make the best of it. Give you a chance to spread your legs a bit, you know?"
"Thanks."
They're moving fast enough that there's no time to catalog the features of the areas they're passing- not that many exist, beyond the obvious mountains and hills that too far away to be of any practical use. It's hard, though to stop the impulse to look for cover in the scraggly plants dotting the landscape. John points out cacti as if Ronon's never seen them on a hundred different worlds.
Eventually, Ronon's satisfied that the scenery isn't likely to change in the next ten seconds, and stops fighting the urge to ask.
"You've got two billion people here, right? Where is everybody?"
John just laughs.
---
John's thankful for the Vegas skyline, which they've been able to see for miles, now. Because it gives Ronon the chance to acclimate to the idea of cities, of the nearly two million people sprawled out ahead of them. And to be honest, John's not certain Ronon's the only one who needs to acclimate.
The last time he drove back home, he was heading to the airport. He doesn't even honestly know if his apartment building's still standing. For all he knows, Dwayne down on first could've fallen asleep with a burning cigarette again. But John likes to believe he would've heard. From somebody.
If anyone had noticed he was actually missing.
Still. Vegas is home.
---
"...and that's the Natural History Museum," John points out as they pass, having no idea if Ronon's listening, but a running narration seems warranted under the circumstances. "It's not much, but I've seen worse. Children's museum's just up ahead."
Even though he's turning his head, trying to take it all in, Ronon's frozen from the neck down, with a white knuckled grip on the seatbelt. Traffic's gotten heavier, rush hour just starting to set in, and every time they come to a stop light Ronon stares at the other drivers.
He looks, in a word, miserable, and it's clear enough that actually getting him out of the truck is going to be an undertaking. It's as good a reason as any to take the long way home from here, pulling east off the Boulevard to head in the general direction of his apartment. It's not the most glamorous tourist destination he's seen, but it's where the jeans he hasn't been wearing for days on end are stored.
He doesn't even care if they're clean anymore.
Ronon watches the residential streets with the same focus as the main drag, but there's nothing to see here. In a bit, once he's had a chance to change, they'll head out again, south towards the strip- though maybe one of the parks would be easier on him. It's no big deal to turn around again and hit Heritage from here, maybe wander around the jogging path for a bit.
Pulling onto North 11th, he finds his building still standing. Dwayne's Winnebago, too, is still in it's usual spot, where it's likely to remain, undriven, until the rust finally sets in, or at least until his daughter, Sally, gets old enough to take it for a joyride. Knowing the climate, it could take centuries. And though the same can't really be said for the building itself, with the stucco flaking off its sagging walls, Ronon doesn't comment.
"This is my place," John says, pulling into the open parking spot and setting the truck in park. "I just wanted to stop in for a minute, get a change of clothes." Ronon nods, staring at the building's narrow windows, but makes no other attempt to move. John's about to invite him in a little more directly when Cadman and the others pull in behind him. At the same moment, his phone rings.
"What the hell are we doing here?"
"I'm getting changed. Then we're going to hit the park for a while."
"Seriously? His first time in Vegas and you're gonna, what, show him some scrub brush and gravel?"
"We're playing it by ear," John decides that discretion is the better part of valor. "If that's okay with you."
"Sure." Behind him, a car door slams, and Cadman's striding towards his truck. He opens the door to meet her head on, shutting his phone off as he stands. "Look, John," she says sweetly. "I don't want to butt in or whatever, and I know you've had a shitty time of it, but this is the closest we've come in having leave time in weeks. So. I'd like to propose a deal."
"What's that?"
"We're due back before breakfast tomorrow. Well, you can come in whenever, but Ronon's got to come back with us. Markham drew the short straw, so he's the designated driver tonight."
"So I'm going to have a drunk security detail?"
"Are you actually going to need it?" John glances through the window at Ronon, who still hasn't moved, and answers Cadman's question without a word.
"See? Everyone wins. We get a night off, you guys get a night off, and nobody has to be the wiser." She's got a great smile, John realizes. Especially when she knows she's already getting her way.
"What time do you want to meet up?"
"Play it safe, we'll call it midnight. Meet up downtown. Deal?"
"Deal."
"Good." Another smile, and she's heading back towards the truck. Over her shoulder, she calls. "But you call us the second anything goes wrong. Better yet? Don't let anything go wrong."
