SGA fic
Title: Tension and Silence
Author: faelinn
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Slash
Fandom: SGA
Warnings: Sexual references, language
Pairing: Sheppard/Dex
Disclaimer: They’re not mine.
Summary/Author’s Note: Sheppard doesn’t know how to fix everything.
A/N: Well, this is my first ever Stargate Atlantis fic. Saw an episode of the show last Friday, fell in love, bought a season, and, yeah, immediately started writing fic. Sorry if there’s some stuff that’s not quite right or out-of-character ‘cause having only watched the show for about half a week leaves a lot of room for screw-ups. Oh, and this is probably set in the early 2nd season, since that's pretty much all I've seen. Enjoy. :) (This entry was backdated before.)
Ronon stares at the silverware, tracing reflections of light in the steely gray surface. There aren’t patterns there, just random splashes of brightness and minute flecks of a darker grade of gray. He doesn’t blink as he stares, and he doesn’t look up. Even without moving his eyes away from the silverware, he can vaguely recognize the outline of John Sheppard’s still form sitting across from him.
The silence around them is probably awkward and tense. Ronon takes a slow, quiet breath that he knows Sheppard can’t hear and keeps his eyes focused on the spoon. After a moment, his eyes dart forward, quick as a Wraith, and he stares at the plate and its bland emptiness.
“Is it that interesting?” Sheppard’s voice is slow and drawling.
Ronon moves his hand onto the table, stares at the random patterns of dirt stretching across his knuckle. He knows that’s not acceptable, not sanitary as McKay would say, but forgetting the rules of civilization is still pitifully easy. The thought of hiding his hand again crosses his mind. He leaves it where it is.
“If I said yes, would you leave?” he replies slowly, knowing that his voice must sound like the table looks, both without texture or feeling.
Sheppard doesn’t answer immediately, and Ronon can barely see him reaching for something across the table. The sight of his hand, clean and somehow unimaginably acceptable, strikes Ronon like a graphic rebuke, a clear reminder of his own faults.
It returns into his range of sight, that hand and its cleanness, but there’s something clutched in it, something white and clean and civilized. Ronon stares at the napkin that Sheppard is offering him and slowly reaches for it. His own hand looks filthier next to Sheppard’s, but he carefully closes his fingers around the napkin before moving his hand back towards him.
He doesn’t use it. In tiny little increments, he looks up until the intensity of his gaze is finally focused on Shephard. The other man stares back, unblinking. The air around them seems to pause, caught in the slow motion exchange between the two men.
“Okay....” Sheppard says, drawing out the word in his own strangely unique way.
Ronon stands, taking one step away from the table. His feet make heavy sounds against the floor. A quick glance down shows him his own heavy feet, always clumsy in such situations. Abruptly, he misses the grace he feels when fighting, the ease of it. In those moments, with the constant exchange of pain, there is no awkward silence, just the steady thud of contacting flesh.
“Let’s go fight,” he tells Sheppard.
The other man doesn’t immediately move, and the pressure of his eyes is disconcerting. Locked in place, uncertain and uncomfortable, Ronon waits. The constant hum of other people’s conversations surrounds them, thankfully blanketing the silence with at least some sound.
Finally, Sheppard nods.
* * *
Afterwards, just like he’d known it would, the silence returns. Sweating and tired, comfortably sore, Ronon is content for a brief span of time after he breaks apart from his fight with Sheppard. The other man finally manages to sit up and focuses his stabbing eyes on Ronon. Then, it’s obvious that nothing has changed. Really, it never does.
Ronon is aware that he should know better by this point.
“You okay now?” asks Sheppard. He breathes in deep, gasping pants, sucking in the air with an audible force. Sweat drips down his face in a thin line extending straight down from his forehead and finally snaking right by the edge of his lips.
“Aren’t I always?” Ronon replies with forced nonchalance.
Sheppard pauses in his effort to stand up and narrows his eyes. His features appear unnaturally sharp, too focused maybe, and Ronon finds himself shifting slightly from foot to foot. It’s a small movement, but he thinks Sheppard sees it.
“Well...no,” Sheppard says bluntly.
Ronon just shrugs slightly as he moves to leave the room.
