Damaged Goods, Chapter 18/?
Title: Damaged Goods
Fandom/Pairing: SGA, John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: R
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.
A/N: Be sure to check out the shiny new cover art, courtesy of
rubygirl29 !!! Thanks, hon!
All chapters available on AO3 and Wraithbait, or start with the master post Dreamwidth or Livejournal.
The sun's shining, and John knows it's one of those things that's supposed to be symbolic- new day, fresh start- but the truth of the matter is that driving northeast towards the facility this early in the morning, the glare is searing into straight into his probably bloodshot eyes.
He wants to close them, catch up on the sleep he'd missed out on standing in his living room window, all night, staring at the lights of the suburbs stretching out. He'd just intended on having one drink, something to shake loose the last of the giddy excitement, something to ease him into sleep.
Then one became two, and eventually three AM had made it's way 'round, and he was still standing there, his feet planted right where Ronon's had been. It didn't feel anywhere near as warm as it had that afternoon. Of course it wouldn't. The sun had set hours before.
And it had come up early, kicking and screaming, searing itself into John's head with the same conclusion he'd arrived at last night Yesterday had been a fluke. Had to have been. Getting a day off, Ronon- Ronon- it had been too suddenly perfect. Too damned close to what he'd wanted, and life hasn't been in the habit of giving him what he wants without fucking him over severely in return.
One perfect day, and there weren't likely to be many more of those, perfect or otherwise. Three days, give or take the end of the world.
One perfect day, though. He'd had one perfect day, then passed out on the floor, fairly certain he'd been cheated.
---
He searches the hallways as he heads down to the chair room, but catches no sight of Ronon. McKay and Zelenka are already waiting for him, ushering him inside on a wave of chatter that he's probably supposed to be tracking.
It occurs to him, the third time he nearly destroys the wrong simulated ship hovering in the space over his head, that maybe he's handling this badly.
Zelenka shoves him towards the door, suggests that maybe he should get some coffee before coming back in half an hour. He's so damned kind about it that the impulse to snipe at him is hard to ignore. He's saved the effort, though, by McKay's sudden ranting from the back monitors. John doesn't have to be the asshole, here.
Ronon's waiting for him in the hallway, hands in his pockets, his shoulders leaning against the wall. His eyes are the only part of him that's smiling, but he falls into step with him without a word.
His hand on John's shoulder, brief and quick, speaks volumes.
---
"You doin' alright?"
Ronon keeps his voice low, wondering if he's speaking of this too soon, but they've got the corridor to themselves for the moment, and no way of knowing how long it'll last. It's impossible to do anything quietly, here. Cameras are everywhere, not just in his cell, and the entire building is made of glass, concrete, and tile that echoes the slightest sounds.
John frowns inwardly as he decides whether or not to answer. When he does, it's just barely. "Rough night. Not enough sleep. Too many drinks, too many thoughts."
Ronon glances up ahead before focusing on him again, suddenly aware that there's probably a proper reaction he's supposed to be having, but John's providing no cues. "Bad ones?"
"Some of 'em," John sighs, finally smiles tiredly. "Not all of 'em." Don't worry, his eyes say, and all it takes is Ronon's answering nod for John's face to become animated again. "How about you? You sleep all right?"
There are voices coming from the other side of the door at the end of the hall, they're nearing the cafeteria, now. He's got to get this out. "Okay." He waits for John's eyes to search him out. Deliberate grins are getting easier. "I liked the day better."
John leans into him, just a little, before leaning across to open the door, one quick happy glance and, yeah.
Maybe he's starting to get the hang of this.
John seems startled by the number of people milling around the cafeteria, or maybe it's the noise, but Ronon's been half-expecting this since arriving back at the facility last night.
He'd been so caught up in John that he hadn't realized what it was to be climbing into the back seat of a truck with his former jailers. Even if he'd had expectations, however, they would've been wrong. He'd been waved into the front seat by Cadman, since the other soldiers were drowsing, close to sleep, in back.
"It's a long way back to the base, and I need to stay awake. Talk to me," she'd said, pulling out into traffic, but he'd run through his edited timeline of events before they'd even reached the edge of town. She'd had to carry the weight of conversation mostly on her own.
She'd done so with admirable skill and energy. They'd gone drinking at three different bars. Markham had won about a hundred dollars playing slots, while Stackhouse had lost triple that playing a game called blackjack. And it was just as well, she'd explained, seeing as how the world was probably coming to an end. She'd asked him questions- if he knew what his orders were going to be, and what had it been like sleeping in the barracks as opposed to his cell. It was right about then that she'd apologized, too.
"Just so you know. We were all following orders. It was never anything personal."
Ronon had nodded, watching the reflective white and yellow lines stretching out on the road ahead of them. They were hypnotic, so much so that when she said his name, he'd had to wonder how many of her words he'd missed.
"Ronon, seriously. If anyone starts giving you a hard time tonight, you let Stackhouse know. I'd tell you to come to me, because Stackhouse is a cranky drunk, but I'm staying in a different part of the base than the guys."
There'd been no need, however. When eventually they'd arrived, Markham and Stackhouse stumbling on their feet, he'd been thinking that it was late enough that the facility would be silent. And in certain circumstances, he might've been right. The scene had been surprisingly familiar, when he finally headed into the barracks, soldiers spending their last few hours before a major battle drinking, talking, arguing, playing cards like the ones he'd seen in the casino. Several of the faces had been unfamiliar; apparently they'd reported in for duty and were only here for the night before getting transported out to their stations and ships. That, as much as anything, would probably have been reason enough for the gathering.
Though there had been a few wary stares coming his way from one corner of the room, he'd found himself being dragged into conversation with four soldiers who he hadn't recognized, who'd arrived that afternoon, apparently in preparation for tomorrow's deployment.
They'd been curious, and had asked him question after question, fast enough that his one-word answers were all that had really been required, and they'd kept passing him the bottle they all were sharing. After the first taste of whiskey burning his throat, it had proved easier to pretend to drink, rather than actually drinking, before passing it along. Still, though, it had taken him a surprisingly long time to find the opportunity to escape back to his own bunk. It was quite late before he managed to bury his face in the pillow and tried to tune out the dwindling noise, to find some approximation of silence, enough distance to think.
He'd wanted to think about John, wanted the thought of him to lull himself into sleep, but every time he'd come close, the sound of some soldier stumbling into a nearby bunk, or a peal of manic laughter from the gathering at the far side of the room, would bring him back.
These people had been his captors. They were trying to be his friends, now.
And some of them would be dead, very soon. For some reason, the knowledge hurt.
---
"What the hell's going on?" John talks out of the side of his mouth as they get into line for coffee. Ronon grabs a mug from the bin as well, though coffee's definitely a taste that he's yet to acquire. The energy in the room isn't too different than it had been last night, though it is much more subdued. Everyone's on duty. Everyone has a commanding officer that might wander in at any moment.
"Teams are getting deployed today," Ronon feels conspicuous, explaining it, but John had probably been locked in the room with that chair since he'd arrived. "Some are heading out to Cheyenne Mountain," he nods in the direction of Carter, Mitchell, and Teal'c, who are heading out the door across the way. "There were more here, earlier, but they started beaming some of them up to one of the ships. Most of the others are heading out in a few hours, when the other ship gets within range." Geosynchronous orbit, he doesn't add, because John probably knows that much at least.
He'd watched the first batch go, first thing thins morning, before John or any of the others who weren't staying on base arrived for the day; they'd glimmered before disappearing. He'd carefully not watched Colonels Mitchell and Lorne saying goodbye in the hallway, pulling apart from each other suddenly, startled by his footsteps coming around the corner. Somehow, even with the echoing walls and floors, he'd managed to learn how to move quietly. The minor satisfaction had only lasted until the first batch had gone, and he'd caught a look at Mitchell's face, still staring at the empty spot in the room where Lorne had been standing moments before. His worried, lost expression had been too raw to examine closely, but Ronon hadn't needed to.
