Damaged Goods, Sheppard/Dex, 5/?
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.
All chapters available on AO3, or go to the master post to read them on DW or LJ.
The first two days, John's so far out of his depth he doesn't honestly believe he'll ever get his head above water. It's briefings and meetings and a videoconference with an archaeologist, of all people, who tells him more about the stargate than he can ever hope to take in. It's afternoons spent in a chair that seems almost sentient, that always feels like it's trying to talk to him through his skin. It's diagrams of the galaxy floating above his head, and strange symbols he doesn't understand floating above his head. It's paperwork by the ton.
It's also being startled into nearly blowing up a helicopter, inbound from Colorado.
---
The rest of the afternoon is spent trying not to flash back too hard on his court martial as the debate rages around him.
He would've take the chopper down, easily, but the drone that he'd fired had fallen short, apparently in response to his panicked thoughts when he'd realized what had happened.
"Don't worry about it too much," McKay assures him, dragging him out of the conference room once Woolsey's cavalierly decided to chalk this up as a rookie mistake. "We've got people here who've blown up stars. This doesn't even rate. Though you probably shouldn't let it happen again."
John doesn't even realize how relieved he is- or how worried he'd been- until they reach the cafeteria.
It's four in the afternoon, and there's no way everyone at the facility's decided on coffee at the same time.
"What's going on?"
"The Daedalus is here. Had some trouble on the way over, I expect. They were slated to arrive yesterday. That helicopter you nearly took out, that's the welcoming party from SGC." McKay scans the room. "And there they are! Let's go introduce you."
Colonel Mitchell shakes John's hand and brushes aside his near-death experience with astounding ease, once McKay explains who John is.
"On this week's scale of one to ten, that's barely a three," Mitchell says, glancing away at the front of the room again, where the tables have been pushed aside, the way everyone else keeps doing. McKay's pushing through the crowd towards Woolsey, but whatever's going on, it doesn't look like the sort of thing he's supposed to be tagging along on.
"Well, it's only Tuesday." Apparently, this is his life now. Mitchell looks like he's about to say something, but there's a glowing at the center of the room and John turns to stare at it, as slowly it sorts itself out into arms and legs and shoulders. Two men, two women, and what looks to be a wraith, long matted hair, on his knees. It's only when the guns are drawn all around him that John realizes that half of the people standing in the cafeteria are armed, and they're aiming at the threat.
There's too much noise up at the front to hear what's going on. Woolsey and McKay are stepping forward, Woolsey shaking hands, McKay talking animatedly with one of the men. He's avoiding the eyes of the blonde woman, and if this were a social setting, not whatever this is, John would guess that there's some awkward personal history there. The brunette woman and Woolsey are already heading out the door.
John's got a surprising amount of questions, mostly along the lines of what the hell just happened? What he asks instead is, "Mitchell. Who are those people?"
"The one with Woolsey is Doctor Weir. She's our main ambassador on Atlantis. The one arguing with McKay is Doctor Parrish. He's a botanist. Blonde woman is Lieutenant Laura Cadman-"
"She and McKay have a thing?"
Mitchell's eyebrows shoot up, and he smirks, but his eyes are on the other man already. "Don't ask. Anyway, guy with the gun is Lieutenant Colonel Evan Lorne." There's something about the intonation, or maybe Mitchell's grin, that gives the don't ask portion of his statement more weight than it probably should, but really, what John's curious about is the prisoner that they're dragging to his feet as the guards swarm in even closer. He's well over six feet, long, matted hair, and he looks human enough, but it's obvious that the cuffs restraining his arms and the chains on his feet are the only things preventing his attack.
"What's with the big guy? Another wraith?"
"We honestly have no idea," Mitchell smirks, eyes finally leaving Lorne for just a moment. "But if the rumors are correct, he's your first assignment."
---
These people don't use wraith stunners; he's never awake when they move him. This time, this third time, now, he wakes alone on a floor, in another locked cell.
The first one had been blue, with a bed and a blanket and thick glass windows looking down over the ocean from a dizzying height.
