Damaged Goods, Chapter 14
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. :)
The cuffs are there for intimidation, the guns are protocol, and though none of them are actually used, the fact that they're so clearly just for show is only an indication of what's to come when Woolsey and Coolidge join him and his guards in the conference room.
Neither of them, it's obvious, have any background in suspect interrogation. The fact that they're forgetting to actually ask him questions is the most obvious tell. For the most part, Coolidge and Woolsey argue over his head, picking apart every conceivable angle of the same few points. It's hard to tell who's angrier; Woolsey's the only one making half an effort to hide it.
"The fact of the matter is that we've got to at least be willing to contemplate that you've been compromised. One does not simply call up the general and send him in to take over someone's pet project." Coolidge is sweating, underneath his suit, and the fact that he's so blatantly pointing out his real concern is a little galling. Military or civilian, they hate it when their link on the chain of command is skipped. "What I can't understand is why you decided that wasting the time and resources of several departments was preferable to patience. It's all well and good to want to let him out of the cell and hope for the best, but there are a hundred different projects happening here, twice that many security protocols, and while we've been working on them-
"Sure you have," John mutters, and the glare he receives in return is nearly gratifying.
Woolsey shakes his head. "These things take time, Mr Sheppard. You must understand that. For one, this facility was never intended for residential use. More importantly, however, is our directive. We have the safety of this entire base, and everyone in it, to consider. Never mind the other 7 billion people on the planet we're accountable to."
"Don't talk about being accountable for the well being of others," Sheppard grinds out, sneering mostly at Coolidge, since he's clearly needing a reason to play bad cop in this equation, and the fewer bridges he burns with Woolsey, the better. "You fell off that high horse the moment you even considered your little experiment, and the ride hadn't been going all that smoothly beforehand."
"Unfortunately, your actions are not unimpeachable enough to bear out your words," Woolsey sighs, "seeing as how they seem to indicate a definite growing, well, I don't know whether to call it bias or affinity or what, with Mr. Dex."
Taking up where Woolsey leaves off, Coolidge points emphatically at John. "The fact alone, that you didn't see fit to follow basic security protocols, is dubious enough. And believe me, had Mr. Dex decided to attempt an escape, the charges you'd be brought up on would be quite serious indeed. But deciding of your own volition to ignore the proper chain of command so brazenly? That doesn't indicate his willingness to ally himself with us, it merely indicates that you've allied yourself with him."
Maybe I have. The words are fast on his tongue, it's just his teeth clenching shut that stop them being spoken. "Look. I do trust him. And no offense, honestly, but you hired me to do exactly this. Had my input carried any weight with you at all, or had your committee been able to reach any sort of actionable agreements, this wouldn't even be an issue. So. You want to charge me with something, find something to charge me with. You want to fire me, go right ahead. You want any sort of results? Give me something to work with."
Coolidge's face has gone completely red with anger by the time he's done speaking, and Woolsey is shaking his head. It's not until the steel comes back into Woolsey's eyes that John realizes why.
"No, Coolidge. He's right. We do need him. For one, the wraith will be here in a matter of days, and he's the one person on the planet best suited to work our last line of defense, and the IOA, honestly, has a hundred other matters we need to be focusing on in the meantime. And unless you want to reassign Keller from all her duties in the medical department, there's nobody in this facility that has half Sheppard's rapport with Mr. Dex."
Coolidge sneers, tapping the edge of the folder he's carrying against the palm of his hand. "Mr. Dex is not the priority."
"He's enough of a priority for you to be watching Sheppard's every move on the security feeds," Woolsey points out. "He's enough of a priority that you're wasting my time, John's, and your own with all this. And might I remind you, there's a good possibility that the wraith will be swarming Earth next week. How could Ronon Dex possibly make it any worse?"
"Well, he's already fostered insubordination from Mr. Sheppard, who in turn has seen fit to presume to give orders to Marines. Things don't get tightened up around here, there's no telling how far that kind of behavior could spread. It doesn't just end with them waiting at the top of the elevator in case Mr. Dex only escapes that far, and never mind the fact that one guarded level does little to protect the other several floors of this facility. I'm sorry," Coolidge says icily, turning on Woolsey, "but at this point in time, we need to assess the information at hand to determine not only whether Mr. Sheppard is truly the right man for his job, but if you're the right one for yours."