---
You're going to kill them all.
They're already dead. It's not true. The wraith will come- they'll always come, but they'll be stopped. His tracker isn't what's bringing them here.
Shaking himself at John's signal, he scans one last time for threats he knows aren't actually there. The heat slams into him as he gets out of the truck. John takes a few backwards steps, waiting for him to catch up, but once he's following, John rounds the corner without checking first.
It's the fastest he's moved in days, but when he reaches the same corner, all he finds is John.
No. What he finds is so much worse.
"Hey Sally," John's stopped in his tracks in front of a young girl who's drawing on the concrete with fat pieces of colored chalk.
Sally's skinny, with messy braids. Sally exists.
The last time Ronon had seen a child, it had probably been a boy. He hadn't gotten close enough to the bloated body to check, and wouldn't have bothered even if he'd had the time. And now this girl is turning huge brown eyes on him and smiling guilelessly, like she doesn't know, and too many sensations are crashing over him, horrible and confusing. It must be obvious, too, given John's expression when he glances up from what he's saying, and he's grabbing Ronon by the arm.
"Come on. Crap." Ronon lets himself be pulled away, barely able to hear John's "We'll see you later, Sally," over the screeching in his head.
"Fuck. Okay. What's going on, huh?" John's words are washing over him as they head up the stairs. One foot at a time. The sight lines here are horrible, anything could be waiting on the landing, but it's not his own thoughts he needs to be listening to, it's John's. "This is my place, okay? We're gonna head inside, sit down. Get me some fresh clothes, let you chill a minute." John's fiddling with the door and after a moment's cursing, gets it open. "You thirsty? We'll get you sorted, okay? Come on."
It's dark in here, even with the sun blazing through the closed curtains, and some part of his mind is adjusting to the decrease in light. Outside, in the sun, in full view of the sky, Sally is drawing on the sidewalk, no fear, just-
"Have a seat. I'll be right back." He's directed towards a couch, sits heavily on it. The tan upholstery is textured, raised vines and flowers underneath his fingertips, though it's worn flat, even worn through, in places, and he sinks further back into the cushion than he'd been expecting to, but it's okay. He's got his back against something. From here, he can watch the sun filter through the blinds to highlight the dust in the air. He can stare at the shaggy brown carpet, and wonder where on this huge world it came from. He can think.
From here, the drone of the highway doesn't actually sound like wraith darts cruising in for the kill. This world's never even heard that sound. Yet. And Sally could be playing outside when it happens, glancing in mild confusion at the noises overhead.
"What's going on in your head, huh?"
Dead children. Bloated in a ditch, too small and weak to make a wraith's meal.
Ronon blinks, shakes his head up to find John's shape standing in front him. It's not until the cool slickness taps against his knuckles that Ronon even realizes he's trying to hand him a glass of water. The glass feels too solid to shatter easily, but the water splashes over the rim, and the cold droplets soak fast through his jeans.
"Hey," John's touching his shoulder, steadying himself as he sits down on the couch next to him. It's not until John squeezes that he's able to guess why. John's trying to steady him. The tremors aren't just in Ronon's hand; it's his arm, his shoulders, his chest, too, Realization doesn't make it any easier to stop, even when John eases the cup out of Ronon's hand, sets it on the table.
"It's cool, okay? Whatever it is, you're fine. Look at me. Ronon. Hey. What's-"
"Too much," Ronon shrugs, fairly certain that there's more to it and equally sure that he can't describe it. John's fingers squeeze again, his thumb pressing into the joint of his shoulder. He finds himself turning into the touch without thinking. If he'd planned it, maybe he'd know what to do now that he's face to face with John. He doesn't know how to fix John's worried expression, but maybe punching him would erase the guilt that's there in equal measure.
His predisposition to lash out at what must be kindness makes it hard to maintain eye contact. He doesn't deserve this. John has no idea what's running through Ronon's head though, because he's lightly stroking across Ronon's back, avoiding the implant completely.
He doesn't know how to apologize for his thoughts.
John's the first person he's hugged in over ten years, and his bones shift uneasily under Ronon's hands, but they don't break.
