This Time (1/1)
Title: This Time
Rating: PG-13- teeny bit of language
By: Jendavis
Spoilers: None
Pairing: John Sheppard/ Ronon Dex
Genre: commentfic (that didn't fit in the comments. Go on. Try and act surprised.)
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
Summary: for rubygirl29 's prompt on comment_fic: "SGA, John/Ronon, On a scale of 1-10, how bad is it?"
"On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?" Ronon repeats Carson's question as he leans over Lorne's shoulder, trying to will the scenery below to move faster. He thinks he should have regained his breath by now, though he'd never run so fast. The two minutes waiting for Atlantis to dial back to send the jumper through should have been enough to recover.
"Ten," John's choking out over the radio, and under Ronon's grip, Lorne's shoulder twitches. He knows just as well how prone to understatement John can be. "How far out are you?"
"Less than a minute, Beckett's prepping in the back right now, he'll be ready to go the second we land."
"What else can you tell me?" Carson asks.
"McKay's still out. Teyla lost consciousness a few minutes ago." There's a pause, then, "she's still breathing, but she's bleeding through, there's. Her pulse, I can't-" John breaks off, they can see him at the edge of the clearing, kneeling over Teyla, pressing against the wound, and Ronon moves to the back to help the doctors with the field stretchers.
John's face is a blind panic and Beckett has to tell him twice to let go of Teyla's wrist, to move out of the way. Ronon grabs his arm and drags him back, and he stumbles to his feet, but doesn't seem to notice his own movement.
Ronon can't see what they're doing, but they've already got McKay in the jumper, and Teyla's ready to move within a minute, and when it's time to move her, John's running ahead of him to take one end of the stretcher.
---
Teyla's rushed to the operating room, and McKay to the scanners, and soon Ronon and John are the only ones left in the jumper bay, though John's getting ready to follow.
"Beckett's got it," Ronon says, putting as much confidence in his voice as he can fake as he catches at John's vest, but if it's as bad as it looks, the last thing they need to do are get in the way.
John's got streaks of blood on his arms and face and his hands are thick with it. None of it is his own, though his face clearly states that he wishes it was.
Like he was supposed to have known that the Genii were using their stolen C4 to blast the face of the hillside, to send rocks and sod flying, to loosen the shining veins within. Like the Genii running the mining operation would have thought to warn them, from their safe ground over the other side of the hill.
The veins had shattered like glass. Fast glass, sharp and deadly, slicing along Teyla's arm as she shielded her face.
Not deadly, Ronon corrects himself. She'll make it.
The Genii, he thinks, won't.
John's just staring at the doorway, his face slack, and they're alone, and these are extremely mitigating circumstances, and nobody in the entire city gives a damn what's happening in the jumper bay right now, so it's okay for Ronon to move closer, until their arms are touching.
John's not so far gone that he doesn't press into him, just a bit.
Keller's voice comes on the radio. "McKay's awake, it's just a concussion, but I'm not allowing visitors just yet." Ronon lets himself take a breath, he hasn't done that in a while, but John goes even more still.
It's almost nothing, compared to what they're hoping for, but they listen to Weir's not-quite- relieved voice, listen to the muted chattering of a worried city, talking around the huge wall on the airwaves where Beckett's voice should be. They can't do anything, can't even think until they hear from him. Nobody can.
That can't be true. Ronon takes stock, tries to think ahead. Strategy. Tactics. When he shifts his stance, his arm sticks dryly to John's, and at least he has a clear path.
"Let's get you cleaned up," he says, and shoves John towards the locker room off the jumper bay.
John sleepwalks next to him and avoids looking in the mirrors, but lets Ronon manhandle him towards the sink. Once Ronon cranks the faucet, though, he shoves his hands under the stream, rubbing them together like he can't get the blood off fast enough, sluicing it up over his arms. Some of the water soaks into his shirt. Some of it, when it splashes to the floor, casts a pink hue on the white tile.
They still haven't heard anything.
Ronon washes his own hands while John scrubs at his face with a damp rag, and watches form the corner of his eye as John finally meets himself in the mirror, looking for anything that he's missed.
Thing's not the right word for it. Blood. Teyla.
"Here," Ronon says, taking the rag from him. "You've got-" and it's easier to swipe at the streak on the back of John's neck himself. Easier still to leave his hand there until John looks at him.
"Beckett's the best doctor in two galaxies." John's suddenly looking right at him, his eyes focused and aware and even searching. Whatever fugue he's been in, he's coming out of it, now, and he's raising his hand to press against Ronon's chest. "Don't worry."
He frowns as he nods. Ronon's worry is not something that John needs to be concerned with, but even with all of this, he's doing it anyway. It's a little insane, and for a second he wonders if John's lost his mind, if this is just some fucked up way of dealing. Denial.
"She's strong. She's going to be okay," John says then, sounding deliberately convinced, and Ronon's surprised to find that something in him believes it now, a little more than he had a few minutes ago. He presses his forehead down to John's and rests it there, and John lets him.
They stand, like that, and they wait and they listen.
