Fic: in the absence of a place to be (John/Ronon) PG13
Title: in the absence of a place to be
Rating: PG13
Pairing: John/Ronon
Timeline: Future!Fic
Written For: grammar_glamour for the rononficathon, with apologies for the delay.
Summary: "Come to California," Sheppard says over the phone.
*
"Come to California," Sheppard says over the phone.
Ronon is in Colorado, under the earth, feeling claustrophobic and closed in. "California," he echoes. "Why?"
"Because that's where I am." Sheppard seems to realize how that sounds and he clears his throat. "I mean--"
But he doesn't say anything else after that and then he sighs raggedly, and Ronon thinks that Sheppard--out there in the large world, never staying anywhere more than a week or two--is feeling as buried and suffocated as Ronon himself is.
"California," Ronon says, agreement in the word, and Sheppard makes a noise of relief. "If they'll let me."'
"I think they'll gladly show you the door," Sheppard drawls, and Ronon's restlessness must be more obvious than he thought if Sheppard's picking up on it. "Get with Dr. Jackson; he'll get it set up, help you figure out what you need, give you some pointers--"
"I know your planet," Ronon reminds him, and there isn't any bite in the words but Sheppard still goes quiet again. "Three days. Stay where you are."
"Okay, yeah," Sheppard says.
*
In the baggage claim at LAX, Sheppard's expression and posture are reminiscent of countless missions on which everything went wrong, of too many times when he was made helpless, of too much blood he couldn't keep from being shed.
Ronon takes one look at him, drops his carry-on to the floor, and reaches out. He wraps one hand around the back of Sheppard's neck, the other around his wrist, then draws him in and presses their foreheads together. Sheppard flinches at the unexpected and somewhat intimate contact, and Ronon tightens his hands until he settles down.
"Ronon, we're in public and people here can kinda be assholes--"
"Whatever. I'm armed."
That surprises the ghost of a laugh out of Sheppard, who relaxes and exhales an unsteady sugar-scented breath that Ronon opens his mouth to inhale. His hands settle lightly on Ronon's waist, palms curved around the front of his hips.
"You do know that you can't actually shoot people for being assholes, right?" Sheppard asks with wry amusement.
He does. It's been explained to him over and over again during the last year that he's spent confined to the SGC, his freedom extremely limited until recently, when it was decided that he could be trusted to blend in well enough not to arouse suspicion.
"That's not what Vala told me," is what he says blandly, and smiles when Sheppard chuffs out another faint laugh.
"Seriously, though," Sheppard says a few minutes later. His fingers clench on the waistband of Ronon's jeans before falling away.
Ronon steps back reluctantly, his hands lingering until the last possible second.
*
Fourteen months ago, after a major election in the United States that Ronon didn't even know about at the time, and a lot of political upheaval in other countries, the IOA replaced two-thirds of the personnel on Atlantis.
It would have been better if the city had been destroyed, because people would have mourned and moved on. Instead, everyone either bitterly refused to have anything to do with the Stargate program and their governments, or obsessively tried to be allowed to return to Atlantis.
Sheppard was one of the former but took it a step further.
On their way to wherever it is that they'll be staying, Sheppard takes a breath and says, "Listen. About, uh, disappearing. For a year." He clears his throat awkwardly. "It was a shitty thing to do, and you know I'm sorry, right?"
Ronon turns his head and studies Sheppard's tense face. "You're almost as dark as me. What have you been doing?"
Sheppard shifts gears and changes lanes in a burst of speed that snaps Ronon's head back against the headrest, then tosses Ronon a pointed glare.
Ronon snorts. "We're good. Save the apology for the others. You'll need it."
He'll need a lot more than that, actually; McKay, Elizabeth and the rest are furious that they haven't heard anything from Sheppard since the day he walked out of the SGC a year ago.
Sheppard sighs and eases off the accelerator slightly. "You're probably right about that."
*
The loft Sheppard's living in is large, open and bright. Ronon stands in front of several uncovered windows and directly beneath one of two massive skylights in the ceiling, and notices how clear all the glass is, lacking even streaks from cleaning.
The sun streams in sharp and warm, from several angles, and Ronon nods slowly. "I like it."
Sheppard leans against a support pillar, in another patch of sunlight, and tucks his hands in his pockets. "You haven't even looked around," he says with a faint air of satisfaction.
There's a wide plush sofa just to Ronon's left, and he sprawls on it while Sheppard calls for dinner. When Sheppard's done he crosses the room and perches on the table in front of the couch, arms braced behind him and his face turned towards the windows.
"I was in Hawaii until a week ago," Sheppard says, soft and sudden into the quiet. "For a few months. That's why I'm so tan."
