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Elizabeth Weir talks too much. Words flow from her mouth like a river through a gorge, overwhelming with their force.
Ronon takes refuge in silence. He doesn't understand what she's asking anyway.
Atlantis is metal and plastic and composite, a palace built of artifice. After seven years on the run, slipping through woods and fields with all the stealth he could muster, Ronon finds it unnerving.
At long last, he's free of the tracking device that ruled his life, but Sateda is gone. The ruins they show him make Ronon's gut twist like the time he ate those green berries and was sick for a week. He has no home to return to. Hope had lurked in the back of his mind, that some family member, some comrade in arms, might have survived.
Bereft of hope, Ronon agreed to Sheppard's transparent pleas to remain and join his team.
It wasn't like Ronon had anything better to do.
Weir doesn't know what to make of Ronon. He sees that clearly, in her stuttering pauses when she approaches him. She's the leader here, but she roams the corridors like she has all the time in the world. Kell had stayed in his offices almost all the time, summoned in an instant to oversee any trouble. Those headsets she and Sheppard and McKay always wear allow them to be consulted instantly whenever there's a crisis.
The Marines are tough, but they don't stand a chance against Ronon. He learned his fighting skills beginning with his induction into the troop at the onset of puberty, and honed them to razor sharpness in the years since the Wraith attack on Sateda. Ronon moves through the forms, takes one man down with a hand at his throat. The others shuffle around the edges of the mat, and Sheppard leans against a wall observing with lazy eyes. Ronon's noticed that Sheppard never stands up straight if he can avoid it. He's always slouching or leaning on something.
"Colonel," comes a voice from the doorway. Weir stands there, and beckons Sheppard over.
Ronon releases his opponent and uncoils to his feet, wondering if a mission will happen soon. He's restless being confined to one place, no matter how large a place it is. He gestures for the Marines to pair off and continue sparring.
Sheppard and Weir converse in low voices. Sheppard is getting agitated, Ronon can see it in the set of his shoulders and the way his hands start to jitter. Finally, Sheppard nods and Weir holds his eyes for a long moment before walking away.
The door slides closed and the Marines avoid looking at Sheppard.
Ronon doesn't understand the way the chain of command works here at all.
A weekly social begins under the prodding of Dr. Heightmeyer. She approached Ronon once in the mess hall, a serene woman with long blonde curls, and tried to ask him about his life before Atlantis. Ronon stared at her until she left, telling him that she was there if he needed her.
It had been long enough since Ronon had regular sex that he asks Teyla about Heightmeyer, wondering if she's some sort of prostitute. Heightmeyer doesn't look it, not like the women he paid for a quick hard fuck before dialing another gate address. But then there was that one sect on Friza, the temple priestesses who marched in stately procession during the day and consumed men in a frenzy whenever the three moons rose simultaneously. That had been a good night until the Wraith came.
Teyla looks at Ronon, a strange expression on her face, and says, "She is a healer."
"Like Beckett?" Ronon asks. The doctor made Ronon come to the infirmary every week while the incision on his back healed.
Teyla tilts her head and speaks in her usual calm tone. "She heals souls, not bodies."
Ronon narrows his eyes and shakes his head. The Wraith ate souls. It didn't matter if they were whole or diseased, the Wraith devoured them. And the Wraith got everybody in the end.
Late one Friday afternoon, Sheppard collects Ronon from the training room and drags him along to the science labs. Ronon trails behind Sheppard, wondering what will happen there.
McKay is hunched over a computer, typing with frantic speed and muttering to himself. He ignores his visitors until Sheppard goes over and pushes a button. The screen goes dark and McKay pushes his chair back with a startled, "Hey!"
"Friday social, Rodney," Sheppard says in a sing-song.
"Oh my God," McKay says. "You can't expect me to go to that, that …" For once, words fail him.
"All department heads, Rodney. To 'set an example.' You were at the same staff meeting I was." Sheppard's voice brooks no disobedience. He's been less easy-going since he almost became a bug.
