Damaged Goods, Chapter 10
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. And there's a Soundtrack available as well. :)
Woolsey is already in his office by six thirty in the morning, and is more awkwardly sympathetic than the situation honestly calls for. No, of course John can have some time, they'll hold the fort down in the meantime, and if there's anything John needs? There isn't, not honestly, but Woolsey doesn't wait. By the time John is off the phone, an outbound ticket for his flight is already in his e-mail inbox, along with a note to have Tamara in HR sort out his return flight when ready.
As far as job perks go, John thinks two hours later, finding his seat in the last aisle of first class, this one's kind of morbid. Two minutes later, a woman sits in the row ahead of him, her dreadlocks- much tighter and neater looking than Ronon's- just visible over the back of her seat. The flight is actually much shorter than it seems.
The two hour drive from the airport to the ranch isn't nearly long enough. Just for contrast.
Dave, of course, has it all under control by the time John pulls up. His voice is clear again, unbreaking as they shake hands and hug in the front yard. It's not until they're breaking apart and trying to figure out to say to each other that reality sets in. Dad's dead. He'll be buried next to Mom in the family plot day after tomorrow. It's just them, now.
---
The days are unending here; the sun burns too brightly. It's best to move at night, when it's cooler, when the animals come out of hiding. In the meantime, he sticks to the caves, watching carefully from the entrance as the wraith search the forest below.
They should've found him by now, but something's been slowing them down. They only ever begin to close the distance when night falls, and he's led them astray for eight, now. Feints towards the gate, then away when he sees the forces still waiting for him. Fewer than last night, but still too many. It'll be best to thin them out further, pick them off one by one.
The thin buzzing of another seeker drone draws near; he can hear it coming from behind and to the left. Crouching, he readies his gun and shoots it down; hopefully it hadn't seen him, but he can't count on it. He's gone before it falls to the ground.
Two wraith come, chasing the sound, and Ronon dispatches them quickly and quietly before heading back towards the river's embankment. The caverns there are shallow, but they've just been searched. If he's lucky, the wraith have moved on.
The sky is growing light. One more day of this burning world, maybe two. He can be patient.
---
The morning passes without interest or incident, and the afternoon begins to stretch into more of the same.
John will be here soon. He'll have news.
It's only taking so long because you're waiting so hard, he chides himself.
The wraith has been silent for an age now, its head cocked to the side like it's listening to the ceiling, but its gaze is locked vacantly, unwaveringly on Ronon. It doesn't move.
Maybe it's finally dying. Maybe it's already gone.
Ronon chides himself for wondering. It's a trick, he tells himself, but keeps glancing over anyway, hoping to prove himself wrong.
He doesn't know when it is- he never knows when it is, down here- that he finally starts shouting. Staring at the camera throws his tray against the wall, spattering the remnants of grease and vinegary red sauce all over the glass and spilling water everywhere, but nothing breaks. The thin plastic cup that had held his medicine rattles infuriatingly on the floor, and he crushes it under foot.
"Hello? Hello?! Somebody- John?!" He strikes the glass with his fist, not even trying to shatter it, just trying to make noise. It's not enough. It's never-
The only answer is silence, but the wraith is sitting up straight now.
So. Not dead.
It's suddenly a very ridiculous thing, to be standing here like this, throwing a tantrum like they've broken him. Dangerous, too. This world is petty and slow, and unlikely to respond well to this sort of outburst.
"This is what I warned you about." John, in Ronon's head, is clearly disappointed. "My people were all set to agree, and then you did this?"
The dread's strong enough that he can't look away when he hears the elevator moving. When it opens, though, it's not John, but Dr. Keller who follows the guards out. If he'd been expecting her, he would've expected the wary, sympathetic expression she's wearing, too. She's carrying a bag over her shoulder and is holding a bundle of small metallic objects. On any other world, he'd identify them as keys, but they bear no resemblance to the cards everyone here uses.
"Ronon?" She doesn't order them to open it and makes no movement to do so herself. "I was just on my way home. Is everything all right?"
"Where is John?" isn't an answer, but it's what he needs to know.
"Oh!" She seems surprised, for some reason embarrassed. "He had to leave this morning. He's spending a few days with his family. The IOA are still discussing your case and should come to a decision soon. In the meantime, everything is kind of on hold."
"When will he return?" He can't bring himself to ask about how the negotiations are going. If John's gone, there might not be any.
