Damaged Goods, Chapter 9
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.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
All chapters available on AO3, or start with the master post Dreamwidth or Livejournal
John's flying low towards the crash site, can already see the smoke billowing up from the other side of the hill and his gut knows what he's going to find, but he tries raising Dex on the radio anyway, then Mitch. There's no response from either; John pushes faster. Collins searches the ground below for any indication of where the RPG came from, but it's impossible to tell. There are dozens of civilians on the ground, one of them seems to be putting pressure on an airman's wound, the others are either scavenging or just staring. But if they were going to be shot down, it probably would've happened by now.
In back, the recovery team is all set to go, they've already got boots on the ground, but there's chatter on the radios. They're not the only ones aware of the downed chopper; pretty soon they'll have more than samaritans and looters to contend with. Kohn is already set to take over on the controls with a nod, so John jumps out to assist.
It's not the first time he's seen a dead body, or even several. It is, however, the first time he feels the wet flesh oozing down along his wrists as he helps collect as many pieces as he can. He doesn't even know who these intestines belonged to. There are still too many bleeding into the ground when Kohn orders them back to the chopper. They've got to go.
John's sick three times before they land again.
His CO commends them all on a job well done and sends them to clean up.
And it starts all over again.
---
The name's just a coincidence, and John knows he wouldn't be giving it a second thought if the guy was named Michael or Jim or Miller or Stevens, but Dex... That's all this is, the name ringing bells. It has nothing to do with the sick futile feeling lodged in his chest, because John knows better than to read any omens into nightmares.
It's nearly five AM anyhow. He might as well get up.
---
It's impossible to sleep once the tranquilizers in his system have worn off, and the wraith's begun muttering to itself again, anyway. Ronon remains still, his eyes closed, and tells himself that he's conserving energy. He still feels like he's been scraped raw, and the ache in his back threatens to remind him too much of the first time the wraith released him.
For now, though, he listens to the sounds of the building. It's still early; they haven't turned the lights on. No hint of noise echoes down the elevator shaft or bleeds faintly through the ceiling above. Soon more people- soldiers, guards, doctors, John- will start to arrive and the facility will come to life. They'll bring him food on a tray, sliding it carefully through the door at gunpoint, and he'll force himself to eat it this time. He'll take the medicine that Jennifer's prescribed him, and stick out his tongue when he's given the order. He needs to build his strength. Night will fall again, many of the soldiers will go home. The facility will grow quiet again, and after a few hours, the security team will come through.
He's going to need to play sick all day if he's going to be believed tonight. He'll need to let them think he's exhausted, possibly feverish. Too weak to fight them when they open the door and call down the medics.
It'll only be an act, he promises himself, pulling the robe over his shoulder to ward off the chill. He can do this.
---
Ronon only knows he's slept at all when he wakes; the elevator is running, though never arrives on this level. The soldiers are starting to arrive, coming in from their barracks, probably, or early morning training maneuvers. Or perhaps it's the doctors heading up to their strangely sterile operating rooms that look nothing like places of healing. Maybe John's up there, somewhere.
The thought makes him impatient enough that he opens his eyes. The lights are still out.
Between now and tonight, he'll be given three meals that he won't feel like eating, and be let out to the lavatory down past the wraith cell three times, and will remind himself that he's killed dozens, possibly hundreds of them. He won't flinch when he walks past. He'll never give the wraith- even one going mad from hunger, locked in a cage- that satisfaction. The only break from the monotony will be the unexpected twinges in his back when he moves wrong, and John's visit.
He'll give tense assurances. I'm trying to figure a way for you to get out of here, or we're working on getting that thing out of your back His eyes will be intent, pleading, despite how hollow his promises are.
He'll ask more questions. Something like, why did you attack our men, again, which Ronon still hasn't been able to explain, or do you have family? Is there someone we can try contacting?. He'd asked yesterday, dropped the matter when Ronon had bared his teeth at their mention, but he'll bring it up again. He always does. But he'll talk, too, because every question is surrounded by a story, or an explanation, or an apology that he must know makes him look weak, though he chooses his words carefully. He'll watch Ronon's face whenever he stops to think, and like the phrasing of his questions, his eyes will give more away than they need to. He'll consider, like he wants to get the words right, and it will take too much to look at him, then.
And it won't matter, because John's obviously following orders, but a foolish thought slips past now, anyway- he's trying to get them right for your sake. In a few hours, Ronon won't be able to afford the thought, but if he wants to pretend, for a while, that he can, there's no one else down here. And if he imagines asking questions of John, or talking to him, watching his eyes as they answer, at least it will pass the time.
---
The morning drive is rough, given John's lack of sleep, but he manages to tune out the radio's weather reports and bad jokes. He mutters to himself, going over his recommendations a few more times as he parks the car and goes through security, earning wary glances from Marines too well-trained to mention it.
It doesn't mean he feels at all prepared for the meeting that's scheduled in fifteen minutes. And he still has no idea what he's going to say in thirty seconds, when he gets off the elevator.
Ronon's sitting on the edge of his cot, staring through the glass at the wraith, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. At some point over the night, he'd gotten his clothing back, though the robe and scrubs are balled up at the foot of the bed.
"Hey Ronon. How're you feeling today? Your back doing better?"
"It's fine." There's a hint of impatience in his tone, and he goes back to glaring at the wraith.
John finds himself at a bit of a loss. With anyone else, he could ask, "what've you been up to," or "how was your night," but the answers to the former are all easily found in the security logs. As far as the latter goes, it's a pointless question. "Good," he eventually decides, and with that, he's all out of small talk. There's nothing left but to get to it. "Just wanted to let you know. I'm going in to make my report to the powers that be."
Ronon looks at him, but doesn't ask it aloud. What're you going to tell them?
