SGA fic - Against the Cold
Title: Against the Cold
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sheppard, Ronon, OCs
Warnings: Non-explicit mentions of abuse.
Summary: Comment fic for saphirablue who wanted John as a slave and lots of comfort, and Diane who wanted Ronon keeping John warm and the Marines stumbling onto them. So kind of two stories in one :D Edited but not beta'd.
Against the Cold
The latest mission gone FUBAR ended with John as one of many pretty-boy members of a mistreated entourage of slaves. His owner - a woman twenty years older than him with a penchant for layering the makeup, making her look like a deranged clown. It was very 1700s... or was it 1600s? Whenever they wore the powdered wigs and poofy outfits. Not the slaves, though - they were below “finery” (thank goodness, because like hell John was wearing pantaloons or whatever. It was bad enough his owner was a damn clown).
The world fancied itself advanced, with paved roads, indoor plumbing and the ability to subvert its fellow man. No one traded with this world, no one acknowledged them beyond warnings to keep the hell away, everyone shot at them on sight if possible. John probably would have done the same, but he'd been knocked over the head at the time. They were simple but sneaky like that.
Simple, sneaky, heartless bastards, because a slave was a thing, not a human being. It was all pathetically cliché - metal collars, chains, cages for rooms, whips and general degradation. There was no such thing as pleasing the master, especially when the master had a temper tantrum every five minutes. The mistress liked her male slaves shirtless, but had yet to actually molest any, being too busy beating them and all: for rubbing her feet wrong, for her wine not being chilled enough, for not taking enough baths even though it was up to her to grant them that right. She would beat, starve, whatever made her little angry heart happy. Nothing made her little angry heart happy.
And a slave was lucky if he lasted a year.
For John, it was six months of this crap, of being beaten and starved and made to kneel on the floor when her ladyship needed a back on which she could rest her feet. His back was always too bony, she said. She whipped him for it every time. Then she would cut his rations, again. By month six, there were no rations left to cut.
John must have been a hell of a sight, because when Ronon finally found him, stood outside his cage, blaster in hand and keys in the other, he was gaping. Honest too goodness slack-jawed and wide-eyed with horror. But horror didn't last long, not with Ronon, and the inevitable fury took over, sparking like flint in his dark eyes.
John responded to the reunion as he always did whenever one of his team was forced to rescue him - he pushed himself upright on wobbly arms, and gave Ronon a weak wave.
“Hey... big guy.”
Ronon snarled. He shoved the key in the lock and all but ripped the door off its hinges when he stormed in.
He was nothing but gentle as he helped John to his feet. John wasn't so weak that he couldn't walk, but he was damn close, and they weren't even out the servant's entrance when John's strength began to flag. So of course Ronon had to scoop him up and carry him like a child. John would have protested had he the energy to care. He didn't like that he didn't care. Not being able to bitch meant that something was seriously wrong.
They escaped without any problems, the locals so damn arrogant that it was beyond their comprehension that anyone would try, or even could, escape.
The world was in its winter cycle, the days chilly and the nights freezing, the snow on the ground ankle high. and the gate was a good thirty miles away.
“Don't have a GDO,” Ronon said. Because of course life had to make up for their easy escape by denying them the ability to just walk through the gate into Atlantis. “Bunch of slavers tried to take me. Ended up broken in the fight.” That explained the fading bruises on Ronon's face. “But I was able to contact Atlantis before, told them where I was and to send back-up if I wasn't back in ten hours. We've got seven hours left.”
Sheppard could only nod, tired but shivering hard. Ronon had wrapped him in his coat, but the dent in Sheppard's chills were minor. Blood loss and hunger screwed a guy like that. But good old Ronon, runner for seven years, was an extreme boyscout, prepared down to the bone. He had discovered a shack up in the hills, long abandoned and hard to reach unless you knew it was there.
The walls of the shack were warped, cool air slinking through the chinks, but it blocked the wind and there was a fireplace, wood chopped and ready next to it - extreme boyscout indeed.