"Surfing?" Sheppard hums an agreement and Ronon lifts a brow. "And before then?"
"Lots of places. All over, really. Anyplace that seemed like it might be cool."
"Were they?" Ronon asks curiously. He's been to a handful of states, and Jackson dragged him to London and Cairo to broaden his experience, but he's interested in what else is out there.
"Some were," Sheppard says with a grin. "Others...not so much. It was a crapshoot, like going offworld."
Ronon kicks his shoes off and turns onto his stomach. He pillows his head on his arms, strokes the dark red material under his fingers, and tracks the sun by way of the movement of warmth along his back, and the shadowing of Sheppard's face.
*
When Ronon checks his cell phone that evening in the middle of unpacking, he has thirty-eight missed calls, sixteen voicemails, and twenty-two text messages. They're all from McKay. He turns the phone off without listening to or reading any of them and tucks it back into his carry-on.
Sheppard watches him from the railing that looks down on the first floor of the loft. "You didn't tell them?"
Ronon shakes his head and starts on his last suitcase, loading the contents into the closet along the far wall. "McKay's already figured it out. I think he tracks your credit cards."
"He does, and he'll know I'm in L.A. but he's never known about this place."
"He'll keep calling me," Ronon tells him. "All of them will. I won't ignore them."
Sheppard moves towards the metal stairs leading down, and his voice is like the afterthought of a shadow. "I know, it's okay."
*
Ronon falls asleep on the sofa downstairs and when he wakes Sheppard is sitting on the floor next to him, back pressed against the couch near Ronon's chest. Even though it's midnight the room is barely dark, thanks to the streetlamps outside and the lack of curtains. A breeze slides into the room and Ronon stretches contentedly when it reaches him.
"--why I didn't call before now, McKay," Sheppard's snapping. "I mean, it's been twenty minutes and you're still yelling--"
The muffled sound of an enraged McKay comes through the phone Sheppard's holding, and then he pushes his head back against Ronon's chest--hard--and squeezes his eyes shut. Ronon can feel him shaking, then notices that Sheppard's talking on the loft's landline.
Ronon slides to the floor, lays his head on Sheppard's thigh, presses his face against Sheppard's abdomen, and lets Sheppard's fingers dig into the muscles of his back for purchase.
*
It's the middle of the night when Sheppard lays Ronon out on the large bed in the upstairs. He stares at Ronon's clothes--a long sleeved t-shirt and lightweight jeans--and frowns. "These clothes..." he murmurs. "It's weird."
Ronon shrugs and nods. It is weird, and sometimes his full-length reflection is more disturbing to him than the entirety of the strange world he now lives on.
But tonight Sheppard strips him until the only thing he's wearing are ornamental beads in his dreads, and necklaces around his throat, all of which he brought with him from Pegasus, and something in Sheppard's expression slips into place at the same time that something deep inside Ronon uncurls and falls away.
"John," he says quietly.
"Hey," John replies, just as softly.
*
"Why did you come back with us this time?" John asks after he undresses himself and joins Ronon on the bed.
Ronon props himself up on one hand and drags the other down John's chest, stopping just under his ribcage. "Why did you call me and no one else all this time?" he answers.
"I got this place for you," John says, a confession like a promise, and Ronon looks around.
The bedroom takes up the entirety of the second floor and is so sparsely furnished that the bed might as well be an island in a sea of open space. The bed itself is long enough that their legs don't hang off and wide enough that they can roll over in a tangle of limbs and not fall off. Overhead is a skylight that's longer and wider than the bed, and makes it seem like there's nothing but sky above them.
Below them is a massive room, with no interior walls and a line of bare windows that were tossed open the second they got in and haven't been closed since.
Ronon shakes his head and John shifts, awkward and self-deprecating. "Okay, fine, for us," he corrects himself, and Ronon leans down and kisses him.
*
The next afternoon the doorbell rings and when John comes back from answering it he's holding a cellophane wrapped plant and wearing a bemused expression. "It's a housewarming gift. From Rodney."
"Huh," Ronon grunts, and he knows it's only a matter of days until McKay shows up at the door without warning, with the others soon to follow.
John sets the plant on the coffee table and unwraps it. The ceramic pot holding it is dark orange in color, and the flowers sprouting from the nest of green stems are bright yellow and quite large. John plumps a few that were flattened by the cellophane before moving back to take a look at it.
"Kinda goes with the place, I think," he says thoughtfully.
Ronon steps up behind him--in a patch of sunlight that extends far enough to warm the flowers' petals and in the path of a capricious breeze that is spread wide enough to ruffle the plant's leaves--and nods against his shoulder.