"That we should stop treating you like the enemy," is the easier part to get out; it's the only part he's confident about. The rest is enough of a crap shoot that he hadn't slept for more than three hours last night. "And that I'm hopeful we can turn this around into an alliance. Getting that thing out of your back, I figure, might be a good place to start."
Ronon's not quick to words, John's learned this much. Even so, it takes him an awfully long time to nod.
---
John's not the last one to arrive, but spends the first five minutes of the meeting being introduced to General Landry and the representatives of the IOA. Woolsey, it turns out, might be the easiest of them to deal with. Ambassador Shen hasn't even said anything beyond introductions, and it's plain enough that she's going to be the biggest roadblock, especially if the two suits flanking her are anywhere near as cowed by her as they appear. Weir, Lorne, McKay, Caldwell and Mitchell are already sitting down, and once Keller arrives, they get started.
"As you've all heard," Weir smiles professionally around the table once the agenda's been read, "John Sheppard has managed to make some inroads with our guest, Mr. Ronon Dex, and Doctors McKay, Zelenka and Keller have come through with some useful information. As Zelenka has to be on a conference call with Cheyenne Mountain in ten minutes, I suggest we begin with the science team's report."
John tries to focus on what McKay and Zelenka are saying- it's important, it's relevant, he knows, but all he really gets out of it is that the wraith device in Ronon's back is indeed a tracking device. John's too busy thinking about the reality of it, sitting right now underneath Ronon's skin, buried under bandages and several levels of concrete.
"...most importantly for our purposes, though," McKay interrupts Zelenka for the third time in as many minutes, "is that while Atlantis's long range scanners would pick it up anywhere in Pegasus, as would the wraiths', the signal doesn't even begin to reach the strength required to cross galaxies. The wraith could pick up on it only if they were already in the Milky Way." His grin is cut off abruptly with one measuring glance from Ambassador Shen.
"So. Since we expect them to reach our galaxy in just over a month, we can also expect them to be drawn straight towards this facility."
"It won't come to that," Caldwell jumps in when it's clear that nobody else will. "Our preparations are such that they're not going to have the ten seconds to spare searching for one man."
"Your assurances, notwithstanding, Colonel Caldwell," Shen bites back, earning a thin, insincere grin in return. "I'm sure you understand that we must consider all possible scenarios if we are to construct an appropriate response."
Zelenka is gathering his things and heading out quickly, obviously relieved to be making his escape. More than one set of eyes trail him jealously from the room. Weir, however, doesn't let on.
"Okay. Moving on from the tracking device to it's current location, John?"
"Thanks," John says, straightening in his chair. For a moment, he has absolutely no idea where to begin.
It's just a deposition. You've been through hundreds.
"I'm sure you've all seen the mission reports, so I'll make this quick. Ronon Dex, also known as Patient Eight, was found under suspicious circumstances during Major Lorne's team's mission on Sateda. Lorne's team observed as the wraith released Dex from the hive ship just before fighting broke out. After neutralizing the wraith, the team returned to the gate, where Dex attacked them. He was stunned and brought back to Atlantis for questioning." A quick glance across the table finds Lorne nodding, and it's more of a relief than John's been expecting, having him on side.
"Not long after that, the wraith came to Atlantis, and Dex was moved, at which point several wraith ships in the area broke formation and started heading towards Earth. My interviews with Dex have shown that he was not willingly assisting the wraith in any way, and our examinations of both him and the device bear that out. While it's possible that the tracker drew the wraith to Atlantis, it was the wraith who crashed here on Earth that sent the signal that's drawing them here. I only mention this because with all of the suspicions surrounding Dex, this is the one most easily laid to rest."
"As you said," Shen points out. "We have read the mission reports and heard the scientist's findings. What remains to be seen is whether or not number Eight is currently a threat to us. From what I've heard, he's been responsive or combative at every turn. Have you been able to get any valuable intel from him at all?"
John sighs. "It's taking a while to gain his trust. We've made progress, but he's still wary of us, myself included. I'm going to need some more time with him before he starts spilling everything, but my read on him is this: he's freaked out, been transferred from holding cell to holding cell for weeks, and has guns pointed at him at every point and turn."
John can feel himself flagging, here, but Lorne, thankfully, jumps in. "He was a mess when we first encountered him, and I think we can all agree that his circumstances haven't exactly been conducive to building trust."
"As was plainly illustrated by his attack on your men last week," Shen replies coolly. "But that aside, all we have is his word, the worth of which is still debatable."
Woolsey clears his throat, nods minutely at John before sharing a glance with Weir. "Thank you, John. As you've said, a little more time seems justified on your end, and as to ours, we've obviously got much to discuss."
John can't think of a thing they would possibly need to talk about, but he knows when he's being dismissed. He sits down, and after an awkward moment, Weir nods at Keller, who seems anxious to begin.
"Before you discuss," she begins awkwardly, "I've got my preliminary findings on Ronon's case. He's been suffering from a minor infection due not, as I'd originally thought, to the presence of the tracking device, but to what appears to be his own attempts to remove it. I had to remove some tissue in order to clean the implantation site, and I've prescribed him on a course of antibiotics, which appear to be taking care of the rest. But, moving on to more important things." This last is said with just enough inflection to let everyone at the table know she disagrees heartily with her own statement, but not enough to get a rise out of the IOA representatives.
"As protocol dictates, I ran the usual blood panels and scans, and was able to isolate several genetic markers, which I then ran against our copy of the Ancient database. At the time, I was looking to confirm that he was actually a Satedan native, and was able to do so. However, over the course of my research, I discovered files pertaining to genetics research carried out by the Ancients. It seems they were looking at creating a gene therapy that would increase their resistance to feeding."
McKay frowns. "You mean an immunity?"
"More like a deterrent, I suppose, but," Keller scowls for a brief moment. "Are you familiar with shark repellant?"
John's the only one in the room who nods. Apparently he's the only one who's ever been surfing, though it shouldn't surprise him. It's impossible to imagine Shen, for example, loosening up enough to even try it. McKay and Woolsey are even more laughable an idea.