"Huh," John says, and passes him the coffee pot, oblivious to all of this. "What about you? You know what you're supposed to be doing?"
Ronon shakes his thoughts loose with a shrug. "Woolsey was here, this morning," he glances around to see if maybe he's returned, but there's no sign of him. Probably still sitting in his office, talking on the phone. "McKay suggested that I go out with a team, when the time comes. This place is too important as a communications hub, so we're going out into the desert somewhere." John's knuckles going white on the handle of his mug; maybe he's simply trying to keep it from spilling as they make their way to the nearby table.
"All that," John shakes his head, face slackening in disbelief. "After all the we'd better keep you locked up, they're sending you away?"
"Tactical decision," Ronon reminds him, because though John might've been a soldier, once- he'd mentioned a little of it, here and there, and shown him pictures of helicopters like the ones he'd flown- it seemed like he'd deliberately left that part of himself behind. "Damage mitigation. Something goes wrong here, we're out of luck. Something goes down a safe distance away, we might pull through."
"That's not the point, it's not safe-"
"I'll have a team with me," Ronon hazards a sip of his coffee, finds it no better than he'd expected it would be. He doesn't want to talk about this any more. "Besides. You're backup, and I'm your backup. These people here," he gestures at the soldiers and airmen crowding the cafeteria, getting ready for the next exodus. Mitchell is conspicuously absent. "They're the ones doing the heavy lifting."
"Still," John's about to press the issue, and it's easier to agree with him before he starts.
"Yeah." Ronon nods. The coffee's still awful. "I know."
---
He doesn't see much of John for the rest of the day, since Zelenka's got him locked up in the chair room running what seems like a ridiculous amount of tests. For the most part, Ronon's free to fill the time with whatever he can come up with, which isn't much.
Mostly, he just wanders the corridors. Helps move supplies into the cafeteria. Stays to watch them, and a few dozen personnel, get beamed up onto a ship that's so high above the world there's no seeing it from here. It's the sort of thing he wishes John's magazines would've covered, at least enough to give him a mental picture of where all the people are going.
The last group has just flashed out of existence when McKay appears at his shoulder.
"Ah. Hello. You got a minute?"
Ronon follows him back to his office. Through a glass door, he catches sight of the chair room, sees John bathed in blue light, reclining in the chair as Zelenka flits back and forth across a bank of monitors. John doesn't notice Ronon, though, doesn't open his eyes, and McKay's starting to talk, so Ronon probably needs to turn around.
"We've gone over the data, and fixed on a good location for your team."
McKay isn't intimidated by him, barely even notices that he's there as he talks.
"When Sheppard fought the wraith-"
"What wraith?"
"The wraith that... a few months back? McKay frowns. "You don't know?"
"He never said anything."
"Oh." McKay seems honestly surprised, straightening the suit coat he's got on over his shirt. "Ah, well. Yeah. Hmm. How much do you know?"
"The wraith are coming."
McKay rolls his eyes. "Yes. Very illuminating. I mean. The wraith that was here."
"The one I killed?"
"The one Sheppard killed."
"What?"
"Okay," McKay looks pleadingly at the ceiling. "What the hell have you guys been talking about, anyhow? I mean, you're buddies, right? Anyway. A few months back, a wraith crash landed here on Earth. The one you fought was an import that we brought back from Atlantis. But there was another, a few months ago. We were hunting it down, our investigation merged with Sheppard's murder investigation."
"Murder?"
"Well, feeding, but to anyone who doesn't know about the wraith, which is, let's face it, most people, it looks a lot like murder. Hence Detective John Sheppard and his murder investigation. Anyhow, he found it first. Nearly got himself killed, but it was enough for our guys to come in and finish the job. Thing is, the wraith got a signal out. A beacon, pinpointing its location. That's how the wraith found out about our world."
"Okay." Ronon's too busy trying to figure out why John hasn't said anything to guess why McKay's telling him now, but from McKay's expression, it isn't the point right now. "So. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?"
"No. I came in here to tell you that we've figured out where your team's going to be stationed when the time comes." He pulls a folder and a large folded piece of paper off the teetering stack on his desk, and hands it over. "Figured you might want to get the lay of the land, get your thoughts on it before we give it over to the troops, so to speak. Tactical advantage."
Ronon doesn't look at the folder, right now, his full attention's on McKay. "Why give these to me?"
"Because you've got more experience fighting wraith on the ground than anyone else here. I want to know if you think it's a defensible position before I waste my time justifying it to the grunts." McKay's smirking as if he's won something, but it's conspiratorial. It feels like there's supposed to be a compliment in there, somewhere, so Ronon flips the folder open.
"Aerial maps," McKay explains, nodding at the stack of sheets inside. "They correspond to the big topographic map, here." Leaning over his desk, he takes the large map back; unfolded, it covers his desk completely. "Figure it would be handy so you could check for vegetation, and the topo map doesn't show the roads." He frowns vaguely when Ronon doesn't respond. "You know how to read these?"
Ronon frowns as he stares at the concentric lines delineating shapes that don't make sense.
"Ah. No."
McKay falls back into his chair with a sigh. "Wonderful. Okay. Geography 101..."
His words are blunt, and to the point, and startlingly decisive, compared to most of the people Ronon's met here. He's clearly got a fair amount of clout, if the military commanders intend on basing the entire operation off of his recommendations. As McKay explains the lines- elevation- and points out the key printed in the corner, Ronon realizes that McKay's not at all wary of him. He's talking to him like he would anyone, impatiently, with no regard for what might happen if they offend.
It's refreshing. But it's not only that. Ronon had led squads on Sateda, once, but hadn't planned an operation since. There'd never been time, when he was running, and even if there had been enough, he wouldn't have had anyone to plan with. And as McKay explains the points marked on both the topographic an aerial shots, and the stack of paper and the maze of lines begin to sort themselves into some sort of system, there's this weird little sliver of himself that he thinks is waking up.
He'd been running on instinct for so long, he'd forgotten entirely what it meant to plan.
Part of him wants to go find John, tell him I think I understand you people now. Part of him just wants to rip the maps out of McKay's hand and get on with it.
---
His concentration's gotten better, though John suspects it's because he's too exhausted to track anything other than what's in front of him. As drained as he is, though, by the time Zelenka's satisfied that they're at a good stopping point, he's dead on his feet. It's nearly seven o'clock.
Still, he can't help feeling let down when he finds that Ronon's not loitering in the hallway when he gets out. Swinging past the nearly empty cafeteria, and then barracks at the far end of the facility, proves equally useless, and it's probably just as well. John can't stop seeing the afterimages of thousands of drones floating towards ships. By the time he's signed out and stepping into the parking lot, they bleed into the sky above.
It's not dark enough, yet, for stars, and there's too much light pollution even if it were, but as he heads towards his car and digs his keys out of his pocket, he lets the illusion ride. Subtle delusion's preferable to disappointment, anyway.
---
Ronon rolls his shoulders, welcoming the ache and the stretch, and opens his eyes again to find John haggardly dragging his coffee cup across the cafeteria towards him. He's dressed for work, but looks like he'd just rolled out of bed.
Refusing to wonder if he'll ever get to be there when it happens, he kicks out a chair for him.
"So," John accidentally jostles the table with his knee as he sits down. "Got done late, you were already gone. What've you been up to?"
"Spent a while with McKay going over plans the operation. Had to go over all of it again with Woolsey and O'Neill." Ronon shrugs, aware of the drop in his voice as he continues. "Stopped by the lab but you were busy, so I went to eat with Teal'c, then we sparred out back. When we were done, you'd already signed out for the night.
