Ficathon story "Survivor: Pegasus" 1/4
Title: Survivor: Pegasus 1/4
Author: Padawan_aneiki
Rating/Pairing: PG/None
Characters: The team
Summary: The First Quarterly Ficathon Written story for coolbreeze1, who wanted John and team (or part of team - just not him alone for most of the story) shipwrecked on a deserted island, survival skills, and lots and lots of Shep whump Three things you don't want in your story: I don't want any shipping of any kind, any main (or regularly appearing) character deaths, and no unhappy endings!
A/N: This was a fun one to write; I hope you like!
Survivor: Pegasus
“Sheppard...don’t you die on me now.” John was caught, caught between not knowing if he should laugh, or cry. Both, he mused, had their merits. The command was so absurdly McKay, that it made him want to laugh.
That it had been spoken gruffly-and worriedly, he might add-by Ronon, well...
John settled for a rough cross between the two, a choked sounding groan. Never mind the fact it was the only sound he was capable of making at the moment. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could almost complete the McKay panic attack...Oh good, you’re not dead.
“No...dead...”
“Not yet,” Ronon’s voice sounded somewhere over him. “Gonna be if you don’t open your eyes soon.”
“Ver’ fun...” John’s tongue didn’t seem to want to cooperate with him, feeling thick and dry in his mouth. Slowly he worked his eyes open...well, one eye open. The other seemed to be slightly swollen. “Hi’ me har’ nex’time.”
“Wasn’t me,” Ronon answered, matter-of-fact, as his face gradually coalesced in John’s vision.
It gradually dawned on John that he was draped rather ungracefully over the control console of a jumper, and that it hurt. There was no pinning down any particular ache or injury...it all hurt, all over. Slowly he pulled his right hand from the console, where it had been trapped between it and his chest, fumbling awkwardly in an effort to push himself upright.
“Auh...kay,” he groaned, but then pain flared through his head and chest, making John suck in a short little breath. “M’be not...s...so fast,” he allowed, and laid his head back down.
“Yeah, that wasn’t so good,” Ronon agreed, and the Satedan placed his hands on John’s shoulders. “Maybe a little slower.” Carefully he eased the lieutenant colonel up, holding him steady a moment before aiding him back against the pilot’s seat. The world spun lazily around him, and John swallowed convulsively. “Easy,” Ronon added, perhaps a second or two too late.
“’Kay, Chewie,” John managed, and his good eye drifted closed.
“Nah, gotta stay awake. Need you to come outside with me,” Ronon insisted, and he nudged John’s shoulder, earning him a pained groan. “Sorry. Sheppard?” Ronon apologized and there it was again, that note of worry that John recognized after three years in the field with the Satedan.
“’M good,” John pronounced after the dizziness died down and he could look up at Ronon again.
“Uh huh,” Ronon agreed with just the right amount of disbelief. “Think you can get up?”
“Don’ think I wanna...”
Before he could finish the sentence, Ronon was pulling him up, and John scrambled to get his feet underneath him, a hiss of pain escaping as he did so. He swayed dangerously on his feet, and then Ronon was steadying him...
John saw the reason the Runner wanted to get him outside, and for a moment all he could do was gape. The entire back end of the jumper was gone...well...not entirely gone, but much of it was strewn about behind them in a trail that ran for... John blinked and rubbed his eyes before looking again. He wasn’t hallucinating or dreaming; he really felt like crap and the wreckage really was littered several hundred yards behind them.
“What the...?” he managed before he leaned sharply right and felt Ronon’s grip tighten on his arm, holding him upright.
“We crashed,” Ronon said helpfully, and again John could just imagine sharp commentary from Rodney about the Satedan’s ability to state the obvious. “Somethin’ hit us,” he elaborated, and John frowned heavily, as much from the headache that pulsed in his temples as from puzzlement over Ronon’s statement.
“I...I don’t...’member,” John half slurred and he felt himself begin to sag against the taller man. Ronon got an arm around him, and the haze was suddenly sharpened by molten fire that poured through his chest, eliciting a sharp cry and a stumbled step forward. He breathed out a curse, too soft to carry much ire, as his team-mate got a better hold on him.
“Ribs?” Ronon asked, and John limply nodded. Fire continued to dance residual trails along his chest, making breathing harder.
