Fic: stay beside me where i lie (John/Ronon) NC17 (Part 1/2)
Okay, wow, I really need to let this go. So I am.
Title: stay beside me where i lie
Rating: NC17
Pairing: John/Ronon
Word Count: ~19,000
Story Notes: This is a sequel to in the absence of a place to be and is set about 6 months later.
A/N: This ended up being twice as long as I initially planned, and took a whole lot longer to write than the two weeks I anticipated. arsenicjade and tesserae_ both looked this over midway through to let me know if I was telling a story that anyone wanted to hear. I thank them for that because I might have let this fall by the wayside without their input. Tesserae_ also pulled beta duty on this and followed each individual thread in it with patience and care, then let me know where it took her and how it got her there. I thank her for that.
Summary: Ronon doesn't hate him, but John maybe hates himself, and Vala definitely does.
*
Ronon apparently broods to the dulcet sounds of Bjork.
This came as news to John mostly because Ronon doesn't look all that different than usual when brooding, but also because he didn't realize that that noise was supposed to be music.
Which was why, the first time it happened, he said, "Jesus Christ, are you skinning a cat up there?" and ended up sleeping on the sofa, because of course Bjork reminds Ronon of Satedan folk music.
*
John wakes up alone at three in the morning and frowns at the subtle wrongness of the shadows being cast in the immediate vicinity. He turns onto his back and squints blearily up at the skylight over the bed. It takes him a minute to recognize the dark shape along the side as the backlit spread of Ronon's dreads.
He pulls on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt and leaves the loft. He hooks a right just outside the door and follows the hall to the stairwell roof access.
On the roof, Ronon is stretched out on his back, shirtless, with one hand tucked under his head, which is propped on the skylight. The other hand is resting on his stomach, just above the waistband of his shorts. His feet are bare and crossed at the ankles, and his eyes are closed.
John's mouth goes dry at the sight. It's been three years since he and Ronon got together, and for the first year they were on Atlantis, where John had to measure the length of his stares, curb the instincts of his hands. Once they came to Earth it was even harder; everyone from Atlantis was being scrutinized and John and Ronon only saw each other for a handful of hours a week, and only rarely alone.
Then John walked away from the Mountain, the SGC and the Air Force, and for an entire year he didn't even see Ronon, just spoke to him on the phone.
It's only been in the last six months that John's had the freedom to look his fill without fear of a court martial. He still hasn't found words that do justice to the way Ronon looks stretched out half-naked like this, long-limbed and fit, with sinuous curves of muscle and skin that make John's fingers twitch to touch.
He remembers having to curl them inwards on Atlantis and in the Mountain. He'd shove them in his pockets or busy them with checking his weapon. But John doesn't have to hold back now, so he lets his hands stretch out towards Ronon as he crosses the roof.
Ronon doesn't acknowledge John's approach, but when John kneels beside him he bends one knee slightly so that it presses against John's thigh; John presses back and reaches out to pick up Ronon's iPod from the ground by his hip. Army of Me is playing, and now that John knows he recognizes the faint discordant sounds coming from the ear buds Ronon's wearing.
John sets the iPod down next to Ronon's cell phone, and then undoes the snap of Ronon's shorts with lingering hands. That gets Ronon's attention; he turns his face towards John and opens his eyes, which glitter strange and pale in the smoggy night. John smiles, jerks Ronon's zip open and tugs the khaki material down and off, until Ronon is only acres of nakedness and alien adornments.
John lips Ronon's soft cock into his mouth and rolls it with his tongue, his nostrils flaring to take in the concentrated scent of Ronon; he still smells like sex and come from earlier in the night. Ronon cups the back of John's head, fingers pressing hard against it. His hand is large enough to palm John's skull, which John has always found hotter than hell. He shudders, slow and drawn out, and groans lightly. The vibrations make Ronon's hips twitch minutely and his dick swell. John widens his mouth around it, backing off so that he can work the foreskin with his lips and tongue.
With the headphones still on and the music blaring in his ears, Ronon's groans sound strangely loud and elongated. He touches the side of John's face, fingers splaying lightly across his cheek, a ghost of a touch that isn't impatient or urging, just very much present. John's eyes close and he settles himself more comfortably over Ronon's body.
There's a sticky breeze blowing around them under the hazy sky, and it turns their skin clammy while John brings Ronon off in gradual increments, like a rubber band being stretched slowly and inexorably, until it finally snaps and Ronon comes, sudden and unexpected, and John has to swallow rapidly to avoid choking.
Ronon pants for air, looking young and exposed, and pulls John onto his thighs. His long-fingered hand nudges John's boxers down and then wraps around John's dick, stroking slowly and tightly, until John jerks forward and comes across his chest.
After John cleans Ronon with his t-shirt, they pull on their respective bottoms and Ronon tugs the buds from his ears and turns off his iPod. "Hey," he says quietly at the door that leads into the building. He wraps his thumb and forefinger around John's wrist, tugs him against his chest, and leans down.
Ronon kisses like he does most things: direct and unequivocal. John smiles against his mouth because it's something that John counts on and looks forward to and is never disappointed by. The smiling makes kissing pretty much impossible, but he can't help it, and Ronon huffs, amused, before dragging John inside.
*
Ronon never goes anywhere without his cell phone, for which he has about a dozen different accessories and attachments. It also has so many built-in bells and whistles that John couldn't even figure out how to answer the damn thing the one time he borrowed it.
It's almost always on. Especially in the middle of the night, because Cadman has really bad insomnia, Lorne's in Peru and tends to get access to phones at odd hours, and time differences mean that it's early evening for Zelenka and Miko.
John blinked when Ronon told him all that, had him say "hi" to Zelenka, and then went back to sleep because it was two thirty in the morning.
*
"What are you doing?"
John looks up from Ronon's phone and watches him drain a bottle of water in one swallow. "Looking for something."
Ronon hoists himself onto a counter in the kitchen, legs swinging lightly, and arches a brow. John gives up on the navigation menus and glares at the display. "Is there any way I can see all recent activity in one screen?"
Ronon's legs are long, which John sometimes forgets until Ronon does something like hook his calf around the back of John's thighs from halfway across the kitchen. John lets himself be pulled in, until he's standing between Ronon's thighs, which tighten on either side of his hips, muscles hard as steel under one of John's steadying hands.
John slips his hand under the hem of Ronon's shorts, stroking his skin absently and enjoying the rough tickle of Ronon's leg hair against his palm.
"What are you trying to find?" Ronon asks.
John shrugs, then stares at him. "Whatever it was that sent you up to the roof with Bjork."
Ronon narrows his eyes and then plucks the phone out of John's hand. A few seconds and the blur of a dozen passing menus later, he passes it back.
There's a text message on the screen: sorry darling been v busy -kisses-
John doesn't really need to scroll down to know it's from Vala, but he does anyway, mostly because he wants to check the timestamp. Two a.m. Odd, because she's not usually one of the night owls. He puts the phone down on the counter next to Ronon and rubs the tops of his thighs.
"Seems pretty innocuous to me, but I'm guessing it's not to you."
Ronon lifts one shoulder briefly, lets it fall, and makes a noise at the back of his throat. "She's been acting weird for a few weeks, and now she's avoiding me. Something's wrong."
The whole friendship between Ronon and Vala is really confusing. Typically, Ronon's explanation of how it came to be consisted of about ten short sentences that gave John a very vague overall picture of boredom and proximity leading to hanging out, followed by them being put on the same offworld team, but provided no real details.
John sort of suspects that they fucked along the way, at least once but probably a lot more, which Ronon will neither confirm nor deny because he refuses to answer any questions about his sex life during the year John was gone.
"So, do you have a plan?" John asks, because Ronon might brood, but never pointlessly.
"Maybe."
John nods and takes a small step back, his hands urging Ronon to slide off the counter. "Come on, let's get some sleep."
*
When John got back in touch with everyone there were a slew of visitors to the loft.
Interestingly, no one came just to see John, and some people weren't there to see him at all. Cadman, for example, arrived with Elizabeth and barely said hello to him before settling in to watch something like eighteen straight hours of Buffy the Vampire Slayer with Ronon.
That night, Cadman and Ronon fell asleep on the sofa, slumped sideways against each other with little care for personal space, and it was the first time John understood that Ronon hadn't been in stasis while John wasn't around.
*
The following week Ronon spends most of Wednesday on his phone. He uses his hands-free headset, which confuses the hell out of John since he can't figure out when Ronon's talking to him.
Late in the afternoon, Ronon comes ambling into the kitchen area, where John's sitting at the table with the newspaper. "Mind if Vala comes for a visit?" he asks, looking uncharacteristically hesitant.
John flips the paper shut, sets it aside and tries to figure out how to respond. Some people seem to find Vala's crude impertinence charming after a while, if not immediately, but John's not one of them. She gets on his last nerve. He's never said as much to Ronon, never would, either, but Ronon's not stupid. Neither is John: Ronon wouldn't be asking about this if he meant for Vala to stay at a hotel.
His first instinct is to say no--actually, it's to say hell no--but he's watching Ronon get more tense with each passing second, like he's predicting the refusal and is bracing himself for it.
"Sure," John says instead, because, really, what else can he say?
Later, during Rodney's thrice-weekly call from Switzerland, his eye roll is almost audible. "Oh my god, you are so whipped."
"Shut up." John's not bothered by Rodney's assessment. After all, John's not the one sleeping alone. Also? Ronon's responding smile had been one of the wide sweet ones that always catches at John's heart.
"No, no, it's cute. Everyone thinks so. But, really, it wouldn't be so traumatic on either side of the equation if you had an apartment with actual walls and rooms."
"We like it here."
Rodney snorts. "Of course you do. Anyway, it's going to make the book on this even more insane."
John blinks. "Book?"
"The betting book," Rodney says like John's an idiot.
The betting was bad enough in Atlantis, but now that their lives aren't filled with terror and near-destruction, it's gone up a notch or twenty. John presses his lips together in annoyance for a moment and forces patience into his voice when he speaks. "Yeah, I get that part. I'm just not sure what the hell there is to be betting on."
Rodney makes a high-pitched noise. "Are you kidding me? Tell me you're kidding. Because, seriously. It's no secret that you don't exactly like Vala--"
John shifts uncomfortably. He actually feels faintly guilty that he isn't fond of what amounts to Ronon's best friend. "Well, I wouldn't say--"
"--no secret that she absolutely hates your guts--"
"Wait, she does?"
"--be trapped in that loft with nowhere to escape each other. It's going to be more exciting than the book on Heightmeyer's love triangle!"
"Love triangle?" John's voice is loud enough that Ronon, who's upstairs, leans over the railing to check on him. John waves him off and lowers his voice. "Rodney. Love triangle?"
"For god's sake," Rodney snaps, "I was not implying that there is a love triangle involving you, Ronon and Vala. I mean, I'm officially on record as being of the opinion that they never did it. But, oh, if you find out for sure, there are some bets that still need to be settled--"
John hangs up on him, which involves viciously stabbing the power button on the cordless phone. It's not very satisfying so he crosses the room and slams the headset on the charger base.
"I told you three times a week is too much to talk to him," Ronon calls down, and John thinks he might take that under advisement.
When John gets upstairs, Ronon is sitting against the headboard on their king sized bed, his thumbs moving like lightning across the keypad of his phone. John flops down next to him and scowls up at the skylight.
Ronon slides a bare foot down John's calf. "What'd he do?"
"Does Vala hate me?" John asks in lieu of a response.
Ronon shoots him a very quick, very unimpressed look. John sighs and wonders why this is news to him, because it shouldn't be. Ronon puts his phone on the bedside table, then rolls on top of John and looks down at him seriously. "I don't."
John looks away and fumbles awkwardly for the button on Ronon's jeans. "Yeah," he says roughly, "I know."
*
While he was gone, John called Ronon roughly every six weeks, but they didn't talk much during any of the calls. Mostly they listened to each other breathe, and John didn't make any promises (even though he wanted to), and Ronon didn't pile on the guilt (even though he could have).
At the time John thought what mattered was that he called and Ronon took the call, but he's starting to realize that he's an idiot.
*
Two days later they wake up to dark skies and rain crashing down on the skylight and slamming against the wall of windows on the first floor. The rain tapers off quickly but the sky stays overcast and gray.
By noon it's become a little oppressive, with every nook and cranny of the loft touched by the dreary pallor that's coming in all of the bare windows.