"Sparring, huh?" John smirks. "That would explain the bruising."
Ronon prods at his cheek. Teal'c's elbow had connected sharply enough that he'd been sent sprawling, but it looked worse than it was. "It's not too bad. Beats the hell out of sitting on my ass all night."
John nods, though it's probably not in full agreement, given the look on his face. There are things he'd wanted to tell him, yesterday, but they're not as pressing as he'd thought they'd been. "What about you?"
"Went home. Crashed the hell out. Think I'm still asleep, to be honest. Thankfully, I've only got like an hour's worth of stuff left to do in the chair today. At least that's the plan. Might be two, I don't know, but not too bad. I think they're worried that I'm gonna be too drained if I pull another full day in there."
Ronon observes the deep-set lines of John's face and considers asking him about the wraith he'd fought in the desert, but now doesn't seem like the time. Not in the middle of the bustling cafeteria, with people everywhere and three televisions on in the corners of the room, blaring their unceasing racket. There's too much distraction, here, too many eyes for the kind of conversation it would be. He considers John's words, instead. "They might have a point."
"They might," John cedes. "But it's all a bit overkill, anyway. I mean, Zelenka and McKay, they're smart. The brass probably needs them on a hundred different things right now. Getting ready for the actual fight, with the actual soldiers. Not hanging out here wasting all their time on the second stringer backup."
Ronon buries his sudden frustration with a shrug. It's surprisingly hard to do so. Whatever their part in this turns out to be, arguing about the way they're handling contingencies won't change anything. Apparently reading the irritation off Ronon's face, John sighs.
"I'm not saying otherwise. I just. I don't know."
Ronon's trying to figure out what he's supposed to say when John suddenly straightens in his seat; turning around, Ronon sees why.
"Colonel," John says, as Mitchell shifts his trajectory towards their table, carrying his tray with one hand. "I thought you would've been gone by now. How's everything coming?"
"So far, so good," Mitchell's grinning confidently, nothing at all what he'd looked like yesterday when saying goodbye to Lorne. "O'Neill's dragged half of the IOA back to DC for some big meeting. Carter, Teal'c and I are under orders to hang out here until they get back, then we're off to Colorado."
"Babysitting?" John waves a hand, inviting Mitchell to join them, and to Ronon's surprise, Mitchell sits down.
John's Ronon's only friend- maybe more, the thought escapes before he can shove it back- but Ronon's never seen him be particularly friendly to anyone else. The flash of jealously is startling, ridiculous.
Mitchell smirks, setting in on his toast. "Apparently the scientists prefer yelling at warm bodies to yelling over phone lines. Carter's down in the chair lab with McKay right now. You could probably ind your way down there with your eyes closed, long as you follow the shouting."
"Wonderful," John groans. His eyes flit to Ronon conspiratorially as Mitchell looks down at the orange he's peeling. This, Ronon realizes, is all about information gathering. "Can't wait. You have any idea what the meeting's about?"
"General state of readiness," Mitchell tosses the shredded peels onto his tray. "They're conferencing with the UN and every diplomat they've been able to get a hold of. Trying to coordinate something along the lines of a uniform governmental response should the situation be exposed publicly. No idea what that means practically, though. Contingencies, I guess."
"Would've thought they'd already be in place."
Mitchell just shakes his head and drinks his coffee, but his thoughts are elsewhere. "I know, right?"
---
There's only so much reality to go around, John thinks, climbing out of the chair and into a world that seems more distant and ephemeral every time. He knows it's the tech, nothing more, but the connection he feels leaning back as the universe bursts into existence above him is all encompassing, thrumming into his brain like music. So when he leaves the lab, heads out into the corridors to find mundane reality carrying on without him, it takes him a few minutes to get himself up to speed.
He still hasn't quite managed it by the time he arrives at his office. Checking his email seems an increasingly ridiculous task, but he supposes he should at least go through the motions before heading out to track Ronon down.
He's relieved, five minutes later, when Ronon saves him the trouble, appearing in the doorway wearing gym clothes that he's gotten from somewhere and a skeptically dubious expression.
"What the hell's going on out there?"
"What? I don't know."
"Everyone's freaking out about something called Gitmo. All afternoon"
Maybe it's the last vestiges of the chair-haze clinging to his brain, but he hears the word as an acronym, first. Another vague abbreviation for another protocol, or technology, or advisory committee that he doesn't understand. GITMO. Gathering Information Through Massive Overreaction, he remembers reading on a bumper sticker somewhere.
"Guantanamo Bay?" John waves Ronon in, brings up his web browser, startled by the number of hits posted in the past half hour. "No way."
"So what is it?"
"It's closed." John starts clicking through links; they're annoyingly mirrored between each other, saying nothing more than that after a closed meeting with members of the Joint Chiefs, the UN's Security Council and various other officials, the President's ordered the immediate transfer of prisoners to mainland facilities, where international panels were already being formed to consider their cases.
"This is huge," he says, suddenly remembering that he still hasn't explained anything, and that he really doesn't know how to, and Ronon's still waiting. But he's got an idea.
The televisions in the cafeteria are always on. One of the droning sets has got to be blaring the news out in something resembling a narrative fashion, breaking the situation down into its most basic components for the rarely informed. For once, it's exactly what they need.
Leading Ronon down the hallway, it's plain that he's not the only one with this idea. Personnel have flooded the cafeteria, pausing in their preparations for the end of the world to watch the talking heads do their thing. Mitchell's nowhere to be found, but Teal'c nods at them both from across the room. Joining the back of the smallest crowd, they watch one of the reports, already in progress.
"...expect in the coming weeks is the reconsideration of several military disputes all over the world, as this decision is already bringing with it several political considerations..."
Ronon's arms are crossed skeptically, and maybe this wasn't the answer John was hoping to give him.
"Short version," he begins, but it's mostly a false start. "You know how they kept you locked up for weeks?"
One eyebrow is raised in response. "Yeah?"
"You're not the only one. Guantanamo Bay- Gitmo for short- is where we've been keeping a lot of prisoners of war. Nobody likes the way they've been treated."
"Why not?"
Same reason I didn't like it when you were being indefinitely detained, John doesn't say. "Allegations of torture, mostly. The way the prison's been handled has been a clusterfuck from the start." Ronon's nod of understanding becomes one of greeting as McKay comes up to stand next to them.
"Congratulations," he says out of the side of his mouth, watching the news a moment more before turning to John. "Not to you personally, of course, but as the most proximal American in this part of the cafeteria, you're an adequate diplomat."
"Right. Ah. Thanks." John shakes his head, unable to block the bigger question from taking up all space inside his head. He can't help being skeptical. "Years and years, all that, and right now, they decide to do this?"
On the television, the scene's already cut away to a reporter standing in front of the capitol building.
"...talking about declaring today a national holiday, though there's been no official word on this yet from congress. Regardless of their decision, many cities around the country, and around the world, have already begun to make plans to celebrate this historic event over the weekend."
"Right now," McKay's mouth quirks into a grin as he rocks his head towards John, "I think they just needed the response." The tail end of his words are lost in the sudden surge of noise in the cafeteria around them, and John swivels back to the television to see why. Behind the reporter, walking down the capitol steps, surrounded by officials and secret service, are the President and Vice President. Behind them, though, is O'Neill, his General's insignia just visible in the distance. It's when the scene changes, cutting to another camera, that John gets the entire story. Walking next to O'Neill, nearly lost in the throng of unimaginative suits, is Woolsey.
"Holy shit," John mutters, forgetting for the moment that he'd just been about to point out to McKay that this seems exceedingly huge to merely be a play for morale. Ronon's smirking at him, pleased, if a little confused himself; he's evidently choosing to go with the flow in the room even if he doesn't quite understand it.