Coolidge slips a piece of paper out of the file he's holding and hands it Woolsey. John's not sure what passes between them in the glares they're exchanging, but a few moments later, John's barely surprised to be led out of the office by the same guards that had brought him here. The only thing that stands out, really, is that when they get off the elevator, John's shown to his own cell.
---
Unscheduled elevator arrivals are unsettling enough when John's not being led, stone faced, into the cell next to his own, but obviously things have somehow managed to change for the worse. Not much is said, as the guards lock the door; they barely glance in Ronon's direction, but as they're leaving, Markham glances over his shoulder apologetically. When the door closes behind them, John is still looking after them, and John says nothing, either, once the elevator's finished moving to another floor.
"What's-"
John shakes his head furiously- not now- and paces the short length of his cell, back and forth again a few times before he seems to realize what he's doing, and sits down with a sigh. He probably doesn't want to be stared at right now, so for the most part, Ronon keeps him in the periphery as he returns to his own bunk and waits, fingernails digging into his palms. If John wanted to talk, he would've done so by now.
It takes a few to notice the pattern. John's sitting with his body turned slightly towards Ronon, though he rarely makes eye contact. Instead, he frowns, every so often, at the camera up in the far corner of the room. His agitated glare then shifts, turning inward, and moments later, the cycle begins again.
Finally, Ronon can take it no longer. "What happened?"
John's eyebrows twitch, his eyes finally meet his, and there's an apology there that sets Ronon's teeth on edge. "Long story short? They've been watching me, don't like how I'm handling things." That, at least, explains the cameras. And possibly his sudden reluctance to speak, though it's never seemed to be a problem before. "They think I'm in league with you, that we're going to- I don't even know. Turn traitor or something."
John's people seem to have an affinity for jailing those they'd have fight for them. The observation starts off in the background, a small thing that probably quickly would've been cast aside if John had said more, but the silence gives Ronon too much time to contemplate it. It's not useful information. A detail that won't fix anything. He needs a plan, something solid to build it on. If John's in here, then he's of little use as an ally.
Apparently, Ronon's no better at valuing people than they are.
He closes his eyes and stretches his neck, his fingers fidgeting for something, a tool, a weapon, something to keep his hands occupied, but it's becoming frighteningly easy to ignore the instinct. "What happens next?" he finds himself asking the floor. It's not a rhetorical question, however, and the lack of answer draws his attention back to the next cell.
"John?"
John's staring at the far wall, unseeing, and he's biting the inside of his lip. The hours it must have been since he's last shaved are starting to darken the shadows of his face, giving him a sickly, gaunt appearance, and the lack of color in his face only makes it worse. Ronon stands up again, moves towards the wall between them. The camera's always been there. It doesn't change anything.
John's breathing much too roughly to be a ghost- Ronon can hear it clearly through the glass, every stutter and rasp, and John's shoulders hitch with every inhalation. It's been so long since he's seen panic on anyone else's face that he's not certain John's actually hyperventilating, and there's nothing he can do for him here except pound on the glass, try to startle him out of it, distract him.
"John!"
John's head swivels up, too much white in his widening eyes as he starts gasping, clutching at his knees and forcing his shoulders back to give his lungs room to fill. His breath is all that Ronon can hear, now, there's no room in it for words. All Ronon's done is make John realize that something really is wrong.
Ronon glances towards the doors, but no help is coming, so he crouches down and pretends more confidence than he's feeling.
"John. Hey. You're fine. You need to calm down." Ronon exhales slowly, partially to school his monotone back into place, partially to remind John how breathing's done. He was never good at this, never made for this, taking care of people in ways that didn't include fighting. He could never exude calm like Melena could, could never lie well enough to believable say everything's okay, but John's watching him, head nearly nodding through his panic; trying to let him try. "Just. Breathe, okay?"
He takes a deep breath himself, lets it out slowly. Then again.
It doesn't even take a minute. John's nodding hasn't ceased, but the movement's less abstract, more measured and deliberate and the color's washing back to his skin.
As soon as John's recovered enough to no longer require Ronon's assistance, his eyes shutter closed. Ronon takes the opportunity to sit down on the floor, his knees pressed awkwardly against the glass. It's as close as he can get, and maybe it'll make up for the fact that he's got no idea at all what he's supposed to say.