"Let me go," Ronon had told his captors, drawing himself up, trying to hide the shaking. They'd disarmed him already. He was no threat to them. "Let me go, or the wraith will eat your world."
---
The second cell had been cold, made entirely of metal, all the seams welded shut. There were areas that sounded more hollow when he hit them, but no weaknesses to exploit; even the sink and toilet in the room were too solidly attached to be of use, and he'd been too exhausted to try. Sometimes, he could sense movement on the other side. He was on a ship of some kind; possibly on the ocean, possibly in the sky. Beyond the wall, the footsteps of others could be heard, and few of them stopped at his door.
Food had been slipped through an opening at the bottom of the door at what must've been regular intervals, but he'd lost his appetite. He'd folded himself onto the cot welded into the wall and tried fitfully to sleep, to think, but he was so tired, too warm; the fever had been setting in again. The cold metal floor had proven more comfortable, and he'd stayed there for what felt like weeks. The lights overhead had never gone out.
Sometimes the door would open. Four or five people in black uniforms would point stunners at him. Always, they had the same questions.
"Why did the wraith release you?"
Ronon had almost felt like laughing. He could feel the tracker underneath his skin, winching at his back.
---
This cell is the smallest he's seen yet, made of deceptively strong glass. He can see other cells, running down the the room in rows, all empty. The lights are low, and the darkness is nearly comforting until he realizes that he's not alone. There's a wraith here, probably a prisoner of war. These same people had killed dozens of them without thought- he'd seen them- and yet one still lived.
It's confusing. Maybe it's there as a show of bravado, or maybe it's being kept for trade. Which means that these people are the sort to make deals with wraith.
It takes an unusually long amount of time for the wraith to notice Ronon's presence, and when he does, he begins to shout, endless streams of mad nonsense that go nowhere, and goes unanswered.
Ronon doesn't know how much time passes. The darkness is hypnotizing and his body wants to sleep.
Eventually, there are footsteps coming out of the darkness, and three sets of boots landing in front of his cell. One set belongs to Lieutenant Colonel Lorne, who'd often stood outside his cell, asking stupid questions. The woman standing next to him, he only recognizes by sight. Her long, reddish hair is pulled back and she always seems close to laughing. The last is a black-haired unarmed stranger. He's not dressed like the other two, and he stares at Ronon with eyes too nervous and wide. They're talking about Number Eight for several minutes before Ronon realizes, suddenly, that they're discussing him.
Ronon pretends not to listen, keeping his eyes closed as the three continue their conversation. The man with the dark hair will be coming back to work Eight, whatever that means. The prospect's clearly making him nervous, he's asking Lorne too many questions. Something about medics, something about doctors. Every so often his eyes dart towards the other end of the cells, where the wraith is staring back at them, muttering to himself quietly.
He'll be an easy one to manipulate. There's a chance of escape.
But then the dark haired man steps closer.
--
Inside the cell, there's a mass of leather and hair that's unfolding itself to regard the three of them; it takes John's eyes a moment to sort and identify hands, face, eyes. Between the long dreadlocked hair and the furious eyes cutting through him like knives, John's suddenly thankfull that he's on the other side of the wall.
"So he's not a wraith?" he asks Lorne. And jumps back, startled when inside the cell, Eight lunges towards him with a growl, striking the glass with his fist. Shatterproof, John reminds himself.
Lorne's expression shows surprise, wariness, but there's no fear. "No. Far as we can tell, he's human. But like as you can see, it looks like he's allied with the wraith."
Another growl, and the man's retreating to the far side of the cell. It's only six feet away or so, but his rigid back's turned against them. It's all the distance he's physically capable of getting, and it looks like the movement might be costing him.
"You sure about that?" Alien or not, John hadn't missed the flash of rage on his face as he'd moved.
Lorne shrugs. "We've asked. He won't answer. Only things that came out of his mouth when we first brought him in were to let him go, or the wraith would come destroy us."
John considers the cells. "So you're testing his theory, then?"
Lorne shakes his head as he shrugs. "Something like that. You know, that was the first time I've seen him react to anything since we got him in holding."
John shrugs. Not all reactions are created equal. "Maybe you just needed to insult him more." He's not ready for Lorne's next question.