"There's a fish called the moses sole. When a shark comes near, it releases a fluid that the sharks find distasteful, causing them to back off. This is kind of the same thing. A wraith might start to feed, but would be deterred rather quickly. The ancients were working towards creating a gene therapy and tested it out on any number of worlds, including Sateda."
"If it's everywhere, why haven't we encountered it before now?"
"Because it wasn't a perfect solution. The wraith might not be able to feed, but they could still kill the individual. The project was abandoned."
"So you believe that Ronon has this immunity?"
"It seems to be the case." Keller nods.
"Which would explain why the wraith didn't feed on him, and goes a fair distance to explain why they'd make him a runner," John concludes, glancing over at the IOA end of the table to find them conferring with each other. When they break their huddle, General Landry is the first to speak.
"Well. I think that regarding Mr. Dex, we've got enough here to work with. Sheppard, we'll let you know as soon as the IOA's had time to review the case. I think that about sums it up for now," he grins, and around the table, everyone starts gathering their things. "Doctor Keller? Would you mind sticking around a bit and talking Ambassador Shen and I through the finer points of the research?"
McKay's rolling his eyes the moment his back's turned from the table, but he grins at John as they make their escape. "Never let it be said that the IOA isn't quick to sink their teeth into the most irrelevant and over-their-heads part of a conversation."
John nods in surprised agreement. All this talk, and nothing's changed, not really.
"Anyway," McKay's heading in the same direction John is, apparently, jostling his laptop and papers as he walks. "I require coffee if I'm going to get through the rest of the day without killing anyone. You in?"
It's not that he needs ten minutes to get his head around the fact that he's going to have to go down and tell Ronon that nothing's been accomplished, that he doesn't know anything yet, and it's definitely not that he's feeling like he's let the guy down. He just didn't sleep well last night.
"Yeah," he says. "Sounds good."
---
Somewhere in the facility above him, John is pleading his case to his superiors, but it's not the only thing making his skin crawl. For once, the wraith is quiet, though it's chosen to stand against the glass of its cell, staring across at him. Even with his back turned, Ronon imagines he can feel the gaze burning into him. It's strongest along his spine, where the skin is thinnest, and whenever his shoulders tense, he can feel the pull of bandages and dried blood.
In a few hours, Jennifer will come down, flanked by her usual retinue of assistants and guards, and redress the wound, dose out his medicine. Maybe this time he'll ask to see. He should've done so by now, anyhow.
But it's not Jennifer that he's waiting for, it's John.
Not John, he reminds himself. News.
His clothes had been returned to him and they're too soft on his skin; the leather feels as flimsy as the hospital garb he'd changed out of, and he keeps noticing the smell. Clean, but unidentifiable. Chemical, like Keller's salves or the toothpaste that's become part of his daily routine.
Routine.
He doesn't know how long he's been down here, but it's long enough to have established habits, and none of them involve motion. Conserving energy is well and good, but will benefit him little if he's too sluggish when his opportunity arrives.
Stretching gingerly at first, he waits for the telltale motion of the elevator, the pounding of soldiers' footsteps, but none come, and he grows bolder, standing to stretch his legs before lowering himself to the floor. It's been years since he's been so deliberate in this. The first few push-ups are distressingly taxing, but his body remembers better than he'd hoped. He works through his exercises one by one, his mind slipping back, hearing Kell's voice counting repetitions, telling him to move. Guiding him through as Ronon loses himself to the patterns he still remembers, even after all this time.
It's not until he eases onto his back, still hearing Kell's barked orders, that he's reminded sharply of why he'd abandoned the practice. The pain is excruciating, shooting fiercely down along his spine and around to his abdomen, his hips, and he has to roll over onto his side just to make it stop.
Across the room, the wraith laughs quietly. It nearly covers the sound of the elevator doors opening.
"What's up with him?" John asks, puzzled, as the guard- Cadman again- stalks over for a closer look.
Drawing himself into a sitting position and shifting away from the door, Ronon shrugs. This feels foolish, but John's attention is on Cadman, who's coming back to open the door.
John's expression's changed by the time he's sitting on the floor.
"So I talked to my people," he says. "They're being bureaucrats. Taking their sweet time with coming up with a decision, but," he brightens, and Ronon hates how much he's catching himself wanting to smile at the man, "I wasn't the only one pleading your case. Keller is on board, and our scientists have proven that your tracker, there, isn't the threat they were thinking it was. It looks good."
Ronon blinks, hating the surge of hope that John's words bring. "For what, exactly?"
"Getting you out of here. And that thing out of you. And maybe starting over with this entire close encounters of the third kind thing."
Ronon frowns, but figures he gets the gist of it. "What do you need me to do?"
"Honestly?" John's grinning like he hasn't realized he's doing it. "You're pretty much doing it. Keeping up with Keller's treatments. Not attacking anybody else is pretty much the main thing, since my people can get a little bit touchy about that sort of thing. And this." He waves his hand a bit. "The talking. It's good." He reigns himself in, though, the smile fading, his face becoming serious once more. "But mostly, you're going to have to be patient for just a little longer, okay?"
"Okay."
"So."
It takes a moment to realize that John wants him to say something, but Ronon's missed a cue again, somewhere. Doesn't know what he's supposed to say, and the reticence is back on John's face again.
"Yeah. Talking. So. I guess..." John runs a hand through his hair; it only makes it stick out more. "How long were the wraith hunting you?"
Forever, Ronon could say. John must know that one world's day is another world's week, but Ronon doesn't know how to explain what it is to be running constantly, to catch sleep in what shelter's available, to punch blindly at the ring's controls, never knowing where they'll take him, or when it will be when he gets there.
He doesn't know this world or it's people, though they've obviously been recently culled. The encampment's small; there'd been less than ten families, here, barely established. The fields they've cleared haven't even been sown yet. The wraith hadn't even bothered to burn their huts to the ground, so easily taken were the inhabitants.