---
John's only had one panic attack that he can remember, and it hadn't been when his chopper was going down, or even when he realized that there was no getting back to safety, and that Holland- fuck, Holland- wasn't going to make it out of the desert alive. It hadn't even happened two hours later when the Afghan reinforcements captured him.
It had been three months later, stateside, sitting in the too-bright hallway outside the conference room, waiting for the final decision to come down and knowing, already, what it was going to be. Disobeying a direct order. Dereliction of duty. They hadn't had enough hard evidence to nail him on the various ways he and Holland might have transgressed the Uniform Code, and John hadn't been about to tell them anything, but they'd had enough on him that the outcome had most likely been a foregone conclusion.
Strangely worse, though, and more immediate, had been the sensation of sand and grit underneath his fingernails. He'd had to ball his fists just to stop from picking at them, had to force himself to remember that he'd showered at least a dozen times since the hostage exchange.
He'd had to sit there, in the polished-clean corridor, listening to uniformed footsteps clicking purposefully throughout the building, and convince himself that he wasn't still there. He'd had to remind himself that there was actually worse than here.
And that's when he'd lost control of his breathing.
By the time he'd pulled himself out of it, two airmen and a Captain he'd never met were staring down at him, in bland, distant confusion.
---
John's not met with confusion, once he gets himself together again and brings his attention back to his immediate surroundings, Just Ronon, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his knees and the fingers of one hand pressed against the glass. His calm concern is startling enough that, as soon as his breathing allows it, John starts to laugh.
Ronon doesn't join in, instead glancing at the elevator like he wants something from it, before frowning in frustration that comes so readily that John's certain Ronon's serenity had been forced, and anyway, John's fine now. He can get it under control.
Stop it. You're freaking out the alien.
He swallows the last of the laughter and takes a final deep breath.
Right.
"You all right?" Finally, Ronon's dropped the concern, his face gone back to blank. It makes it a lot easier to look at him straight on.
"Yeah." Suddenly, this is beyond mortifying. But in light of everything else? Yeah. Screw it. He sits up, shakes his head to get the blood moving again. And he really should, at some point, fill Ronon in. "Sorry about that. I just. Anyway."
"Your tracker. I tried...They've de-prioritized the operation to remove it." It's hard to watch Ronon's disappointment kick up through his inscrutability, but John forces himself not to look away. Dejection figures heavily as Ronon drops his hand from the window to lie stunned in his lap.
"But. The wraith will come."
"They've been heading our way for a while, now, even before you showed up." This isn't your fault, I promise. "Your tracker's not what's bringing them. So. Ah. They rescinded the order to have the surgeon come in to remove it."
"What about Dr. Keller?" Ronon's shutting down again, but this time it's happening by degrees. There's absolutely no inflection to his words.
"She doesn't have the experience to pull it off. It's just too hard to get it out without paralyzing you." Christ, this sounds awful, but he's running low on silver linings. "If she tried, you'd just end up more trapped than you already are. I'm sorry. Really."
You've got to know that.
---
John seems more concerned with about Ronon becoming paralyzed than he does about his entire world being devoured by the wraith. Ronon has to admit, it's seeming increasingly possible that he's overestimated their instincts for self preservation.
They hide the the truth from their own people, and seem completely unable to communicate within their ranks. Nobody seems capable of making decisions, of giving orders to actually do anything. And now they've locked up the only person among their number whose words are worth the breath required to say them. It would be laughable, were it not so clearly leading towards their own destruction.
What's less comical is that they know that the wraith are coming. They have the privilege of warning, of lead time, more than Sateda had ever had at their best. And while it's impossible to see, from down here, the full extent of their preparations, Ronon can't think of one good reason to allow a beacon to go out, pinpointing their location for when the hives inevitably begin to swarm.
The wraith might not be here for him, but he'll bring them relentlessly down on their heads, and this is what he can't understand. No world can possibly be this suicidal. The realization shouldn't blindside him, not after the weeks in prison, the wraith, everything, but it does.
"They're going to kill me, aren't they?"
"What?" John evidently, hasn't thought this far ahead, and he's kneeling on the other side of the glass, ducking his head to look more closely at him. "What's going on in there?"
"They're not removing the tracker, they're not letting me go, so the only thing left they can do to protect themselves is destroy it." Me, he thinks. Get rid of me.
