Fly Again (SGA, John/Ronon, PG)
Title: Fly Again
Rating: PG
Fandom/Pairing: SGA, John/Ronon
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
Genre: Ficlet written for hc_bingo for prompt "Wings (sudden onset)"
A/N: I nearly wrote this about being bombarded by Paul McCartney's post-Beatles band, but I reined it in. Barely. Also, if you're interested, the title comes from this song.
Ronon watches it happen, at least up until they get him into the transporter and into the infirmary. Then the curtains are drawn closed. It doesn't mean he can't still see the bone spurs growing and splitting and pulling apart, tethered only by a membrane that shouldn't be there, either. Ronon can just make out the shapes on the other side of the curtain. They're horrible.
---
"You know," John shifts in his infirmary bed, trying and apparently failing, again, to find a comfortable position. "I wanted wings when I was a kid. Wanted to fly. It never occurred to me that one would preclude the other." It's supposed to be a joke, but Ronon's not laughing, either.
When he'd first woken up, he'd been lying on his side. Panicked, for a moment, because in front of him, at a ninety degree angle, was Ronon, dozing in the chair, while on top of him was this heavy weight. He hadn't been alone in the bed.
Two days later, and John still feels like that, most of the time. There's him, and there's these things, and they won't go away.
---
"It's not that they don't work," Keller is explaining to John on the other side of the infirmary curtain. "The structure fused to the spine and nervous system, and the musculature is developing, but your brain doesn't know how to translate the signals." And then she says she needs some more time to figure it out. She'll try to fix him, but they're causing no threat.
Ronon's glad he's waiting by the door, out here, because he doesn't think he could stand to look at her.
"They don't work," John says, probably more out of habit after having to explain it to every third person in the city. Ronon already knows, he's watched him flex and twist, trying to trick the wings into moving of their own volition. John flinches, when people pass him in the hallways, and Ronon can't stop thinking of how thin the membranes are, how easily damaged. He tries not to watch his face, because he knows John knows it, too.
"They don't work," McKay says, a few days later over lunch, only he's talking about the device that caused this entire mess in the first place. "Then again, go figure. The Ancients-" and then he's off on another rambling discourse about trying to reverse engineer the process from the now destroyed chunk of metal down in the lab, but Ronon's already stopped listening.
---
Ronon drags him into the training room to spar and tries to convince the both of them that there's a chance in hell that John can manage unhindered by the distraction on his back. He figures out fairly quickly that maybe it would help if he could manage to ignore them.
Ronon's a good fighter, but the hardest opponent is a man who honestly wouldn't mind if a part of himself died.
---
McKay and Zelenka modify one of the backless lab stools so it's high enough that John can sit down, at least. He says he appreciates it, but truth be told, all he can feel is the weight, pulling him down. Has to hunch forward so the weight is pressing down instead of back, as he tries to listen to Zelenka's list of modifications that need to be made in his quarters.
He can't do much like this, and they can't send him home, either. As far as silver linings go, it's not much of one.
"What the hell difference does it make?" John asks, later in his room, as he's reaching awkwardly behind him, trying to get the right wing folded behind his back so that he find some approximation of a comfortable position. "Doesn't really matter where I am when I'm not doing anything."
Ronon doesn't argue, just waits for him to settle into position before lying down next to him. As always, he's mindful of the wings, avoiding them perfectly, and John's still not sure if it's because they look a thousand times more fragile than they feel, or if he just can't bring himself to come closer.
---
John takes Teyla up on her offer to guide him through some meditation, in hopes that some mental component can be discovered. It doesn't take. He goes every day anyhow, because it's okay, being with other people when their eyes are closed, but mostly because the room is always so still. There's nobody moving, nobody stirring the air to send distracting washes of sensation over nerves that weren't there a week ago.
---
The surgeons that Keller requests from the SGC works for three days straight, and can't figure out how to move them without paralyzing him from the shoulders down.
