Title: “The Unkindest Cut” (2/5) [sickness challenge]
Title: “The Unkindest Cut” (2/5)
Authors: Everybetty and Kristen999
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Through season 2. Specifically “Conversion”
Challenge: Sickness
Length: 24,400 words
Summary: CAUTION: The Pegasus Galaxy contains many dangers. Like football, giant space ostriches, and sharp edges.
Genre: H/C and Humor.
Notes: Made it in by the skin of our teeth! Want to thank the mods for extending the deadline. Once we heard about this challenge, Beth and I could not resist temptation.
His neck was stiff, muscles spasms and little knots cramping his shoulders. John's legs felt like rubber after his morning run earlier and changing into his uniform was more of a chore than he cared to admit. It must have been that ostrich on steroid's revenge. It would have the last laugh and he would never live down the wild escapade of chasing that stupid bird around. He’d double-checked that Rodney's camera wasn't present for the festivities, eliminating any possible use in blackmail later on. That 'pet' had reminded him of some of the meanest camels he’d had the displeasure of dealing with in Afghanistan. Whatever happened to man's best friend? Four paws, a friendly wagging tail, and a real personality. Though with their luck, the Pegasus's version of Fido would probably want to eat them, too.
He felt drained, not from going mano a mano with a Wraith or fighting for survival on a hostile planet. No, he was achy from his adventure with Big Bird. Figured.
His entire morning had been spent shackled to his desk. He couldn’t help but grin; he had a desk and that still, to this day, amazed him. Paperwork was a fact of command and this month's evaluations were due for several key military personnel. His choices affected promotions, with the possibility of some new sets of stripes and pay raises for three Marines and two airmen. He shook his head at the irony of it all. With the burden of a city's protection resting on his shoulders and his judgment calls influencing entire populations, every once in a while he missed the simplicity of being a pilot.
The reports lay untouched on his desk while he spent his time reading over a proposal he’d typed up for Zelenka suggesting a few modifications to the jumpers that could increase propulsion. While his mathematical skills were second to none- well, maybe Rodney- the physics equations bored him enough that he threatened to fall asleep at his computer.
He pushed aside the paperwork with a sigh and stood from his desk. There’s always time for certain endeavors, he thought to himself with a smile, gripping the football tucked against his side. Ronon had lost to him in poker last week and acquiesced to being shown how useful military strategy could be hidden in the wonders of football.
___________________________________________________________________________
Today was just a little one on one; explain the mechanics, demonstrate some techniques. It'd be fun. He stripped off his jacket, vest, side arm, and knife, placing them in a pile on a bench in the gym.
Ronon seemed genuinely unenthusiastic, eying the leather object bouncing in his hand. “Some of your greatest warriors spend all their time trying to carry that thing over a field?”
John tossed the ball at the Satedan. “It combines the best in physical activity and outthinking your opponent,” he boasted eagerly.
Ronon held the object in between larger hands. “What happens if I pop it?”
John frowned. “You get negative points.”
The runner growled, digging his fingers into the pigskin. “Tell me more about the red zone; sounds like the area I'd like to play in.”
John pushed aside any remaining lethargy from earlier. “That's music to my ears.”
Throwing long passes and instructing the finer points of protecting the ball while running against a guy who was bigger and faster was more of a workout than he’d expected. John wiped at his forehead once again, perspiration soaking his shirt and beads running down his neck. He bobbed and weaved, the finesse in his footwork a little sloppy, but it mattered little when a hulking mass blocked every attempt he made at getting by.
If he were to get together a real game, with full teams, he’d be hard-pressed to decide whether Ronon would be better on offense, with his ability to break through any defensive line and score, or if his skills would be better suited as an impenetrable wall, keeping any runners from getting past him. Maybe he could make up a rule where the Satedan could switch positions.
Right now though, he needed to suggest to Ronon that full on tackling him was not what happened during drills.
He saw stars after another hit and lay crumpled on the ground trying to recall what day it was when Ronon's face loomed over his. “I don't get it.”
Still trying to get air into his lungs foremost on his mind, he raised a hand for his teammate to help lift his sorry ass off the ground. Bent at the knees, still huffing for oxygen, he peered up. “What?”
“Why don't you just take out the quarterback?”
His body was shaky after the topple and he fought the whiny urge to lie back on the ground. He'd never have this chance again to sell Ronon on the game. “That's against the rules.”
