"The Four Moments Ronon Realized He Loved Someone From Atlantis and the One Time He Knew All Along"
Title: "The Four Moments Ronon Realized He Loved Someone From Atlantis and the One Time He Knew All Along"
Author: Kristen999
Word Count; 1990
Rating: K +/ Gen
Characters: Ronon The Team Plus others
Spoilers/Warnings: None.
Notes: It has been a long time since I've written for a challenge! This was fun.
Thanks to wildcat88 for another fast beta and wonderful help!!
To avoid confusion. This begins in Season Two and goes from there.
----------
Teyla is smoldering fire; her skin drips with sweat, the droplets evaporating in seconds. Her eyes are twin ambers of flame, never blinking or straying. The banto sticks bruise and sting, her arms a flurry of motion. She is Ronon's only match in hand-to-hand in will, spirit, and prowess.
The fiercest Marine of any platoon doesn't hold a candle to her ability. Ronon craves the challenge she offers, hoping secretly to taste bitter defeat to fuel him further.
Finding a competitive streak as fierce as hers is rare; what is more sacred though is a shared history. A lifetime spent under the gun, watching friends and family die. Worlds ripped apart and scattered to dust.
In the shadows they whisper secrets of love and loss. Speak of childhoods that would be nightmarish by Earth standards.
In those times, they are the only ones who exist, sitting on the floors of their quarters, breath tickling each other's faces.
It would be a lie to say he hasn't had thoughts of what she would be like in his bed, perspiring like she does in gym. But such thoughts are stupid fantasies-- trivial gratification.
Two days after returning home, hopped on Wraith enzyme, he refuses to run with Sheppard or eat with McKay. The mirror shows a coward who submitted to weakness. Teyla enters his room despite his unwillingness to open the door. She turns on the shower, the steam fogging up the reflection he despises.
He obeys her command to strip most of the way and sits cross legged in the middle of his bathtub until his skin boils. She hands him a tea that helps release the poison from his pores. They remain across from each other in silence, as the taint is purified in a way that the infirmary was unable to do.
She takes his hands, holds them during the shakes and the misery, stroking his hair afterwards. Ronon allows the intimate contact without one iota of sexual impulse in response.
That's when he knows.
----------
Rodney McKay is all hands: fluttering, snapping, waving. They're mostly annoying gestures to accompany a nonstop drone of words. Ronon wonders if all the frantic gesturing is a second language.
Silence is not a definition that his teammate cares to learn, trying and wearing out Ronon's patience. Only the wail of a Brenk in heat is worse. Complaining is McKay's best skill, having practiced it enough. Weather, walking, breathing - it doesn't matter... everything is out to get the man.
Machines love the scientist; they speak the same language, obeying the commands of those furious fingers. In order to kill Wraith, they need technology, and there's only one slayer of such beasts. That makes the rants and lack of fighting ability tolerable.
Sheppard's left the wellbeing of their teammate in Ronon's care as they search a market for useful items. The smirk from his CO doesn't get by him, and that'll earn the colonel a few more rough shots during the next sparring match.
McKay's voice is less tolerated by a merchant who grows tired of the countless insults.
Rodney is red-faced and sputtering. “Furthermore, it’s junk. What did you do? Find it out in the street?”
“One more sound and I'm gonna shove my fist down your throat,” the large muscled brute growls, moving out from behind his table.
Blue eyes go wide, and legs that can't keep up with Ronon on his worse day stumble as they are backed into a wall.
Ronon's vision narrows to the beefy hand that dares to touch McKay's shoulder. The bones in the bewildered trader's fingers snap like twigs when he uses too much force to twist them away.
The merchant cries out, a broken puppet in Ronon's grip. “Apologize,” he orders.
“S-so… so, sorry, Sir.”
Ronon drops the loudmouth who crumbles to the ground in a heap.
McKay's brow furrows, confused then smug, chest puffing in pride. “Guess picking on the geeks is a universal custom.”
“So is cowering behind your dog,” the man spits back.
Before Ronon can react, McKay charges over and clocks the guy on the nose. “Don't you dare call him that!”
It’s not an impressive punch; it’s really pretty pathetic. Ronon is still stunned at what he's just witnessed but more shocked over the reason why.
