An Exchange of Words by Kriadydragon (Scars Challenge)
Title: An Exchange of Words
Author: Kriadydragon
Rating: PG, Gen
Characters: Sheppard, Ronon
Spoilers: None, really.
Synopsis: Takes place sometime either during or after duet. Words are like pouring water from a box; always spilling more than what you meant to with little left to put back.
A/N: I took some liberties with Sheppard's past. If anyone has read my story "Mercy" then it might sound familiar. Don't worry, you don't have to read that story to know what's going on here. I simply recycled an idea I really liked.
SGA
Ronon was restless, which wasn't new except to be less overwhelming than what he had once known. He'd managed to form a subconscious system in timing the wraith's arrival no matter the planet or its current time of day when he stepped through the ring. It wasn't solid, no counting day/night cycles that were not always the same on any world. It was a feeling, an increase in anxiety and a need for motion, like overstaying his welcome and being given the cold shoulder in the politest way possible. That time had come, and when that feeling surged, here, in what was supposed to be a hidden city, his fingers had itched to press the symbols that would activate the ring. He subdued the itch by sparring with these specialists called “marines” until he was too exhausted to feel anything. It took a while and he'd nearly run out of marines.
The itch was gone, scratched, and he was still here. The anxiety lingered in a hesitant and uncertain existence, as though remaining in one place was unnatural. There wasn't anything to be done about it except leave, but Ronon didn't want to leave. He wanted to remember what it was like to stay in one place. There wasn't anywhere else to go anyways. Not anymore.
Ronon wandered without any particular destination, relatively free with no guard acting as his shadow. It had been another step toward showing him trust, although Ronon was fairly certain they were keeping him monitored. They had the technology and it was what Ronon would have done if places had been switched. These people weren't stupid. Maybe a little quick about opening their arms to unknowns, but taking the necessary precautions to do so.
Ronon hadn't been around them long enough to form a solid judgment of them.
One of the city's scientists had made casual mention of a particular pier where the water came right up to the edge, like a solid metal beach. Ronon let his feet take him there, away from walls that kept the anxiety alive. He stepped out into late afternoon and a salty breeze kicking up a fine, invisible spray of water that spattered Ronon's exposed arms. Light from the descending sun soaked into the skin of his face, arms and shoulders. Ronon had liked the sea before it had become a barrier between him and escape. He wasn't sure what to think of it now. A part of him wanted to turn back, go another way. Another part wanted to remember what it was like to enjoy something.
Ronon stepped out a little further, spiting the open space that offered no place to hide unless he turned around right now. Trees were safety, caves were safety. Ronon hadn't seen a sunset in years.
A casual glance at his surroundings revealed that he wasn't alone. Colonel Sheppard sat reclining back on his hands right at the edge of the pier where the water lapped, licking at his bare heels. He was shoe-less and shirtless, still dressed in the pants only the military of the city wore, his head tilted back and his eyes hidden behind shaded spectacles.
Ronon headed toward him. Sheppard shifted, pulling his legs up and draping his arms over his knees, his hands hanging limp, his back curved, skin pressing lightly into the bumps of his spine and curve of his ribs. He was an easy man to underestimate; too wiry, too casual, too loose-limbed and amiable, lacking a constant presence of subtle danger. Kell had been the complete opposite: stiff, strict, the portrait of what a soldier should be all before casting it into the mud for the sake of cowardly self-preservation.
It was why Ronon had agreed so easily to Sheppard's request to stay on as a member of his team. Maybe too easily, but Ronon now had the luxury to make mistakes. Sheppard had given his word that Dex could go if things didn't work out here. If the Lantean went back on his word, the least Ronon could do was take him hostage for a clean escape, the most shoot him. Sheppard had yet to go back on any promises made thus far, so Ronon felt confident that any desire to leave would not end in violence.
Ronon eased himself down next to Sheppard, legs drawn up, arms draped over the knees, but his hands clasped loosely together. He studied the man out of his peripheral.
“Nice view, huh?” Sheppard said.
Ronon shrugged. “Not bad.” It was spectacular; gold glittering on blue. He would have said as much but that felt like admitting to something, and he wasn't comfortable with admittance.
“I prefer the bird's-eye-view from the balcony,” Sheppard said next.
“So why aren't you up there?”
“Felt like kicking through the water, cooling my feet a little. I would grab every opportunity to hang out at the beach when I was a kid. I'm not going to take having the ocean right outside my door for granted.”
Smart man.
Ronon tugged his sleeveless shirt off by the collar and dropped it next to him. Sunlight soaked into his chest, spreading through the rest of his body until he felt beads of sweat form on his brow. Sheppard's head twitched in a double-take and Ronon knew why. Not that it bothered him. He'd gotten used to the gasps and wide-eyed stares from those who'd attempted to help him. A man doesn't run for his life for seven years without a mark or two to show for it.