.End
Rating: PG13
Pairing: John/Ronon
Timeline: Future!Fic
Written For: grammar_glamour for the rononficathon, with apologies for the delay.
Summary: "Come to California," Sheppard says over the phone.
*
"Come to California," Sheppard says over the phone.
Ronon is in Colorado, under the earth, feeling claustrophobic and closed in. "California," he echoes. "Why?"
"Because that's where I am." Sheppard seems to realize how that sounds and he clears his throat. "I mean--"
But he doesn't say anything else after that and then he sighs raggedly, and Ronon thinks that Sheppard--out there in the large world, never staying anywhere more than a week or two--is feeling as buried and suffocated as Ronon himself is.
"California," Ronon says, agreement in the word, and Sheppard makes a noise of relief. "If they'll let me."'
"I think they'll gladly show you the door," Sheppard drawls, and Ronon's restlessness must be more obvious than he thought if Sheppard's picking up on it. "Get with Dr. Jackson; he'll get it set up, help you figure out what you need, give you some pointers--"
"I know your planet," Ronon reminds him, and there isn't any bite in the words but Sheppard still goes quiet again. "Three days. Stay where you are."
"Okay, yeah," Sheppard says.
*
In the baggage claim at LAX, Sheppard's expression and posture are reminiscent of countless missions on which everything went wrong, of too many times when he was made helpless, of too much blood he couldn't keep from being shed.
Ronon takes one look at him, drops his carry-on to the floor, and reaches out. He wraps one hand around the back of Sheppard's neck, the other around his wrist, then draws him in and presses their foreheads together. Sheppard flinches at the unexpected and somewhat intimate contact, and Ronon tightens his hands until he settles down.
"Ronon, we're in public and people here can kinda be assholes--"
"Whatever. I'm armed."
That surprises the ghost of a laugh out of Sheppard, who relaxes and exhales an unsteady sugar-scented breath that Ronon opens his mouth to inhale. His hands settle lightly on Ronon's waist, palms curved around the front of his hips.
"You do know that you can't actually shoot people for being assholes, right?" Sheppard asks with wry amusement.
He does. It's been explained to him over and over again during the last year that he's spent confined to the SGC, his freedom extremely limited until recently, when it was decided that he could be trusted to blend in well enough not to arouse suspicion.
"That's not what Vala told me," is what he says blandly, and smiles when Sheppard chuffs out another faint laugh.
"Seriously, though," Sheppard says a few minutes later. His fingers clench on the waistband of Ronon's jeans before falling away.
Ronon steps back reluctantly, his hands lingering until the last possible second.
*
Fourteen months ago, after a major election in the United States that Ronon didn't even know about at the time, and a lot of political upheaval in other countries, the IOA replaced two-thirds of the personnel on Atlantis.
It would have been better if the city had been destroyed, because people would have mourned and moved on. Instead, everyone either bitterly refused to have anything to do with the Stargate program and their governments, or obsessively tried to be allowed to return to Atlantis.
Sheppard was one of the former but took it a step further.
On their way to wherever it is that they'll be staying, Sheppard takes a breath and says, "Listen. About, uh, disappearing. For a year." He clears his throat awkwardly. "It was a shitty thing to do, and you know I'm sorry, right?"
Ronon turns his head and studies Sheppard's tense face. "You're almost as dark as me. What have you been doing?"
Sheppard shifts gears and changes lanes in a burst of speed that snaps Ronon's head back against the headrest, then tosses Ronon a pointed glare.
Ronon snorts. "We're good. Save the apology for the others. You'll need it."
He'll need a lot more than that, actually; McKay, Elizabeth and the rest are furious that they haven't heard anything from Sheppard since the day he walked out of the SGC a year ago.
Sheppard sighs and eases off the accelerator slightly. "You're probably right about that."
*
The loft Sheppard's living in is large, open and bright. Ronon stands in front of several uncovered windows and directly beneath one of two massive skylights in the ceiling, and notices how clear all the glass is, lacking even streaks from cleaning.
The sun streams in sharp and warm, from several angles, and Ronon nods slowly. "I like it."
Sheppard leans against a support pillar, in another patch of sunlight, and tucks his hands in his pockets. "You haven't even looked around," he says with a faint air of satisfaction.
There's a wide plush sofa just to Ronon's left, and he sprawls on it while Sheppard calls for dinner. When Sheppard's done he crosses the room and perches on the table in front of the couch, arms braced behind him and his face turned towards the windows.
"I was in Hawaii until a week ago," Sheppard says, soft and sudden into the quiet. "For a few months. That's why I'm so tan."
