![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kathierif_ficTitle: A long and winding road
Author: Kathie
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing/Character: John Sheppard/Ronon Dex; Ronon Dex/Teyla Emmagan
Rating: FRAO
Written for:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
kink_bigbang
Artist who did your art:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nufaciel, and it is awesome!
Kink: : slash, Amnesia, blowjobs, dominance and submission, future fic, sex with aliens. Also, present tense.
Warnings: see the kinks.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Notes: Tons of thanks for the usual help and cheering and everything toginny305 and mer5. I apologize for my commaritis, I just can't help it, I have to add a million commas to everything ;).
Also, tonufaciel for the incredible artwork, thank you so much, you rock!
And finally, tosilentflux and co. for organizing this challenge.
It is something John learns quickly, or relearns it, if he’s known it before, something he picks up just after a short while of living with them – a Satedan only hugs with one arm, the other hand remains free to reach for a weapon. Wrapping both arms around someone is a clear sign that the person doing it is distracted and therefore weak.
Satedans are never weak. They can’t afford it – weakness gets people killed, men and women and children alike, and the Satedans have already been decimated so much by the Wraith. John knows that there are only a few hundred left of them; he knows it because Ronon Dex, the man who owns him, is not only Satedan, but a leader of his people, and Ronon Dex doesn’t mind when his slave dozes off on the pallet in the corner of the main room of their house when he’s having strategic meetings with other leaders.
On the contrary, he seems to be happy when John follows him into the room on bare, silent feet and stay there, and John has only one purpose in his life, and that is to make Ronon happy, which is why he does it as often as he can get away from his duties in their household. Sometimes, he thinks that Teyla has a soft spot of him that is a mile long, despite the fact that John takes her husband – her second lifemate – away from her, but he always tries to stay away from those thoughts. After all, he is just a slave, and even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to take anything from a free woman, especially one like Teyla Emmagan.
Still, Teyla sometimes turns her eyes away and lets John slip into Ronon’s meetings when he and the other military leaders of the new-founded Planet Confederation plan their attacks on the Wraith and the pirates and half a dozen other enemies. When she’s part of those meetings, she never sends him away, either, and Ronon always notices when he comes in, no matter how heated the debate is, and he lets John curl up on the colorful carpet by his feet, his cheek pillowed on Ronon’s knee. Sometimes, when Ronon is lost in his thoughts, he reaches down and runs his fingers through John’s hair, gently tugging at the strands and combing through them without even being aware of what he’s doing.
John enjoys these moments, when there is a fire crackling in the hearth and the smell of wool and leather and beer grows stronger than the smells of food, and the night grows deeper, with the warm strength of Ronon’s hand keeping him close. When he dozes off, Ronon picks him up and puts him on the pallet, wraps a blanket around him and lets him sleep, without caring about the mocking of the others. A slave is not meant to be pampered like this, they say, but Ronon just makes sure John is comfortable and lets him sleep, until the others leave and it is just them. Sometimes he joins him then, curls his body around John’s as if he is something precious and valuable, not just a slave, and sometimes, he wakes him and they run or spar.
It’s moments like this when John is happy and doesn’t care that there are holes the size of a Wraith Hive in his memory.
Sometimes, Ronon just sits next to John and watches him while John feigns sleep; he doesn’t know what the wistful expression on Ronon’s face means and he doesn’t quite dare to investigate, so he pretends to be asleep and not to notice.
Sometimes, Ronon goes to be with Teyla, and John follows him after a while and curls up in front of their bed. He never stays there for long before Teyla reaches out, brushes her fingers softly against his shoulder and tells him, voice soft but firm, to get into the bed with them.
Yeah, he is pretty sure she has a soft spot for him, but he has no idea why. He has some theories, of course, but they are just that – theories. In the end, he is nothing more than a possession to her, like the animals they raise to keep them fed and to trade with others, for weapons and intel and food.
He is their pet, hers and Ronon’s, but he knows, deep within him, that it is not all. Teyla trusts him to keep an eye on her children, Torren John and Melena Elizabeth, and even without ever having been told so, John knows that these two children are very important to Teyla, especially Torren, who is almost seven now, and who is the only memory Teyla has of Kanaan, her first husband.
Kanaan, who was Athosian, like Teyla, and who did in a Wraith attack before Teyla and Ronon could save him. The Athosians don’t have slaves, they believe in freedom and despise people who own slaves, and yet, when Ronon brought John home, Teyla didn’t say a single word and let him into her house and her life without any protest.
He never found out why.
It doesn’t mean she’s a docile wife and mother. Teyla travels as much as Ronon does, maybe even more, leading the Athosians that are settled on another planet, and fighting the Wraith, side by side with Ronon. She sometimes helps the Confederation with her diplomatic skills and her experience, and in her free time, she teaches John stick-fighting and meditation.
John knows how to handle a gun, but he doesn’t remember who taught him, or why. Most slaves aren’t allowed to touch weapons until the Wraith are already at their throats, but both Ronon and Teyla have been adamant that John keeps a gun and at least two knives on his person all the time. They both told him that he needed to know exactly how to defend himself against the Wraith and that he should never forget his skills and keep on honing them.
John doesn’t argue. He trains with Teyla and Ronon and the Satedan fighters living in the village, and sometimes, he trains with visiting Athosians or with Torren while Ronon watches and gives Torren – and John, too – advice and corrects their stance.
He has a good life, John thinks, his mind still a little bit lazy and slow from sleep. Ronon got up a while ago, and John estimates he probably will be back in their sleeping chamber soon, to wake John for their morning run.
Before Ronon gets back, Teyla rises. She is quiet and elegant and full of grace. She always moves like a dancer, and she also is always ready to fight off an attack, to protect her people and her family. John admires her from his spot on his knees; he looks up to her and is proud that she considers him a part of her people, of her family.
Athosians don’t hug, John learned that almost as quick as he learned that Satedans only hug with one arm. Instead, they place their hands on their partners’ shoulders and pull their foreheads together gently.
Teyla does it to Ronon when she enters the main room and finds Ronon sitting at the table, morning run apparently forgotten. She leans their foreheads together while her eyes slip closed and a warm smile stretches her lips. John slips into the kitchen quietly and leaves the two of them alone for a few moments while he checks in with the kitchen slave – neither John nor Teyla are good cooks, and both Ronon and Teyla are too busy to cook anyway, and so Ronon brought Riza to their house and gave her a home.
John returns to the main room with cups of tea for Ronon and Teyla and settles on his knees in his customary spot between them, to wait for the breakfast.
Usually, he and Ronon are back from their run and still slightly wet from washing up at the well outside, but today, the air around them is charged with tension, the way it is when they are planning a raid or an attack on the Wraith. John isn’t the only one who can feel it, judging by the silence between Ronon and Teyla, but he is sure that no such thing is planned in the immediate future.
They eat in silence, bread and fruit and stew, Teyla handing John his bowl and a spoon with an air of distraction hanging around her. Whatever they were talking about during John’s brief absence, it has been a serious issue.
The silence stretches out between them, until Teyla pushes her own bowl away and leans back in her chair. “Very well,” she says, her voice steady and under control. “You should go to check the marketplaces while I meet with the leaders of the Confederation to prepare the next attack on the Wraith.”
Ronon nods softly. “Hey, listen,” he says and reaches for her hand. “I know you don’t like these attacks…”
“You should take John,” she interrupts him and manages a small smile. “You could certainly use the company.”
Ronon frowns. “You sure?” he asks, his eyes searching her face for a long moment, but Teyla just smiles tiredly at her husband and sips her tea.
“Take John,” she repeats. “I trust him to keep you safe – and I trust you to keep him safe.”
Ronon chuckles and reaches down, to run his hand through John’s hair. It is getting long again, and soon Teyla will have him kneel down and will cut it with her knife, the way she always does and always has done, since the first week after he had arrived and his hair had been almost long enough to brush his shoulders, but for now, Ronon can wrap a tight fist into the strands and hold John in place if he wants to.
Torren and Melena stumble in soon after, woken by Riza, sleepy-eyed and quiet, and John relaxes against Ronon’s thigh. He loves mornings like this, when everything is quiet and Melena climbs all over him in her quest to get into Ronon’s lap. She is almost three now, the spitting image of her mother, and Ronon tickles her stomach and sides and grins when her squeals of laughter cut through the silence of their breakfast and take some of the tension out of the room.
As soon as they are finished with breakfast, Ronon hands Melena to Teyla and nudges John with his boot gently.
“Come on,” he says. “You need clothes.”
John silently climbs to his feet and follows Ronon. It’s not that he doesn’t wear clothes around the house, a soft tunic and pants made from their own wool. He thinks slaves are generally supposed to wear less clothes, but Ronon and Teyla don’t want that, and John is a good slave, he does what they tell him to do.
Ronon closes the door to the sleeping chamber behind them and grins wolfishly at John. One of his front teeth got chipped in one of the fights with the pirates, and it makes his smile look slightly dangerous as he murmurs, “Strip.”
John doesn’t hesitate. He’s been trained well, and, even more important, he wants to please Ronon, wants to make him proud.
Wants to prove to Ronon with his body how grateful he is that Ronon picked him out from the dozens of slaves on display on that market, all those years ago, dirty, huddled together for warmth, and naked, despite the bruises and the scars on his body and the fact that John hadn’t been the youngest of the offered slaves.
He never told Ronon in words how thankful he is.
He can’t.
It is as if he can’t make the words to form anymore – no sound escapes him, never, not even when Ronon hits him too hard while they are sparring. Sometimes, he gets the feeling that he should be able to speak, that Ronon and Teyla expect him to say something, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t.
He just can’t.
What he can do is let his eyes speak, and he can follow Ronon’s orders and can slip out of his clothes quickly, folding them roughly and putting them on the small chair in the corner of the room.
Ronon sweeps an appreciating glance down his body and follows it with his fingers. He presses his own larger frame against John, envelops him with his warmth and a strong arm, and kisses John. His beard scratches against John’s face, little pinpricks of irritation against his skin, and John welcomes it and opens his mouth to let Ronon’s tongue slip in and explore the depths of him. Ronon’s hand comes up and slides into John’s hair, titling his head slightly and holding him in place, and John closes his eyes and exhales through his nose before allowing his own tongue to dart forward, brush against Ronon’s and slide against the slick muscle in a caress. Ronon tastes like tea, like fruits and nuts, like home and safety, even if it’s just the illusion of safety, and John presses his entire body against him and hangs on while Ronon’s tongue traces the outline of John’s teeth and rubs against John’s tongue.
