Damaged Goods, Sheppard/Dex, 6/?
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.
Of course, Woolsey wants a full report in the conference room right after he's done. He hasn't even been able to process it all himself, yet, and now he's got to brief not only Woolsey, but Lorne, Doctor Weir, and McKay as well.
"So. What do we know about him?"
"Well," John knows he's prevaricating. "He's not really talking, yet."
"Ah," Woolsey nods. "So you learned nothing."
"Not necessarily," John's interrupted as Dr. Keller slips in through the door and takes a seat at the end of the table with an apologetic grin. John takes the distraction to gather his thoughts. "Well. Eight's a big guy, strong, but he's been starving himself...which you probably already know. He's had the walls closing in on him for weeks now, so he's wary and nervous. It's obvious enough through his body language, keeping his shoulders and body stiff, not looking me in the eye. He wouldn't talk, but kept staring at my hands, trying to read me."
Doctor Weir's head snaps up, questioning. "Isn't it easier to read people if you look them in the eye?"
"Yeah, if you care about what they're saying, and I don't think Eight does. If you're looking for a physical threat, or a weakness to exploit, though, you might focus on the most obvious source for it to come from."
"But Cadman was there with a stunner and sidearm," Lorne points out.
"But she wasn't talking. What little control there was to be had in our interaction, I was the one holding it, so he was taking his cues from me. I'd guess he's had some training, or a lot of experience fighting."
"Yeah, well," Lorne replies, "no offense, but we could've gotten that just from looking at him whenever he wakes up in a new cell."
"Well. He definitely isn't feeling so hot. By the end of it, he was looking pretty exhausted. He didn't exactly drop his defenses, but he got a lot less careful about trying to hide them. He wasn't responding physically to anything I said, whether it was offering food or medical aid, or grilling him about his involvement with the wraith. And the wraith are a definite sore spot with him. He was insulted when I identified him as one, and the few times he'd glance away had been to glare in the wraith's direction, as if he didn't want it out of his sight."
"You said he's not feeling so well," Keller interjects, her voice full of concern. "We haven't been able to get him under a scanner since he's arrived here."
"About that," John hesitates. There's no way to say this without sounding critical, but Dr. Weir is already addressing it.
"There'd only been enough time for a cursory examination on Atlantis before we picked up the wraith suddenly coming for Atlantis. Our priority was to get the Daedalus out of Atlantis airspace due to extensive damage sustained several weeks before in a prior altercation." She smiled. "And before you ask, no, we weren't leaving the city without defenses. With the ship no longer in orbit over the planet, plan A, cloaking the city from their sensors, worked beautifully."
"And you thought he'd gotten a signal off, so you took Eight with you," John finished.
"Correct," Lorne said. "Once we'd left orbit and made the first jump, we got reports from Atlantis that the wraith ships had already turned around, like they'd lost the scent. Well before they should have if they were scanning for a cloaked city. Once that was proven, it was determined that the safest course would be to keep him in isolation, keep an eye on him, and only approach him for treatment when, well..."
"When he was too weak to fight back," Keller says, a little bitterly, but she's quick to soften the blow with a sympathetic smirk. "It never happened, and now he's here. And since he is, I'd like to know when I can take a look at him?"
Surprisingly, even Woolsey's eyes turn to John. "He seems like he's doing okay. Not at the top of his game, probably, but he could definitely still pose a threat. If we're looking to get any information out of him, we're going to have to go about it carefully, and since I'm guessing that he won't react well to being stunned and waking up on an operating table, I'd say you give me a little more time with him."
"Good faith gesture," Weir nods in understanding as she and Woolsey exchange a look. "What about the wraith?"
"What about him?"
"When we captured Eight, we went through his belongings. There was nothing that could be used as a transmitter, so it's likely that if he was able to get a signal out to the wraith, it was done over some sort of psychic link. We know the wraith have this capability, which is why we brought Eight to Earth, rather than leaving him in Atlantis where he's more likely to come within their range. Eight's cell is on the same level as our resident wraith in hopes that he might give something away. Did you notice anything strange about the wraith's behavior?"
"I've been going over the camera footage," McKay says, spinning his laptop around so John can see the row of cells, mostly dark. The camera's aimed at the wraith's cell, but he's pretty sure that's his profile far back in the shot. He hadn't even known there'd been a camera there. "The wraith's curious, watching the activity, but doesn't seem any more or less aware than he usually does. We're going to be monitoring the feeds just to be sure."
Woolsey sighs. "So. This is about what I expected, to be honest. We'll stay the path, unless anyone has any suggestions on how to proceed?"
John's not sure he's included in the statement, but he raises his hand, slightly. "Maybe. Ah. Next time I go in, I think I might get better reactions if we're not on opposite sides of bulletproof glass."
"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Lorne is dubious, too, but it's McKay who voices it.
John's honestly starting to rethink it, but this isn't his first rodeo. He's interrogated murder and rape suspects. He knows when to push and when to ease up. What he says instead, though, is, "I know we're not going to see any progress unless something changes."