They move on, McKay rubbing his sore knuckles. “Do you know how valuable my hands are?”
“Yeah,” Ronon says, smacking him hard enough on the back to illicit an 'oauf' and sporting a huge grin on the inside.
-----------
Elizabeth Weir doesn't fire a weapon and can't fix parts or the computers of the city that she controls. Her accomplishment is talking to others. Listening, coaxing, and manipulating. It's why he won't play cards with her if he's actually bored enough for games of chance and luck -- though he knows it’s more than just good fortune with Weir.
She's slow and cautious to his 'right freaking now' and 'who cares'.
There is more than meets the eye with Dr Weir, and he finds himself watching and observing her. He doesn't balk when she encourages him to learn to read and write English. Nods his head when she suggests he tackle science and math classes.
On the anniversary of his arrival on Atlantis, Dr. Weir invites him to her office to have a discussion. He's not in the mood for evaluations or a formal review.
It took a while to feel a sense of value on Atlantis. Gaining acceptance didn't bother him; he's in a city full of aliens who don't understand they are the visitors.
Ronon prefers standing to taking the offered chair, wondering if this is when he'll be asked for something. It’s hard not to shake the feeling that this arrangement and sense of belonging is about to be taken away.
Weir's office is filled with art and sculptures, pieces of dead civilizations surround her. He wonders what they really represent to her.
“I've been thinking the past few days that maybe you would like to return... I mean, to visit Sateda. It's been a year since you came here, and I thought you might want to collect things from your world to preserve them.” She pauses, gauging his reaction. “Or that you might want to spend some time there... for personal reasons.”
Ronon is caught off-guard at the offer. He looks at her bookshelves and isn't sure he wants to immortalize his planet like that....then maybe again. Maybe its his duty.
“Okay,” he says.
Weir sits up straighter. “Good. Now I'm not sure if I want to go back home alone--”
“I have a home,” Ronon blurts out.
Dr. Weir smiles surprised. “I'm glad you think of Atlantis that way.” She wants to say more but has learned the art of using very few words around him.
“Is that all?” Ronon asks.
“Yes.”
Turning around, he lingers in the entranceway. “Thank you.”
“No problem. I thought you'd want to go back to collect-“
“I meant for everything else,” Ronon says.
“You’re welcome,” Weir replies, with the worst poker face ever.
--------
It's not unheard of for Teyla to cut him open with one her damn sticks. Sheppard got him on the wrist really good last week, keeping him from the gym for days until the swelling went down. Slipping in his own bathroom and cracking his head goes down in history as the stupidest injury ever.
Sitting on an exam bed, waiting to get stitched up - again - is humiliating. A new nurse smiles sweetly and begins gossiping with a co-worker, and he can't help wonder if it’s about him.
Keller comes around with a tray of items and takes a seat in one of the rolling chairs, cheeks tinged pink and with a really silly expression. “Fell coming out of the shower, huh?”
Ronon scowls, knowing eating dinner later with the team is going to be an hour of misery. He can't hide the laceration above his eyebrow.
“Floor was really wet,” he growls.
“Your medical file has almost doubled the past few weeks,” she says coyly.
He glares, the intensity dissipating when she rolls her eyes. They've been accidents, nothing else.
Keller is young, sweet, and a little too hesitant and unsure to be in a warzone. The fact that she seems really out of her depth yet stands her ground is something to be admired. Innocence doesn't belong in Pegasus, but maybe that's what it really needs... and maybe what Ronon misses in his harsh black and white world.
Gentle is not part of his vocabulary-yet the fingers that touch and handle his head are the very definition of the word. And yeah, he likes it.
“There's this football game Colonel Sheppard and Major Lorne have put together in one of the jumper bays. It's not exactly you know... gladiator fighting… not that, you know... that's what I think you like or anything.” Keller flusters, face crimson.
“Sure,” he says. “Sounds cool.”
Keller gathers her medical waste, quickly throwing stuff in a bio-bin. “Oh... good.”
“Dr. Williams found this new um... plant. Turns colors or something in the dark. He's gonna show it off tonight in one of the labs,” he says fast, the idea sounding even lamer than the football sport.
