My Own Worst Enemy (SGA Sheppard/Dex)
Title:My Own Worst Enemy
Author:
jendavis
Fandom/ Pairing: SGA John/Ronon
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take too seriously.
Summary: For
gaffsie and
rubygirl29 , who helped with some muchly needed prompt action (thanks dearies!) Written for hc_bingo prompt "Wild Card," which became "detoxing."
Ronon had a cold compress over his eyes and a heating pad on his stomach, trying to ease the cramps away. They worked, as long as he didn't move more than an inch. Still, though, he heard John come through the door, tracked his position across the floor as he approached the bed and sat down.
"Just burn my bones and be done with it."
Ronon had been poisoned before. This wasn't even the first time he thought it would kill him, or wished that it would.
It was, however, the first time he'd had to suffer the indignity of being laughed at while being this close to death.
---
"Stop smiling," he grumbled, burying his head in the pillow. "I hate you."
"No you don't," John said. Still grinning.
"Yes I do. This is all your fault."
"Right. I you down and poured Everclear down your throat for three hours straight last night."
Ronon shrugged miserably. He'd been outnumbered, pure and simple. "There were five of them."
"And they hadn't been back to Earth in six months, I know." John pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the fridge. Returning with a bottle of Gatorade, he held it out for Ronon, who pressed the cool bottle against his forehead. "Guess that's what you get for running them so hard during hand-to-hand."
"Whose side are you on?"
"Hey, I tried to have your back, get you back home, but you wouldn't let me. I believe your exact words were-"
"John."
"I don't want to go to back. It's not right, living underground like that, and you can't make me, mole-man. You don't even have any superpowers."
"John."
"I didn't even know you knew what a mole was," John mused, sitting on the bed next to him. "You smell like a brewery."
"Fuck off."
"Really?"
"No. But stop talking. Headache."
"Aspirin not helping?"
"Couldn't keep it down."
"That was hours ago. You want to try again?"
"No," Ronon grumbled, but held out his hand.
---
John turned on the television, which was distraction enough for a while, at least until the cartoons came on. Something about the colors and noise was making him nauseas all over again.
His eyeballs felt like sandpaper, and he grabbed the remote and handed it over to John. "Anything but this. Seriously."
Closing his eyes, he listened to the sounds of the changing channels, laughing, music, women talking. Some kids singing about something.
"Your wife, is she a goer?"
The channel changed again, pausing, and the same voice was still talking. Next to him, he could feel the bed shifting as John laughed, quietly.
"…say no more say no more, know what I mean?"
Ronon didn't have a clue, but it didn't sound like the sort of thing that John would normally watch.
"A nod's as good as a wink to a blind bat."
"The hell is this?" On the screen, two men were talking, drinking something that looked suspiciously like beer.
"…your wife interested in photography?"
"Monty Python."
"Wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more…"
He was far too close to death to try and parse it all out. "What are they talking about?"
"Earth humor."
"I don't get it," Ronon scowled, deciding that he didn't want to get it, either. "I'm going to sleep now."
"Right on." Turning the volume down, John leaned against the headboard, and after a few minutes of muted idiocy from the television, Ronon could feel him twisting one of his dreads between his fingers.
John was pulling, just a bit. Not enough to hurt, but just enough that it was hard for Ronon to focus on anything else.
Ronon was asleep within minutes.
---
He woke lying on his stomach, and the air of the room was cool on his back where his shirt had gotten pulled up up. The light in the room had changed again, and John was standing next to the bed, stretching his arms above his head. Being as how he was staring at Ronon's ass, he didn't seem to notice that he'd opened his eyes.
"Good to see you, too, John."
The smirk broke into a shameless grin. "You really do smell like a distillery, you know. You feel well enough for a shower?"
"With you?"
"If it gets your ass out of bed, yes. And if you promise not to throw up on me."
Ronon tried pushing himself up. He was feeling a lot better, truth be told, but John didn't need to know how much. "Can't promise that."
---
It wasn't until John had the shower warming up that Ronon got out of bed. Catching his own scent, he had to agree. He'd been sweating out the toxins all day, and they'd apparently settled on the surface of his skin.
And on the inside of his mouth.
He needed a toothbrush. Soap. And lots of water.
Through the open door, he caught sight of John taking his shirt off, and grinned.