He searches the settlement, going from hut to hut and taking what he can. Enough dried meat and fruit to fill his bag, and a thick heavy shirt that doesn't reach his wrists. Three sturdy knives, one of them small enough for a child's hands, but balanced well for throwing. He's rummaging through a box of objects- a few pieces of jewelry that looks surprisingly well made, he ignores, but the heavy needle good- for leather- won't weigh him down or take up space. Underneath a small bundle of letters written in a language he can't read, though, is another, thicker bundle, flaking away at the creases already, and the familiarity catches suddenly in his throat.
He'd been assigned a rotation in Helka, one of Sateda's main trading partners, for what had felt like forever. Despite repeated washings upon his return, the moldering smell of the paper mills had permeated his uniform jacket. Rakai had noticed it too, making faces and clapping him on the back as they made their way down to morning formation. "It's amazing, don't you think," he'd laughed, "that a stench so great could be created in the making of something so weak?"
The pages of the Helki newspaper are flimsy and thin as he remembers, and it can't be more than a few weeks old. According to the date on the bottom of the page, Ronon's been running for eight years.
That night, he risks a fire, and burns every page. No wraith come.
---
John's still waiting; Ronon blinks the memory away and makes a guess. "Ten years? Maybe eleven?"
John's eyes widen in surprise, doesn't know what to say for a moment. "That's a long time. Wow. How'd you manage it?"
"Kept moving. Killed them first." It sounds so much more simple, when he says it aloud, than it actually is. As if the weight of eleven years is nothing.
---
It's happening less and less often, but the fact that Ronon can be so matter-of-fact about things like spending a decade on the run from space vampires might just be more alien than the actual wraith locked up at the other end of the room.
Ronon's lasted eleven years. On his own.
"You must be very good at what you do," John says weakly, regretting the words the moment they're out. Ronon doesn't come out and say I didn't have a choice, he only shrugs, but John imagines the meaning clearly enough. "How do you go about it? They have any useful, ah, weaknesses?"
Ronon's eyebrows quirk in startled disbelief- funny, since John's been an inch away from that for the past few weeks now himself. After a moment, Ronon frowns in dismay. He's realizing that John's being serious.
"Cutting off their heads works. So does shooting them, if your guns are strong enough," he says with a measuring glance towards Cadman's gun, which he seems to find lacking. "Cutting off their hands will make them suffer longer." He speaks slowly, the same way one might explain something to a very small, very slow child. It's vaguely reminiscent of McKay trying to explain wormhole physics or the chair interface, and John's fairly certain that in another setting, Ronon would be laughing at him. One of these days, if he's lucky, John's going to catch up to the rest of the universe. "It's impossible to drown them, though. I've tried. The rest is all strategy."
It's the most Ronon's said at once, but John's not going to point it out. "Maybe you can talk our guys through it one of these days." Ronon tilts his head in what might be assent, but Cadman coughs quietly. She thinks he's overstepping his bounds, and she's probably right.
Nevertheless, it's an idea. As bureaucratic as they are, the IOA might go for it if it means increasing their options. Maybe if he gets Lorne on board with the idea first, Woolsey will hear it out.
"I'll talk to my people," he says, and his knees protest when he rises to his feet. Ronon follows his motion with his eyes.
Maybe John's just overreacting to the fact that Ronon's face is clean, or that this is the most aware he's been since he arrived, but looking up at John like this, unguarded and almost content, the man's startlingly stunning.
John's pretty sure he makes a terribly awkward picture as he hastens to make his exit. Just for the sake of contrast.
---
Ronon's mind won't settle, and for once, the wraith hovering forever on the edges of his vision has nothing to do with it.
The things that John should know but doesn't are surprising, but then again, were this a world where the threat of the wraith was truly known, they would be damnably foolish to allow one to live. An insane wraith locked in a cell is still a wraith, and their faith in their glass walls is stupidly strong.
And while John seems to have the ear of his people, he doesn't rank among them. He wears no insignia, no uniform, and seems to have little, if any, sway over the guards that escort him. At the same time, though, he speaks not of commanders, but of his people. As if he answers to all of them, but not as if he speaks for them. He barely tries to hide the fact that he has more questions than answers, and Ronon's sure that it's a weakness, but it's one he doesn't know how to exploit.
Resolve, power and knowledge are the greatest weapons. Ronon had pledged it daily in the academy, had felt the words shouting through his flesh when Kell drilled the squadron, and the words are still strong in him now, stronger than his brother's face in his memory. John has none of these save the first, and he talks as if it's enough to carry him through. As if it's enough to carry all of them through.
Ronon wants to believe him anyway. Enough that when the day's done, and the guards come down to check on their prisoners for the night, he doesn't trick them into opening the cell door. He doesn't even try to escape. It's not that Ronon's hanging all his hope on one man. Kell had taught him everything, and then he'd taught him that. There's merely nothing stopping him from trying again tomorrow.
---
The razor blade is dull and needs to be replaced; his is what John's thinking, in the morning, when the phone rings. For the next several seconds, he doesn't know that he's thinking at all.
It's Dave's number on the caller ID, and they haven't spoken in nearly a year. Not since Dad's last heart attack. It's not too hard to guess why he's calling; otherwise, he'd just save it for the Christmas newsletter that John can never read sober.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Hey, John. It's, ah. It's Dad." It doesn't occur to John, apparently, to feel anything at all until Dave's normally confident voice is on the verge of breaking. "He had another attack last night. Held on until about an hour ago, but..."
John closes his eyes, doesn't say any of the uncharitable things he's always imagined himself saying right now. They were never really meant for Dave, anyway. "Okay," he manages, reaching blindly for the towel, wiping off the last of the shaving cream. "Yeah. I'm on my way."