It's making John feel gray himself, washed out and heavy with gloomy thoughts, and he winds up drinking an entire pot of hot chocolate before ten a.m. even though it's about ninety degrees out and hot beverages shouldn't be on the agenda. Comfort food knows no temperature boundaries, apparently.
Ronon, on the other hand, is getting more on edge as each hour rolls by, stomping around the place scowling at nothing and everything. John knows better than to try to get Ronon out of funks like this. It never goes well. In fact, it often goes badly and sometimes painfully. He makes sure there's always half a room of distance between them, and does his best not to make more than fleeting eye contact.
By noon John's retreated to the "library" area under the stairs of the first floor with a book and his iPod, and is reading about wizards in Chicago while Johnny Cash fills in the silence around him. Ronon beans him with a throw pillow at two, and when John looks up he catches a glimpse of Ronon's back as he stomps out of the loft in his running shorts.
Five minutes later the skies open up again; John winces and sets a stack of towels by the door.
When Ronon returns, drenched from the rain, steaming from the heat, and scowling harder than ever, John is in the kitchen making sandwiches. Ronon dries himself off and strips down by the front door. John loses track of what he's doing and can only stare. Because--wet...naked...Ronon. Water's sliding off of him in rivulets, tracing slow and winding paths down his arms, chest, back and legs. John eyes a trail of water at Ronon's hip and licks his lips.
"What?" Ronon snarls.
John tears his eyes away from the long contoured lines of Ronon's body and finishes making another sandwich. When he's done he pushes the loaded plate forward. "Food?"
A grunt, followed by the slap of bare feet on the stairs, is Ronon's only response. John snorts, digs a turkey sandwich out of the stack on the plate, and takes it to the butcher's block table between the kitchen and living room areas.
He stares moodily out the window as he eats, his feet propped up on a chair. When he was younger, this kind of day meant board games at the dining room table, or blanket forts in the den.
Ronon, John thinks as the other man comes back downstairs in a dry pair of shorts and takes the entire plate of sandwiches into the living room with him, is a man desperately in need of a blanket fort. He could crawl inside, hide away from the grayness, and scowl until the sky lightened and his mood improved.
"Hey, did you ever make blanket forts when you were a kid?" John asks, curious. Ronon, sprawled in a sulky boneless heap on the sofa, lifts his head so that John can witness his scowl change to a glare. "Um, okay, so then what did you do on days like this when you were a kid? Any, like, games, or something?"
The glare deepens, Ronon's right arm twitches, and John looks at the clock: three thirty. He gives up and gets to his feet. "Fine, let's spar," he says and there's a world of resignation in his voice.
Ronon's face creases with feral pleasure and he practically runs upstairs. John follows more sedately, not looking forward to the ass kicking he's about to get.
They have a small training area set up along one wall, with mats and some basic sparring equipment. John also installed some padding against the exposed brick wall after the third time he was scraped all to hell by it.
True to form, Ronon hardly gives John time to strip off his shirt and warm up before lunging at him. John mostly evades and escapes Ronon, letting the other man put forth all the effort, and hardly expending any himself. It works as a strategy to help Ronon blow off steam, and also reduces the damage John takes. The drawback is that, much as John likes to forget, Ronon is about a decade younger and has much better stamina.
Half an hour in, John's tiring out and not moving nearly as quickly as he was at the start, and Ronon takes him down with a quick and cunning leg sweep. John lands flat on his stomach and reminds himself not to panic when he realizes he's knocked the wind out of himself and can't breathe.
Ronon crouches over him and presses his face between John's shoulder blades, licking and chewing John's sweaty skin so that John loses his breath again immediately after regaining it. Ronon drags his tongue up the side of John's neck and his voice is a rumble against the side of John's jaw. "I like you like this. Sweaty and shaky, and too worn out to do anything but take it."
He lowers himself onto John's back and presses his dick against John's ass. The thin material of their shorts does little to dull the sensation for John and he hisses with pleasure. When Ronon rolls his hips obscenely, John gasps and chokes. "Jesus, Ronon!"
He tries to get some leverage, but his hands and knees are slick with sweat and slide out from under him on the mat.
Ronon's hips jerk and he laughs, dirty and lewd, right in John's ear. "Just like that."
John has little enough resistance to Ronon when he's doing something as innocent as sitting, so times like this it's not a matter of will he melt but how much. Today it seems to be completely and totally, and when he goes lax Ronon makes another satisfied sound.
"Yeah, that's sweet." Ronon skims a hand down John's sweat-soaked side and pushes his shorts down around his thighs. John groans against the mat, shoves his ass against Ronon's crotch and makes frustrated noises until Ronon's shorts seemingly disappear and--oh. "You'll take it, won't you?"
Ronon's voice is knowing and sly. He's already starting to push into John, who somehow relaxes even further and lifts his ass to get a better angle.
And this, being able to take Ronon like this, with no prep and only sweat and Ronon's precome to ease the way, is John's idea of sweet. This is something they never could have had on Atlantis, where they had to be careful, were lucky to get together once a week, and sometimes they had to wait so long that it was like doing it for the first time again.
"God, yeah," John sighs, shuddering around the girth of Ronon's cock, rippling down the length of it. Ronon presses his forehead into the back of John's skull, and when he's all the way in he goes still. They breathe together for long moments and then Ronon twitches his hips and moves.
Ronon fucks him slowly and carefully, mindful of the limits of John's body when they do it this way, and it's an exercise in holding back, in letting the pleasure find them instead of chasing after it hard and fast. Ronon's hips undulate rather than thrust, roll and slither rather than push and shove, and John shakes under him, open and accepting, and filled with a poignant regret he never can push aside at times like these.
When John comes it's with Ronon's hand around his dick, and Ronon's teeth in his shoulder. He clenches around Ronon's soft, sated dick and they both cry out.
*
Teyla wouldn't consider coming with them even though she refused to have anything to do with the newly staffed Atlantis. She said she would rejoin her people, try to build an alliance of those who would stand against the Wraith and, if it came to that, Atlantis itself.
She told John, before he left with Ronon, "Be careful with him; he is younger than we like to remember."
Sometimes, John has dreams that vaguely resemble nightmares, and in them Teyla just looks at him, her gaze weighted with disappointment and censure.
*
"I've got that new group starting today," Ronon says when John stumbles downstairs in the morning, sore in too many places to name from the sparring and the two rounds of sex. "You said you'd come."
"Crap," John says succinctly from where he's hunched over a kitchen counter, clutching a bottle of water, and fumbling in a cabinet for painkillers.
John is officially retired from the Air Force and although he often half-heartedly thinks he should be doing something he always inevitably remembers that he did something for more than twenty years and is still recovering from it. So now he does a lot of little different nothings, and mostly he's okay with that.
He tries anything he's ever had just a slight interest in attempting. Sometimes that involves going through the Long Beach City College's non-credit course catalog, but mostly all he has to do is troll through the archives of the Atlantis ex pats mailing list. John's not the only one who is trying to fill in a lot of free time. The ex pats have put together actual seminar presentations and online courses on a variety of subjects--such as origami, horticulture and knitting, just to name a few.
Ronon, on the other hand, spent exactly two weeks living a life of leisure in California before he came home from a late night run and said, "I'm teaching women how to protect themselves tomorrow afternoon."
John had a moment of cognitive dissonance the likes of which he hadn't had since Atlantis and said, "You went for a run."
As it turned out, there was an interrupted mugging and a quick and dirty self-defense lesson at the feet of the unconscious mugger, and one of the cops on scene asked Ronon to volunteer his services for some classes the police and the Y were offering.
Ronon, unsurprisingly, took to it immediately. Empowering the underdog is his thing, and from what John's heard from Jess Daniels--the detective Ronon works with--women leave Ronon's classes loaded for bear. Metaphorically speaking.
"You're coming, right?" Ronon asks, eyes narrowing.
John straightens up and smiles determinedly through the low-grade systemic aching of his aging body. "You bet."
Ronon laughs and reaches over John's head into one of the cabinets. He opens a bottle of ibuprofen, pries John's lips apart with the pad of his thumb, and then slips three small pills into his mouth.
John swallows them down with his water and nods. "Give me twenty minutes and a shower and I'll be good to go."
Ronon swoops down and kisses him, fierce and forceful and brief. When he pulls back he stares at John with an intensity that John doesn't know what to do with this early in the morning before his analgesics have kicked in. "Thank you."
"Sure," John replies vaguely. He shifts uncomfortably under Ronon's serious regard until Ronon rolls his eyes, smiles, and pushes him out of the room.
When they leave a half hour later, John's feeling mostly human. They take Ronon's truck--a boxy old Jeep Grand Cherokee that was one of the few vehicles they found that could accommodate his legs--and John lazes in the passenger seat and watches Ronon drive.
In a way the whole thing is surreal: Ronon, dressed in black track pants and a white tank top, is driving a truck. John never would have imagined being here in this moment, but he's gotten used to it for the most part, and really enjoys it.
Ronon's hands are steady on the steering wheel and gearshift, comfortable and confident as he changes gears and maneuvers them down the freeway. He's told John that it was Lorne who taught him how to drive, and that makes sense because Lorne was a steady and competent 2IC, but he's also a flyboy, which explains why Ronon drives a mile ahead of himself, aggressive but always in control.
"You're staring," Ronon says suddenly.
John lifts a brow. "I like the way you drive."
Ronon cuts him a quick look and then smiles as he revs the engine and gets right up on the tail of the car in front of them, only to swerve to the side and cut off the car on their right.
John grins and slouches more comfortably in his seat. "Lorne teach you that one?"
Ronon shakes his head and bares his teeth, which is disturbingly hot. "Laura. She calls it Threading the Needle. She's really patient with explosives. Not so much with traffic."
"I'm sure," John drawls, and then Ronon's slipping seamlessly into the exit lane and taking them off the freeway and onto city streets.
They park a few blocks from the Y and walk inside just as Detective Daniels steps out of their assigned room and closes the door behind her.
"Ten in this group," she tells Ronon after nodding a hello to John. "Five domestic abuses, two home invasions, one carjacking, and two rapes."
John exhales heavily. Next to him Ronon grinds his teeth and nods grimly.
Most of the women Ronon works with are preparing themselves for something that might happen. But when Daniels saw how well Ronon worked with his students, she asked him to also teach female victims of violent crimes, women who've already been through something.
"We're ready when you are," Daniels says and goes back in, leaving John and Ronon in the hall.
Ronon is a tense and looming mess. John nudges him with an elbow. "Hey."
"I'm good," Ronon growls immediately, then unclenches his fists takes a breath. "Mostly," he adds in a more normal tone of voice.
John nods, leans against a wall and crosses his ankles. "So, I was thinking we could stop for ribs on the way home."
Ronon frowns, clearly annoyed. "I won't say no, but I really am good. You don't have to..." He trails off with a significant look and John shakes his head.
"No, I know you're good. But I figured we haven't had ribs in a while." Mostly because as much as John loves Ronon, which is really a hell of a lot more than John will even admit to himself, watching him eat ribs is disgusting. "Plus that place you like is all the way across town." He wiggles his eyebrows and cocks his hip suggestively. "Which means it'll be rush hour by the time we get back on the freeway and I'll get at least two hours of watching you drive."
Ronon reaches out, almost lazily, and reels John in until their chests bump. He huffs impatiently but his eyes are light. "You're so weird."
John feigns offense. "Hey! You like to watch me read. That's weird."
Ronon nods. "You look hot in glasses."
He pulls open the door to the training room and John lets himself be herded inside by way of a hand splayed high on his side.
All of the women in the room look up when they walk in, and John knows what they see is a six and a half foot tall muscled giant of a man pressed intimately against a slightly shorter man, who is craning his neck back to look at him with amusement.
Ronon's hand is on John's side. John leans into the touch for a long moment, steps away easily and moves to the outskirts of the room.
And that's John's main purpose here: to make Ronon seem less threatening. Daniels helps further with that, since she's female and a decorated detective, and all she does is smile easily at Ronon. What also helps are the two women who already went through this course who are present; they wave at John and greet Ronon without fear or tension.
All of these things were Ronon's idea, because he's ferociously intent about working with these women and absolutely rabid about ensuring that they feel as safe as possible when they're here.
It's his new mission, and John doesn't have to ask why it's this and not any number of other issues. He doesn't need to. He's seen the new brittleness in Cadman's eyes and witnessed the way everyone, including Rodney, hovers around her protectively.