Rating: PG-13- teeny bit of language
By: Jendavis
Spoilers: None
Pairing: John Sheppard/ Ronon Dex
Genre: commentfic (that didn't fit in the comments. Go on. Try and act surprised.)
Warnings: None.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take this too seriously.
Summary: for rubygirl29 's prompt on comment_fic: "SGA, John/Ronon, On a scale of 1-10, how bad is it?"
"On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?" Ronon repeats Carson's question as he leans over Lorne's shoulder, trying to will the scenery below to move faster. He thinks he should have regained his breath by now, though he'd never run so fast. The two minutes waiting for Atlantis to dial back to send the jumper through should have been enough to recover.
"Ten," John's choking out over the radio, and under Ronon's grip, Lorne's shoulder twitches. He knows just as well how prone to understatement John can be. "How far out are you?"
"Less than a minute, Beckett's prepping in the back right now, he'll be ready to go the second we land."
"What else can you tell me?" Carson asks.
"McKay's still out. Teyla lost consciousness a few minutes ago." There's a pause, then, "she's still breathing, but she's bleeding through, there's. Her pulse, I can't-" John breaks off, they can see him at the edge of the clearing, kneeling over Teyla, pressing against the wound, and Ronon moves to the back to help the doctors with the field stretchers.
John's face is a blind panic and Beckett has to tell him twice to let go of Teyla's wrist, to move out of the way. Ronon grabs his arm and drags him back, and he stumbles to his feet, but doesn't seem to notice his own movement.
Ronon can't see what they're doing, but they've already got McKay in the jumper, and Teyla's ready to move within a minute, and when it's time to move her, John's running ahead of him to take one end of the stretcher.
---
Teyla's rushed to the operating room, and McKay to the scanners, and soon Ronon and John are the only ones left in the jumper bay, though John's getting ready to follow.
"Beckett's got it," Ronon says, putting as much confidence in his voice as he can fake as he catches at John's vest, but if it's as bad as it looks, the last thing they need to do are get in the way.
John's got streaks of blood on his arms and face and his hands are thick with it. None of it is his own, though his face clearly states that he wishes it was.
Like he was supposed to have known that the Genii were using their stolen C4 to blast the face of the hillside, to send rocks and sod flying, to loosen the shining veins within. Like the Genii running the mining operation would have thought to warn them, from their safe ground over the other side of the hill.
The veins had shattered like glass. Fast glass, sharp and deadly, slicing along Teyla's arm as she shielded her face.
Not deadly, Ronon corrects himself. She'll make it.
The Genii, he thinks, won't.
John's just staring at the doorway, his face slack, and they're alone, and these are extremely mitigating circumstances, and nobody in the entire city gives a damn what's happening in the jumper bay right now, so it's okay for Ronon to move closer, until their arms are touching.
John's not so far gone that he doesn't press into him, just a bit.
Keller's voice comes on the radio. "McKay's awake, it's just a concussion, but I'm not allowing visitors just yet." Ronon lets himself take a breath, he hasn't done that in a while, but John goes even more still.
It's almost nothing, compared to what they're hoping for, but they listen to Weir's not-quite- relieved voice, listen to the muted chattering of a worried city, talking around the huge wall on the airwaves where Beckett's voice should be. They can't do anything, can't even think until they hear from him. Nobody can.
That can't be true. Ronon takes stock, tries to think ahead. Strategy. Tactics. When he shifts his stance, his arm sticks dryly to John's, and at least he has a clear path.
"Let's get you cleaned up," he says, and shoves John towards the locker room off the jumper bay.
John sleepwalks next to him and avoids looking in the mirrors, but lets Ronon manhandle him towards the sink. Once Ronon cranks the faucet, though, he shoves his hands under the stream, rubbing them together like he can't get the blood off fast enough, sluicing it up over his arms. Some of the water soaks into his shirt. Some of it, when it splashes to the floor, casts a pink hue on the white tile.
They still haven't heard anything.
Ronon washes his own hands while John scrubs at his face with a damp rag, and watches form the corner of his eye as John finally meets himself in the mirror, looking for anything that he's missed.
Thing's not the right word for it. Blood. Teyla.
"Here," Ronon says, taking the rag from him. "You've got-" and it's easier to swipe at the streak on the back of John's neck himself. Easier still to leave his hand there until John looks at him.
"Beckett's the best doctor in two galaxies." John's suddenly looking right at him, his eyes focused and aware and even searching. Whatever fugue he's been in, he's coming out of it, now, and he's raising his hand to press against Ronon's chest. "Don't worry."
He frowns as he nods. Ronon's worry is not something that John needs to be concerned with, but even with all of this, he's doing it anyway. It's a little insane, and for a second he wonders if John's lost his mind, if this is just some fucked up way of dealing. Denial.
"She's strong. She's going to be okay," John says then, sounding deliberately convinced, and Ronon's surprised to find that something in him believes it now, a little more than he had a few minutes ago. He presses his forehead down to John's and rests it there, and John lets him.
They stand, like that, and they wait and they listen.