Keller beams. “Guys injuring each other over a ball, and rainbow flowers in the dark. Won't be a dull night.”
“No,” Ronon replies and, for once, hopes it’s true.
-----------
“We really need to have a talk about following orders.”
“Yeah.”
“I'm not kidding, Ronon!”
“Wasn't gonna let you do this alone.”
“My choice!”
Ronon rubs at the tiny bolt in the back of his neck. “Mine, too.”
Sheppard's ten shades of pissed off, pacing back and forth, rubbing nervously at the exact same metal stud behind his head under all that hair. “This is my problem. I broke the rules not you!”
“To save Rodney and Teyla.”
“Yeah!” Sheppard spins around, face fuming.
“And what about you?”
Ronon reads the silence, has the John Sheppard manual memorized.
“The Iren say it shouldn't… you know... kill me.” Sheppard waves his hand dismissively.
“Now, it won't at all,” Ronon replies, knowing who is right. “The pain will be split between us.” The discomfort will be a small price to pay.
Sheppard's back is ramrod stiff, muscles coiled so tightly in his arms and shoulders, they might snap. “I don't want to share my pain,” he says, not turning around.
That's the real truth since the punishment is not all physical. The Iren device will dissect all of the colonel's failures from his mind, forcing him to relive them and experience pain equal to the amount of guilt associated with them.
The odds of it not killing him weren't great.
But Ronon will undergo the same memories now, the same darkness as Sheppard.
“You entered McKay's nightmares,” he tries to reason.
“His, not mine. And that was imaginary, you shouldn't... I mean...”
“I won't think any less of you,” Ronon says quietly.
There's the silence again, heavy and oppressive, the vein in Sheppard's temple beating wildly.
Ronon stares at the ground between his boots. “I gave them permission to share mine as well. With you.” It's only fair that way he knows.
“What?”
Ronon's fingers ghost over the tattoo on his arm. “You're not the only one who's failed before. It'll be memories not pain.” He's not the one being punished, but they both know what the real torture in this is.
Sheppard opens his mouth, but the doors open, and the Iren guards enter. “You ready?” one of them asks.
Ronon stands next to Sheppard. “We are.”
He'll follow John Sheppard to hell and back, no matter the distance. He's always felt this way and can't think of a time when he won't.
Author: Kristen999
Word Count; 1990
Rating: K +/ Gen
Characters: Ronon The Team Plus others
Spoilers/Warnings: None.
Notes: It has been a long time since I've written for a challenge! This was fun.
Thanks to wildcat88 for another fast beta and wonderful help!!
To avoid confusion. This begins in Season Two and goes from there.
----------
Teyla is smoldering fire; her skin drips with sweat, the droplets evaporating in seconds. Her eyes are twin ambers of flame, never blinking or straying. The banto sticks bruise and sting, her arms a flurry of motion. She is Ronon's only match in hand-to-hand in will, spirit, and prowess.
The fiercest Marine of any platoon doesn't hold a candle to her ability. Ronon craves the challenge she offers, hoping secretly to taste bitter defeat to fuel him further.
Finding a competitive streak as fierce as hers is rare; what is more sacred though is a shared history. A lifetime spent under the gun, watching friends and family die. Worlds ripped apart and scattered to dust.
In the shadows they whisper secrets of love and loss. Speak of childhoods that would be nightmarish by Earth standards.
In those times, they are the only ones who exist, sitting on the floors of their quarters, breath tickling each other's faces.
It would be a lie to say he hasn't had thoughts of what she would be like in his bed, perspiring like she does in gym. But such thoughts are stupid fantasies-- trivial gratification.
Two days after returning home, hopped on Wraith enzyme, he refuses to run with Sheppard or eat with McKay. The mirror shows a coward who submitted to weakness. Teyla enters his room despite his unwillingness to open the door. She turns on the shower, the steam fogging up the reflection he despises.
He obeys her command to strip most of the way and sits cross legged in the middle of his bathtub until his skin boils. She hands him a tea that helps release the poison from his pores. They remain across from each other in silence, as the taint is purified in a way that the infirmary was unable to do.
She takes his hands, holds them during the shakes and the misery, stroking his hair afterwards. Ronon allows the intimate contact without one iota of sexual impulse in response.
That's when he knows.