"You ever do any time as a POW?"
John blinks. Even now, he's not ready for the thousand directions his brain is suddenly going. "Yeah. Afghanistan."
Lorne's eyes shoot up for just a fraction of a second; he's probably the only person in the facility who hasn't read John's file. Turning back to the Eight, he nods. "Then you know that he's probably feeling plenty of insult as it is."
---
This is the first conversation John's ever had with an alien, and he's got no idea how to begin.
"My name's John Sheppard. You are...?"
Nothing. Cadman shifts, either to cover a smirk, or settling in for the long haul that this is definitely going to be.
"This is where you tell me your name."
"Number Eight," the alien says after a long moment, without glancing up from John's hands. It tells John more than he'd probably intended.
One, he's aware. He knows what they're calling him, and it's a statement of fact. He's a guy who deals what's in front of him. Efficient. No bullshit, even when he's lying. He doesn't give anything away that he can't afford. Unfortunately, it's the same kind of behavior he usually saw in interrogations of people who'd actually later been proven guilty
John sighs. "Okay, fine. Play it that way if you want."
It's not progress, though. John might as well be talking to the wall for all the reaction he gets as he goes on. His offers of something to drink or food or the doctor land with about as much interest as every direct question he asks.
Eight doesn't trust him. He's broadcasting that he just doesn't care, that he's not bothered. That he's not feeling threatened.
It's all an act. His eyes won't meet John's for even an instant. He's staring at John's hands too hard. The sound of the sound of the elevator when Lorne eventually leaves, Cadman's shifting her weight to her other foot, none of this distracts Eight. It's like he's too frozen.
It's going to take a while to thaw him. John needs to hurry up and learn his tells. Body language, he realizes belatedly, might be different for aliens. The guy's from another planet, and yeah, John's heard about the stargate's translation protocols, how it's processed in the listener's brain, but that shouldn't account for the facial expressions when the alien isn't even speaking
After nearly an hour, the only two words he's gotten out of the alien are the ones he'd been assigned, the ones he'd repeated back when they'd first started.
Number Eight.
---
Chapter 6
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.
All chapters available on AO3, or go to the master post to read them on DW or LJ.
The first two days, John's so far out of his depth he doesn't honestly believe he'll ever get his head above water. It's briefings and meetings and a videoconference with an archaeologist, of all people, who tells him more about the stargate than he can ever hope to take in. It's afternoons spent in a chair that seems almost sentient, that always feels like it's trying to talk to him through his skin. It's diagrams of the galaxy floating above his head, and strange symbols he doesn't understand floating above his head. It's paperwork by the ton.
It's also being startled into nearly blowing up a helicopter, inbound from Colorado.
---
The rest of the afternoon is spent trying not to flash back too hard on his court martial as the debate rages around him.
He would've take the chopper down, easily, but the drone that he'd fired had fallen short, apparently in response to his panicked thoughts when he'd realized what had happened.
"Don't worry about it too much," McKay assures him, dragging him out of the conference room once Woolsey's cavalierly decided to chalk this up as a rookie mistake. "We've got people here who've blown up stars. This doesn't even rate. Though you probably shouldn't let it happen again."
John doesn't even realize how relieved he is- or how worried he'd been- until they reach the cafeteria.
It's four in the afternoon, and there's no way everyone at the facility's decided on coffee at the same time.
"What's going on?"
"The Daedalus is here. Had some trouble on the way over, I expect. They were slated to arrive yesterday. That helicopter you nearly took out, that's the welcoming party from SGC." McKay scans the room. "And there they are! Let's go introduce you."
Colonel Mitchell shakes John's hand and brushes aside his near-death experience with astounding ease, once McKay explains who John is.
"On this week's scale of one to ten, that's barely a three," Mitchell says, glancing away at the front of the room again, where the tables have been pushed aside, the way everyone else keeps doing. McKay's pushing through the crowd towards Woolsey, but whatever's going on, it doesn't look like the sort of thing he's supposed to be tagging along on.