Entertaining the derailing thought of kissing him right now is understandable, if poorly timed.
"...that's just developing now is the international response. While some are concerned that they likely represent little more than a show of good faith, as troops the world over have been ordered to maintain their states of readiness, cease fires have been already been declared in four combat zones as leaders meet to discuss the shifting political landscape." The reporter, a red-haired woman, glances off camera and frowns, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "I'm sorry," she shakes her head. "I'm hearing that the count's been updated to six."
---
"Words gone out on the international scene," John eventually finishes explaining, once they're done poking at bland plates of chicken and rice and are heading towards the back of the facility. "All the major players are on the same page now. They removed the distractions to focus on the fight."
"So why all the celebration, then?" If an army needed to fight, it didn't need a spectacle to allow it.
"I don't know," John admits, following him outside, scanning the yard, though there are few people out here, just a few soldiers sitting around the table by the door, playing cards quietly. "And that's the part I don't get. Don't need a huge political scene if you're just trying to free up your troops to fight a different enemy." Snorting, he kicks at a rock, sending it sliding across the dusty ground. "Unless, I guess, you're getting ready to fight space vampires that nobody knows about. But there's got to be a better way, you know?"
"With you people, there almost always is," Ronon smirks.
"True."
It's quiet, here, nothing like it had been yesterday evening when he'd come out here with Teal'c. There'd been others, too, either training up or looking for a way to wind down, taking advantage of the break in heat that came with nightfall. A few of the guys had been tossing a football around, and the card game at the table had been far more boisterous. Now, though, the flood lights stretch out over a nearly empty yard. There's one woman, sitting motionless with her back to them, just past the edge of the floodlights and facing the distant hills.
He realizes he's staring when he John catches his arm, steers them off the trajectory that would lead to her.
"She's praying. Or meditating. Don't know, but..."
Ronon gives it a few paces before speaking, following John's silence like a map. Keller, at lunch, had explained the flyers on the tables telling people that interfaith services were going to be offered tonight. "You ever try that?"
"Not for a long time," John shrugs. "You?"
"Tried," Ronon thinks back to his mother's sister's small house inside the sanctuary, and how bad he'd been at fighting sleep when she insisted she join him in meditation. "Never really had the patience. Why'd you stop?"
"Never really had the faith."
They're out past the edge of the floodlights, now, far enough away from the facility that it looks depressingly small and functionless. A truck's headlights swing around in the lot before heading out towards the road. Once it's gone, everything is still. There's a part of Ronon that wants to look for cover, but nobody's hunting them, nobody's even looking for them right now. Even so, Ronon can't stop checking over his shoulder before sitting down on the ground next to John, who's leaning back against his own arms and staring up at the sky. There aren't any stars. None at all. The thought that there are soldiers up there, on board a ship miles above the ground preparing for battle makes his jaws clench tightly, and maybe it's the same for John. It's a long time before either of them open their mouths.
John manages first. "You get your marching orders yet?"
"Hmm?"
"When you're leaving. Did they tell you?"
"Tomorrow morning, we're heading out to set up. What about you?"
"According to the sensors, they're going to want me ready to go by tomorrow afternoon. Told me to bring a toothbrush, 'cause it probably won't go down until late tomorrow night." He turns, squinting at Ronon through the low light. "You ready?"
"More than," Ronon finds a stray piece of grass and tugs at it. It's tough, doesn't want to release the ground. "Don't usually know when they're coming. Just that they are."
"Shit," John says, his head falling back against the ground. "This sucks, you know?"
"Yeah," Ronon looks down at him over his shoulder. "It'll be fine, though. They probably have all their guns online already. They're as ready as anyone can be."
"They'd better be, 'cause I sure the hell ain't, and if they fuck up, and if I fuck up, then you-" he cuts himself off, takes a breath, and Ronon's sure John's wishing he'd never said anything, but he can't pretend he's not listening.
"If it comes down to it, they won't get past me, okay?"
Rubbing at his face, John hits him with a level look, before reaching up to grab his shoulder, hauling himself upright. "I know, just. Look. Be careful."
"You first." Ronon grabs the hand that's grasping his shoulder, pulls it across until John's dragged with it, because shaking hands is how deals are sworn, here. John squeezes back, and neither of them let go. "What happened, before? When you killed the wraith."
The flinch in John's grasp is only faint, and followed by a low chuckle. "You heard about that, did you?"
"McKay told me."
"McKay lied." John sighs. "I'm a... I was a detective, before all this. Investigated crimes. Murders, people killing people." John pauses long enough for Ronon to wonder what he's leaving out, but maybe he's just gathering his thoughts. "Was working this one case, a serial killer. Hadn't seen anything like it before, cause, wraith, you know? Only he was disguising itself as a human, and... Shit, I played cards with him. Like those guys back there." He nods back towards the table by the door. "Met Dr. McKay- they were already running their own investigation, trying to track him down. Told me everything, even introduced me to the wraith you killed." He shakes his head, smirking at the sky. "It totally freaked me out, you know? I mean, aliens, it's... it completely upended everything. But it didn't change anything. I couldn't deal, at all."
Ronon frowns. The story's not going the way he'd thought it would, but he nods for John to continue. John doesn't start again until he's pulled his hand back. "I quit the force, packed up my car. Was leaving town, out on the road, going over it all in my head when it all started to make sense again. The stuff I'd seen, combined with what McKay had told me, I was able to figure out where the wraith would be. Turned around, started looking, following the power lines- the wraith was going to tap into the grid, see- and they led me right to him."
"What did you do?"
"Called McKay," John smirks. "Figured I could fill him in, get some pointers, maybe even get some backup, 'cause all I had was a gun and I knew that wouldn't cut it. Thing is, out here? In the desert? Phone service is spotty. The call dropped before I could give them a location."
"Shit," Ronon said, the anticipation thrumming through him even though the ending's a foregone conclusion. "So you went after the wraith?"
"I did. Which was stupid. Totally got my ass handed to me. Caught a bullet." he taps his chest with the side of his thumb, moving it like he's feeling the scar, there. "But the wraith caught a lot more of them, McKay had managed to figure out where I was when the call dropped, fighter jets were deployed. Them shooting the hell out of the desert was pretty much the last thing I remembered. And the wraith was still standing when I blacked out."
"They wouldn't have been able to kill it if you hadn't been there."
"They would've figured it out. McKay's just got this thing about me. Says he met an alternate version of me somewhere. Think maybe he's prone to confusing me with him. Or vice versa."
"Alternate version of you?"
"Yeah. From another dimension or universe or something." Ronon frowns him into continuing. "Apparently there are millions of them, and some look a lot like a lot like our reality, it's just that history plays out a little differently on all of them."
"You're serious?"
John shrugs, brushes the dirt off his hands. "Haven't thought too much about it. Finding out about aliens was weird enough." It's his mention of history playing out differently, though, and the sudden wrenching homesickness that it brings, that's got Ronon's attention. If there are enough of them out there, millions like John said, maybe there was one where Sateda was still alive. Maybe there were more.
"Hey." He snaps out of his reverie when John leans in to see his face more clearly, but it's the touch on his arm that's anchoring him, it's John's shifting closer that's steering him back.
If there are a million different universes, Ronon decides, enough of them that Sateda could still exist, then there are probably several more that are as messed up as this one. But maybe there's just enough good in them that this is happening there, too.
John's mouth opens under his own when they kiss, and Ronon can't let him go, even when balance is lost and they're sprawling back against the ground. It's slow, though, careful. There's room to breathe, to shift, to get this one thing right.
Because theirs is the only universe- the only thing in the universe- that matters right now, and it might not be here tomorrow.