Ronon laid John out on the rickety bed, covered him with raggedy blankets that were less effective than the coat. Once Ronon had a fire going, he turned his attention to John's half-naked and battered body. The whip-lashes were many, new overlapping the old. John had broken ribs, because cracked ribs didn't give quite that easily. And mustn't forget the weight loss; John didn't think he qualified yet as emaciated, but Ronon had no trouble finding the individual bars of Sheppard's ribcage. He cleaned John's back, wrapped it in sterile gauze he'd hidden with his knives - just in case, he said. He helped John up and held him there as he coaxed him to take a few swallows of broth, the powdered stuff that you add to water.
“MRE would be better,” John rasped.
Ronon grinned, knowing John wasn't all that big a fan of MREs. “One step at a time, Sheppard.”
The broth had been warmed, and that warmth spread through John melting most of the frost that seemed to coat his bones. It didn't last, and it wasn't long before John was shivering again, so tense he hurt even worse.
Ronon stripped out of his shirt.
John sighed. “Great.” Which was all the protest he could muster.
Ronon eased onto the bed next to him, covering them both with the coat and flimsy blankets. He turned facing John and was scooting closer when he suddenly paused, eyebrow arched.
“It's cool, right?” he asked.
It took a while for John's muzzy brain to puzzle out what he was talking about.
Slave, collar, shirtlessness - riiiight.
“She never--” John cleared his throat. “Yeah, it's cool.” It had to be, because John had been freezing, but with Ronon's bulk able to produce more body heat, John was finally starting to feel warm. Ronon scooted closer, not enough for actual skin-on-skin contact, just enough for more heat to reach John's chest. John was grateful - for both the heat and centimeter of personal space.
Then it hit John like a kick to the gut.
It was over. He was free. In four hours, he could go home.
John's breath hitched, his body trembling but not because it was cold. He'd been subject to a lot of hell in his life, plenty to know that surviving at the cusp of being so damn sure he had reached his final destination - of crawling and clawing through pain and uncertainty and, yes, even fear with no end in sight, only for that end to come like a sudden burst of morning light - came with a relief so heavy and profound and all consuming that it never got old not matter how many hells he survived. It was only through complete stubborn resolve that John managed not to sob like a baby,
But he shook, barely able to breathe, the all consuming relief a massive knot in his chest. He lowered his head when he felt tears start pricking his eyes, his forehead resting against Ronon's chest slowly rising and falling.
Ronon's hand gently ruffled John's hair. “It's okay, buddy. You're okay. I've got you.”
It was all too much. John didn't so much fall asleep as pass out.
---------------------
The marines found them still asleep, John's head tucked against Ronon's chest and Ronon's hand resting lightly on John's head. They didn't think a damn thing of it. It was cold, Sheppard, who had been a lean guy to begin with, missing too much body fat, and the shack shelter but crap shelter.
There was nothing to think except to remember the times they'd been there themselves - Lt. Morris with a small flush to his cheeks because at least Sheppard and Ronon had pants. Wet clothes had forced his entire team to huddled naked, and being that cold pressed up to that many clammy bodies - not fun.
You did what you had to do to survive. You did three times as much for a team mate in need.
If Ronon was bothered by being caught sleeping shirtless next to his equally shirtless team leader, he didn't show it, and Sheppard was too out of it to care. No one was going to say anything, anyway, not about two men doing what they had to to keep warm, not even about Ronon carrying a sickly Colonel swaddled like a babe in blankets to the jumper waiting outside. If anyone did say anything, then hell yes they were going to regret it.
Ronon carried Sheppard into the jumper where medics sat waiting and ready. The interior was blessedly warm. An IV was inserted into John's vein, feeding him pain killers, antibiotics, nutrients and water. The Colonel even managed to wake up enough to realize where he was. Ronon stayed close, within Sheppard's sights. The Colonel was going to be fine.
The jumper cloaked and headed for the gate. If anyone noticed the single tear trickling out of the corner of Sheppard's eye down his face, no one said anything.