Ronon regarded him for a moment. “Dumb rule - it’s the best way to win.”
“The quarterback is the captain. He’s the guy making all the decisions so he's the most protected.”
“If he’s the leader he should accept being the biggest target.”
“Well technically he is... but...” John could see the other man's confusion. “It’s about teamwork, achieving the same goal.”
“And you wear protective gear?”
He pulled up the hem of his black t-shirt to mop at his soggy face. “Yeah.”
“Yet it’s a contact sport.”
He sighed, “Yes, but...”
“And you're not allowed to punch anyone,” the Satedan continued, arching an eyebrow.
“Um, no.”
“Seems like there’s too many rules.” Ronon walked past him unimpressed.
“It’s about mounting the best offense versus the best defense- overcoming stronger opposition. Think of it like chess but you get to hit people.” John knew he was losing the battle.
Ronon was at the other end of the room, not buying his failing sales pitch. The Satedan threw the football at John and then began his charge.
John ran back, judging the distance of the powerful throw. He kept his eye on the speeding object but in his peripheral vision he could see his friend take off at full steam. No way was he going to be crushed again; he angled his leap and caught the ball, almost dropping it. Cursing that he’d bobbled it, John waited for the runner to reach him.
Ronon was a blur of muscle and mass, the air filling with the roar of his charge.
John waited.... Waited...waited, then, as arms and shoulders barreled within inches, he pushed off then twirled around, levering against the weight of the other man. He bounced away, then shifted sharp to his left and Ronon was unable to halt his forward momentum, crashing down to the ground hard as John took off a like a bolt across the small gym.
He huffed, legs pumping, creating a wind that cooled off his overheated cheeks. John crossed the distance to the imaginary goal line, the floor echoing with loud clomping behind him, but Ronon was too far away and the pilot whooped loudly as he reached the end zone and slammed the ball to the ground in triumph.
Filled with excitement that he’d outwitted the big guy, he soon realized he’d forgotten to tell Ronon about another rule in this sport. Something about not tackling the receiver after he’d scored. Good thing the runner was tired when he plowed into his commander. John found himself once again sprawled out on the floor.
“Hmmm, I can see some merit in this game,” he heard Ronon say in the distance. Or was that over him?
John hoped he was still in one piece to resume his duties when the new Marine contingent arrived.
----------------------------
He was going to complain about the air conditioning in this gym. It was one thing to create harsh conditions in survival training; it was another to make people work out in a hot, stuffy metal box. That’s how it felt, as he pulled his sticky black tee from his body when no one was looking.
He was patrolling the room as the new soldiers practiced fighting techniques. Ronon was roaming as well, correcting placement of hands, swings or punches. These men were all highly trained, but learning new combat skills from the races they’d encountered ensured the chances for survival later. Sheppard had done his colonel speech; this wasn't orientation, but he addressed the reasons and objectives of these drills to Atlantis’ newest team members.
Major Lorne took over the exercises once he was done addressing the troops. John wanted to observe, seeking out candidates for certain missions, assessing skill levels. He finished his latest circle and retreated to one corner of the room. He’d never admit it, but the stuffiness of the facility was getting to him. He wasn’t usually one to feel fatigue- oh, maybe after several weeks of non-stop threat levels with bad sleeping and eating habits, but he couldn’t recall ever feeling this run down before.
Yeah, playing tackle dummy for Ronon was a bright idea, John.
“This batch seems more prepared.” Ronon's voice boomed near his shoulder, shaking him out of his inner musings.
“Yeah, they've been in the SG program for some time- they boast the most off-world experience so far.”
“There's a group over there that would be good for one of your football teams.”
John looked over at a unit of large, bulky Marines, not a single one of them under 6’ 4” in height, and, by their bulging biceps and tree trunk legs, seemed the type to bench press small cars instead of weights. “They must’ve been raised on spinach.”
John didn't bother trying to explain when Ronon stared; the Satedan was slowly getting used to his Earth expressions and pop culture references but still could never get them all. And explaining them took all the fun out of it.
Ronon’s gaze took in the whole room, landing on some of the other soldiers and then looked back at the colonel with a calculating expression. “I'd like to teach a new defensive move to this group. Have the smaller guys matched with those big guys.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Like David and Goliath? Never mind. What?”
“Something I think you need to practice.” There was no mistaking the implication in that voice.