----------
Rodney McKay is all hands: fluttering, snapping, waving. They're mostly annoying gestures to accompany a nonstop drone of words. Ronon wonders if all the frantic gesturing is a second language.
Silence is not a definition that his teammate cares to learn, trying and wearing out Ronon's patience. Only the wail of a Brenk in heat is worse. Complaining is McKay's best skill, having practiced it enough. Weather, walking, breathing - it doesn't matter... everything is out to get the man.
Machines love the scientist; they speak the same language, obeying the commands of those furious fingers. In order to kill Wraith, they need technology, and there's only one slayer of such beasts. That makes the rants and lack of fighting ability tolerable.
Sheppard's left the wellbeing of their teammate in Ronon's care as they search a market for useful items. The smirk from his CO doesn't get by him, and that'll earn the colonel a few more rough shots during the next sparring match.
McKay's voice is less tolerated by a merchant who grows tired of the countless insults.
Rodney is red-faced and sputtering. “Furthermore, it’s junk. What did you do? Find it out in the street?”
“One more sound and I'm gonna shove my fist down your throat,” the large muscled brute growls, moving out from behind his table.
Blue eyes go wide, and legs that can't keep up with Ronon on his worse day stumble as they are backed into a wall.
Ronon's vision narrows to the beefy hand that dares to touch McKay's shoulder. The bones in the bewildered trader's fingers snap like twigs when he uses too much force to twist them away.
The merchant cries out, a broken puppet in Ronon's grip. “Apologize,” he orders.
“S-so… so, sorry, Sir.”
Ronon drops the loudmouth who crumbles to the ground in a heap.
McKay's brow furrows, confused then smug, chest puffing in pride. “Guess picking on the geeks is a universal custom.”
“So is cowering behind your dog,” the man spits back.
Before Ronon can react, McKay charges over and clocks the guy on the nose. “Don't you dare call him that!”
It’s not an impressive punch; it’s really pretty pathetic. Ronon is still stunned at what he's just witnessed but more shocked over the reason why.
They move on, McKay rubbing his sore knuckles. “Do you know how valuable my hands are?”
“Yeah,” Ronon says, smacking him hard enough on the back to illicit an 'oauf' and sporting a huge grin on the inside.
-----------
Elizabeth Weir doesn't fire a weapon and can't fix parts or the computers of the city that she controls. Her accomplishment is talking to others. Listening, coaxing, and manipulating. It's why he won't play cards with her if he's actually bored enough for games of chance and luck -- though he knows it’s more than just good fortune with Weir.
She's slow and cautious to his 'right freaking now' and 'who cares'.
There is more than meets the eye with Dr Weir, and he finds himself watching and observing her. He doesn't balk when she encourages him to learn to read and write English. Nods his head when she suggests he tackle science and math classes.
On the anniversary of his arrival on Atlantis, Dr. Weir invites him to her office to have a discussion. He's not in the mood for evaluations or a formal review.
It took a while to feel a sense of value on Atlantis. Gaining acceptance didn't bother him; he's in a city full of aliens who don't understand they are the visitors.
Ronon prefers standing to taking the offered chair, wondering if this is when he'll be asked for something. It’s hard not to shake the feeling that this arrangement and sense of belonging is about to be taken away.
Weir's office is filled with art and sculptures, pieces of dead civilizations surround her. He wonders what they really represent to her.
“I've been thinking the past few days that maybe you would like to return... I mean, to visit Sateda. It's been a year since you came here, and I thought you might want to collect things from your world to preserve them.” She pauses, gauging his reaction. “Or that you might want to spend some time there... for personal reasons.”
Ronon is caught off-guard at the offer. He looks at her bookshelves and isn't sure he wants to immortalize his planet like that....then maybe again. Maybe its his duty.
“Okay,” he says.
Weir sits up straighter. “Good. Now I'm not sure if I want to go back home alone--”
“I have a home,” Ronon blurts out.
Dr. Weir smiles surprised. “I'm glad you think of Atlantis that way.” She wants to say more but has learned the art of using very few words around him.
“Is that all?” Ronon asks.
“Yes.”
Turning around, he lingers in the entranceway. “Thank you.”