"No," John shakes his head adamantly, his hand up on the glass for balance as he moves more completely to the floor. "No. They're just holding you here. Until they can figure something out. It's not like that, I swear-" His face slackens, though, as he realizes what Ronon's been hoping he wouldn't have to point out. John is Ronon's only voice, here, he's buried just as deeply. And from what he can tell, nobody had really listened to John, nor told him much of anything before his incarceration. John's as useless as Ronon is, down here.
"Fuck. Listen. Another few days, some people are coming in to oversee what's going on here." John's eyes dart to the camera in the corner. "I went over the IOA's heads, that's why I'm locked up down here, mostly." Instinctually leaning forward so that he can be heard, John voice drops into a near whisper. Were it not for the glass, Ronon would probably be able to feel his breath on his neck, and for a mad moment, he's wanting it so badly that he barely registers John's next words. "Anyway. Nobody's gonna kill you. I won't let that happen."
John's breath slightly fogs the glass, and Ronon sighs to make a matching cloud, rather than backing away to gain distance the way he thinks he probably should. "You're not in a position to do much," he reluctantly points out, but John merely shrugs.
"Story of my life. Doesn't mean it's not true." If Ronon had backed away, he would've missed it, the flash in John's eyes, the sudden small grin. "And actually... I think I might have an idea." John shakes his head suddenly, then stands. Apparently he needs to pace when he thinks, because he begins wandering his tiny cell.
Even prisoner like this, he's still trying.
Ronon stays on the floor, but watches him carefully, not wanting to miss the moment of epiphany when it comes. Trying not to hope is easier when there's the distraction of motion, of John's fingers gesturing minutely as he sorts through his thoughts.
John's completing his fifth circuit when Ronon's suddenly overcome with the need to thank him, regardless of what happens. He's on his seventh or eighth when Ronon, trying and failing to string words together in his head, realizes that every muscle in his body's gone so tense that he couldn't speak if he wanted to. His heart's beating so fiercely that he can feel it down in his stomach, and there's no room in his lungs for air, for anything else but-
John's on his tenth circuit, maybe, when Ronon falls silently, paralytically, in love with him.
Chapter 15
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. :)
The cuffs are there for intimidation, the guns are protocol, and though none of them are actually used, the fact that they're so clearly just for show is only an indication of what's to come when Woolsey and Coolidge join him and his guards in the conference room.
Neither of them, it's obvious, have any background in suspect interrogation. The fact that they're forgetting to actually ask him questions is the most obvious tell. For the most part, Coolidge and Woolsey argue over his head, picking apart every conceivable angle of the same few points. It's hard to tell who's angrier; Woolsey's the only one making half an effort to hide it.
"The fact of the matter is that we've got to at least be willing to contemplate that you've been compromised. One does not simply call up the general and send him in to take over someone's pet project." Coolidge is sweating, underneath his suit, and the fact that he's so blatantly pointing out his real concern is a little galling. Military or civilian, they hate it when their link on the chain of command is skipped. "What I can't understand is why you decided that wasting the time and resources of several departments was preferable to patience. It's all well and good to want to let him out of the cell and hope for the best, but there are a hundred different projects happening here, twice that many security protocols, and while we've been working on them-
"Sure you have," John mutters, and the glare he receives in return is nearly gratifying.
Woolsey shakes his head. "These things take time, Mr Sheppard. You must understand that. For one, this facility was never intended for residential use. More importantly, however, is our directive. We have the safety of this entire base, and everyone in it, to consider. Never mind the other 7 billion people on the planet we're accountable to."
"Don't talk about being accountable for the well being of others," Sheppard grinds out, sneering mostly at Coolidge, since he's clearly needing a reason to play bad cop in this equation, and the fewer bridges he burns with Woolsey, the better. "You fell off that high horse the moment you even considered your little experiment, and the ride hadn't been going all that smoothly beforehand."
"Unfortunately, your actions are not unimpeachable enough to bear out your words," Woolsey sighs, "seeing as how they seem to indicate a definite growing, well, I don't know whether to call it bias or affinity or what, with Mr. Dex."