Ronon had about ten, his crowning glory - if one could call it that - was the one Sheppard was staring at now, extending from his armpit to middled rib, thick and ragged. Not even the scars on his upper back could get people to gape the way that scar did.
“Fell into a river while escaping,” Ronon said. “Got sliced by a rock when I was carried away.”
“Probably better than getting fed on,” Sheppard said.
“Definitely better.” Dex looked over at Sheppard. The front of him was clean of any marks, but his back was another story. Ronon identified the round, slightly puckered skin courtesy of a bullet in his shoulder. On his lower back, over the hip, was a patch of dark-pink skin that Ronon knew could only be produced by heat. There was a jagged, thick line on his shoulder blade, and a thinner, longer line beneath running parallel to his spine almost to his hip. These were the most noticeable, the rest too faded to be seen except by eyes that knew what to look for.
Ronon stared at the markings until Sheppard shifted, squirming, obviously uncomfortable. But he'd asked without words and Ronon had answered, it was only right Sheppard did the same, like revealing truths rather than relying on lies.
Sheppard lifted his hand over his shoulder and gestured stiffly at the bullet wound. “Got that during a medevac run. Thing ricocheted and hit me.” He reached around, running his fingers lightly over the jagged scar of his shoulder blade. “Buddy, uh... buddy did this. He was going through a rough patch. Saw his friend's head get blown off right before he was shot in the chest. He was on a lot of meds... uh, medication, for depression and pain. His girlfriend called me, said he was trying to kill himself. I went over to his place to try to talk him out of it and he threw a bottle at me. Hurt like hell and bled a lot.”
“Did he kill himself?”
Sheppard shook his head, his fingers still tracing the outline of the scar. “No. Neighbor called the cops. By the time they arrived, he was on the floor sobbing and I was barely sitting up from blood-loss and having the crap beat out of me...” he trailed off, suddenly tense as though he just realized he'd said to much.
Sheppard's hand moved from the mark on his shoulder blade to the one next to his backbone, touching it just as lightly, carefully, and Ronon could have sworn reverently. “This one was an accident,” he stated quickly. “My dad was having a flashback. There was this war, our people called it the Vietnam conflict. Messed a lot of people up, my father included. He had this thing, this disorder we call Post Traumatic Stress. He would kind of go off into these hallucinations, thinking he was back in Nam. I was helping him cook dinner when the sausage popped and he tackled me to the floor with a knife in his hand. He was pinning me down because he thought someone was firing a gun and forgot he had the knife. I told the doctors that I cut my back on a piece of metal. I was pretty good at pulling cover-stories out of my ass.”
“He'd hurt you before?” Ronon asked.
“Not on purpose,” John tersely replied. “And never that bad. Not until he broke my ribs trying to protect me from gun fire that wasn't there. It was kind of the last straw for child services...” he trailed off again, shifted, then cleared his throat. “I was sent to live with my grandparents.” He said this quietly, strained, forcing himself to provide an ending to the story.
But Ronon wasn't satisfied with that ending. “You lied to stay with your father...”
Sheppard stiffened, the muscles of his back and flanks coiling. “He didn't hurt me on purpose.”
“You said,” Ronon quickly replied, placating. “It's just... most wouldn't have done that. Why did you?” He was pushing it, he knew, but it was too late to turn back. He didn't simply want to know, he needed to know, and he didn't even know why.
Sheppard shrugged. “Somebody had to.”
“They could have killed you.”
Sheppard looked directly at him. “I wasn't going to leave them behind.” The shaded lenses didn't stop Sheppard's penetrating stare from daring Ronon to challenge him on that. Dex could see through the darkness to the eyes wide and wild with anger, fear, and a need for Ronon to understand.
Ronon returned the stare, acquiescing to immediate defeat, then averted his serene gaze back out over the water, squinting against the orange sun hovering just over the horizon. His mind was quiet and his body loose. He kept part of his attention on Sheppard out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the tension to ease out of the tightened muscles of the slender body. It was a precarious tension making Sheppard both dangerous and vulnerable. He'd gone some place he didn't want to go, all in the name of fairness, going farther than he'd intended, giving more than Ronon had given. Words are like pouring water from a box; always spilling more than what you meant to with little left to put back.
Ronon was suddenly filled with a firm resolve to follow this man, this Sheppard, to the very edge of the galaxy and back, protecting him every step of the way.
At the immediate moment, Ronon straightened his legs and leaned back on one hand, pointing to the scar on his lower abdomen extending into the waistband of his pants. “This,” he began, “this I got from my Task Master during training... before he betrayed us all.”