"Well, it's only Tuesday." Apparently, this is his life now. Mitchell looks like he's about to say something, but there's a glowing at the center of the room and John turns to stare at it, as slowly it sorts itself out into arms and legs and shoulders. Two men, two women, and what looks to be a wraith, long matted hair, on his knees. It's only when the guns are drawn all around him that John realizes that half of the people standing in the cafeteria are armed, and they're aiming at the threat.
There's too much noise up at the front to hear what's going on. Woolsey and McKay are stepping forward, Woolsey shaking hands, McKay talking animatedly with one of the men. He's avoiding the eyes of the blonde woman, and if this were a social setting, not whatever this is, John would guess that there's some awkward personal history there. The brunette woman and Woolsey are already heading out the door.
John's got a surprising amount of questions, mostly along the lines of what the hell just happened? What he asks instead is, "Mitchell. Who are those people?"
"The one with Woolsey is Doctor Weir. She's our main ambassador on Atlantis. The one arguing with McKay is Doctor Parrish. He's a botanist. Blonde woman is Lieutenant Laura Cadman-"
"She and McKay have a thing?"
Mitchell's eyebrows shoot up, and he smirks, but his eyes are on the other man already. "Don't ask. Anyway, guy with the gun is Lieutenant Colonel Evan Lorne." There's something about the intonation, or maybe Mitchell's grin, that gives the don't ask portion of his statement more weight than it probably should, but really, what John's curious about is the prisoner that they're dragging to his feet as the guards swarm in even closer. He's well over six feet, long, matted hair, and he looks human enough, but it's obvious that the cuffs restraining his arms and the chains on his feet are the only things preventing his attack.
"What's with the big guy? Another wraith?"
"We honestly have no idea," Mitchell smirks, eyes finally leaving Lorne for just a moment. "But if the rumors are correct, he's your first assignment."
---
These people don't use wraith stunners; he's never awake when they move him. This time, this third time, now, he wakes alone on a floor, in another locked cell.
The first one had been blue, with a bed and a blanket and thick glass windows looking down over the ocean from a dizzying height.
"Let me go," Ronon had told his captors, drawing himself up, trying to hide the shaking. They'd disarmed him already. He was no threat to them. "Let me go, or the wraith will eat your world."
---
The second cell had been cold, made entirely of metal, all the seams welded shut. There were areas that sounded more hollow when he hit them, but no weaknesses to exploit; even the sink and toilet in the room were too solidly attached to be of use, and he'd been too exhausted to try. Sometimes, he could sense movement on the other side. He was on a ship of some kind; possibly on the ocean, possibly in the sky. Beyond the wall, the footsteps of others could be heard, and few of them stopped at his door.
Food had been slipped through an opening at the bottom of the door at what must've been regular intervals, but he'd lost his appetite. He'd folded himself onto the cot welded into the wall and tried fitfully to sleep, to think, but he was so tired, too warm; the fever had been setting in again. The cold metal floor had proven more comfortable, and he'd stayed there for what felt like weeks. The lights overhead had never gone out.
Sometimes the door would open. Four or five people in black uniforms would point stunners at him. Always, they had the same questions.
"Why did the wraith release you?"
Ronon had almost felt like laughing. He could feel the tracker underneath his skin, winching at his back.
---
This cell is the smallest he's seen yet, made of deceptively strong glass. He can see other cells, running down the the room in rows, all empty. The lights are low, and the darkness is nearly comforting until he realizes that he's not alone. There's a wraith here, probably a prisoner of war. These same people had killed dozens of them without thought- he'd seen them- and yet one still lived.
It's confusing. Maybe it's there as a show of bravado, or maybe it's being kept for trade. Which means that these people are the sort to make deals with wraith.
It takes an unusually long amount of time for the wraith to notice Ronon's presence, and when he does, he begins to shout, endless streams of mad nonsense that go nowhere, and goes unanswered.
Ronon doesn't know how much time passes. The darkness is hypnotizing and his body wants to sleep.
Eventually, there are footsteps coming out of the darkness, and three sets of boots landing in front of his cell. One set belongs to Lieutenant Colonel Lorne, who'd often stood outside his cell, asking stupid questions. The woman standing next to him, he only recognizes by sight. Her long, reddish hair is pulled back and she always seems close to laughing. The last is a black-haired unarmed stranger. He's not dressed like the other two, and he stares at Ronon with eyes too nervous and wide. They're talking about Number Eight for several minutes before Ronon realizes, suddenly, that they're discussing him.