“Must...hit the...edge...little hard,” he murmured carefully, head down and his free hand carefully pressed to his side.
“Think we hit the ground a little hard,” Ronon replied and for just a moment, John wondered if the former Runner hadn’t been taking pointers from Rodney. Presently, however, he lacked the energy to give an appropriately witty comeback and he just nodded again. “Least it was sand and not a mountain.”
John raised his head a little, looking again at the path of destruction they’d carved into what would otherwise be a pristine beach. He blinked at the sun-bright sands and beyond, at the edges of what looked to be a tropical forest. Turning his aching head just a bit to the left, he saw the ripple of lazy ocean waves rolling up onto the shore. It occurred that if they’d been off by just a few degrees, they might’ve plowed right into the ocean.
“N...nice surfin’,” he observed lazily, just before the world tipped over and his knees buckled beneath him. Grey crept into the edges of his vision, hiding the flashes of sunlight off the caps of waves. As if calling from beneath the surface of those waves, Ronon’s voice distantly spoke his name. Black velvet smothered the ocean sounds and bore him away...
++++++
“Sheppard? Sheppard!” Ronon called out as he carefully pulled himself upright in the copilot’s seat. Smoke roiled from a popped-open panel containing shattered crystals and sparking, feathery-looking circuitry. Next to him, the colonel was slumped over and motionless against the jumper’s controls. Blood trickled from a cut high on Sheppard’s head, partially obscured by spiky dark hair. The crimson drops on the panel below were in direct contrast to Sheppard’s face, which was incredibly pale.
Coughing a little when the smoke wafted into his face, Ronon batted at the air in front of him and then realized the smoke had drifted...and the forward viewport hadn’t shattered. He could feel a bit of breeze and the Satedan leaned over in the chair to look behind him. Eyebrows shot up toward his hairline as he took in what was left of the broken, twisted back end of the puddlejumper and the debris field scattered behind them. Ronon was abruptly grateful that McKay and Teyla weren’t here; if they had come along, they would undoubtedly be dead now.
Ronon’s brow furrowed a little now as he thought of McKay. The scientist was laid up in the Infirmary, actually very sick after an encounter with several creatures on MK5-943 that Sheppard had described as ‘psychotic chipmunks.’ In fact, this mission was supposed to be a visit to a people that the villagers on MK5-943 had named as having a treatment for the venom, the main ingredient being a particular medicinal root that only grew on a handful of worlds and was highly prized in trade. Apparently the poisonous furballs were common on a few dozen worlds, but the cure was much rarer.
When they’d left Atlantis, McKay was talking out of his head with fever, and he made little enough sense to Ronon on a good day, let alone one where he was so sick he didn’t know where he was. Teyla had volunteered to go with Major Lorne’s team to another planet where she was reasonably certain she could obtain some of the root as well, from a village the Athosians had traded with in the past. If they couldn’t get a good supply of the root, the only other option was to go back to MK5-943 and capture one of the ‘crazy chipmunks’ in order to give Beckett a chance to devise the anti-venom. Given the fact that another cure existed, and having learned that the small but aggressive animals hunted in large packs of a hundred or more, it wasn’t exactly their first choice of solutions.
A faint sound dragged Ronon’s attention away from thoughts of their mission and the sunlight glinting off shattered metal in the sand, and he turned back toward Sheppard. The colonel hadn’t moved a muscle, but Ronon’s keen hearing had picked up the slightly heavier exhalation-not quite a moan-that escaped. Ronon stood up, feeling the motion of abused muscles, but he’d been thrown sideways in the copilot’s seat and had escaped with just a few cuts and bruises, and a small lump on the head where he’d smacked something, but apparently not hard enough to do much damage. He wasn’t dizzy, and he could see fine. Any thought of concussion left as quickly as it came.
“Sheppard?” he intoned again, this time close enough to press fingers to the colonel’s neck and find the rapid pulse beating there. “C’mon, buddy, gotta wake up,” he cajoled, even as he glanced warily out the viewport at their surroundings. While it didn’t appear they’d landed near a village or anything dangerous, the former Runner was more than aware how deadly a lapse in attention could be.