* * *
Ronon hadn’t expected Sheppard to find him again so soon, but that’s another thing he should have learned by now. After all, there aren’t too many places for him to go, and his own quarters are always the most likely alternative. Still, standing in front of the door and helplessly watching Sheppard walk toward him, he manages to be somewhat surprised.
The other man is quick in reaching him, maybe a bit too quick, but Ronon’s not sure if he’s purposefully hurrying or just in the mood to walk fast. The idea that Sheppard might know what he’s thinking, that he might realize that Ronon just wants to retreat into the room and not leave until he goes away, it seems unlikely.
Glancing back at the door behind him, Ronon sighs and waits.
“I heard you were talking to Heightmeyer,” Sheppard says, starting to speak while he’s still several feet away. “Or, well, not talking to her’s what I actually heard, but I think you get my meaning.”
Ronon waits, unblinking, until Sheppard reaches him and stops just a few steps away. Even after that, he still watches the man for a few more silent moments. From long years of experience, he knows this tends to bother people, but it never seems to be quite as effective with Sheppard. Still, Ronon doesn’t have any other idea of how to deal with the man.
“So?” he finally says.
Sheppard takes a step forward, maybe trying to play at caging Ronon in and forcing him to talk, but that’s not going to happen, not with the door so temptingly close to Ronon’s fingers. He feels it behind him, waiting. Yet, he doesn’t move.
“You should talk to her,” Sheppard tells him.
“Do you?” asks Ronon. There’s a momentary pause, but when Sheppard opens his mouth to speak, he interrupts, knowing by now what the customary Earth response to his previous statement will be. “You shouldn’t try to say that this isn’t about you.”
“Why?” The other man frowns, but a corner of his lips seems to turn up in a partially concealed grin.
“I’ll walk away.”
Sheppard takes another step forward, and the scent of him follows behind, a strange and harshly clean Earth smell. It’s nothing like what Ronon’s used to, nothing like the softly mild scent of natural human skin. This is soap-smell, strong and powerful, but, even when it hurts his nose, he likes smelling it, likes smelling Sheppard.
“You do that a lot anyways.”
Ronon shrugs, and, though he wants to keep staring at Sheppard, he knows enough to look away. The floor behind the man is clean, just like everything else Ronon seems to see. Once, he would have been happy to see that, but now...he misses the feeling of real ground under his feet. At night, he remembers how the stars could look so beautifully different from within a dark forest.
“And I know this is about me,” Sheppard adds. His voice sounds different, tighter somehow, and definitely not all easy and relaxed like it should be.
“That’s not how I meant it,” Ronon argues. Without meaning to, he lets his face twist into a scowl. The expression is a familiar one, easily shaping his features.
“But it works that way, too.”
“I know.”
Silence blankets the hallway, and Ronon almost reaches for the door, almost tries to leave. His hand even twitches by his side, aching to aid in some sort of escape, but still he doesn’t move. He’s not sure what’s holding him back, but he knows it has something to do with the way Sheppard is watching him. More importantly, Ronon is tired of running, and this would be just one more flight to add to his tally.
“You said you didn’t want it...didn’t want me. Isn’t that enough?” Ronon forces the words to come out, but he hates hearing them as they pass through his lips. A quick glance around assures him that nobody is around to hear, to know of his rejection, but he still can’t look at Sheppard after saying those words.
Even when he looks away, he can still tell when the other man moves a step closer. The rustle of his clothes, the smell of his skin, the warmth of his body, they’re all just extra signs for Ronon to know him by.
“But I can tell what you’re doing, Ronon! You’re finding reasons to hate this place,” Sheppard speaks in a low, fierce voice, and Ronon very purposefully stops himself from shivering.
“So?”
That makes Sheppard sigh, makes him let out one of those long, slow breaths of exasperation, and, while Ronon isn’t exactly feeling guilty about that, it does leave him feeling strangely tired. He finally looks at the other man again, looks at his weary face with the growing lines around his eyes and looks at the set of his shoulders, his posture. Sheppard is still strong, still fierce and unique, but there’s a noticeable and unsurprising loss of enthusiasm in the way he moves. As he looks, Ronon knows that part of this is his fault.
“You’re making up excuses to leave,” Sheppard continues, snapping out the words.
“Maybe,” admits Ronon, nodding.