By the time Ronon pulls back, John is breathing hard, his face is red and rubbed raw from Ronon’s beard, and Ronon’s eyes are half-closed as well. He reaches out, for John’s shoulder, and presses down, and John quickly catches on and goes to his knees, his hands already reaching for the fastenings of Ronon’s pants before he is even completely settled. His mouth is already swollen and tender from Ronon’s kisses, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t hesitate.
He has a job to do, and he sets to work with care and enthusiasm to please Ronon and make him feel good, to remind him how grateful John is that Ronon is his Master. He knows what Ronon likes, and he wraps a hand around the base of his erection and squeezes until he can feel the hard texture of it under the silky soft skin. His other hand goes to Ronon’s balls. He rolls them gently in his palm, feels their weight, shape and texture, and then, he licks his lips and wraps them around the crown of Ronon’s erection.
He swirls his tongue over it, slowly and almost teasingly, dips the tip of his tongue into the small slit and welcomes the burst of bitter flavor in his mouth.
Ronon’s fingers slide through his hair, pet the curve of his ear, anchor him, but they don’t try to force him to speed up.
They never do.
Sometimes, Ronon’s fingers suggest or support him, when he can’t find a rhythm that works for Ronon, but they never force. They don’t need to – John wants to do this, wants to please.
Slowly, he wraps his lips around more of Ronon’s erection and slides down, until his hand and his mouth meet. His tongue is pressed flat against the underside, against the dark vein he could see if he pulled back and looked. But now is not the time for that.
He sets a rhythm, lets Ronon’s dick slide into his mouth and out, until his lips are only wrapped around the ridge right under the crown, and back in, as far as he can go without gagging. The rest he does with his hand, while his other hand is still busy playing with Ronon’s balls and he concentrates on keeping his teeth covered with his lips.
He loses himself in the rhythm of his body. It doesn’t mean that he forgets about the numb ache that settles in his knees and back after a while, reminding him that he doesn’t get any younger, or the heat of his own erection, but he can push those sensations aside most of the time while he works.
He has a job to do, and if he’s honest with himself, it is a job he loves. He can make his Master feel good with it, can please him, and sometimes he can even show off a little.
He doesn’t know how much time passes while he is pleasing his Master. Ten minutes, half an hour, more? He can’t tell, not for certain, but he can tell when Ronon is getting close. The grip on John’s hair tightens a little in warning, Ronon pants quietly, his hips tremble, and then, John can feel the familiar pulsing sensation against the flat of his tongue and against the thumb pressed against the underside of Ronon’s dick.
Hot and bitter fluid fills his mouth and the back of his throat, and he hastily swallows it, before it touches too many of his taste buds. It doesn’t matter how often he does this, how often he goes to his knees for Ronon, he still can’t get used to the taste, and if he keeps it in his mouth for too long, he will, inevitably, start gagging and coughing miserably, and his Master will get that worried expression on his face which means he isn’t happy anymore, and John definitely wants to avoid that.
He pulls away slowly. His hand is sticky with saliva, and he wipes it against his own thigh for now, with the plan to wash up later, once Ronon allows him to get dressed again. He definitely can feel the ache in his jaw now and the puffy tenderness of his lips, but he knows both will disappear soon, even before the burn from Ronon’s beard on his cheeks is gone.
He expects Ronon to tell him to touch himself, get himself off, but Ronon hauls him to his feet, wraps one arm around John to steady him, and wraps his own hand around John’s dick.
John gasps in surprise. Arousal suddenly flares up in him, ripping his breath away. He clings with weak fingers to Ronon’s shirt, hides his face in his Master’s shoulder and tries to control himself.
His Master hasn’t allowed him to come yet.
Ronon tilts his head and gently bites don on the shell of John’s ear.
“Come when you’re ready,” he murmurs, and John almost sobs in relief and allows himself to let go, secure in the knowledge that his Master will protect him and keep him safe.
Ronon holds him for a moment before he lets John go, and John finds a bowl of water and a soft cloth to clean both of them up as much as he can. Ronon kisses him briefly and then picks clothes for him to wear, clothes that are simple and functional and perfect for travelling. He also hands John another knife and some of their coins and brushes his fingers gently along John’s collarbone, where it is visible under the shirt he’s wearing now.
Teyla waits for them by the door and leans her forehead against Ronon’s for a moment. “I trust you will take care of John,” she says quietly, and Ronon slides a hand in her copper hair and kisses her lips, a promise that doesn’t need any words.
For a really short moment, John wonders if she can taste him on Ronon’s lips, if she can tell what they just did simply by taste, and if she is angry about it, but then Teyla steps up to him and puts her hands on John’s shoulders. Her forehead presses against his, and instinctively, he closes his eyes and relaxes into the contact.
The moment doesn’t last very long, and then Teyla straightens and steps back, and John follows her example and takes his place behind Ronon’s shoulder.
The walk to the gate is not long, and they are joined by other villagers who are going to the markets as well, Satedans and the few Athosians that didn’t settle on New Athos but decided to follow Teyla’s example and hoped that this planet, which they named Satos, will be spared or never discovered by the Wraith. They all are carrying goods to trade or sell, food and leather and artwork, and they all know John and Ronon and greet them with nods and smiles and respectful bows of their heads.
John keeps close to Ronon. He doesn’t leave their planet that often, because Teyla usually prefers him to stay, and Ronon rarely contradicts her in this regard, at least not when John is around.
They don’t go straight to their destination. They never do, in order to keep Satos safe. Instead they gate to a series of other planets, and every time they step through a popular gate, more people join them. Most of them are dressed like John and Ronon are, shirts made of wool and leather, but some of them wear coats, or their clothes are dyed a bright color. John sees splashes of red and green when he lifts his eyes from the ground, from people who are less afraid of a sudden attack or who have decided to celebrate life with all they have for as long as they have it. By the time they reach the first big marketplace, it is late in the afternoon on that planet, and they are part of a large group.
Ronon knows exactly where he wants to go, and John only needs to follow him. It isn’t the first time Ronon is looking at slaves, and although he rarely buys one, he knows exactly where he needs to look. He barely spares a glance for the weapons and jewelry on display while he crosses the marketplace. His pace is quick enough that John has to hurry a little to keep up with him, but Ronon won’t slow down now. He is on a mission and he is determined to be successful. Maybe, if there is still time and he is in the mood, he’ll stop later and find something for the family he has left behind, sweet candy for his children or a cheerfully colored piece of fabric for Teyla.
There are a lot of people at the marketplace. The air is filled with the smell of them and the bite of the smoke from the campfires, leather and wool and herbs creating a unique mix that John remembers all too well, even if he doesn’t know where from. The ground beneath their feet is muddy. It makes every step a little struggle after a while, when the soft and wet ground clings to their boots and makes them heavy.
It doesn’t seem to affect Ronon as much as it affects John, but he just clenches his teeth and refuses to fall behind too much.
The air is cool, despite the press of the many people around them, the sky covered by a layer of thick, dark clouds. John dares a quick glance up, to determine if it’s going to rain, but for now, they are still safe. Around them, people are talking, trading, bargaining, praising their goods and trying to interest customers. It makes for an interesting, thick carpet of sounds around them.
However, the mood is slightly tense. There are barely any children in sight, and the few John spots are bare-footed, dirty and skinny, and they steal with quick fingers what they can pry loose and run like the wind, to avoid capture and punishment.
A second, closer look at his surroundings reveals that almost everybody is armed –t he sellers just like the buyers. It’s a common sight in Pegasus galaxy. John sees mostly knives, but there are also guns and even a few Wraith stunners.
The crowd thins a little when they get to the area where the slaves are sold, and John steps closer to Ronon without realizing he’s doing it until he almost steps on Ronon’s heel while walking. Ronon gives him a quick glance over his shoulder, but he doesn’t slow down or ask if John is okay, because right now, they have a mission, and John won’t abandon his Master just because he got spooked by fractions of his own memories.
He doesn’t remember much of his life, but he remembers this; remembers being locked up in a small wooden cage and being put on display, with a chafing collar too tight around his throat and his wrists tied behind his back, naked and alone and helpless, and he remembers the bigger cage and being pressed tight against other slaves, a tangle of dirty limbs.
Goosebumps crawl over his skin when his memories and the sight before him overlap and threaten to overwhelm him and to steal his breath and turn his vision blurry and darkening from lack of oxygen, but suddenly, there is a warm weight pressing against the back of his neck, and he is pulled tight against Ronon’s side.
He hasn’t worn a collar since Ronon brought him home, and Ronon has promised him that he never will, again. John believes him.
Ronon still doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t slow down. He just holds John wrapped against his side and waits silently until John’s breathing is even again, and then he loosens his grip.
Ronon’s hand squeezes the back of his neck again, and then he steps back to inspect the slave in the cage to his left.
They don’t end up buying anything that day, and when dusk falls, they don’t return to their home planet, like so many others do.
They don’t stay at the tavern, either. Instead, they hide in the woods and Ronon wraps his coat and a blanket around them and curls himself around John, to protect him and to keep him warm.
A lot of slaves get bought to be sacrificed to the Wraith, to give their owners the chance to escape, but not John. He knows that Ronon would never hand him over to the Wraith, and he knows that Ronon and Teyla are capable of destroying a Wraith Hive if they think it’s necessary. John being on board of one of those ships counts as such a necessity, although John hopes that they would rescue him before they blow up the ship.
He knows that Ronon keeps him safe, and he falls asleep quickly, the soothing sound of Ronon’s heartbeat under his ear.
The next morning, Ronon wakes him with a thigh between John’s legs and his mouth on John’s. The ground and Ronon’s coat are moist from dew, the air bites coldly into the parts of John’s body that are not pressed into Ronon’s heat and not wrapped in his coat, but Ronon’s mouth is hot against the curve of his throat and his fingers are warm against the small of John’s back, and he barely notices anything beyond that.
Ronon pushes the waistband of John’s pants down, to mid-thigh, and then he does it to his own, and John wrestles a hand between them and closes it around the two of them. His fingers are cold, and Ronon hisses at the contact, but he doesn’t say anything to stop John, and so he doesn’t.
The sun barely peaks out from behind the horizon and the treetops when they fall apart and stumble to their feet, spent and wide awake. They are among the first group going through the Stargate.
There are three more marketplaces on their list, Ronon tells him while they wait for their turn to step through the ring, and they won’t return home before they have checked them out, as well.
