SGA Fic - Of Hell and Heaven
Title: Of Hell and Heaven
Rating: PG, Gen
Characters: John, Ronon
Spoilers: Tabula Rasa, Miller's Crossing
Summary: John may want to rethink "Anything for anyone of you." A little something that popped into my head after watching Tabula Rasa. It refused to depart until I agreed to write it. J/R friendship, humor, and a smidgen of whumping for both boys.
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The Lantean legend of the underworld told of a place that was fire and brimstone; weeping, wailing, gnashing teeth and eternal punishment meted out by little horned red men poking you with three-pronged spears.
They were wrong.
The underworld was sickness. It was a constant need that was so simple to gratify, yet you couldn't. One easy little action to take away the burning and the chafing, and you weren't allowed. It was misery that no one gave a damn about, and people promising an end but with no end in sight.
Promise, promise, promise. They kept promising - lying sacks of pilar filth is what they were. They didn't care about him. They pretended, hiding their amusement behind masks of worry and smiles behind their hands. Of course they were lying to him. They were enjoying this.
No one cared, but Ronon would end this torment. Since they did not care, then neither did he, and they would pay -
“Ronon, how many times do we have to tell you - scratching just makes it worse and Keller's going to duct tape oven mitts to your hands if you don't stop.”
Ronon rolled a blistering gaze up at Sheppard leaning loose and carefree against the door. He was going to hit him. He was going to hit him and didn't give a damn if it resulted in a day in the brig. Maybe then he could scratch in peace.
He managed to restrain himself, settling for a gutteral, “Bite me.” He then scratched: upper arm, skirting the little red blisters that should have been too small to create such agony. But, then again, there were a lot of them - he'd counted about twenty on his stomach before he got bored and remembered how bad he itched.
“I doubt you'd taste good,” Sheppard said, pushing away from his lean. He pulled a pink bottle from his pocket and tossed it, Ronon catching it easy despite the skin-crawling distraction. Removing the cap revealed more pink inside, thick as paste and wreaking of chemicals.
“Little present from Keller,” Sheppard said. “You smear it all over you. And by all over I mean where the blister things are. No sense in putting the stuff where it'll make you more uncomfortable.” He then pulled something from his other pocket that he tossed onto the bed: five little paper pouches of...
Ronon arched an eyebrow at Sheppard. “Instant oatmeal?”
Sheppard shrugged. “It was all I was able to swipe from the mess but Keller's going to plead your case. You put it in hot water and soak in it. It's supposed to help.”
“Did you have to bathe in oatmeal?”
Sheppard's grin was a caricature of amusement that didn't hide the tightness, which was all the answer needed. “Just use it.”
Snorting, Ronon tossed it aside next to the pink bottle of pink goo that smelled like the infirmary. “Gee, thanks,” he said, inflecting sarcasm built up over days of fighting to keep his nails from raking his skin. “Pink slop and oatmeal - that's your people's cure for this thing? I thought you were more advanced.”
To which Sheppard rolled his eyes and snapped, “It's a damn childhood disease, Ronon.”
“You really let your kids go through this?” Ronon sneered. “It's freakin' torture!”
John shrugged. “Hey, at least you're still alive... with your memory intact.”
He had Ronon there. Keller had promised the illness would only last a few weeks, and as long as Ronon didn't scratch then he ran no risk of scarring. Other than the itching, pustules and a fever - the way Keller described it - it hadn't seemed like much of an illness.
Then began the itching, itching, itching: like a thousand bites from the obnoxious guf bug that clouded over the ponds and standing water of Sateda. Burning and biting and itching...
“And for your information,” Sheppard continued, “we don't have a cure but we do have a vaccine. It's just that, sometimes...” he shifted uncomfortably, “it doesn't work on everyone.”
In particular, it hadn't worked on Madison, who'd gotten sick after her mother was returned and hugged Ronon without any of them being the wiser until long after the fact. Jeannie had been e-mailing apologies non-stop for days.
“So, go fill the tub, give yourself a soak, slap on that Calamine and you'll feel like a new man. Well, relatively. You'll feel a little more human; temporarily but better than nothing, right?”
Ronon curled his lip back from his teeth in a silent snarl. One hit, right to the nose - now that would make him feel like a new man and more human. And he could do it, now, while Sheppard was totally unaware. The man was just standing there, gnawing his bottom lip as he stared at Ronon, either unperturbed by the mounting fury, ignoring it or completely oblivious to it, and it was pissing Ronon off more than he already was.
By the Ancestors, he just wanted to scratch, damn it!
Sheppard crossed his arms over his chest, pursing his lips thoughtfully, sympathetically, and as much as Ronon had wished the others would take this “hell” a little more seriously, Sheppard's pity wasn't helping. Ronon didn't want pity. He wanted a cure. He wanted to scratch. He wanted to hit something, even if that something was Sheppard.