It would be running away again. Ronon turns his head to the side and looks at Sheppard from the new angle as he half-closes his eyes in thought. It would be running away again, but...he’s not sure if he can do anything else anymore. Flight and fight, that’s all he knows.
“Don’t,” Sheppard orders in that same strained voice.
“Hard not to,” mutters Ronon.
“Because of me?”
“Because of me, too.”
“Still running in your head?”
“Always.”
Silence comes again, but there’s nothing to interrupt it this time. The two men stare at each other, quiet, so very quiet. It’s not awkward exactly, but this is worse, this terrible tension. Finally, Ronon turns away and opens his door.
He can feel Sheppard watching him.
* * *
It’s later, much later, when he hears a knock at the door. It isn’t a loud sound, and he at first thinks nothing of it. There are always noises in Atlantis, strange clatters and bumps as people live out their everyday lives. But this noise returns, another knock sounding against the door but louder this time.
Unwillingly, Ronon stands and begins to approach the door. It takes him only a few seconds to reach it, but in that time the person knocks again. Ronon doesn’t know why he insists on just referring to the person outside as the person. It’s not like he doesn’t know who it is.
When he opens the door, Sheppard’s hand falls to the side, Ronon stares, and again there is silence. Abruptly, Sheppard steps forward, moving past Ronon and heading into the room. Ronon isn’t surprised that he doesn’t ask for permission, but he’s not particularly upset by it either. He quietly closes the door behind him as he follows after Sheppard, understanding that this conversation will be one that shouldn’t be overheard even by friendly ears.
“I don’t want you to leave,” Sheppard says.
“I know,” Ronon replies slowly as he moves into the center of the room.
“And I don’t not want you.” Sheppard doesn’t look at him when he says those words, and actually he doesn’t really look at anything at all, instead glancing around with quick, almost nervous movements.
“I know that, too.”
“I just can’t.”
“Because of your rules.”
Sheppard nods slightly, but his mouth opens slightly as he seems to struggle for the right words. In the weak light of the room, his eyes are uncharacteristically dark.
“That and,” he stops and stares fiercely at Ronon, tracing the lines of his body with his eyes. Ronon can almost feel his eyes stutter in their path as they latch onto the white bandage decorating the side of his neck. “And it doesn’t help that you almost die every other day,” Sheppard finally finishes, still staring at the bandage concealing Ronon’s newest injury.
“So?” Ronon frowns in confusion and takes a step towards Sheppard, thinking that maybe a closer view of the man’s face will give him some clue to understanding his reasoning. The other man glares at him irritably, but he doesn’t move away.
“I couldn’t think if we were-” Sheppard begins.
“Fucking? Yeah, you could,” interrupts Ronon.
“I couldn’t make the right decisions, not when I’d know how it could hurt someone important to me,” Sheppard snaps angrily. His voice is tight and strained again, but Ronon only takes another step towards him, mirroring the other man’s earlier actions.
“But you do it all the time.”
“It’s different, Ronon! I’m not fucking Teyla or McKay.” There’s a new tinge of exasperation in Sheppard’s voice, but Ronon knows that the other man sees his point, realizes that the whole team is already too close for this argument to make any sense.
“You’re not fucking me yet either,” Ronon mutters rebelliously, scowling.
“Ronon,” Sheppard begins warningly.
“It wouldn’t hurt anything. When I die, I’ll just be dead. All this thing between us will change is what you’re left with.”
“Guilt.”
“Memories.”
Sheppard stares at him, and the silence returns. Even standing just a few steps away, it’s hard to tell what Sheppard is thinking, what thoughts are passing through his mind. The darkness of the room cloaks everything, hiding everything. Ronon can only watch and wait. After a moment, he looks away from Sheppard, turning to stare at the wall in an attempt to distract himself. There’s nothing to see, nothing to make him think, but that’s almost what he needs right now.
The sound of footsteps forces him to look back at Sheppard. The other man is mere inches away from him, but there’s no sign or clue for Ronon to follow on his face. After a moment, his hand moves to lightly touch Ronon’s cheek. It remains there, just resting against Ronon’s skin.
“I don’t know what to do about you,” Sheppard whispers in an uncharacteristically solemn voice.
“Yeah,” Ronon mutters, leaning into the touch.
A/N: Comments, please? I kind of feel guilty for leaving in such an ambiguous ending....