The second market they visit resembles the first, except that the two suns of this planet are burning down on them and the ground under their feet is dry and dusty, not muddy. Ronon almost beats up the trader who wants to give him three goats for John and doesn’t take no for an answer, no matter how menacing Ronon sounds when he spits it out from between clenched teeth. When they check out the offered slaves, Ronon quickly seems to realize that he won’t find what he’s looking for, not here and not now.
This night, they stay at the tavern, in a small room that has only one bed. John spends the night with his elbows tucked tight to his sides and Ronon’s arm pulling him back, until his ass is nestled right against Ronon’s groin.
He sighs happily and falls asleep with a smile on his face. It’s not that often that he has his Master just for himself like that, and he enjoys every moment to its fullest.
When he wakes up the next morning, he remembers Teyla and how, if they weren’t looking for slaves to buy, she most likely would be right here with them. It would mean that he would have to sleep on the ground, but that is the appropriate place for a slave that thinks he can take his Mistress’ place anyways.
It’s a good thing neither Teyla nor Ronon can read his thoughts, he thinks, angry at himself for allowing himself even the illusion of being more to Ronon than a slave. He will never be more than a slave. Being a slave is all he ever has been, all he knows to be. He’s been a slave for as long as he can remember, which, he has to admit, isn’t that long, but still.
He will never take Teyla’s spot, and even more so, he doesn’t even want to. He likes her, he loves her, and he knows that she deserves every little bit of happiness that she can get. He doesn’t know what exactly happened, but he knows Kanaan’s death wasn’t quick or painless, but that he had been tortured before the Wraith finally let him die. He knows that Teyla was away when Kanaan was taken, and that it was just luck that Torren survived, and here he is, a slave that doesn’t know his place.
He knows he wakes up Ronon when he rolls out of bed and crashes to his knees on the hard floor, but he can’t stop himself from pressing himself into the ground, trembling and with his breath rattling too quick in his lungs.
Ronon should probably punish him for his thoughts. No, he corrects himself: Master should punish this slave for even thinking.
But Ronon doesn’t. He never does. Instead of taking his belt to John’s ass, he kneels down in front of him and pulls him up by his shoulders. He gathers him close and waits until John stops shaking.
“Bad dream, huh?” he asks, and John only wraps his arms around him and holds on, even if he knows that he doesn’t deserve a good man like Ronon as his Master.
He doesn’t know where those thoughts come from, or why he has them. He also doesn’t know what makes his body convulse and shake and start to twitch whenever he has these thoughts. He only knows that Ronon or Teyla always is there to hold him and help him through it, until he can stand again and is ready to face another day.
*~+~*
In order to get back to the Stargate, they need to cross the marketplace again, and this time, Ronon allows himself to look closer at the offered merchandise. John follows him quietly, still caught in his own treacherous thoughts, and when Ronon stops without any warnings, John bumps into his back and catches another worried glance from him, but Ronon’s attention is quickly diverted again, diverted by the thing that made him stop in the first place.
From behind him, John can’t see what Ronon picks up from in between pieces of leather and jewelry, but when Ronon asks the small man behind the table, “How much for this?” he can’t stop himself from frowning in confusion.
This is unusual, he thinks.
Even more unusual is that Ronon pays exactly the amount the trader demands without haggling. He pockets his purchase and then continues on his way, as if nothing has happened.
They leave the planet and visit the next marketplace, again travelling through several other gates. By the time they arrive, John has a headache, and Ronon is wearing a frown that makes the other people give them a wide berth.
They give the marketplace just a short look and then find a place to spend the night. Apparently, neither of them is up for a long day of shopping. Instead, Ronon pulls John into the wooden bathtub in their room and spends a long time just holding him and running his hands over his body, soothing away the last remnants of the morning’s adventures. John suspects it’s mostly because of his distractedness and his attempts to get Ronon to punish him, subtle as they were, but he can’t prove it and his head hurts too much to do anything but enjoy the attention lavished onto him.
Ronon’s fingers pull him close, and he rests his head against Ronon’s shoulder, relying on the other man’s strength, the way Ronon wants him to.
The way he wants it, as much as a slave is allowed to want something in the first place.
He tries to stop Ronon from drying him carefully, wiping the drops of water from his body and following it with soft kisses, but Ronon won’t have anything of that and gives John a playful shove that nonetheless makes him stumble backwards until the back of his knees hit the hard edge of the bed and he loses his balance and gracelessly sprawls across the entire width of it.
Ronon laughs, a quiet rumble in his chest, and crawls after John, one knee on each side of his naked hips. His hand curves around John’s shoulder blade and just hangs on while his lips travel all over John’s chest again, licking, nipping and kissing.
John squirms a little – he is supposed to be the one to make Ronon feel good, after all, not the other way around, but Ronon leans his forehead against his and murmurs, “Please, let me…” and John does.
When Ronon’s mouth moves down the center of his chest and stomach, teasing John, he just reaches up and wraps both hands in Ronon’s dreadlocks, holding on to something, not at all pushing Ronon down to where he really wants him while canting up his hips.
Ronon laughs again and obliges him. His lips close around John’s dick, and John whimpers tonelessly and throws his head back.
He closes his eyes and just rides the waves of arousal for as long as his Master will let him, hoping that it will never end.
Ronon’s fingertips are blunt and rough, calloused from his hard life as warrior and runner and sometimes farmer, and they press against the sensitive spot right behind John’s balls with just the right amount of pressure to drive John wild. John gasps and almost yanks on Ronon’s hair, to let him know that it’s getting too much, too intense, too good; but Ronon only brushes his fingers against that spot again, his intent clear.
He wants to drive John insane with sensations.
And John lets him, without doubt and without hesitation, not only because Ronon is his Master, but because he wants to and because it just feels right.
He comes with every tendon and muscle in his body tense and straining, his mouth open.
No sound escapes him, only a harsh pant that almost sounds as if he is sobbing.
He isn’t, but he has no way of letting Ronon know that and to stop his Master from wrapping an arm around John in a tight hug, Satedan-style, and tuck him close to Ronon’s body.
Ronon refuses to let John return the favor and blow him, and John is too exhausted and too good a slave to protest or insist. He falls asleep with his head pillowed on Ronon’s chest and with Ronon’s hand wrapped around the back of his neck, grounding him.
He wakes up in the middle of the night. Everything is dark around them, except for the small candle flickering on the table. Ronon isn’t in bed with him anymore, and John thinks that it is what woke him up in the first place, Ronon not being there.
Before he can start to panic and worry about Ronon having left him, he catches movement from the corner of his eye – it’s Ronon, standing by the window with his back turned toward John.
The sheets rustle, and Ronon whirls around. It is hard to tell in the dark room filled with so many flickering shadows, but John thinks he catches the sight of a thin chain wrapped around Ronon’s fist, and something rectangular dangling from it.
He frowns. Somehow, he thinks, he should know what it is that Ronon has there. Somehow, he should remember, but he can’t. His mind stays carefully blank, and the more he struggles with memories that just aren’t there, the further away they slip.
Ronon closes his fingers around the rectangular part and sighs.
“You want to know what it is?” he asks. His voice is low and scratchy; he sounds tired.
John sits up and nods. The sheets slip down and pool in his lap, but he doesn’t even realize that his skin is prickling with goose bumps as Ronon comes over and sits down next to him. His attention is focused completely on Ronon’s closed fist.
He reaches for it with hesitant fingers, wraps both his hands around Ronon’s and waits.
It’s metal, plain and simple, engraved with something that John can’t read in the darkness of their room, but he can feel the indentations under his fingertips.
He should know what this is, he thinks again, frustration rising in him. He should know what it means, and why Ronon is looking at him like he expects John to sprout a tail or tentacles any moment now.
Ronon sighs. “Six years,” he mutters, “and they still turn up every now and then.”
He shakes his head and puts the thing back in the pocket of his coat before curling up around John again, stroking his warm broad palm down John’s cooling back.
“Wish we could find yours,” he whispers after a long while, when he thinks John fell asleep again. It is almost inaudible, but they are pressed close enough that John can hear it. “Find the one who grabbed you, who sold you, turned into this…and…”
He trails off and sighs before pressing his face into the back of John’s skull. “Wish I had the real you back,” he adds after a long moment, in a tone so wistful that John’s heart clenches at the pain he can detect in his Master. All instincts in him scream at him to turn around, to offer Ronon whatever comfort he can, but he doesn’t. Instead, he remains frozen in place and feigns sleep.
His thoughts, however, are racing. What does Ronon mean, the real him? And who did what to him? He can’t remember anything, and it is starting to dawn on him that Ronon knows things about John that John himself doesn’t, things Ronon doesn’t want to share with him.
What does the real him mean? John’s heart clenches as he contemplates the options. If he isn’t real, what is he, then? A clone? He doesn’t know – what if he is a Replicator?
The thought fills him with horror, but then he manages to bite the panic back. Ronon would have killed him as soon as he found out, if John was a Replicator, and Teyla would never have let him close to her children.
That can’t be it.
When he finally falls asleep again, he dreams he turns into a Wraith. It is the most vivid nightmare he’s ever had, and when he manages to wake up from it, he feels weak and shaky and sick to his stomach, and he can’t help it, he hast o check his hands in the dim light and make sure that they are still his hands, that he really just had a nightmare and didn’t turn into a grey-skinned Wraith.
The old scar on his forearm itches, and John stares at it for a long while, until his eyes start to burn.
He doesn’t remember how he got it.
He doesn’t remember anything – his earliest memory is the marketplace, and being on display, and Ronon coming and buying him, weeks later, and he remembers the past five years of living with Ronon and Teyla.
His stomach rolls, and John barely makes it out of the room before he gets sick and retches until his stomach is empty and cramping and tears and sweat are drying on his face.
He accepts the cup Ronon hands him and takes a careful sip of lukewarm water. Ronon waits for him to get back to his feet and pats his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, only watches as John brushes his teeth and puts on his clothes. John can feel his worry like a physical touch, but for the first time since he can remember, he can’t make himself do anything to alleviate that worry. He simply can’t bring himself to care as much as he should.
Ronon reaches for him. His fingers dig into the tense line of John’s shoulder, and he hauls John close and holds him against him for a long moment, one arm wrapped across John’s shoulders, the other by his side, ready to draw his gun.
“You ready?” he finally mumbles, and John inhales Ronon’s familiar scent and nods.
“Then let’s go,” Ronon says and squeezes John’s neck again.
They spend the entire day walking past the stalls at the marketplace, inspecting goods and moving from one vendor to the next. These markets have grown over the past few years, and this one is sprawling and big.