---
Chapter 10
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.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
All chapters available on AO3, or start with the master post Dreamwidth or Livejournal
John's flying low towards the crash site, can already see the smoke billowing up from the other side of the hill and his gut knows what he's going to find, but he tries raising Dex on the radio anyway, then Mitch. There's no response from either; John pushes faster. Collins searches the ground below for any indication of where the RPG came from, but it's impossible to tell. There are dozens of civilians on the ground, one of them seems to be putting pressure on an airman's wound, the others are either scavenging or just staring. But if they were going to be shot down, it probably would've happened by now.
In back, the recovery team is all set to go, they've already got boots on the ground, but there's chatter on the radios. They're not the only ones aware of the downed chopper; pretty soon they'll have more than samaritans and looters to contend with. Kohn is already set to take over on the controls with a nod, so John jumps out to assist.
It's not the first time he's seen a dead body, or even several. It is, however, the first time he feels the wet flesh oozing down along his wrists as he helps collect as many pieces as he can. He doesn't even know who these intestines belonged to. There are still too many bleeding into the ground when Kohn orders them back to the chopper. They've got to go.
John's sick three times before they land again.
His CO commends them all on a job well done and sends them to clean up.
And it starts all over again.
---
The name's just a coincidence, and John knows he wouldn't be giving it a second thought if the guy was named Michael or Jim or Miller or Stevens, but Dex... That's all this is, the name ringing bells. It has nothing to do with the sick futile feeling lodged in his chest, because John knows better than to read any omens into nightmares.
It's nearly five AM anyhow. He might as well get up.
---
It's impossible to sleep once the tranquilizers in his system have worn off, and the wraith's begun muttering to itself again, anyway. Ronon remains still, his eyes closed, and tells himself that he's conserving energy. He still feels like he's been scraped raw, and the ache in his back threatens to remind him too much of the first time the wraith released him.
For now, though, he listens to the sounds of the building. It's still early; they haven't turned the lights on. No hint of noise echoes down the elevator shaft or bleeds faintly through the ceiling above. Soon more people- soldiers, guards, doctors, John- will start to arrive and the facility will come to life. They'll bring him food on a tray, sliding it carefully through the door at gunpoint, and he'll force himself to eat it this time. He'll take the medicine that Jennifer's prescribed him, and stick out his tongue when he's given the order. He needs to build his strength. Night will fall again, many of the soldiers will go home. The facility will grow quiet again, and after a few hours, the security team will come through.
He's going to need to play sick all day if he's going to be believed tonight. He'll need to let them think he's exhausted, possibly feverish. Too weak to fight them when they open the door and call down the medics.
It'll only be an act, he promises himself, pulling the robe over his shoulder to ward off the chill. He can do this.
---
Ronon only knows he's slept at all when he wakes; the elevator is running, though never arrives on this level. The soldiers are starting to arrive, coming in from their barracks, probably, or early morning training maneuvers. Or perhaps it's the doctors heading up to their strangely sterile operating rooms that look nothing like places of healing. Maybe John's up there, somewhere.
The thought makes him impatient enough that he opens his eyes. The lights are still out.
Between now and tonight, he'll be given three meals that he won't feel like eating, and be let out to the lavatory down past the wraith cell three times, and will remind himself that he's killed dozens, possibly hundreds of them. He won't flinch when he walks past. He'll never give the wraith- even one going mad from hunger, locked in a cage- that satisfaction. The only break from the monotony will be the unexpected twinges in his back when he moves wrong, and John's visit.
He'll give tense assurances. I'm trying to figure a way for you to get out of here, or we're working on getting that thing out of your back His eyes will be intent, pleading, despite how hollow his promises are.
He'll ask more questions. Something like, why did you attack our men, again, which Ronon still hasn't been able to explain, or do you have family? Is there someone we can try contacting?. He'd asked yesterday, dropped the matter when Ronon had bared his teeth at their mention, but he'll bring it up again. He always does. But he'll talk, too, because every question is surrounded by a story, or an explanation, or an apology that he must know makes him look weak, though he chooses his words carefully. He'll watch Ronon's face whenever he stops to think, and like the phrasing of his questions, his eyes will give more away than they need to. He'll consider, like he wants to get the words right, and it will take too much to look at him, then.
And it won't matter, because John's obviously following orders, but a foolish thought slips past now, anyway- he's trying to get them right for your sake. In a few hours, Ronon won't be able to afford the thought, but if he wants to pretend, for a while, that he can, there's no one else down here. And if he imagines asking questions of John, or talking to him, watching his eyes as they answer, at least it will pass the time.
---
The morning drive is rough, given John's lack of sleep, but he manages to tune out the radio's weather reports and bad jokes. He mutters to himself, going over his recommendations a few more times as he parks the car and goes through security, earning wary glances from Marines too well-trained to mention it.
It doesn't mean he feels at all prepared for the meeting that's scheduled in fifteen minutes. And he still has no idea what he's going to say in thirty seconds, when he gets off the elevator.
Ronon's sitting on the edge of his cot, staring through the glass at the wraith, his hands clasped loosely between his knees. At some point over the night, he'd gotten his clothing back, though the robe and scrubs are balled up at the foot of the bed.
"Hey Ronon. How're you feeling today? Your back doing better?"
"It's fine." There's a hint of impatience in his tone, and he goes back to glaring at the wraith.
John finds himself at a bit of a loss. With anyone else, he could ask, "what've you been up to," or "how was your night," but the answers to the former are all easily found in the security logs. As far as the latter goes, it's a pointless question. "Good," he eventually decides, and with that, he's all out of small talk. There's nothing left but to get to it. "Just wanted to let you know. I'm going in to make my report to the powers that be."
Ronon looks at him, but doesn't ask it aloud. What're you going to tell them?
"That we should stop treating you like the enemy," is the easier part to get out; it's the only part he's confident about. The rest is enough of a crap shoot that he hadn't slept for more than three hours last night. "And that I'm hopeful we can turn this around into an alliance. Getting that thing out of your back, I figure, might be a good place to start."