"Good enough for me," Dr. Weir says, and it's almost funny, because John has no idea if what he's just said is half as realistic as he needs it to be.
---
It would've been handy to have read the reports before meeting Eight the first time.
Lorne's team had run across Eight on a world called Sateda, which they'd previously found abandoned, probably after a culling. Atlantis had sent a M.A.L.P.- kind of a remote control video camera and weather station, according to one of the emails McKay had sent him- ahead and found that a wraith cruiser had landed on the planet. As that was unusual, Lorne's team had been dispatched to run recon, and do what damage they could in the event that the craft was down for repairs. They'd encountered a wraith patrol, taking out several at once with a grenade before switching to guns as the wraith scattered.
Lorne's exact words are this:
We first caught sight of the individual designated Number Eight before the wraith patrol found our position; he was being led off the cruiser by what seemed to be the head wraith, and several drones. As the wraith are not known for the release of victims or prisoners, it was noted and plans were discussed between Dr. Parrish and Lt. Cadman to detain the individual for questioning...
… lost visual on Number Eight while engaging wraith drones...
… once the wraith threat was thus neutralized, our team started back to the gate on foot. At the edge of the forest, near the gate's location, Number Eight broke cover and attacked us, firing three blasts from a stunner device which we have not previously encountered, (and which has been stored and identified for further study at A51 upon arrival), all of which fell short by several feet. Understanding the volley as a series of warning shots, I stunned him and decided to bring him back, following all quarantine protocols, as (1) he may prove a useful source of information (2) it seemed obvious at the time that the man was not behaving rationally and may have been in need of medical attention.
There are other reports, from Atlantis that report on Eight's condition. The first is a physical description, filed in the database next to his designation as Number Eight. Height, approximate weight. Scars, marks and tattoos. The entry is as familiar as any booking sheet, as is the summary below describing the process of transferring him into custody. He'd been stripped and searched while unconscious, and a cursory medical examination was given by a Dr. C. Beckett, who'd advised dressing him again in his own clothes, citing the unwarranted addition of psychological traumas to Eight's condition upon waking.
Eight had woken briefly during transport to holding, fighting the guards; they'd stunned him again immediately and secured him in the cell.
From the way it reads, the situation might've been more dramatic than that; bookings everywhere, apparently, are routine in their chaos.
Another report, from Weir this time, cites discussions during a staff meeting, where the possibility of Eight's being a W.W., and John has to bring up the chat program to tap McKay again for clarification.
Sheppard- WW= Wraith Worshipper. WW's are known to make deals with the wraith in return for a lot of things. Not being eaten, for one, or for favors. The wraith not only feed off human life energy, but they can give it back, too. Make someone practically immortal. Deal with the devil kind of thing.
It's strange, the things that John's having trouble with. Aliens? Check. A military base on an ancient city in another galaxy? Sure. Psychic furniture that doubles as a weapon? Fine. Striking deals with space devils?
John suddenly needs to stand up, to move, walk around. Get some coffee and wrap his head around this, but he still doesn't have a clue by the time he bumps into Dr. Keller, coming out of the cafeteria.
"So, she grins. "How's it coming, in the-" she glances down at her watch, like she's well aware of how awkward and overeager she's coming across. "Two hours since I've seen you?"
"All right, considering. Still looking for probable cause."
The smile drops from her face, replaced with something he can't quite identify, but it looks rueful, sober. A little angry. "That's a good way of putting it. Only thing here is, given the situation, innocent until proven guilty is a luxury they- we haven't been able to afford."
John nods. He hasn't been so long out of the Air Force that he can't remember the stakes and politics that came into play. His own tribunal would've been proof enough of that even if he hadn't spent so long face to face with enemy combatants. His first few years as a cop, it had actually been a problem. But he'd learned.
Guilty until proven innocent wasn't necessarily better. Just easier.
---
The glass walls are the cruelest. Ronon's shaking too much to do more than imagine the sound of them shattering around him, but if he squints, he can pretend that they're not even there, that there's nothing holding him here but his own free will. And that turns out to be so much worse. He never manages to squint hard enough to block the wraith from his view.
Any minute now, he's sure, somewhere up in the building, a button will be pressed. The doors to their cells will open, the wraith will come for him. The wraith will try to feed on him, clawed hand splayed against his chest, raking his skin open, digging in deeper when his first attempts don't work, another hand around his throat, maybe, or braced against his shoulders, and Ronon will close his eyes and pray, but it just. Won't. Stop.
Maybe the hand around his throat will tighten, angrily, send the edges of Ronon's vision blurring red, then finally black.
The wraith will be too mad to understand what's happening at first. Once Ronon's stopped breathing, he'll kick Ronon's body over, find the tracking device under his skin, curious and prodding, still looking to scavenge from the kill. Maybe the wraith won't even bother, he'll just slip out of the cell and wait for the outer doors to open, and he'll take the fist guard out. The second will be easier, once the first's life has been devoured. And he'll make his way up into the building, one by one by one, growing stronger, and he'll call his brothers, the hives will descend, and miles above Ronon's cooling body, this world will end.
