Fic: Blue, (SGA, John/Ronon, FRM)
Apr. 29th, 2012 05:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kathierif_ficTitle: Blue
Fandom: SGA
Author: kathie
Rating: FRM
Pairing: John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Disclaimer: this is also a transformative fanwork with brings no profit besides joy, fun, and chocolate. Okay, two out of three are still a win/win situation.
Summary: Some of the transformations into an Iratus-bug stuck, John and Ronon find out the hard way.
A/N: written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
satedan_grabass, as a pinch-hit for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
heeroluva, for the prompt "bug!John".
Warnings: AU
The first time it happens, Ronon is freaked out pretty much from the second the Wraith knocks Sheppard down to his knees and rips his shirt clean off in one slick move.
He’s too far away to do anything, armed with nothing but his sword, his gun somewhere on the rocky ground behind him, and he can’t do a single thing but watch clawed fingers dig into pale skin as the Wraith tosses his head back, shows pointy teeth and lets his eyes fall closed.
He’s feeding on Sheppard, killing him right in front of Ronon’s eyes, and there is nothing he can do but watch, his own heart in his throat and blocking it, stopping him from howling out in pain and fear and disappointment and rage and half a dozen other feelings he doesn’t bother to disentangle.
He ducks from the attack of the Wraith he’s fighting and looks back at the one feeding from Sheppard, memorizes his facial markings and swears bitter revenge.
Sheppard is more than just Ronon’s taskmaster, he’s his friend and his buddy and right now, Ronon can’t do a single thing to save him.
Suddenly, there is an angry roar and a single gunshot. Ronon frowns, not sure what happened, but when he glances back at the Wraith feeding from John, he doesn’t see him anymore.
For a moment, Ronon’s heart squeezes in his chest. He fears he’s lost his chance to avenge Sheppard, but ten, he sees dark hair, Sheppard struggling to his feet, handgun in his left, shirt ripped, and a pissed expression on his face.
He’s fine.
Ronon doesn’t know why, or how, but Sheppard is fine, Sheppard is alive, and he shot the Wraith trying to feed from him himself. No need for Ronon to do it anymore.
Ronon beheads the Wraith reaching for him, ducks, rolls, and finally has his gun back in his hand.
~*~*~
The fight doesn’t last much longer beyond that point, and Ronon keeps his thoughts to himself, suddenly unsure if he really saw the Wraith feed on Sheppard or not, until they are back on Atlantis and Rodney points an accusing finger at Sheppard and says, “Okay, what did you do, you got fed on by a Wraith!”
Rodney gets loud and annoying when he gets scared, Ronon knows that, but the volume he uses to screech that last sentence is enough to let everyone in a radius of a hundred Satedan steps know what happened.
“Rodney,” Sheppard says, deliberately slow and patient, “The Wraith did not feed on me. Relax.”
“What happened?” Keller asks as she steps back, rubber gloves already on her hands and her eyes wide.
John hunches up his shoulders as if he wants to make himself smaller and curls into himself, trying to hide the ripped edges of his shirt. “It tried to feed on me, and then it stopped and I shot it,” he says defensively. “I’m fine, doc.”
“Why did it stop?” Teyla frowns. “There was no reason for it to do so.”
“Hell if I know,” John replies and rubs his forearm. “Ronon’s immune, remember? Maybe constant exposure to the bug guy made me immune too.”
As far as scientific hypotheses are concerned, it’s pretty much useless, even Ronon knows that. Keller gives Sheppard the full check-up, declares him healthy despite the flakes of dried blood on his chest, where the Wraith’s claws dug in, and lets him leave the infirmary.
Ronon simply falls in step with him and follows him like a very menacing shadow when she does.
John doesn’t protest, just rubs his arm absent-mindedly and invites Ronon in for a beer.