Not seeing anything, he bent lower to look at Sheppard’s face again. There was a slight tightening around the closed eyes, marginally faster breathing. Uncertain of the number or extent of the colonel’s injuries, Ronon was uncharacteristically careful as he patted Sheppard’s shoulder and half-threatened his friend not to die.
“No...dead...” Sheppard faintly whispered, and relief Ronon hadn’t been expecting flooded over him. Ronon was watchful as he guided Sheppard into sitting back in the pilot’s seat after a failed attempt by his friend to move on his own, concerned at the dazed, puzzled look on the too-pale face.
Something sparked in the panel that had been spewing smoke, catching Ronon’s attention, and he jerked his head up sharply, gauging whether or not the smoke was thicker. Looking back down at Sheppard, Ronon was in time to see him swallow in an effort not to puke, and Ronon felt a twinge of doubt for maybe moving Sheppard too quickly. “Easy,” he cautioned, and immediately the only eye Sheppard could open fully began to slide shut.
Concern of concussion returned to Ronon’s thoughts, but this time for his friend, and he quickly prompted Sheppard to stay awake, even as another snap-pop-hiss came from the sparking, smoking panel. Good enough reason to talk him into getting out of the jumper altogether. Which given its state of destruction, wouldn’t actually be all that long a trip.
It took a little effort getting Sheppard’s battered body up, and he kept his friend from pitching forward with a careful, but firm grip. Ronon followed the suddenly stunned gaze and found Sheppard blinking in surprise at the mess they’d left in the wake of their somewhat rude arrival on this world. “We crashed,” he supplied. Despite the dizzy look, Sheppard managed to raise an eyebrow at him. “Somethin’ hit us.” Now Sheppard frowned in confusion and declared no memory of the collision that had sent them spiraling out of control from above, or of fighting to bring them down in one piece.
That bothered Ronon more than the broken jumper, the knock on the head and their lack of options combined. He flicked a worried look at Sheppard, who suddenly listed a bit as if to collapse into him. Ronon instinctively tightened his grasp on the dazed lieutenant colonel and earned a sharp little cry of pain nearly at his ear. Not the best way to learn of cracked, possibly broken ribs. But it was the quiet, tight little curse that told Ronon just how bad it had hurt, the small slip of the mask Sheppard normally wore in situations like this.
When Sheppard finally collapsed, he’d simply mumbled something about that surfing thing and then his knees had given way beneath him, and his eyes rolled back as he nearly slipped completely from Ronon’s grasp. Shifting quickly, Ronon managed to keep Sheppard from hurting himself further on the trip down, and carefully knelt down with him. That wasn’t going to feel good on the ribs; the Satedan noted practically as he eased his team-leader and friend down to what was left of the jumper interior. It wouldn’t be long before nightfall; on this world, like many others, being under cover, in shelter of some type, would be preferable to staying with the broken remains of the puddlejumper that were, quite simply, just too exposed. He’d give Sheppard a couple minutes to find his way back to consciousness, and if not, then they were going to play things his way.
Sitting back on his heels a moment, Ronon once again surveyed the area around them with a practiced eye. Some sort of bird called out in the distance, and craning his neck to look up, he found the creature wheeling overhead, searching for food. Something must have caught the creature’s attention; it suddenly dove toward the water, hurtling down at great speed. Talons raked the water and the bird’s wings beat furiously to regain the skies, a fat fish its prize.
With an economy of motion and practicality built from war and running from the Wraith, Ronon swiftly rose and drew his weapon. Tracking it by eye, he abruptly brought the weapon up and fired; bird and fish tumbled from the sky, and landed perhaps ten feet away. Holstering his weapon, the Satedan grinned. Rations destroyed in the jumper crash wouldn’t be a problem tonight.
Now it simply remained to get Sheppard and their dinner to a safe place before other predators decided to show themselves. Returning to his friend, Ronon knelt down and sighed softly. Not so much as a twitch or flicker of lashes to indicate a return to consciousness. He was no healer; that was Carson...had been Melena, but Ronon knew that returning to unconsciousness so soon was not a good thing for Sheppard.
It was a little bit of work to get Sheppard up into a carry without further damage to the battered rib cage, but Ronon was as careful as he could be and he gradually made his way along the beach, feet sliding a bit in the shifting sands as he went. He headed for a small shadowed area that he was pretty sure led into a cave at the base of a rock formation some yards away from them. The foliage around it was a little dense; he ducked and shoved aside vines, doing his best not to let them entangle either of them.