Ronon pretends not to listen, keeping his eyes closed as the three continue their conversation. The man with the dark hair will be coming back to work Eight, whatever that means. The prospect's clearly making him nervous, he's asking Lorne too many questions. Something about medics, something about doctors. Every so often his eyes dart towards the other end of the cells, where the wraith is staring back at them, muttering to himself quietly.
He'll be an easy one to manipulate. There's a chance of escape.
But then the dark haired man steps closer.
--
Inside the cell, there's a mass of leather and hair that's unfolding itself to regard the three of them; it takes John's eyes a moment to sort and identify hands, face, eyes. Between the long dreadlocked hair and the furious eyes cutting through him like knives, John's suddenly thankfull that he's on the other side of the wall.
"So he's not a wraith?" he asks Lorne. And jumps back, startled when inside the cell, Eight lunges towards him with a growl, striking the glass with his fist. Shatterproof, John reminds himself.
Lorne's expression shows surprise, wariness, but there's no fear. "No. Far as we can tell, he's human. But like as you can see, it looks like he's allied with the wraith."
Another growl, and the man's retreating to the far side of the cell. It's only six feet away or so, but his rigid back's turned against them. It's all the distance he's physically capable of getting, and it looks like the movement might be costing him.
"You sure about that?" Alien or not, John hadn't missed the flash of rage on his face as he'd moved.
Lorne shrugs. "We've asked. He won't answer. Only things that came out of his mouth when we first brought him in were to let him go, or the wraith would come destroy us."
John considers the cells. "So you're testing his theory, then?"
Lorne shakes his head as he shrugs. "Something like that. You know, that was the first time I've seen him react to anything since we got him in holding."
John shrugs. Not all reactions are created equal. "Maybe you just needed to insult him more." He's not ready for Lorne's next question.
"You ever do any time as a POW?"
John blinks. Even now, he's not ready for the thousand directions his brain is suddenly going. "Yeah. Afghanistan."
Lorne's eyes shoot up for just a fraction of a second; he's probably the only person in the facility who hasn't read John's file. Turning back to the Eight, he nods. "Then you know that he's probably feeling plenty of insult as it is."
---
This is the first conversation John's ever had with an alien, and he's got no idea how to begin.
"My name's John Sheppard. You are...?"
Nothing. Cadman shifts, either to cover a smirk, or settling in for the long haul that this is definitely going to be.
"This is where you tell me your name."
"Number Eight," the alien says after a long moment, without glancing up from John's hands. It tells John more than he'd probably intended.
One, he's aware. He knows what they're calling him, and it's a statement of fact. He's a guy who deals what's in front of him. Efficient. No bullshit, even when he's lying. He doesn't give anything away that he can't afford. Unfortunately, it's the same kind of behavior he usually saw in interrogations of people who'd actually later been proven guilty
John sighs. "Okay, fine. Play it that way if you want."
It's not progress, though. John might as well be talking to the wall for all the reaction he gets as he goes on. His offers of something to drink or food or the doctor land with about as much interest as every direct question he asks.
Eight doesn't trust him. He's broadcasting that he just doesn't care, that he's not bothered. That he's not feeling threatened.
It's all an act. His eyes won't meet John's for even an instant. He's staring at John's hands too hard. The sound of the sound of the elevator when Lorne eventually leaves, Cadman's shifting her weight to her other foot, none of this distracts Eight. It's like he's too frozen.
It's going to take a while to thaw him. John needs to hurry up and learn his tells. Body language, he realizes belatedly, might be different for aliens. The guy's from another planet, and yeah, John's heard about the stargate's translation protocols, how it's processed in the listener's brain, but that shouldn't account for the facial expressions when the alien isn't even speaking
After nearly an hour, the only two words he's gotten out of the alien are the ones he'd been assigned, the ones he'd repeated back when they'd first started.
Number Eight.
---
Chapter 6