However, the merchandise they are looking for is not available here. Ronon sighs in defeat when he realizes it, but there was the possibility that they wouldn’t find it in the first place, despite all the rumors going around.
They have one more shot at this – another market, on yet another planet. For that last part of their mission, they are joined by Danek, one of the surviving Satedans. Danek is silent and scarred, like all of the Satedans that managed to escape from the destruction of their home planet, and he hates the Wraith with a fiery passion. He brings news from the fight against the Wraith, and Ronon listens to his report with a worried frown and closes his hand around his weapon instinctively.
The fourth marketplace they visit is smaller than the others, dirtier and seedier. John sticks close to Ronon and pretends he doesn’t notice that Danek is doing the same, and he keeps his hand close to his own weapon, as well.
He knows they are in trouble even before he hears the distinctive sound of a Wraith stunner behind himself. Instinctively, he ducks down and reaches for Ronon, to warn him, but Ronon is already rolling sideways, out of harm’s way, and firing his gun.
John seeks cover behind a stack of boxes and pulls his gun. He catches Danek’s eye, and Danek gives him a bloodied smile and nods in one direction.
John doesn’t know where he knows all these things from, but he knows immediately what Danek wants him to do. His weapon is in a good condition, well-cared for, and John nods at Danek calmly before he crawls around his cover, his body pressed close to the ground. Dust is biting in his eyes and threatens to make him tear up, his mouth is dry, but his mind is clear and focused. He has a clear line of sight now, and he aims at their assailant’s knees. They won’t be able to answer any questions if he kills them, and he’s sure that Ronon has some questions for him.
A pain-filled cry fills the dusty air, and suddenly, the sound of the gunfire ceases. John exhales softly, but he doesn’t lower his weapon just yet, not until Danek is standing over the two men who have attacked them, blood dripping off his chin unnoticed while he keeps his own gun trained on the bigger of the two, and Ronon is wiping his thumb over John’s cheekbone and it comes back red.
“Good job, John,” Ronon says quietly. “Put away the gun now.”
John does, because it’s Ronon who’s telling him, and because he likes the way Ronon looks at him, proud and a little hopeful, as if he saw a hint of something he really likes.
Their little fight pulled some attention on them, but now, with the excitement over, the people around them who have ducked for cover as soon as the first shot was fired return to their business, as if nothing has happened. Danek hauls their prisoners to their feet and herds them away, most likely to a safe place off-world where nobody will expect them to be and where he can interrogate them for as long as he likes.
They don’t take the time to clean the wound on John’s cheek. It’s just superficial, and they will be back home that night, and, more important, they are in a possibly hostile environment and neither of them wants to spend a second longer than necessary here.
Ronon buys a few things; tea and herbs and some tools, and they keep their eyes open and leave as soon as they can.
They stop by Sateda, where Danek catches up with them again. The Wraith know about Sateda, know where it is, but they think the planet is barren and abandoned. It makes the planet not safe to stay at for long, but no prying eyes watch them dial the address of their real home planet from here. It keeps them, and their families, safe; as safe as they can be.
Ronon hands John the bag with the things he bought. “You go ahead,” he instructs. “Tell Teyla I’ll be there soon.” He kisses John’s mouth briefly and ignores the adamant shake of his head. “Give her this,” he then adds and pulls the chain with the rectangular metal plates out of his coat pocket. “She’ll know what to do with it.”
It’s another few moments until John nods and shoulders the bag before Ronon almost pushes him through the gate, as if he expects John to change his mind and go against Ronon’s direct order. As if John would ever do that – he is a good slave and he does what his Master tells him to do, even if he rather would stay with Ronon and make sure he’s okay.
~*+*~
By the time Ronon returns home, the cut on John’s cheek is cleaned and has been covered by herbs for long enough to still the flow of blood. He is kneeling on the floor, folding blankets with nimble fingers when Ronon comes into the house.
“What happened?” he asked, and John glances up at Teyla, who is bringing in more blankets, Riza following her quietly.
“New Athos was attacked,” she tells him briefly. “Many of my people came here to seek refuge from the Wraith. They wish to stay.”
“How many?” Ronon asks, and his face darkens when Teyla gives him a number. They have already lost so much to the Wraith, and their numbers dwindle with every attack, every fight they have to get involved in.
“There is more,” Teyla adds softly. “Reports say that some of the slaves on the market on Deviera look familiar. You will need to check it out, and you need to do it now, before someone else does.” Her gaze slips to the side. “I was planning on going myself when the first Athosians arrived.”
Ronon nods and checks his weapon.
“We were attacked by Wraith worshippers,” he says. “We need to be more careful. Let your people know, okay?”
“I will,” Teyla promises. “Take John with you.”
Ronon shakes his head. “You know how big the Devierans are on collars,” he points out. “And their stupid protocols.”
Teyla lifts her eyes skywards for a moment.
“I’m not putting him in a collar,” Ronon growls his protest, and the words and the protest are familiar enough that Teyla manages a weak smile, despite the dire circumstances they suddenly find themselves in.
“The Devierans only require a clear sign of ownership on slaves,” she points out, her lip twisting a little at the last word. “John bears those marks and signs.” She glances down, at the strong pieces of black leather that are wrapped and buckled around John’s forearms, protecting them, like ancient gauntlets –a gift from Ronon, and a perfect hiding place for a small throwing knife.
Teyla and Ronon share a quick glance, and Ronon grins. “I love you,” he says and pulls her into a rough kiss.
Within minutes, they are back on their way to the gate.
As expected, they get stopped by a guard as soon as they step through the gate on Deviera, a guard who gives John a slow and thorough once-over, and it’s almost ten minutes before he scribbles a letter on the back of John’s hand and waves them through the gates of the town. Ronon is impatient throughout the process, glaring and crossing his arms menacingly, but the guard is unimpressed by his behavior, which annoys Ronon even further.
The Devierans are big on protocol, and slaves are required to walk three steps behind their Masters, which saves John from listening to Ronon’s annoyed grumbles as they cross yet another marketplace.
Unlike the other markets they’ve been on recently, this one is friendlier, with some people smiling and laughing while they shop, and children playing between the stalls. Guards make sure things remain peaceful, but neither John nor Ronon dare to relax. They both notice the walls surrounding them, the lack of proper protection, the open space that would offer no hiding place from a Wraith dart.
The slaves are kept in small cages, their hands chained together and their bodies naked, just like they were on the other markets as well. Ronon’s eyes glide over them until he reaches the last cage, where he stops.
The man inside the wooden cage is curled up on the ground. He is naked, like the other slaves, his ribs are clearly pronounced under his pale skin. His hair is brown and disheveled, and to John, the slave looks too sick to be worth much.
“This one,” Ronon tells the trader who steps up with him with a quick smile. “What’s his story?”
“A group of travelers sold him to me three weeks ago,” the man replied while bowing slightly. “They said he’s from Calemin.”
Calemin is a mining colony, and John shivers slightly. People from there never get old – the mines are deep, and human lungs are not made to deal with the poisonous gasses in the ground for a long time.
Ronon shrugs. “He looks like it,” he says and turns around. “Not worth much.”
The trader puts his hand on Ronon’s arm, until he notices the scowl, and hastily offers, “I am willing to give him to you for just a small price – twenty coins.”
Ronon grins, showing off all of his teeth. “Twenty coins,” he repeats. “That one is worth five.”
“He is obedient and well-trained,” the trader protests.
“He’s more than half-dead,” Ronon replies. “Five coins, and you should be thankful I take that thing off your hands.”
“Fifteen,” the trader offers.
“Seven.”
“Ten.”
The man in the cage, John realizes, hasn’t moved a muscle, as if he doesn’t even realize his life is just being sold to Ronon. He hasn’t looked up, which, in John’s experience, means he’s either drugged or really sick. He isn’t sure if it’s a good idea to spend money on him, and he almost tries to catch Ronon’s attention to make him aware of that, but before he can, the man does move and slowly lifts his head. His eyes lock on John’s, and something in John clenches at the sight of the man’s face – he has seen this face before, he’s sure of that, he just doesn’t remember where and when.
He knows this man.
His gut tells him he trusts this man.
It’s the same feeling he’d had the first time he laid eyes on Ronon, or on Teyla. He can’t explain it, it’s just a hunch, a gut feeling, but he is filled with the absolute certain knowledge that he knows this man, and that this slave is important to John – not as important as Ronon, but he knows he can rely on him.
He startles when the trader unlocks the cage and reaches inside, to yank the slave out. The man stumbles to his feet without saying a single word and stands next to Ronon with slumped shoulders. He sways on his feet, and John steps closer, ready to catch him if he falls.
The man’s shoulders are broad, well-muscled despite his physical state. Somehow, John thinks he should be stockier than he is, but he still has no idea where that thought came from or why he thinks he knows the man.
Ronon pockets the paperwork and tilts the new slave’s head up with a finger under his chin.
“Can you walk?” he asks gruffly, and the slave gives a small, almost imperceptible nod.
“Good. Walk.”
Ronon gives John a quick glance, indicating that he should keep an eye on their new possession, and turns to leave. The man stumbles slightly as he tries to keep up with Ronon, but he doesn’t fall despite his obviously weakened state.
Ronon keeps walking until they are out of sight of the marketplace and the guards and then stops. The new slave falls to his knees with a hiss, and John hastily reaches for his shoulder to prevent him from landing flat on his face.
Ronon hunches down and clasps his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Evan,” he says quietly. “Do you remember me?”
Evan. John tries to remember if he ever knew someone with that name, but his mind refuses to cooperate. It’s not surprising, but still frustrates him.
Evan shrugs helplessly.
“Do you remember Atlantis?” Ronon asks, and this time, Evan shakes his head. His pupils are blown wide, his mouth opens, but no sound escapes.
Evan, John realizes with a jolt, is like him.
“You’re with friends now,” Ronon says. He takes off his coat and wraps Evan in it. “You’re safe. Relax.”
Evan nods shyly. He hesitates briefly before moving his hands slowly. They are shaking, and it’s a long moment until they understand that he is trying to tell them something – and he uses Athosian finger signs. They are sloppy, but he manages to spell out a name anyway.
Laura.
John has no idea who Laura is. He thinks he should know it, but he doesn’t. Ronon on the other hand smiles and places his hands over Evan’s gently.
“Is she in danger?” he asks, and Evan shrugs and shakes his head tiredly and lets it rest against Ronon’s shoulder.
“We’ll get her later,” Ronon decides and picks Evan up as if he weights nothing at all. “Let’s get you home first.”