Taking up where Woolsey leaves off, Coolidge points emphatically at John. "The fact alone, that you didn't see fit to follow basic security protocols, is dubious enough. And believe me, had Mr. Dex decided to attempt an escape, the charges you'd be brought up on would be quite serious indeed. But deciding of your own volition to ignore the proper chain of command so brazenly? That doesn't indicate his willingness to ally himself with us, it merely indicates that you've allied yourself with him."
Maybe I have. The words are fast on his tongue, it's just his teeth clenching shut that stop them being spoken. "Look. I do trust him. And no offense, honestly, but you hired me to do exactly this. Had my input carried any weight with you at all, or had your committee been able to reach any sort of actionable agreements, this wouldn't even be an issue. So. You want to charge me with something, find something to charge me with. You want to fire me, go right ahead. You want any sort of results? Give me something to work with."
Coolidge's face has gone completely red with anger by the time he's done speaking, and Woolsey is shaking his head. It's not until the steel comes back into Woolsey's eyes that John realizes why.
"No, Coolidge. He's right. We do need him. For one, the wraith will be here in a matter of days, and he's the one person on the planet best suited to work our last line of defense, and the IOA, honestly, has a hundred other matters we need to be focusing on in the meantime. And unless you want to reassign Keller from all her duties in the medical department, there's nobody in this facility that has half Sheppard's rapport with Mr. Dex."
Coolidge sneers, tapping the edge of the folder he's carrying against the palm of his hand. "Mr. Dex is not the priority."
"He's enough of a priority for you to be watching Sheppard's every move on the security feeds," Woolsey points out. "He's enough of a priority that you're wasting my time, John's, and your own with all this. And might I remind you, there's a good possibility that the wraith will be swarming Earth next week. How could Ronon Dex possibly make it any worse?"
"Well, he's already fostered insubordination from Mr. Sheppard, who in turn has seen fit to presume to give orders to Marines. Things don't get tightened up around here, there's no telling how far that kind of behavior could spread. It doesn't just end with them waiting at the top of the elevator in case Mr. Dex only escapes that far, and never mind the fact that one guarded level does little to protect the other several floors of this facility. I'm sorry," Coolidge says icily, turning on Woolsey, "but at this point in time, we need to assess the information at hand to determine not only whether Mr. Sheppard is truly the right man for his job, but if you're the right one for yours."
Coolidge slips a piece of paper out of the file he's holding and hands it Woolsey. John's not sure what passes between them in the glares they're exchanging, but a few moments later, John's barely surprised to be led out of the office by the same guards that had brought him here. The only thing that stands out, really, is that when they get off the elevator, John's shown to his own cell.
---
Unscheduled elevator arrivals are unsettling enough when John's not being led, stone faced, into the cell next to his own, but obviously things have somehow managed to change for the worse. Not much is said, as the guards lock the door; they barely glance in Ronon's direction, but as they're leaving, Markham glances over his shoulder apologetically. When the door closes behind them, John is still looking after them, and John says nothing, either, once the elevator's finished moving to another floor.
"What's-"
John shakes his head furiously- not now- and paces the short length of his cell, back and forth again a few times before he seems to realize what he's doing, and sits down with a sigh. He probably doesn't want to be stared at right now, so for the most part, Ronon keeps him in the periphery as he returns to his own bunk and waits, fingernails digging into his palms. If John wanted to talk, he would've done so by now.
It takes a few to notice the pattern. John's sitting with his body turned slightly towards Ronon, though he rarely makes eye contact. Instead, he frowns, every so often, at the camera up in the far corner of the room. His agitated glare then shifts, turning inward, and moments later, the cycle begins again.
Finally, Ronon can take it no longer. "What happened?"
John's eyebrows twitch, his eyes finally meet his, and there's an apology there that sets Ronon's teeth on edge. "Long story short? They've been watching me, don't like how I'm handling things." That, at least, explains the cameras. And possibly his sudden reluctance to speak, though it's never seemed to be a problem before. "They think I'm in league with you, that we're going to- I don't even know. Turn traitor or something."
John's people seem to have an affinity for jailing those they'd have fight for them. The observation starts off in the background, a small thing that probably quickly would've been cast aside if John had said more, but the silence gives Ronon too much time to contemplate it. It's not useful information. A detail that won't fix anything. He needs a plan, something solid to build it on. If John's in here, then he's of little use as an ally.
Apparently, Ronon's no better at valuing people than they are.