"Oh come on," McKay starts.
Sheppard pulls McKay out of his chair. "If I have to go, you have to go. Ronon, help me here?"
McKay protests until they reach the party room, and then his eyes light up when he sees a table piled with food.
Sheppard watches McKay veer toward the food and tells Ronon, "You better go now if you want to get anything good."
Ronon takes his plate and drink to a far corner, where he can see the door into the corridor and the balcony.
The food here is strange. Different, but tasty. And there's always enough of it. McKay complained enough about it that Ronon knows it wasn't always like this. The time before the Daedelus was, if McKay is to be believed, full of peril. The city was on the edge of starvation, not supplied sufficiently for their needs during the long silence.
At least quartermasters are the same everywhere.
A crowd of people gathers, voices rising and falling like waves breaking against the shore. Their jollity grows as they drink glass after glass of alcohol--wine, beer, liquor. Sheppard slips through them, talking to scientists and military alike. McKay sits in the far corner with that little scientist with the glasses, the one whose voice buzzes. Beckett sounds different from the others too.
Sheppard tried to explain life on his homeworld to Ronon once, but he wasn't very good at it. Countries and nations and languages, so many it seemed like make-believe, and Ronon decided he didn't really need to know. It can't help him fight the Wraith better.
The noise gets louder and the crowd gets bigger and Ronon has had enough. He stands, ready to flee to his room, but Weir emerges out of the mass of humanity before he can take a step toward the door. She's wearing a skirt and has done something different with her hair. Black lines the outside of her eyes and she carries a goblet full of ruby liquid.
"Ronon, how are you doing?" she asks.
"Fine," he says in response. It's true enough.
"Have you met Dr. Collins?" she says, and proceeds to drag Ronon into the crowd.
He stands at her shoulder and mumbles at Collins until he can break away. Weir takes a sip of her wine and then smiles at him before he leaves.
Teyla is strong and a fighter. Muscles and sinew drilled over and over until they would not betray her will, even when her old comrade Ford addicted them to Wraith enzyme. Ronon felt his own concentration splinter when Ford held them captive and drugged, but Teyla always marshaled her control and proved her worth as a warrior.
They make it back to Atlantis after Sheppard pulls off a crazy scheme. Everyone rejoices until they tell their tale of imprisonment. Still, Weir's eyes shine as she looks at Sheppard and Teyla and McKay and Ronon in the infirmary.
Weir is no fighter. Her frame is delicate, long bones covered by a thin layer of flesh. She's tall for a woman, but Ronon perceives her as tiny. She doesn't move like she knows how to handle herself.
A few days later, one of the Marine officers tells Ronon the story of the Genii invasion, how Weir and McKay were taken hostage and Sheppard took the city back by himself while they did their best to distract their kidnappers. Ronon wouldn't want to try to defy Weir or McKay – they're more stubborn than the Kiflix Ronon herded with his brother when they were boys.
Ronon hadn't thought Sheppard was a warrior, not really. He doesn't even know to carry more than one knife.
Pods floating in space and soon enough Weir and Sheppard aren't themselves. And Ronon proves his words to Teyla: he really doesn't have a clue how Elizabeth Weir thinks. He wakes up in the infirmary, gut held together with stitches and flaring with agony. Dr. Beckett comes over and examines the wound. He explains how to work the morphine pump but Ronon hates the way the drug makes him feel. Pain is better than blankness.
She approaches him timidly, a sharp contrast to her usual forthrightness. He doesn't break the silence. He doesn't know what to say.
"Ronon," Weir begins, "I want to apologize. My actions were," she pauses. "Unforgivable."
"You weren't yourself," Ronon says. Sheppard had explained what had happened, sitting in the chair next to the bed, looking angry and chagrined all at once.
"That doesn't matter." She looks away, then back to meet Ronon's eyes at last. She takes a deep breath. "Let me know if I can do anything for you? Please?"