~*+*~
Ronon notices the bruise an hour later, when he’s pinning John down underneath him and pulls John’s arms up to the wall, muscles bunching under sweaty-warm skin and the blue shape of the bruise over a pale scar.
Ronon notices it and doesn’t do anything with the knowledge. He’s too busy with the slick slide of Sheppard’s tongue against his own and the friction of their dicks rubbing together.
They fuck. It's fast and dry and frantic, almost uncomfortable, John's hard dick forcing its way into Ronon's body, John's hand dry and tight around Ronon's own flesh, but neither of them is able to slow down and take their time to do this with enough slick.
Ronon glances down between his widely spread thighs, at Sheppard's forearm while Sheppard has his arm wrapped around Ronon's trim waist, reaching for his dick, and on the inside of his arm, he can see the bruise, pale skin tender and blue-tinged.
Thoughts nag at the back of his mind, but they are quickly pushed away by other things, by the sharp taste of arousal on his tongue, the sweet ache between his legs, John’s sharp and controlling thrusts, deep growls coming from both their throats, and finally, the exhaustion, satisfaction and cooling sweat and come against his skin.
~*+*~
It’s like a scene from a nightmare, like that horror movie the marines once showed Ronon, about that guy who has to relive the same day again and again – this time, Sheppard is sprawled against a wall, the Wraith Queen holding him pinned with a strong thigh between his legs, one hand wrapped around his throat and the other one pressed tight against his chest.
Time slows down to a crawl as Sheppard’s face turns into a grimace and his head falls back against the wall with a dull sound that reverberates through Ronon’s bones, fingers clenching and scrabbling against the thick leather coat the Queen is dressed in, trying to fight her off with the little strength he still has left.
Sheppard doesn’t give up, and Ronon can’t watch it. He can’t stand to stay still when one of his, a friend, a teammate, is attacked this way.
He thumbs the setting of his gun to something guaranteed to kill the Queen, aims, and fires just as she hisses angry sibilants into Sheppard’s face.
Sheppard collapses to the ground, hand at his throat as he hacks and coughs, his face deadly pale with bright red splotches, his eyes wide.
Ronon steps up to him with quick steps, offers him a hand and a gun. Both are easily accepted, and just like that, they are off, back to the mission directive of bringing this damn Hive down.
~*+*~
John won’t let him in. Ronon frowns at the closed door – he knows that John is in there, but apparently, the other man is not interested in his company right now.
Or he’s hiding something.
Ronon is the only one who saw the Queen feed on John. He didn’t mention it, and he’s sure that John didn’t, either. He wonders about that for a bit, but there is nothing he can change about that, unless he wants to go behind John’s back, which he doesn’t, so he shrugs and turns to leave.
He manages two steps before the door behind him swishes open.
“Hey,” John’s voice says from the shadows. He sounds tired and a little freaked out, Ronon thinks as he turns around and pushes into the room without saying anything. He’s here, isn’t here, that says more than words could in his opinion.
It’s dark, not a single light on, and Ronon can’t help but feel a frisson of worry.
Something’s clearly not right.
“I wake you?” he asks, as casually as he can, his hand instinctively twitching toward his gun.
“No.” John sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. The lights slowly come on, revealing John, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt.
It takes Ronon surprisingly long to realize what exactly is wrong with the picture presented to him, but when he does, it makes his stomach drop as if he’s accidentally swallowed a rock.
John’s entire arm is blue. Little scales, or what looks like scales, cover the skin, darker in shade and protruding.
“Not pretty, huh?” John says, and now Ronon can understand why he sounded so freaked out. He would freak out too if he was…
“You turning into a bug again?” he asks, as casually as he can.
Sheppard sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and shrugs. “Don’t know.”
“What’d Keller say?”
John grimaces. “Took a lot of blood and will let me know the results.” He shakes his head slightly. “You probably shouldn’t be here,” he adds. “After what happened last time…”
They both know what happened the last time. They also both know that John is freaked out, and that Ronon won’t leave, just like he didn’t the last time.
