SGA Fic - Rigor
Title: Ark Tag: Rigor
Rating: PG for language
Characters: John, Ronon
Summary: Tag to the Ark. Crash landings have consequences. John's learning that the hard way. For splitbeak
The Ark Tag: Rigor
John awoke to the inability to move. It started with his arm; when he went to rub his eyes, tight pain rippled from his shoulder through the rest of his body. Not one to jump to conclusions or give up, John attempted to inch his arm toward his face. But with every inch gained, the sharper the pain.
Then he tried to lift his head and that was a whole different kind of hell. A more compressing pain punched from his neck to his head, igniting a firework of sparks in his eyes. Grunting, he dropped his head back to the pillow.
“Son of a... bitch!” He knew, knew this would be the eventual end result of his greatest crash landing ever. You don't get pummeled by reentry and whipped around without repercussions, and his body was now thoroughly pissed off. John had foolishly thought he'd been in the clear after Beckett had given him the once-over. He'd been diagnosed as bruised, battered, wrenched but otherwise healthy and was released with a bottle of muscle relaxants and orders to rest. John had felt every jar of that crash still tugging at his muscles, but it hadn't been anywhere near this bad.
John momentarily entertained the thought that Beckett might have accidentally given him placebos. Or maybe John himself hadn't taken the recommended amount. But when John reached for the bottle on his night stand, his muscles seized, he yelped and his arm dropped like a rock back on the bed.
This was definitely his body taking its revenge. But John was anything if not cemented in all his resolves. Gritting his teeth, he lifted his arm, moving it inch by agonizing inch toward the pills. Only for a muscle spasm to twitch his arm and knock it and his comm off the night stand.
“Crap!” So be it. If that's how his body wanted to play, then he'd play. Positioning his arm back at his side then forcing the other arm to take up the same position, he started pushing himself up and, holy friggin' cow, Batman, did it suck. Locked muscles rippled and shuddered in storm-churned breakers of protest, through his arms, up and down his back, pushing against his ribs and exploding in his skull. He managed... he wasn't even sure - inches, centimeters - his eyes were squeezed too tight to tell. Then the pain locked his muscles into a solid mass and it was either stay where he was or drop back on the bed.
John dropped, panting and shivering from the sweat that had beaded on his skin.
“Ow.” He took a deep breath and that hurt, too. He had no idea how long he lay there, his head throbbing to the tempo his heart set, that throbbing dancing a tattoo down his neck into his spine before branching out through the rest of his body.
Damn it, if he could just move, grab the pills, get his limbs going and his blood flowing with the aid of a hot shower, then he'd be functional enough to pay Carson a visit for relaxants that actually worked.
John sighed. Never in his life had he been locked up this bad, and he wasn't a stranger to bone jolting nose dives into the ground. Reentry was a friggin' bitch.
The door chimed and a bass voice called, “Sheppard?”
John exhaled with heart-felt relief. “Ronon, buddy. In here!”
The door slid open and Ronon strolled in, coming to a bewildered halt on seeing John still in bed. “Wow, you're actually doing what Beckett said.”
John snorted. “You're a laugh riot. Help me up, I can't move.”
Ronon complied, throwing back the covers then taking John by the arm and hauling. It wasn't quite as bad as doing the work yourself but John's head still throbbed loud and sparks still popped in his vision. Joining it was dizziness that made the room spin and his stomach flip, and he couldn't stop the small whimper crawling out of his throat. When upright, he sat there, hunched and breathing through both the pain and nausea.
“You okay?” Ronon asked.
John swallowed before speaking. “No.” He was too uncomfortable to care how pathetic that had sounded, like a petulant whine. He swallowed again when his stomach acid splashed. “S-see that bottle on the floor? Pop it open and hand me two pills.
Ronon did so, along with the half-emptied plastic bottle on the nightstand. John tossed back the pills and chased them down with water.
“Now I need to um... move. Loosen up. Take a hot shower.”
“Got a better idea,” Ronon said. “Lie down.” But didn't wait for John to do so when he pushed him down by the shoulders, then maneuvered his legs back onto the bed. He rolled John onto his stomach and lifted up his shirt.
“Ronon...?”
“This might hurt a little but trust me, you'll thank me later.” Ronon then dug the heel of his hands into John's back, hard.
And it did hurt, like hell. Like the crash landing all over again. Ronon pushed, pulled and kneaded past muscle all the way to the bone with a strength that was going to leave impressive bruises. John's spine felt like it was being bent inwards, his ribs just a hair's breadth away from snapping. And when Ronon moved on to the neck, it seemed a miracle he didn't break it. After a moment that felt like an eternity, Ronon let up and lifted John back into a sitting position.