Ronon has to hear it from Keller, because nobody's seen John for seven hours. Atlantis won't open his door for anyone, and if he's on comms, he's being silent.
---
There's an electrical anomaly that the scanners picked up, seven hours out over the horizon. Over the radio, John can hear Zelenka and McKay arguing out their theories and trying to get the equipment shipped down to the jumpers.
He watches them take off through the windows in his room, and sets his earpiece to monitor all gateroom communications. Mostly he just paces, nervous and irritable, and can't stop himself from growling when Ronon shows up at the door, but he kind of hates himself for it.
Because yeah, Ronon should be out there, watching their backs. There's nothing stopping him from sitting in a puddle jumper. But he's here instead, striding across the room, draping his wrists over John's neck, pressing his fingers into the ever-present knots at the top of his spine, doing what he can to ease the strain.
"What are you doing?"
"Dunno," he half smirks, and John can feel his fingers splaying out just slightly over an expanse of wing. "Trying to make you feel better. Is it working?"
John shrugs, but Ronon's grip doesn't lessen. The membrane of the wing is sensitive enough that the slight drag of fingertips over those scant inches is felt vividly. "Yeah, maybe a little bit," he says, grabbing loosely at Ronon's waist.
Ronon is experimentally running one hand along the inside of his wing, trailing carefully down. It feels strange. Not bad, just new. He still doesn't know how to process it, but it's better than Ronon stopping. His forehead is resting forehead against Ronon's throat, so he can feel him speaking when he says, "Ah, John?"
"Yeah?" he asks, but the he's unbalanced, has to resist the urge to list to the right, and when he turns his head to look, he can see the wing stretching out, reaching towards Ronon's arm.
Ronon's smiling, curious, turning his attention to John's other wing, and nearly gets the same reaction, but it stops the moment John starts thinking about what, exactly, is going on, but it doesn't matter. He's got proof of concept.
"You know, I always wanted wings, when I was a kid," he says, and when Ronon laughs, quietly, John can feel it in his wings.
Rating: PG
Fandom/Pairing: SGA, John/Ronon
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
Genre: Ficlet written for hc_bingo for prompt "Wings (sudden onset)"
A/N: I nearly wrote this about being bombarded by Paul McCartney's post-Beatles band, but I reined it in. Barely. Also, if you're interested, the title comes from this song.
Ronon watches it happen, at least up until they get him into the transporter and into the infirmary. Then the curtains are drawn closed. It doesn't mean he can't still see the bone spurs growing and splitting and pulling apart, tethered only by a membrane that shouldn't be there, either. Ronon can just make out the shapes on the other side of the curtain. They're horrible.
---
"You know," John shifts in his infirmary bed, trying and apparently failing, again, to find a comfortable position. "I wanted wings when I was a kid. Wanted to fly. It never occurred to me that one would preclude the other." It's supposed to be a joke, but Ronon's not laughing, either.
When he'd first woken up, he'd been lying on his side. Panicked, for a moment, because in front of him, at a ninety degree angle, was Ronon, dozing in the chair, while on top of him was this heavy weight. He hadn't been alone in the bed.
Two days later, and John still feels like that, most of the time. There's him, and there's these things, and they won't go away.
---
"It's not that they don't work," Keller is explaining to John on the other side of the infirmary curtain. "The structure fused to the spine and nervous system, and the musculature is developing, but your brain doesn't know how to translate the signals." And then she says she needs some more time to figure it out. She'll try to fix him, but they're causing no threat.
Ronon's glad he's waiting by the door, out here, because he doesn't think he could stand to look at her.
"They don't work," John says, probably more out of habit after having to explain it to every third person in the city. Ronon already knows, he's watched him flex and twist, trying to trick the wings into moving of their own volition. John flinches, when people pass him in the hallways, and Ronon can't stop thinking of how thin the membranes are, how easily damaged. He tries not to watch his face, because he knows John knows it, too.