Ronon smirks, sets his gun to stun and sprawls down on one of the chairs. The smirk is nothing more than a façade, but John’s shoulders relax a fraction under his shirt, and he shuffles back to the edge of his bed and sinks down, like a puppet with his strings cut.
“Not the first time this happened,” Ronon says after a while, just to break the silence. “Last time a Wraith…” He stops himself.
John frowns. “What?”
Ronon sits up, leans forward, and grabs John’s wrist. He gives a tug, to expose the pale scar where Ellie had injured him. “Last time a Wraith fed from you,” Ronon says and taps his fingertips against the scar, now hidden by blue-silvery scales. The skin is hardened, a protective shell forming to protect the soft flesh underneath, and Ronon sweeps his thumb over the spot. “You turned blue here.”
John swallows and licks his lips. “I didn’t…” His voice is scratchy again, rough as if unused, and Ronon swipes his thumb across the little patch of not-skin again, just to see John’s face turn a faint shade of red.
Red, not blue.
“Promise,” John says, suddenly, abruptly. “To stop me if I…” He stops himself, licks his lips again. He sounds agonized, as if this is his worst nightmare coming true.
It probably is.
Ronon does the first thing coming to his mind, disregarding the part of his brain trained by the Satedan military and seven years on the run that screams at him to get away from Sheppard while he’s like this. He leans closer, presses his lips to John’s, and waits.
John makes a wounded sound before all but collapsing against him, crashing to his knees in front of Ronon, his arm still cradled by Ronon’s fingers.
“I’ll take care of you,” Ronon promises quietly. “If you turn worse.” His free hand squeezes John’s shoulder and then reaches up to tangle in his hair.
They both know that John will only get stronger, more resilient, if the change takes hold of him again, and that Ronon will be no match to him then. But Ronon has been trained to fight Wraith for years now, longer than he dares to count, and the Iratus-bug is a kind of Wraith too. There isn’t much of a difference between the two species in his mind, and Ronon has managed to be victorious against Wraith for more than ten years now. He’s killed more than a hundred of them, after all.
He can take care of Sheppard.
His mind quietly wonders if his loyalty is misguided, if he should bring as much distance as he can between himself and Sheppard, make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone.
He forces silence onto that part of his thoughts and uses his grip on John’s hair to guide him into another kiss, possessive and sharp-edged, his tongue in John’s mouth not giving the other man much choice but to give in, give up his control to Ronon.
This is still John, and as long as that doesn’t change, Ronon will stay here, by his side, helping in whatever way he can.
~*+*~
“My guess,” Keller says, “is that some of the changes the retrovirus caused are more permanent than Carson anticipated.”
“What does that mean?” John asks. He’s sitting on the bed, feet dangling, jacket abandoned next to him, his shoulders tense once again.
Keller lifts her shoulders and holds up her tablet computer. The information on it doesn’t tell Ronon anything, and judging from the expression on John’s face, he doesn’t do much better.
“It looks like some of the symptoms of the retrovirus didn’t get as much reversed and more…suppressed. The feeding by the Wraith brought them out again, probably by weakening you to the point where the suppressed characteristics can take over again,” Keller explains.
Ronon glances at the curtains around them, at John’s arm. “It gets worse every time,” he says. “Last time, it was just a little blue.”
Keller gives him a quick glance. If she’s surprised that he came in with John when she contacted the Colonel, she can hide it pretty well, and there is no way Ronon will let John go anywhere without him as long as he’s turning blue. He takes his oaths seriously.
As long as they don’t know how far the change goes, Ronon won’t leave John out of his sight for a second.
John doesn’t say anything. He lets Keller inject him with the same inhibitor Carson used the last time he turned into a bug, yanks his jacket back on over his scales, and listens to her instructions with a curt nod.