Author: faelinn
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Slash
Fandom: SGA
Warnings: Sexual references, language
Pairing: Sheppard/Dex
Disclaimer: They’re not mine.
Summary/Author’s Note: Sheppard doesn’t know how to fix everything.
A/N: Well, this is my first ever Stargate Atlantis fic. Saw an episode of the show last Friday, fell in love, bought a season, and, yeah, immediately started writing fic. Sorry if there’s some stuff that’s not quite right or out-of-character ‘cause having only watched the show for about half a week leaves a lot of room for screw-ups. Oh, and this is probably set in the early 2nd season, since that's pretty much all I've seen. Enjoy. :) (This entry was backdated before.)
Ronon stares at the silverware, tracing reflections of light in the steely gray surface. There aren’t patterns there, just random splashes of brightness and minute flecks of a darker grade of gray. He doesn’t blink as he stares, and he doesn’t look up. Even without moving his eyes away from the silverware, he can vaguely recognize the outline of John Sheppard’s still form sitting across from him.
The silence around them is probably awkward and tense. Ronon takes a slow, quiet breath that he knows Sheppard can’t hear and keeps his eyes focused on the spoon. After a moment, his eyes dart forward, quick as a Wraith, and he stares at the plate and its bland emptiness.
“Is it that interesting?” Sheppard’s voice is slow and drawling.
Ronon moves his hand onto the table, stares at the random patterns of dirt stretching across his knuckle. He knows that’s not acceptable, not sanitary as McKay would say, but forgetting the rules of civilization is still pitifully easy. The thought of hiding his hand again crosses his mind. He leaves it where it is.
“If I said yes, would you leave?” he replies slowly, knowing that his voice must sound like the table looks, both without texture or feeling.
Sheppard doesn’t answer immediately, and Ronon can barely see him reaching for something across the table. The sight of his hand, clean and somehow unimaginably acceptable, strikes Ronon like a graphic rebuke, a clear reminder of his own faults.
It returns into his range of sight, that hand and its cleanness, but there’s something clutched in it, something white and clean and civilized. Ronon stares at the napkin that Sheppard is offering him and slowly reaches for it. His own hand looks filthier next to Sheppard’s, but he carefully closes his fingers around the napkin before moving his hand back towards him.
He doesn’t use it. In tiny little increments, he looks up until the intensity of his gaze is finally focused on Shephard. The other man stares back, unblinking. The air around them seems to pause, caught in the slow motion exchange between the two men.
“Okay....” Sheppard says, drawing out the word in his own strangely unique way.
Ronon stands, taking one step away from the table. His feet make heavy sounds against the floor. A quick glance down shows him his own heavy feet, always clumsy in such situations. Abruptly, he misses the grace he feels when fighting, the ease of it. In those moments, with the constant exchange of pain, there is no awkward silence, just the steady thud of contacting flesh.
“Let’s go fight,” he tells Sheppard.
The other man doesn’t immediately move, and the pressure of his eyes is disconcerting. Locked in place, uncertain and uncomfortable, Ronon waits. The constant hum of other people’s conversations surrounds them, thankfully blanketing the silence with at least some sound.
Finally, Sheppard nods.
* * *
Afterwards, just like he’d known it would, the silence returns. Sweating and tired, comfortably sore, Ronon is content for a brief span of time after he breaks apart from his fight with Sheppard. The other man finally manages to sit up and focuses his stabbing eyes on Ronon. Then, it’s obvious that nothing has changed. Really, it never does.
Ronon is aware that he should know better by this point.
“You okay now?” asks Sheppard. He breathes in deep, gasping pants, sucking in the air with an audible force. Sweat drips down his face in a thin line extending straight down from his forehead and finally snaking right by the edge of his lips.
“Aren’t I always?” Ronon replies with forced nonchalance.
Sheppard pauses in his effort to stand up and narrows his eyes. His features appear unnaturally sharp, too focused maybe, and Ronon finds himself shifting slightly from foot to foot. It’s a small movement, but he thinks Sheppard sees it.
“Well...no,” Sheppard says bluntly.
Ronon just shrugs slightly as he moves to leave the room.