---
"My bad," John's speaking into Ronon's hair and wondering how muffled the sound must be. Anyone else would've pulled away already. John's pretty sure he should've done so already, but maybe it's a cultural thing. He's surprisingly content to wait it out with Ronon's arms wrapped tight over his shoulders, trapping his hand against Ronon's chest. It's warm, and might be the most solid thing in here.
He's done this before. Made people feel better. Scared children who'd seen their parents die, Nancy before it had all gone bad. Dave too, maybe, when they'd been little, but he can't honestly remember. He needs to keep talking, though, provide a distraction, or throw out a line to grab onto. "Guess I wasn't really thinking. Haven't done this before, you know?" Ronon might be nodding; it's hard to tell, this close up, what the movement means. "I remember this one time, back when I was still in the service. Got stuck in a POW camp. They moved us around a lot at first, then kept us in the basement of a warehouse for three weeks that felt like forever." He doesn't know if he needs to explain what a POW camp is, but Ronon's not asking. "When we got out, it was cloudy outside, but it felt so bright I kept squinting for days, afterwards. Nothing looked right. But they'd only been holding us five miles from our base. It was surreal."
And hell. Empty desert roads and rush hour traffic? Ronon doesn't even have half the frame of reference he'd had. He's trying to figure out how to explain it when Ronon nods again, pulls back to look at him. The weight of his regard is heavy enough that John wants to pull close again, just to avoid it. John drops his gaze first, glances over at the water he'd left on the coffee table, sitting on the stack of magazines that he can't remember subscribing to. He's suddenly very glad, though, that he had.
---
"It's called National Geographic," John eventually mutters as he picks up a magazine from the stack on the table, and it's easier to listen to him now that the sun's moved and the room's thrown into shadow. "I don't even remember subscribing, but they just keep showing up." Ronon doesn't comment, just studies the pictures as John turns the page, then turns it again.
There are mountains and cliffs and people with long necks banded in silver. Bright clothes that don't look anything like John's or Ronon's or anyone else's in the universe. There are older women sitting in a tavern, in a place called San Francisco, and a page later there are men kissing in the middle of the street while a parade carries on around them. There there are floods and storms and small bright lizards with huge red eyes. There are sharks that have been hunting the waters since before the humans existed, their mouths full of teeth and their eyes empty. There are huge gray brambled things that are actually too small to see, John explains, without magnification, and apparently some of them are even more deadly. There are wars and weddings. Soldiers and civilians and wide open skies filled with nothing but clouds. In a place called Japan, there are great metal structures rising out of the water, like the mining rigs on Sateda, filled with lights and structures that John says he doesn't understand, either.
There are people with marked skin and wrapped hair, sitting on a beach with long oval planks sticking out of the sand, and they look a bit like Ronon, despite their boards and the smiles.
They've gone through three magazines now, and twice now, he's stopped to ask where the pictures came from. The answer's the same both times- Earth- and John laughs, bright and sudden, when Ronon asks him if he's seen it all.
There are billions of people on the planet, and Ronon thinks he's starting to get what that means. There's enough here, on this world, that despite the photos from the satellites orbiting the planet, it's not so surprising that they haven't spent more time spreading out into the universe. They don't need any other worlds. There's enough that's still alien on their own.
---
"Think that's the last of 'em," John eventually admits, flipping the last one shut and tossing it onto the coffee table. Maybe going through and looking at the pictures of all the things Earth stands to lose hadn't been the best idea. As if in agreement, magazine's landing on the pile causes a small avalanche, diverted at the last moment by Ronon's quick hands.
Ronon, at least, seems to have recovered, his posture loose and sprawling in a way that John hasn't seen before.
He's laughed half a dozen times, and extracted a promise from John that if they survive the next week, John will take him to Tokyo. How John'll manage getting the paperwork in order, he's got no clue, but Ronon's good humor had been infectious enough that he'd found himself wanting to make all sorts of promises to him, just to keep it going.
They've been sitting here for over an hour, and Ronon hasn't even seen the entire apartment, which wasn't even what this was supposed to be about. John's about to apologize when he catches himself at the last moment. Instead, he sits up, then stands, immediately regretting it. He hadn't even noticed how comfortable it had been, lazing on the couch with Ronon's arm pressed against his own.