Ronon snaps back to full wakefulness forcefully, his head crashing into the cell wall hard enough to send bolts of pain down his neck. His back spasms; he can feel every twisted point of the tracker ripping at his spine, and he pants, desperate for air.
He'd been dreaming again. He's not even sure it had been a nightmare.
It's better to curl up in the corner, warmer, this way, with his knees up to his chest and his eyes on the door. He can see the wraith out of the corner of his eye but forces himself not to stare, not to give in.
The food the soldiers had brought him is still on the tray, a bottle of water next to it. His stomach aches, it's been days since the last time he'd given in, but eating takes his mind off things. He can tell himself he's getting stronger for an escape.
He doesn't manage as much as he probably should, not enough food, not enough caring about surviving this. He just doesn't know, any more.
His eyes fall nearly closed again, until he can't see the walls at all, until he can't see anything beyond his knees and the floor at his feet. He knows how to be the last one alive, with nothing but himself and the darkness for company.
And the chuckling breath of a wraith, barely audible.
---
Number Eight's definitely looking worse when John comes down the next morning. His eyes are red, and he's curled pathetically around himself in the corner, not even bothering to shift when he eventually notices John's presence. He's staring blindly at the one point of the room that John's been avoiding- the wraith.
The wraith- number seven, actually, but the wraith is more useful, here, even if doubly horrifying- is sitting ramrod straight on his cot. The wraith. The ghost is sitting on his cot. The specter is sitting on his cot.
The reality of it wouldn't be any less surreal or horrifying, he supposes, if the monster was a Jim instead. Mike maybe. No.
They pass by his cell, John forcing himself not to do anything more than glance in- he's more of a Todd, anyway- at as they pass, heading down the row of empty glass boxes towards Eight. He's annoyed at how closely Cadman is following his footsteps, and some of it must be showing.
"I can't leave you alone down here," Cadman reminds him, though their earlier conversation rings amusingly hollow in his head like an echo.
"Is he armed? No. Can he kick my ass? Probably, but..." John's own words give him pause. He's about to go down to convince an alien to not kill them, to talk, to. Something. "Ah...what's the plan if he decides he's in the hostage-taking mood?"
"I stun you once, him twice," Cadman shrugs, punching the code that will get them down to the holding level.
"Oh. Good. That's good."
"Twice will kill him. So don't get cocky."
---
John opens the door to Eight's cell, slowly. No reaction, yet, not until he steps inside, and then it's just small. Eight tilts his head, glancing quickly at his face before focusing on his hands again. He brings his head up to watch them as John steps slowly into the cell.
John keeps his hands loose and relaxed- easier said than done- and glances quickly at Cadman's reflection in the glass to find that she's filled the space in the door, frowning. He's blocking her shot.
He takes a half step to the left, which hopefully also gives the impression that he's backing out of Eight's space, before crouching to the floor.
"Hey there," he starts. "I'm John, remember me?" He smirks as it falls flat. "Just wanted to see if you're okay. Looks like you've eaten. That's good."
Eight's relaxing just a bit, enough that his eyes do jump away towards the wraith again before flashing back to his hands the moment John shifts. The wary, tense expression he's wearing doesn't change, and he doesn't give completely. His shoulder's propped against the glass, carefully, and he doesn't ease back against the glass completely. It looks like his back might be bothering him, or maybe he's chosen the position because it provides good sight lines on his two main interests.
The wraith is freaking him out as much as John's hands are. As much as John is.
It's not enough to go on, yet. He hasn't proven or disproven probable cause. But whatever's going on, John is suddenly positive that Eight isn't what they're afraid he is.
---
John Sheppard introduces himself as John this time, and again asks for Ronon's name, his voice sounding slightly disappointed when Ronon doesn't reply.
John asks him- again- if he's injured, if he's in any sort of discomfort. He's looking for a weakness, assessing Ronon's condition. The last time anyone had asked, he'd been sent up to fight in an arena, ordered to kill or be killed, and the battle had just begun when the first wraith darts brought chaos behind them. By the end of the day, he'd been the only human left standing on that whole world.
"I know you've got good reason to be wary of us, but we really are trying to help. We just need to be sure that you won't hurt anyone. We've got a medical facility here, if you're injured. Might be able to do something about whatever's bothering your back, at-"
Ronon can't hear him through the blast in his own head, and he can smell the burning dust, feel the heat exploding all over his chest and face as in front of him. He has to take a breathe before Melena's face shows itself too clearly.
John notices the flinch, his fingers twitching in surprise, but they relax again. "All I need is a yes or no," he presses. At best, he'll keep asking him the question. At worst, he'll force it. "Do you want or need to see a doctor?"
Ronon shakes his head. From down the length of cells, the wraith starts humming again. He's been rocking back and forth in place for hours now, but his eyes are still closed.