---
Chapter 18
Fandom/Pairing: SGA, John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: R
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.
A/N: Be sure to check out the shiny new cover art, courtesy of
rubygirl29 !!! Thanks, hon!
All chapters available on AO3 and Wraithbait, or start with the master post Dreamwidth or Livejournal.
The sun's shining, and John knows it's one of those things that's supposed to be symbolic- new day, fresh start- but the truth of the matter is that driving northeast towards the facility this early in the morning, the glare is searing into straight into his probably bloodshot eyes.
He wants to close them, catch up on the sleep he'd missed out on standing in his living room window, all night, staring at the lights of the suburbs stretching out. He'd just intended on having one drink, something to shake loose the last of the giddy excitement, something to ease him into sleep.
Then one became two, and eventually three AM had made it's way 'round, and he was still standing there, his feet planted right where Ronon's had been. It didn't feel anywhere near as warm as it had that afternoon. Of course it wouldn't. The sun had set hours before.
And it had come up early, kicking and screaming, searing itself into John's head with the same conclusion he'd arrived at last night Yesterday had been a fluke. Had to have been. Getting a day off, Ronon- Ronon- it had been too suddenly perfect. Too damned close to what he'd wanted, and life hasn't been in the habit of giving him what he wants without fucking him over severely in return.
One perfect day, and there weren't likely to be many more of those, perfect or otherwise. Three days, give or take the end of the world.
One perfect day, though. He'd had one perfect day, then passed out on the floor, fairly certain he'd been cheated.
---
He searches the hallways as he heads down to the chair room, but catches no sight of Ronon. McKay and Zelenka are already waiting for him, ushering him inside on a wave of chatter that he's probably supposed to be tracking.
It occurs to him, the third time he nearly destroys the wrong simulated ship hovering in the space over his head, that maybe he's handling this badly.
Zelenka shoves him towards the door, suggests that maybe he should get some coffee before coming back in half an hour. He's so damned kind about it that the impulse to snipe at him is hard to ignore. He's saved the effort, though, by McKay's sudden ranting from the back monitors. John doesn't have to be the asshole, here.
Ronon's waiting for him in the hallway, hands in his pockets, his shoulders leaning against the wall. His eyes are the only part of him that's smiling, but he falls into step with him without a word.
His hand on John's shoulder, brief and quick, speaks volumes.
---
"You doin' alright?"
Ronon keeps his voice low, wondering if he's speaking of this too soon, but they've got the corridor to themselves for the moment, and no way of knowing how long it'll last. It's impossible to do anything quietly, here. Cameras are everywhere, not just in his cell, and the entire building is made of glass, concrete, and tile that echoes the slightest sounds.
John frowns inwardly as he decides whether or not to answer. When he does, it's just barely. "Rough night. Not enough sleep. Too many drinks, too many thoughts."
Ronon glances up ahead before focusing on him again, suddenly aware that there's probably a proper reaction he's supposed to be having, but John's providing no cues. "Bad ones?"
"Some of 'em," John sighs, finally smiles tiredly. "Not all of 'em." Don't worry, his eyes say, and all it takes is Ronon's answering nod for John's face to become animated again. "How about you? You sleep all right?"
There are voices coming from the other side of the door at the end of the hall, they're nearing the cafeteria, now. He's got to get this out. "Okay." He waits for John's eyes to search him out. Deliberate grins are getting easier. "I liked the day better."
John leans into him, just a little, before leaning across to open the door, one quick happy glance and, yeah.
Maybe he's starting to get the hang of this.
John seems startled by the number of people milling around the cafeteria, or maybe it's the noise, but Ronon's been half-expecting this since arriving back at the facility last night.
He'd been so caught up in John that he hadn't realized what it was to be climbing into the back seat of a truck with his former jailers. Even if he'd had expectations, however, they would've been wrong. He'd been waved into the front seat by Cadman, since the other soldiers were drowsing, close to sleep, in back.
"It's a long way back to the base, and I need to stay awake. Talk to me," she'd said, pulling out into traffic, but he'd run through his edited timeline of events before they'd even reached the edge of town. She'd had to carry the weight of conversation mostly on her own.
She'd done so with admirable skill and energy. They'd gone drinking at three different bars. Markham had won about a hundred dollars playing slots, while Stackhouse had lost triple that playing a game called blackjack. And it was just as well, she'd explained, seeing as how the world was probably coming to an end. She'd asked him questions- if he knew what his orders were going to be, and what had it been like sleeping in the barracks as opposed to his cell. It was right about then that she'd apologized, too.
"Just so you know. We were all following orders. It was never anything personal."
Ronon had nodded, watching the reflective white and yellow lines stretching out on the road ahead of them. They were hypnotic, so much so that when she said his name, he'd had to wonder how many of her words he'd missed.
"Ronon, seriously. If anyone starts giving you a hard time tonight, you let Stackhouse know. I'd tell you to come to me, because Stackhouse is a cranky drunk, but I'm staying in a different part of the base than the guys."
There'd been no need, however. When eventually they'd arrived, Markham and Stackhouse stumbling on their feet, he'd been thinking that it was late enough that the facility would be silent. And in certain circumstances, he might've been right. The scene had been surprisingly familiar, when he finally headed into the barracks, soldiers spending their last few hours before a major battle drinking, talking, arguing, playing cards like the ones he'd seen in the casino. Several of the faces had been unfamiliar; apparently they'd reported in for duty and were only here for the night before getting transported out to their stations and ships. That, as much as anything, would probably have been reason enough for the gathering.
Though there had been a few wary stares coming his way from one corner of the room, he'd found himself being dragged into conversation with four soldiers who he hadn't recognized, who'd arrived that afternoon, apparently in preparation for tomorrow's deployment.
They'd been curious, and had asked him question after question, fast enough that his one-word answers were all that had really been required, and they'd kept passing him the bottle they all were sharing. After the first taste of whiskey burning his throat, it had proved easier to pretend to drink, rather than actually drinking, before passing it along. Still, though, it had taken him a surprisingly long time to find the opportunity to escape back to his own bunk. It was quite late before he managed to bury his face in the pillow and tried to tune out the dwindling noise, to find some approximation of silence, enough distance to think.
He'd wanted to think about John, wanted the thought of him to lull himself into sleep, but every time he'd come close, the sound of some soldier stumbling into a nearby bunk, or a peal of manic laughter from the gathering at the far side of the room, would bring him back.
These people had been his captors. They were trying to be his friends, now.
And some of them would be dead, very soon. For some reason, the knowledge hurt.
---
"What the hell's going on?" John talks out of the side of his mouth as they get into line for coffee. Ronon grabs a mug from the bin as well, though coffee's definitely a taste that he's yet to acquire. The energy in the room isn't too different than it had been last night, though it is much more subdued. Everyone's on duty. Everyone has a commanding officer that might wander in at any moment.
"Teams are getting deployed today," Ronon feels conspicuous, explaining it, but John had probably been locked in the room with that chair since he'd arrived. "Some are heading out to Cheyenne Mountain," he nods in the direction of Carter, Mitchell, and Teal'c, who are heading out the door across the way. "There were more here, earlier, but they started beaming some of them up to one of the ships. Most of the others are heading out in a few hours, when the other ship gets within range." Geosynchronous orbit, he doesn't add, because John probably knows that much at least.
He'd watched the first batch go, first thing thins morning, before John or any of the others who weren't staying on base arrived for the day; they'd glimmered before disappearing. He'd carefully not watched Colonels Mitchell and Lorne saying goodbye in the hallway, pulling apart from each other suddenly, startled by his footsteps coming around the corner. Somehow, even with the echoing walls and floors, he'd managed to learn how to move quietly. The minor satisfaction had only lasted until the first batch had gone, and he'd caught a look at Mitchell's face, still staring at the empty spot in the room where Lorne had been standing moments before. His worried, lost expression had been too raw to examine closely, but Ronon hadn't needed to.