"We've got about seven hours until we're due to meet up with our, ah... chaperones." Maybe he doesn't get the cue, maybe it's some cultural thing, but Ronon hasn't moved yet. He doesn't immediately answer, either, so John waits a moment, stretching out his back and shoulders. When he looks back at the couch, though, Ronon's still basking in the square of sunlight that John's only now taking notice of. He's got gold flecks in his eyes, and the lights of the Strip can be seen from space, but they're nothing in comparison to this. "You feel up to seeing the sights? I mean, it's not Odaiba, but..."
Ronon unfolds himself from the couch, and though they'd been sitting shoulder to shoulder for hours, this is a different kind of close.
John should step away. Doesn't, for a moment, because maybe it's another one of those intercultural things. Ronon might not know that they're standing too close, but concepts of personal space seem too complicated to get into right now. Besides. John's not certain, but it feels like he's getting away with something.
"Sounds good." Once expectant glance out the window and Ronon's nodding, finally, arms crossing easily in front of him. His elbow nearly hits John in the chest, but he doesn't step back, either. And maybe he's got a better understanding of personal space than John's given him credit for, because he doesn't seem to have any intention of moving. John has to look up to see his face, from here, and he should really be stepping back, now.
They should really be going.
"Thanks," Ronon says, the smile still playing on his lips. "For this."
"Don't mention it." Stop staring at his mouth.
The smile's pulled slightly wider to the side, his eyes intent, speculative. It's not quite a laugh, and after a moment, John's let in on the joke.
"I don't mention a lot of things," Ronon says, and hell. Recognition's a bitch. John's not getting away with anything at all.
His feet seem unwilling to cede the challenge his instinct's telling him Ronon's suddenly represented, but he hates how tinny his voice sounds. "Yeah." Another near-death rattle from the air conditioner punctuates the statement. "I kind of noticed that."
Ronon doesn't reach out to him; his arms are still folded loosely over his chest. He merely leans forward and down until his face is all he can see, and John knows this, knows which picture of Pride Week they're reenacting. Two older men, one in a polo shirt, the other in bright tie-dye, standing still on Market Street and kissing chastely while the chaos surges around them.
There's no chaos here, though, just lips pressing quietly against lips, and the sensation of being off balance. He steadies himself on Ronon's arms, and that, it seems, is the permission he's been waiting for- to unfold his arms and pull John closer.
Chapter 17
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. And there's a Soundtrack available as well. :)
John's casting a critical eye over him, managing to frown and grin at the same time.
"You look good," he says.
Ronon shifts, trying to get used to the shirt that settles too lightly over his skin, leaving his arms bare. The jeans, he's decided, are better than the too-short fatigues- On loan from Teal'c, apparently- that he'd been given to try on first. Wearing borrowed clothes is nothing new- everything he has is stolen- but it's been a long time since how they looked were of any importance.
Then again, John had never been there to grin in satisfaction at his appearance. The thin material of the shirt stretches against his back as he brings his shoulders back, drags against the bandages he'd somehow forgotten were there.
This isn't going to work.
"I still don't look anything like your people," he says, tugging at his hair. It's rough and corded as it ever was, nothing at all like the short styles worn by all of John's men, but if he cuts it off, his tracker will be visible to all. John seems to understand this, a frown furrowing his brow before he shakes his head.
"Nah, you'll fit in more than you think, soon as we get out of here. You look great." John's startled gaze shifts down to Ronon's shoulders and stays there, and Ronon finds himself wanting to show off, but he's not sure how it works, here.
---
Ronon follows mutely as John leads him to meet the security retinue. They, too, are wearing clothes more similar to John's and his own than their usual uniforms. Though Ronon understands uniforms, and what they're for, it's surprising how easier it is to be around them when they're gone. Still, though, the overall effect is that the soldiers are, like him, going on an undercover operation into John's territory.
Ronon's been up to this level before, had peered down the hallway at the dim gray light shining through the glass doors. It's not until he's blinded upon their opening that Ronon realizes that the glass had been stained to keep out the sunlight.
There's so much of it. So little of anything else that it's startling.
There are billions of people on this planet, and so much space. No trees, no cover, and he knows he's supposed to be treating it all like he's seen it before, but there's nobody but John and the guards to watch as he turns, squinting, on the concrete, trying to take it all in.