He closes his eyes and stretches his neck, his fingers fidgeting for something, a tool, a weapon, something to keep his hands occupied, but it's becoming frighteningly easy to ignore the instinct. "What happens next?" he finds himself asking the floor. It's not a rhetorical question, however, and the lack of answer draws his attention back to the next cell.
"John?"
John's staring at the far wall, unseeing, and he's biting the inside of his lip. The hours it must have been since he's last shaved are starting to darken the shadows of his face, giving him a sickly, gaunt appearance, and the lack of color in his face only makes it worse. Ronon stands up again, moves towards the wall between them. The camera's always been there. It doesn't change anything.
John's breathing much too roughly to be a ghost- Ronon can hear it clearly through the glass, every stutter and rasp, and John's shoulders hitch with every inhalation. It's been so long since he's seen panic on anyone else's face that he's not certain John's actually hyperventilating, and there's nothing he can do for him here except pound on the glass, try to startle him out of it, distract him.
"John!"
John's head swivels up, too much white in his widening eyes as he starts gasping, clutching at his knees and forcing his shoulders back to give his lungs room to fill. His breath is all that Ronon can hear, now, there's no room in it for words. All Ronon's done is make John realize that something really is wrong.
Ronon glances towards the doors, but no help is coming, so he crouches down and pretends more confidence than he's feeling.
"John. Hey. You're fine. You need to calm down." Ronon exhales slowly, partially to school his monotone back into place, partially to remind John how breathing's done. He was never good at this, never made for this, taking care of people in ways that didn't include fighting. He could never exude calm like Melena could, could never lie well enough to believable say everything's okay, but John's watching him, head nearly nodding through his panic; trying to let him try. "Just. Breathe, okay?"
He takes a deep breath himself, lets it out slowly. Then again.
It doesn't even take a minute. John's nodding hasn't ceased, but the movement's less abstract, more measured and deliberate and the color's washing back to his skin.
As soon as John's recovered enough to no longer require Ronon's assistance, his eyes shutter closed. Ronon takes the opportunity to sit down on the floor, his knees pressed awkwardly against the glass. It's as close as he can get, and maybe it'll make up for the fact that he's got no idea at all what he's supposed to say.
---
John's only had one panic attack that he can remember, and it hadn't been when his chopper was going down, or even when he realized that there was no getting back to safety, and that Holland- fuck, Holland- wasn't going to make it out of the desert alive. It hadn't even happened two hours later when the Afghan reinforcements captured him.
It had been three months later, stateside, sitting in the too-bright hallway outside the conference room, waiting for the final decision to come down and knowing, already, what it was going to be. Disobeying a direct order. Dereliction of duty. They hadn't had enough hard evidence to nail him on the various ways he and Holland might have transgressed the Uniform Code, and John hadn't been about to tell them anything, but they'd had enough on him that the outcome had most likely been a foregone conclusion.
Strangely worse, though, and more immediate, had been the sensation of sand and grit underneath his fingernails. He'd had to ball his fists just to stop from picking at them, had to force himself to remember that he'd showered at least a dozen times since the hostage exchange.
He'd had to sit there, in the polished-clean corridor, listening to uniformed footsteps clicking purposefully throughout the building, and convince himself that he wasn't still there. He'd had to remind himself that there was actually worse than here.
And that's when he'd lost control of his breathing.
By the time he'd pulled himself out of it, two airmen and a Captain he'd never met were staring down at him, in bland, distant confusion.
---
John's not met with confusion, once he gets himself together again and brings his attention back to his immediate surroundings, Just Ronon, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his knees and the fingers of one hand pressed against the glass. His calm concern is startling enough that, as soon as his breathing allows it, John starts to laugh.
Ronon doesn't join in, instead glancing at the elevator like he wants something from it, before frowning in frustration that comes so readily that John's certain Ronon's serenity had been forced, and anyway, John's fine now. He can get it under control.
Stop it. You're freaking out the alien.
He swallows the last of the laughter and takes a final deep breath.
Right.
"You all right?" Finally, Ronon's dropped the concern, his face gone back to blank. It makes it a lot easier to look at him straight on.
"Yeah." Suddenly, this is beyond mortifying. But in light of everything else? Yeah. Screw it. He sits up, shakes his head to get the blood moving again. And he really should, at some point, fill Ronon in. "Sorry about that. I just. Anyway."