The End
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Sheppard, Ronon, OCs
Warnings: Non-explicit mentions of abuse.
Summary: Comment fic for saphirablue who wanted John as a slave and lots of comfort, and Diane who wanted Ronon keeping John warm and the Marines stumbling onto them. So kind of two stories in one :D Edited but not beta'd.
Against the Cold
The latest mission gone FUBAR ended with John as one of many pretty-boy members of a mistreated entourage of slaves. His owner - a woman twenty years older than him with a penchant for layering the makeup, making her look like a deranged clown. It was very 1700s... or was it 1600s? Whenever they wore the powdered wigs and poofy outfits. Not the slaves, though - they were below “finery” (thank goodness, because like hell John was wearing pantaloons or whatever. It was bad enough his owner was a damn clown).
The world fancied itself advanced, with paved roads, indoor plumbing and the ability to subvert its fellow man. No one traded with this world, no one acknowledged them beyond warnings to keep the hell away, everyone shot at them on sight if possible. John probably would have done the same, but he'd been knocked over the head at the time. They were simple but sneaky like that.
Simple, sneaky, heartless bastards, because a slave was a thing, not a human being. It was all pathetically cliché - metal collars, chains, cages for rooms, whips and general degradation. There was no such thing as pleasing the master, especially when the master had a temper tantrum every five minutes. The mistress liked her male slaves shirtless, but had yet to actually molest any, being too busy beating them and all: for rubbing her feet wrong, for her wine not being chilled enough, for not taking enough baths even though it was up to her to grant them that right. She would beat, starve, whatever made her little angry heart happy. Nothing made her little angry heart happy.
And a slave was lucky if he lasted a year.
For John, it was six months of this crap, of being beaten and starved and made to kneel on the floor when her ladyship needed a back on which she could rest her feet. His back was always too bony, she said. She whipped him for it every time. Then she would cut his rations, again. By month six, there were no rations left to cut.
John must have been a hell of a sight, because when Ronon finally found him, stood outside his cage, blaster in hand and keys in the other, he was gaping. Honest too goodness slack-jawed and wide-eyed with horror. But horror didn't last long, not with Ronon, and the inevitable fury took over, sparking like flint in his dark eyes.
John responded to the reunion as he always did whenever one of his team was forced to rescue him - he pushed himself upright on wobbly arms, and gave Ronon a weak wave.
“Hey... big guy.”
Ronon snarled. He shoved the key in the lock and all but ripped the door off its hinges when he stormed in.
He was nothing but gentle as he helped John to his feet. John wasn't so weak that he couldn't walk, but he was damn close, and they weren't even out the servant's entrance when John's strength began to flag. So of course Ronon had to scoop him up and carry him like a child. John would have protested had he the energy to care. He didn't like that he didn't care. Not being able to bitch meant that something was seriously wrong.
They escaped without any problems, the locals so damn arrogant that it was beyond their comprehension that anyone would try, or even could, escape.
The world was in its winter cycle, the days chilly and the nights freezing, the snow on the ground ankle high. and the gate was a good thirty miles away.
“Don't have a GDO,” Ronon said. Because of course life had to make up for their easy escape by denying them the ability to just walk through the gate into Atlantis. “Bunch of slavers tried to take me. Ended up broken in the fight.” That explained the fading bruises on Ronon's face. “But I was able to contact Atlantis before, told them where I was and to send back-up if I wasn't back in ten hours. We've got seven hours left.”
Sheppard could only nod, tired but shivering hard. Ronon had wrapped him in his coat, but the dent in Sheppard's chills were minor. Blood loss and hunger screwed a guy like that. But good old Ronon, runner for seven years, was an extreme boyscout, prepared down to the bone. He had discovered a shack up in the hills, long abandoned and hard to reach unless you knew it was there.
The walls of the shack were warped, cool air slinking through the chinks, but it blocked the wind and there was a fireplace, wood chopped and ready next to it - extreme boyscout indeed.