The air's too hot to breathe, this world is dead, the wraith have already come, culled and burned everything to the ground. Nothing's left, not even ashes, just this scarred, lifeless landscape but John's in front of him, suddenly, his hand gripping Ronon's arm.
"Hey." Tugging until they're both turned around, John points across the desert. "Shit. Sorry. Look. We're heading that way." Just over the horizon, the glint of glass and metal can be seen through the haze. It's insubstantial and crystalline, likely to disappear the moment Ronon blinks, but John doesn't seem worried.
He finds himself nodding, moves his eyes only reluctantly.
"Let's get out of here, yeah? There's AC in the truck."
Ronon's not sure what AC is, but John's people tend to give the shortest names to the most important things, and it's probably something they need. The heat inside the truck is stultifying, when John opens the door before walking around the front, waving at the guards getting into a truck of their own, and he, too, pauses to let the heat rush out before climbing inside.
"Take this," John tugs a strap from behind his left shoulder; there's a matching one behind Ronon's right, and he follows John's movement, drawing it down and across his lap. "It's just a precaution," John explains, the tips of his fingers brushing his own hip. "Plug it in here."
It's not until they're pulling out that the strap tightens slightly against his chest, and it if weren't for the fact that John seems unaffected, it would be a problem. As it is, though, the memory of too many wraith pods is faint, barely alarming. It's too bright, here, for the threat to feel real, though he knows it's just an illusion, that darkness can provide even more safety than sunlight.
"So yeah. Sorry about that. Didn't mean to spring this all on you after you've been cooped up for so long."
"It's okay." There's a mirror sticking out of the side of the truck. If Ronon leans right, puts his shoulder against the door, he can see the guards following them, and while they're keeping up, they're making no effort to gain on them. They're just following. Not hunting. "Where are we going?"
John shrugs. "I don't really know. Got some time to figure it out before we get there, but I promise it'll be more fun than hanging out at the base. If we had more time, I'd drag you out to Colorado, maybe, or California, but." He shrugs, and when he speaks again, it's quieter, almost apprehensive "There's really not much we can do in the meantime, but. Well. I figured. Make the best of it. Give you a chance to spread your legs a bit, you know?"
"Thanks."
They're moving fast enough that there's no time to catalog the features of the areas they're passing- not that many exist, beyond the obvious mountains and hills that too far away to be of any practical use. It's hard, though to stop the impulse to look for cover in the scraggly plants dotting the landscape. John points out cacti as if Ronon's never seen them on a hundred different worlds.
Eventually, Ronon's satisfied that the scenery isn't likely to change in the next ten seconds, and stops fighting the urge to ask.
"You've got two billion people here, right? Where is everybody?"
John just laughs.
---
John's thankful for the Vegas skyline, which they've been able to see for miles, now. Because it gives Ronon the chance to acclimate to the idea of cities, of the nearly two million people sprawled out ahead of them. And to be honest, John's not certain Ronon's the only one who needs to acclimate.
The last time he drove back home, he was heading to the airport. He doesn't even honestly know if his apartment building's still standing. For all he knows, Dwayne down on first could've fallen asleep with a burning cigarette again. But John likes to believe he would've heard. From somebody.
If anyone had noticed he was actually missing.
Still. Vegas is home.
---
"...and that's the Natural History Museum," John points out as they pass, having no idea if Ronon's listening, but a running narration seems warranted under the circumstances. "It's not much, but I've seen worse. Children's museum's just up ahead."
Even though he's turning his head, trying to take it all in, Ronon's frozen from the neck down, with a white knuckled grip on the seatbelt. Traffic's gotten heavier, rush hour just starting to set in, and every time they come to a stop light Ronon stares at the other drivers.
He looks, in a word, miserable, and it's clear enough that actually getting him out of the truck is going to be an undertaking. It's as good a reason as any to take the long way home from here, pulling east off the Boulevard to head in the general direction of his apartment. It's not the most glamorous tourist destination he's seen, but it's where the jeans he hasn't been wearing for days on end are stored.
He doesn't even care if they're clean anymore.
Ronon watches the residential streets with the same focus as the main drag, but there's nothing to see here. In a bit, once he's had a chance to change, they'll head out again, south towards the strip- though maybe one of the parks would be easier on him. It's no big deal to turn around again and hit Heritage from here, maybe wander around the jogging path for a bit.