Sheppard relaxed and turned his head to listen.
The End
Author: Kriadydragon
Rating: PG, Gen
Characters: Sheppard, Ronon
Spoilers: None, really.
Synopsis: Takes place sometime either during or after duet. Words are like pouring water from a box; always spilling more than what you meant to with little left to put back.
A/N: I took some liberties with Sheppard's past. If anyone has read my story "Mercy" then it might sound familiar. Don't worry, you don't have to read that story to know what's going on here. I simply recycled an idea I really liked.
SGA
Ronon was restless, which wasn't new except to be less overwhelming than what he had once known. He'd managed to form a subconscious system in timing the wraith's arrival no matter the planet or its current time of day when he stepped through the ring. It wasn't solid, no counting day/night cycles that were not always the same on any world. It was a feeling, an increase in anxiety and a need for motion, like overstaying his welcome and being given the cold shoulder in the politest way possible. That time had come, and when that feeling surged, here, in what was supposed to be a hidden city, his fingers had itched to press the symbols that would activate the ring. He subdued the itch by sparring with these specialists called “marines” until he was too exhausted to feel anything. It took a while and he'd nearly run out of marines.
The itch was gone, scratched, and he was still here. The anxiety lingered in a hesitant and uncertain existence, as though remaining in one place was unnatural. There wasn't anything to be done about it except leave, but Ronon didn't want to leave. He wanted to remember what it was like to stay in one place. There wasn't anywhere else to go anyways. Not anymore.
Ronon wandered without any particular destination, relatively free with no guard acting as his shadow. It had been another step toward showing him trust, although Ronon was fairly certain they were keeping him monitored. They had the technology and it was what Ronon would have done if places had been switched. These people weren't stupid. Maybe a little quick about opening their arms to unknowns, but taking the necessary precautions to do so.
Ronon hadn't been around them long enough to form a solid judgment of them.
One of the city's scientists had made casual mention of a particular pier where the water came right up to the edge, like a solid metal beach. Ronon let his feet take him there, away from walls that kept the anxiety alive. He stepped out into late afternoon and a salty breeze kicking up a fine, invisible spray of water that spattered Ronon's exposed arms. Light from the descending sun soaked into the skin of his face, arms and shoulders. Ronon had liked the sea before it had become a barrier between him and escape. He wasn't sure what to think of it now. A part of him wanted to turn back, go another way. Another part wanted to remember what it was like to enjoy something.
Ronon stepped out a little further, spiting the open space that offered no place to hide unless he turned around right now. Trees were safety, caves were safety. Ronon hadn't seen a sunset in years.
A casual glance at his surroundings revealed that he wasn't alone. Colonel Sheppard sat reclining back on his hands right at the edge of the pier where the water lapped, licking at his bare heels. He was shoe-less and shirtless, still dressed in the pants only the military of the city wore, his head tilted back and his eyes hidden behind shaded spectacles.
Ronon headed toward him. Sheppard shifted, pulling his legs up and draping his arms over his knees, his hands hanging limp, his back curved, skin pressing lightly into the bumps of his spine and curve of his ribs. He was an easy man to underestimate; too wiry, too casual, too loose-limbed and amiable, lacking a constant presence of subtle danger. Kell had been the complete opposite: stiff, strict, the portrait of what a soldier should be all before casting it into the mud for the sake of cowardly self-preservation.
It was why Ronon had agreed so easily to Sheppard's request to stay on as a member of his team. Maybe too easily, but Ronon now had the luxury to make mistakes. Sheppard had given his word that Dex could go if things didn't work out here. If the Lantean went back on his word, the least Ronon could do was take him hostage for a clean escape, the most shoot him. Sheppard had yet to go back on any promises made thus far, so Ronon felt confident that any desire to leave would not end in violence.
Ronon eased himself down next to Sheppard, legs drawn up, arms draped over the knees, but his hands clasped loosely together. He studied the man out of his peripheral.
“Nice view, huh?” Sheppard said.
Ronon shrugged. “Not bad.” It was spectacular; gold glittering on blue. He would have said as much but that felt like admitting to something, and he wasn't comfortable with admittance.
“I prefer the bird's-eye-view from the balcony,” Sheppard said next.
“So why aren't you up there?”
“Felt like kicking through the water, cooling my feet a little. I would grab every opportunity to hang out at the beach when I was a kid. I'm not going to take having the ocean right outside my door for granted.”
Smart man.
Ronon tugged his sleeveless shirt off by the collar and dropped it next to him. Sunlight soaked into his chest, spreading through the rest of his body until he felt beads of sweat form on his brow. Sheppard's head twitched in a double-take and Ronon knew why. Not that it bothered him. He'd gotten used to the gasps and wide-eyed stares from those who'd attempted to help him. A man doesn't run for his life for seven years without a mark or two to show for it.