“How about this,” Sheppard said. “We go down to the gym. So long as you promise not to say anything to Keller, I'll let you beat the hell out of me. Will that help?”
A smile burst wide on Ronon's face. “Now you're talking.”
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“Hell” was also being inactive, incapable, holding still for too long against your will while the world moved on around you.
Thwacking another man with wooden sticks and getting thwacked in return was “Heaven”.
“A little higher next time,” Ronon said after taking a hit to the lower shoulder blade.
Sheppard danced away from the next attack. “Hey, that was a good hit.”
“It was, but higher would have been better.” He swung out, grazing John's stomach. John swung and connected with Ronon's upper arm, resulting in a satisfactory “scratch” that had Ronon sighing in relief.
Sheppard stepped back and frowned. “Be honest. Are we scratching a metaphorical itch, here, or a literal one? Because maybe I should rethink this if it's the lat-” A slap to the ribs shoved the air and the last remnants of the word from his mouth. “-ter.” Sheppard staggered back half-bent and clutching his side.
Ronon grinned. “Better than oatmeal and pink crap.” He attacked. The two exchanged blows to sticks and blows to bodies, sharp cracks with sharp slaps as they skipped, danced, prowled, lunged and held their own. Hearts pounding, muscles stretching, bones bruising and, damn, how good it felt. Better than any chemical or food or even scratching. Ronon didn't think about the itch, forgot the itch. The itch no longer was, smothered by sweat and adrenaline. It was just him, his weapons, his strength and his opponent.
It was most definitely Heaven.
Ronon crouched and kicked out sweeping Sheppard's legs out from under him. Sheppard landed on his back with a loud oomph and more air knocked from his lungs. He laid there, panting, groaning, and splayed in blatant defeat.
“Really should have rethought this.”
Ronon chuckled, shaking his head, and held his hand out for John to take. He hauled the smaller man to his feet. “Why? It was great.”
John smiled back, pained but sincere. “So it helped?”
Ronon clapped him on the back, making him wheeze. “Yeah, it helped.”
Sheppard, momentarily breathless, nodded. “Great... bruises aren't in vain, then. Just, remember... no telling Keller.”
“Count on it.” They headed out of the gym, John slightly doubled and limping, and Ronon smiling so big it seemed impossible that it didn't divide his face.
This disease wasn't so bad.
The End
Rating: PG, Gen
Characters: John, Ronon
Spoilers: Tabula Rasa, Miller's Crossing
Summary: John may want to rethink "Anything for anyone of you." A little something that popped into my head after watching Tabula Rasa. It refused to depart until I agreed to write it. J/R friendship, humor, and a smidgen of whumping for both boys.
-------------------------
The Lantean legend of the underworld told of a place that was fire and brimstone; weeping, wailing, gnashing teeth and eternal punishment meted out by little horned red men poking you with three-pronged spears.
They were wrong.
The underworld was sickness. It was a constant need that was so simple to gratify, yet you couldn't. One easy little action to take away the burning and the chafing, and you weren't allowed. It was misery that no one gave a damn about, and people promising an end but with no end in sight.
Promise, promise, promise. They kept promising - lying sacks of pilar filth is what they were. They didn't care about him. They pretended, hiding their amusement behind masks of worry and smiles behind their hands. Of course they were lying to him. They were enjoying this.
No one cared, but Ronon would end this torment. Since they did not care, then neither did he, and they would pay -
“Ronon, how many times do we have to tell you - scratching just makes it worse and Keller's going to duct tape oven mitts to your hands if you don't stop.”
Ronon rolled a blistering gaze up at Sheppard leaning loose and carefree against the door. He was going to hit him. He was going to hit him and didn't give a damn if it resulted in a day in the brig. Maybe then he could scratch in peace.
He managed to restrain himself, settling for a gutteral, “Bite me.” He then scratched: upper arm, skirting the little red blisters that should have been too small to create such agony. But, then again, there were a lot of them - he'd counted about twenty on his stomach before he got bored and remembered how bad he itched.
“I doubt you'd taste good,” Sheppard said, pushing away from his lean. He pulled a pink bottle from his pocket and tossed it, Ronon catching it easy despite the skin-crawling distraction. Removing the cap revealed more pink inside, thick as paste and wreaking of chemicals.
“Little present from Keller,” Sheppard said. “You smear it all over you. And by all over I mean where the blister things are. No sense in putting the stuff where it'll make you more uncomfortable.” He then pulled something from his other pocket that he tossed onto the bed: five little paper pouches of...
Ronon arched an eyebrow at Sheppard. “Instant oatmeal?”
Sheppard shrugged. “It was all I was able to swipe from the mess but Keller's going to plead your case. You put it in hot water and soak in it. It's supposed to help.”