"I don't honestly know," she frowns, like she's considering saying something and deciding against it, all at once. "Soon though. You'll find out soon, okay?"
It's not enough, Ronon glares at the floor.
"In the meantime, I've decided to take a few days off to visit my own family." Her grin is weak, like she knows that it's pointless and thin.
Somewhere, right now, John is with his family. Eating, talking. Maybe joking with each other, though Ronon can't picture him laughing, and it shouldn't twist at him like this.
Of course John has people who are important to him. If someone were to come down and offer Ronon the chance to spend time with his family, he wouldn't even stop to consider it. But nobody's coming down or making any offers.
This entire world is full of people, and none of them are his. Not even John.
Ronon blinks, and it's just himself and the wraith again. He doesn't even know how long Keller's been gone.
---
Most of the arrangements have been ready to go for months, it turns out. All that's really left is to loiter while Dave finishes notifying friends and family. There are a lot of names John doesn't recognize, business associates and distant cousins who've done a better job of staying in touch than he's managed.
He nearly calls McKay or Keller just to prove that he's capable, but it's hollow and pointless, and it's not like Ronon's going anywhere. An update would be nice, but not worth having to explain the situation. McKay would be awkward, Keller would make John awkward. And someone would call him, anyway, if there were any developments with Ronon. He's nearly sure of it.
He wanders down to the stables and through the house, gradually closing in on the office where Dave's saying goodbye to someone that might be a relative. His orbit breaks off, sends him up towards the kitchen again. He's only putting off the inevitable- he's actually going to have to talk to Dave at some point- but Tessa, Dave's wife, has always been easier to deal with.
They make small talk- the weather, how the horses are doing, her work at the foundation, and when it's time to gather in the too-large dining room to pick at dinner, she carries most of the conversation. John is filled in on Becky's first semester at Purdue and lightly grilled about his new job with the FBI. Tessa steers them all clear of the icebergs; dinner's not nearly as unbearable as it could be. She's been around for eighteen years now, knows how to handle a Sheppard Family Function, even if it's just the three of them.
Still, though, it's a relief when she goes to pick up Becky from the airport. Neither of them need to be here for this, and with any luck, it'll be over with by the time they get back.
"So," Dave asks, refilling John's glass once they've toasted Dad. The scotch feels obligatory, but he's fairly certain Dave doesn't notice that he's doing it just to be polite. "I know this was supposed to be a small family thing, but. Is there anyone else you want to invite?" He's leaving it tactfully open-ended, but he's never been able to escape the family resemblance. It's too easy to hear Dad's voice in his words.
John bites back a comment about how small a gathering it could possibly be if they've reserved two hotel rooms in town for the guests, and shrugs. "Ah. Did you call Nancy?" He doesn't actually want to see her, not really, but he's out of ideas.
"She's due to have the new baby next week," Dave gives him a measuring glance, looking for a reaction. "Flying's not really an option. And your ex-wife from a decade ago isn't really who I was asking about."
"Yeah, well." Why Dave always has to be so insistent, John's never figured out. And it's a very inopportune time for him to start thinking about Ronon. There haven't been any calls. Everything is fine. "There's nobody."
Dave nods, pours them each another round. "You could tell me if there was, you know." He almost sounds hurt, and maybe he is. "It's not like Dad's around to rake you over the coals. And he got over it, you know. Past few years, since he had us move in."
"I know," John says. Doesn't mean we wouldn't fight about it. It's never been right that Dave's had to play intermediary, and they both know it, but proximity's a bitch. Makes it all to easy to get caught in the crossfire.
Well, John imagines himself saying, there is one guy I've been hanging out with lately. Dreadlocked, six-foot-million, and he comes from space. He's really something when he's unguarded, which is never, given the fact that he's currently a prisoner in the secret government facility, and the best I could hope for from him is a bad case of Stockholm Syndrome.
He cuts that line of thought off for the hundredth time today. Besides, there are so many things wrong with the statement that it should be easy to brush it off once Dave finally moves on, finally, to the matter of the will. It's enough of a buzz-kill that he actually manages, over the next hour, to reassure Dave that no, he doesn't want any part of the company, doesn't want anywhere near Dad's money, it's just that he'd rather put it in trust for Becky.
"Dad's taken good care of her, John," Dave levels a frustrated glare at him, over the rim of his glass. He shakes his head as realization dawns, and in a moment, his patience will be gone, he'll finally get angry. Dave's can do diplomacy like nobody's business, but he's always been his father's son, and this is what they've been building up to all day. "This is just a final fuck you, isn't it?"
