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The inside of Rodney's wrist was a pale pale beige, blue veins prominent, reminding Ronon of how fragile every single moment was. Under his arm was a beige so pale it was almost pink, with fine ruby and sapphire threads twisting with every breath. And over his heart - a warm washed out copper; rain and sunset in Atlantis. One nick of a blade and Ronon could spill life in bright red all over them both and down the bed and onto the floor. One nick of the knife and Wraith won't ever make Rodney grey, brittle and tragic.
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Sprawled amidst the covers all of Ronon's body is like a continent - some confident and rich country, ably ruled. Rodney traces the darker bark-honey hillsides of Ronon's thighs, up over slowly ambering hillocks and down to the fine pale spot at the small of Ronon's back; like a pool in sunlight in some overgrown jungle spot. Far ahead, by the leagues of this country, lay the ravages of war and strife - remnants of a past only remembered and never to be relived. Rodney puts his paler hands over them, like snow fall, to block them out.