~*+*~
They leave the infirmary, side by side, and Ronon can feel the nervous energy rolling off of John in waves. He nudges him gently with his shoulder.
“Sparring?” he asks. “This time of the night, nobody’s gonna watch.”
John hesitates, but in the end, he gives in, just like Ronon knows he would. As long as John behaves like himself, Ronon knows which buttons to push to get certain reactions.
If he turns into the bug again, Ronon just needs to switch his mental raster from “John” to “Wraith” to know what John’s going to do.
Yeah, as if that is as easily done as said.
~*+*~
John’s reflexes are faster than usual, but not as accelerated as they were the last time. Ronon keeps carefully track of it, of John’s speed and endurance and the strength of his blows.
In the end, he manages to pin him to the ground, even if takes him longer than usual, and ensures his victory with a biting kiss that leaves John’s lips red and swollen. John’s chest is heaving under him, his legs fall open on their own accord, and Ronon grins widely.
“You engage the privacy lock?” he rumbles, his hand coming to rest on the bulge in John’s pants and curving almost gently around it.
John stills, swallows, closes his eyes. He nods, and Ronon yanks his pants down over his hips, just far enough to expose John’s dick to the air.
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t tease John. He just swallows him down, his tongue pressed against the underside of John’s dick, and feels him harden in his mouth. His fingers press bruises into John’s hips, bruises that will later turn the same shade of blue as the arm John has tossed over his face.
Neither of them cares.
~*+*~
A few weeks later, John’s arm looks as if it’s never been blue in the first place. They both pretend not to be relieved about it.
~*+*~
The Wraith hisses. “This is a surprise, brother,” he says, his hand still pressed against Sheppard’s chest. It’s his last words before Ronon is there, an inhuman scream on his lips as he breaks the Wraith’s neck without hesitation.
Sheppard sinks down and curls in on himself. He’s bleeding from a head wound, the color of his blood shockingly bright against his pale face. He looks freaked out and as if he's barely holding on to his sanity with his fingertips and the strength of desparation alone.
Ronon ignores Rodney’s babbling and the staccato of gunfire from Teyla’s gun as he crouches down next to Sheppard.
“You okay?” he asks gruffly.
He sees Sheppard’s throat work for a moment before he manages a jerky nod.
“Yeah, I’m fine, buddy,” Sheppard rasps and opens yellow eyes to look at Ronon with slitted pupils. “Or not.”
Ronon’s fingers tighten on his gun.
“It’s getting worse,” he says. “They see you as one of theirs already.”
Sheppard grimaces at that and struggles back to his feet. “Great,” he sighs, back in control, and reaches for his gun with fingers that are distinctively blue already. Ronon knows that it won’t be much longer until the scales appear, bursting from John’s skin and spreading up his arm, probably further than the last time, up to his shoulder and neck, covering his chest and back.
He reaches into one of his coat pockets and pulls out the hypothermic needle Keller gave him weeks ago. He’s been carrying it with him on every mission since then, had Keller show him how to administer the inhibitor without Sheppard ever knowing what he was doing.
“What is going on?” Rodney snaps behind his back, an almost hysteric edge to his voice.
Ronon can’t blame him for it.
“Wraith feeding from him,” he says by way of explanation, pulls John back down and pushes the needle under his still soft skin. He doesn’t add anything else. It’s not his place, it’s up to John how much he wants their teammates to know – even if Ronon thinks they have a right to know, need to know so that they can start carrying the inhibitor with them the way they all have some of the allergy medication Rodney needs.
It’s a team thing.
“Not now,” John manages. His breath is still going too fast, and Ronon hauls him up to his feet and forward. “We need to get out of here, before more Wraith show up.”
Rodney gives Ronon a look that screams of betrayal and worry and injured pride, promising him a tirade later, but for now, he bends down, grabs John’s gun from John's stiff fingers, and covers their six while Teyla takes point.