Sure enough, there was a small cave in the rock. While it was not large or even overly high, it would do as a shelter for the night, or until they figured out what to do, or until Atlantis found them. For the first time in a long time, Ronon didn’t even give it a second thought. Sheppard’s people didn’t give up easily. Time and again, they had proved their resourcefulness and tenacity to be equal to the task, whether it was saving the City or saving one of their own.
As gently as he could manage, Ronon cautiously slid his unconscious burden from his shoulder, easing Sheppard to the ground. It was cooler inside the cave; he also shrugged his way out of the coat he’d been wearing, the leather of some animal or other, and draped it over the colonel. A brief chill swept over him but was easily enough ignored; Ronon had weathered worse environments in the seven years he’d been on the run from the Wraith; a little cool air wasn’t going to kill him.
Injured as he was, though, it might kill Sheppard, so Ronon’s next task was to scout for suitable wood for making a fire. It took a little longer than he’d have liked, given the near-tropical vegetation but finally he’d scrounged enough wood and tinder to last them at least fairly deep into the night. Each trek back to the cave with an armload, he’d checked on Sheppard; worry growing with each trip back that he found his friend still unconscious.
Crouching down, he arranged the wood. He was fairly adept at starting a fire by other means, but he shifted over to Sheppard and rummaged through the pockets on the colonel’s TAC vest until he found the small packet of matches tucked away in a little plastic bag. He had to admit, while such a simple item to the Earth contingent, this time he appreciated the small bit of indulgence allowing him to get the campfire going several minutes faster than it might’ve taken him otherwise.
Whether or not he apologized to Sheppard later for swiping them was another matter altogether.
The next thing, once the fire had been coaxed into life, was tending to his fallen team-mate’s injuries the best that he could; Ronon was no field medic, but he’d picked up Beckett’s first-aid training and things learned while on the run and from some of the other gate teams. There was more rummaging in Sheppard’s vest pockets to minimize treatment time; he could run back and retrieve the first aid kit from the jumper cockpit-assuming it had survived-after he had done what he could now.
He found Sheppard’s canteen; they were going to have to conserve what drinkable water they had, but Ronon used a small bit to dab at the gash on his friend’s forehead, and a couple other scrapes he found. The head wound continued to bleed sluggishly. Another careful scrounging of the TAC vest produced some bandages and Ronon carefully swathed the dark head. It wasn’t as neat as Beckett would make it, but it would help stem the bleeding. Exhaling slowly, he sat back and considered his handiwork as he reached into a hidden pocket in his trousers and removed a small knife.
The Satedan knew Sheppard wasn’t going to like this, but he could complain about it later, after it was all over and he’d regained consciousness. Leaning over Sheppard’s prone form once again, Ronon grasped the vest with one hand, and slit it up the middle with the sharp utility-type knife. The fabric around the zipper gave way in a series of short little jerks, and Ronon was more than grateful that Sheppard was still unconscious for this part; if he could avoid causing his friend pain, by all means he would.
Setting the knife aside, he took the time to check Sheppard for further injury; he already knew there were likely broken ribs and so he cautiously moved his hands along the injured colonel’s chest and sides, looking for the breaks. He found them...one on the left...two more on the right. The rest of the ribcage seemed intact, and as far as he could tell, Sheppard wasn’t bleeding inside, more good news. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself for what he had to do, and he set each of the broken ribs. Ronon was nothing if not practical, but he was glad that McKay wasn’t here to see the slight tremor in his hands after he’d completed his task.
Ronon was seated on a large boulder at the front of the cave, in the middle of divesting the bird of its feathers, the fire a comfortable blaze, when a quiet groan caught his attention. Brushing a stray feather away from his shirt, the Satedan set the bird aside and returned to the cave’s interior. “Sheppard?” he intoned softly as he knelt down and laid his hand on a stilled arm. He was rewarded by a flicker of eyelids and another quiet grunt of discomfort. A careful nudge against Sheppard’s arm gained him a pair of hazel slits looking blearily upward, and Ronon grinned. “’Bout time you woke up,” he declared, relieved to see his friend with him once again.