Daniels introduces Ronon to the new students and then turns things over to him. John props himself up against a wall and watches Ronon get down to business. He spent countless hours on Atlantis in training rooms with Ronon, watching marines get taken to the mat ruthlessly and without mercy, but this, this is different.
Here, Ronon isn't demonstrating new techniques to trained soldiers, he's teaching scared, violated women from the ground up. He's gentler, more patient, but still just as exacting and relentless. He doesn't shy away from physical contact to correct form but does it matter-of-factly and with his intent telegraphed plainly and openly.
A couple of the students burst into tears during the session, and it's one of the former students--Linda, John thinks her name is--who takes care of that; she's a licensed counselor and this is exactly why she still comes to these sessions.
By the end of the hour everyone is drained, in more than one way. Even John, who didn't do more than watch. The women stumble out on shaky, rubbery legs, somehow looking stronger for all their physical exhaustion. Daniels is the last one out and leaves after clasping Ronon's forearm tiredly. John crosses the room to the benches along the opposite wall and digs through Ronon's gym bag for a bottle of water. He offers it to Ronon. "Here, drink."
"Thanks." Ronon drinks deeply, then sits on the bench to wipe himself down with a towel. His tension is a lot subtler than it used to be, but John knows where to look: at the corners of his mouth and the set of his shoulders. It's there in spades today, just as John was expecting, and he steps up behind Ronon and pulls him back against his chest.
With Ronon sitting his head fits neatly under John's chin, and John brings him in close and waits the long minutes it takes for Ronon to relax against him.
Ronon tips his head back to look up at John. "You said ribs."
John nods, then bends down to brush his lips against Ronon's, upside down and awkward. "When you're ready."
Ronon tucks himself under John's chin again and says, "In a little while."
John puts his hands on Ronon's shoulders, strokes the tense line of his neck with his thumbs, and waits.
*
The thing is, John liked Vala in the beginning. When she came to Atlantis with SG1, John had found her sort of interesting and really hot. Later, during his six weeks stationed at the SGC, and then during his visits back from Pegasus after that, he'd dealt with her and still liked her, though he hadn't known her too well.
It's only more recently that he's come to, you know, dislike her.
*
The next night, Vala breaks into the loft and jumps into bed with John and Ronon at three in the morning, wearing nothing but a Hello Kitty underwear set.
John is tossed to the floor in the chaos of flailing limbs, the reaching for weapons, and the hugging. When he hauls himself back up it's to find Vala draped all over Ronon's bare chest, her cleavage popping out of a bra that's, seriously, at least a cup too small by John's estimate. Ronon looks happily resigned and that really doesn't help the situation in John's estimation, especially because Ronon is naked under the sheet that Vala is not-at-all-subtly trying to pull down.
"Wow, is it the twentieth already?" John drawls sarcastically, knowing full well that it's only the eleventh.
Vala grins like a demented and delighted child. "I had a change of plans." She looks at Ronon and her expression becomes more genuine in a way that John can't explain. It involves a softening of her features and the toning down of her smile. "It's not a problem that I came early, is it? We used to pop in on each other all the time, darling."
John waits for Ronon to point out that they don't live across the hall from each other anymore and phone calls are now required before showing up nine days early.
Instead, Ronon shakes his head, smiles, and reaches up to tuck Vala's hair behind her ear. "It's fine."
Vala tips forward on his chest and drops a chaste kiss on his lips. John tries not to seethe, but he can't help the way his mouth falls open when one of her hands disappears under the sheet in the vicinity of Ronon's thigh. "Hey!"
Ronon yanks her arm out from under the sheet right away, which mollifies John. Vala pouts and traces designs on Ronon's chest with her other hand. John looks at Ronon, hoping to convey his increasing displeasure, but Ronon is studying Vala, his brows drawn together and his eyes narrowed.
Vala is smirking when John looks back at her. She winks at him--it's a mocking wink, John can totally tell--and then does something that presses her breasts against Ronon's chest even more.
John's hand twitches towards his thigh and a weapon he hasn't carried since the last time he was in Colorado Springs. That's not good, in fact that's a bit crazy, so he takes a breath and gets out of the bed again, grateful that he fell asleep with his boxers on.
He looks down at Vala and Ronon. "I'm going downstairs." Vala waggles her fingers at him in a goodbye and Ronon transfers the narrowed-eyed look to him. John tries to smile. "I'll just let you both...get dressed."
Vala looks at him from under a suspiciously artful fall of messy hair. "That's sweet, really, John." Her eyes are wide and innocent, and her tone is completely suggestive. "I think we're both fine just as we are, though."
John takes another breath and reminds himself that he cannot shoot her, no matter how much he wants to, and that, yes, he does in fact trust Ronon more than anyone else in the world. He feels a little calmer and manages to give Ronon a mostly steady smile before heading downstairs.
The front door is ajar and John rolls his eyes because, really, the least Vala could have done was close and lock it so that no one else could come waltzing in. When he tries to push it shut he notices a strap of some sort in the way. He pulls the door open wider and reveals what looks to be Vala's carry-on bag, which is on the floor in front of fourteen pieces of luggage.
John's calm goes flying out of the window, then, because Vala is only supposed to be visiting for two days
He grabs the cordless phone and flees to the kitchen, leaving the door wide open.
"Huh," Rodney says when John fills him in. "I think we've actually encountered a scenario that was not anticipated in the betting book."
If Rodney were here, John would strangle him. "Fuck the betting book, Rodney! Fifteen bags." His voice is a little wild and high-pitched, and he is totally hiding behind the cooking island. "How many days worth of clothing do you think that is? Like, three?" he asks with the sort of desperate hope he used to ask Rodney about sensor readings and Wraith hive ships.
Rodney's laughter is not reassuring and just as John's about to tell him exactly that, a shadow falls over him. He glances up; Ronon is leaning over the counter, frowning down at him.
"Um." John hangs up on Rodney yet again, then pulls himself to his feet. He's glad to see that Vala is not with Ronon, and also that Ronon is clothed in shorts and a t-shirt. When Ronon raises a questioning brow, John points in the general vicinity of the front door. "Luggage."
"I saw." Ronon's frown deepens and he reaches up to grab at the back of his neck, a newly familiar habit that goes hand-in-hand with his new way of carrying tension. He glances towards the door again before pinning John with a look that's apologetic and torn. "Something's really wrong."
"Any idea what?"
Ronon's brow furrows. "Some, not all." He shrugs one shoulder. "She's not talking but I've been chasing rumors. It's--personal. She needs...she needs a place to be for now." He looks John right in the eye. "I want it to be here."
And John understands, he does. He might not know how or why Ronon and Vala became friends, but that doesn't change the fact that they are, or that she's Ronon's closest friend outside of the ex pats. John knows that if it was Rodney who'd shown up like this, with that stack of luggage, he'd be giving the same look to Ronon and hoping for the same reaction:
"Yeah, it's okay, just--she has to wear clothes. At all times. That's a really non-negotiable point."
Ronon exhales in a way that leaves him looking light-headed with relief. John can't help but move around the island and reach up, bracket Ronon's face with his hands, and pull him down for a kiss that's slow and wet and full of everything that John always has such a hard time saying.
When he pulls back, Ronon blinks at him.
"Air mattress," John says. "And the screens. Because she is not sleeping upstairs."
Ronon's "Yeah, okay," is slightly out of breath, and John smirks. Ronon is wrecked, just from a kiss, which is more than a little flattering. John turns to leave the room but stops when Ronon calls his name. "You know I wouldn't--you don't have anything to worry about."
His lips are still red and his eyes are still dazed. John nods readily. "Yeah, I know."
Vala comes downstairs while they're inflating the really expensive and very large air mattress they have on hand for occasions like this. Ronon's already set up the dividing screens, which were a gift from Cadman. She thought they should at least offer guests the illusion of walls and privacy.
They're taller than Ronon and the frames are a deep wood stain that looks almost black. The center panels are the color of blood oranges and along the right side of each is a dark red cherry blossom pattern. There are five screens altogether and they're arranged in the far corner of the downstairs in a lopsided circle, in the space next to the stairs.
That space is usually where they keep the fetish thing that Elizabeth gave them, their mountain bikes, John's skateboard, and the skeletal remains of Rodney's housewarming plant, all of which they have relocated next to the big chair by the alcove that houses their bookshelves.
Vala saunters up to them wearing what looks like one of Ronon's t-shirts, which hangs oddly at her shoulders and falls to her knees. "What kind of ice cream do you have?"
Ronon bends down to fiddle with the air pump. "Check the freezer."
John goes for bedding, catching sight of the clock along the way--three-thirty. Crap.--and when he and Vala pass each other she gives him a flinty smile. Double crap.
For a few minutes the only sounds in the loft are the air pump doing its thing and Vala scavenging in the kitchen. John's trying to figure out what they can possibly do with all of her luggage when she calls out to them.
"Where are your sundae fixin's? I've found some chocolate sauce--" John chokes on nothing at all; they've used that exactly once and it wasn't on ice cream. Or any other kind of food. Beside him, Ronon makes the same happy noise he did when John used the chocolate sauce. "--but there are no chopped nuts, fruit toppings, caramel or whipped cream. Most distressingly, I haven't found any ice cream."
She appears in front of them moments late, arms crossed and her face screwed into an unhappy frown. With the way her small frame is dwarfed by Ronon's t-shirt, she looks more than a little ridiculous.
Ronon lifts a brow, less annoyed than amused by her attitude. "You came early."
Vala pouts and--John can't believe it, because, god, who does shit like this?--twirls a lock of hair around a finger. "I really had my heart set on a sundae bar, Ronon."
John doesn't know how it started, but Ronon did explain that sundae bars are a tradition for them.
Something in Ronon's expression shifts and he seems indulgent. "We can get it tomorrow."
Vala wanders past them and goes to the door, opening it and leaning out to drag two bags in. She shoves her discarded clothing off the top of one and digs through it, emerging triumphantly with a small unmarked bottle. She waves it at Ronon, whose eyes get very wide.
"Is that--"
Vala's grin is full of too many teeth. "Suruvii rotgut. I was there last week and Chieftain Tkacht turned over a bottle of the extra potent stuff when I told him it was for you."
Ronon licks his lips like his mouth is watering. That's usually a look reserved for John and he tries to tamp down on the jealousy by reminding himself that Ronon is allowed his own experiences and moments separate from John. It's something he's had to remind himself of a lot in the last six months, and one day the lesson might finally stick.
"What do you want?" Ronon asks, obviously negotiating, and in a way that makes it seem like this is another tradition.
Vala swings the bottle from two fingers; Ronon's gaze tracks the movement and he stares at it like he's dying of thirst. "I want my promised sundae bar. Now. Oh, ooh, and some of those frozen waffles. The thick Belgian kind, not the skimpy buttermilk ones." She bounces on the balls of her feet and smiles sweetly. "You know the ones I like, darling."
Ronon straightens from the air pump and tries not to look like he's already proven himself to be the desperate party in this trade negotiation. John snorts and takes over with the mattress.
"It's the middle of the night."
It's a weak argument and Vala is like a shark that smells Ronon's blood in the water.
"I believe there must be more than one all night grocer in this city of yours." She pauses, and then coyly adds, "Do you know what sort of government exemptions I had to procure to take this on a plane? For some reason airlines dislike transporting nameless liquids." Ronon fails to seem unimpressed. Vala opens the bottle and inhales deeply. "Mm, smells like burning offal."
Ronon reaches out eagerly. "Okay, fine."
John catches a whiff of the stuff when she hands it off to Ronon and almost gags. Vala notices and looks far too smug as she confides in an undertone, "The smell is even more potent when it's being sweated out. And then there's also the flatulence."
"Gee, thanks," John snipes and steps down a little too hard on the foot-pedal for the air pump. There's an ominous crack. Vala's smile turns pleased. Ronon doesn't even notice because he's apparently trying to shove his nose in the bottle.
*
The other thing is, Vala liked John in the beginning, too. When John was floundering and confused after the first time he was exiled from Atlantis, Vala made an effort to get to know him. At one point she even dragged Mitchell over to John's apartment with several cases of beer and a few pizzas. Vala also offered an overture or two the second and final time John left Atlantis.
John thinks it's good--better than good, in fact--that Ronon has friends who care enough to be scornful and righteous on his behalf. He doesn't think badly of Vala for that. God knows that John himself is scornful on Ronon's behalf, which makes for an odd sort of self-loathing that John's never been all that comfortable contemplating.