“This has nothing to do with chasing that annoying bird yesterday, does it?” Damn that mission was going to haunt him.
Ronon crossed two large arms over his chest, “No, it has to do with the ambush from last week.”
John winced inwardly, thinking back to another simple visit gone badly. “Not every planet is going to have good security; we did well considering we were outnumbered by those raiders and the fact they carried automatic weapons.”
“You used an unwise strategy and found yourself without a tactical advantage.” Ronon began playing with his knife, unsheathing it and flipping it in a repetitive motion.
John tried to recall exactly what Ronon was driving at. The firefight had been intense, the team caught in a crossfire. The more he concentrated, the faster his mind filled with images of his friends pinned down, Rodney's shouting, bullets splintering the tree in front of him. John shook his head, making the room waver a little. Now he was feeling a little dizzy, damn it. Better not be coming down with another cold.
“Hand to hand is not your football. Tackling him blindly was a mistake,” Ronon scolded.
John’s face flushed just a little. “My P-90 was jammed and my 9 mil was empty. If I recall, that Neanderthal was about to shoot you.”
“So you...”
“Tackled him,” John finished, squirming a little under the scrutiny.
Their attackers were huge, each one about seven feet tall. He’d done the only thing he could think of to save his teammate. He’d just headed right for the giant guy's mid section. The raider missed Ronon who was too busy protecting one flank, but the giant easily knocked John to the ground like he was swatting a fly. He’d taken quite the pounding trying to get the caveman off his feet - an attempt that ultimately proved useless no matter what John threw at him.
Ronon eyed his commander, choosing his words carefully. “There’s always going to be someone bigger than you, Sheppard. When faced with a stronger opponent there are ways of knocking one out without taking such a large..…”
“Ass kicking,” John finished for him then sighed. “Alright. So teach all of us.”
Sheppard wasn't upset; he knew this was Ronon's way of showing concern and what better way to get to know his newest Marines than by fighting side by side with them. He went over to the mats to explain to Lorne what they were going to do. The Marines seemed eager to impress their military commander, but as he readied himself to go toe to toe with his new men, he wished his body didn't feel like it was two steps behind.
He was going to find out who had the thermostat set so high and make them pull KP duty for a week.
The Air Force had taught him the means for self-defense, including special training for missions not found in normal service records. Various methods had proven useful on this end of the galaxy. John wasn't the best-trained expert, but he recognized certain types of martial arts. Ronon's move was reminiscent of the best of many different forms.
His much bigger, heavier, and he guessed meaner sparring partner at the moment was Arnold Jr. The blond, buzzed-cut Marine with a lantern jaw and massive tree trunk for a body introduced himself as something else but it didn't matter because all John imagined hearing was a thick Austrian accent introducing himself as Ahnuld. The giant’s job was to try to squash him like a bug- and John’s simple task was to avoid such a pummeling and strike around the pelvic area.
Short of aiming at the groin, which was an option, John practiced swerving, with a jab to the area where the thigh and hip connected. Every once in a while he switched things up and, like the fancy move he used on Ronon in their one on one game, twirled around and shoved his knee to the small of the back of his opponent. Either way he was ducking massive fists and grappling with a guy who could snap his neck like a pencil. With each new Marine he faced, the more exhausted he felt.
He was panting hard and all the buckets he was sweating did little to cool him down. They were not using the type of force needed in a real fight, but John felt like a punching bag nonetheless. The first couple of guys gave him a run for his money, each getting a few shots in. Arnold Jr. either disliked taking orders from an Air Force colonel, or really, really wanted to impress him.
John blocked the swing of a left hand with his wrist, his right knee lifting to impact with a sensitive point at the Marine's side when he lost his balance. He wavered and what was supposed to be merely a good smack to his head ended up knocking him down hard.
“Are you all right, sir?” Arnold Jr's face swam into view.
If the room would stop spinning maybe, but John pushed himself onto his elbows, trying to clear the cobwebs. “Yeah, fine.”
The Marine looked nervous when John didn't get to his feet right away. Truth be told, he felt shaky, but held out his hand to be helped up. He wiped at his brow, realizing how parched his throat felt suddenly. He swallowed but his tongue felt like sandpaper and his mouth lacked sufficient saliva. The severe lack of moisture irritated his throat, which turned into a loud coughing fit instead, earning a visit from Lorne.