"Huh," John says, and passes him the coffee pot, oblivious to all of this. "What about you? You know what you're supposed to be doing?"
Ronon shakes his thoughts loose with a shrug. "Woolsey was here, this morning," he glances around to see if maybe he's returned, but there's no sign of him. Probably still sitting in his office, talking on the phone. "McKay suggested that I go out with a team, when the time comes. This place is too important as a communications hub, so we're going out into the desert somewhere." John's knuckles going white on the handle of his mug; maybe he's simply trying to keep it from spilling as they make their way to the nearby table.
"All that," John shakes his head, face slackening in disbelief. "After all the we'd better keep you locked up, they're sending you away?"
"Tactical decision," Ronon reminds him, because though John might've been a soldier, once- he'd mentioned a little of it, here and there, and shown him pictures of helicopters like the ones he'd flown- it seemed like he'd deliberately left that part of himself behind. "Damage mitigation. Something goes wrong here, we're out of luck. Something goes down a safe distance away, we might pull through."
"That's not the point, it's not safe-"
"I'll have a team with me," Ronon hazards a sip of his coffee, finds it no better than he'd expected it would be. He doesn't want to talk about this any more. "Besides. You're backup, and I'm your backup. These people here," he gestures at the soldiers and airmen crowding the cafeteria, getting ready for the next exodus. Mitchell is conspicuously absent. "They're the ones doing the heavy lifting."
"Still," John's about to press the issue, and it's easier to agree with him before he starts.
"Yeah." Ronon nods. The coffee's still awful. "I know."
---
He doesn't see much of John for the rest of the day, since Zelenka's got him locked up in the chair room running what seems like a ridiculous amount of tests. For the most part, Ronon's free to fill the time with whatever he can come up with, which isn't much.
Mostly, he just wanders the corridors. Helps move supplies into the cafeteria. Stays to watch them, and a few dozen personnel, get beamed up onto a ship that's so high above the world there's no seeing it from here. It's the sort of thing he wishes John's magazines would've covered, at least enough to give him a mental picture of where all the people are going.
The last group has just flashed out of existence when McKay appears at his shoulder.
"Ah. Hello. You got a minute?"
Ronon follows him back to his office. Through a glass door, he catches sight of the chair room, sees John bathed in blue light, reclining in the chair as Zelenka flits back and forth across a bank of monitors. John doesn't notice Ronon, though, doesn't open his eyes, and McKay's starting to talk, so Ronon probably needs to turn around.
"We've gone over the data, and fixed on a good location for your team."
McKay isn't intimidated by him, barely even notices that he's there as he talks.
"When Sheppard fought the wraith-"
"What wraith?"
"The wraith that... a few months back? McKay frowns. "You don't know?"
"He never said anything."
"Oh." McKay seems honestly surprised, straightening the suit coat he's got on over his shirt. "Ah, well. Yeah. Hmm. How much do you know?"
"The wraith are coming."
McKay rolls his eyes. "Yes. Very illuminating. I mean. The wraith that was here."
"The one I killed?"
"The one Sheppard killed."
"What?"
"Okay," McKay looks pleadingly at the ceiling. "What the hell have you guys been talking about, anyhow? I mean, you're buddies, right? Anyway. A few months back, a wraith crash landed here on Earth. The one you fought was an import that we brought back from Atlantis. But there was another, a few months ago. We were hunting it down, our investigation merged with Sheppard's murder investigation."
"Murder?"
"Well, feeding, but to anyone who doesn't know about the wraith, which is, let's face it, most people, it looks a lot like murder. Hence Detective John Sheppard and his murder investigation. Anyhow, he found it first. Nearly got himself killed, but it was enough for our guys to come in and finish the job. Thing is, the wraith got a signal out. A beacon, pinpointing its location. That's how the wraith found out about our world."
"Okay." Ronon's too busy trying to figure out why John hasn't said anything to guess why McKay's telling him now, but from McKay's expression, it isn't the point right now. "So. Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?"
"No. I came in here to tell you that we've figured out where your team's going to be stationed when the time comes." He pulls a folder and a large folded piece of paper off the teetering stack on his desk, and hands it over. "Figured you might want to get the lay of the land, get your thoughts on it before we give it over to the troops, so to speak. Tactical advantage."
Ronon doesn't look at the folder, right now, his full attention's on McKay. "Why give these to me?"
"Because you've got more experience fighting wraith on the ground than anyone else here. I want to know if you think it's a defensible position before I waste my time justifying it to the grunts." McKay's smirking as if he's won something, but it's conspiratorial. It feels like there's supposed to be a compliment in there, somewhere, so Ronon flips the folder open.
"Aerial maps," McKay explains, nodding at the stack of sheets inside. "They correspond to the big topographic map, here." Leaning over his desk, he takes the large map back; unfolded, it covers his desk completely. "Figure it would be handy so you could check for vegetation, and the topo map doesn't show the roads." He frowns vaguely when Ronon doesn't respond. "You know how to read these?"
Ronon frowns as he stares at the concentric lines delineating shapes that don't make sense.
"Ah. No."
McKay falls back into his chair with a sigh. "Wonderful. Okay. Geography 101..."
His words are blunt, and to the point, and startlingly decisive, compared to most of the people Ronon's met here. He's clearly got a fair amount of clout, if the military commanders intend on basing the entire operation off of his recommendations. As McKay explains the lines- elevation- and points out the key printed in the corner, Ronon realizes that McKay's not at all wary of him. He's talking to him like he would anyone, impatiently, with no regard for what might happen if they offend.
It's refreshing. But it's not only that. Ronon had led squads on Sateda, once, but hadn't planned an operation since. There'd never been time, when he was running, and even if there had been enough, he wouldn't have had anyone to plan with. And as McKay explains the points marked on both the topographic an aerial shots, and the stack of paper and the maze of lines begin to sort themselves into some sort of system, there's this weird little sliver of himself that he thinks is waking up.
He'd been running on instinct for so long, he'd forgotten entirely what it meant to plan.
Part of him wants to go find John, tell him I think I understand you people now. Part of him just wants to rip the maps out of McKay's hand and get on with it.
---
His concentration's gotten better, though John suspects it's because he's too exhausted to track anything other than what's in front of him. As drained as he is, though, by the time Zelenka's satisfied that they're at a good stopping point, he's dead on his feet. It's nearly seven o'clock.
Still, he can't help feeling let down when he finds that Ronon's not loitering in the hallway when he gets out. Swinging past the nearly empty cafeteria, and then barracks at the far end of the facility, proves equally useless, and it's probably just as well. John can't stop seeing the afterimages of thousands of drones floating towards ships. By the time he's signed out and stepping into the parking lot, they bleed into the sky above.
It's not dark enough, yet, for stars, and there's too much light pollution even if it were, but as he heads towards his car and digs his keys out of his pocket, he lets the illusion ride. Subtle delusion's preferable to disappointment, anyway.
---
Ronon rolls his shoulders, welcoming the ache and the stretch, and opens his eyes again to find John haggardly dragging his coffee cup across the cafeteria towards him. He's dressed for work, but looks like he'd just rolled out of bed.
Refusing to wonder if he'll ever get to be there when it happens, he kicks out a chair for him.
"So," John accidentally jostles the table with his knee as he sits down. "Got done late, you were already gone. What've you been up to?"
"Spent a while with McKay going over plans the operation. Had to go over all of it again with Woolsey and O'Neill." Ronon shrugs, aware of the drop in his voice as he continues. "Stopped by the lab but you were busy, so I went to eat with Teal'c, then we sparred out back. When we were done, you'd already signed out for the night.
