Damaged Goods, Sheppard/Dex, 4/?
Title: Damaged Goods
Fandom/Pairing: SGA, John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: PG-13 (will go up in future chapters)
Spoilers: Runner, Vegas
Summary: AU: Ronon's immune to the wraith. Detective John Sheppard doesn't die in the Las Vegas desert. It would probably be easier if the opposites of both were true.
A/N: Wanted to get this posted before the moving-induced internet moratorium (waah!) happens.
Read previous chapters on AO3, DW or LJ. All chapters are linked through.
Chapter 4
His eyes flash open, wide and panicked and he can't see anything, can't breathe, but it feels like he's falling when the cold air slams into him. There's a painful wet pulling, dragging up from inside his throat, gagging him as the mass withdraws. The tendrils wrapping his neck and arms and legs in place slide away, slowly, dragging too much skin with them as they go.
Ronon chokes back to life, falling to the floor in a soaked, shivering heap.
Curls around himself for a minute, just breaths, tries to stop the shaking. Slowly, he's becoming aware. The boots in front of his face aren't moving in to kick, they're still. One wraith and four, no, five drones are standing guard. Watching him.
If he attacks now, they'll win, easily.
They'll always win.
He forces his arms to move, but when he pushes himself up, his palms skid out from underneath him, his legs splay awkwardly. Wraith laughter rasps mockingly above him, startlingly near as he tries to find some kind of footing. The wraith steps back, out of reach before Ronon even makes it to his knees.
"Your injuries have healed, but you need strength." the wraith cajoles, his voice tinged with an approximation of humor. "Or this will be very dull indeed."
A rough bowl, filled with meat, some fruit, is shoved towards him, rattling across the floor and nearly toppling over. Ronon makes no move to reach for it, not for fear of poison, but for the probable lack of poison. The wraith feed until there's no one left in the world to kill, but if they can't feed, they toy with their prey.
"Eat, or we will feed you."
Whether it's instinct to avoid starvation or the last vestiges of pride that motivates him, he'll never know. He reaches into the bowl and begins to eat. The cold meat is bland, some unidentifiable bird, and sucks the moisture from his mouth, but he'd been expecting to find it rancid.
He keeps his head down, eyes on the floor as he eats, but he can feel the wraith watching him, amused by his obedience. This isn't for them, he promises himself. Swallowing, he reaches blindly for the fruit.
The taste is terrifying, the juice sweet and dark edging towards tart, the texture rich and wet, almost overripe. Hundreds, maybe thousands of planets, and he's almost certain that kofals only grow on Sateda. Eleven years since he's tasted it. He doesn't know when he stopped dreaming of the orchard behind his grandmother's house, or when it was that he last bent over, huddled against the rocks as the hunger cramps tore through him, sick and starving. He'd stopped torturing himself with the thought of it years ago, forced himself not to remember, not to want.
And the wraith are feeding it to him, ever creative in their antagonism.
The last time the wraith had captured him- three, no four years ago, on a world where the sun shone too brightly, where he'd had to slather himself in mud to keep his skin from burning- they'd brought him out of stasis, still ill from the heat, and set out a bucket of fish and green leaves that meant nothing but nourishment. He'd killed them all, one by one, over the next three worlds.
This time, he only manages about half of the food in the bowl before shoving it away. He knows what's coming next.
---
The drones keep him cornered when the wraith disappears, and moments later, he feels the ship start to breathe. Systems are coming back on line, they're getting ready to depart. There's just one last thing that has to happen first.
When the wraith returns, though, he's distracted, barking out commands to the drones, and Ronon's prodded quickly down a winding corridor, towards the back of the ship. Finally, the membrane hatches begin to part and he's blinded by harsh, bright sunlight and too much green. By the time he's got the ground beneath his feet, the scenery's sorted itself out into grass and trees and rocks and sky, and there's a red flag halfway up the hill, tattered and sickly, but he knows what he'll find when he gets there.
There's no gloating, no crowing from the wraith; he's already turning away, heading not back inside but around. Two of the drones break off to follow him, and several others are stepping out through the hatches further up the ship.
He thought they'd give him more of a head start than this. He's boring prey, this way.
He runs. He always does.
This is his life.
---
Something's not right. The last time they'd caught and released him, they hadn't stuck around, afterwards, hadn't spread out into the forest. They're looking for something.
And as Ronon makes his way towards the flag, scanning ahead and around, it's starting to feel like something's looking back. But he sees nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it's just the stasis, wearing off. Messing with his head.
There's a drone not far behind him; if Ronon was the target, he'd be attacking by now, but instead he's edging along into the treeline. Two more are following him, their pace quick.
Ronon hastens his steps. He's close enough to the flag, now, that he can see his blaster and knives sitting on top of his coat. They're sun-warmed when he picks them up, pieces of himself falling back into place, tools for a war he's so sick of fighting. The last knife slides into place in his belt when he hears the first explosion.