Part 2 | Part 3
Author: Kathie
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing/Character: John Sheppard/Ronon Dex; Ronon Dex/Teyla Emmagan
Rating: FRAO
Written for:
kink_bigbangArtist who did your art:
nufaciel, and it is awesome!Kink: : slash, Amnesia, blowjobs, dominance and submission, future fic, sex with aliens. Also, present tense.
Warnings: see the kinks.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Notes: Tons of thanks for the usual help and cheering and everything to
ginny305 and mer5. I apologize for my commaritis, I just can't help it, I have to add a million commas to everything ;).Also, to
nufaciel for the incredible artwork, thank you so much, you rock!And finally, to
silentflux and co. for organizing this challenge.It is something John learns quickly, or relearns it, if he’s known it before, something he picks up just after a short while of living with them – a Satedan only hugs with one arm, the other hand remains free to reach for a weapon. Wrapping both arms around someone is a clear sign that the person doing it is distracted and therefore weak.
Satedans are never weak. They can’t afford it – weakness gets people killed, men and women and children alike, and the Satedans have already been decimated so much by the Wraith. John knows that there are only a few hundred left of them; he knows it because Ronon Dex, the man who owns him, is not only Satedan, but a leader of his people, and Ronon Dex doesn’t mind when his slave dozes off on the pallet in the corner of the main room of their house when he’s having strategic meetings with other leaders.
On the contrary, he seems to be happy when John follows him into the room on bare, silent feet and stay there, and John has only one purpose in his life, and that is to make Ronon happy, which is why he does it as often as he can get away from his duties in their household. Sometimes, he thinks that Teyla has a soft spot of him that is a mile long, despite the fact that John takes her husband – her second lifemate – away from her, but he always tries to stay away from those thoughts. After all, he is just a slave, and even if he wanted to, he wouldn’t be able to take anything from a free woman, especially one like Teyla Emmagan.
Still, Teyla sometimes turns her eyes away and lets John slip into Ronon’s meetings when he and the other military leaders of the new-founded Planet Confederation plan their attacks on the Wraith and the pirates and half a dozen other enemies. When she’s part of those meetings, she never sends him away, either, and Ronon always notices when he comes in, no matter how heated the debate is, and he lets John curl up on the colorful carpet by his feet, his cheek pillowed on Ronon’s knee. Sometimes, when Ronon is lost in his thoughts, he reaches down and runs his fingers through John’s hair, gently tugging at the strands and combing through them without even being aware of what he’s doing.
John enjoys these moments, when there is a fire crackling in the hearth and the smell of wool and leather and beer grows stronger than the smells of food, and the night grows deeper, with the warm strength of Ronon’s hand keeping him close. When he dozes off, Ronon picks him up and puts him on the pallet, wraps a blanket around him and lets him sleep, without caring about the mocking of the others. A slave is not meant to be pampered like this, they say, but Ronon just makes sure John is comfortable and lets him sleep, until the others leave and it is just them. Sometimes he joins him then, curls his body around John’s as if he is something precious and valuable, not just a slave, and sometimes, he wakes him and they run or spar.
It’s moments like this when John is happy and doesn’t care that there are holes the size of a Wraith Hive in his memory.
Sometimes, Ronon just sits next to John and watches him while John feigns sleep; he doesn’t know what the wistful expression on Ronon’s face means and he doesn’t quite dare to investigate, so he pretends to be asleep and not to notice.
Sometimes, Ronon goes to be with Teyla, and John follows him after a while and curls up in front of their bed. He never stays there for long before Teyla reaches out, brushes her fingers softly against his shoulder and tells him, voice soft but firm, to get into the bed with them.
Yeah, he is pretty sure she has a soft spot for him, but he has no idea why. He has some theories, of course, but they are just that – theories. In the end, he is nothing more than a possession to her, like the animals they raise to keep them fed and to trade with others, for weapons and intel and food.
He is their pet, hers and Ronon’s, but he knows, deep within him, that it is not all. Teyla trusts him to keep an eye on her children, Torren John and Melena Elizabeth, and even without ever having been told so, John knows that these two children are very important to Teyla, especially Torren, who is almost seven now, and who is the only memory Teyla has of Kanaan, her first husband.
Kanaan, who was Athosian, like Teyla, and who did in a Wraith attack before Teyla and Ronon could save him. The Athosians don’t have slaves, they believe in freedom and despise people who own slaves, and yet, when Ronon brought John home, Teyla didn’t say a single word and let him into her house and her life without any protest.
He never found out why.
It doesn’t mean she’s a docile wife and mother. Teyla travels as much as Ronon does, maybe even more, leading the Athosians that are settled on another planet, and fighting the Wraith, side by side with Ronon. She sometimes helps the Confederation with her diplomatic skills and her experience, and in her free time, she teaches John stick-fighting and meditation.
John knows how to handle a gun, but he doesn’t remember who taught him, or why. Most slaves aren’t allowed to touch weapons until the Wraith are already at their throats, but both Ronon and Teyla have been adamant that John keeps a gun and at least two knives on his person all the time. They both told him that he needed to know exactly how to defend himself against the Wraith and that he should never forget his skills and keep on honing them.
John doesn’t argue. He trains with Teyla and Ronon and the Satedan fighters living in the village, and sometimes, he trains with visiting Athosians or with Torren while Ronon watches and gives Torren – and John, too – advice and corrects their stance.
He has a good life, John thinks, his mind still a little bit lazy and slow from sleep. Ronon got up a while ago, and John estimates he probably will be back in their sleeping chamber soon, to wake John for their morning run.
Before Ronon gets back, Teyla rises. She is quiet and elegant and full of grace. She always moves like a dancer, and she also is always ready to fight off an attack, to protect her people and her family. John admires her from his spot on his knees; he looks up to her and is proud that she considers him a part of her people, of her family.
Athosians don’t hug, John learned that almost as quick as he learned that Satedans only hug with one arm. Instead, they place their hands on their partners’ shoulders and pull their foreheads together gently.
Teyla does it to Ronon when she enters the main room and finds Ronon sitting at the table, morning run apparently forgotten. She leans their foreheads together while her eyes slip closed and a warm smile stretches her lips. John slips into the kitchen quietly and leaves the two of them alone for a few moments while he checks in with the kitchen slave – neither John nor Teyla are good cooks, and both Ronon and Teyla are too busy to cook anyway, and so Ronon brought Riza to their house and gave her a home.
John returns to the main room with cups of tea for Ronon and Teyla and settles on his knees in his customary spot between them, to wait for the breakfast.
Usually, he and Ronon are back from their run and still slightly wet from washing up at the well outside, but today, the air around them is charged with tension, the way it is when they are planning a raid or an attack on the Wraith. John isn’t the only one who can feel it, judging by the silence between Ronon and Teyla, but he is sure that no such thing is planned in the immediate future.
They eat in silence, bread and fruit and stew, Teyla handing John his bowl and a spoon with an air of distraction hanging around her. Whatever they were talking about during John’s brief absence, it has been a serious issue.
The silence stretches out between them, until Teyla pushes her own bowl away and leans back in her chair. “Very well,” she says, her voice steady and under control. “You should go to check the marketplaces while I meet with the leaders of the Confederation to prepare the next attack on the Wraith.”
Ronon nods softly. “Hey, listen,” he says and reaches for her hand. “I know you don’t like these attacks…”
“You should take John,” she interrupts him and manages a small smile. “You could certainly use the company.”
Ronon frowns. “You sure?” he asks, his eyes searching her face for a long moment, but Teyla just smiles tiredly at her husband and sips her tea.
“Take John,” she repeats. “I trust him to keep you safe – and I trust you to keep him safe.”
Ronon chuckles and reaches down, to run his hand through John’s hair. It is getting long again, and soon Teyla will have him kneel down and will cut it with her knife, the way she always does and always has done, since the first week after he had arrived and his hair had been almost long enough to brush his shoulders, but for now, Ronon can wrap a tight fist into the strands and hold John in place if he wants to.
Torren and Melena stumble in soon after, woken by Riza, sleepy-eyed and quiet, and John relaxes against Ronon’s thigh. He loves mornings like this, when everything is quiet and Melena climbs all over him in her quest to get into Ronon’s lap. She is almost three now, the spitting image of her mother, and Ronon tickles her stomach and sides and grins when her squeals of laughter cut through the silence of their breakfast and take some of the tension out of the room.
As soon as they are finished with breakfast, Ronon hands Melena to Teyla and nudges John with his boot gently.
“Come on,” he says. “You need clothes.”
John silently climbs to his feet and follows Ronon. It’s not that he doesn’t wear clothes around the house, a soft tunic and pants made from their own wool. He thinks slaves are generally supposed to wear less clothes, but Ronon and Teyla don’t want that, and John is a good slave, he does what they tell him to do.
Ronon closes the door to the sleeping chamber behind them and grins wolfishly at John. One of his front teeth got chipped in one of the fights with the pirates, and it makes his smile look slightly dangerous as he murmurs, “Strip.”
John doesn’t hesitate. He’s been trained well, and, even more important, he wants to please Ronon, wants to make him proud.
Wants to prove to Ronon with his body how grateful he is that Ronon picked him out from the dozens of slaves on display on that market, all those years ago, dirty, huddled together for warmth, and naked, despite the bruises and the scars on his body and the fact that John hadn’t been the youngest of the offered slaves.
He never told Ronon in words how thankful he is.
He can’t.
It is as if he can’t make the words to form anymore – no sound escapes him, never, not even when Ronon hits him too hard while they are sparring. Sometimes, he gets the feeling that he should be able to speak, that Ronon and Teyla expect him to say something, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t.
He just can’t.
What he can do is let his eyes speak, and he can follow Ronon’s orders and can slip out of his clothes quickly, folding them roughly and putting them on the small chair in the corner of the room.
Ronon sweeps an appreciating glance down his body and follows it with his fingers. He presses his own larger frame against John, envelops him with his warmth and a strong arm, and kisses John. His beard scratches against John’s face, little pinpricks of irritation against his skin, and John welcomes it and opens his mouth to let Ronon’s tongue slip in and explore the depths of him. Ronon’s hand comes up and slides into John’s hair, titling his head slightly and holding him in place, and John closes his eyes and exhales through his nose before allowing his own tongue to dart forward, brush against Ronon’s and slide against the slick muscle in a caress. Ronon tastes like tea, like fruits and nuts, like home and safety, even if it’s just the illusion of safety, and John presses his entire body against him and hangs on while Ronon’s tongue traces the outline of John’s teeth and rubs against John’s tongue.