Ronon laid John out on the rickety bed, covered him with raggedy blankets that were less effective than the coat. Once Ronon had a fire going, he turned his attention to John's half-naked and battered body. The whip-lashes were many, new overlapping the old. John had broken ribs, because cracked ribs didn't give quite that easily. And mustn't forget the weight loss; John didn't think he qualified yet as emaciated, but Ronon had no trouble finding the individual bars of Sheppard's ribcage. He cleaned John's back, wrapped it in sterile gauze he'd hidden with his knives - just in case, he said. He helped John up and held him there as he coaxed him to take a few swallows of broth, the powdered stuff that you add to water.
“MRE would be better,” John rasped.
Ronon grinned, knowing John wasn't all that big a fan of MREs. “One step at a time, Sheppard.”
The broth had been warmed, and that warmth spread through John melting most of the frost that seemed to coat his bones. It didn't last, and it wasn't long before John was shivering again, so tense he hurt even worse.
Ronon stripped out of his shirt.
John sighed. “Great.” Which was all the protest he could muster.
Ronon eased onto the bed next to him, covering them both with the coat and flimsy blankets. He turned facing John and was scooting closer when he suddenly paused, eyebrow arched.
“It's cool, right?” he asked.
It took a while for John's muzzy brain to puzzle out what he was talking about.
Slave, collar, shirtlessness - riiiight.
“She never--” John cleared his throat. “Yeah, it's cool.” It had to be, because John had been freezing, but with Ronon's bulk able to produce more body heat, John was finally starting to feel warm. Ronon scooted closer, not enough for actual skin-on-skin contact, just enough for more heat to reach John's chest. John was grateful - for both the heat and centimeter of personal space.
Then it hit John like a kick to the gut.
It was over. He was free. In four hours, he could go home.
John's breath hitched, his body trembling but not because it was cold. He'd been subject to a lot of hell in his life, plenty to know that surviving at the cusp of being so damn sure he had reached his final destination - of crawling and clawing through pain and uncertainty and, yes, even fear with no end in sight, only for that end to come like a sudden burst of morning light - came with a relief so heavy and profound and all consuming that it never got old not matter how many hells he survived. It was only through complete stubborn resolve that John managed not to sob like a baby,
But he shook, barely able to breathe, the all consuming relief a massive knot in his chest. He lowered his head when he felt tears start pricking his eyes, his forehead resting against Ronon's chest slowly rising and falling.
Ronon's hand gently ruffled John's hair. “It's okay, buddy. You're okay. I've got you.”
It was all too much. John didn't so much fall asleep as pass out.
---------------------
The marines found them still asleep, John's head tucked against Ronon's chest and Ronon's hand resting lightly on John's head. They didn't think a damn thing of it. It was cold, Sheppard, who had been a lean guy to begin with, missing too much body fat, and the shack shelter but crap shelter.
There was nothing to think except to remember the times they'd been there themselves - Lt. Morris with a small flush to his cheeks because at least Sheppard and Ronon had pants. Wet clothes had forced his entire team to huddled naked, and being that cold pressed up to that many clammy bodies - not fun.
You did what you had to do to survive. You did three times as much for a team mate in need.
If Ronon was bothered by being caught sleeping shirtless next to his equally shirtless team leader, he didn't show it, and Sheppard was too out of it to care. No one was going to say anything, anyway, not about two men doing what they had to to keep warm, not even about Ronon carrying a sickly Colonel swaddled like a babe in blankets to the jumper waiting outside. If anyone did say anything, then hell yes they were going to regret it.
Ronon carried Sheppard into the jumper where medics sat waiting and ready. The interior was blessedly warm. An IV was inserted into John's vein, feeding him pain killers, antibiotics, nutrients and water. The Colonel even managed to wake up enough to realize where he was. Ronon stayed close, within Sheppard's sights. The Colonel was going to be fine.
The jumper cloaked and headed for the gate. If anyone noticed the single tear trickling out of the corner of Sheppard's eye down his face, no one said anything.
The End