~*+*~
John keeps his eyes half-closed, hiding the alien shape of his pupils, even when they start to turn back to normal already. He wears his jacket, his hand curled in his pocket, and on first glance, he looks like on any other day, relaxed and faintly amused, as he walks toward his room, Ronon by his side.
The conversation with Rodney and Teyla went as well as they both expected it to be, both of them disappointed in John’s apparent lack of trust and John stumbling his way through something that vaguely resembled an explanation and apology.
In the end, they forgive him for, as Rodney put it, being stupid, and as far as Ronon can judge, John is enough in control of himself not to warrant any more guards than just him. Keller agrees with him, which is probably the only reason why they aren’t followed by two or more soldiers right now.
He doesn’t even ask before following John into his room, the door whooshing closed behind them and plunging them into darkness.
Ronon hears John exhale, and the lights slowly come on until it’s not pitch dark anymore and Ronon can see John, the tense and unhappy line of his spine, the tired bow of his shoulders.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches as John slowly pulls his hand free from his pocket and shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall where he stands. He lets John sink down on the edge of the bed and stare down at the laces of his boots and at his fingers, blue-skinned and fingernails showing the beginnings of transforming into claws.
“Let me,” he says and folds himself down in front of John, to disentangle his laces for him. He keeps one eye up, to be prepared should the bug take over and John attack him, but John doesn’t move a single muscle. He looks as if he’s holding his breath while Ronon pulls off both of his boots and sets them aside, tugs at his socks until John is barefoot.
“What are you doing?” John asks after a moment.
Ronon shrugs and climbs back to his feet. “Taking care of you,” he replies and tugs at John’s shirt. “I promised.”
John doesn’t fight him as Ronon coaxes him out of his clothes and into clean ones, doesn’t protest when Ronon pushes him down onto the bed again and takes off his own clothes.
He shifts onto his side and lets Ronon curl around his back, pulls the blankets up to their shoulders and sighs when Ronon slides a hand across his stomach to hold him close. He doesn’t react to Ronon making sure his gun is close, but out of John’s reach, just like he doesn’t react when Ronon presses his lips to the small spot behind his ear.
Ronon lets him.
The lights dim, and enough time passes that Ronon allows himself to doze off slightly, John a warm and comfortable weight against his front. He snaps awake the second John shifts, but that’s okay with him.
He’s not here to relax.
Not today.
He’s here to make sure John is safe, until John can trust himself again.
~*+*~
It’s the middle of the night when John turns, curls with his forehead against Ronon’s chest and exhales sharply.
“What if it sticks next time?” he asks, his voice muffled by Ronon’s skin.
Ronon curls his hand across John’s shoulder blades, pulls him close and holds him tight.
“Don’t let the Wraith feed from you again,” he replies, “and we don’t need to find out.”
What he wants to say is we’ll deal with it then, together, but, he thinks, his body, protectively curled around John’s, does that better than any words could.
~end
Fandom: SGA
Author: kathie
Rating: FRM
Pairing: John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Disclaimer: this is also a transformative fanwork with brings no profit besides joy, fun, and chocolate. Okay, two out of three are still a win/win situation.
Summary: Some of the transformations into an Iratus-bug stuck, John and Ronon find out the hard way.
A/N: written for
satedan_grabass, as a pinch-hit for heeroluva, for the prompt "bug!John".Warnings: AU
The first time it happens, Ronon is freaked out pretty much from the second the Wraith knocks Sheppard down to his knees and rips his shirt clean off in one slick move.
He’s too far away to do anything, armed with nothing but his sword, his gun somewhere on the rocky ground behind him, and he can’t do a single thing but watch clawed fingers dig into pale skin as the Wraith tosses his head back, shows pointy teeth and lets his eyes fall closed.
He’s feeding on Sheppard, killing him right in front of Ronon’s eyes, and there is nothing he can do but watch, his own heart in his throat and blocking it, stopping him from howling out in pain and fear and disappointment and rage and half a dozen other feelings he doesn’t bother to disentangle.