Ronon shrugs a shoulder, then winces at the sudden spike of pain in his belly. "Sure," he mumbles. He doesn't know what else to say. She stands beside the bed for a long moment while he watches fluid drip from a clear bag into tubing that connects to his veins. Eventually, Weir leaves. Ronon sleeps.
When Beckett releases Ronon from the infirmary, wound still red and angry looking, skin not yet fully healed, he does so with a long list of restrictions. Ronon can't train, can't run, can't do anything but lie in the bed in his room and stare out the window at the clear blue horizon.
Ronon's more bored than he's ever been in his life. He's been injured before, many times, but back then he had to keep running or die.
Recovery, the concept Beckett explained so earnestly, is so foreign to Ronon that he doesn't know what to do. As much as Ronon wants to move, you don't rile the doctor if you want to live next time you're wounded. Ronon does as Beckett says, but he hates it.
Ronon's room has more space than anywhere he's ever lived. At home, before the army, he shared a small cubby with his older brother Dahar, who stayed to work the family farm when Ronon was tithed to the military. And then it was the barracks with new recruits packed into one long hall for easy supervision. Ronon pretended not to cry at night and pretended not to hear the muffled sobs of the other boys. All of them were taken from their families at an age that had made Sheppard stare at Ronon with an appalled expression when he told him how long he'd been training. Even when Kell singled out Ronon as a favorite, he stayed in the barracks. It was easier to keep track of his challengers and rivals that way.
Horizontal slats bisect the windows in this vast new room that Ronon can't quite believe is his. Ronon wants clear glass or no barrier at all, wants his bed facing the long expanse of blue ocean and sky. He wants to run, corridor after corridor blurring into the tense of muscles, the pain of breathing, the satisfaction of leaving Sheppard in his dust.
Instead, Ronon's stuck staring at walls, waiting for the next visitor to drop in and break his boredom.
Guards no longer shadow Ronon's every move and no sentinels have stood outside his door for many months. Ronon still feels imprisoned.
Teyla is his first visitor. She carries a tray with a bowl of soup – some clear broth. Ronon wants meat, but Beckett has denied him once again.
Teyla smiles her bright, impersonal smile, the one she uses to ease encounters with strangers offworld. "How are you feeling?" she asks.
His upper lip pulls towards his hair in a snarl. When Teyla places the tray on Ronon's lap, it is all he can do to keep from knocking it on the floor.
"Do not worry," Teyla says. "Corporal Roberts made this, not me."
It doesn't taste bad. It's just not what Ronon craves. He finishes the entire bowl before fatigue drags him into sleep. He doesn't know when Teyla leaves.
Weak as a troleth for too long, Ronon has never been so bored and his teammates seem to be taking shifts to keep Ronon entertained. McKay brings his laptop computer and a series of what he calls movies, which are different from television in some subtle way that Ronon doesn't fathom. McKay says the movies should teach Ronon about life on Earth, but why would he need to know that? He's never going to Earth. The entire purpose of Atlantis is to prevent the Wraith from getting there, so Ronon will fight on this frontier for as long as he lives, or as long as the Earthers keep their resolve. Ronon doesn't much care, so long as he can kill Wraith.
Teyla tries to teach Ronon how to meditate. When he tells Sheppard this, Sheppard gets a panicky look on his face and says, "I'll talk to her about it." Sheppard wanders Ronon's room, looking at the bare surfaces of the dresser and floor. Ronon's seen the others' rooms, full of clutter and things that must hold value, but Ronon doesn't understand their point. Ronon's most precious possessions are his weapons and he wears those all the time, except when he's been shot and wounded and subject to Beckett's treatment.
Teyla then McKay then Sheppard then another round of visitors bringing both food and unease. Ronon resents and longs for their company in equal measure.
Weir appears one day with a game. It's called checkers – a square board divided eight by eight, with red and black pieces jumping over one another. "It's simpler than chess," she tells him. "More direct. I think you'll like it."