*
When John wakes up the next morning Ronon isn't in bed with him. It's not unusual for Ronon to wake up first, but John doesn't think Ronon came to bed at all, and that's a little unnerving.
He stumbles downstairs and sees Ronon sacked out on the couch. The television is on, tuned to TVLand, and Vala is in the kitchen. Making pancakes. She's still wearing Ronon's t-shirt, and her hair is in pigtails.
When she sees John she jauntily waves hello with a spatula, then holds a finger to her lips and whispers, "Ssh. He only got to sleep a short while ago."
John stares at her grinning face for a moment before he turns on his heel wordlessly, skirts her stack of luggage, and shuts himself in the bathroom.
Things only go downhill from there. Vala spends most of the day draped over and across and on top of Ronon every chance she gets. John tries to stay out of the way, mostly, but the truth is that Rodney's right: there are no actual rooms in the loft and escape is near impossible.
Also, he has sort of a hard time letting them out of his sight considering all of that draping, which he knows is Vala's way of poking him with a stick but which he can't seem to ignore entirely.
On day two Ronon is sweating out the most foul smelling substance John has ever encountered--including the boar-giraffes on 291--while John stays upstairs for most of the day with his laptop.
There's an email from Elizabeth. She's been doing diplomatic work in Africa for longer than John and the others have been back on Earth. Ronon has a map of the continent on which he's marked all the countries she's been to. There are a lot of them.
Whenever she emails pictures of the latest leg of her seemingly never-ending peace mission she always includes long and winding tales about the people she's met, the work she's pouring herself into.
Even when she's been under gunfire by hostile rebels, even when she's had to walk twenty miles through jungle, John can never see even a fraction of the stress and tension she carried with her on just an ordinary day on Atlantis.
John's return emails are far less interesting in comparison, but Elizabeth always seems happily invested in hearing about his hobbies or his and Ronon's day to day mundaneness. John thinks she uses them to vicariously live a quieter, more ordinary life. He's never before been anyone's go-to person for that kind of thing; it's kind of nice.
He hits reply when he's done reading and catches Elizabeth up on the last month of their lives, asks when she expects to be back in the states, and congratulates her on making CNN. Again.
He deletes without reading the two hundred and seventy-six emails in his inbox with updates on the Sheppard-Dex betting book--living it is bad enough, really--then sets up a filter to send any future emails on the subject to the trash automatically.
He goes downstairs, planning on scavenging some lunch, and gets there just in time to see Vala leap at Ronon as he comes out of the bathroom. He's apparently showered and just has a towel slung around his waist. Vala moves swiftly, one hand reaching out to pull the towel away from his skin while she uses the other to shove her camera in the gap and snap a picture. Ronon twists away and manages to keep the towel around his hips while dislodging her.
"You must have a dozen of those shots by now. Is it ever going to get old?" Ronon asks, put-upon but not angry.
Vala bounces in a circle while fiddling with her phone. "Never, darling."
John clears his throat. Vala smirks at him again, and if John were a petty man who kept track of such things he'd say it was her twenty-third smirk of the visit. But he's not. Really.
Ronon gives John one of those patented unimpressed looks of his that speaks volumes about what he thinks of John's maturity level.
John shifts, irritated and maybe a little chastised, though he'll never admit it. "I'm, uh, going to the grocery store."
He wasn't planning on that, exactly, but he thinks that getting out of the loft might be a good thing right about now. Besides, they need food. They've made do with several visits to the corner store in the last day and a half, but considering that Vala seems to eat like an army of teenager boys and has not even hinted at when she'll be leaving, they need to stock up. A lot.
An hour later he has a shopping list a mile long that includes feminine hygiene products. "I didn't buy these for my wife, Ronon," John snaps. Vala has conveniently ducked into the bathroom to shower. "No way am I--"
"Stop letting her get to you."
John shoves the list in his pocket and heads for the door. "Easier said than done." Ronon grabs the back of his shirt and jerks John against him. "Also, I'm getting kind of tired of you hauling me around, by the way."
Ronon presses his forehead against the top of John's head. One of his hands settles on John's abdomen, palm flat and fingers spread. "No, you're not."
John leans more of his weight against Ronon. He can feel the pulse at Ronon's wrist on his stomach. He feels forced to admit, "No, I'm not."
"John. Relax."
"I'm trying, I am. She's just...really disruptive."
Ronon's fingers dig into John's stomach, sudden and tense. "I won't tell her to go."
John knows that for a lie, but he can make it the truth, so he does. "I'm not going to ask you to."
Ronon's fingers ease up. He touches his lips to John's ear. "Remember you said that."
John shivers and reaches back to grab onto one of Ronon's thighs. "You might have to remind me."
"Yeah, okay."
Ronon lets him go with a lingering kiss to his temple and John checks for his phone, keys and wallet before heading out.
He calls Rodney from the cereal aisle. "I need you to chase some rumors."
"What? Sheppard? Wait. Oh my god, what time is it?"
"Barely even midnight where you are. Were you seriously sleeping?"
"I might have been, yes, because some of us aren't shiftless slackers and actually work for a living, Mr. Stitch-And-Bitch."
John drops five different varieties of breakfast cereal into his cart and stops to peruse the Pop-Tarts. "No need to be rude."
Rodney huffs in annoyance. "What is it you need, Sheppard?"
"Rumors. About Vala."
"What kind of rumors?"
Three flavors of Pop-Tarts go into the cart, along with a box of Rice Krispies cereal bars because Ronon is fascinated by the layer of milk-like substance.
"Anything that might explain why she's camped out in my house taking pictures of Ronon's dick." Rodney is quiet. Suspiciously quiet. John decides that he hates everyone he knows. "Who the hell just made money on that?"
"Er, Cadman, actually, but only because she laid odds on it happening before the third day, and Lorne said on the fourth."
John's in the bread aisle, now, loading up on English Muffins and fancy wheat bread. He swings a loaf of the latter into his cart so hard that he crushes it against a box of dried pasta and has to fish it out and get a new one. "Damn it, Rodney."
"Hey, it's not like no one else puts up with this, okay? And you can't blame me just because I'm maintaining the book. If it wasn't me it'd be--"
"Rumor chasing." Keeping Rodney on task is still a damn chore.
"Yes, about that. Radek would be the person to ask. His connections within the SGC are currently better than mine. Now, can I please go back to sleep?"
"Yes, go. Sweet dreams, Meredith."
"Oh, that's just--"
John ends the call, then leaves a voice mail on Zelenka's work phone, since it's far too late in Kyoto to call his home for a non-emergency.
*
Cadman's the vice president at a large security firm headquartered in Los Angeles and business brings her down from the Seattle branch at least once a month. She hasn't stayed at the loft since her first visit, though: the openness of the space bothers her, and she prefers more walls and fewer windows.
When she's in town it's not uncommon for Ronon to stay at her hotel with her. John's always invited but he forces himself to politely decline. Cadman isn't watchful and wary around him but she is so obviously more comfortable with Ronon that John feels like a third wheel.
The betting book gives eighty-twenty odds for Ronon and Cadman having slept together. John tries not to think about it too much and mostly succeeds.
*
"Laura needs a tactician," Ronon says on day eight of Vala's visit. "Three days. Based in Seattle."
John looks up from his laptop and scowls. "Are you kicking me out?"
Ronon rolls his eyes and tosses John a sheaf of papers. It's an email from Cadman that starts out with: Might have a solution for the tensions. I've got a job hitting this week and I could use someone who can assess and coordinate multiple--
"You're kicking me out." If John sounds a little petulant, he figures he has a right. This is his home, and Ronon is his...well, significant other, for lack of a better word. That he's being asked to vacate the premises because of Vala's presence is worthy of petulance.
Ronon, however, is not letting John get away with it. Which says a lot about how far he's been pushed this last week. Ronon is actually one of the most impatient people in the world except when it comes to John, in which case his patience and ability to out-wait is normally legion.
He leans over John until they're nose-to-nose. "You're going nuts--" John opens his mouth but Ronon covers it with one huge hand. "--and Vala's using you as a distraction." He jostles John's head and looks very much like a man at the end of his rope. "Go help Laura for a couple of days before I strangle one of you. Please."
It's not even the please that does it, that's the sad part. In the last six months John's found that he's lost his ability to say no to Ronon when it comes to, well, anything.
John packs while having an hour-long conversation with Cadman, during which he asks questions about the basic specs she sent and she has her assistant book him a flight to Seattle.
Ronon comes upstairs just as John's hanging up and zipping his bag shut. He has a determined look on his face, and in short order John is sitting on the edge of the bed, and Ronon is kneeling in front of him sucking his cock fast, dirty and really, really wet. John comes an embarrassingly short amount of time into it, which he blames equally on their Vala-imposed celibacy and the stick of Big Red gum in Ronon's mouth.
John pulls his fingers out from the tangle of Ronon's dreads, then tips backwards, boneless and dazed. "I love sneak blow job attacks," he says, nonsensical and giddy. Ronon rolls his eyes. John gestures him onto the bed because Ronon obviously managed to find some way to keep Vala the hell away from them for the moment and John really wants to finish taking advantage of it. "C'mere."
Ronon straddles his chest and slips his dick into John's mouth. John shudders eagerly under him, trapped and pressed down with Ronon's solid weight, and urges Ronon to fuck his mouth. He does so with uncompromising thrusts that aren't too forceful for John to handle at this angle but which will leave the back of his throat the slightest bit raw. When Ronon comes it's with a faint whimper that makes John's chest ache. He pulls Ronon down, lets him collapse against his chest, and they stay that way until Vala yells up to them a half hour later.
"I took the liberty of calling you a cab, John. It should be here any minute now."
Their arms tighten around one another and they take another minute for themselves before putting their pants to rights and getting out of bed.
John picks up his bag and shifts uncomfortably. The last time he stood in front of Ronon with a bag in his hand it was a little over a month after the IOA cleaned house and sent John--and many, many others--back to Earth.
John said: "I resigned," and "I need to clear my head," and "I'll call."
Ronon said: "It's okay."
It was more than a year before they stood in front of each other again.
"Three days," John says. "That's all."
Ronon steps up and presses his forehead to John's. He doesn't close his eyes and this close John can see the intricacies of the brown of his irises, swirling and shifting hues that range from honey to chocolate.
"John." John closes his eyes and inhales, shaky and wet. He drops his bag and clutches at Ronon's sides, hands fisting the material of his shirt. Ronon's voice is a rough caress, and his breath is scented with John and cut with cinnamon, spicy and heady. "It's okay."
John tips his face, seeks Ronon's mouth blindly with his own, and Ronon's hands settle on his shoulders, thumbs circling on John's collarbones. The cinnamon flavor of Ronon's mouth is overpowering, sharp and intense, and it strips John's tongue raw to match his throat.
He licks his lips when they break apart, then picks up his bag and nods.
Downstairs, Vala is looking far too cheerful for John's liking. "There you are! Your cab is here. Mustn't keep it waiting." She shoves a lightweight jacket at John. "It gets cold on planes, you know. Do you want to borrow my neck pillow? It's very comfortable." She doesn't wait for a response, just dumps that, too, into John's arms and then pushes him towards the door. "Now, you'd best be going. Don't want you to miss your flight. Don't worry, I'll look after Ronon. Again."
John freezes and Ronon spins on his heel and glares at her. Vala doesn't even seem to realize that she's miscalculated this time. Ronon is...far too loyal to those he thinks deserve it and John's been at the top of that short list longer than they've actually been together.
Vala twitches slightly and for a moment John sees past the face she's worn the last week and finds a wide and terrible fear. He grabs Ronon's arm and stops him from stomping over to her. Ronon glances at him and John shakes his head. Ronon jerks his arm away, seemingly more frustrated by John than by Vala in this scenario.
"I didn't mean that the way it sounded," Vala says, far too casually to actually be casual. Ronon ignores her. She looks at John. "I mean, just because you're taking off again, suddenly and without prior notice, is no reason--" Ronon's teeth are literally bared in a snarl. Vala realizes her fuck up then and stops speaking. She turns on her heel and hurries into the living room. "Right. I'll just be over there."
John touches Ronon's arm again. "Hey. It's--I'm only going because you asked me, not--"
"I know." He meets John's eyes. "She doesn't know what she's talking about."
John shrugs uncomfortably. "I should go. You know, unless you want me to not go, because that's cool, too."
Ronon smiles. It's tired and faint but pleased. "Go."