“No problem. I thought you'd want to go back to collect-“
“I meant for everything else,” Ronon says.
“You’re welcome,” Weir replies, with the worst poker face ever.
--------
It's not unheard of for Teyla to cut him open with one her damn sticks. Sheppard got him on the wrist really good last week, keeping him from the gym for days until the swelling went down. Slipping in his own bathroom and cracking his head goes down in history as the stupidest injury ever.
Sitting on an exam bed, waiting to get stitched up - again - is humiliating. A new nurse smiles sweetly and begins gossiping with a co-worker, and he can't help wonder if it’s about him.
Keller comes around with a tray of items and takes a seat in one of the rolling chairs, cheeks tinged pink and with a really silly expression. “Fell coming out of the shower, huh?”
Ronon scowls, knowing eating dinner later with the team is going to be an hour of misery. He can't hide the laceration above his eyebrow.
“Floor was really wet,” he growls.
“Your medical file has almost doubled the past few weeks,” she says coyly.
He glares, the intensity dissipating when she rolls her eyes. They've been accidents, nothing else.
Keller is young, sweet, and a little too hesitant and unsure to be in a warzone. The fact that she seems really out of her depth yet stands her ground is something to be admired. Innocence doesn't belong in Pegasus, but maybe that's what it really needs... and maybe what Ronon misses in his harsh black and white world.
Gentle is not part of his vocabulary-yet the fingers that touch and handle his head are the very definition of the word. And yeah, he likes it.
“There's this football game Colonel Sheppard and Major Lorne have put together in one of the jumper bays. It's not exactly you know... gladiator fighting… not that, you know... that's what I think you like or anything.” Keller flusters, face crimson.
“Sure,” he says. “Sounds cool.”
Keller gathers her medical waste, quickly throwing stuff in a bio-bin. “Oh... good.”
“Dr. Williams found this new um... plant. Turns colors or something in the dark. He's gonna show it off tonight in one of the labs,” he says fast, the idea sounding even lamer than the football sport.
Keller beams. “Guys injuring each other over a ball, and rainbow flowers in the dark. Won't be a dull night.”
“No,” Ronon replies and, for once, hopes it’s true.
-----------
“We really need to have a talk about following orders.”
“Yeah.”
“I'm not kidding, Ronon!”
“Wasn't gonna let you do this alone.”
“My choice!”
Ronon rubs at the tiny bolt in the back of his neck. “Mine, too.”
Sheppard's ten shades of pissed off, pacing back and forth, rubbing nervously at the exact same metal stud behind his head under all that hair. “This is my problem. I broke the rules not you!”
“To save Rodney and Teyla.”
“Yeah!” Sheppard spins around, face fuming.
“And what about you?”
Ronon reads the silence, has the John Sheppard manual memorized.
“The Iren say it shouldn't… you know... kill me.” Sheppard waves his hand dismissively.
“Now, it won't at all,” Ronon replies, knowing who is right. “The pain will be split between us.” The discomfort will be a small price to pay.
Sheppard's back is ramrod stiff, muscles coiled so tightly in his arms and shoulders, they might snap. “I don't want to share my pain,” he says, not turning around.
That's the real truth since the punishment is not all physical. The Iren device will dissect all of the colonel's failures from his mind, forcing him to relive them and experience pain equal to the amount of guilt associated with them.
The odds of it not killing him weren't great.
But Ronon will undergo the same memories now, the same darkness as Sheppard.
“You entered McKay's nightmares,” he tries to reason.
“His, not mine. And that was imaginary, you shouldn't... I mean...”
“I won't think any less of you,” Ronon says quietly.
There's the silence again, heavy and oppressive, the vein in Sheppard's temple beating wildly.
Ronon stares at the ground between his boots. “I gave them permission to share mine as well. With you.” It's only fair that way he knows.
“What?”
Ronon's fingers ghost over the tattoo on his arm. “You're not the only one who's failed before. It'll be memories not pain.” He's not the one being punished, but they both know what the real torture in this is.
Sheppard opens his mouth, but the doors open, and the Iren guards enter. “You ready?” one of them asks.
Ronon stands next to Sheppard. “We are.”
He'll follow John Sheppard to hell and back, no matter the distance. He's always felt this way and can't think of a time when he won't.