Ronon loses the first two games of checkers, but wins the next five. Weir grins at him and promises to return the next day.
She touches his hand before she leaves, a gentle stroke of fingertips against tendons.
Ronon feels that touch for the rest of the day, echoing against his skin and up his nerves.
The day Beckett allows Ronon to walk to the mess hall, after poking around the newly-grown skin on his belly, is a victory as great as Ronon's first promotion. The subsequent round of physical therapy is uncomfortable but necessary to prove that Ronon's fit to resume his duties. When Beckett says Ronon can run, "Slowly! And only to the South pier – you walk back," Ronon feels like he did when the Wraith tracker was cut from his skin.
Weir finds Ronon in the training room, after his first sparring session with the Marines is over. They've gone off to nurse their bruises. Ronon heard the old-timers telling the newcomers to be glad they didn't have to face Ronon at full strength. He grinned at that, because he knows he still has a long way to go to reach his previous vigor. Ronon's stretching, cooling down, relishing the pull of muscles inactive for too long. He is not meditating.
"Hello," Weir says. She looks at him with anxious eyes, as if his skin will split open and spill out his guts from her mere presence.
Ronon stands up straight and looks at her.
She waits to see if he'll say anything, but no words are necessary so he remains silent.
"How are you doing?" She moves a bit closer to Ronon, but is still out of reach. He's noticed that she's smart about distance, always just far enough away to avoid an easy grasp.
"Good," Ronon says.
Weir stares at him a moment too long, and Ronon feels a flush travel from his chest to his cheeks.
"I'm glad," she says. The radio buzzes before she can say anything more and her face scrunches up before she obeys its summons and returns to the control room.
Ronon finishes stretching, and thinks about that look.
Waiting has never been a strength of Ronon's. Kell tried to teach Ronon patience, assigned him guard detail after guard detail where he had to harness his energy, but Ronon always hated it.
Ronon doesn't wait long before going to Weir's quarters. Hours only, until he's certain she's left this week's social gathering and settled in for the night. Crises arise any time in Atlantis, but dark is less likely to see her called to an emergency.
She's still dressed in her party clothes when she answers her door, only missing her shoes and earpiece. Ronon had thought on it, and the pleasure of seeing her ready for sleep would be offset by her nervousness. She's wary enough around him.
The expression on her face is surprised, like he had imagined. "Ronon," she says. "What – "
"Can I come in?" he asks and takes her blink for assent.
Her room is warm, lit with spreading pools of light, full of possessions that betray her femininity. Gauzy curtains veil her windows, hiding the view of the ocean. Ronon feels out of place, instantly, and almost turns to go but her scent drifts from the sheets on her bed and his fingers itch to touch her.
He doesn't know how to say what he's thinking, how to ask her if she wants this as badly as he does. So he goes to where she stands by the door and reaches to cup her chin in his hands. She inhales sharply and looks up at him with wide eyes. She doesn't move away, so Ronon lowers his lips to her mouth. Gently, gently, he tells himself, trying to coax a response instead of demand.
And her lips soften beneath his, her hands come up to grip his biceps. A smile curves Ronon's mouth, and he lets his hands drift down her neck (she shivers), over her collarbone, to her waist. She gasps and pulls back.
"Ronon, this," her pupils are wide and her voice is breathy. He can smell the wine she drank earlier, two ruby goblets sipped while talking with scientists and soldiers alike.
"Shhhh," Ronon soothes. He wants to taste the spot behind her ear and she trembles at the lick of his tongue.
"I can't," she pants. "Not with anybody under my command." That startles him enough to break off and look at her.
"That's a stupid rule," he says. She begins to laugh then, still holding his upper arms.
"Oh god, maybe it is, but Ronon –"
He shakes his head. "I'm not one of you. And you can't tell me you don't want this." He pushes his hips forward and her legs open naturally, sweetly to make a place for him. She's warm and strong in her own way and rules haven't applied to Ronon in long enough that he won't let that stop them if it's her only objection.