John's voice sounds relieved when he speaks again. "Okay, good. That's good. Now look. I know this entire...ordeal has got you off balance, and you've got reasons not to trust us. I mean, locking you in a cell, far from home..." he trails off, and Ronon can just make out his head shifting, turning towards the wraith. "And you've had a wraith staring you down for the past thirty hours. It's enough to make anyone nervous."
John's hands twitch again, and Ronon scans his face quickly while his attention is drawn by the wraith. His face is inscrutable, but his eyes- there's disgust, there. And fear. And disbelief, just for a moment.
"If you could just tell us who you are, explain what happened, we might be able to get to work on getting you out of here. Get you back home. So. We'll start easy. What you were doing back on, ah... Sateda? Why did the wraith release you?"
Ronon's fingers are clawing into his knees. There's no way for John to know that Sateda was- that the wraith never-
Nothing about this is easy.
"Hey," John's hands move, quickly, balancing as he's about to move, shifting towards his right, and finally he's going to attack, get this over with, reveal his real intent. To his left, there's a quick shift in the doorway, the now-familiar sound of a stunner being readied as Ronon presses himself up into the corner, instinct getting his feet beneath him, he's ready to-
John's hands freeze, and so does the rest of him. He's merely leaning forward, up on his knees, looking up at him and eturning his assessing stare.
Ronon looks at his face again, finds him intent and staring, but not afraid, and he's trying to project calmness too strongly. A cough from the doorway seems to bring him back to his senses, and John blinks, eyes jumping up and around to the glass before landing on the woman's reflection as recognition dawns over his face.
John shifts back, carefully. Out of the line of fire, the flash of irritation too faint for her to notice in his reflection. Only Ronon sees it.
"Easy, Cadman," John says. "We're good. It's fine."
---
John waits a few moments, using his own heart rate as a monitor, and uses the tine to try and discern just what the hell he'd been doing.
Being stunned wasn't the same as being killed, he knew that, but he also doesn't want to experience it firsthand. He's been working with guns of one sort of another for years, now.
He'd passed the written exam, no problem, but his rank as detective was still probationary, and probably always would be unless the Captain had a sudden change of heart. It was John's third case, and Tom Clayton, their main suspect, was back against the wall, still cuffed. He wouldn't talk, wouldn't confess to anything, and the evidence that cleared him wouldn't be showing up for another thirteen hours. They'd attracted attention from outside, and Detective Larkin stormed through the door, gun drawn. John dodged quickly out of the line of fire, barely glancing at Larkin.
Clayton was just a kid, didn't know enough to recognize the massive break in protocol. He could've sued the department into the ground, later, could've had both their badges. But Larkin knew it, and in return for John's silence- 'this doesn't have to leave the room'- John's rank as detective went from probationary to real with nothing more than three days and a conversation with the Captain. All because he wouldn't stand between a kid and a gun.
Maybe he'd just remembered how the Captain's signature on that bottom line had made him feel ill. Maybe instinct was large enough to cover for guilt.
But he'd been blocking Cadman's shot deliberately.
He'd been doing his job. It wasn't anything more than that.
Nobody's shooting. Nobody's stunned, nobody's dead.
They're fine.
---
Ronon waits, scans the two of them for any hint of a tell, but right now, they're just waiting. Cadman is taking her cues from John, and John seems to be joking, when he eventually speaks again.
"Well. That could've gone better."
Cadman hums in acknowledgement but doesn't lower the stunner. Ronon hadn't been expecting her to, not with John slowly rising to his feet. He's vulnerable like this, and if it wasn't for her, Ronon could-
John steps away, backs off as soon as he's standing, keeping his hands visible all the while. He's giving Ronon space.
"Sorry about that," there's regret in his voice, sympathy that sounds like it might be more than annoyance at nearly getting himself stunned. His eyes mostly hold Ronon's, but they keep darting away. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't take that personally. That was a miscommunication, more my fault than yours."
As he talks, Ronon forces his shoulders to droop into a nonthreatening, relaxed posture that's mostly a lie. The tracker in his back sings out painfully all over again as he does so, curling metal on his spine, flits of lightning shooting out into his limbs. He takes a breath, and another. Steadies himself as he consider's John's words.
"But here's the situation," John's saying, with a concerned glance at Ronon's shoulder, noticing the twitch that Ronon hasn't been able to suppress, yet. "You need to talk to us if you want our help." The slight pleading on his face is tempered by the steel in his eyes.
John's fingers are mostly splayed, curling slightly towards their palms, like John's forgotten them completely. His palms are just skin, there's no mouth, no claws. No fists. He's just waiting. After a moment, though, there's a crackling on Cadman's radio, someone's asking for Sheppard.
"We've got to go," Cadman says, and John sighs, his hands falling slowly, his voice disappointed when he speaks.
"All right, then. We'll try again tomorrow." He takes a step backwards before turning around, and if Ronon dodges left fast enough, he can place John in the line of fire again, shove him into Cadman before she can reset her aim, move out past them.
"Sateda was my home," he finds himself saying instead. "And the wraith never let me go."