"They don't work," McKay says, a few days later over lunch, only he's talking about the device that caused this entire mess in the first place. "Then again, go figure. The Ancients-" and then he's off on another rambling discourse about trying to reverse engineer the process from the now destroyed chunk of metal down in the lab, but Ronon's already stopped listening.
---
Ronon drags him into the training room to spar and tries to convince the both of them that there's a chance in hell that John can manage unhindered by the distraction on his back. He figures out fairly quickly that maybe it would help if he could manage to ignore them.
Ronon's a good fighter, but the hardest opponent is a man who honestly wouldn't mind if a part of himself died.
---
McKay and Zelenka modify one of the backless lab stools so it's high enough that John can sit down, at least. He says he appreciates it, but truth be told, all he can feel is the weight, pulling him down. Has to hunch forward so the weight is pressing down instead of back, as he tries to listen to Zelenka's list of modifications that need to be made in his quarters.
He can't do much like this, and they can't send him home, either. As far as silver linings go, it's not much of one.
"What the hell difference does it make?" John asks, later in his room, as he's reaching awkwardly behind him, trying to get the right wing folded behind his back so that he find some approximation of a comfortable position. "Doesn't really matter where I am when I'm not doing anything."
Ronon doesn't argue, just waits for him to settle into position before lying down next to him. As always, he's mindful of the wings, avoiding them perfectly, and John's still not sure if it's because they look a thousand times more fragile than they feel, or if he just can't bring himself to come closer.
---
John takes Teyla up on her offer to guide him through some meditation, in hopes that some mental component can be discovered. It doesn't take. He goes every day anyhow, because it's okay, being with other people when their eyes are closed, but mostly because the room is always so still. There's nobody moving, nobody stirring the air to send distracting washes of sensation over nerves that weren't there a week ago.
---
The surgeons that Keller requests from the SGC works for three days straight, and can't figure out how to move them without paralyzing him from the shoulders down.
Ronon has to hear it from Keller, because nobody's seen John for seven hours. Atlantis won't open his door for anyone, and if he's on comms, he's being silent.
---
There's an electrical anomaly that the scanners picked up, seven hours out over the horizon. Over the radio, John can hear Zelenka and McKay arguing out their theories and trying to get the equipment shipped down to the jumpers.
He watches them take off through the windows in his room, and sets his earpiece to monitor all gateroom communications. Mostly he just paces, nervous and irritable, and can't stop himself from growling when Ronon shows up at the door, but he kind of hates himself for it.
Because yeah, Ronon should be out there, watching their backs. There's nothing stopping him from sitting in a puddle jumper. But he's here instead, striding across the room, draping his wrists over John's neck, pressing his fingers into the ever-present knots at the top of his spine, doing what he can to ease the strain.
"What are you doing?"
"Dunno," he half smirks, and John can feel his fingers splaying out just slightly over an expanse of wing. "Trying to make you feel better. Is it working?"
John shrugs, but Ronon's grip doesn't lessen. The membrane of the wing is sensitive enough that the slight drag of fingertips over those scant inches is felt vividly. "Yeah, maybe a little bit," he says, grabbing loosely at Ronon's waist.
Ronon is experimentally running one hand along the inside of his wing, trailing carefully down. It feels strange. Not bad, just new. He still doesn't know how to process it, but it's better than Ronon stopping. His forehead is resting forehead against Ronon's throat, so he can feel him speaking when he says, "Ah, John?"
"Yeah?" he asks, but the he's unbalanced, has to resist the urge to list to the right, and when he turns his head to look, he can see the wing stretching out, reaching towards Ronon's arm.
Ronon's smiling, curious, turning his attention to John's other wing, and nearly gets the same reaction, but it stops the moment John starts thinking about what, exactly, is going on, but it doesn't matter. He's got proof of concept.
"You know, I always wanted wings, when I was a kid," he says, and when Ronon laughs, quietly, John can feel it in his wings.