++++++
Author: Padawan_aneiki
Rating/Pairing: PG/None
Characters: The team
Summary: The First Quarterly Ficathon Written story for coolbreeze1, who wanted John and team (or part of team - just not him alone for most of the story) shipwrecked on a deserted island, survival skills, and lots and lots of Shep whump Three things you don't want in your story: I don't want any shipping of any kind, any main (or regularly appearing) character deaths, and no unhappy endings!
A/N: This was a fun one to write; I hope you like!
Survivor: Pegasus
“Sheppard...don’t you die on me now.” John was caught, caught between not knowing if he should laugh, or cry. Both, he mused, had their merits. The command was so absurdly McKay, that it made him want to laugh.
That it had been spoken gruffly-and worriedly, he might add-by Ronon, well...
John settled for a rough cross between the two, a choked sounding groan. Never mind the fact it was the only sound he was capable of making at the moment. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could almost complete the McKay panic attack...Oh good, you’re not dead.
“No...dead...”
“Not yet,” Ronon’s voice sounded somewhere over him. “Gonna be if you don’t open your eyes soon.”
“Ver’ fun...” John’s tongue didn’t seem to want to cooperate with him, feeling thick and dry in his mouth. Slowly he worked his eyes open...well, one eye open. The other seemed to be slightly swollen. “Hi’ me har’ nex’time.”
“Wasn’t me,” Ronon answered, matter-of-fact, as his face gradually coalesced in John’s vision.
It gradually dawned on John that he was draped rather ungracefully over the control console of a jumper, and that it hurt. There was no pinning down any particular ache or injury...it all hurt, all over. Slowly he pulled his right hand from the console, where it had been trapped between it and his chest, fumbling awkwardly in an effort to push himself upright.
“Auh...kay,” he groaned, but then pain flared through his head and chest, making John suck in a short little breath. “M’be not...s...so fast,” he allowed, and laid his head back down.
“Yeah, that wasn’t so good,” Ronon agreed, and the Satedan placed his hands on John’s shoulders. “Maybe a little slower.” Carefully he eased the lieutenant colonel up, holding him steady a moment before aiding him back against the pilot’s seat. The world spun lazily around him, and John swallowed convulsively. “Easy,” Ronon added, perhaps a second or two too late.
“’Kay, Chewie,” John managed, and his good eye drifted closed.
“Nah, gotta stay awake. Need you to come outside with me,” Ronon insisted, and he nudged John’s shoulder, earning him a pained groan. “Sorry. Sheppard?” Ronon apologized and there it was again, that note of worry that John recognized after three years in the field with the Satedan.
“’M good,” John pronounced after the dizziness died down and he could look up at Ronon again.
“Uh huh,” Ronon agreed with just the right amount of disbelief. “Think you can get up?”
“Don’ think I wanna...”
Before he could finish the sentence, Ronon was pulling him up, and John scrambled to get his feet underneath him, a hiss of pain escaping as he did so. He swayed dangerously on his feet, and then Ronon was steadying him...
John saw the reason the Runner wanted to get him outside, and for a moment all he could do was gape. The entire back end of the jumper was gone...well...not entirely gone, but much of it was strewn about behind them in a trail that ran for... John blinked and rubbed his eyes before looking again. He wasn’t hallucinating or dreaming; he really felt like crap and the wreckage really was littered several hundred yards behind them.
“What the...?” he managed before he leaned sharply right and felt Ronon’s grip tighten on his arm, holding him upright.
“We crashed,” Ronon said helpfully, and again John could just imagine sharp commentary from Rodney about the Satedan’s ability to state the obvious. “Somethin’ hit us,” he elaborated, and John frowned heavily, as much from the headache that pulsed in his temples as from puzzlement over Ronon’s statement.
“I...I don’t...’member,” John half slurred and he felt himself begin to sag against the taller man. Ronon got an arm around him, and the haze was suddenly sharpened by molten fire that poured through his chest, eliciting a sharp cry and a stumbled step forward. He breathed out a curse, too soft to carry much ire, as his team-mate got a better hold on him.
“Ribs?” Ronon asked, and John limply nodded. Fire continued to dance residual trails along his chest, making breathing harder.