"We both want this," he says. "You can't tell me you don't want this."
She buries her head in his shoulder for a second, pressing closer. Her voice is muffled, "I do want this, but it's still a bad idea."
Ronon doesn't have the words to convince her she's wrong, so he'll have to show her instead. He rubs his hands up and down the lines of her waist, seeking a break in her clothing and finding it. Her skin is warm and silky and she looks back up at him. She's biting her lower lip and Ronon can't bear that. He takes her mouth again, stronger this time. She opens for him and he licks to discover how she tastes. Her tongue duels with his and her leg twists around his thigh as she presses closer. Ronon's hands move to her ass and he lifts her against him.
"Should I stop?" he asks.
She pants into his beard and shakes her head. "No," she says and nips at his lips.
His belly twinges as he carries her to the bed, but not enough to hinder him. She's a slight weight, supple and squirming in his arms. Her body feels like home when they sink down on the covers together.
He strokes down her torso, trying to learn every spot that gives her pleasure. They're lying side by side and her head is tilted down on the pillow, her eyes closed and her mouth parted. The line of her jaw is sharp, almost drawn, from the responsibilities she bears. Ronon can help ease them, for a time. He has a knack for this.
And a hunger for her.
They kiss for an endless time, fingers trailing over flesh grown warm and dewy. Ronon is hard and she is increasingly lost to passion. She pushes his shirt up, nips at his pectoral then smoothes soft mouthing kisses over his scar. "I'm so, so sorry," she says.
He shushes her; another woman shot him, not her. Ronon dares, almost unable to voice her first name, only granted to senior staff and friends, "Elizabeth."
She looks up and he pulls her up to kiss again, raising her shirt. Their arms tangle but soon enough he's bare to the waist and she's covered only by wisps of fabric on her breasts. Ronon can't figure out how to get it off her and fumbles until he growls. She smiles and reaches behind her, chest arching so that he must bend down to nuzzle at her cleavage. The fabric disappears and he finds a nipple, closing his mouth around one and flicking with his tongue. He suckles, bites, and her hips lurch closer enough that he can feel the heat between her legs.
He tugs at her skirt and mutters, "Off."
She says, "You too," with a delicious purr and takes care of her own clothes while he shoves his trousers down. They roll together again, bare skin at last, and Ronon's hand slips between her legs. She's wet and soft and he wants her so very badly.
Their legs twine together like they were meant to be, hers pale and his golden. His hands move to her ass again and he pulls her closer. He doesn't want her on her back, beneath him. He wants her looking into his face just like this, on their sides. Her leg slips over his hip and his cock finds her opening. He pushes in slowly and steadily, staring at the way her pupils widen and her lips go slack and he has to kiss her again. He bites at her mouth while he seeks the place inside her that feels like home and she grinds against him in perfect counterpoint. Her fingers dig into his back while his creep toward her breasts, covering one with his entire palm.
She's gasping now and Ronon feels the sensations overwhelming him, gathering at the base of his spine. He denies his release for endless minutes, keeping his pace steady, then increases the rhythm that little bit, and she shudders and flies apart in his arms. He lets himself go then, blind to everything except her.
Ronon doesn't know how long they sleep. He just knows that he wakes with Elizabeth licking at the tattoo on his neck. It's still dark outside her windows and they're tangled together like a dragen puzzle. He doesn't want to figure out the trick to separate them. He pets her skin everywhere he can reach and presses that little bit closer.
"Do you still think this was a bad idea?" he whispers into her ear.
She shivers and says, "No. This was a very good idea." Her voice is husky and her smile is slow and wicked.
The radio doesn't buzz once during the rest of the night. Ronon and Elizabeth don't exchange many words, too busy touching each other everywhere and losing themselves in discovery. When dawn lights her room with peach and pink, colors spilling over the long lines of her body, Ronon thinks he knows well enough what she wanted to say.