John shuddered. “Ow!”
Ronon just grinned. “Now lift your arms.”
John did so, or tried to, and although their range of motion was wider than before he still couldn't raise them over his head. It didn't matter, it was enough for Ronon to get Sheppard's shirt off. After that, he helped John to his feet and to the bathroom.
“Please tell me I'll be able to handle removing my pants myself.”
“Yeah, just take it slow.” Ronon eased him on the toilet seat lid. After a light clap on the shoulder, he left John to handle the rest.
It wasn't easy, but it was doable. John got his pants down low enough to kick them off the rest of the way. Then came the blessed shower with equally blessed hot water, bringing back-up to the pills that coaxed his muscles from their solid state. When he felt himself as cooked and melted as he was going to get, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out into his room.
Ronon was waiting, standing next to the bed and a pile of folded clothes: boxers, sweats and a T-shirt. John had to sit to get his pants on, Ronon taking the first part by getting them over his feet. More help was needed for the shirt, because despite the loosened muscles, it still wasn't enough for John to lift his arms over his head.
“Hold them out,” Ronon said. John did. Ronon slipped the shirt over them then up over John's head.
“Thanks, buddy,” John said.
Ronon nodded. “No problem. Need anything else?”
“The ability to go down to the mess hall and eat. I'm starved.”
Ronon grinned. “McKay's probably down there. I'll get him to bring something. What else?”
“Beckett. I'm gonna need something stronger than what he gave me.”
Both requests were easily and swiftly answered via the comm. With that taken care of, Ronon helped John ease himself back onto the bed, adjusting the pillow to rest his back against it. The pills weren't much, but between the hot shower and Ronon's ministrations, the pain wasn't so bad, now. More a dull ache, sans the personal fireworks show.
With John settled, Ronon grabbed the laptop off the desk, a DVD and a chair. The laptop and movie he set up at the foot of the bed, then parked himself in the chair.
“You don't have to stick around, big guy,” John said. “Not that I'm not saying I don't want you around, but I'm pretty sure you've got things to do.”
“Not really,” Ronon said, which may or may not be the truth but John saw no point in arguing it. He shifted into a position that took a little more pressure of his back, and sighed, not better but definitely getting there.
The End
Rating: PG for language
Characters: John, Ronon
Summary: Tag to the Ark. Crash landings have consequences. John's learning that the hard way. For splitbeak
The Ark Tag: Rigor
John awoke to the inability to move. It started with his arm; when he went to rub his eyes, tight pain rippled from his shoulder through the rest of his body. Not one to jump to conclusions or give up, John attempted to inch his arm toward his face. But with every inch gained, the sharper the pain.
Then he tried to lift his head and that was a whole different kind of hell. A more compressing pain punched from his neck to his head, igniting a firework of sparks in his eyes. Grunting, he dropped his head back to the pillow.
“Son of a... bitch!” He knew, knew this would be the eventual end result of his greatest crash landing ever. You don't get pummeled by reentry and whipped around without repercussions, and his body was now thoroughly pissed off. John had foolishly thought he'd been in the clear after Beckett had given him the once-over. He'd been diagnosed as bruised, battered, wrenched but otherwise healthy and was released with a bottle of muscle relaxants and orders to rest. John had felt every jar of that crash still tugging at his muscles, but it hadn't been anywhere near this bad.
John momentarily entertained the thought that Beckett might have accidentally given him placebos. Or maybe John himself hadn't taken the recommended amount. But when John reached for the bottle on his night stand, his muscles seized, he yelped and his arm dropped like a rock back on the bed.
This was definitely his body taking its revenge. But John was anything if not cemented in all his resolves. Gritting his teeth, he lifted his arm, moving it inch by agonizing inch toward the pills. Only for a muscle spasm to twitch his arm and knock it and his comm off the night stand.
“Crap!” So be it. If that's how his body wanted to play, then he'd play. Positioning his arm back at his side then forcing the other arm to take up the same position, he started pushing himself up and, holy friggin' cow, Batman, did it suck. Locked muscles rippled and shuddered in storm-churned breakers of protest, through his arms, up and down his back, pushing against his ribs and exploding in his skull. He managed... he wasn't even sure - inches, centimeters - his eyes were squeezed too tight to tell. Then the pain locked his muscles into a solid mass and it was either stay where he was or drop back on the bed.
John dropped, panting and shivering from the sweat that had beaded on his skin.