“Must...hit the...edge...little hard,” he murmured carefully, head down and his free hand carefully pressed to his side.
“Think we hit the ground a little hard,” Ronon replied and for just a moment, John wondered if the former Runner hadn’t been taking pointers from Rodney. Presently, however, he lacked the energy to give an appropriately witty comeback and he just nodded again. “Least it was sand and not a mountain.”
John raised his head a little, looking again at the path of destruction they’d carved into what would otherwise be a pristine beach. He blinked at the sun-bright sands and beyond, at the edges of what looked to be a tropical forest. Turning his aching head just a bit to the left, he saw the ripple of lazy ocean waves rolling up onto the shore. It occurred that if they’d been off by just a few degrees, they might’ve plowed right into the ocean.
“N...nice surfin’,” he observed lazily, just before the world tipped over and his knees buckled beneath him. Grey crept into the edges of his vision, hiding the flashes of sunlight off the caps of waves. As if calling from beneath the surface of those waves, Ronon’s voice distantly spoke his name. Black velvet smothered the ocean sounds and bore him away...
++++++
“Sheppard? Sheppard!” Ronon called out as he carefully pulled himself upright in the copilot’s seat. Smoke roiled from a popped-open panel containing shattered crystals and sparking, feathery-looking circuitry. Next to him, the colonel was slumped over and motionless against the jumper’s controls. Blood trickled from a cut high on Sheppard’s head, partially obscured by spiky dark hair. The crimson drops on the panel below were in direct contrast to Sheppard’s face, which was incredibly pale.
Coughing a little when the smoke wafted into his face, Ronon batted at the air in front of him and then realized the smoke had drifted...and the forward viewport hadn’t shattered. He could feel a bit of breeze and the Satedan leaned over in the chair to look behind him. Eyebrows shot up toward his hairline as he took in what was left of the broken, twisted back end of the puddlejumper and the debris field scattered behind them. Ronon was abruptly grateful that McKay and Teyla weren’t here; if they had come along, they would undoubtedly be dead now.
Ronon’s brow furrowed a little now as he thought of McKay. The scientist was laid up in the Infirmary, actually very sick after an encounter with several creatures on MK5-943 that Sheppard had described as ‘psychotic chipmunks.’ In fact, this mission was supposed to be a visit to a people that the villagers on MK5-943 had named as having a treatment for the venom, the main ingredient being a particular medicinal root that only grew on a handful of worlds and was highly prized in trade. Apparently the poisonous furballs were common on a few dozen worlds, but the cure was much rarer.
When they’d left Atlantis, McKay was talking out of his head with fever, and he made little enough sense to Ronon on a good day, let alone one where he was so sick he didn’t know where he was. Teyla had volunteered to go with Major Lorne’s team to another planet where she was reasonably certain she could obtain some of the root as well, from a village the Athosians had traded with in the past. If they couldn’t get a good supply of the root, the only other option was to go back to MK5-943 and capture one of the ‘crazy chipmunks’ in order to give Beckett a chance to devise the anti-venom. Given the fact that another cure existed, and having learned that the small but aggressive animals hunted in large packs of a hundred or more, it wasn’t exactly their first choice of solutions.
A faint sound dragged Ronon’s attention away from thoughts of their mission and the sunlight glinting off shattered metal in the sand, and he turned back toward Sheppard. The colonel hadn’t moved a muscle, but Ronon’s keen hearing had picked up the slightly heavier exhalation-not quite a moan-that escaped. Ronon stood up, feeling the motion of abused muscles, but he’d been thrown sideways in the copilot’s seat and had escaped with just a few cuts and bruises, and a small lump on the head where he’d smacked something, but apparently not hard enough to do much damage. He wasn’t dizzy, and he could see fine. Any thought of concussion left as quickly as it came.
“Sheppard?” he intoned again, this time close enough to press fingers to the colonel’s neck and find the rapid pulse beating there. “C’mon, buddy, gotta wake up,” he cajoled, even as he glanced warily out the viewport at their surroundings. While it didn’t appear they’d landed near a village or anything dangerous, the former Runner was more than aware how deadly a lapse in attention could be.