By the time Ronon pulls back, John is breathing hard, his face is red and rubbed raw from Ronon’s beard, and Ronon’s eyes are half-closed as well. He reaches out, for John’s shoulder, and presses down, and John quickly catches on and goes to his knees, his hands already reaching for the fastenings of Ronon’s pants before he is even completely settled. His mouth is already swollen and tender from Ronon’s kisses, but he doesn’t care, doesn’t hesitate.
He has a job to do, and he sets to work with care and enthusiasm to please Ronon and make him feel good, to remind him how grateful John is that Ronon is his Master. He knows what Ronon likes, and he wraps a hand around the base of his erection and squeezes until he can feel the hard texture of it under the silky soft skin. His other hand goes to Ronon’s balls. He rolls them gently in his palm, feels their weight, shape and texture, and then, he licks his lips and wraps them around the crown of Ronon’s erection.
He swirls his tongue over it, slowly and almost teasingly, dips the tip of his tongue into the small slit and welcomes the burst of bitter flavor in his mouth.
Ronon’s fingers slide through his hair, pet the curve of his ear, anchor him, but they don’t try to force him to speed up.
They never do.
Sometimes, Ronon’s fingers suggest or support him, when he can’t find a rhythm that works for Ronon, but they never force. They don’t need to – John wants to do this, wants to please.
Slowly, he wraps his lips around more of Ronon’s erection and slides down, until his hand and his mouth meet. His tongue is pressed flat against the underside, against the dark vein he could see if he pulled back and looked. But now is not the time for that.
He sets a rhythm, lets Ronon’s dick slide into his mouth and out, until his lips are only wrapped around the ridge right under the crown, and back in, as far as he can go without gagging. The rest he does with his hand, while his other hand is still busy playing with Ronon’s balls and he concentrates on keeping his teeth covered with his lips.
He loses himself in the rhythm of his body. It doesn’t mean that he forgets about the numb ache that settles in his knees and back after a while, reminding him that he doesn’t get any younger, or the heat of his own erection, but he can push those sensations aside most of the time while he works.
He has a job to do, and if he’s honest with himself, it is a job he loves. He can make his Master feel good with it, can please him, and sometimes he can even show off a little.
He doesn’t know how much time passes while he is pleasing his Master. Ten minutes, half an hour, more? He can’t tell, not for certain, but he can tell when Ronon is getting close. The grip on John’s hair tightens a little in warning, Ronon pants quietly, his hips tremble, and then, John can feel the familiar pulsing sensation against the flat of his tongue and against the thumb pressed against the underside of Ronon’s dick.
Hot and bitter fluid fills his mouth and the back of his throat, and he hastily swallows it, before it touches too many of his taste buds. It doesn’t matter how often he does this, how often he goes to his knees for Ronon, he still can’t get used to the taste, and if he keeps it in his mouth for too long, he will, inevitably, start gagging and coughing miserably, and his Master will get that worried expression on his face which means he isn’t happy anymore, and John definitely wants to avoid that.
He pulls away slowly. His hand is sticky with saliva, and he wipes it against his own thigh for now, with the plan to wash up later, once Ronon allows him to get dressed again. He definitely can feel the ache in his jaw now and the puffy tenderness of his lips, but he knows both will disappear soon, even before the burn from Ronon’s beard on his cheeks is gone.
He expects Ronon to tell him to touch himself, get himself off, but Ronon hauls him to his feet, wraps one arm around John to steady him, and wraps his own hand around John’s dick.
John gasps in surprise. Arousal suddenly flares up in him, ripping his breath away. He clings with weak fingers to Ronon’s shirt, hides his face in his Master’s shoulder and tries to control himself.
His Master hasn’t allowed him to come yet.
Ronon tilts his head and gently bites don on the shell of John’s ear.
“Come when you’re ready,” he murmurs, and John almost sobs in relief and allows himself to let go, secure in the knowledge that his Master will protect him and keep him safe.
Ronon holds him for a moment before he lets John go, and John finds a bowl of water and a soft cloth to clean both of them up as much as he can. Ronon kisses him briefly and then picks clothes for him to wear, clothes that are simple and functional and perfect for travelling. He also hands John another knife and some of their coins and brushes his fingers gently along John’s collarbone, where it is visible under the shirt he’s wearing now.
Teyla waits for them by the door and leans her forehead against Ronon’s for a moment. “I trust you will take care of John,” she says quietly, and Ronon slides a hand in her copper hair and kisses her lips, a promise that doesn’t need any words.
For a really short moment, John wonders if she can taste him on Ronon’s lips, if she can tell what they just did simply by taste, and if she is angry about it, but then Teyla steps up to him and puts her hands on John’s shoulders. Her forehead presses against his, and instinctively, he closes his eyes and relaxes into the contact.
The moment doesn’t last very long, and then Teyla straightens and steps back, and John follows her example and takes his place behind Ronon’s shoulder.
The walk to the gate is not long, and they are joined by other villagers who are going to the markets as well, Satedans and the few Athosians that didn’t settle on New Athos but decided to follow Teyla’s example and hoped that this planet, which they named Satos, will be spared or never discovered by the Wraith. They all are carrying goods to trade or sell, food and leather and artwork, and they all know John and Ronon and greet them with nods and smiles and respectful bows of their heads.
John keeps close to Ronon. He doesn’t leave their planet that often, because Teyla usually prefers him to stay, and Ronon rarely contradicts her in this regard, at least not when John is around.
They don’t go straight to their destination. They never do, in order to keep Satos safe. Instead they gate to a series of other planets, and every time they step through a popular gate, more people join them. Most of them are dressed like John and Ronon are, shirts made of wool and leather, but some of them wear coats, or their clothes are dyed a bright color. John sees splashes of red and green when he lifts his eyes from the ground, from people who are less afraid of a sudden attack or who have decided to celebrate life with all they have for as long as they have it. By the time they reach the first big marketplace, it is late in the afternoon on that planet, and they are part of a large group.
Ronon knows exactly where he wants to go, and John only needs to follow him. It isn’t the first time Ronon is looking at slaves, and although he rarely buys one, he knows exactly where he needs to look. He barely spares a glance for the weapons and jewelry on display while he crosses the marketplace. His pace is quick enough that John has to hurry a little to keep up with him, but Ronon won’t slow down now. He is on a mission and he is determined to be successful. Maybe, if there is still time and he is in the mood, he’ll stop later and find something for the family he has left behind, sweet candy for his children or a cheerfully colored piece of fabric for Teyla.
There are a lot of people at the marketplace. The air is filled with the smell of them and the bite of the smoke from the campfires, leather and wool and herbs creating a unique mix that John remembers all too well, even if he doesn’t know where from. The ground beneath their feet is muddy. It makes every step a little struggle after a while, when the soft and wet ground clings to their boots and makes them heavy.
It doesn’t seem to affect Ronon as much as it affects John, but he just clenches his teeth and refuses to fall behind too much.
The air is cool, despite the press of the many people around them, the sky covered by a layer of thick, dark clouds. John dares a quick glance up, to determine if it’s going to rain, but for now, they are still safe. Around them, people are talking, trading, bargaining, praising their goods and trying to interest customers. It makes for an interesting, thick carpet of sounds around them.
However, the mood is slightly tense. There are barely any children in sight, and the few John spots are bare-footed, dirty and skinny, and they steal with quick fingers what they can pry loose and run like the wind, to avoid capture and punishment.
A second, closer look at his surroundings reveals that almost everybody is armed –t he sellers just like the buyers. It’s a common sight in Pegasus galaxy. John sees mostly knives, but there are also guns and even a few Wraith stunners.
The crowd thins a little when they get to the area where the slaves are sold, and John steps closer to Ronon without realizing he’s doing it until he almost steps on Ronon’s heel while walking. Ronon gives him a quick glance over his shoulder, but he doesn’t slow down or ask if John is okay, because right now, they have a mission, and John won’t abandon his Master just because he got spooked by fractions of his own memories.
He doesn’t remember much of his life, but he remembers this; remembers being locked up in a small wooden cage and being put on display, with a chafing collar too tight around his throat and his wrists tied behind his back, naked and alone and helpless, and he remembers the bigger cage and being pressed tight against other slaves, a tangle of dirty limbs.
Goosebumps crawl over his skin when his memories and the sight before him overlap and threaten to overwhelm him and to steal his breath and turn his vision blurry and darkening from lack of oxygen, but suddenly, there is a warm weight pressing against the back of his neck, and he is pulled tight against Ronon’s side.
He hasn’t worn a collar since Ronon brought him home, and Ronon has promised him that he never will, again. John believes him.
Ronon still doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t slow down. He just holds John wrapped against his side and waits silently until John’s breathing is even again, and then he loosens his grip.
Ronon’s hand squeezes the back of his neck again, and then he steps back to inspect the slave in the cage to his left.
They don’t end up buying anything that day, and when dusk falls, they don’t return to their home planet, like so many others do.
They don’t stay at the tavern, either. Instead, they hide in the woods and Ronon wraps his coat and a blanket around them and curls himself around John, to protect him and to keep him warm.
A lot of slaves get bought to be sacrificed to the Wraith, to give their owners the chance to escape, but not John. He knows that Ronon would never hand him over to the Wraith, and he knows that Ronon and Teyla are capable of destroying a Wraith Hive if they think it’s necessary. John being on board of one of those ships counts as such a necessity, although John hopes that they would rescue him before they blow up the ship.
He knows that Ronon keeps him safe, and he falls asleep quickly, the soothing sound of Ronon’s heartbeat under his ear.
The next morning, Ronon wakes him with a thigh between John’s legs and his mouth on John’s. The ground and Ronon’s coat are moist from dew, the air bites coldly into the parts of John’s body that are not pressed into Ronon’s heat and not wrapped in his coat, but Ronon’s mouth is hot against the curve of his throat and his fingers are warm against the small of John’s back, and he barely notices anything beyond that.
Ronon pushes the waistband of John’s pants down, to mid-thigh, and then he does it to his own, and John wrestles a hand between them and closes it around the two of them. His fingers are cold, and Ronon hisses at the contact, but he doesn’t say anything to stop John, and so he doesn’t.
The sun barely peaks out from behind the horizon and the treetops when they fall apart and stumble to their feet, spent and wide awake. They are among the first group going through the Stargate.
There are three more marketplaces on their list, Ronon tells him while they wait for their turn to step through the ring, and they won’t return home before they have checked them out, as well.