"Three days," John says again. "That's all."
"I know."
*
Part 2
Title: stay beside me where i lie
Rating: NC17
Pairing: John/Ronon
Word Count: ~19,000
Story Notes: This is a sequel to in the absence of a place to be and is set about 6 months later.
A/N: This ended up being twice as long as I initially planned, and took a whole lot longer to write than the two weeks I anticipated. arsenicjade and tesserae_ both looked this over midway through to let me know if I was telling a story that anyone wanted to hear. I thank them for that because I might have let this fall by the wayside without their input. Tesserae_ also pulled beta duty on this and followed each individual thread in it with patience and care, then let me know where it took her and how it got her there. I thank her for that.
Summary: Ronon doesn't hate him, but John maybe hates himself, and Vala definitely does.
*
Ronon apparently broods to the dulcet sounds of Bjork.
This came as news to John mostly because Ronon doesn't look all that different than usual when brooding, but also because he didn't realize that that noise was supposed to be music.
Which was why, the first time it happened, he said, "Jesus Christ, are you skinning a cat up there?" and ended up sleeping on the sofa, because of course Bjork reminds Ronon of Satedan folk music.
*
John wakes up alone at three in the morning and frowns at the subtle wrongness of the shadows being cast in the immediate vicinity. He turns onto his back and squints blearily up at the skylight over the bed. It takes him a minute to recognize the dark shape along the side as the backlit spread of Ronon's dreads.
He pulls on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt and leaves the loft. He hooks a right just outside the door and follows the hall to the stairwell roof access.
On the roof, Ronon is stretched out on his back, shirtless, with one hand tucked under his head, which is propped on the skylight. The other hand is resting on his stomach, just above the waistband of his shorts. His feet are bare and crossed at the ankles, and his eyes are closed.
John's mouth goes dry at the sight. It's been three years since he and Ronon got together, and for the first year they were on Atlantis, where John had to measure the length of his stares, curb the instincts of his hands. Once they came to Earth it was even harder; everyone from Atlantis was being scrutinized and John and Ronon only saw each other for a handful of hours a week, and only rarely alone.
Then John walked away from the Mountain, the SGC and the Air Force, and for an entire year he didn't even see Ronon, just spoke to him on the phone.
It's only been in the last six months that John's had the freedom to look his fill without fear of a court martial. He still hasn't found words that do justice to the way Ronon looks stretched out half-naked like this, long-limbed and fit, with sinuous curves of muscle and skin that make John's fingers twitch to touch.
He remembers having to curl them inwards on Atlantis and in the Mountain. He'd shove them in his pockets or busy them with checking his weapon. But John doesn't have to hold back now, so he lets his hands stretch out towards Ronon as he crosses the roof.
Ronon doesn't acknowledge John's approach, but when John kneels beside him he bends one knee slightly so that it presses against John's thigh; John presses back and reaches out to pick up Ronon's iPod from the ground by his hip. Army of Me is playing, and now that John knows he recognizes the faint discordant sounds coming from the ear buds Ronon's wearing.
John sets the iPod down next to Ronon's cell phone, and then undoes the snap of Ronon's shorts with lingering hands. That gets Ronon's attention; he turns his face towards John and opens his eyes, which glitter strange and pale in the smoggy night. John smiles, jerks Ronon's zip open and tugs the khaki material down and off, until Ronon is only acres of nakedness and alien adornments.
John lips Ronon's soft cock into his mouth and rolls it with his tongue, his nostrils flaring to take in the concentrated scent of Ronon; he still smells like sex and come from earlier in the night. Ronon cups the back of John's head, fingers pressing hard against it. His hand is large enough to palm John's skull, which John has always found hotter than hell. He shudders, slow and drawn out, and groans lightly. The vibrations make Ronon's hips twitch minutely and his dick swell. John widens his mouth around it, backing off so that he can work the foreskin with his lips and tongue.
With the headphones still on and the music blaring in his ears, Ronon's groans sound strangely loud and elongated. He touches the side of John's face, fingers splaying lightly across his cheek, a ghost of a touch that isn't impatient or urging, just very much present. John's eyes close and he settles himself more comfortably over Ronon's body.
There's a sticky breeze blowing around them under the hazy sky, and it turns their skin clammy while John brings Ronon off in gradual increments, like a rubber band being stretched slowly and inexorably, until it finally snaps and Ronon comes, sudden and unexpected, and John has to swallow rapidly to avoid choking.
Ronon pants for air, looking young and exposed, and pulls John onto his thighs. His long-fingered hand nudges John's boxers down and then wraps around John's dick, stroking slowly and tightly, until John jerks forward and comes across his chest.
After John cleans Ronon with his t-shirt, they pull on their respective bottoms and Ronon tugs the buds from his ears and turns off his iPod. "Hey," he says quietly at the door that leads into the building. He wraps his thumb and forefinger around John's wrist, tugs him against his chest, and leans down.
Ronon kisses like he does most things: direct and unequivocal. John smiles against his mouth because it's something that John counts on and looks forward to and is never disappointed by. The smiling makes kissing pretty much impossible, but he can't help it, and Ronon huffs, amused, before dragging John inside.
*
Ronon never goes anywhere without his cell phone, for which he has about a dozen different accessories and attachments. It also has so many built-in bells and whistles that John couldn't even figure out how to answer the damn thing the one time he borrowed it.
It's almost always on. Especially in the middle of the night, because Cadman has really bad insomnia, Lorne's in Peru and tends to get access to phones at odd hours, and time differences mean that it's early evening for Zelenka and Miko.
John blinked when Ronon told him all that, had him say "hi" to Zelenka, and then went back to sleep because it was two thirty in the morning.
*
"What are you doing?"
John looks up from Ronon's phone and watches him drain a bottle of water in one swallow. "Looking for something."
Ronon hoists himself onto a counter in the kitchen, legs swinging lightly, and arches a brow. John gives up on the navigation menus and glares at the display. "Is there any way I can see all recent activity in one screen?"
Ronon's legs are long, which John sometimes forgets until Ronon does something like hook his calf around the back of John's thighs from halfway across the kitchen. John lets himself be pulled in, until he's standing between Ronon's thighs, which tighten on either side of his hips, muscles hard as steel under one of John's steadying hands.
John slips his hand under the hem of Ronon's shorts, stroking his skin absently and enjoying the rough tickle of Ronon's leg hair against his palm.
"What are you trying to find?" Ronon asks.
John shrugs, then stares at him. "Whatever it was that sent you up to the roof with Bjork."
Ronon narrows his eyes and then plucks the phone out of John's hand. A few seconds and the blur of a dozen passing menus later, he passes it back.
There's a text message on the screen: sorry darling been v busy -kisses-
John doesn't really need to scroll down to know it's from Vala, but he does anyway, mostly because he wants to check the timestamp. Two a.m. Odd, because she's not usually one of the night owls. He puts the phone down on the counter next to Ronon and rubs the tops of his thighs.
"Seems pretty innocuous to me, but I'm guessing it's not to you."
Ronon lifts one shoulder briefly, lets it fall, and makes a noise at the back of his throat. "She's been acting weird for a few weeks, and now she's avoiding me. Something's wrong."
The whole friendship between Ronon and Vala is really confusing. Typically, Ronon's explanation of how it came to be consisted of about ten short sentences that gave John a very vague overall picture of boredom and proximity leading to hanging out, followed by them being put on the same offworld team, but provided no real details.
John sort of suspects that they fucked along the way, at least once but probably a lot more, which Ronon will neither confirm nor deny because he refuses to answer any questions about his sex life during the year John was gone.
"So, do you have a plan?" John asks, because Ronon might brood, but never pointlessly.
"Maybe."
John nods and takes a small step back, his hands urging Ronon to slide off the counter. "Come on, let's get some sleep."
*
When John got back in touch with everyone there were a slew of visitors to the loft.
Interestingly, no one came just to see John, and some people weren't there to see him at all. Cadman, for example, arrived with Elizabeth and barely said hello to him before settling in to watch something like eighteen straight hours of Buffy the Vampire Slayer with Ronon.
That night, Cadman and Ronon fell asleep on the sofa, slumped sideways against each other with little care for personal space, and it was the first time John understood that Ronon hadn't been in stasis while John wasn't around.
*
The following week Ronon spends most of Wednesday on his phone. He uses his hands-free headset, which confuses the hell out of John since he can't figure out when Ronon's talking to him.
Late in the afternoon, Ronon comes ambling into the kitchen area, where John's sitting at the table with the newspaper. "Mind if Vala comes for a visit?" he asks, looking uncharacteristically hesitant.
John flips the paper shut, sets it aside and tries to figure out how to respond. Some people seem to find Vala's crude impertinence charming after a while, if not immediately, but John's not one of them. She gets on his last nerve. He's never said as much to Ronon, never would, either, but Ronon's not stupid. Neither is John: Ronon wouldn't be asking about this if he meant for Vala to stay at a hotel.
His first instinct is to say no--actually, it's to say hell no--but he's watching Ronon get more tense with each passing second, like he's predicting the refusal and is bracing himself for it.
"Sure," John says instead, because, really, what else can he say?
Later, during Rodney's thrice-weekly call from Switzerland, his eye roll is almost audible. "Oh my god, you are so whipped."
"Shut up." John's not bothered by Rodney's assessment. After all, John's not the one sleeping alone. Also? Ronon's responding smile had been one of the wide sweet ones that always catches at John's heart.
"No, no, it's cute. Everyone thinks so. But, really, it wouldn't be so traumatic on either side of the equation if you had an apartment with actual walls and rooms."
"We like it here."
Rodney snorts. "Of course you do. Anyway, it's going to make the book on this even more insane."
John blinks. "Book?"
"The betting book," Rodney says like John's an idiot.
The betting was bad enough in Atlantis, but now that their lives aren't filled with terror and near-destruction, it's gone up a notch or twenty. John presses his lips together in annoyance for a moment and forces patience into his voice when he speaks. "Yeah, I get that part. I'm just not sure what the hell there is to be betting on."
Rodney makes a high-pitched noise. "Are you kidding me? Tell me you're kidding. Because, seriously. It's no secret that you don't exactly like Vala--"
John shifts uncomfortably. He actually feels faintly guilty that he isn't fond of what amounts to Ronon's best friend. "Well, I wouldn't say--"
"--no secret that she absolutely hates your guts--"
"Wait, she does?"
"--be trapped in that loft with nowhere to escape each other. It's going to be more exciting than the book on Heightmeyer's love triangle!"
"Love triangle?" John's voice is loud enough that Ronon, who's upstairs, leans over the railing to check on him. John waves him off and lowers his voice. "Rodney. Love triangle?"
"For god's sake," Rodney snaps, "I was not implying that there is a love triangle involving you, Ronon and Vala. I mean, I'm officially on record as being of the opinion that they never did it. But, oh, if you find out for sure, there are some bets that still need to be settled--"
John hangs up on him, which involves viciously stabbing the power button on the cordless phone. It's not very satisfying so he crosses the room and slams the headset on the charger base.
"I told you three times a week is too much to talk to him," Ronon calls down, and John thinks he might take that under advisement.
When John gets upstairs, Ronon is sitting against the headboard on their king sized bed, his thumbs moving like lightning across the keypad of his phone. John flops down next to him and scowls up at the skylight.
Ronon slides a bare foot down John's calf. "What'd he do?"
"Does Vala hate me?" John asks in lieu of a response.
Ronon shoots him a very quick, very unimpressed look. John sighs and wonders why this is news to him, because it shouldn't be. Ronon puts his phone on the bedside table, then rolls on top of John and looks down at him seriously. "I don't."
John looks away and fumbles awkwardly for the button on Ronon's jeans. "Yeah," he says roughly, "I know."
*
While he was gone, John called Ronon roughly every six weeks, but they didn't talk much during any of the calls. Mostly they listened to each other breathe, and John didn't make any promises (even though he wanted to), and Ronon didn't pile on the guilt (even though he could have).
At the time John thought what mattered was that he called and Ronon took the call, but he's starting to realize that he's an idiot.
*
Two days later they wake up to dark skies and rain crashing down on the skylight and slamming against the wall of windows on the first floor. The rain tapers off quickly but the sky stays overcast and gray.
By noon it's become a little oppressive, with every nook and cranny of the loft touched by the dreary pallor that's coming in all of the bare windows.