---
There's gunfire, now, too. It's not wraith weaponry; someone else is here and if they shoot again, Ronon will be able to track their location. In the meantime, he dashes forward, glancing back over his shoulder to see the drones regrouping, looking about, trying to find the source of the gunfire. Another volley comes from beyond the woods, and they break off, squads of five and six, spreading back into the trees. Others go around, preparing to flank their quarry as they rush towards the ring.
Ronon checks his blaster- he's got maybe two, maybe three kill shots left, a few dozen if he sets it to stun and lets the two sides thin each other's numbers before he reaches the fight.
He listens carefully. The gunfire's coming at a faster rhythm, chaotic, while the stunner blasts are starting to relent, but it's not a surrender. The drones' strength comes not from their skill or their tactics, but from the number of their forces, and their connections to the hive. They never stop, and they never fire blindly. They're returning fewer shots because they've already cornered their targets. They're closing in.
The gunshots provide enough sound cover that Ronon doesn't have to quiet his step as he increases his pace. He ducks into the drainage and follows its banks up, dodging roots and low-hanging branches until he's nearly crested the hill, dropping into a low ready crouch to wait for his opportunity.
What he finds, though, is something else entirely. Most of the drones- and the wraith, now, too- are either lying on the ground, or in the process of falling. Scanning past them, he finds what he's looking for, camouflaged in the trees. Four people- human, by the looks of it- are gathered together, backs towards one another as they pick off the last of the drones as they make their way backwards. They're retreating, heading cautiously towards the ring.
Ronon eases back, down into the drainage and runs silently along the side of the ridge. He has until he reaches the far edge of the trees to consider his options.
He could hang back and wait for them to leave. But it's been years since he's seen weaponry that can cut through drone armor that efficiently, and he's going to need something once the blaster depletes its charge.
He could turn around, head back towards the city. Maybe he'll finally go mad for good this time, or maybe he'll find something useful, stockpile some food.
He's got just enough time for an ambush; it's only four against one, and if there's good cover, it'll be quick. Stun them, capture their weapons, and go through the ring. Keep running.
Ronon skids to a stop, a few spans short of the edge. They're still a good distance behind and to his left, but they're coming, and he's got to decide now. Crouching, he holds himself steady as he watches the humans drawing near, moving faster now that the immediate wraith threat is gone.
Breathing in the scent of the only forest that's ever smelled right, he hefts his blaster.
The humans' weapons are strong enough to cut through wraith armor, and own skin isn't half that tough. All he has to do is miss.
He's on Sateda- he's home, now- and he'll never have to leave again.
---
Chapter 5
Fandom/Pairing: SGA, John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: PG-13 (will go up in future chapters)
Spoilers: Runner, Vegas
Summary: AU: Ronon's immune to the wraith. Detective John Sheppard doesn't die in the Las Vegas desert. It would probably be easier if the opposites of both were true.
A/N: Wanted to get this posted before the moving-induced internet moratorium (waah!) happens.
Read previous chapters on AO3, DW or LJ. All chapters are linked through.
Chapter 4
His eyes flash open, wide and panicked and he can't see anything, can't breathe, but it feels like he's falling when the cold air slams into him. There's a painful wet pulling, dragging up from inside his throat, gagging him as the mass withdraws. The tendrils wrapping his neck and arms and legs in place slide away, slowly, dragging too much skin with them as they go.
Ronon chokes back to life, falling to the floor in a soaked, shivering heap.
Curls around himself for a minute, just breaths, tries to stop the shaking. Slowly, he's becoming aware. The boots in front of his face aren't moving in to kick, they're still. One wraith and four, no, five drones are standing guard. Watching him.
If he attacks now, they'll win, easily.
They'll always win.
He forces his arms to move, but when he pushes himself up, his palms skid out from underneath him, his legs splay awkwardly. Wraith laughter rasps mockingly above him, startlingly near as he tries to find some kind of footing. The wraith steps back, out of reach before Ronon even makes it to his knees.
"Your injuries have healed, but you need strength." the wraith cajoles, his voice tinged with an approximation of humor. "Or this will be very dull indeed."
A rough bowl, filled with meat, some fruit, is shoved towards him, rattling across the floor and nearly toppling over. Ronon makes no move to reach for it, not for fear of poison, but for the probable lack of poison. The wraith feed until there's no one left in the world to kill, but if they can't feed, they toy with their prey.
"Eat, or we will feed you."
Whether it's instinct to avoid starvation or the last vestiges of pride that motivates him, he'll never know. He reaches into the bowl and begins to eat. The cold meat is bland, some unidentifiable bird, and sucks the moisture from his mouth, but he'd been expecting to find it rancid.
He keeps his head down, eyes on the floor as he eats, but he can feel the wraith watching him, amused by his obedience. This isn't for them, he promises himself. Swallowing, he reaches blindly for the fruit.