He ducks from the attack of the Wraith he’s fighting and looks back at the one feeding from Sheppard, memorizes his facial markings and swears bitter revenge.
Sheppard is more than just Ronon’s taskmaster, he’s his friend and his buddy and right now, Ronon can’t do a single thing to save him.
Suddenly, there is an angry roar and a single gunshot. Ronon frowns, not sure what happened, but when he glances back at the Wraith feeding from John, he doesn’t see him anymore.
For a moment, Ronon’s heart squeezes in his chest. He fears he’s lost his chance to avenge Sheppard, but ten, he sees dark hair, Sheppard struggling to his feet, handgun in his left, shirt ripped, and a pissed expression on his face.
He’s fine.
Ronon doesn’t know why, or how, but Sheppard is fine, Sheppard is alive, and he shot the Wraith trying to feed from him himself. No need for Ronon to do it anymore.
Ronon beheads the Wraith reaching for him, ducks, rolls, and finally has his gun back in his hand.
~*~*~
The fight doesn’t last much longer beyond that point, and Ronon keeps his thoughts to himself, suddenly unsure if he really saw the Wraith feed on Sheppard or not, until they are back on Atlantis and Rodney points an accusing finger at Sheppard and says, “Okay, what did you do, you got fed on by a Wraith!”
Rodney gets loud and annoying when he gets scared, Ronon knows that, but the volume he uses to screech that last sentence is enough to let everyone in a radius of a hundred Satedan steps know what happened.
“Rodney,” Sheppard says, deliberately slow and patient, “The Wraith did not feed on me. Relax.”
“What happened?” Keller asks as she steps back, rubber gloves already on her hands and her eyes wide.
John hunches up his shoulders as if he wants to make himself smaller and curls into himself, trying to hide the ripped edges of his shirt. “It tried to feed on me, and then it stopped and I shot it,” he says defensively. “I’m fine, doc.”
“Why did it stop?” Teyla frowns. “There was no reason for it to do so.”
“Hell if I know,” John replies and rubs his forearm. “Ronon’s immune, remember? Maybe constant exposure to the bug guy made me immune too.”
As far as scientific hypotheses are concerned, it’s pretty much useless, even Ronon knows that. Keller gives Sheppard the full check-up, declares him healthy despite the flakes of dried blood on his chest, where the Wraith’s claws dug in, and lets him leave the infirmary.
Ronon simply falls in step with him and follows him like a very menacing shadow when she does.
John doesn’t protest, just rubs his arm absent-mindedly and invites Ronon in for a beer.
~*+*~
Ronon notices the bruise an hour later, when he’s pinning John down underneath him and pulls John’s arms up to the wall, muscles bunching under sweaty-warm skin and the blue shape of the bruise over a pale scar.
Ronon notices it and doesn’t do anything with the knowledge. He’s too busy with the slick slide of Sheppard’s tongue against his own and the friction of their dicks rubbing together.
They fuck. It's fast and dry and frantic, almost uncomfortable, John's hard dick forcing its way into Ronon's body, John's hand dry and tight around Ronon's own flesh, but neither of them is able to slow down and take their time to do this with enough slick.
Ronon glances down between his widely spread thighs, at Sheppard's forearm while Sheppard has his arm wrapped around Ronon's trim waist, reaching for his dick, and on the inside of his arm, he can see the bruise, pale skin tender and blue-tinged.
Thoughts nag at the back of his mind, but they are quickly pushed away by other things, by the sharp taste of arousal on his tongue, the sweet ache between his legs, John’s sharp and controlling thrusts, deep growls coming from both their throats, and finally, the exhaustion, satisfaction and cooling sweat and come against his skin.