John shrugs. For all he know, Dave might be right. "Doesn't change anything. And I really don't want to fight about it with you, okay?"
Dave frowns, refuses to look at John for almost an entire minute, but he's starting to crack. His smirk is tired, but conspiratorial. "You could always donate it to the Democrats."
Father's son or not, he's always been John's brother, too. Might do to remember that more than once a decade, he chides himself. Nevertheless, John knows when he's being let off the hook. "Amnesty International."
"The NAACP."
"Greenpeace."
Dave actually snorts. "Planned Parenthood," he says, and it goes downhill from there.
By the time the headlights of Tessa's Beamer flash through the front window twenty minutes later, John's settled on the Veteran's hospital where his buddy Miller had done his rehab.
"Dad would actually approve," Dave says quietly as they head for the door, glancing over like he's not sure if he's supposed to be warning John or laughing with him. Outside, Becky's clambering out, all nineteen years of her. She looks sleepy. Beyond that, John doesn't really know her. Which is the only reason he holds back for a second, just to get his head on straight.
---
Becky's great, heading for a major in theoretical physics, and John can't tell her that wormholes are real, that faster than light travel exists, that everything she's excited about is actually out there for the taking. When Dave comments that he'd forgotten what a math nerd John had been back in school, he forces himself to shrug, like it's nothing. Like it's not suddenly horrible that he can't talk about it.
"She's excited," he explains and Becky beams at him. Dave and Tessa, for their part, are happily bewildered. "It's infectious, you know?"
It doesn't last, though, once they've all turned in. He's still running over it in his head, and he knows tonight was a fluke, that tomorrow and the next day are going to be a lot more lacking in good humor.
He also knows, along with all the other things he can't tell Becky without violating his impressively comprehensive confidentiality agreement, that he's been gone for over eighteen hours, now, and that despite Woolsey's assurances, things can fall through the cracks. Email is out of the question, and though he'd been given got a secure cell phone, there have been no calls, no messages.
He has no idea if the IOA's reached a decision. No idea if anyone's bothered to tell Ronon what's going on.
It's not what he'd envisioned would be keeping him up this late, but it bothers him more than he would've thought.
---
Just inside the locked cell door, a third tray of food replaces the second, which, like the first, is taken away uneaten. There's the usual bread, strange and square, and some mashed starchy thing that would taste like salt and little else, were Ronon to eat it. The smell of the stew fills his cell, enticing, but not so much that he's willing to give this up. He needs to convince them that he's too ill and weak to fight. This won't work, otherwise.
This has to work. It's his best chance, while John is away with the family, the people he cares about, while he's not here to placate Ronon into patience. While he's not here to make him want to try, not here to talk him out of freedom with a glance.
It would be so easy to hate John.
Ronon's supposed to hate him already.
---
He hears one of the guards getting on the radio as they head back towards the elevator.
"Dr. Selby, this is Velasquez... Eight's still sleeping. Might want to keep an eye on it."
Ronon's careful not to show that he's heard, and instead stays on his cot, facing the darkest corner of his cell, listening. And he waits.
Above, the facility is slowly growing quiet. In a few hours, the guards will come again, look in at him briefly before turning the lights out. His body aches from remaining in the same position for so long, to the point where he's looking forward to the attack, when the guards come, as much as the escape. Just for the sake of movement.
If he thinks about it too much, he might end up giving himself away. Of this, Ronon is certain. It's impossible to tell the passage of time in the near darkness, but the guards don't come. For hours, he waits, listening carefully to the now silent facility, but there's nothing to hear.
The last of the lights go out suddenly, and Ronon gradually realizes that the guards are not coming.
Across the room, the wraith starts muttering to itself. It's impossible not to hear him.
"See nothing, they see all. See through you. Invisible. Alone. Brothers don't come. No rescue, no options. Wait, wait in the dark... nothing but inevitability..."
Squeezing his eyes shut, Ronon refuses to roll over, to ask who the wraith is talking about. He hums to himself, just to keep the voice at bay, and he knows he's getting it wrong. It should be much more familiar than it is; he vividly remembers a headache from loud drums and too much sun, the smell of grass and spilled wine. He can only remember part of the song, though, five notes that lead tantalizingly towards an afternoon he's forgotten before starting over again, winding around the wraith's words.
"...no escape, no home. Forgot it. Gone..."