"Sparring, huh?" John smirks. "That would explain the bruising."
Ronon prods at his cheek. Teal'c's elbow had connected sharply enough that he'd been sent sprawling, but it looked worse than it was. "It's not too bad. Beats the hell out of sitting on my ass all night."
John nods, though it's probably not in full agreement, given the look on his face. There are things he'd wanted to tell him, yesterday, but they're not as pressing as he'd thought they'd been. "What about you?"
"Went home. Crashed the hell out. Think I'm still asleep, to be honest. Thankfully, I've only got like an hour's worth of stuff left to do in the chair today. At least that's the plan. Might be two, I don't know, but not too bad. I think they're worried that I'm gonna be too drained if I pull another full day in there."
Ronon observes the deep-set lines of John's face and considers asking him about the wraith he'd fought in the desert, but now doesn't seem like the time. Not in the middle of the bustling cafeteria, with people everywhere and three televisions on in the corners of the room, blaring their unceasing racket. There's too much distraction, here, too many eyes for the kind of conversation it would be. He considers John's words, instead. "They might have a point."
"They might," John cedes. "But it's all a bit overkill, anyway. I mean, Zelenka and McKay, they're smart. The brass probably needs them on a hundred different things right now. Getting ready for the actual fight, with the actual soldiers. Not hanging out here wasting all their time on the second stringer backup."
Ronon buries his sudden frustration with a shrug. It's surprisingly hard to do so. Whatever their part in this turns out to be, arguing about the way they're handling contingencies won't change anything. Apparently reading the irritation off Ronon's face, John sighs.
"I'm not saying otherwise. I just. I don't know."
Ronon's trying to figure out what he's supposed to say when John suddenly straightens in his seat; turning around, Ronon sees why.
"Colonel," John says, as Mitchell shifts his trajectory towards their table, carrying his tray with one hand. "I thought you would've been gone by now. How's everything coming?"
"So far, so good," Mitchell's grinning confidently, nothing at all what he'd looked like yesterday when saying goodbye to Lorne. "O'Neill's dragged half of the IOA back to DC for some big meeting. Carter, Teal'c and I are under orders to hang out here until they get back, then we're off to Colorado."
"Babysitting?" John waves a hand, inviting Mitchell to join them, and to Ronon's surprise, Mitchell sits down.
John's Ronon's only friend- maybe more, the thought escapes before he can shove it back- but Ronon's never seen him be particularly friendly to anyone else. The flash of jealously is startling, ridiculous.
Mitchell smirks, setting in on his toast. "Apparently the scientists prefer yelling at warm bodies to yelling over phone lines. Carter's down in the chair lab with McKay right now. You could probably ind your way down there with your eyes closed, long as you follow the shouting."
"Wonderful," John groans. His eyes flit to Ronon conspiratorially as Mitchell looks down at the orange he's peeling. This, Ronon realizes, is all about information gathering. "Can't wait. You have any idea what the meeting's about?"
"General state of readiness," Mitchell tosses the shredded peels onto his tray. "They're conferencing with the UN and every diplomat they've been able to get a hold of. Trying to coordinate something along the lines of a uniform governmental response should the situation be exposed publicly. No idea what that means practically, though. Contingencies, I guess."
"Would've thought they'd already be in place."
Mitchell just shakes his head and drinks his coffee, but his thoughts are elsewhere. "I know, right?"
---
There's only so much reality to go around, John thinks, climbing out of the chair and into a world that seems more distant and ephemeral every time. He knows it's the tech, nothing more, but the connection he feels leaning back as the universe bursts into existence above him is all encompassing, thrumming into his brain like music. So when he leaves the lab, heads out into the corridors to find mundane reality carrying on without him, it takes him a few minutes to get himself up to speed.
He still hasn't quite managed it by the time he arrives at his office. Checking his email seems an increasingly ridiculous task, but he supposes he should at least go through the motions before heading out to track Ronon down.
He's relieved, five minutes later, when Ronon saves him the trouble, appearing in the doorway wearing gym clothes that he's gotten from somewhere and a skeptically dubious expression.
"What the hell's going on out there?"
"What? I don't know."
"Everyone's freaking out about something called Gitmo. All afternoon"
Maybe it's the last vestiges of the chair-haze clinging to his brain, but he hears the word as an acronym, first. Another vague abbreviation for another protocol, or technology, or advisory committee that he doesn't understand. GITMO. Gathering Information Through Massive Overreaction, he remembers reading on a bumper sticker somewhere.
"Guantanamo Bay?" John waves Ronon in, brings up his web browser, startled by the number of hits posted in the past half hour. "No way."
"So what is it?"
"It's closed." John starts clicking through links; they're annoyingly mirrored between each other, saying nothing more than that after a closed meeting with members of the Joint Chiefs, the UN's Security Council and various other officials, the President's ordered the immediate transfer of prisoners to mainland facilities, where international panels were already being formed to consider their cases.
"This is huge," he says, suddenly remembering that he still hasn't explained anything, and that he really doesn't know how to, and Ronon's still waiting. But he's got an idea.
The televisions in the cafeteria are always on. One of the droning sets has got to be blaring the news out in something resembling a narrative fashion, breaking the situation down into its most basic components for the rarely informed. For once, it's exactly what they need.
Leading Ronon down the hallway, it's plain that he's not the only one with this idea. Personnel have flooded the cafeteria, pausing in their preparations for the end of the world to watch the talking heads do their thing. Mitchell's nowhere to be found, but Teal'c nods at them both from across the room. Joining the back of the smallest crowd, they watch one of the reports, already in progress.
"...expect in the coming weeks is the reconsideration of several military disputes all over the world, as this decision is already bringing with it several political considerations..."
Ronon's arms are crossed skeptically, and maybe this wasn't the answer John was hoping to give him.
"Short version," he begins, but it's mostly a false start. "You know how they kept you locked up for weeks?"
One eyebrow is raised in response. "Yeah?"
"You're not the only one. Guantanamo Bay- Gitmo for short- is where we've been keeping a lot of prisoners of war. Nobody likes the way they've been treated."
"Why not?"
Same reason I didn't like it when you were being indefinitely detained, John doesn't say. "Allegations of torture, mostly. The way the prison's been handled has been a clusterfuck from the start." Ronon's nod of understanding becomes one of greeting as McKay comes up to stand next to them.
"Congratulations," he says out of the side of his mouth, watching the news a moment more before turning to John. "Not to you personally, of course, but as the most proximal American in this part of the cafeteria, you're an adequate diplomat."
"Right. Ah. Thanks." John shakes his head, unable to block the bigger question from taking up all space inside his head. He can't help being skeptical. "Years and years, all that, and right now, they decide to do this?"
On the television, the scene's already cut away to a reporter standing in front of the capitol building.
"...talking about declaring today a national holiday, though there's been no official word on this yet from congress. Regardless of their decision, many cities around the country, and around the world, have already begun to make plans to celebrate this historic event over the weekend."
"Right now," McKay's mouth quirks into a grin as he rocks his head towards John, "I think they just needed the response." The tail end of his words are lost in the sudden surge of noise in the cafeteria around them, and John swivels back to the television to see why. Behind the reporter, walking down the capitol steps, surrounded by officials and secret service, are the President and Vice President. Behind them, though, is O'Neill, his General's insignia just visible in the distance. It's when the scene changes, cutting to another camera, that John gets the entire story. Walking next to O'Neill, nearly lost in the throng of unimaginative suits, is Woolsey.
"Holy shit," John mutters, forgetting for the moment that he'd just been about to point out to McKay that this seems exceedingly huge to merely be a play for morale. Ronon's smirking at him, pleased, if a little confused himself; he's evidently choosing to go with the flow in the room even if he doesn't quite understand it.