The second market they visit resembles the first, except that the two suns of this planet are burning down on them and the ground under their feet is dry and dusty, not muddy. Ronon almost beats up the trader who wants to give him three goats for John and doesn’t take no for an answer, no matter how menacing Ronon sounds when he spits it out from between clenched teeth. When they check out the offered slaves, Ronon quickly seems to realize that he won’t find what he’s looking for, not here and not now.
This night, they stay at the tavern, in a small room that has only one bed. John spends the night with his elbows tucked tight to his sides and Ronon’s arm pulling him back, until his ass is nestled right against Ronon’s groin.
He sighs happily and falls asleep with a smile on his face. It’s not that often that he has his Master just for himself like that, and he enjoys every moment to its fullest.
When he wakes up the next morning, he remembers Teyla and how, if they weren’t looking for slaves to buy, she most likely would be right here with them. It would mean that he would have to sleep on the ground, but that is the appropriate place for a slave that thinks he can take his Mistress’ place anyways.
It’s a good thing neither Teyla nor Ronon can read his thoughts, he thinks, angry at himself for allowing himself even the illusion of being more to Ronon than a slave. He will never be more than a slave. Being a slave is all he ever has been, all he knows to be. He’s been a slave for as long as he can remember, which, he has to admit, isn’t that long, but still.
He will never take Teyla’s spot, and even more so, he doesn’t even want to. He likes her, he loves her, and he knows that she deserves every little bit of happiness that she can get. He doesn’t know what exactly happened, but he knows Kanaan’s death wasn’t quick or painless, but that he had been tortured before the Wraith finally let him die. He knows that Teyla was away when Kanaan was taken, and that it was just luck that Torren survived, and here he is, a slave that doesn’t know his place.
He knows he wakes up Ronon when he rolls out of bed and crashes to his knees on the hard floor, but he can’t stop himself from pressing himself into the ground, trembling and with his breath rattling too quick in his lungs.
Ronon should probably punish him for his thoughts. No, he corrects himself: Master should punish this slave for even thinking.
But Ronon doesn’t. He never does. Instead of taking his belt to John’s ass, he kneels down in front of him and pulls him up by his shoulders. He gathers him close and waits until John stops shaking.
“Bad dream, huh?” he asks, and John only wraps his arms around him and holds on, even if he knows that he doesn’t deserve a good man like Ronon as his Master.
He doesn’t know where those thoughts come from, or why he has them. He also doesn’t know what makes his body convulse and shake and start to twitch whenever he has these thoughts. He only knows that Ronon or Teyla always is there to hold him and help him through it, until he can stand again and is ready to face another day.
*~+~*
In order to get back to the Stargate, they need to cross the marketplace again, and this time, Ronon allows himself to look closer at the offered merchandise. John follows him quietly, still caught in his own treacherous thoughts, and when Ronon stops without any warnings, John bumps into his back and catches another worried glance from him, but Ronon’s attention is quickly diverted again, diverted by the thing that made him stop in the first place.
From behind him, John can’t see what Ronon picks up from in between pieces of leather and jewelry, but when Ronon asks the small man behind the table, “How much for this?” he can’t stop himself from frowning in confusion.
This is unusual, he thinks.
Even more unusual is that Ronon pays exactly the amount the trader demands without haggling. He pockets his purchase and then continues on his way, as if nothing has happened.
They leave the planet and visit the next marketplace, again travelling through several other gates. By the time they arrive, John has a headache, and Ronon is wearing a frown that makes the other people give them a wide berth.
They give the marketplace just a short look and then find a place to spend the night. Apparently, neither of them is up for a long day of shopping. Instead, Ronon pulls John into the wooden bathtub in their room and spends a long time just holding him and running his hands over his body, soothing away the last remnants of the morning’s adventures. John suspects it’s mostly because of his distractedness and his attempts to get Ronon to punish him, subtle as they were, but he can’t prove it and his head hurts too much to do anything but enjoy the attention lavished onto him.
Ronon’s fingers pull him close, and he rests his head against Ronon’s shoulder, relying on the other man’s strength, the way Ronon wants him to.
The way he wants it, as much as a slave is allowed to want something in the first place.
He tries to stop Ronon from drying him carefully, wiping the drops of water from his body and following it with soft kisses, but Ronon won’t have anything of that and gives John a playful shove that nonetheless makes him stumble backwards until the back of his knees hit the hard edge of the bed and he loses his balance and gracelessly sprawls across the entire width of it.
Ronon laughs, a quiet rumble in his chest, and crawls after John, one knee on each side of his naked hips. His hand curves around John’s shoulder blade and just hangs on while his lips travel all over John’s chest again, licking, nipping and kissing.
John squirms a little – he is supposed to be the one to make Ronon feel good, after all, not the other way around, but Ronon leans his forehead against his and murmurs, “Please, let me…” and John does.
When Ronon’s mouth moves down the center of his chest and stomach, teasing John, he just reaches up and wraps both hands in Ronon’s dreadlocks, holding on to something, not at all pushing Ronon down to where he really wants him while canting up his hips.
Ronon laughs again and obliges him. His lips close around John’s dick, and John whimpers tonelessly and throws his head back.
He closes his eyes and just rides the waves of arousal for as long as his Master will let him, hoping that it will never end.
Ronon’s fingertips are blunt and rough, calloused from his hard life as warrior and runner and sometimes farmer, and they press against the sensitive spot right behind John’s balls with just the right amount of pressure to drive John wild. John gasps and almost yanks on Ronon’s hair, to let him know that it’s getting too much, too intense, too good; but Ronon only brushes his fingers against that spot again, his intent clear.
He wants to drive John insane with sensations.
And John lets him, without doubt and without hesitation, not only because Ronon is his Master, but because he wants to and because it just feels right.
He comes with every tendon and muscle in his body tense and straining, his mouth open.
No sound escapes him, only a harsh pant that almost sounds as if he is sobbing.
He isn’t, but he has no way of letting Ronon know that and to stop his Master from wrapping an arm around John in a tight hug, Satedan-style, and tuck him close to Ronon’s body.
Ronon refuses to let John return the favor and blow him, and John is too exhausted and too good a slave to protest or insist. He falls asleep with his head pillowed on Ronon’s chest and with Ronon’s hand wrapped around the back of his neck, grounding him.
He wakes up in the middle of the night. Everything is dark around them, except for the small candle flickering on the table. Ronon isn’t in bed with him anymore, and John thinks that it is what woke him up in the first place, Ronon not being there.
Before he can start to panic and worry about Ronon having left him, he catches movement from the corner of his eye – it’s Ronon, standing by the window with his back turned toward John.
The sheets rustle, and Ronon whirls around. It is hard to tell in the dark room filled with so many flickering shadows, but John thinks he catches the sight of a thin chain wrapped around Ronon’s fist, and something rectangular dangling from it.
He frowns. Somehow, he thinks, he should know what it is that Ronon has there. Somehow, he should remember, but he can’t. His mind stays carefully blank, and the more he struggles with memories that just aren’t there, the further away they slip.
Ronon closes his fingers around the rectangular part and sighs.
“You want to know what it is?” he asks. His voice is low and scratchy; he sounds tired.
John sits up and nods. The sheets slip down and pool in his lap, but he doesn’t even realize that his skin is prickling with goose bumps as Ronon comes over and sits down next to him. His attention is focused completely on Ronon’s closed fist.
He reaches for it with hesitant fingers, wraps both his hands around Ronon’s and waits.
It’s metal, plain and simple, engraved with something that John can’t read in the darkness of their room, but he can feel the indentations under his fingertips.
He should know what this is, he thinks again, frustration rising in him. He should know what it means, and why Ronon is looking at him like he expects John to sprout a tail or tentacles any moment now.
Ronon sighs. “Six years,” he mutters, “and they still turn up every now and then.”
He shakes his head and puts the thing back in the pocket of his coat before curling up around John again, stroking his warm broad palm down John’s cooling back.
“Wish we could find yours,” he whispers after a long while, when he thinks John fell asleep again. It is almost inaudible, but they are pressed close enough that John can hear it. “Find the one who grabbed you, who sold you, turned into this…and…”
He trails off and sighs before pressing his face into the back of John’s skull. “Wish I had the real you back,” he adds after a long moment, in a tone so wistful that John’s heart clenches at the pain he can detect in his Master. All instincts in him scream at him to turn around, to offer Ronon whatever comfort he can, but he doesn’t. Instead, he remains frozen in place and feigns sleep.
His thoughts, however, are racing. What does Ronon mean, the real him? And who did what to him? He can’t remember anything, and it is starting to dawn on him that Ronon knows things about John that John himself doesn’t, things Ronon doesn’t want to share with him.
What does the real him mean? John’s heart clenches as he contemplates the options. If he isn’t real, what is he, then? A clone? He doesn’t know – what if he is a Replicator?
The thought fills him with horror, but then he manages to bite the panic back. Ronon would have killed him as soon as he found out, if John was a Replicator, and Teyla would never have let him close to her children.
That can’t be it.
When he finally falls asleep again, he dreams he turns into a Wraith. It is the most vivid nightmare he’s ever had, and when he manages to wake up from it, he feels weak and shaky and sick to his stomach, and he can’t help it, he hast o check his hands in the dim light and make sure that they are still his hands, that he really just had a nightmare and didn’t turn into a grey-skinned Wraith.
The old scar on his forearm itches, and John stares at it for a long while, until his eyes start to burn.
He doesn’t remember how he got it.
He doesn’t remember anything – his earliest memory is the marketplace, and being on display, and Ronon coming and buying him, weeks later, and he remembers the past five years of living with Ronon and Teyla.
His stomach rolls, and John barely makes it out of the room before he gets sick and retches until his stomach is empty and cramping and tears and sweat are drying on his face.
He accepts the cup Ronon hands him and takes a careful sip of lukewarm water. Ronon waits for him to get back to his feet and pats his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, only watches as John brushes his teeth and puts on his clothes. John can feel his worry like a physical touch, but for the first time since he can remember, he can’t make himself do anything to alleviate that worry. He simply can’t bring himself to care as much as he should.
Ronon reaches for him. His fingers dig into the tense line of John’s shoulder, and he hauls John close and holds him against him for a long moment, one arm wrapped across John’s shoulders, the other by his side, ready to draw his gun.
“You ready?” he finally mumbles, and John inhales Ronon’s familiar scent and nods.
“Then let’s go,” Ronon says and squeezes John’s neck again.
They spend the entire day walking past the stalls at the marketplace, inspecting goods and moving from one vendor to the next. These markets have grown over the past few years, and this one is sprawling and big.