"Surfing?" Sheppard hums an agreement and Ronon lifts a brow. "And before then?"
"Lots of places. All over, really. Anyplace that seemed like it might be cool."
"Were they?" Ronon asks curiously. He's been to a handful of states, and Jackson dragged him to London and Cairo to broaden his experience, but he's interested in what else is out there.
"Some were," Sheppard says with a grin. "Others...not so much. It was a crapshoot, like going offworld."
Ronon kicks his shoes off and turns onto his stomach. He pillows his head on his arms, strokes the dark red material under his fingers, and tracks the sun by way of the movement of warmth along his back, and the shadowing of Sheppard's face.
*
When Ronon checks his cell phone that evening in the middle of unpacking, he has thirty-eight missed calls, sixteen voicemails, and twenty-two text messages. They're all from McKay. He turns the phone off without listening to or reading any of them and tucks it back into his carry-on.
Sheppard watches him from the railing that looks down on the first floor of the loft. "You didn't tell them?"
Ronon shakes his head and starts on his last suitcase, loading the contents into the closet along the far wall. "McKay's already figured it out. I think he tracks your credit cards."
"He does, and he'll know I'm in L.A. but he's never known about this place."
"He'll keep calling me," Ronon tells him. "All of them will. I won't ignore them."
Sheppard moves towards the metal stairs leading down, and his voice is like the afterthought of a shadow. "I know, it's okay."
*
Ronon falls asleep on the sofa downstairs and when he wakes Sheppard is sitting on the floor next to him, back pressed against the couch near Ronon's chest. Even though it's midnight the room is barely dark, thanks to the streetlamps outside and the lack of curtains. A breeze slides into the room and Ronon stretches contentedly when it reaches him.
"--why I didn't call before now, McKay," Sheppard's snapping. "I mean, it's been twenty minutes and you're still yelling--"
The muffled sound of an enraged McKay comes through the phone Sheppard's holding, and then he pushes his head back against Ronon's chest--hard--and squeezes his eyes shut. Ronon can feel him shaking, then notices that Sheppard's talking on the loft's landline.
Ronon slides to the floor, lays his head on Sheppard's thigh, presses his face against Sheppard's abdomen, and lets Sheppard's fingers dig into the muscles of his back for purchase.
*
It's the middle of the night when Sheppard lays Ronon out on the large bed in the upstairs. He stares at Ronon's clothes--a long sleeved t-shirt and lightweight jeans--and frowns. "These clothes..." he murmurs. "It's weird."
Ronon shrugs and nods. It is weird, and sometimes his full-length reflection is more disturbing to him than the entirety of the strange world he now lives on.
But tonight Sheppard strips him until the only thing he's wearing are ornamental beads in his dreads, and necklaces around his throat, all of which he brought with him from Pegasus, and something in Sheppard's expression slips into place at the same time that something deep inside Ronon uncurls and falls away.
"John," he says quietly.
"Hey," John replies, just as softly.
*
"Why did you come back with us this time?" John asks after he undresses himself and joins Ronon on the bed.
Ronon props himself up on one hand and drags the other down John's chest, stopping just under his ribcage. "Why did you call me and no one else all this time?" he answers.
"I got this place for you," John says, a confession like a promise, and Ronon looks around.
The bedroom takes up the entirety of the second floor and is so sparsely furnished that the bed might as well be an island in a sea of open space. The bed itself is long enough that their legs don't hang off and wide enough that they can roll over in a tangle of limbs and not fall off. Overhead is a skylight that's longer and wider than the bed, and makes it seem like there's nothing but sky above them.
Below them is a massive room, with no interior walls and a line of bare windows that were tossed open the second they got in and haven't been closed since.
Ronon shakes his head and John shifts, awkward and self-deprecating. "Okay, fine, for us," he corrects himself, and Ronon leans down and kisses him.
*
The next afternoon the doorbell rings and when John comes back from answering it he's holding a cellophane wrapped plant and wearing a bemused expression. "It's a housewarming gift. From Rodney."
"Huh," Ronon grunts, and he knows it's only a matter of days until McKay shows up at the door without warning, with the others soon to follow.
John sets the plant on the coffee table and unwraps it. The ceramic pot holding it is dark orange in color, and the flowers sprouting from the nest of green stems are bright yellow and quite large. John plumps a few that were flattened by the cellophane before moving back to take a look at it.
"Kinda goes with the place, I think," he says thoughtfully.
Ronon steps up behind him--in a patch of sunlight that extends far enough to warm the flowers' petals and in the path of a capricious breeze that is spread wide enough to ruffle the plant's leaves--and nods against his shoulder.
.End