It's making John feel gray himself, washed out and heavy with gloomy thoughts, and he winds up drinking an entire pot of hot chocolate before ten a.m. even though it's about ninety degrees out and hot beverages shouldn't be on the agenda. Comfort food knows no temperature boundaries, apparently.
Ronon, on the other hand, is getting more on edge as each hour rolls by, stomping around the place scowling at nothing and everything. John knows better than to try to get Ronon out of funks like this. It never goes well. In fact, it often goes badly and sometimes painfully. He makes sure there's always half a room of distance between them, and does his best not to make more than fleeting eye contact.
By noon John's retreated to the "library" area under the stairs of the first floor with a book and his iPod, and is reading about wizards in Chicago while Johnny Cash fills in the silence around him. Ronon beans him with a throw pillow at two, and when John looks up he catches a glimpse of Ronon's back as he stomps out of the loft in his running shorts.
Five minutes later the skies open up again; John winces and sets a stack of towels by the door.
When Ronon returns, drenched from the rain, steaming from the heat, and scowling harder than ever, John is in the kitchen making sandwiches. Ronon dries himself off and strips down by the front door. John loses track of what he's doing and can only stare. Because--wet...naked...Ronon. Water's sliding off of him in rivulets, tracing slow and winding paths down his arms, chest, back and legs. John eyes a trail of water at Ronon's hip and licks his lips.
"What?" Ronon snarls.
John tears his eyes away from the long contoured lines of Ronon's body and finishes making another sandwich. When he's done he pushes the loaded plate forward. "Food?"
A grunt, followed by the slap of bare feet on the stairs, is Ronon's only response. John snorts, digs a turkey sandwich out of the stack on the plate, and takes it to the butcher's block table between the kitchen and living room areas.
He stares moodily out the window as he eats, his feet propped up on a chair. When he was younger, this kind of day meant board games at the dining room table, or blanket forts in the den.
Ronon, John thinks as the other man comes back downstairs in a dry pair of shorts and takes the entire plate of sandwiches into the living room with him, is a man desperately in need of a blanket fort. He could crawl inside, hide away from the grayness, and scowl until the sky lightened and his mood improved.
"Hey, did you ever make blanket forts when you were a kid?" John asks, curious. Ronon, sprawled in a sulky boneless heap on the sofa, lifts his head so that John can witness his scowl change to a glare. "Um, okay, so then what did you do on days like this when you were a kid? Any, like, games, or something?"
The glare deepens, Ronon's right arm twitches, and John looks at the clock: three thirty. He gives up and gets to his feet. "Fine, let's spar," he says and there's a world of resignation in his voice.
Ronon's face creases with feral pleasure and he practically runs upstairs. John follows more sedately, not looking forward to the ass kicking he's about to get.
They have a small training area set up along one wall, with mats and some basic sparring equipment. John also installed some padding against the exposed brick wall after the third time he was scraped all to hell by it.
True to form, Ronon hardly gives John time to strip off his shirt and warm up before lunging at him. John mostly evades and escapes Ronon, letting the other man put forth all the effort, and hardly expending any himself. It works as a strategy to help Ronon blow off steam, and also reduces the damage John takes. The drawback is that, much as John likes to forget, Ronon is about a decade younger and has much better stamina.
Half an hour in, John's tiring out and not moving nearly as quickly as he was at the start, and Ronon takes him down with a quick and cunning leg sweep. John lands flat on his stomach and reminds himself not to panic when he realizes he's knocked the wind out of himself and can't breathe.
Ronon crouches over him and presses his face between John's shoulder blades, licking and chewing John's sweaty skin so that John loses his breath again immediately after regaining it. Ronon drags his tongue up the side of John's neck and his voice is a rumble against the side of John's jaw. "I like you like this. Sweaty and shaky, and too worn out to do anything but take it."
He lowers himself onto John's back and presses his dick against John's ass. The thin material of their shorts does little to dull the sensation for John and he hisses with pleasure. When Ronon rolls his hips obscenely, John gasps and chokes. "Jesus, Ronon!"
He tries to get some leverage, but his hands and knees are slick with sweat and slide out from under him on the mat.
Ronon's hips jerk and he laughs, dirty and lewd, right in John's ear. "Just like that."
John has little enough resistance to Ronon when he's doing something as innocent as sitting, so times like this it's not a matter of will he melt but how much. Today it seems to be completely and totally, and when he goes lax Ronon makes another satisfied sound.
"Yeah, that's sweet." Ronon skims a hand down John's sweat-soaked side and pushes his shorts down around his thighs. John groans against the mat, shoves his ass against Ronon's crotch and makes frustrated noises until Ronon's shorts seemingly disappear and--oh. "You'll take it, won't you?"
Ronon's voice is knowing and sly. He's already starting to push into John, who somehow relaxes even further and lifts his ass to get a better angle.
And this, being able to take Ronon like this, with no prep and only sweat and Ronon's precome to ease the way, is John's idea of sweet. This is something they never could have had on Atlantis, where they had to be careful, were lucky to get together once a week, and sometimes they had to wait so long that it was like doing it for the first time again.
"God, yeah," John sighs, shuddering around the girth of Ronon's cock, rippling down the length of it. Ronon presses his forehead into the back of John's skull, and when he's all the way in he goes still. They breathe together for long moments and then Ronon twitches his hips and moves.
Ronon fucks him slowly and carefully, mindful of the limits of John's body when they do it this way, and it's an exercise in holding back, in letting the pleasure find them instead of chasing after it hard and fast. Ronon's hips undulate rather than thrust, roll and slither rather than push and shove, and John shakes under him, open and accepting, and filled with a poignant regret he never can push aside at times like these.
When John comes it's with Ronon's hand around his dick, and Ronon's teeth in his shoulder. He clenches around Ronon's soft, sated dick and they both cry out.
*
Teyla wouldn't consider coming with them even though she refused to have anything to do with the newly staffed Atlantis. She said she would rejoin her people, try to build an alliance of those who would stand against the Wraith and, if it came to that, Atlantis itself.
She told John, before he left with Ronon, "Be careful with him; he is younger than we like to remember."
Sometimes, John has dreams that vaguely resemble nightmares, and in them Teyla just looks at him, her gaze weighted with disappointment and censure.
*
"I've got that new group starting today," Ronon says when John stumbles downstairs in the morning, sore in too many places to name from the sparring and the two rounds of sex. "You said you'd come."
"Crap," John says succinctly from where he's hunched over a kitchen counter, clutching a bottle of water, and fumbling in a cabinet for painkillers.
John is officially retired from the Air Force and although he often half-heartedly thinks he should be doing something he always inevitably remembers that he did something for more than twenty years and is still recovering from it. So now he does a lot of little different nothings, and mostly he's okay with that.
He tries anything he's ever had just a slight interest in attempting. Sometimes that involves going through the Long Beach City College's non-credit course catalog, but mostly all he has to do is troll through the archives of the Atlantis ex pats mailing list. John's not the only one who is trying to fill in a lot of free time. The ex pats have put together actual seminar presentations and online courses on a variety of subjects--such as origami, horticulture and knitting, just to name a few.
Ronon, on the other hand, spent exactly two weeks living a life of leisure in California before he came home from a late night run and said, "I'm teaching women how to protect themselves tomorrow afternoon."
John had a moment of cognitive dissonance the likes of which he hadn't had since Atlantis and said, "You went for a run."
As it turned out, there was an interrupted mugging and a quick and dirty self-defense lesson at the feet of the unconscious mugger, and one of the cops on scene asked Ronon to volunteer his services for some classes the police and the Y were offering.
Ronon, unsurprisingly, took to it immediately. Empowering the underdog is his thing, and from what John's heard from Jess Daniels--the detective Ronon works with--women leave Ronon's classes loaded for bear. Metaphorically speaking.
"You're coming, right?" Ronon asks, eyes narrowing.
John straightens up and smiles determinedly through the low-grade systemic aching of his aging body. "You bet."
Ronon laughs and reaches over John's head into one of the cabinets. He opens a bottle of ibuprofen, pries John's lips apart with the pad of his thumb, and then slips three small pills into his mouth.
John swallows them down with his water and nods. "Give me twenty minutes and a shower and I'll be good to go."
Ronon swoops down and kisses him, fierce and forceful and brief. When he pulls back he stares at John with an intensity that John doesn't know what to do with this early in the morning before his analgesics have kicked in. "Thank you."
"Sure," John replies vaguely. He shifts uncomfortably under Ronon's serious regard until Ronon rolls his eyes, smiles, and pushes him out of the room.
When they leave a half hour later, John's feeling mostly human. They take Ronon's truck--a boxy old Jeep Grand Cherokee that was one of the few vehicles they found that could accommodate his legs--and John lazes in the passenger seat and watches Ronon drive.
In a way the whole thing is surreal: Ronon, dressed in black track pants and a white tank top, is driving a truck. John never would have imagined being here in this moment, but he's gotten used to it for the most part, and really enjoys it.
Ronon's hands are steady on the steering wheel and gearshift, comfortable and confident as he changes gears and maneuvers them down the freeway. He's told John that it was Lorne who taught him how to drive, and that makes sense because Lorne was a steady and competent 2IC, but he's also a flyboy, which explains why Ronon drives a mile ahead of himself, aggressive but always in control.
"You're staring," Ronon says suddenly.
John lifts a brow. "I like the way you drive."
Ronon cuts him a quick look and then smiles as he revs the engine and gets right up on the tail of the car in front of them, only to swerve to the side and cut off the car on their right.
John grins and slouches more comfortably in his seat. "Lorne teach you that one?"
Ronon shakes his head and bares his teeth, which is disturbingly hot. "Laura. She calls it Threading the Needle. She's really patient with explosives. Not so much with traffic."
"I'm sure," John drawls, and then Ronon's slipping seamlessly into the exit lane and taking them off the freeway and onto city streets.
They park a few blocks from the Y and walk inside just as Detective Daniels steps out of their assigned room and closes the door behind her.
"Ten in this group," she tells Ronon after nodding a hello to John. "Five domestic abuses, two home invasions, one carjacking, and two rapes."
John exhales heavily. Next to him Ronon grinds his teeth and nods grimly.
Most of the women Ronon works with are preparing themselves for something that might happen. But when Daniels saw how well Ronon worked with his students, she asked him to also teach female victims of violent crimes, women who've already been through something.
"We're ready when you are," Daniels says and goes back in, leaving John and Ronon in the hall.
Ronon is a tense and looming mess. John nudges him with an elbow. "Hey."
"I'm good," Ronon growls immediately, then unclenches his fists takes a breath. "Mostly," he adds in a more normal tone of voice.
John nods, leans against a wall and crosses his ankles. "So, I was thinking we could stop for ribs on the way home."
Ronon frowns, clearly annoyed. "I won't say no, but I really am good. You don't have to..." He trails off with a significant look and John shakes his head.
"No, I know you're good. But I figured we haven't had ribs in a while." Mostly because as much as John loves Ronon, which is really a hell of a lot more than John will even admit to himself, watching him eat ribs is disgusting. "Plus that place you like is all the way across town." He wiggles his eyebrows and cocks his hip suggestively. "Which means it'll be rush hour by the time we get back on the freeway and I'll get at least two hours of watching you drive."
Ronon reaches out, almost lazily, and reels John in until their chests bump. He huffs impatiently but his eyes are light. "You're so weird."
John feigns offense. "Hey! You like to watch me read. That's weird."
Ronon nods. "You look hot in glasses."
He pulls open the door to the training room and John lets himself be herded inside by way of a hand splayed high on his side.
All of the women in the room look up when they walk in, and John knows what they see is a six and a half foot tall muscled giant of a man pressed intimately against a slightly shorter man, who is craning his neck back to look at him with amusement.
Ronon's hand is on John's side. John leans into the touch for a long moment, steps away easily and moves to the outskirts of the room.
And that's John's main purpose here: to make Ronon seem less threatening. Daniels helps further with that, since she's female and a decorated detective, and all she does is smile easily at Ronon. What also helps are the two women who already went through this course who are present; they wave at John and greet Ronon without fear or tension.
All of these things were Ronon's idea, because he's ferociously intent about working with these women and absolutely rabid about ensuring that they feel as safe as possible when they're here.
It's his new mission, and John doesn't have to ask why it's this and not any number of other issues. He doesn't need to. He's seen the new brittleness in Cadman's eyes and witnessed the way everyone, including Rodney, hovers around her protectively.