“Colonel, are you all right?” The younger man glared at the brutish looking Marine.
Now Arnold Jr's face went from a chiseled slate of neutrality to worried.
“No biggie, Major. Our newest big guy here just got one up on me.” To prove that he was indeed no worse for wear he gave a cocky grin. “Wanna try that again, Sergeant?”
The jarhead looked from the Major back to John who was circling now. The blue-eyed giant grinned. “Yes, sir!”
John wondered if Sergeant Slaughter ate metal parts with those teeth. It felt like he’d gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. The fatigue sucked all the energy from him, but John remained stubbornly on his feet, earning some nice new bruises. He could feel the eyes of Ronon and Lorne watching him from the same corner from earlier. This time during the bout he ignored how crappy he felt and used that annoyance against the burly sergeant.
This was supposed to be test of will, even in training. Chopping down a tree required determination, endurance and patience. John simply outlasted the larger man, using quick movements and ignoring sore muscles and a sweltering room. When Ronon's enough echoed in the gym, there was a collective sigh of relief.
Lorne stood next to him and a set of faces awaited his command. After a few positive comments John issued a dismissed.
The major turned to his CO. “I think that went well.”
“Yes, it did,” he agreed, offering a tired smile.
The commanding officer of Atlantis went to the mats with the fresh contingent and he knew that type of camaraderie in the trenches went a long way towards earning respect. He'd pay a price the next day, but it wasn't anything a hot shower and sleeping for more than a few hours wouldn't cure.
Ronon stayed behind like a shadow as John gathered his stuff. He didn't have the energy to slip his vest or jacket back on, though he fumbled with his belt and side arm. Ronon walked over to him and without a word handed him a water bottle that he gulped down almost too fast. He wiped a hand through his damp hair, and rubbed at his eyes.
“What?” he asked grumpily.
“Nothing.”
It was more like something and he looked at his teammate with suspicion. “Did I pass muster?”
Ronon quirked an eyebrow.
“Guess you’d rather I used a slingshot.”
“I’ve read that legend and I think it’s disrespectful to compare today to that battle.”
John grinned despite himself and began walking, because bed sounded like heaven and anything else could wait. Ronon walked behind him. “You were...slower than usual.”
“That’s what I get playing football before taking on a contingent of Marines.”
One thing that he liked about the big guy was that he was the furthest from a mother hen of any of his teammates. The truth was, yes, he was feeling sick and no, he didn't want to go see Beckett, thank you very much. The past month or so, if someone had so much as the sniffles, he caught it. If there was a slight cold going around it turned into the flu with him. The retrovirus incident had occurred only a couple months ago and the lingering effects from it had left his immune system in a shambles. The past couple of weeks he had been completely healthy except for the run-in with the Neanderthal responsible for the new set of drills. He was sick of Carson's office and, yeah, he was a little touchy about any mention of him being ill.
They were at the hall near his quarters and John patted the Satedan on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”
Ronon gave him persistent look, but said nothing.
“Here,” and the runner handed him back the football hidden in the layers of his coat.
“Keep it for next time.”
Dark eyes studied the leather. “Can I be quarterback?”
John gave him his stern face. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you'll always be on my team and there's only one quarterback,” John said with a smirk as he raised his eyebrows.
Ronon grunted and headed towards whatever he did after sparring. Probably more with Teyla. John turned his lights to dim and collapsed on his bed, his boots still laced. The shower was too far away to bother with, but after noticing how ripe he was, he got to his feet and swayed.
Good thing Ronon's not a tattletale, he thought to himself. Rodney on the other hand... He shook his head and grabbed at the wall when another wave of dizziness washed over him.
“I'm not getting sick,” he muttered. He was going to add 'again', but stripped away his filthy clothes and went under the scorching spray.
The water beat down at his sore back and he leaned his head against the tile stall wearily. He wasn't hungry and the idea of skipping dinner and just catching more shut eye held a great deal of appeal. He had nothing on the docket that couldn't wait. Tomorrow was a nice easy day. At least the beginning part. Quick stop back to Mallomara and then a stupid meeting with Kavanagh and his lackeys.
And he still had those reviews to do.
After toweling off and slipping on his comfiest, most worn out sweats and a tee he lowered himself stiffly into his chair and clicked on the laptop file tagged ‘Evaluations.’
After a few minutes of staring at his computer, he shut the lid down in disgust, got up and walked over to fall into bed, barely taking the time to think the lights completely out before joining them.