---
Chapter 11
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. And there's a Soundtrack available as well. :)
Woolsey is already in his office by six thirty in the morning, and is more awkwardly sympathetic than the situation honestly calls for. No, of course John can have some time, they'll hold the fort down in the meantime, and if there's anything John needs? There isn't, not honestly, but Woolsey doesn't wait. By the time John is off the phone, an outbound ticket for his flight is already in his e-mail inbox, along with a note to have Tamara in HR sort out his return flight when ready.
As far as job perks go, John thinks two hours later, finding his seat in the last aisle of first class, this one's kind of morbid. Two minutes later, a woman sits in the row ahead of him, her dreadlocks- much tighter and neater looking than Ronon's- just visible over the back of her seat. The flight is actually much shorter than it seems.
The two hour drive from the airport to the ranch isn't nearly long enough. Just for contrast.
Dave, of course, has it all under control by the time John pulls up. His voice is clear again, unbreaking as they shake hands and hug in the front yard. It's not until they're breaking apart and trying to figure out to say to each other that reality sets in. Dad's dead. He'll be buried next to Mom in the family plot day after tomorrow. It's just them, now.
---
The days are unending here; the sun burns too brightly. It's best to move at night, when it's cooler, when the animals come out of hiding. In the meantime, he sticks to the caves, watching carefully from the entrance as the wraith search the forest below.
They should've found him by now, but something's been slowing them down. They only ever begin to close the distance when night falls, and he's led them astray for eight, now. Feints towards the gate, then away when he sees the forces still waiting for him. Fewer than last night, but still too many. It'll be best to thin them out further, pick them off one by one.
The thin buzzing of another seeker drone draws near; he can hear it coming from behind and to the left. Crouching, he readies his gun and shoots it down; hopefully it hadn't seen him, but he can't count on it. He's gone before it falls to the ground.
Two wraith come, chasing the sound, and Ronon dispatches them quickly and quietly before heading back towards the river's embankment. The caverns there are shallow, but they've just been searched. If he's lucky, the wraith have moved on.
The sky is growing light. One more day of this burning world, maybe two. He can be patient.
---
The morning passes without interest or incident, and the afternoon begins to stretch into more of the same.
John will be here soon. He'll have news.
It's only taking so long because you're waiting so hard, he chides himself.
The wraith has been silent for an age now, its head cocked to the side like it's listening to the ceiling, but its gaze is locked vacantly, unwaveringly on Ronon. It doesn't move.
Maybe it's finally dying. Maybe it's already gone.
Ronon chides himself for wondering. It's a trick, he tells himself, but keeps glancing over anyway, hoping to prove himself wrong.
He doesn't know when it is- he never knows when it is, down here- that he finally starts shouting. Staring at the camera throws his tray against the wall, spattering the remnants of grease and vinegary red sauce all over the glass and spilling water everywhere, but nothing breaks. The thin plastic cup that had held his medicine rattles infuriatingly on the floor, and he crushes it under foot.
"Hello? Hello?! Somebody- John?!" He strikes the glass with his fist, not even trying to shatter it, just trying to make noise. It's not enough. It's never-
The only answer is silence, but the wraith is sitting up straight now.
So. Not dead.
It's suddenly a very ridiculous thing, to be standing here like this, throwing a tantrum like they've broken him. Dangerous, too. This world is petty and slow, and unlikely to respond well to this sort of outburst.
"This is what I warned you about." John, in Ronon's head, is clearly disappointed. "My people were all set to agree, and then you did this?"
The dread's strong enough that he can't look away when he hears the elevator moving. When it opens, though, it's not John, but Dr. Keller who follows the guards out. If he'd been expecting her, he would've expected the wary, sympathetic expression she's wearing, too. She's carrying a bag over her shoulder and is holding a bundle of small metallic objects. On any other world, he'd identify them as keys, but they bear no resemblance to the cards everyone here uses.
"Ronon?" She doesn't order them to open it and makes no movement to do so herself. "I was just on my way home. Is everything all right?"
"Where is John?" isn't an answer, but it's what he needs to know.
"Oh!" She seems surprised, for some reason embarrassed. "He had to leave this morning. He's spending a few days with his family. The IOA are still discussing your case and should come to a decision soon. In the meantime, everything is kind of on hold."
"When will he return?" He can't bring himself to ask about how the negotiations are going. If John's gone, there might not be any.