Not seeing anything, he bent lower to look at Sheppard’s face again. There was a slight tightening around the closed eyes, marginally faster breathing. Uncertain of the number or extent of the colonel’s injuries, Ronon was uncharacteristically careful as he patted Sheppard’s shoulder and half-threatened his friend not to die.
“No...dead...” Sheppard faintly whispered, and relief Ronon hadn’t been expecting flooded over him. Ronon was watchful as he guided Sheppard into sitting back in the pilot’s seat after a failed attempt by his friend to move on his own, concerned at the dazed, puzzled look on the too-pale face.
Something sparked in the panel that had been spewing smoke, catching Ronon’s attention, and he jerked his head up sharply, gauging whether or not the smoke was thicker. Looking back down at Sheppard, Ronon was in time to see him swallow in an effort not to puke, and Ronon felt a twinge of doubt for maybe moving Sheppard too quickly. “Easy,” he cautioned, and immediately the only eye Sheppard could open fully began to slide shut.
Concern of concussion returned to Ronon’s thoughts, but this time for his friend, and he quickly prompted Sheppard to stay awake, even as another snap-pop-hiss came from the sparking, smoking panel. Good enough reason to talk him into getting out of the jumper altogether. Which given its state of destruction, wouldn’t actually be all that long a trip.
It took a little effort getting Sheppard’s battered body up, and he kept his friend from pitching forward with a careful, but firm grip. Ronon followed the suddenly stunned gaze and found Sheppard blinking in surprise at the mess they’d left in the wake of their somewhat rude arrival on this world. “We crashed,” he supplied. Despite the dizzy look, Sheppard managed to raise an eyebrow at him. “Somethin’ hit us.” Now Sheppard frowned in confusion and declared no memory of the collision that had sent them spiraling out of control from above, or of fighting to bring them down in one piece.
That bothered Ronon more than the broken jumper, the knock on the head and their lack of options combined. He flicked a worried look at Sheppard, who suddenly listed a bit as if to collapse into him. Ronon instinctively tightened his grasp on the dazed lieutenant colonel and earned a sharp little cry of pain nearly at his ear. Not the best way to learn of cracked, possibly broken ribs. But it was the quiet, tight little curse that told Ronon just how bad it had hurt, the small slip of the mask Sheppard normally wore in situations like this.
When Sheppard finally collapsed, he’d simply mumbled something about that surfing thing and then his knees had given way beneath him, and his eyes rolled back as he nearly slipped completely from Ronon’s grasp. Shifting quickly, Ronon managed to keep Sheppard from hurting himself further on the trip down, and carefully knelt down with him. That wasn’t going to feel good on the ribs; the Satedan noted practically as he eased his team-leader and friend down to what was left of the jumper interior. It wouldn’t be long before nightfall; on this world, like many others, being under cover, in shelter of some type, would be preferable to staying with the broken remains of the puddlejumper that were, quite simply, just too exposed. He’d give Sheppard a couple minutes to find his way back to consciousness, and if not, then they were going to play things his way.
Sitting back on his heels a moment, Ronon once again surveyed the area around them with a practiced eye. Some sort of bird called out in the distance, and craning his neck to look up, he found the creature wheeling overhead, searching for food. Something must have caught the creature’s attention; it suddenly dove toward the water, hurtling down at great speed. Talons raked the water and the bird’s wings beat furiously to regain the skies, a fat fish its prize.
With an economy of motion and practicality built from war and running from the Wraith, Ronon swiftly rose and drew his weapon. Tracking it by eye, he abruptly brought the weapon up and fired; bird and fish tumbled from the sky, and landed perhaps ten feet away. Holstering his weapon, the Satedan grinned. Rations destroyed in the jumper crash wouldn’t be a problem tonight.
Now it simply remained to get Sheppard and their dinner to a safe place before other predators decided to show themselves. Returning to his friend, Ronon knelt down and sighed softly. Not so much as a twitch or flicker of lashes to indicate a return to consciousness. He was no healer; that was Carson...had been Melena, but Ronon knew that returning to unconsciousness so soon was not a good thing for Sheppard.
It was a little bit of work to get Sheppard up into a carry without further damage to the battered rib cage, but Ronon was as careful as he could be and he gradually made his way along the beach, feet sliding a bit in the shifting sands as he went. He headed for a small shadowed area that he was pretty sure led into a cave at the base of a rock formation some yards away from them. The foliage around it was a little dense; he ducked and shoved aside vines, doing his best not to let them entangle either of them.