Entertaining the derailing thought of kissing him right now is understandable, if poorly timed.
"...that's just developing now is the international response. While some are concerned that they likely represent little more than a show of good faith, as troops the world over have been ordered to maintain their states of readiness, cease fires have been already been declared in four combat zones as leaders meet to discuss the shifting political landscape." The reporter, a red-haired woman, glances off camera and frowns, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "I'm sorry," she shakes her head. "I'm hearing that the count's been updated to six."
---
"Words gone out on the international scene," John eventually finishes explaining, once they're done poking at bland plates of chicken and rice and are heading towards the back of the facility. "All the major players are on the same page now. They removed the distractions to focus on the fight."
"So why all the celebration, then?" If an army needed to fight, it didn't need a spectacle to allow it.
"I don't know," John admits, following him outside, scanning the yard, though there are few people out here, just a few soldiers sitting around the table by the door, playing cards quietly. "And that's the part I don't get. Don't need a huge political scene if you're just trying to free up your troops to fight a different enemy." Snorting, he kicks at a rock, sending it sliding across the dusty ground. "Unless, I guess, you're getting ready to fight space vampires that nobody knows about. But there's got to be a better way, you know?"
"With you people, there almost always is," Ronon smirks.
"True."
It's quiet, here, nothing like it had been yesterday evening when he'd come out here with Teal'c. There'd been others, too, either training up or looking for a way to wind down, taking advantage of the break in heat that came with nightfall. A few of the guys had been tossing a football around, and the card game at the table had been far more boisterous. Now, though, the flood lights stretch out over a nearly empty yard. There's one woman, sitting motionless with her back to them, just past the edge of the floodlights and facing the distant hills.
He realizes he's staring when he John catches his arm, steers them off the trajectory that would lead to her.
"She's praying. Or meditating. Don't know, but..."
Ronon gives it a few paces before speaking, following John's silence like a map. Keller, at lunch, had explained the flyers on the tables telling people that interfaith services were going to be offered tonight. "You ever try that?"
"Not for a long time," John shrugs. "You?"
"Tried," Ronon thinks back to his mother's sister's small house inside the sanctuary, and how bad he'd been at fighting sleep when she insisted she join him in meditation. "Never really had the patience. Why'd you stop?"
"Never really had the faith."
They're out past the edge of the floodlights, now, far enough away from the facility that it looks depressingly small and functionless. A truck's headlights swing around in the lot before heading out towards the road. Once it's gone, everything is still. There's a part of Ronon that wants to look for cover, but nobody's hunting them, nobody's even looking for them right now. Even so, Ronon can't stop checking over his shoulder before sitting down on the ground next to John, who's leaning back against his own arms and staring up at the sky. There aren't any stars. None at all. The thought that there are soldiers up there, on board a ship miles above the ground preparing for battle makes his jaws clench tightly, and maybe it's the same for John. It's a long time before either of them open their mouths.
John manages first. "You get your marching orders yet?"
"Hmm?"
"When you're leaving. Did they tell you?"
"Tomorrow morning, we're heading out to set up. What about you?"
"According to the sensors, they're going to want me ready to go by tomorrow afternoon. Told me to bring a toothbrush, 'cause it probably won't go down until late tomorrow night." He turns, squinting at Ronon through the low light. "You ready?"
"More than," Ronon finds a stray piece of grass and tugs at it. It's tough, doesn't want to release the ground. "Don't usually know when they're coming. Just that they are."
"Shit," John says, his head falling back against the ground. "This sucks, you know?"
"Yeah," Ronon looks down at him over his shoulder. "It'll be fine, though. They probably have all their guns online already. They're as ready as anyone can be."
"They'd better be, 'cause I sure the hell ain't, and if they fuck up, and if I fuck up, then you-" he cuts himself off, takes a breath, and Ronon's sure John's wishing he'd never said anything, but he can't pretend he's not listening.
"If it comes down to it, they won't get past me, okay?"
Rubbing at his face, John hits him with a level look, before reaching up to grab his shoulder, hauling himself upright. "I know, just. Look. Be careful."
"You first." Ronon grabs the hand that's grasping his shoulder, pulls it across until John's dragged with it, because shaking hands is how deals are sworn, here. John squeezes back, and neither of them let go. "What happened, before? When you killed the wraith."
The flinch in John's grasp is only faint, and followed by a low chuckle. "You heard about that, did you?"
"McKay told me."
"McKay lied." John sighs. "I'm a... I was a detective, before all this. Investigated crimes. Murders, people killing people." John pauses long enough for Ronon to wonder what he's leaving out, but maybe he's just gathering his thoughts. "Was working this one case, a serial killer. Hadn't seen anything like it before, cause, wraith, you know? Only he was disguising itself as a human, and... Shit, I played cards with him. Like those guys back there." He nods back towards the table by the door. "Met Dr. McKay- they were already running their own investigation, trying to track him down. Told me everything, even introduced me to the wraith you killed." He shakes his head, smirking at the sky. "It totally freaked me out, you know? I mean, aliens, it's... it completely upended everything. But it didn't change anything. I couldn't deal, at all."
Ronon frowns. The story's not going the way he'd thought it would, but he nods for John to continue. John doesn't start again until he's pulled his hand back. "I quit the force, packed up my car. Was leaving town, out on the road, going over it all in my head when it all started to make sense again. The stuff I'd seen, combined with what McKay had told me, I was able to figure out where the wraith would be. Turned around, started looking, following the power lines- the wraith was going to tap into the grid, see- and they led me right to him."
"What did you do?"
"Called McKay," John smirks. "Figured I could fill him in, get some pointers, maybe even get some backup, 'cause all I had was a gun and I knew that wouldn't cut it. Thing is, out here? In the desert? Phone service is spotty. The call dropped before I could give them a location."
"Shit," Ronon said, the anticipation thrumming through him even though the ending's a foregone conclusion. "So you went after the wraith?"
"I did. Which was stupid. Totally got my ass handed to me. Caught a bullet." he taps his chest with the side of his thumb, moving it like he's feeling the scar, there. "But the wraith caught a lot more of them, McKay had managed to figure out where I was when the call dropped, fighter jets were deployed. Them shooting the hell out of the desert was pretty much the last thing I remembered. And the wraith was still standing when I blacked out."
"They wouldn't have been able to kill it if you hadn't been there."
"They would've figured it out. McKay's just got this thing about me. Says he met an alternate version of me somewhere. Think maybe he's prone to confusing me with him. Or vice versa."
"Alternate version of you?"
"Yeah. From another dimension or universe or something." Ronon frowns him into continuing. "Apparently there are millions of them, and some look a lot like a lot like our reality, it's just that history plays out a little differently on all of them."
"You're serious?"
John shrugs, brushes the dirt off his hands. "Haven't thought too much about it. Finding out about aliens was weird enough." It's his mention of history playing out differently, though, and the sudden wrenching homesickness that it brings, that's got Ronon's attention. If there are enough of them out there, millions like John said, maybe there was one where Sateda was still alive. Maybe there were more.
"Hey." He snaps out of his reverie when John leans in to see his face more clearly, but it's the touch on his arm that's anchoring him, it's John's shifting closer that's steering him back.
If there are a million different universes, Ronon decides, enough of them that Sateda could still exist, then there are probably several more that are as messed up as this one. But maybe there's just enough good in them that this is happening there, too.
John's mouth opens under his own when they kiss, and Ronon can't let him go, even when balance is lost and they're sprawling back against the ground. It's slow, though, careful. There's room to breathe, to shift, to get this one thing right.
Because theirs is the only universe- the only thing in the universe- that matters right now, and it might not be here tomorrow.
---
Chapter 18