Daniels introduces Ronon to the new students and then turns things over to him. John props himself up against a wall and watches Ronon get down to business. He spent countless hours on Atlantis in training rooms with Ronon, watching marines get taken to the mat ruthlessly and without mercy, but this, this is different.
Here, Ronon isn't demonstrating new techniques to trained soldiers, he's teaching scared, violated women from the ground up. He's gentler, more patient, but still just as exacting and relentless. He doesn't shy away from physical contact to correct form but does it matter-of-factly and with his intent telegraphed plainly and openly.
A couple of the students burst into tears during the session, and it's one of the former students--Linda, John thinks her name is--who takes care of that; she's a licensed counselor and this is exactly why she still comes to these sessions.
By the end of the hour everyone is drained, in more than one way. Even John, who didn't do more than watch. The women stumble out on shaky, rubbery legs, somehow looking stronger for all their physical exhaustion. Daniels is the last one out and leaves after clasping Ronon's forearm tiredly. John crosses the room to the benches along the opposite wall and digs through Ronon's gym bag for a bottle of water. He offers it to Ronon. "Here, drink."
"Thanks." Ronon drinks deeply, then sits on the bench to wipe himself down with a towel. His tension is a lot subtler than it used to be, but John knows where to look: at the corners of his mouth and the set of his shoulders. It's there in spades today, just as John was expecting, and he steps up behind Ronon and pulls him back against his chest.
With Ronon sitting his head fits neatly under John's chin, and John brings him in close and waits the long minutes it takes for Ronon to relax against him.
Ronon tips his head back to look up at John. "You said ribs."
John nods, then bends down to brush his lips against Ronon's, upside down and awkward. "When you're ready."
Ronon tucks himself under John's chin again and says, "In a little while."
John puts his hands on Ronon's shoulders, strokes the tense line of his neck with his thumbs, and waits.
*
The thing is, John liked Vala in the beginning. When she came to Atlantis with SG1, John had found her sort of interesting and really hot. Later, during his six weeks stationed at the SGC, and then during his visits back from Pegasus after that, he'd dealt with her and still liked her, though he hadn't known her too well.
It's only more recently that he's come to, you know, dislike her.
*
The next night, Vala breaks into the loft and jumps into bed with John and Ronon at three in the morning, wearing nothing but a Hello Kitty underwear set.
John is tossed to the floor in the chaos of flailing limbs, the reaching for weapons, and the hugging. When he hauls himself back up it's to find Vala draped all over Ronon's bare chest, her cleavage popping out of a bra that's, seriously, at least a cup too small by John's estimate. Ronon looks happily resigned and that really doesn't help the situation in John's estimation, especially because Ronon is naked under the sheet that Vala is not-at-all-subtly trying to pull down.
"Wow, is it the twentieth already?" John drawls sarcastically, knowing full well that it's only the eleventh.
Vala grins like a demented and delighted child. "I had a change of plans." She looks at Ronon and her expression becomes more genuine in a way that John can't explain. It involves a softening of her features and the toning down of her smile. "It's not a problem that I came early, is it? We used to pop in on each other all the time, darling."
John waits for Ronon to point out that they don't live across the hall from each other anymore and phone calls are now required before showing up nine days early.
Instead, Ronon shakes his head, smiles, and reaches up to tuck Vala's hair behind her ear. "It's fine."
Vala tips forward on his chest and drops a chaste kiss on his lips. John tries not to seethe, but he can't help the way his mouth falls open when one of her hands disappears under the sheet in the vicinity of Ronon's thigh. "Hey!"
Ronon yanks her arm out from under the sheet right away, which mollifies John. Vala pouts and traces designs on Ronon's chest with her other hand. John looks at Ronon, hoping to convey his increasing displeasure, but Ronon is studying Vala, his brows drawn together and his eyes narrowed.
Vala is smirking when John looks back at her. She winks at him--it's a mocking wink, John can totally tell--and then does something that presses her breasts against Ronon's chest even more.
John's hand twitches towards his thigh and a weapon he hasn't carried since the last time he was in Colorado Springs. That's not good, in fact that's a bit crazy, so he takes a breath and gets out of the bed again, grateful that he fell asleep with his boxers on.
He looks down at Vala and Ronon. "I'm going downstairs." Vala waggles her fingers at him in a goodbye and Ronon transfers the narrowed-eyed look to him. John tries to smile. "I'll just let you both...get dressed."
Vala looks at him from under a suspiciously artful fall of messy hair. "That's sweet, really, John." Her eyes are wide and innocent, and her tone is completely suggestive. "I think we're both fine just as we are, though."
John takes another breath and reminds himself that he cannot shoot her, no matter how much he wants to, and that, yes, he does in fact trust Ronon more than anyone else in the world. He feels a little calmer and manages to give Ronon a mostly steady smile before heading downstairs.
The front door is ajar and John rolls his eyes because, really, the least Vala could have done was close and lock it so that no one else could come waltzing in. When he tries to push it shut he notices a strap of some sort in the way. He pulls the door open wider and reveals what looks to be Vala's carry-on bag, which is on the floor in front of fourteen pieces of luggage.
John's calm goes flying out of the window, then, because Vala is only supposed to be visiting for two days
He grabs the cordless phone and flees to the kitchen, leaving the door wide open.
"Huh," Rodney says when John fills him in. "I think we've actually encountered a scenario that was not anticipated in the betting book."
If Rodney were here, John would strangle him. "Fuck the betting book, Rodney! Fifteen bags." His voice is a little wild and high-pitched, and he is totally hiding behind the cooking island. "How many days worth of clothing do you think that is? Like, three?" he asks with the sort of desperate hope he used to ask Rodney about sensor readings and Wraith hive ships.
Rodney's laughter is not reassuring and just as John's about to tell him exactly that, a shadow falls over him. He glances up; Ronon is leaning over the counter, frowning down at him.
"Um." John hangs up on Rodney yet again, then pulls himself to his feet. He's glad to see that Vala is not with Ronon, and also that Ronon is clothed in shorts and a t-shirt. When Ronon raises a questioning brow, John points in the general vicinity of the front door. "Luggage."
"I saw." Ronon's frown deepens and he reaches up to grab at the back of his neck, a newly familiar habit that goes hand-in-hand with his new way of carrying tension. He glances towards the door again before pinning John with a look that's apologetic and torn. "Something's really wrong."
"Any idea what?"
Ronon's brow furrows. "Some, not all." He shrugs one shoulder. "She's not talking but I've been chasing rumors. It's--personal. She needs...she needs a place to be for now." He looks John right in the eye. "I want it to be here."
And John understands, he does. He might not know how or why Ronon and Vala became friends, but that doesn't change the fact that they are, or that she's Ronon's closest friend outside of the ex pats. John knows that if it was Rodney who'd shown up like this, with that stack of luggage, he'd be giving the same look to Ronon and hoping for the same reaction:
"Yeah, it's okay, just--she has to wear clothes. At all times. That's a really non-negotiable point."
Ronon exhales in a way that leaves him looking light-headed with relief. John can't help but move around the island and reach up, bracket Ronon's face with his hands, and pull him down for a kiss that's slow and wet and full of everything that John always has such a hard time saying.
When he pulls back, Ronon blinks at him.
"Air mattress," John says. "And the screens. Because she is not sleeping upstairs."
Ronon's "Yeah, okay," is slightly out of breath, and John smirks. Ronon is wrecked, just from a kiss, which is more than a little flattering. John turns to leave the room but stops when Ronon calls his name. "You know I wouldn't--you don't have anything to worry about."
His lips are still red and his eyes are still dazed. John nods readily. "Yeah, I know."
Vala comes downstairs while they're inflating the really expensive and very large air mattress they have on hand for occasions like this. Ronon's already set up the dividing screens, which were a gift from Cadman. She thought they should at least offer guests the illusion of walls and privacy.
They're taller than Ronon and the frames are a deep wood stain that looks almost black. The center panels are the color of blood oranges and along the right side of each is a dark red cherry blossom pattern. There are five screens altogether and they're arranged in the far corner of the downstairs in a lopsided circle, in the space next to the stairs.
That space is usually where they keep the fetish thing that Elizabeth gave them, their mountain bikes, John's skateboard, and the skeletal remains of Rodney's housewarming plant, all of which they have relocated next to the big chair by the alcove that houses their bookshelves.
Vala saunters up to them wearing what looks like one of Ronon's t-shirts, which hangs oddly at her shoulders and falls to her knees. "What kind of ice cream do you have?"
Ronon bends down to fiddle with the air pump. "Check the freezer."
John goes for bedding, catching sight of the clock along the way--three-thirty. Crap.--and when he and Vala pass each other she gives him a flinty smile. Double crap.
For a few minutes the only sounds in the loft are the air pump doing its thing and Vala scavenging in the kitchen. John's trying to figure out what they can possibly do with all of her luggage when she calls out to them.
"Where are your sundae fixin's? I've found some chocolate sauce--" John chokes on nothing at all; they've used that exactly once and it wasn't on ice cream. Or any other kind of food. Beside him, Ronon makes the same happy noise he did when John used the chocolate sauce. "--but there are no chopped nuts, fruit toppings, caramel or whipped cream. Most distressingly, I haven't found any ice cream."
She appears in front of them moments late, arms crossed and her face screwed into an unhappy frown. With the way her small frame is dwarfed by Ronon's t-shirt, she looks more than a little ridiculous.
Ronon lifts a brow, less annoyed than amused by her attitude. "You came early."
Vala pouts and--John can't believe it, because, god, who does shit like this?--twirls a lock of hair around a finger. "I really had my heart set on a sundae bar, Ronon."
John doesn't know how it started, but Ronon did explain that sundae bars are a tradition for them.
Something in Ronon's expression shifts and he seems indulgent. "We can get it tomorrow."
Vala wanders past them and goes to the door, opening it and leaning out to drag two bags in. She shoves her discarded clothing off the top of one and digs through it, emerging triumphantly with a small unmarked bottle. She waves it at Ronon, whose eyes get very wide.
"Is that--"
Vala's grin is full of too many teeth. "Suruvii rotgut. I was there last week and Chieftain Tkacht turned over a bottle of the extra potent stuff when I told him it was for you."
Ronon licks his lips like his mouth is watering. That's usually a look reserved for John and he tries to tamp down on the jealousy by reminding himself that Ronon is allowed his own experiences and moments separate from John. It's something he's had to remind himself of a lot in the last six months, and one day the lesson might finally stick.
"What do you want?" Ronon asks, obviously negotiating, and in a way that makes it seem like this is another tradition.
Vala swings the bottle from two fingers; Ronon's gaze tracks the movement and he stares at it like he's dying of thirst. "I want my promised sundae bar. Now. Oh, ooh, and some of those frozen waffles. The thick Belgian kind, not the skimpy buttermilk ones." She bounces on the balls of her feet and smiles sweetly. "You know the ones I like, darling."
Ronon straightens from the air pump and tries not to look like he's already proven himself to be the desperate party in this trade negotiation. John snorts and takes over with the mattress.
"It's the middle of the night."
It's a weak argument and Vala is like a shark that smells Ronon's blood in the water.
"I believe there must be more than one all night grocer in this city of yours." She pauses, and then coyly adds, "Do you know what sort of government exemptions I had to procure to take this on a plane? For some reason airlines dislike transporting nameless liquids." Ronon fails to seem unimpressed. Vala opens the bottle and inhales deeply. "Mm, smells like burning offal."
Ronon reaches out eagerly. "Okay, fine."
John catches a whiff of the stuff when she hands it off to Ronon and almost gags. Vala notices and looks far too smug as she confides in an undertone, "The smell is even more potent when it's being sweated out. And then there's also the flatulence."
"Gee, thanks," John snipes and steps down a little too hard on the foot-pedal for the air pump. There's an ominous crack. Vala's smile turns pleased. Ronon doesn't even notice because he's apparently trying to shove his nose in the bottle.
*
The other thing is, Vala liked John in the beginning, too. When John was floundering and confused after the first time he was exiled from Atlantis, Vala made an effort to get to know him. At one point she even dragged Mitchell over to John's apartment with several cases of beer and a few pizzas. Vala also offered an overture or two the second and final time John left Atlantis.
John thinks it's good--better than good, in fact--that Ronon has friends who care enough to be scornful and righteous on his behalf. He doesn't think badly of Vala for that. God knows that John himself is scornful on Ronon's behalf, which makes for an odd sort of self-loathing that John's never been all that comfortable contemplating.