He needed that, too.
Author:
jendavis
Fandom/ Pairing: SGA John/Ronon
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue, don't take too seriously.
Summary: For
gaffsie and
rubygirl29 , who helped with some muchly needed prompt action (thanks dearies!) Written for hc_bingo prompt "Wild Card," which became "detoxing."
Ronon had a cold compress over his eyes and a heating pad on his stomach, trying to ease the cramps away. They worked, as long as he didn't move more than an inch. Still, though, he heard John come through the door, tracked his position across the floor as he approached the bed and sat down.
"Just burn my bones and be done with it."
Ronon had been poisoned before. This wasn't even the first time he thought it would kill him, or wished that it would.
It was, however, the first time he'd had to suffer the indignity of being laughed at while being this close to death.
---
"Stop smiling," he grumbled, burying his head in the pillow. "I hate you."
"No you don't," John said. Still grinning.
"Yes I do. This is all your fault."
"Right. I you down and poured Everclear down your throat for three hours straight last night."
Ronon shrugged miserably. He'd been outnumbered, pure and simple. "There were five of them."
"And they hadn't been back to Earth in six months, I know." John pushed himself to his feet and crossed to the fridge. Returning with a bottle of Gatorade, he held it out for Ronon, who pressed the cool bottle against his forehead. "Guess that's what you get for running them so hard during hand-to-hand."
"Whose side are you on?"
"Hey, I tried to have your back, get you back home, but you wouldn't let me. I believe your exact words were-"
"John."
"I don't want to go to back. It's not right, living underground like that, and you can't make me, mole-man. You don't even have any superpowers."
"John."
"I didn't even know you knew what a mole was," John mused, sitting on the bed next to him. "You smell like a brewery."
"Fuck off."
"Really?"
"No. But stop talking. Headache."
"Aspirin not helping?"
"Couldn't keep it down."
"That was hours ago. You want to try again?"
"No," Ronon grumbled, but held out his hand.
---
John turned on the television, which was distraction enough for a while, at least until the cartoons came on. Something about the colors and noise was making him nauseas all over again.
His eyeballs felt like sandpaper, and he grabbed the remote and handed it over to John. "Anything but this. Seriously."
Closing his eyes, he listened to the sounds of the changing channels, laughing, music, women talking. Some kids singing about something.
"Your wife, is she a goer?"
The channel changed again, pausing, and the same voice was still talking. Next to him, he could feel the bed shifting as John laughed, quietly.
"…say no more say no more, know what I mean?"
Ronon didn't have a clue, but it didn't sound like the sort of thing that John would normally watch.
"A nod's as good as a wink to a blind bat."
"The hell is this?" On the screen, two men were talking, drinking something that looked suspiciously like beer.
"…your wife interested in photography?"
"Monty Python."
"Wink wink, nudge nudge, say no more…"
He was far too close to death to try and parse it all out. "What are they talking about?"
"Earth humor."
"I don't get it," Ronon scowled, deciding that he didn't want to get it, either. "I'm going to sleep now."
"Right on." Turning the volume down, John leaned against the headboard, and after a few minutes of muted idiocy from the television, Ronon could feel him twisting one of his dreads between his fingers.
John was pulling, just a bit. Not enough to hurt, but just enough that it was hard for Ronon to focus on anything else.
Ronon was asleep within minutes.
---
He woke lying on his stomach, and the air of the room was cool on his back where his shirt had gotten pulled up up. The light in the room had changed again, and John was standing next to the bed, stretching his arms above his head. Being as how he was staring at Ronon's ass, he didn't seem to notice that he'd opened his eyes.
"Good to see you, too, John."
The smirk broke into a shameless grin. "You really do smell like a distillery, you know. You feel well enough for a shower?"
"With you?"
"If it gets your ass out of bed, yes. And if you promise not to throw up on me."
Ronon tried pushing himself up. He was feeling a lot better, truth be told, but John didn't need to know how much. "Can't promise that."
---
It wasn't until John had the shower warming up that Ronon got out of bed. Catching his own scent, he had to agree. He'd been sweating out the toxins all day, and they'd apparently settled on the surface of his skin.
And on the inside of his mouth.
He needed a toothbrush. Soap. And lots of water.
Through the open door, he caught sight of John taking his shirt off, and grinned.
He needed that, too.