Pulling onto North 11th, he finds his building still standing. Dwayne's Winnebago, too, is still in it's usual spot, where it's likely to remain, undriven, until the rust finally sets in, or at least until his daughter, Sally, gets old enough to take it for a joyride. Knowing the climate, it could take centuries. And though the same can't really be said for the building itself, with the stucco flaking off its sagging walls, Ronon doesn't comment.
"This is my place," John says, pulling into the open parking spot and setting the truck in park. "I just wanted to stop in for a minute, get a change of clothes." Ronon nods, staring at the building's narrow windows, but makes no other attempt to move. John's about to invite him in a little more directly when Cadman and the others pull in behind him. At the same moment, his phone rings.
"What the hell are we doing here?"
"I'm getting changed. Then we're going to hit the park for a while."
"Seriously? His first time in Vegas and you're gonna, what, show him some scrub brush and gravel?"
"We're playing it by ear," John decides that discretion is the better part of valor. "If that's okay with you."
"Sure." Behind him, a car door slams, and Cadman's striding towards his truck. He opens the door to meet her head on, shutting his phone off as he stands. "Look, John," she says sweetly. "I don't want to butt in or whatever, and I know you've had a shitty time of it, but this is the closest we've come in having leave time in weeks. So. I'd like to propose a deal."
"What's that?"
"We're due back before breakfast tomorrow. Well, you can come in whenever, but Ronon's got to come back with us. Markham drew the short straw, so he's the designated driver tonight."
"So I'm going to have a drunk security detail?"
"Are you actually going to need it?" John glances through the window at Ronon, who still hasn't moved, and answers Cadman's question without a word.
"See? Everyone wins. We get a night off, you guys get a night off, and nobody has to be the wiser." She's got a great smile, John realizes. Especially when she knows she's already getting her way.
"What time do you want to meet up?"
"Play it safe, we'll call it midnight. Meet up downtown. Deal?"
"Deal."
"Good." Another smile, and she's heading back towards the truck. Over her shoulder, she calls. "But you call us the second anything goes wrong. Better yet? Don't let anything go wrong."
---
You're going to kill them all.
They're already dead. It's not true. The wraith will come- they'll always come, but they'll be stopped. His tracker isn't what's bringing them here.
Shaking himself at John's signal, he scans one last time for threats he knows aren't actually there. The heat slams into him as he gets out of the truck. John takes a few backwards steps, waiting for him to catch up, but once he's following, John rounds the corner without checking first.
It's the fastest he's moved in days, but when he reaches the same corner, all he finds is John.
No. What he finds is so much worse.
"Hey Sally," John's stopped in his tracks in front of a young girl who's drawing on the concrete with fat pieces of colored chalk.
Sally's skinny, with messy braids. Sally exists.
The last time Ronon had seen a child, it had probably been a boy. He hadn't gotten close enough to the bloated body to check, and wouldn't have bothered even if he'd had the time. And now this girl is turning huge brown eyes on him and smiling guilelessly, like she doesn't know, and too many sensations are crashing over him, horrible and confusing. It must be obvious, too, given John's expression when he glances up from what he's saying, and he's grabbing Ronon by the arm.
"Come on. Crap." Ronon lets himself be pulled away, barely able to hear John's "We'll see you later, Sally," over the screeching in his head.
"Fuck. Okay. What's going on, huh?" John's words are washing over him as they head up the stairs. One foot at a time. The sight lines here are horrible, anything could be waiting on the landing, but it's not his own thoughts he needs to be listening to, it's John's. "This is my place, okay? We're gonna head inside, sit down. Get me some fresh clothes, let you chill a minute." John's fiddling with the door and after a moment's cursing, gets it open. "You thirsty? We'll get you sorted, okay? Come on."
It's dark in here, even with the sun blazing through the closed curtains, and some part of his mind is adjusting to the decrease in light. Outside, in the sun, in full view of the sky, Sally is drawing on the sidewalk, no fear, just-
"Have a seat. I'll be right back." He's directed towards a couch, sits heavily on it. The tan upholstery is textured, raised vines and flowers underneath his fingertips, though it's worn flat, even worn through, in places, and he sinks further back into the cushion than he'd been expecting to, but it's okay. He's got his back against something. From here, he can watch the sun filter through the blinds to highlight the dust in the air. He can stare at the shaggy brown carpet, and wonder where on this huge world it came from. He can think.