*
When John wakes up the next morning Ronon isn't in bed with him. It's not unusual for Ronon to wake up first, but John doesn't think Ronon came to bed at all, and that's a little unnerving.
He stumbles downstairs and sees Ronon sacked out on the couch. The television is on, tuned to TVLand, and Vala is in the kitchen. Making pancakes. She's still wearing Ronon's t-shirt, and her hair is in pigtails.
When she sees John she jauntily waves hello with a spatula, then holds a finger to her lips and whispers, "Ssh. He only got to sleep a short while ago."
John stares at her grinning face for a moment before he turns on his heel wordlessly, skirts her stack of luggage, and shuts himself in the bathroom.
Things only go downhill from there. Vala spends most of the day draped over and across and on top of Ronon every chance she gets. John tries to stay out of the way, mostly, but the truth is that Rodney's right: there are no actual rooms in the loft and escape is near impossible.
Also, he has sort of a hard time letting them out of his sight considering all of that draping, which he knows is Vala's way of poking him with a stick but which he can't seem to ignore entirely.
On day two Ronon is sweating out the most foul smelling substance John has ever encountered--including the boar-giraffes on 291--while John stays upstairs for most of the day with his laptop.
There's an email from Elizabeth. She's been doing diplomatic work in Africa for longer than John and the others have been back on Earth. Ronon has a map of the continent on which he's marked all the countries she's been to. There are a lot of them.
Whenever she emails pictures of the latest leg of her seemingly never-ending peace mission she always includes long and winding tales about the people she's met, the work she's pouring herself into.
Even when she's been under gunfire by hostile rebels, even when she's had to walk twenty miles through jungle, John can never see even a fraction of the stress and tension she carried with her on just an ordinary day on Atlantis.
John's return emails are far less interesting in comparison, but Elizabeth always seems happily invested in hearing about his hobbies or his and Ronon's day to day mundaneness. John thinks she uses them to vicariously live a quieter, more ordinary life. He's never before been anyone's go-to person for that kind of thing; it's kind of nice.
He hits reply when he's done reading and catches Elizabeth up on the last month of their lives, asks when she expects to be back in the states, and congratulates her on making CNN. Again.
He deletes without reading the two hundred and seventy-six emails in his inbox with updates on the Sheppard-Dex betting book--living it is bad enough, really--then sets up a filter to send any future emails on the subject to the trash automatically.
He goes downstairs, planning on scavenging some lunch, and gets there just in time to see Vala leap at Ronon as he comes out of the bathroom. He's apparently showered and just has a towel slung around his waist. Vala moves swiftly, one hand reaching out to pull the towel away from his skin while she uses the other to shove her camera in the gap and snap a picture. Ronon twists away and manages to keep the towel around his hips while dislodging her.
"You must have a dozen of those shots by now. Is it ever going to get old?" Ronon asks, put-upon but not angry.
Vala bounces in a circle while fiddling with her phone. "Never, darling."
John clears his throat. Vala smirks at him again, and if John were a petty man who kept track of such things he'd say it was her twenty-third smirk of the visit. But he's not. Really.
Ronon gives John one of those patented unimpressed looks of his that speaks volumes about what he thinks of John's maturity level.
John shifts, irritated and maybe a little chastised, though he'll never admit it. "I'm, uh, going to the grocery store."
He wasn't planning on that, exactly, but he thinks that getting out of the loft might be a good thing right about now. Besides, they need food. They've made do with several visits to the corner store in the last day and a half, but considering that Vala seems to eat like an army of teenager boys and has not even hinted at when she'll be leaving, they need to stock up. A lot.
An hour later he has a shopping list a mile long that includes feminine hygiene products. "I didn't buy these for my wife, Ronon," John snaps. Vala has conveniently ducked into the bathroom to shower. "No way am I--"
"Stop letting her get to you."
John shoves the list in his pocket and heads for the door. "Easier said than done." Ronon grabs the back of his shirt and jerks John against him. "Also, I'm getting kind of tired of you hauling me around, by the way."
Ronon presses his forehead against the top of John's head. One of his hands settles on John's abdomen, palm flat and fingers spread. "No, you're not."
John leans more of his weight against Ronon. He can feel the pulse at Ronon's wrist on his stomach. He feels forced to admit, "No, I'm not."
"John. Relax."
"I'm trying, I am. She's just...really disruptive."
Ronon's fingers dig into John's stomach, sudden and tense. "I won't tell her to go."
John knows that for a lie, but he can make it the truth, so he does. "I'm not going to ask you to."
Ronon's fingers ease up. He touches his lips to John's ear. "Remember you said that."
John shivers and reaches back to grab onto one of Ronon's thighs. "You might have to remind me."
"Yeah, okay."
Ronon lets him go with a lingering kiss to his temple and John checks for his phone, keys and wallet before heading out.
He calls Rodney from the cereal aisle. "I need you to chase some rumors."
"What? Sheppard? Wait. Oh my god, what time is it?"
"Barely even midnight where you are. Were you seriously sleeping?"
"I might have been, yes, because some of us aren't shiftless slackers and actually work for a living, Mr. Stitch-And-Bitch."
John drops five different varieties of breakfast cereal into his cart and stops to peruse the Pop-Tarts. "No need to be rude."
Rodney huffs in annoyance. "What is it you need, Sheppard?"
"Rumors. About Vala."
"What kind of rumors?"
Three flavors of Pop-Tarts go into the cart, along with a box of Rice Krispies cereal bars because Ronon is fascinated by the layer of milk-like substance.
"Anything that might explain why she's camped out in my house taking pictures of Ronon's dick." Rodney is quiet. Suspiciously quiet. John decides that he hates everyone he knows. "Who the hell just made money on that?"
"Er, Cadman, actually, but only because she laid odds on it happening before the third day, and Lorne said on the fourth."
John's in the bread aisle, now, loading up on English Muffins and fancy wheat bread. He swings a loaf of the latter into his cart so hard that he crushes it against a box of dried pasta and has to fish it out and get a new one. "Damn it, Rodney."
"Hey, it's not like no one else puts up with this, okay? And you can't blame me just because I'm maintaining the book. If it wasn't me it'd be--"
"Rumor chasing." Keeping Rodney on task is still a damn chore.
"Yes, about that. Radek would be the person to ask. His connections within the SGC are currently better than mine. Now, can I please go back to sleep?"
"Yes, go. Sweet dreams, Meredith."
"Oh, that's just--"
John ends the call, then leaves a voice mail on Zelenka's work phone, since it's far too late in Kyoto to call his home for a non-emergency.
*
Cadman's the vice president at a large security firm headquartered in Los Angeles and business brings her down from the Seattle branch at least once a month. She hasn't stayed at the loft since her first visit, though: the openness of the space bothers her, and she prefers more walls and fewer windows.
When she's in town it's not uncommon for Ronon to stay at her hotel with her. John's always invited but he forces himself to politely decline. Cadman isn't watchful and wary around him but she is so obviously more comfortable with Ronon that John feels like a third wheel.
The betting book gives eighty-twenty odds for Ronon and Cadman having slept together. John tries not to think about it too much and mostly succeeds.
*
"Laura needs a tactician," Ronon says on day eight of Vala's visit. "Three days. Based in Seattle."
John looks up from his laptop and scowls. "Are you kicking me out?"
Ronon rolls his eyes and tosses John a sheaf of papers. It's an email from Cadman that starts out with: Might have a solution for the tensions. I've got a job hitting this week and I could use someone who can assess and coordinate multiple--
"You're kicking me out." If John sounds a little petulant, he figures he has a right. This is his home, and Ronon is his...well, significant other, for lack of a better word. That he's being asked to vacate the premises because of Vala's presence is worthy of petulance.
Ronon, however, is not letting John get away with it. Which says a lot about how far he's been pushed this last week. Ronon is actually one of the most impatient people in the world except when it comes to John, in which case his patience and ability to out-wait is normally legion.
He leans over John until they're nose-to-nose. "You're going nuts--" John opens his mouth but Ronon covers it with one huge hand. "--and Vala's using you as a distraction." He jostles John's head and looks very much like a man at the end of his rope. "Go help Laura for a couple of days before I strangle one of you. Please."
It's not even the please that does it, that's the sad part. In the last six months John's found that he's lost his ability to say no to Ronon when it comes to, well, anything.
John packs while having an hour-long conversation with Cadman, during which he asks questions about the basic specs she sent and she has her assistant book him a flight to Seattle.
Ronon comes upstairs just as John's hanging up and zipping his bag shut. He has a determined look on his face, and in short order John is sitting on the edge of the bed, and Ronon is kneeling in front of him sucking his cock fast, dirty and really, really wet. John comes an embarrassingly short amount of time into it, which he blames equally on their Vala-imposed celibacy and the stick of Big Red gum in Ronon's mouth.
John pulls his fingers out from the tangle of Ronon's dreads, then tips backwards, boneless and dazed. "I love sneak blow job attacks," he says, nonsensical and giddy. Ronon rolls his eyes. John gestures him onto the bed because Ronon obviously managed to find some way to keep Vala the hell away from them for the moment and John really wants to finish taking advantage of it. "C'mere."
Ronon straddles his chest and slips his dick into John's mouth. John shudders eagerly under him, trapped and pressed down with Ronon's solid weight, and urges Ronon to fuck his mouth. He does so with uncompromising thrusts that aren't too forceful for John to handle at this angle but which will leave the back of his throat the slightest bit raw. When Ronon comes it's with a faint whimper that makes John's chest ache. He pulls Ronon down, lets him collapse against his chest, and they stay that way until Vala yells up to them a half hour later.
"I took the liberty of calling you a cab, John. It should be here any minute now."
Their arms tighten around one another and they take another minute for themselves before putting their pants to rights and getting out of bed.
John picks up his bag and shifts uncomfortably. The last time he stood in front of Ronon with a bag in his hand it was a little over a month after the IOA cleaned house and sent John--and many, many others--back to Earth.
John said: "I resigned," and "I need to clear my head," and "I'll call."
Ronon said: "It's okay."
It was more than a year before they stood in front of each other again.
"Three days," John says. "That's all."
Ronon steps up and presses his forehead to John's. He doesn't close his eyes and this close John can see the intricacies of the brown of his irises, swirling and shifting hues that range from honey to chocolate.
"John." John closes his eyes and inhales, shaky and wet. He drops his bag and clutches at Ronon's sides, hands fisting the material of his shirt. Ronon's voice is a rough caress, and his breath is scented with John and cut with cinnamon, spicy and heady. "It's okay."
John tips his face, seeks Ronon's mouth blindly with his own, and Ronon's hands settle on his shoulders, thumbs circling on John's collarbones. The cinnamon flavor of Ronon's mouth is overpowering, sharp and intense, and it strips John's tongue raw to match his throat.
He licks his lips when they break apart, then picks up his bag and nods.
Downstairs, Vala is looking far too cheerful for John's liking. "There you are! Your cab is here. Mustn't keep it waiting." She shoves a lightweight jacket at John. "It gets cold on planes, you know. Do you want to borrow my neck pillow? It's very comfortable." She doesn't wait for a response, just dumps that, too, into John's arms and then pushes him towards the door. "Now, you'd best be going. Don't want you to miss your flight. Don't worry, I'll look after Ronon. Again."
John freezes and Ronon spins on his heel and glares at her. Vala doesn't even seem to realize that she's miscalculated this time. Ronon is...far too loyal to those he thinks deserve it and John's been at the top of that short list longer than they've actually been together.
Vala twitches slightly and for a moment John sees past the face she's worn the last week and finds a wide and terrible fear. He grabs Ronon's arm and stops him from stomping over to her. Ronon glances at him and John shakes his head. Ronon jerks his arm away, seemingly more frustrated by John than by Vala in this scenario.
"I didn't mean that the way it sounded," Vala says, far too casually to actually be casual. Ronon ignores her. She looks at John. "I mean, just because you're taking off again, suddenly and without prior notice, is no reason--" Ronon's teeth are literally bared in a snarl. Vala realizes her fuck up then and stops speaking. She turns on her heel and hurries into the living room. "Right. I'll just be over there."
John touches Ronon's arm again. "Hey. It's--I'm only going because you asked me, not--"
"I know." He meets John's eyes. "She doesn't know what she's talking about."
John shrugs uncomfortably. "I should go. You know, unless you want me to not go, because that's cool, too."
Ronon smiles. It's tired and faint but pleased. "Go."
"Three days," John says again. "That's all."
"I know."
*
Part 2