* * *
Ronon hadn’t expected Sheppard to find him again so soon, but that’s another thing he should have learned by now. After all, there aren’t too many places for him to go, and his own quarters are always the most likely alternative. Still, standing in front of the door and helplessly watching Sheppard walk toward him, he manages to be somewhat surprised.
The other man is quick in reaching him, maybe a bit too quick, but Ronon’s not sure if he’s purposefully hurrying or just in the mood to walk fast. The idea that Sheppard might know what he’s thinking, that he might realize that Ronon just wants to retreat into the room and not leave until he goes away, it seems unlikely.
Glancing back at the door behind him, Ronon sighs and waits.
“I heard you were talking to Heightmeyer,” Sheppard says, starting to speak while he’s still several feet away. “Or, well, not talking to her’s what I actually heard, but I think you get my meaning.”
Ronon waits, unblinking, until Sheppard reaches him and stops just a few steps away. Even after that, he still watches the man for a few more silent moments. From long years of experience, he knows this tends to bother people, but it never seems to be quite as effective with Sheppard. Still, Ronon doesn’t have any other idea of how to deal with the man.
“So?” he finally says.
Sheppard takes a step forward, maybe trying to play at caging Ronon in and forcing him to talk, but that’s not going to happen, not with the door so temptingly close to Ronon’s fingers. He feels it behind him, waiting. Yet, he doesn’t move.
“You should talk to her,” Sheppard tells him.
“Do you?” asks Ronon. There’s a momentary pause, but when Sheppard opens his mouth to speak, he interrupts, knowing by now what the customary Earth response to his previous statement will be. “You shouldn’t try to say that this isn’t about you.”
“Why?” The other man frowns, but a corner of his lips seems to turn up in a partially concealed grin.
“I’ll walk away.”
Sheppard takes another step forward, and the scent of him follows behind, a strange and harshly clean Earth smell. It’s nothing like what Ronon’s used to, nothing like the softly mild scent of natural human skin. This is soap-smell, strong and powerful, but, even when it hurts his nose, he likes smelling it, likes smelling Sheppard.
“You do that a lot anyways.”
Ronon shrugs, and, though he wants to keep staring at Sheppard, he knows enough to look away. The floor behind the man is clean, just like everything else Ronon seems to see. Once, he would have been happy to see that, but now...he misses the feeling of real ground under his feet. At night, he remembers how the stars could look so beautifully different from within a dark forest.
“And I know this is about me,” Sheppard adds. His voice sounds different, tighter somehow, and definitely not all easy and relaxed like it should be.
“That’s not how I meant it,” Ronon argues. Without meaning to, he lets his face twist into a scowl. The expression is a familiar one, easily shaping his features.
“But it works that way, too.”
“I know.”
Silence blankets the hallway, and Ronon almost reaches for the door, almost tries to leave. His hand even twitches by his side, aching to aid in some sort of escape, but still he doesn’t move. He’s not sure what’s holding him back, but he knows it has something to do with the way Sheppard is watching him. More importantly, Ronon is tired of running, and this would be just one more flight to add to his tally.
“You said you didn’t want it...didn’t want me. Isn’t that enough?” Ronon forces the words to come out, but he hates hearing them as they pass through his lips. A quick glance around assures him that nobody is around to hear, to know of his rejection, but he still can’t look at Sheppard after saying those words.
Even when he looks away, he can still tell when the other man moves a step closer. The rustle of his clothes, the smell of his skin, the warmth of his body, they’re all just extra signs for Ronon to know him by.
“But I can tell what you’re doing, Ronon! You’re finding reasons to hate this place,” Sheppard speaks in a low, fierce voice, and Ronon very purposefully stops himself from shivering.
“So?”
That makes Sheppard sigh, makes him let out one of those long, slow breaths of exasperation, and, while Ronon isn’t exactly feeling guilty about that, it does leave him feeling strangely tired. He finally looks at the other man again, looks at his weary face with the growing lines around his eyes and looks at the set of his shoulders, his posture. Sheppard is still strong, still fierce and unique, but there’s a noticeable and unsurprising loss of enthusiasm in the way he moves. As he looks, Ronon knows that part of this is his fault.
“You’re making up excuses to leave,” Sheppard continues, snapping out the words.
“Maybe,” admits Ronon, nodding.