"I don't honestly know," she frowns, like she's considering saying something and deciding against it, all at once. "Soon though. You'll find out soon, okay?"
It's not enough, Ronon glares at the floor.
"In the meantime, I've decided to take a few days off to visit my own family." Her grin is weak, like she knows that it's pointless and thin.
Somewhere, right now, John is with his family. Eating, talking. Maybe joking with each other, though Ronon can't picture him laughing, and it shouldn't twist at him like this.
Of course John has people who are important to him. If someone were to come down and offer Ronon the chance to spend time with his family, he wouldn't even stop to consider it. But nobody's coming down or making any offers.
This entire world is full of people, and none of them are his. Not even John.
Ronon blinks, and it's just himself and the wraith again. He doesn't even know how long Keller's been gone.
---
Most of the arrangements have been ready to go for months, it turns out. All that's really left is to loiter while Dave finishes notifying friends and family. There are a lot of names John doesn't recognize, business associates and distant cousins who've done a better job of staying in touch than he's managed.
He nearly calls McKay or Keller just to prove that he's capable, but it's hollow and pointless, and it's not like Ronon's going anywhere. An update would be nice, but not worth having to explain the situation. McKay would be awkward, Keller would make John awkward. And someone would call him, anyway, if there were any developments with Ronon. He's nearly sure of it.
He wanders down to the stables and through the house, gradually closing in on the office where Dave's saying goodbye to someone that might be a relative. His orbit breaks off, sends him up towards the kitchen again. He's only putting off the inevitable- he's actually going to have to talk to Dave at some point- but Tessa, Dave's wife, has always been easier to deal with.
They make small talk- the weather, how the horses are doing, her work at the foundation, and when it's time to gather in the too-large dining room to pick at dinner, she carries most of the conversation. John is filled in on Becky's first semester at Purdue and lightly grilled about his new job with the FBI. Tessa steers them all clear of the icebergs; dinner's not nearly as unbearable as it could be. She's been around for eighteen years now, knows how to handle a Sheppard Family Function, even if it's just the three of them.
Still, though, it's a relief when she goes to pick up Becky from the airport. Neither of them need to be here for this, and with any luck, it'll be over with by the time they get back.
"So," Dave asks, refilling John's glass once they've toasted Dad. The scotch feels obligatory, but he's fairly certain Dave doesn't notice that he's doing it just to be polite. "I know this was supposed to be a small family thing, but. Is there anyone else you want to invite?" He's leaving it tactfully open-ended, but he's never been able to escape the family resemblance. It's too easy to hear Dad's voice in his words.
John bites back a comment about how small a gathering it could possibly be if they've reserved two hotel rooms in town for the guests, and shrugs. "Ah. Did you call Nancy?" He doesn't actually want to see her, not really, but he's out of ideas.
"She's due to have the new baby next week," Dave gives him a measuring glance, looking for a reaction. "Flying's not really an option. And your ex-wife from a decade ago isn't really who I was asking about."
"Yeah, well." Why Dave always has to be so insistent, John's never figured out. And it's a very inopportune time for him to start thinking about Ronon. There haven't been any calls. Everything is fine. "There's nobody."
Dave nods, pours them each another round. "You could tell me if there was, you know." He almost sounds hurt, and maybe he is. "It's not like Dad's around to rake you over the coals. And he got over it, you know. Past few years, since he had us move in."
"I know," John says. Doesn't mean we wouldn't fight about it. It's never been right that Dave's had to play intermediary, and they both know it, but proximity's a bitch. Makes it all to easy to get caught in the crossfire.
Well, John imagines himself saying, there is one guy I've been hanging out with lately. Dreadlocked, six-foot-million, and he comes from space. He's really something when he's unguarded, which is never, given the fact that he's currently a prisoner in the secret government facility, and the best I could hope for from him is a bad case of Stockholm Syndrome.
He cuts that line of thought off for the hundredth time today. Besides, there are so many things wrong with the statement that it should be easy to brush it off once Dave finally moves on, finally, to the matter of the will. It's enough of a buzz-kill that he actually manages, over the next hour, to reassure Dave that no, he doesn't want any part of the company, doesn't want anywhere near Dad's money, it's just that he'd rather put it in trust for Becky.
"Dad's taken good care of her, John," Dave levels a frustrated glare at him, over the rim of his glass. He shakes his head as realization dawns, and in a moment, his patience will be gone, he'll finally get angry. Dave's can do diplomacy like nobody's business, but he's always been his father's son, and this is what they've been building up to all day. "This is just a final fuck you, isn't it?"