Authors: Everybetty and Kristen999
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Through season 2. Specifically “Conversion”
Challenge: Sickness
Length: 24,400 words
Summary: CAUTION: The Pegasus Galaxy contains many dangers. Like football, giant space ostriches, and sharp edges.
Genre: H/C and Humor.
Notes: Made it in by the skin of our teeth! Want to thank the mods for extending the deadline. Once we heard about this challenge, Beth and I could not resist temptation.
His neck was stiff, muscles spasms and little knots cramping his shoulders. John's legs felt like rubber after his morning run earlier and changing into his uniform was more of a chore than he cared to admit. It must have been that ostrich on steroid's revenge. It would have the last laugh and he would never live down the wild escapade of chasing that stupid bird around. He’d double-checked that Rodney's camera wasn't present for the festivities, eliminating any possible use in blackmail later on. That 'pet' had reminded him of some of the meanest camels he’d had the displeasure of dealing with in Afghanistan. Whatever happened to man's best friend? Four paws, a friendly wagging tail, and a real personality. Though with their luck, the Pegasus's version of Fido would probably want to eat them, too.
He felt drained, not from going mano a mano with a Wraith or fighting for survival on a hostile planet. No, he was achy from his adventure with Big Bird. Figured.
His entire morning had been spent shackled to his desk. He couldn’t help but grin; he had a desk and that still, to this day, amazed him. Paperwork was a fact of command and this month's evaluations were due for several key military personnel. His choices affected promotions, with the possibility of some new sets of stripes and pay raises for three Marines and two airmen. He shook his head at the irony of it all. With the burden of a city's protection resting on his shoulders and his judgment calls influencing entire populations, every once in a while he missed the simplicity of being a pilot.
The reports lay untouched on his desk while he spent his time reading over a proposal he’d typed up for Zelenka suggesting a few modifications to the jumpers that could increase propulsion. While his mathematical skills were second to none- well, maybe Rodney- the physics equations bored him enough that he threatened to fall asleep at his computer.
He pushed aside the paperwork with a sigh and stood from his desk. There’s always time for certain endeavors, he thought to himself with a smile, gripping the football tucked against his side. Ronon had lost to him in poker last week and acquiesced to being shown how useful military strategy could be hidden in the wonders of football.
___________________________________________________________________________
Today was just a little one on one; explain the mechanics, demonstrate some techniques. It'd be fun. He stripped off his jacket, vest, side arm, and knife, placing them in a pile on a bench in the gym.
Ronon seemed genuinely unenthusiastic, eying the leather object bouncing in his hand. “Some of your greatest warriors spend all their time trying to carry that thing over a field?”
John tossed the ball at the Satedan. “It combines the best in physical activity and outthinking your opponent,” he boasted eagerly.
Ronon held the object in between larger hands. “What happens if I pop it?”
John frowned. “You get negative points.”
The runner growled, digging his fingers into the pigskin. “Tell me more about the red zone; sounds like the area I'd like to play in.”
John pushed aside any remaining lethargy from earlier. “That's music to my ears.”
Throwing long passes and instructing the finer points of protecting the ball while running against a guy who was bigger and faster was more of a workout than he’d expected. John wiped at his forehead once again, perspiration soaking his shirt and beads running down his neck. He bobbed and weaved, the finesse in his footwork a little sloppy, but it mattered little when a hulking mass blocked every attempt he made at getting by.
If he were to get together a real game, with full teams, he’d be hard-pressed to decide whether Ronon would be better on offense, with his ability to break through any defensive line and score, or if his skills would be better suited as an impenetrable wall, keeping any runners from getting past him. Maybe he could make up a rule where the Satedan could switch positions.
Right now though, he needed to suggest to Ronon that full on tackling him was not what happened during drills.
He saw stars after another hit and lay crumpled on the ground trying to recall what day it was when Ronon's face loomed over his. “I don't get it.”
Still trying to get air into his lungs foremost on his mind, he raised a hand for his teammate to help lift his sorry ass off the ground. Bent at the knees, still huffing for oxygen, he peered up. “What?”
“Why don't you just take out the quarterback?”
His body was shaky after the topple and he fought the whiny urge to lie back on the ground. He'd never have this chance again to sell Ronon on the game. “That's against the rules.”
Ronon regarded him for a moment. “Dumb rule - it’s the best way to win.”