Ronon's not quick to words, John's learned this much. Even so, it takes him an awfully long time to nod.
---
John's not the last one to arrive, but spends the first five minutes of the meeting being introduced to General Landry and the representatives of the IOA. Woolsey, it turns out, might be the easiest of them to deal with. Ambassador Shen hasn't even said anything beyond introductions, and it's plain enough that she's going to be the biggest roadblock, especially if the two suits flanking her are anywhere near as cowed by her as they appear. Weir, Lorne, McKay, Caldwell and Mitchell are already sitting down, and once Keller arrives, they get started.
"As you've all heard," Weir smiles professionally around the table once the agenda's been read, "John Sheppard has managed to make some inroads with our guest, Mr. Ronon Dex, and Doctors McKay, Zelenka and Keller have come through with some useful information. As Zelenka has to be on a conference call with Cheyenne Mountain in ten minutes, I suggest we begin with the science team's report."
John tries to focus on what McKay and Zelenka are saying- it's important, it's relevant, he knows, but all he really gets out of it is that the wraith device in Ronon's back is indeed a tracking device. John's too busy thinking about the reality of it, sitting right now underneath Ronon's skin, buried under bandages and several levels of concrete.
"...most importantly for our purposes, though," McKay interrupts Zelenka for the third time in as many minutes, "is that while Atlantis's long range scanners would pick it up anywhere in Pegasus, as would the wraiths', the signal doesn't even begin to reach the strength required to cross galaxies. The wraith could pick up on it only if they were already in the Milky Way." His grin is cut off abruptly with one measuring glance from Ambassador Shen.
"So. Since we expect them to reach our galaxy in just over a month, we can also expect them to be drawn straight towards this facility."
"It won't come to that," Caldwell jumps in when it's clear that nobody else will. "Our preparations are such that they're not going to have the ten seconds to spare searching for one man."
"Your assurances, notwithstanding, Colonel Caldwell," Shen bites back, earning a thin, insincere grin in return. "I'm sure you understand that we must consider all possible scenarios if we are to construct an appropriate response."
Zelenka is gathering his things and heading out quickly, obviously relieved to be making his escape. More than one set of eyes trail him jealously from the room. Weir, however, doesn't let on.
"Okay. Moving on from the tracking device to it's current location, John?"
"Thanks," John says, straightening in his chair. For a moment, he has absolutely no idea where to begin.
It's just a deposition. You've been through hundreds.
"I'm sure you've all seen the mission reports, so I'll make this quick. Ronon Dex, also known as Patient Eight, was found under suspicious circumstances during Major Lorne's team's mission on Sateda. Lorne's team observed as the wraith released Dex from the hive ship just before fighting broke out. After neutralizing the wraith, the team returned to the gate, where Dex attacked them. He was stunned and brought back to Atlantis for questioning." A quick glance across the table finds Lorne nodding, and it's more of a relief than John's been expecting, having him on side.
"Not long after that, the wraith came to Atlantis, and Dex was moved, at which point several wraith ships in the area broke formation and started heading towards Earth. My interviews with Dex have shown that he was not willingly assisting the wraith in any way, and our examinations of both him and the device bear that out. While it's possible that the tracker drew the wraith to Atlantis, it was the wraith who crashed here on Earth that sent the signal that's drawing them here. I only mention this because with all of the suspicions surrounding Dex, this is the one most easily laid to rest."
"As you said," Shen points out. "We have read the mission reports and heard the scientist's findings. What remains to be seen is whether or not number Eight is currently a threat to us. From what I've heard, he's been responsive or combative at every turn. Have you been able to get any valuable intel from him at all?"
John sighs. "It's taking a while to gain his trust. We've made progress, but he's still wary of us, myself included. I'm going to need some more time with him before he starts spilling everything, but my read on him is this: he's freaked out, been transferred from holding cell to holding cell for weeks, and has guns pointed at him at every point and turn."
John can feel himself flagging, here, but Lorne, thankfully, jumps in. "He was a mess when we first encountered him, and I think we can all agree that his circumstances haven't exactly been conducive to building trust."
"As was plainly illustrated by his attack on your men last week," Shen replies coolly. "But that aside, all we have is his word, the worth of which is still debatable."
Woolsey clears his throat, nods minutely at John before sharing a glance with Weir. "Thank you, John. As you've said, a little more time seems justified on your end, and as to ours, we've obviously got much to discuss."
John can't think of a thing they would possibly need to talk about, but he knows when he's being dismissed. He sits down, and after an awkward moment, Weir nods at Keller, who seems anxious to begin.
"Before you discuss," she begins awkwardly, "I've got my preliminary findings on Ronon's case. He's been suffering from a minor infection due not, as I'd originally thought, to the presence of the tracking device, but to what appears to be his own attempts to remove it. I had to remove some tissue in order to clean the implantation site, and I've prescribed him on a course of antibiotics, which appear to be taking care of the rest. But, moving on to more important things." This last is said with just enough inflection to let everyone at the table know she disagrees heartily with her own statement, but not enough to get a rise out of the IOA representatives.
"As protocol dictates, I ran the usual blood panels and scans, and was able to isolate several genetic markers, which I then ran against our copy of the Ancient database. At the time, I was looking to confirm that he was actually a Satedan native, and was able to do so. However, over the course of my research, I discovered files pertaining to genetics research carried out by the Ancients. It seems they were looking at creating a gene therapy that would increase their resistance to feeding."
McKay frowns. "You mean an immunity?"
"More like a deterrent, I suppose, but," Keller scowls for a brief moment. "Are you familiar with shark repellant?"
John's the only one in the room who nods. Apparently he's the only one who's ever been surfing, though it shouldn't surprise him. It's impossible to imagine Shen, for example, loosening up enough to even try it. McKay and Woolsey are even more laughable an idea.