The taste is terrifying, the juice sweet and dark edging towards tart, the texture rich and wet, almost overripe. Hundreds, maybe thousands of planets, and he's almost certain that kofals only grow on Sateda. Eleven years since he's tasted it. He doesn't know when he stopped dreaming of the orchard behind his grandmother's house, or when it was that he last bent over, huddled against the rocks as the hunger cramps tore through him, sick and starving. He'd stopped torturing himself with the thought of it years ago, forced himself not to remember, not to want.
And the wraith are feeding it to him, ever creative in their antagonism.
The last time the wraith had captured him- three, no four years ago, on a world where the sun shone too brightly, where he'd had to slather himself in mud to keep his skin from burning- they'd brought him out of stasis, still ill from the heat, and set out a bucket of fish and green leaves that meant nothing but nourishment. He'd killed them all, one by one, over the next three worlds.
This time, he only manages about half of the food in the bowl before shoving it away. He knows what's coming next.
---
The drones keep him cornered when the wraith disappears, and moments later, he feels the ship start to breathe. Systems are coming back on line, they're getting ready to depart. There's just one last thing that has to happen first.
When the wraith returns, though, he's distracted, barking out commands to the drones, and Ronon's prodded quickly down a winding corridor, towards the back of the ship. Finally, the membrane hatches begin to part and he's blinded by harsh, bright sunlight and too much green. By the time he's got the ground beneath his feet, the scenery's sorted itself out into grass and trees and rocks and sky, and there's a red flag halfway up the hill, tattered and sickly, but he knows what he'll find when he gets there.
There's no gloating, no crowing from the wraith; he's already turning away, heading not back inside but around. Two of the drones break off to follow him, and several others are stepping out through the hatches further up the ship.
He thought they'd give him more of a head start than this. He's boring prey, this way.
He runs. He always does.
This is his life.
---
Something's not right. The last time they'd caught and released him, they hadn't stuck around, afterwards, hadn't spread out into the forest. They're looking for something.
And as Ronon makes his way towards the flag, scanning ahead and around, it's starting to feel like something's looking back. But he sees nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe it's just the stasis, wearing off. Messing with his head.
There's a drone not far behind him; if Ronon was the target, he'd be attacking by now, but instead he's edging along into the treeline. Two more are following him, their pace quick.
Ronon hastens his steps. He's close enough to the flag, now, that he can see his blaster and knives sitting on top of his coat. They're sun-warmed when he picks them up, pieces of himself falling back into place, tools for a war he's so sick of fighting. The last knife slides into place in his belt when he hears the first explosion.
---
There's gunfire, now, too. It's not wraith weaponry; someone else is here and if they shoot again, Ronon will be able to track their location. In the meantime, he dashes forward, glancing back over his shoulder to see the drones regrouping, looking about, trying to find the source of the gunfire. Another volley comes from beyond the woods, and they break off, squads of five and six, spreading back into the trees. Others go around, preparing to flank their quarry as they rush towards the ring.
Ronon checks his blaster- he's got maybe two, maybe three kill shots left, a few dozen if he sets it to stun and lets the two sides thin each other's numbers before he reaches the fight.
He listens carefully. The gunfire's coming at a faster rhythm, chaotic, while the stunner blasts are starting to relent, but it's not a surrender. The drones' strength comes not from their skill or their tactics, but from the number of their forces, and their connections to the hive. They never stop, and they never fire blindly. They're returning fewer shots because they've already cornered their targets. They're closing in.
The gunshots provide enough sound cover that Ronon doesn't have to quiet his step as he increases his pace. He ducks into the drainage and follows its banks up, dodging roots and low-hanging branches until he's nearly crested the hill, dropping into a low ready crouch to wait for his opportunity.
What he finds, though, is something else entirely. Most of the drones- and the wraith, now, too- are either lying on the ground, or in the process of falling. Scanning past them, he finds what he's looking for, camouflaged in the trees. Four people- human, by the looks of it- are gathered together, backs towards one another as they pick off the last of the drones as they make their way backwards. They're retreating, heading cautiously towards the ring.
Ronon eases back, down into the drainage and runs silently along the side of the ridge. He has until he reaches the far edge of the trees to consider his options.
He could hang back and wait for them to leave. But it's been years since he's seen weaponry that can cut through drone armor that efficiently, and he's going to need something once the blaster depletes its charge.
He could turn around, head back towards the city. Maybe he'll finally go mad for good this time, or maybe he'll find something useful, stockpile some food.
He's got just enough time for an ambush; it's only four against one, and if there's good cover, it'll be quick. Stun them, capture their weapons, and go through the ring. Keep running.
Ronon skids to a stop, a few spans short of the edge. They're still a good distance behind and to his left, but they're coming, and he's got to decide now. Crouching, he holds himself steady as he watches the humans drawing near, moving faster now that the immediate wraith threat is gone.
Breathing in the scent of the only forest that's ever smelled right, he hefts his blaster.
The humans' weapons are strong enough to cut through wraith armor, and own skin isn't half that tough. All he has to do is miss.
He's on Sateda- he's home, now- and he'll never have to leave again.
---
Chapter 5