“The quarterback is the captain. He’s the guy making all the decisions so he's the most protected.”
“If he’s the leader he should accept being the biggest target.”
“Well technically he is... but...” John could see the other man's confusion. “It’s about teamwork, achieving the same goal.”
“And you wear protective gear?”
He pulled up the hem of his black t-shirt to mop at his soggy face. “Yeah.”
“Yet it’s a contact sport.”
He sighed, “Yes, but...”
“And you're not allowed to punch anyone,” the Satedan continued, arching an eyebrow.
“Um, no.”
“Seems like there’s too many rules.” Ronon walked past him unimpressed.
“It’s about mounting the best offense versus the best defense- overcoming stronger opposition. Think of it like chess but you get to hit people.” John knew he was losing the battle.
Ronon was at the other end of the room, not buying his failing sales pitch. The Satedan threw the football at John and then began his charge.
John ran back, judging the distance of the powerful throw. He kept his eye on the speeding object but in his peripheral vision he could see his friend take off at full steam. No way was he going to be crushed again; he angled his leap and caught the ball, almost dropping it. Cursing that he’d bobbled it, John waited for the runner to reach him.
Ronon was a blur of muscle and mass, the air filling with the roar of his charge.
John waited.... Waited...waited, then, as arms and shoulders barreled within inches, he pushed off then twirled around, levering against the weight of the other man. He bounced away, then shifted sharp to his left and Ronon was unable to halt his forward momentum, crashing down to the ground hard as John took off a like a bolt across the small gym.
He huffed, legs pumping, creating a wind that cooled off his overheated cheeks. John crossed the distance to the imaginary goal line, the floor echoing with loud clomping behind him, but Ronon was too far away and the pilot whooped loudly as he reached the end zone and slammed the ball to the ground in triumph.
Filled with excitement that he’d outwitted the big guy, he soon realized he’d forgotten to tell Ronon about another rule in this sport. Something about not tackling the receiver after he’d scored. Good thing the runner was tired when he plowed into his commander. John found himself once again sprawled out on the floor.
“Hmmm, I can see some merit in this game,” he heard Ronon say in the distance. Or was that over him?
John hoped he was still in one piece to resume his duties when the new Marine contingent arrived.
----------------------------
He was going to complain about the air conditioning in this gym. It was one thing to create harsh conditions in survival training; it was another to make people work out in a hot, stuffy metal box. That’s how it felt, as he pulled his sticky black tee from his body when no one was looking.
He was patrolling the room as the new soldiers practiced fighting techniques. Ronon was roaming as well, correcting placement of hands, swings or punches. These men were all highly trained, but learning new combat skills from the races they’d encountered ensured the chances for survival later. Sheppard had done his colonel speech; this wasn't orientation, but he addressed the reasons and objectives of these drills to Atlantis’ newest team members.
Major Lorne took over the exercises once he was done addressing the troops. John wanted to observe, seeking out candidates for certain missions, assessing skill levels. He finished his latest circle and retreated to one corner of the room. He’d never admit it, but the stuffiness of the facility was getting to him. He wasn’t usually one to feel fatigue- oh, maybe after several weeks of non-stop threat levels with bad sleeping and eating habits, but he couldn’t recall ever feeling this run down before.
Yeah, playing tackle dummy for Ronon was a bright idea, John.
“This batch seems more prepared.” Ronon's voice boomed near his shoulder, shaking him out of his inner musings.
“Yeah, they've been in the SG program for some time- they boast the most off-world experience so far.”
“There's a group over there that would be good for one of your football teams.”
John looked over at a unit of large, bulky Marines, not a single one of them under 6’ 4” in height, and, by their bulging biceps and tree trunk legs, seemed the type to bench press small cars instead of weights. “They must’ve been raised on spinach.”
John didn't bother trying to explain when Ronon stared; the Satedan was slowly getting used to his Earth expressions and pop culture references but still could never get them all. And explaining them took all the fun out of it.
Ronon’s gaze took in the whole room, landing on some of the other soldiers and then looked back at the colonel with a calculating expression. “I'd like to teach a new defensive move to this group. Have the smaller guys matched with those big guys.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Like David and Goliath? Never mind. What?”
“Something I think you need to practice.” There was no mistaking the implication in that voice.
“This has nothing to do with chasing that annoying bird yesterday, does it?” Damn that mission was going to haunt him.