---
Chapter 7
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.
Of course, Woolsey wants a full report in the conference room right after he's done. He hasn't even been able to process it all himself, yet, and now he's got to brief not only Woolsey, but Lorne, Doctor Weir, and McKay as well.
"So. What do we know about him?"
"Well," John knows he's prevaricating. "He's not really talking, yet."
"Ah," Woolsey nods. "So you learned nothing."
"Not necessarily," John's interrupted as Dr. Keller slips in through the door and takes a seat at the end of the table with an apologetic grin. John takes the distraction to gather his thoughts. "Well. Eight's a big guy, strong, but he's been starving himself...which you probably already know. He's had the walls closing in on him for weeks now, so he's wary and nervous. It's obvious enough through his body language, keeping his shoulders and body stiff, not looking me in the eye. He wouldn't talk, but kept staring at my hands, trying to read me."
Doctor Weir's head snaps up, questioning. "Isn't it easier to read people if you look them in the eye?"
"Yeah, if you care about what they're saying, and I don't think Eight does. If you're looking for a physical threat, or a weakness to exploit, though, you might focus on the most obvious source for it to come from."
"But Cadman was there with a stunner and sidearm," Lorne points out.
"But she wasn't talking. What little control there was to be had in our interaction, I was the one holding it, so he was taking his cues from me. I'd guess he's had some training, or a lot of experience fighting."
"Yeah, well," Lorne replies, "no offense, but we could've gotten that just from looking at him whenever he wakes up in a new cell."
"Well. He definitely isn't feeling so hot. By the end of it, he was looking pretty exhausted. He didn't exactly drop his defenses, but he got a lot less careful about trying to hide them. He wasn't responding physically to anything I said, whether it was offering food or medical aid, or grilling him about his involvement with the wraith. And the wraith are a definite sore spot with him. He was insulted when I identified him as one, and the few times he'd glance away had been to glare in the wraith's direction, as if he didn't want it out of his sight."
"You said he's not feeling so well," Keller interjects, her voice full of concern. "We haven't been able to get him under a scanner since he's arrived here."
"About that," John hesitates. There's no way to say this without sounding critical, but Dr. Weir is already addressing it.
"There'd only been enough time for a cursory examination on Atlantis before we picked up the wraith suddenly coming for Atlantis. Our priority was to get the Daedalus out of Atlantis airspace due to extensive damage sustained several weeks before in a prior altercation." She smiled. "And before you ask, no, we weren't leaving the city without defenses. With the ship no longer in orbit over the planet, plan A, cloaking the city from their sensors, worked beautifully."
"And you thought he'd gotten a signal off, so you took Eight with you," John finished.
"Correct," Lorne said. "Once we'd left orbit and made the first jump, we got reports from Atlantis that the wraith ships had already turned around, like they'd lost the scent. Well before they should have if they were scanning for a cloaked city. Once that was proven, it was determined that the safest course would be to keep him in isolation, keep an eye on him, and only approach him for treatment when, well..."
"When he was too weak to fight back," Keller says, a little bitterly, but she's quick to soften the blow with a sympathetic smirk. "It never happened, and now he's here. And since he is, I'd like to know when I can take a look at him?"
Surprisingly, even Woolsey's eyes turn to John. "He seems like he's doing okay. Not at the top of his game, probably, but he could definitely still pose a threat. If we're looking to get any information out of him, we're going to have to go about it carefully, and since I'm guessing that he won't react well to being stunned and waking up on an operating table, I'd say you give me a little more time with him."
"Good faith gesture," Weir nods in understanding as she and Woolsey exchange a look. "What about the wraith?"
"What about him?"
"When we captured Eight, we went through his belongings. There was nothing that could be used as a transmitter, so it's likely that if he was able to get a signal out to the wraith, it was done over some sort of psychic link. We know the wraith have this capability, which is why we brought Eight to Earth, rather than leaving him in Atlantis where he's more likely to come within their range. Eight's cell is on the same level as our resident wraith in hopes that he might give something away. Did you notice anything strange about the wraith's behavior?"
"I've been going over the camera footage," McKay says, spinning his laptop around so John can see the row of cells, mostly dark. The camera's aimed at the wraith's cell, but he's pretty sure that's his profile far back in the shot. He hadn't even known there'd been a camera there. "The wraith's curious, watching the activity, but doesn't seem any more or less aware than he usually does. We're going to be monitoring the feeds just to be sure."
Woolsey sighs. "So. This is about what I expected, to be honest. We'll stay the path, unless anyone has any suggestions on how to proceed?"
John's not sure he's included in the statement, but he raises his hand, slightly. "Maybe. Ah. Next time I go in, I think I might get better reactions if we're not on opposite sides of bulletproof glass."
"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Lorne is dubious, too, but it's McKay who voices it.
John's honestly starting to rethink it, but this isn't his first rodeo. He's interrogated murder and rape suspects. He knows when to push and when to ease up. What he says instead, though, is, "I know we're not going to see any progress unless something changes."