From here, the drone of the highway doesn't actually sound like wraith darts cruising in for the kill. This world's never even heard that sound. Yet. And Sally could be playing outside when it happens, glancing in mild confusion at the noises overhead.
"What's going on in your head, huh?"
Dead children. Bloated in a ditch, too small and weak to make a wraith's meal.
Ronon blinks, shakes his head up to find John's shape standing in front him. It's not until the cool slickness taps against his knuckles that Ronon even realizes he's trying to hand him a glass of water. The glass feels too solid to shatter easily, but the water splashes over the rim, and the cold droplets soak fast through his jeans.
"Hey," John's touching his shoulder, steadying himself as he sits down on the couch next to him. It's not until John squeezes that he's able to guess why. John's trying to steady him. The tremors aren't just in Ronon's hand; it's his arm, his shoulders, his chest, too, Realization doesn't make it any easier to stop, even when John eases the cup out of Ronon's hand, sets it on the table.
"It's cool, okay? Whatever it is, you're fine. Look at me. Ronon. Hey. What's-"
"Too much," Ronon shrugs, fairly certain that there's more to it and equally sure that he can't describe it. John's fingers squeeze again, his thumb pressing into the joint of his shoulder. He finds himself turning into the touch without thinking. If he'd planned it, maybe he'd know what to do now that he's face to face with John. He doesn't know how to fix John's worried expression, but maybe punching him would erase the guilt that's there in equal measure.
His predisposition to lash out at what must be kindness makes it hard to maintain eye contact. He doesn't deserve this. John has no idea what's running through Ronon's head though, because he's lightly stroking across Ronon's back, avoiding the implant completely.
He doesn't know how to apologize for his thoughts.
John's the first person he's hugged in over ten years, and his bones shift uneasily under Ronon's hands, but they don't break.
---
"My bad," John's speaking into Ronon's hair and wondering how muffled the sound must be. Anyone else would've pulled away already. John's pretty sure he should've done so already, but maybe it's a cultural thing. He's surprisingly content to wait it out with Ronon's arms wrapped tight over his shoulders, trapping his hand against Ronon's chest. It's warm, and might be the most solid thing in here.
He's done this before. Made people feel better. Scared children who'd seen their parents die, Nancy before it had all gone bad. Dave too, maybe, when they'd been little, but he can't honestly remember. He needs to keep talking, though, provide a distraction, or throw out a line to grab onto. "Guess I wasn't really thinking. Haven't done this before, you know?" Ronon might be nodding; it's hard to tell, this close up, what the movement means. "I remember this one time, back when I was still in the service. Got stuck in a POW camp. They moved us around a lot at first, then kept us in the basement of a warehouse for three weeks that felt like forever." He doesn't know if he needs to explain what a POW camp is, but Ronon's not asking. "When we got out, it was cloudy outside, but it felt so bright I kept squinting for days, afterwards. Nothing looked right. But they'd only been holding us five miles from our base. It was surreal."
And hell. Empty desert roads and rush hour traffic? Ronon doesn't even have half the frame of reference he'd had. He's trying to figure out how to explain it when Ronon nods again, pulls back to look at him. The weight of his regard is heavy enough that John wants to pull close again, just to avoid it. John drops his gaze first, glances over at the water he'd left on the coffee table, sitting on the stack of magazines that he can't remember subscribing to. He's suddenly very glad, though, that he had.
---
"It's called National Geographic," John eventually mutters as he picks up a magazine from the stack on the table, and it's easier to listen to him now that the sun's moved and the room's thrown into shadow. "I don't even remember subscribing, but they just keep showing up." Ronon doesn't comment, just studies the pictures as John turns the page, then turns it again.
There are mountains and cliffs and people with long necks banded in silver. Bright clothes that don't look anything like John's or Ronon's or anyone else's in the universe. There are older women sitting in a tavern, in a place called San Francisco, and a page later there are men kissing in the middle of the street while a parade carries on around them. There there are floods and storms and small bright lizards with huge red eyes. There are sharks that have been hunting the waters since before the humans existed, their mouths full of teeth and their eyes empty. There are huge gray brambled things that are actually too small to see, John explains, without magnification, and apparently some of them are even more deadly. There are wars and weddings. Soldiers and civilians and wide open skies filled with nothing but clouds. In a place called Japan, there are great metal structures rising out of the water, like the mining rigs on Sateda, filled with lights and structures that John says he doesn't understand, either.