It would be running away again. Ronon turns his head to the side and looks at Sheppard from the new angle as he half-closes his eyes in thought. It would be running away again, but...he’s not sure if he can do anything else anymore. Flight and fight, that’s all he knows.
“Don’t,” Sheppard orders in that same strained voice.
“Hard not to,” mutters Ronon.
“Because of me?”
“Because of me, too.”
“Still running in your head?”
“Always.”
Silence comes again, but there’s nothing to interrupt it this time. The two men stare at each other, quiet, so very quiet. It’s not awkward exactly, but this is worse, this terrible tension. Finally, Ronon turns away and opens his door.
He can feel Sheppard watching him.
* * *
It’s later, much later, when he hears a knock at the door. It isn’t a loud sound, and he at first thinks nothing of it. There are always noises in Atlantis, strange clatters and bumps as people live out their everyday lives. But this noise returns, another knock sounding against the door but louder this time.
Unwillingly, Ronon stands and begins to approach the door. It takes him only a few seconds to reach it, but in that time the person knocks again. Ronon doesn’t know why he insists on just referring to the person outside as the person. It’s not like he doesn’t know who it is.
When he opens the door, Sheppard’s hand falls to the side, Ronon stares, and again there is silence. Abruptly, Sheppard steps forward, moving past Ronon and heading into the room. Ronon isn’t surprised that he doesn’t ask for permission, but he’s not particularly upset by it either. He quietly closes the door behind him as he follows after Sheppard, understanding that this conversation will be one that shouldn’t be overheard even by friendly ears.
“I don’t want you to leave,” Sheppard says.
“I know,” Ronon replies slowly as he moves into the center of the room.
“And I don’t not want you.” Sheppard doesn’t look at him when he says those words, and actually he doesn’t really look at anything at all, instead glancing around with quick, almost nervous movements.
“I know that, too.”
“I just can’t.”
“Because of your rules.”
Sheppard nods slightly, but his mouth opens slightly as he seems to struggle for the right words. In the weak light of the room, his eyes are uncharacteristically dark.
“That and,” he stops and stares fiercely at Ronon, tracing the lines of his body with his eyes. Ronon can almost feel his eyes stutter in their path as they latch onto the white bandage decorating the side of his neck. “And it doesn’t help that you almost die every other day,” Sheppard finally finishes, still staring at the bandage concealing Ronon’s newest injury.
“So?” Ronon frowns in confusion and takes a step towards Sheppard, thinking that maybe a closer view of the man’s face will give him some clue to understanding his reasoning. The other man glares at him irritably, but he doesn’t move away.
“I couldn’t think if we were-” Sheppard begins.
“Fucking? Yeah, you could,” interrupts Ronon.
“I couldn’t make the right decisions, not when I’d know how it could hurt someone important to me,” Sheppard snaps angrily. His voice is tight and strained again, but Ronon only takes another step towards him, mirroring the other man’s earlier actions.
“But you do it all the time.”
“It’s different, Ronon! I’m not fucking Teyla or McKay.” There’s a new tinge of exasperation in Sheppard’s voice, but Ronon knows that the other man sees his point, realizes that the whole team is already too close for this argument to make any sense.
“You’re not fucking me yet either,” Ronon mutters rebelliously, scowling.
“Ronon,” Sheppard begins warningly.
“It wouldn’t hurt anything. When I die, I’ll just be dead. All this thing between us will change is what you’re left with.”
“Guilt.”
“Memories.”
Sheppard stares at him, and the silence returns. Even standing just a few steps away, it’s hard to tell what Sheppard is thinking, what thoughts are passing through his mind. The darkness of the room cloaks everything, hiding everything. Ronon can only watch and wait. After a moment, he looks away from Sheppard, turning to stare at the wall in an attempt to distract himself. There’s nothing to see, nothing to make him think, but that’s almost what he needs right now.
The sound of footsteps forces him to look back at Sheppard. The other man is mere inches away from him, but there’s no sign or clue for Ronon to follow on his face. After a moment, his hand moves to lightly touch Ronon’s cheek. It remains there, just resting against Ronon’s skin.
“I don’t know what to do about you,” Sheppard whispers in an uncharacteristically solemn voice.
“Yeah,” Ronon mutters, leaning into the touch.
A/N: Comments, please? I kind of feel guilty for leaving in such an ambiguous ending....