“Ow.” He took a deep breath and that hurt, too. He had no idea how long he lay there, his head throbbing to the tempo his heart set, that throbbing dancing a tattoo down his neck into his spine before branching out through the rest of his body.
Damn it, if he could just move, grab the pills, get his limbs going and his blood flowing with the aid of a hot shower, then he'd be functional enough to pay Carson a visit for relaxants that actually worked.
John sighed. Never in his life had he been locked up this bad, and he wasn't a stranger to bone jolting nose dives into the ground. Reentry was a friggin' bitch.
The door chimed and a bass voice called, “Sheppard?”
John exhaled with heart-felt relief. “Ronon, buddy. In here!”
The door slid open and Ronon strolled in, coming to a bewildered halt on seeing John still in bed. “Wow, you're actually doing what Beckett said.”
John snorted. “You're a laugh riot. Help me up, I can't move.”
Ronon complied, throwing back the covers then taking John by the arm and hauling. It wasn't quite as bad as doing the work yourself but John's head still throbbed loud and sparks still popped in his vision. Joining it was dizziness that made the room spin and his stomach flip, and he couldn't stop the small whimper crawling out of his throat. When upright, he sat there, hunched and breathing through both the pain and nausea.
“You okay?” Ronon asked.
John swallowed before speaking. “No.” He was too uncomfortable to care how pathetic that had sounded, like a petulant whine. He swallowed again when his stomach acid splashed. “S-see that bottle on the floor? Pop it open and hand me two pills.
Ronon did so, along with the half-emptied plastic bottle on the nightstand. John tossed back the pills and chased them down with water.
“Now I need to um... move. Loosen up. Take a hot shower.”
“Got a better idea,” Ronon said. “Lie down.” But didn't wait for John to do so when he pushed him down by the shoulders, then maneuvered his legs back onto the bed. He rolled John onto his stomach and lifted up his shirt.
“Ronon...?”
“This might hurt a little but trust me, you'll thank me later.” Ronon then dug the heel of his hands into John's back, hard.
And it did hurt, like hell. Like the crash landing all over again. Ronon pushed, pulled and kneaded past muscle all the way to the bone with a strength that was going to leave impressive bruises. John's spine felt like it was being bent inwards, his ribs just a hair's breadth away from snapping. And when Ronon moved on to the neck, it seemed a miracle he didn't break it. After a moment that felt like an eternity, Ronon let up and lifted John back into a sitting position.
John shuddered. “Ow!”
Ronon just grinned. “Now lift your arms.”
John did so, or tried to, and although their range of motion was wider than before he still couldn't raise them over his head. It didn't matter, it was enough for Ronon to get Sheppard's shirt off. After that, he helped John to his feet and to the bathroom.
“Please tell me I'll be able to handle removing my pants myself.”
“Yeah, just take it slow.” Ronon eased him on the toilet seat lid. After a light clap on the shoulder, he left John to handle the rest.
It wasn't easy, but it was doable. John got his pants down low enough to kick them off the rest of the way. Then came the blessed shower with equally blessed hot water, bringing back-up to the pills that coaxed his muscles from their solid state. When he felt himself as cooked and melted as he was going to get, he wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped out into his room.
Ronon was waiting, standing next to the bed and a pile of folded clothes: boxers, sweats and a T-shirt. John had to sit to get his pants on, Ronon taking the first part by getting them over his feet. More help was needed for the shirt, because despite the loosened muscles, it still wasn't enough for John to lift his arms over his head.
“Hold them out,” Ronon said. John did. Ronon slipped the shirt over them then up over John's head.
“Thanks, buddy,” John said.
Ronon nodded. “No problem. Need anything else?”
“The ability to go down to the mess hall and eat. I'm starved.”
Ronon grinned. “McKay's probably down there. I'll get him to bring something. What else?”
“Beckett. I'm gonna need something stronger than what he gave me.”
Both requests were easily and swiftly answered via the comm. With that taken care of, Ronon helped John ease himself back onto the bed, adjusting the pillow to rest his back against it. The pills weren't much, but between the hot shower and Ronon's ministrations, the pain wasn't so bad, now. More a dull ache, sans the personal fireworks show.
With John settled, Ronon grabbed the laptop off the desk, a DVD and a chair. The laptop and movie he set up at the foot of the bed, then parked himself in the chair.
“You don't have to stick around, big guy,” John said. “Not that I'm not saying I don't want you around, but I'm pretty sure you've got things to do.”
“Not really,” Ronon said, which may or may not be the truth but John saw no point in arguing it. He shifted into a position that took a little more pressure of his back, and sighed, not better but definitely getting there.
The End