Ronon crossed two large arms over his chest, “No, it has to do with the ambush from last week.”
John winced inwardly, thinking back to another simple visit gone badly. “Not every planet is going to have good security; we did well considering we were outnumbered by those raiders and the fact they carried automatic weapons.”
“You used an unwise strategy and found yourself without a tactical advantage.” Ronon began playing with his knife, unsheathing it and flipping it in a repetitive motion.
John tried to recall exactly what Ronon was driving at. The firefight had been intense, the team caught in a crossfire. The more he concentrated, the faster his mind filled with images of his friends pinned down, Rodney's shouting, bullets splintering the tree in front of him. John shook his head, making the room waver a little. Now he was feeling a little dizzy, damn it. Better not be coming down with another cold.
“Hand to hand is not your football. Tackling him blindly was a mistake,” Ronon scolded.
John’s face flushed just a little. “My P-90 was jammed and my 9 mil was empty. If I recall, that Neanderthal was about to shoot you.”
“So you...”
“Tackled him,” John finished, squirming a little under the scrutiny.
Their attackers were huge, each one about seven feet tall. He’d done the only thing he could think of to save his teammate. He’d just headed right for the giant guy's mid section. The raider missed Ronon who was too busy protecting one flank, but the giant easily knocked John to the ground like he was swatting a fly. He’d taken quite the pounding trying to get the caveman off his feet - an attempt that ultimately proved useless no matter what John threw at him.
Ronon eyed his commander, choosing his words carefully. “There’s always going to be someone bigger than you, Sheppard. When faced with a stronger opponent there are ways of knocking one out without taking such a large..…”
“Ass kicking,” John finished for him then sighed. “Alright. So teach all of us.”
Sheppard wasn't upset; he knew this was Ronon's way of showing concern and what better way to get to know his newest Marines than by fighting side by side with them. He went over to the mats to explain to Lorne what they were going to do. The Marines seemed eager to impress their military commander, but as he readied himself to go toe to toe with his new men, he wished his body didn't feel like it was two steps behind.
He was going to find out who had the thermostat set so high and make them pull KP duty for a week.
The Air Force had taught him the means for self-defense, including special training for missions not found in normal service records. Various methods had proven useful on this end of the galaxy. John wasn't the best-trained expert, but he recognized certain types of martial arts. Ronon's move was reminiscent of the best of many different forms.
His much bigger, heavier, and he guessed meaner sparring partner at the moment was Arnold Jr. The blond, buzzed-cut Marine with a lantern jaw and massive tree trunk for a body introduced himself as something else but it didn't matter because all John imagined hearing was a thick Austrian accent introducing himself as Ahnuld. The giant’s job was to try to squash him like a bug- and John’s simple task was to avoid such a pummeling and strike around the pelvic area.
Short of aiming at the groin, which was an option, John practiced swerving, with a jab to the area where the thigh and hip connected. Every once in a while he switched things up and, like the fancy move he used on Ronon in their one on one game, twirled around and shoved his knee to the small of the back of his opponent. Either way he was ducking massive fists and grappling with a guy who could snap his neck like a pencil. With each new Marine he faced, the more exhausted he felt.
He was panting hard and all the buckets he was sweating did little to cool him down. They were not using the type of force needed in a real fight, but John felt like a punching bag nonetheless. The first couple of guys gave him a run for his money, each getting a few shots in. Arnold Jr. either disliked taking orders from an Air Force colonel, or really, really wanted to impress him.
John blocked the swing of a left hand with his wrist, his right knee lifting to impact with a sensitive point at the Marine's side when he lost his balance. He wavered and what was supposed to be merely a good smack to his head ended up knocking him down hard.
“Are you all right, sir?” Arnold Jr's face swam into view.
If the room would stop spinning maybe, but John pushed himself onto his elbows, trying to clear the cobwebs. “Yeah, fine.”
The Marine looked nervous when John didn't get to his feet right away. Truth be told, he felt shaky, but held out his hand to be helped up. He wiped at his brow, realizing how parched his throat felt suddenly. He swallowed but his tongue felt like sandpaper and his mouth lacked sufficient saliva. The severe lack of moisture irritated his throat, which turned into a loud coughing fit instead, earning a visit from Lorne.
“Colonel, are you all right?” The younger man glared at the brutish looking Marine.