"Good enough for me," Dr. Weir says, and it's almost funny, because John has no idea if what he's just said is half as realistic as he needs it to be.
---
It would've been handy to have read the reports before meeting Eight the first time.
Lorne's team had run across Eight on a world called Sateda, which they'd previously found abandoned, probably after a culling. Atlantis had sent a M.A.L.P.- kind of a remote control video camera and weather station, according to one of the emails McKay had sent him- ahead and found that a wraith cruiser had landed on the planet. As that was unusual, Lorne's team had been dispatched to run recon, and do what damage they could in the event that the craft was down for repairs. They'd encountered a wraith patrol, taking out several at once with a grenade before switching to guns as the wraith scattered.
Lorne's exact words are this:
We first caught sight of the individual designated Number Eight before the wraith patrol found our position; he was being led off the cruiser by what seemed to be the head wraith, and several drones. As the wraith are not known for the release of victims or prisoners, it was noted and plans were discussed between Dr. Parrish and Lt. Cadman to detain the individual for questioning...
… lost visual on Number Eight while engaging wraith drones...
… once the wraith threat was thus neutralized, our team started back to the gate on foot. At the edge of the forest, near the gate's location, Number Eight broke cover and attacked us, firing three blasts from a stunner device which we have not previously encountered, (and which has been stored and identified for further study at A51 upon arrival), all of which fell short by several feet. Understanding the volley as a series of warning shots, I stunned him and decided to bring him back, following all quarantine protocols, as (1) he may prove a useful source of information (2) it seemed obvious at the time that the man was not behaving rationally and may have been in need of medical attention.
There are other reports, from Atlantis that report on Eight's condition. The first is a physical description, filed in the database next to his designation as Number Eight. Height, approximate weight. Scars, marks and tattoos. The entry is as familiar as any booking sheet, as is the summary below describing the process of transferring him into custody. He'd been stripped and searched while unconscious, and a cursory medical examination was given by a Dr. C. Beckett, who'd advised dressing him again in his own clothes, citing the unwarranted addition of psychological traumas to Eight's condition upon waking.
Eight had woken briefly during transport to holding, fighting the guards; they'd stunned him again immediately and secured him in the cell.
From the way it reads, the situation might've been more dramatic than that; bookings everywhere, apparently, are routine in their chaos.
Another report, from Weir this time, cites discussions during a staff meeting, where the possibility of Eight's being a W.W., and John has to bring up the chat program to tap McKay again for clarification.
Sheppard- WW= Wraith Worshipper. WW's are known to make deals with the wraith in return for a lot of things. Not being eaten, for one, or for favors. The wraith not only feed off human life energy, but they can give it back, too. Make someone practically immortal. Deal with the devil kind of thing.
It's strange, the things that John's having trouble with. Aliens? Check. A military base on an ancient city in another galaxy? Sure. Psychic furniture that doubles as a weapon? Fine. Striking deals with space devils?
John suddenly needs to stand up, to move, walk around. Get some coffee and wrap his head around this, but he still doesn't have a clue by the time he bumps into Dr. Keller, coming out of the cafeteria.
"So, she grins. "How's it coming, in the-" she glances down at her watch, like she's well aware of how awkward and overeager she's coming across. "Two hours since I've seen you?"
"All right, considering. Still looking for probable cause."
The smile drops from her face, replaced with something he can't quite identify, but it looks rueful, sober. A little angry. "That's a good way of putting it. Only thing here is, given the situation, innocent until proven guilty is a luxury they- we haven't been able to afford."
John nods. He hasn't been so long out of the Air Force that he can't remember the stakes and politics that came into play. His own tribunal would've been proof enough of that even if he hadn't spent so long face to face with enemy combatants. His first few years as a cop, it had actually been a problem. But he'd learned.
Guilty until proven innocent wasn't necessarily better. Just easier.
---
The glass walls are the cruelest. Ronon's shaking too much to do more than imagine the sound of them shattering around him, but if he squints, he can pretend that they're not even there, that there's nothing holding him here but his own free will. And that turns out to be so much worse. He never manages to squint hard enough to block the wraith from his view.
Any minute now, he's sure, somewhere up in the building, a button will be pressed. The doors to their cells will open, the wraith will come for him. The wraith will try to feed on him, clawed hand splayed against his chest, raking his skin open, digging in deeper when his first attempts don't work, another hand around his throat, maybe, or braced against his shoulders, and Ronon will close his eyes and pray, but it just. Won't. Stop.
Maybe the hand around his throat will tighten, angrily, send the edges of Ronon's vision blurring red, then finally black.
The wraith will be too mad to understand what's happening at first. Once Ronon's stopped breathing, he'll kick Ronon's body over, find the tracking device under his skin, curious and prodding, still looking to scavenge from the kill. Maybe the wraith won't even bother, he'll just slip out of the cell and wait for the outer doors to open, and he'll take the fist guard out. The second will be easier, once the first's life has been devoured. And he'll make his way up into the building, one by one by one, growing stronger, and he'll call his brothers, the hives will descend, and miles above Ronon's cooling body, this world will end.