Ronon had about ten, his crowning glory - if one could call it that - was the one Sheppard was staring at now, extending from his armpit to middled rib, thick and ragged. Not even the scars on his upper back could get people to gape the way that scar did.
“Fell into a river while escaping,” Ronon said. “Got sliced by a rock when I was carried away.”
“Probably better than getting fed on,” Sheppard said.
“Definitely better.” Dex looked over at Sheppard. The front of him was clean of any marks, but his back was another story. Ronon identified the round, slightly puckered skin courtesy of a bullet in his shoulder. On his lower back, over the hip, was a patch of dark-pink skin that Ronon knew could only be produced by heat. There was a jagged, thick line on his shoulder blade, and a thinner, longer line beneath running parallel to his spine almost to his hip. These were the most noticeable, the rest too faded to be seen except by eyes that knew what to look for.
Ronon stared at the markings until Sheppard shifted, squirming, obviously uncomfortable. But he'd asked without words and Ronon had answered, it was only right Sheppard did the same, like revealing truths rather than relying on lies.
Sheppard lifted his hand over his shoulder and gestured stiffly at the bullet wound. “Got that during a medevac run. Thing ricocheted and hit me.” He reached around, running his fingers lightly over the jagged scar of his shoulder blade. “Buddy, uh... buddy did this. He was going through a rough patch. Saw his friend's head get blown off right before he was shot in the chest. He was on a lot of meds... uh, medication, for depression and pain. His girlfriend called me, said he was trying to kill himself. I went over to his place to try to talk him out of it and he threw a bottle at me. Hurt like hell and bled a lot.”
“Did he kill himself?”
Sheppard shook his head, his fingers still tracing the outline of the scar. “No. Neighbor called the cops. By the time they arrived, he was on the floor sobbing and I was barely sitting up from blood-loss and having the crap beat out of me...” he trailed off, suddenly tense as though he just realized he'd said to much.
Sheppard's hand moved from the mark on his shoulder blade to the one next to his backbone, touching it just as lightly, carefully, and Ronon could have sworn reverently. “This one was an accident,” he stated quickly. “My dad was having a flashback. There was this war, our people called it the Vietnam conflict. Messed a lot of people up, my father included. He had this thing, this disorder we call Post Traumatic Stress. He would kind of go off into these hallucinations, thinking he was back in Nam. I was helping him cook dinner when the sausage popped and he tackled me to the floor with a knife in his hand. He was pinning me down because he thought someone was firing a gun and forgot he had the knife. I told the doctors that I cut my back on a piece of metal. I was pretty good at pulling cover-stories out of my ass.”
“He'd hurt you before?” Ronon asked.
“Not on purpose,” John tersely replied. “And never that bad. Not until he broke my ribs trying to protect me from gun fire that wasn't there. It was kind of the last straw for child services...” he trailed off again, shifted, then cleared his throat. “I was sent to live with my grandparents.” He said this quietly, strained, forcing himself to provide an ending to the story.
But Ronon wasn't satisfied with that ending. “You lied to stay with your father...”
Sheppard stiffened, the muscles of his back and flanks coiling. “He didn't hurt me on purpose.”
“You said,” Ronon quickly replied, placating. “It's just... most wouldn't have done that. Why did you?” He was pushing it, he knew, but it was too late to turn back. He didn't simply want to know, he needed to know, and he didn't even know why.
Sheppard shrugged. “Somebody had to.”
“They could have killed you.”
Sheppard looked directly at him. “I wasn't going to leave them behind.” The shaded lenses didn't stop Sheppard's penetrating stare from daring Ronon to challenge him on that. Dex could see through the darkness to the eyes wide and wild with anger, fear, and a need for Ronon to understand.
Ronon returned the stare, acquiescing to immediate defeat, then averted his serene gaze back out over the water, squinting against the orange sun hovering just over the horizon. His mind was quiet and his body loose. He kept part of his attention on Sheppard out of the corner of his eye, waiting for the tension to ease out of the tightened muscles of the slender body. It was a precarious tension making Sheppard both dangerous and vulnerable. He'd gone some place he didn't want to go, all in the name of fairness, going farther than he'd intended, giving more than Ronon had given. Words are like pouring water from a box; always spilling more than what you meant to with little left to put back.
Ronon was suddenly filled with a firm resolve to follow this man, this Sheppard, to the very edge of the galaxy and back, protecting him every step of the way.
At the immediate moment, Ronon straightened his legs and leaned back on one hand, pointing to the scar on his lower abdomen extending into the waistband of his pants. “This,” he began, “this I got from my Task Master during training... before he betrayed us all.”
Sheppard relaxed and turned his head to listen.
The End