Now Arnold Jr's face went from a chiseled slate of neutrality to worried.
“No biggie, Major. Our newest big guy here just got one up on me.” To prove that he was indeed no worse for wear he gave a cocky grin. “Wanna try that again, Sergeant?”
The jarhead looked from the Major back to John who was circling now. The blue-eyed giant grinned. “Yes, sir!”
John wondered if Sergeant Slaughter ate metal parts with those teeth. It felt like he’d gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson. The fatigue sucked all the energy from him, but John remained stubbornly on his feet, earning some nice new bruises. He could feel the eyes of Ronon and Lorne watching him from the same corner from earlier. This time during the bout he ignored how crappy he felt and used that annoyance against the burly sergeant.
This was supposed to be test of will, even in training. Chopping down a tree required determination, endurance and patience. John simply outlasted the larger man, using quick movements and ignoring sore muscles and a sweltering room. When Ronon's enough echoed in the gym, there was a collective sigh of relief.
Lorne stood next to him and a set of faces awaited his command. After a few positive comments John issued a dismissed.
The major turned to his CO. “I think that went well.”
“Yes, it did,” he agreed, offering a tired smile.
The commanding officer of Atlantis went to the mats with the fresh contingent and he knew that type of camaraderie in the trenches went a long way towards earning respect. He'd pay a price the next day, but it wasn't anything a hot shower and sleeping for more than a few hours wouldn't cure.
Ronon stayed behind like a shadow as John gathered his stuff. He didn't have the energy to slip his vest or jacket back on, though he fumbled with his belt and side arm. Ronon walked over to him and without a word handed him a water bottle that he gulped down almost too fast. He wiped a hand through his damp hair, and rubbed at his eyes.
“What?” he asked grumpily.
“Nothing.”
It was more like something and he looked at his teammate with suspicion. “Did I pass muster?”
Ronon quirked an eyebrow.
“Guess you’d rather I used a slingshot.”
“I’ve read that legend and I think it’s disrespectful to compare today to that battle.”
John grinned despite himself and began walking, because bed sounded like heaven and anything else could wait. Ronon walked behind him. “You were...slower than usual.”
“That’s what I get playing football before taking on a contingent of Marines.”
One thing that he liked about the big guy was that he was the furthest from a mother hen of any of his teammates. The truth was, yes, he was feeling sick and no, he didn't want to go see Beckett, thank you very much. The past month or so, if someone had so much as the sniffles, he caught it. If there was a slight cold going around it turned into the flu with him. The retrovirus incident had occurred only a couple months ago and the lingering effects from it had left his immune system in a shambles. The past couple of weeks he had been completely healthy except for the run-in with the Neanderthal responsible for the new set of drills. He was sick of Carson's office and, yeah, he was a little touchy about any mention of him being ill.
They were at the hall near his quarters and John patted the Satedan on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow.”
Ronon gave him persistent look, but said nothing.
“Here,” and the runner handed him back the football hidden in the layers of his coat.
“Keep it for next time.”
Dark eyes studied the leather. “Can I be quarterback?”
John gave him his stern face. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you'll always be on my team and there's only one quarterback,” John said with a smirk as he raised his eyebrows.
Ronon grunted and headed towards whatever he did after sparring. Probably more with Teyla. John turned his lights to dim and collapsed on his bed, his boots still laced. The shower was too far away to bother with, but after noticing how ripe he was, he got to his feet and swayed.
Good thing Ronon's not a tattletale, he thought to himself. Rodney on the other hand... He shook his head and grabbed at the wall when another wave of dizziness washed over him.
“I'm not getting sick,” he muttered. He was going to add 'again', but stripped away his filthy clothes and went under the scorching spray.
The water beat down at his sore back and he leaned his head against the tile stall wearily. He wasn't hungry and the idea of skipping dinner and just catching more shut eye held a great deal of appeal. He had nothing on the docket that couldn't wait. Tomorrow was a nice easy day. At least the beginning part. Quick stop back to Mallomara and then a stupid meeting with Kavanagh and his lackeys.
And he still had those reviews to do.
After toweling off and slipping on his comfiest, most worn out sweats and a tee he lowered himself stiffly into his chair and clicked on the laptop file tagged ‘Evaluations.’
After a few minutes of staring at his computer, he shut the lid down in disgust, got up and walked over to fall into bed, barely taking the time to think the lights completely out before joining them.