"There's a fish called the moses sole. When a shark comes near, it releases a fluid that the sharks find distasteful, causing them to back off. This is kind of the same thing. A wraith might start to feed, but would be deterred rather quickly. The ancients were working towards creating a gene therapy and tested it out on any number of worlds, including Sateda."
"If it's everywhere, why haven't we encountered it before now?"
"Because it wasn't a perfect solution. The wraith might not be able to feed, but they could still kill the individual. The project was abandoned."
"So you believe that Ronon has this immunity?"
"It seems to be the case." Keller nods.
"Which would explain why the wraith didn't feed on him, and goes a fair distance to explain why they'd make him a runner," John concludes, glancing over at the IOA end of the table to find them conferring with each other. When they break their huddle, General Landry is the first to speak.
"Well. I think that regarding Mr. Dex, we've got enough here to work with. Sheppard, we'll let you know as soon as the IOA's had time to review the case. I think that about sums it up for now," he grins, and around the table, everyone starts gathering their things. "Doctor Keller? Would you mind sticking around a bit and talking Ambassador Shen and I through the finer points of the research?"
McKay's rolling his eyes the moment his back's turned from the table, but he grins at John as they make their escape. "Never let it be said that the IOA isn't quick to sink their teeth into the most irrelevant and over-their-heads part of a conversation."
John nods in surprised agreement. All this talk, and nothing's changed, not really.
"Anyway," McKay's heading in the same direction John is, apparently, jostling his laptop and papers as he walks. "I require coffee if I'm going to get through the rest of the day without killing anyone. You in?"
It's not that he needs ten minutes to get his head around the fact that he's going to have to go down and tell Ronon that nothing's been accomplished, that he doesn't know anything yet, and it's definitely not that he's feeling like he's let the guy down. He just didn't sleep well last night.
"Yeah," he says. "Sounds good."
---
Somewhere in the facility above him, John is pleading his case to his superiors, but it's not the only thing making his skin crawl. For once, the wraith is quiet, though it's chosen to stand against the glass of its cell, staring across at him. Even with his back turned, Ronon imagines he can feel the gaze burning into him. It's strongest along his spine, where the skin is thinnest, and whenever his shoulders tense, he can feel the pull of bandages and dried blood.
In a few hours, Jennifer will come down, flanked by her usual retinue of assistants and guards, and redress the wound, dose out his medicine. Maybe this time he'll ask to see. He should've done so by now, anyhow.
But it's not Jennifer that he's waiting for, it's John.
Not John, he reminds himself. News.
His clothes had been returned to him and they're too soft on his skin; the leather feels as flimsy as the hospital garb he'd changed out of, and he keeps noticing the smell. Clean, but unidentifiable. Chemical, like Keller's salves or the toothpaste that's become part of his daily routine.
Routine.
He doesn't know how long he's been down here, but it's long enough to have established habits, and none of them involve motion. Conserving energy is well and good, but will benefit him little if he's too sluggish when his opportunity arrives.
Stretching gingerly at first, he waits for the telltale motion of the elevator, the pounding of soldiers' footsteps, but none come, and he grows bolder, standing to stretch his legs before lowering himself to the floor. It's been years since he's been so deliberate in this. The first few push-ups are distressingly taxing, but his body remembers better than he'd hoped. He works through his exercises one by one, his mind slipping back, hearing Kell's voice counting repetitions, telling him to move. Guiding him through as Ronon loses himself to the patterns he still remembers, even after all this time.
It's not until he eases onto his back, still hearing Kell's barked orders, that he's reminded sharply of why he'd abandoned the practice. The pain is excruciating, shooting fiercely down along his spine and around to his abdomen, his hips, and he has to roll over onto his side just to make it stop.
Across the room, the wraith laughs quietly. It nearly covers the sound of the elevator doors opening.
"What's up with him?" John asks, puzzled, as the guard- Cadman again- stalks over for a closer look.
Drawing himself into a sitting position and shifting away from the door, Ronon shrugs. This feels foolish, but John's attention is on Cadman, who's coming back to open the door.
John's expression's changed by the time he's sitting on the floor.
"So I talked to my people," he says. "They're being bureaucrats. Taking their sweet time with coming up with a decision, but," he brightens, and Ronon hates how much he's catching himself wanting to smile at the man, "I wasn't the only one pleading your case. Keller is on board, and our scientists have proven that your tracker, there, isn't the threat they were thinking it was. It looks good."
Ronon blinks, hating the surge of hope that John's words bring. "For what, exactly?"
"Getting you out of here. And that thing out of you. And maybe starting over with this entire close encounters of the third kind thing."
Ronon frowns, but figures he gets the gist of it. "What do you need me to do?"
"Honestly?" John's grinning like he hasn't realized he's doing it. "You're pretty much doing it. Keeping up with Keller's treatments. Not attacking anybody else is pretty much the main thing, since my people can get a little bit touchy about that sort of thing. And this." He waves his hand a bit. "The talking. It's good." He reigns himself in, though, the smile fading, his face becoming serious once more. "But mostly, you're going to have to be patient for just a little longer, okay?"
"Okay."
"So."
It takes a moment to realize that John wants him to say something, but Ronon's missed a cue again, somewhere. Doesn't know what he's supposed to say, and the reticence is back on John's face again.
"Yeah. Talking. So. I guess..." John runs a hand through his hair; it only makes it stick out more. "How long were the wraith hunting you?"
Forever, Ronon could say. John must know that one world's day is another world's week, but Ronon doesn't know how to explain what it is to be running constantly, to catch sleep in what shelter's available, to punch blindly at the ring's controls, never knowing where they'll take him, or when it will be when he gets there.
He doesn't know this world or it's people, though they've obviously been recently culled. The encampment's small; there'd been less than ten families, here, barely established. The fields they've cleared haven't even been sown yet. The wraith hadn't even bothered to burn their huts to the ground, so easily taken were the inhabitants.