There are people with marked skin and wrapped hair, sitting on a beach with long oval planks sticking out of the sand, and they look a bit like Ronon, despite their boards and the smiles.
They've gone through three magazines now, and twice now, he's stopped to ask where the pictures came from. The answer's the same both times- Earth- and John laughs, bright and sudden, when Ronon asks him if he's seen it all.
There are billions of people on the planet, and Ronon thinks he's starting to get what that means. There's enough here, on this world, that despite the photos from the satellites orbiting the planet, it's not so surprising that they haven't spent more time spreading out into the universe. They don't need any other worlds. There's enough that's still alien on their own.
---
"Think that's the last of 'em," John eventually admits, flipping the last one shut and tossing it onto the coffee table. Maybe going through and looking at the pictures of all the things Earth stands to lose hadn't been the best idea. As if in agreement, magazine's landing on the pile causes a small avalanche, diverted at the last moment by Ronon's quick hands.
Ronon, at least, seems to have recovered, his posture loose and sprawling in a way that John hasn't seen before.
He's laughed half a dozen times, and extracted a promise from John that if they survive the next week, John will take him to Tokyo. How John'll manage getting the paperwork in order, he's got no clue, but Ronon's good humor had been infectious enough that he'd found himself wanting to make all sorts of promises to him, just to keep it going.
They've been sitting here for over an hour, and Ronon hasn't even seen the entire apartment, which wasn't even what this was supposed to be about. John's about to apologize when he catches himself at the last moment. Instead, he sits up, then stands, immediately regretting it. He hadn't even noticed how comfortable it had been, lazing on the couch with Ronon's arm pressed against his own.
"We've got about seven hours until we're due to meet up with our, ah... chaperones." Maybe he doesn't get the cue, maybe it's some cultural thing, but Ronon hasn't moved yet. He doesn't immediately answer, either, so John waits a moment, stretching out his back and shoulders. When he looks back at the couch, though, Ronon's still basking in the square of sunlight that John's only now taking notice of. He's got gold flecks in his eyes, and the lights of the Strip can be seen from space, but they're nothing in comparison to this. "You feel up to seeing the sights? I mean, it's not Odaiba, but..."
Ronon unfolds himself from the couch, and though they'd been sitting shoulder to shoulder for hours, this is a different kind of close.
John should step away. Doesn't, for a moment, because maybe it's another one of those intercultural things. Ronon might not know that they're standing too close, but concepts of personal space seem too complicated to get into right now. Besides. John's not certain, but it feels like he's getting away with something.
"Sounds good." Once expectant glance out the window and Ronon's nodding, finally, arms crossing easily in front of him. His elbow nearly hits John in the chest, but he doesn't step back, either. And maybe he's got a better understanding of personal space than John's given him credit for, because he doesn't seem to have any intention of moving. John has to look up to see his face, from here, and he should really be stepping back, now.
They should really be going.
"Thanks," Ronon says, the smile still playing on his lips. "For this."
"Don't mention it." Stop staring at his mouth.
The smile's pulled slightly wider to the side, his eyes intent, speculative. It's not quite a laugh, and after a moment, John's let in on the joke.
"I don't mention a lot of things," Ronon says, and hell. Recognition's a bitch. John's not getting away with anything at all.
His feet seem unwilling to cede the challenge his instinct's telling him Ronon's suddenly represented, but he hates how tinny his voice sounds. "Yeah." Another near-death rattle from the air conditioner punctuates the statement. "I kind of noticed that."
Ronon doesn't reach out to him; his arms are still folded loosely over his chest. He merely leans forward and down until his face is all he can see, and John knows this, knows which picture of Pride Week they're reenacting. Two older men, one in a polo shirt, the other in bright tie-dye, standing still on Market Street and kissing chastely while the chaos surges around them.
There's no chaos here, though, just lips pressing quietly against lips, and the sensation of being off balance. He steadies himself on Ronon's arms, and that, it seems, is the permission he's been waiting for- to unfold his arms and pull John closer.
Chapter 17