Ronon snaps back to full wakefulness forcefully, his head crashing into the cell wall hard enough to send bolts of pain down his neck. His back spasms; he can feel every twisted point of the tracker ripping at his spine, and he pants, desperate for air.
He'd been dreaming again. He's not even sure it had been a nightmare.
It's better to curl up in the corner, warmer, this way, with his knees up to his chest and his eyes on the door. He can see the wraith out of the corner of his eye but forces himself not to stare, not to give in.
The food the soldiers had brought him is still on the tray, a bottle of water next to it. His stomach aches, it's been days since the last time he'd given in, but eating takes his mind off things. He can tell himself he's getting stronger for an escape.
He doesn't manage as much as he probably should, not enough food, not enough caring about surviving this. He just doesn't know, any more.
His eyes fall nearly closed again, until he can't see the walls at all, until he can't see anything beyond his knees and the floor at his feet. He knows how to be the last one alive, with nothing but himself and the darkness for company.
And the chuckling breath of a wraith, barely audible.
---
Number Eight's definitely looking worse when John comes down the next morning. His eyes are red, and he's curled pathetically around himself in the corner, not even bothering to shift when he eventually notices John's presence. He's staring blindly at the one point of the room that John's been avoiding- the wraith.
The wraith- number seven, actually, but the wraith is more useful, here, even if doubly horrifying- is sitting ramrod straight on his cot. The wraith. The ghost is sitting on his cot. The specter is sitting on his cot.
The reality of it wouldn't be any less surreal or horrifying, he supposes, if the monster was a Jim instead. Mike maybe. No.
They pass by his cell, John forcing himself not to do anything more than glance in- he's more of a Todd, anyway- at as they pass, heading down the row of empty glass boxes towards Eight. He's annoyed at how closely Cadman is following his footsteps, and some of it must be showing.
"I can't leave you alone down here," Cadman reminds him, though their earlier conversation rings amusingly hollow in his head like an echo.
"Is he armed? No. Can he kick my ass? Probably, but..." John's own words give him pause. He's about to go down to convince an alien to not kill them, to talk, to. Something. "Ah...what's the plan if he decides he's in the hostage-taking mood?"
"I stun you once, him twice," Cadman shrugs, punching the code that will get them down to the holding level.
"Oh. Good. That's good."
"Twice will kill him. So don't get cocky."
---
John opens the door to Eight's cell, slowly. No reaction, yet, not until he steps inside, and then it's just small. Eight tilts his head, glancing quickly at his face before focusing on his hands again. He brings his head up to watch them as John steps slowly into the cell.
John keeps his hands loose and relaxed- easier said than done- and glances quickly at Cadman's reflection in the glass to find that she's filled the space in the door, frowning. He's blocking her shot.
He takes a half step to the left, which hopefully also gives the impression that he's backing out of Eight's space, before crouching to the floor.
"Hey there," he starts. "I'm John, remember me?" He smirks as it falls flat. "Just wanted to see if you're okay. Looks like you've eaten. That's good."
Eight's relaxing just a bit, enough that his eyes do jump away towards the wraith again before flashing back to his hands the moment John shifts. The wary, tense expression he's wearing doesn't change, and he doesn't give completely. His shoulder's propped against the glass, carefully, and he doesn't ease back against the glass completely. It looks like his back might be bothering him, or maybe he's chosen the position because it provides good sight lines on his two main interests.
The wraith is freaking him out as much as John's hands are. As much as John is.
It's not enough to go on, yet. He hasn't proven or disproven probable cause. But whatever's going on, John is suddenly positive that Eight isn't what they're afraid he is.
---
John Sheppard introduces himself as John this time, and again asks for Ronon's name, his voice sounding slightly disappointed when Ronon doesn't reply.
John asks him- again- if he's injured, if he's in any sort of discomfort. He's looking for a weakness, assessing Ronon's condition. The last time anyone had asked, he'd been sent up to fight in an arena, ordered to kill or be killed, and the battle had just begun when the first wraith darts brought chaos behind them. By the end of the day, he'd been the only human left standing on that whole world.
"I know you've got good reason to be wary of us, but we really are trying to help. We just need to be sure that you won't hurt anyone. We've got a medical facility here, if you're injured. Might be able to do something about whatever's bothering your back, at-"
Ronon can't hear him through the blast in his own head, and he can smell the burning dust, feel the heat exploding all over his chest and face as in front of him. He has to take a breathe before Melena's face shows itself too clearly.
John notices the flinch, his fingers twitching in surprise, but they relax again. "All I need is a yes or no," he presses. At best, he'll keep asking him the question. At worst, he'll force it. "Do you want or need to see a doctor?"
Ronon shakes his head. From down the length of cells, the wraith starts humming again. He's been rocking back and forth in place for hours now, but his eyes are still closed.