He searches the settlement, going from hut to hut and taking what he can. Enough dried meat and fruit to fill his bag, and a thick heavy shirt that doesn't reach his wrists. Three sturdy knives, one of them small enough for a child's hands, but balanced well for throwing. He's rummaging through a box of objects- a few pieces of jewelry that looks surprisingly well made, he ignores, but the heavy needle good- for leather- won't weigh him down or take up space. Underneath a small bundle of letters written in a language he can't read, though, is another, thicker bundle, flaking away at the creases already, and the familiarity catches suddenly in his throat.
He'd been assigned a rotation in Helka, one of Sateda's main trading partners, for what had felt like forever. Despite repeated washings upon his return, the moldering smell of the paper mills had permeated his uniform jacket. Rakai had noticed it too, making faces and clapping him on the back as they made their way down to morning formation. "It's amazing, don't you think," he'd laughed, "that a stench so great could be created in the making of something so weak?"
The pages of the Helki newspaper are flimsy and thin as he remembers, and it can't be more than a few weeks old. According to the date on the bottom of the page, Ronon's been running for eight years.
That night, he risks a fire, and burns every page. No wraith come.
---
John's still waiting; Ronon blinks the memory away and makes a guess. "Ten years? Maybe eleven?"
John's eyes widen in surprise, doesn't know what to say for a moment. "That's a long time. Wow. How'd you manage it?"
"Kept moving. Killed them first." It sounds so much more simple, when he says it aloud, than it actually is. As if the weight of eleven years is nothing.
---
It's happening less and less often, but the fact that Ronon can be so matter-of-fact about things like spending a decade on the run from space vampires might just be more alien than the actual wraith locked up at the other end of the room.
Ronon's lasted eleven years. On his own.
"You must be very good at what you do," John says weakly, regretting the words the moment they're out. Ronon doesn't come out and say I didn't have a choice, he only shrugs, but John imagines the meaning clearly enough. "How do you go about it? They have any useful, ah, weaknesses?"
Ronon's eyebrows quirk in startled disbelief- funny, since John's been an inch away from that for the past few weeks now himself. After a moment, Ronon frowns in dismay. He's realizing that John's being serious.
"Cutting off their heads works. So does shooting them, if your guns are strong enough," he says with a measuring glance towards Cadman's gun, which he seems to find lacking. "Cutting off their hands will make them suffer longer." He speaks slowly, the same way one might explain something to a very small, very slow child. It's vaguely reminiscent of McKay trying to explain wormhole physics or the chair interface, and John's fairly certain that in another setting, Ronon would be laughing at him. One of these days, if he's lucky, John's going to catch up to the rest of the universe. "It's impossible to drown them, though. I've tried. The rest is all strategy."
It's the most Ronon's said at once, but John's not going to point it out. "Maybe you can talk our guys through it one of these days." Ronon tilts his head in what might be assent, but Cadman coughs quietly. She thinks he's overstepping his bounds, and she's probably right.
Nevertheless, it's an idea. As bureaucratic as they are, the IOA might go for it if it means increasing their options. Maybe if he gets Lorne on board with the idea first, Woolsey will hear it out.
"I'll talk to my people," he says, and his knees protest when he rises to his feet. Ronon follows his motion with his eyes.
Maybe John's just overreacting to the fact that Ronon's face is clean, or that this is the most aware he's been since he arrived, but looking up at John like this, unguarded and almost content, the man's startlingly stunning.
John's pretty sure he makes a terribly awkward picture as he hastens to make his exit. Just for the sake of contrast.
---
Ronon's mind won't settle, and for once, the wraith hovering forever on the edges of his vision has nothing to do with it.
The things that John should know but doesn't are surprising, but then again, were this a world where the threat of the wraith was truly known, they would be damnably foolish to allow one to live. An insane wraith locked in a cell is still a wraith, and their faith in their glass walls is stupidly strong.
And while John seems to have the ear of his people, he doesn't rank among them. He wears no insignia, no uniform, and seems to have little, if any, sway over the guards that escort him. At the same time, though, he speaks not of commanders, but of his people. As if he answers to all of them, but not as if he speaks for them. He barely tries to hide the fact that he has more questions than answers, and Ronon's sure that it's a weakness, but it's one he doesn't know how to exploit.
Resolve, power and knowledge are the greatest weapons. Ronon had pledged it daily in the academy, had felt the words shouting through his flesh when Kell drilled the squadron, and the words are still strong in him now, stronger than his brother's face in his memory. John has none of these save the first, and he talks as if it's enough to carry him through. As if it's enough to carry all of them through.
Ronon wants to believe him anyway. Enough that when the day's done, and the guards come down to check on their prisoners for the night, he doesn't trick them into opening the cell door. He doesn't even try to escape. It's not that Ronon's hanging all his hope on one man. Kell had taught him everything, and then he'd taught him that. There's merely nothing stopping him from trying again tomorrow.
---
The razor blade is dull and needs to be replaced; his is what John's thinking, in the morning, when the phone rings. For the next several seconds, he doesn't know that he's thinking at all.
It's Dave's number on the caller ID, and they haven't spoken in nearly a year. Not since Dad's last heart attack. It's not too hard to guess why he's calling; otherwise, he'd just save it for the Christmas newsletter that John can never read sober.
"Hey, what's up?"
"Hey, John. It's, ah. It's Dad." It doesn't occur to John, apparently, to feel anything at all until Dave's normally confident voice is on the verge of breaking. "He had another attack last night. Held on until about an hour ago, but..."
John closes his eyes, doesn't say any of the uncharitable things he's always imagined himself saying right now. They were never really meant for Dave, anyway. "Okay," he manages, reaching blindly for the towel, wiping off the last of the shaving cream. "Yeah. I'm on my way."
---
Chapter 10