Sure enough, there was a small cave in the rock. While it was not large or even overly high, it would do as a shelter for the night, or until they figured out what to do, or until Atlantis found them. For the first time in a long time, Ronon didn’t even give it a second thought. Sheppard’s people didn’t give up easily. Time and again, they had proved their resourcefulness and tenacity to be equal to the task, whether it was saving the City or saving one of their own.
As gently as he could manage, Ronon cautiously slid his unconscious burden from his shoulder, easing Sheppard to the ground. It was cooler inside the cave; he also shrugged his way out of the coat he’d been wearing, the leather of some animal or other, and draped it over the colonel. A brief chill swept over him but was easily enough ignored; Ronon had weathered worse environments in the seven years he’d been on the run from the Wraith; a little cool air wasn’t going to kill him.
Injured as he was, though, it might kill Sheppard, so Ronon’s next task was to scout for suitable wood for making a fire. It took a little longer than he’d have liked, given the near-tropical vegetation but finally he’d scrounged enough wood and tinder to last them at least fairly deep into the night. Each trek back to the cave with an armload, he’d checked on Sheppard; worry growing with each trip back that he found his friend still unconscious.
Crouching down, he arranged the wood. He was fairly adept at starting a fire by other means, but he shifted over to Sheppard and rummaged through the pockets on the colonel’s TAC vest until he found the small packet of matches tucked away in a little plastic bag. He had to admit, while such a simple item to the Earth contingent, this time he appreciated the small bit of indulgence allowing him to get the campfire going several minutes faster than it might’ve taken him otherwise.
Whether or not he apologized to Sheppard later for swiping them was another matter altogether.
The next thing, once the fire had been coaxed into life, was tending to his fallen team-mate’s injuries the best that he could; Ronon was no field medic, but he’d picked up Beckett’s first-aid training and things learned while on the run and from some of the other gate teams. There was more rummaging in Sheppard’s vest pockets to minimize treatment time; he could run back and retrieve the first aid kit from the jumper cockpit-assuming it had survived-after he had done what he could now.
He found Sheppard’s canteen; they were going to have to conserve what drinkable water they had, but Ronon used a small bit to dab at the gash on his friend’s forehead, and a couple other scrapes he found. The head wound continued to bleed sluggishly. Another careful scrounging of the TAC vest produced some bandages and Ronon carefully swathed the dark head. It wasn’t as neat as Beckett would make it, but it would help stem the bleeding. Exhaling slowly, he sat back and considered his handiwork as he reached into a hidden pocket in his trousers and removed a small knife.
The Satedan knew Sheppard wasn’t going to like this, but he could complain about it later, after it was all over and he’d regained consciousness. Leaning over Sheppard’s prone form once again, Ronon grasped the vest with one hand, and slit it up the middle with the sharp utility-type knife. The fabric around the zipper gave way in a series of short little jerks, and Ronon was more than grateful that Sheppard was still unconscious for this part; if he could avoid causing his friend pain, by all means he would.
Setting the knife aside, he took the time to check Sheppard for further injury; he already knew there were likely broken ribs and so he cautiously moved his hands along the injured colonel’s chest and sides, looking for the breaks. He found them...one on the left...two more on the right. The rest of the ribcage seemed intact, and as far as he could tell, Sheppard wasn’t bleeding inside, more good news. Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself for what he had to do, and he set each of the broken ribs. Ronon was nothing if not practical, but he was glad that McKay wasn’t here to see the slight tremor in his hands after he’d completed his task.
Ronon was seated on a large boulder at the front of the cave, in the middle of divesting the bird of its feathers, the fire a comfortable blaze, when a quiet groan caught his attention. Brushing a stray feather away from his shirt, the Satedan set the bird aside and returned to the cave’s interior. “Sheppard?” he intoned softly as he knelt down and laid his hand on a stilled arm. He was rewarded by a flicker of eyelids and another quiet grunt of discomfort. A careful nudge against Sheppard’s arm gained him a pair of hazel slits looking blearily upward, and Ronon grinned. “’Bout time you woke up,” he declared, relieved to see his friend with him once again.
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