“Did you have to bathe in oatmeal?”
Sheppard's grin was a caricature of amusement that didn't hide the tightness, which was all the answer needed. “Just use it.”
Snorting, Ronon tossed it aside next to the pink bottle of pink goo that smelled like the infirmary. “Gee, thanks,” he said, inflecting sarcasm built up over days of fighting to keep his nails from raking his skin. “Pink slop and oatmeal - that's your people's cure for this thing? I thought you were more advanced.”
To which Sheppard rolled his eyes and snapped, “It's a damn childhood disease, Ronon.”
“You really let your kids go through this?” Ronon sneered. “It's freakin' torture!”
John shrugged. “Hey, at least you're still alive... with your memory intact.”
He had Ronon there. Keller had promised the illness would only last a few weeks, and as long as Ronon didn't scratch then he ran no risk of scarring. Other than the itching, pustules and a fever - the way Keller described it - it hadn't seemed like much of an illness.
Then began the itching, itching, itching: like a thousand bites from the obnoxious guf bug that clouded over the ponds and standing water of Sateda. Burning and biting and itching...
“And for your information,” Sheppard continued, “we don't have a cure but we do have a vaccine. It's just that, sometimes...” he shifted uncomfortably, “it doesn't work on everyone.”
In particular, it hadn't worked on Madison, who'd gotten sick after her mother was returned and hugged Ronon without any of them being the wiser until long after the fact. Jeannie had been e-mailing apologies non-stop for days.
“So, go fill the tub, give yourself a soak, slap on that Calamine and you'll feel like a new man. Well, relatively. You'll feel a little more human; temporarily but better than nothing, right?”
Ronon curled his lip back from his teeth in a silent snarl. One hit, right to the nose - now that would make him feel like a new man and more human. And he could do it, now, while Sheppard was totally unaware. The man was just standing there, gnawing his bottom lip as he stared at Ronon, either unperturbed by the mounting fury, ignoring it or completely oblivious to it, and it was pissing Ronon off more than he already was.
By the Ancestors, he just wanted to scratch, damn it!
Sheppard crossed his arms over his chest, pursing his lips thoughtfully, sympathetically, and as much as Ronon had wished the others would take this “hell” a little more seriously, Sheppard's pity wasn't helping. Ronon didn't want pity. He wanted a cure. He wanted to scratch. He wanted to hit something, even if that something was Sheppard.
“How about this,” Sheppard said. “We go down to the gym. So long as you promise not to say anything to Keller, I'll let you beat the hell out of me. Will that help?”
A smile burst wide on Ronon's face. “Now you're talking.”
----------------------------------
“Hell” was also being inactive, incapable, holding still for too long against your will while the world moved on around you.
Thwacking another man with wooden sticks and getting thwacked in return was “Heaven”.
“A little higher next time,” Ronon said after taking a hit to the lower shoulder blade.
Sheppard danced away from the next attack. “Hey, that was a good hit.”
“It was, but higher would have been better.” He swung out, grazing John's stomach. John swung and connected with Ronon's upper arm, resulting in a satisfactory “scratch” that had Ronon sighing in relief.
Sheppard stepped back and frowned. “Be honest. Are we scratching a metaphorical itch, here, or a literal one? Because maybe I should rethink this if it's the lat-” A slap to the ribs shoved the air and the last remnants of the word from his mouth. “-ter.” Sheppard staggered back half-bent and clutching his side.
Ronon grinned. “Better than oatmeal and pink crap.” He attacked. The two exchanged blows to sticks and blows to bodies, sharp cracks with sharp slaps as they skipped, danced, prowled, lunged and held their own. Hearts pounding, muscles stretching, bones bruising and, damn, how good it felt. Better than any chemical or food or even scratching. Ronon didn't think about the itch, forgot the itch. The itch no longer was, smothered by sweat and adrenaline. It was just him, his weapons, his strength and his opponent.
It was most definitely Heaven.
Ronon crouched and kicked out sweeping Sheppard's legs out from under him. Sheppard landed on his back with a loud oomph and more air knocked from his lungs. He laid there, panting, groaning, and splayed in blatant defeat.
“Really should have rethought this.”
Ronon chuckled, shaking his head, and held his hand out for John to take. He hauled the smaller man to his feet. “Why? It was great.”
John smiled back, pained but sincere. “So it helped?”
Ronon clapped him on the back, making him wheeze. “Yeah, it helped.”
Sheppard, momentarily breathless, nodded. “Great... bruises aren't in vain, then. Just, remember... no telling Keller.”
“Count on it.” They headed out of the gym, John slightly doubled and limping, and Ronon smiling so big it seemed impossible that it didn't divide his face.
This disease wasn't so bad.
The End