"Your tracker. I tried...They've de-prioritized the operation to remove it." It's hard to watch Ronon's disappointment kick up through his inscrutability, but John forces himself not to look away. Dejection figures heavily as Ronon drops his hand from the window to lie stunned in his lap.
"But. The wraith will come."
"They've been heading our way for a while, now, even before you showed up." This isn't your fault, I promise. "Your tracker's not what's bringing them. So. Ah. They rescinded the order to have the surgeon come in to remove it."
"What about Dr. Keller?" Ronon's shutting down again, but this time it's happening by degrees. There's absolutely no inflection to his words.
"She doesn't have the experience to pull it off. It's just too hard to get it out without paralyzing you." Christ, this sounds awful, but he's running low on silver linings. "If she tried, you'd just end up more trapped than you already are. I'm sorry. Really."
You've got to know that.
---
John seems more concerned with about Ronon becoming paralyzed than he does about his entire world being devoured by the wraith. Ronon has to admit, it's seeming increasingly possible that he's overestimated their instincts for self preservation.
They hide the the truth from their own people, and seem completely unable to communicate within their ranks. Nobody seems capable of making decisions, of giving orders to actually do anything. And now they've locked up the only person among their number whose words are worth the breath required to say them. It would be laughable, were it not so clearly leading towards their own destruction.
What's less comical is that they know that the wraith are coming. They have the privilege of warning, of lead time, more than Sateda had ever had at their best. And while it's impossible to see, from down here, the full extent of their preparations, Ronon can't think of one good reason to allow a beacon to go out, pinpointing their location for when the hives inevitably begin to swarm.
The wraith might not be here for him, but he'll bring them relentlessly down on their heads, and this is what he can't understand. No world can possibly be this suicidal. The realization shouldn't blindside him, not after the weeks in prison, the wraith, everything, but it does.
"They're going to kill me, aren't they?"
"What?" John evidently, hasn't thought this far ahead, and he's kneeling on the other side of the glass, ducking his head to look more closely at him. "What's going on in there?"
"They're not removing the tracker, they're not letting me go, so the only thing left they can do to protect themselves is destroy it." Me, he thinks. Get rid of me.
"No," John shakes his head adamantly, his hand up on the glass for balance as he moves more completely to the floor. "No. They're just holding you here. Until they can figure something out. It's not like that, I swear-" His face slackens, though, as he realizes what Ronon's been hoping he wouldn't have to point out. John is Ronon's only voice, here, he's buried just as deeply. And from what he can tell, nobody had really listened to John, nor told him much of anything before his incarceration. John's as useless as Ronon is, down here.
"Fuck. Listen. Another few days, some people are coming in to oversee what's going on here." John's eyes dart to the camera in the corner. "I went over the IOA's heads, that's why I'm locked up down here, mostly." Instinctually leaning forward so that he can be heard, John voice drops into a near whisper. Were it not for the glass, Ronon would probably be able to feel his breath on his neck, and for a mad moment, he's wanting it so badly that he barely registers John's next words. "Anyway. Nobody's gonna kill you. I won't let that happen."
John's breath slightly fogs the glass, and Ronon sighs to make a matching cloud, rather than backing away to gain distance the way he thinks he probably should. "You're not in a position to do much," he reluctantly points out, but John merely shrugs.
"Story of my life. Doesn't mean it's not true." If Ronon had backed away, he would've missed it, the flash in John's eyes, the sudden small grin. "And actually... I think I might have an idea." John shakes his head suddenly, then stands. Apparently he needs to pace when he thinks, because he begins wandering his tiny cell.
Even prisoner like this, he's still trying.
Ronon stays on the floor, but watches him carefully, not wanting to miss the moment of epiphany when it comes. Trying not to hope is easier when there's the distraction of motion, of John's fingers gesturing minutely as he sorts through his thoughts.
John's completing his fifth circuit when Ronon's suddenly overcome with the need to thank him, regardless of what happens. He's on his seventh or eighth when Ronon, trying and failing to string words together in his head, realizes that every muscle in his body's gone so tense that he couldn't speak if he wanted to. His heart's beating so fiercely that he can feel it down in his stomach, and there's no room in his lungs for air, for anything else but-
John's on his tenth circuit, maybe, when Ronon falls silently, paralytically, in love with him.
Chapter 15