However, the merchandise they are looking for is not available here. Ronon sighs in defeat when he realizes it, but there was the possibility that they wouldn’t find it in the first place, despite all the rumors going around.
They have one more shot at this – another market, on yet another planet. For that last part of their mission, they are joined by Danek, one of the surviving Satedans. Danek is silent and scarred, like all of the Satedans that managed to escape from the destruction of their home planet, and he hates the Wraith with a fiery passion. He brings news from the fight against the Wraith, and Ronon listens to his report with a worried frown and closes his hand around his weapon instinctively.
The fourth marketplace they visit is smaller than the others, dirtier and seedier. John sticks close to Ronon and pretends he doesn’t notice that Danek is doing the same, and he keeps his hand close to his own weapon, as well.
He knows they are in trouble even before he hears the distinctive sound of a Wraith stunner behind himself. Instinctively, he ducks down and reaches for Ronon, to warn him, but Ronon is already rolling sideways, out of harm’s way, and firing his gun.
John seeks cover behind a stack of boxes and pulls his gun. He catches Danek’s eye, and Danek gives him a bloodied smile and nods in one direction.
John doesn’t know where he knows all these things from, but he knows immediately what Danek wants him to do. His weapon is in a good condition, well-cared for, and John nods at Danek calmly before he crawls around his cover, his body pressed close to the ground. Dust is biting in his eyes and threatens to make him tear up, his mouth is dry, but his mind is clear and focused. He has a clear line of sight now, and he aims at their assailant’s knees. They won’t be able to answer any questions if he kills them, and he’s sure that Ronon has some questions for him.
A pain-filled cry fills the dusty air, and suddenly, the sound of the gunfire ceases. John exhales softly, but he doesn’t lower his weapon just yet, not until Danek is standing over the two men who have attacked them, blood dripping off his chin unnoticed while he keeps his own gun trained on the bigger of the two, and Ronon is wiping his thumb over John’s cheekbone and it comes back red.
“Good job, John,” Ronon says quietly. “Put away the gun now.”
John does, because it’s Ronon who’s telling him, and because he likes the way Ronon looks at him, proud and a little hopeful, as if he saw a hint of something he really likes.
Their little fight pulled some attention on them, but now, with the excitement over, the people around them who have ducked for cover as soon as the first shot was fired return to their business, as if nothing has happened. Danek hauls their prisoners to their feet and herds them away, most likely to a safe place off-world where nobody will expect them to be and where he can interrogate them for as long as he likes.
They don’t take the time to clean the wound on John’s cheek. It’s just superficial, and they will be back home that night, and, more important, they are in a possibly hostile environment and neither of them wants to spend a second longer than necessary here.
Ronon buys a few things; tea and herbs and some tools, and they keep their eyes open and leave as soon as they can.
They stop by Sateda, where Danek catches up with them again. The Wraith know about Sateda, know where it is, but they think the planet is barren and abandoned. It makes the planet not safe to stay at for long, but no prying eyes watch them dial the address of their real home planet from here. It keeps them, and their families, safe; as safe as they can be.
Ronon hands John the bag with the things he bought. “You go ahead,” he instructs. “Tell Teyla I’ll be there soon.” He kisses John’s mouth briefly and ignores the adamant shake of his head. “Give her this,” he then adds and pulls the chain with the rectangular metal plates out of his coat pocket. “She’ll know what to do with it.”
It’s another few moments until John nods and shoulders the bag before Ronon almost pushes him through the gate, as if he expects John to change his mind and go against Ronon’s direct order. As if John would ever do that – he is a good slave and he does what his Master tells him to do, even if he rather would stay with Ronon and make sure he’s okay.
~*+*~
By the time Ronon returns home, the cut on John’s cheek is cleaned and has been covered by herbs for long enough to still the flow of blood. He is kneeling on the floor, folding blankets with nimble fingers when Ronon comes into the house.
“What happened?” he asked, and John glances up at Teyla, who is bringing in more blankets, Riza following her quietly.
“New Athos was attacked,” she tells him briefly. “Many of my people came here to seek refuge from the Wraith. They wish to stay.”
“How many?” Ronon asks, and his face darkens when Teyla gives him a number. They have already lost so much to the Wraith, and their numbers dwindle with every attack, every fight they have to get involved in.
“There is more,” Teyla adds softly. “Reports say that some of the slaves on the market on Deviera look familiar. You will need to check it out, and you need to do it now, before someone else does.” Her gaze slips to the side. “I was planning on going myself when the first Athosians arrived.”
Ronon nods and checks his weapon.
“We were attacked by Wraith worshippers,” he says. “We need to be more careful. Let your people know, okay?”
“I will,” Teyla promises. “Take John with you.”
Ronon shakes his head. “You know how big the Devierans are on collars,” he points out. “And their stupid protocols.”
Teyla lifts her eyes skywards for a moment.
“I’m not putting him in a collar,” Ronon growls his protest, and the words and the protest are familiar enough that Teyla manages a weak smile, despite the dire circumstances they suddenly find themselves in.
“The Devierans only require a clear sign of ownership on slaves,” she points out, her lip twisting a little at the last word. “John bears those marks and signs.” She glances down, at the strong pieces of black leather that are wrapped and buckled around John’s forearms, protecting them, like ancient gauntlets –a gift from Ronon, and a perfect hiding place for a small throwing knife.
Teyla and Ronon share a quick glance, and Ronon grins. “I love you,” he says and pulls her into a rough kiss.
Within minutes, they are back on their way to the gate.
As expected, they get stopped by a guard as soon as they step through the gate on Deviera, a guard who gives John a slow and thorough once-over, and it’s almost ten minutes before he scribbles a letter on the back of John’s hand and waves them through the gates of the town. Ronon is impatient throughout the process, glaring and crossing his arms menacingly, but the guard is unimpressed by his behavior, which annoys Ronon even further.
The Devierans are big on protocol, and slaves are required to walk three steps behind their Masters, which saves John from listening to Ronon’s annoyed grumbles as they cross yet another marketplace.
Unlike the other markets they’ve been on recently, this one is friendlier, with some people smiling and laughing while they shop, and children playing between the stalls. Guards make sure things remain peaceful, but neither John nor Ronon dare to relax. They both notice the walls surrounding them, the lack of proper protection, the open space that would offer no hiding place from a Wraith dart.
The slaves are kept in small cages, their hands chained together and their bodies naked, just like they were on the other markets as well. Ronon’s eyes glide over them until he reaches the last cage, where he stops.
The man inside the wooden cage is curled up on the ground. He is naked, like the other slaves, his ribs are clearly pronounced under his pale skin. His hair is brown and disheveled, and to John, the slave looks too sick to be worth much.
“This one,” Ronon tells the trader who steps up with him with a quick smile. “What’s his story?”
“A group of travelers sold him to me three weeks ago,” the man replied while bowing slightly. “They said he’s from Calemin.”
Calemin is a mining colony, and John shivers slightly. People from there never get old – the mines are deep, and human lungs are not made to deal with the poisonous gasses in the ground for a long time.
Ronon shrugs. “He looks like it,” he says and turns around. “Not worth much.”
The trader puts his hand on Ronon’s arm, until he notices the scowl, and hastily offers, “I am willing to give him to you for just a small price – twenty coins.”
Ronon grins, showing off all of his teeth. “Twenty coins,” he repeats. “That one is worth five.”
“He is obedient and well-trained,” the trader protests.
“He’s more than half-dead,” Ronon replies. “Five coins, and you should be thankful I take that thing off your hands.”
“Fifteen,” the trader offers.
“Seven.”
“Ten.”
The man in the cage, John realizes, hasn’t moved a muscle, as if he doesn’t even realize his life is just being sold to Ronon. He hasn’t looked up, which, in John’s experience, means he’s either drugged or really sick. He isn’t sure if it’s a good idea to spend money on him, and he almost tries to catch Ronon’s attention to make him aware of that, but before he can, the man does move and slowly lifts his head. His eyes lock on John’s, and something in John clenches at the sight of the man’s face – he has seen this face before, he’s sure of that, he just doesn’t remember where and when.
He knows this man.
His gut tells him he trusts this man.
It’s the same feeling he’d had the first time he laid eyes on Ronon, or on Teyla. He can’t explain it, it’s just a hunch, a gut feeling, but he is filled with the absolute certain knowledge that he knows this man, and that this slave is important to John – not as important as Ronon, but he knows he can rely on him.
He startles when the trader unlocks the cage and reaches inside, to yank the slave out. The man stumbles to his feet without saying a single word and stands next to Ronon with slumped shoulders. He sways on his feet, and John steps closer, ready to catch him if he falls.
The man’s shoulders are broad, well-muscled despite his physical state. Somehow, John thinks he should be stockier than he is, but he still has no idea where that thought came from or why he thinks he knows the man.
Ronon pockets the paperwork and tilts the new slave’s head up with a finger under his chin.
“Can you walk?” he asks gruffly, and the slave gives a small, almost imperceptible nod.
“Good. Walk.”
Ronon gives John a quick glance, indicating that he should keep an eye on their new possession, and turns to leave. The man stumbles slightly as he tries to keep up with Ronon, but he doesn’t fall despite his obviously weakened state.
Ronon keeps walking until they are out of sight of the marketplace and the guards and then stops. The new slave falls to his knees with a hiss, and John hastily reaches for his shoulder to prevent him from landing flat on his face.
Ronon hunches down and clasps his hand on the man’s shoulder.
“Evan,” he says quietly. “Do you remember me?”
Evan. John tries to remember if he ever knew someone with that name, but his mind refuses to cooperate. It’s not surprising, but still frustrates him.
Evan shrugs helplessly.
“Do you remember Atlantis?” Ronon asks, and this time, Evan shakes his head. His pupils are blown wide, his mouth opens, but no sound escapes.
Evan, John realizes with a jolt, is like him.
“You’re with friends now,” Ronon says. He takes off his coat and wraps Evan in it. “You’re safe. Relax.”
Evan nods shyly. He hesitates briefly before moving his hands slowly. They are shaking, and it’s a long moment until they understand that he is trying to tell them something – and he uses Athosian finger signs. They are sloppy, but he manages to spell out a name anyway.
Laura.
John has no idea who Laura is. He thinks he should know it, but he doesn’t. Ronon on the other hand smiles and places his hands over Evan’s gently.
“Is she in danger?” he asks, and Evan shrugs and shakes his head tiredly and lets it rest against Ronon’s shoulder.
“We’ll get her later,” Ronon decides and picks Evan up as if he weights nothing at all. “Let’s get you home first.”
Part 2 | Part 3