John's voice sounds relieved when he speaks again. "Okay, good. That's good. Now look. I know this entire...ordeal has got you off balance, and you've got reasons not to trust us. I mean, locking you in a cell, far from home..." he trails off, and Ronon can just make out his head shifting, turning towards the wraith. "And you've had a wraith staring you down for the past thirty hours. It's enough to make anyone nervous."
John's hands twitch again, and Ronon scans his face quickly while his attention is drawn by the wraith. His face is inscrutable, but his eyes- there's disgust, there. And fear. And disbelief, just for a moment.
"If you could just tell us who you are, explain what happened, we might be able to get to work on getting you out of here. Get you back home. So. We'll start easy. What you were doing back on, ah... Sateda? Why did the wraith release you?"
Ronon's fingers are clawing into his knees. There's no way for John to know that Sateda was- that the wraith never-
Nothing about this is easy.
"Hey," John's hands move, quickly, balancing as he's about to move, shifting towards his right, and finally he's going to attack, get this over with, reveal his real intent. To his left, there's a quick shift in the doorway, the now-familiar sound of a stunner being readied as Ronon presses himself up into the corner, instinct getting his feet beneath him, he's ready to-
John's hands freeze, and so does the rest of him. He's merely leaning forward, up on his knees, looking up at him and eturning his assessing stare.
Ronon looks at his face again, finds him intent and staring, but not afraid, and he's trying to project calmness too strongly. A cough from the doorway seems to bring him back to his senses, and John blinks, eyes jumping up and around to the glass before landing on the woman's reflection as recognition dawns over his face.
John shifts back, carefully. Out of the line of fire, the flash of irritation too faint for her to notice in his reflection. Only Ronon sees it.
"Easy, Cadman," John says. "We're good. It's fine."
---
John waits a few moments, using his own heart rate as a monitor, and uses the tine to try and discern just what the hell he'd been doing.
Being stunned wasn't the same as being killed, he knew that, but he also doesn't want to experience it firsthand. He's been working with guns of one sort of another for years, now.
He'd passed the written exam, no problem, but his rank as detective was still probationary, and probably always would be unless the Captain had a sudden change of heart. It was John's third case, and Tom Clayton, their main suspect, was back against the wall, still cuffed. He wouldn't talk, wouldn't confess to anything, and the evidence that cleared him wouldn't be showing up for another thirteen hours. They'd attracted attention from outside, and Detective Larkin stormed through the door, gun drawn. John dodged quickly out of the line of fire, barely glancing at Larkin.
Clayton was just a kid, didn't know enough to recognize the massive break in protocol. He could've sued the department into the ground, later, could've had both their badges. But Larkin knew it, and in return for John's silence- 'this doesn't have to leave the room'- John's rank as detective went from probationary to real with nothing more than three days and a conversation with the Captain. All because he wouldn't stand between a kid and a gun.
Maybe he'd just remembered how the Captain's signature on that bottom line had made him feel ill. Maybe instinct was large enough to cover for guilt.
But he'd been blocking Cadman's shot deliberately.
He'd been doing his job. It wasn't anything more than that.
Nobody's shooting. Nobody's stunned, nobody's dead.
They're fine.
---
Ronon waits, scans the two of them for any hint of a tell, but right now, they're just waiting. Cadman is taking her cues from John, and John seems to be joking, when he eventually speaks again.
"Well. That could've gone better."
Cadman hums in acknowledgement but doesn't lower the stunner. Ronon hadn't been expecting her to, not with John slowly rising to his feet. He's vulnerable like this, and if it wasn't for her, Ronon could-
John steps away, backs off as soon as he's standing, keeping his hands visible all the while. He's giving Ronon space.
"Sorry about that," there's regret in his voice, sympathy that sounds like it might be more than annoyance at nearly getting himself stunned. His eyes mostly hold Ronon's, but they keep darting away. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't take that personally. That was a miscommunication, more my fault than yours."
As he talks, Ronon forces his shoulders to droop into a nonthreatening, relaxed posture that's mostly a lie. The tracker in his back sings out painfully all over again as he does so, curling metal on his spine, flits of lightning shooting out into his limbs. He takes a breath, and another. Steadies himself as he consider's John's words.
"But here's the situation," John's saying, with a concerned glance at Ronon's shoulder, noticing the twitch that Ronon hasn't been able to suppress, yet. "You need to talk to us if you want our help." The slight pleading on his face is tempered by the steel in his eyes.
John's fingers are mostly splayed, curling slightly towards their palms, like John's forgotten them completely. His palms are just skin, there's no mouth, no claws. No fists. He's just waiting. After a moment, though, there's a crackling on Cadman's radio, someone's asking for Sheppard.
"We've got to go," Cadman says, and John sighs, his hands falling slowly, his voice disappointed when he speaks.
"All right, then. We'll try again tomorrow." He takes a step backwards before turning around, and if Ronon dodges left fast enough, he can place John in the line of fire again, shove him into Cadman before she can reset her aim, move out past them.
"Sateda was my home," he finds himself saying instead. "And the wraith never let me go."
---
Chapter 7