John shrugs. For all he know, Dave might be right. "Doesn't change anything. And I really don't want to fight about it with you, okay?"
Dave frowns, refuses to look at John for almost an entire minute, but he's starting to crack. His smirk is tired, but conspiratorial. "You could always donate it to the Democrats."
Father's son or not, he's always been John's brother, too. Might do to remember that more than once a decade, he chides himself. Nevertheless, John knows when he's being let off the hook. "Amnesty International."
"The NAACP."
"Greenpeace."
Dave actually snorts. "Planned Parenthood," he says, and it goes downhill from there.
By the time the headlights of Tessa's Beamer flash through the front window twenty minutes later, John's settled on the Veteran's hospital where his buddy Miller had done his rehab.
"Dad would actually approve," Dave says quietly as they head for the door, glancing over like he's not sure if he's supposed to be warning John or laughing with him. Outside, Becky's clambering out, all nineteen years of her. She looks sleepy. Beyond that, John doesn't really know her. Which is the only reason he holds back for a second, just to get his head on straight.
---
Becky's great, heading for a major in theoretical physics, and John can't tell her that wormholes are real, that faster than light travel exists, that everything she's excited about is actually out there for the taking. When Dave comments that he'd forgotten what a math nerd John had been back in school, he forces himself to shrug, like it's nothing. Like it's not suddenly horrible that he can't talk about it.
"She's excited," he explains and Becky beams at him. Dave and Tessa, for their part, are happily bewildered. "It's infectious, you know?"
It doesn't last, though, once they've all turned in. He's still running over it in his head, and he knows tonight was a fluke, that tomorrow and the next day are going to be a lot more lacking in good humor.
He also knows, along with all the other things he can't tell Becky without violating his impressively comprehensive confidentiality agreement, that he's been gone for over eighteen hours, now, and that despite Woolsey's assurances, things can fall through the cracks. Email is out of the question, and though he'd been given got a secure cell phone, there have been no calls, no messages.
He has no idea if the IOA's reached a decision. No idea if anyone's bothered to tell Ronon what's going on.
It's not what he'd envisioned would be keeping him up this late, but it bothers him more than he would've thought.
---
Just inside the locked cell door, a third tray of food replaces the second, which, like the first, is taken away uneaten. There's the usual bread, strange and square, and some mashed starchy thing that would taste like salt and little else, were Ronon to eat it. The smell of the stew fills his cell, enticing, but not so much that he's willing to give this up. He needs to convince them that he's too ill and weak to fight. This won't work, otherwise.
This has to work. It's his best chance, while John is away with the family, the people he cares about, while he's not here to placate Ronon into patience. While he's not here to make him want to try, not here to talk him out of freedom with a glance.
It would be so easy to hate John.
Ronon's supposed to hate him already.
---
He hears one of the guards getting on the radio as they head back towards the elevator.
"Dr. Selby, this is Velasquez... Eight's still sleeping. Might want to keep an eye on it."
Ronon's careful not to show that he's heard, and instead stays on his cot, facing the darkest corner of his cell, listening. And he waits.
Above, the facility is slowly growing quiet. In a few hours, the guards will come again, look in at him briefly before turning the lights out. His body aches from remaining in the same position for so long, to the point where he's looking forward to the attack, when the guards come, as much as the escape. Just for the sake of movement.
If he thinks about it too much, he might end up giving himself away. Of this, Ronon is certain. It's impossible to tell the passage of time in the near darkness, but the guards don't come. For hours, he waits, listening carefully to the now silent facility, but there's nothing to hear.
The last of the lights go out suddenly, and Ronon gradually realizes that the guards are not coming.
Across the room, the wraith starts muttering to itself. It's impossible not to hear him.
"See nothing, they see all. See through you. Invisible. Alone. Brothers don't come. No rescue, no options. Wait, wait in the dark... nothing but inevitability..."
Squeezing his eyes shut, Ronon refuses to roll over, to ask who the wraith is talking about. He hums to himself, just to keep the voice at bay, and he knows he's getting it wrong. It should be much more familiar than it is; he vividly remembers a headache from loud drums and too much sun, the smell of grass and spilled wine. He can only remember part of the song, though, five notes that lead tantalizingly towards an afternoon he's forgotten before starting over again, winding around the wraith's words.
"...no escape, no home. Forgot it. Gone..."
---
Chapter 11