~*+*~
It’s like a scene from a nightmare, like that horror movie the marines once showed Ronon, about that guy who has to relive the same day again and again – this time, Sheppard is sprawled against a wall, the Wraith Queen holding him pinned with a strong thigh between his legs, one hand wrapped around his throat and the other one pressed tight against his chest.
Time slows down to a crawl as Sheppard’s face turns into a grimace and his head falls back against the wall with a dull sound that reverberates through Ronon’s bones, fingers clenching and scrabbling against the thick leather coat the Queen is dressed in, trying to fight her off with the little strength he still has left.
Sheppard doesn’t give up, and Ronon can’t watch it. He can’t stand to stay still when one of his, a friend, a teammate, is attacked this way.
He thumbs the setting of his gun to something guaranteed to kill the Queen, aims, and fires just as she hisses angry sibilants into Sheppard’s face.
Sheppard collapses to the ground, hand at his throat as he hacks and coughs, his face deadly pale with bright red splotches, his eyes wide.
Ronon steps up to him with quick steps, offers him a hand and a gun. Both are easily accepted, and just like that, they are off, back to the mission directive of bringing this damn Hive down.
~*+*~
John won’t let him in. Ronon frowns at the closed door – he knows that John is in there, but apparently, the other man is not interested in his company right now.
Or he’s hiding something.
Ronon is the only one who saw the Queen feed on John. He didn’t mention it, and he’s sure that John didn’t, either. He wonders about that for a bit, but there is nothing he can change about that, unless he wants to go behind John’s back, which he doesn’t, so he shrugs and turns to leave.
He manages two steps before the door behind him swishes open.
“Hey,” John’s voice says from the shadows. He sounds tired and a little freaked out, Ronon thinks as he turns around and pushes into the room without saying anything. He’s here, isn’t here, that says more than words could in his opinion.
It’s dark, not a single light on, and Ronon can’t help but feel a frisson of worry.
Something’s clearly not right.
“I wake you?” he asks, as casually as he can, his hand instinctively twitching toward his gun.
“No.” John sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. The lights slowly come on, revealing John, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt.
It takes Ronon surprisingly long to realize what exactly is wrong with the picture presented to him, but when he does, it makes his stomach drop as if he’s accidentally swallowed a rock.
John’s entire arm is blue. Little scales, or what looks like scales, cover the skin, darker in shade and protruding.
“Not pretty, huh?” John says, and now Ronon can understand why he sounded so freaked out. He would freak out too if he was…
“You turning into a bug again?” he asks, as casually as he can.
Sheppard sighs, runs a hand through his hair, and shrugs. “Don’t know.”
“What’d Keller say?”
John grimaces. “Took a lot of blood and will let me know the results.” He shakes his head slightly. “You probably shouldn’t be here,” he adds. “After what happened last time…”
They both know what happened the last time. They also both know that John is freaked out, and that Ronon won’t leave, just like he didn’t the last time.
Ronon smirks, sets his gun to stun and sprawls down on one of the chairs. The smirk is nothing more than a façade, but John’s shoulders relax a fraction under his shirt, and he shuffles back to the edge of his bed and sinks down, like a puppet with his strings cut.
“Not the first time this happened,” Ronon says after a while, just to break the silence. “Last time a Wraith…” He stops himself.
John frowns. “What?”
Ronon sits up, leans forward, and grabs John’s wrist. He gives a tug, to expose the pale scar where Ellie had injured him. “Last time a Wraith fed from you,” Ronon says and taps his fingertips against the scar, now hidden by blue-silvery scales. The skin is hardened, a protective shell forming to protect the soft flesh underneath, and Ronon sweeps his thumb over the spot. “You turned blue here.”
John swallows and licks his lips. “I didn’t…” His voice is scratchy again, rough as if unused, and Ronon swipes his thumb across the little patch of not-skin again, just to see John’s face turn a faint shade of red.
Red, not blue.
“Promise,” John says, suddenly, abruptly. “To stop me if I…” He stops himself, licks his lips again. He sounds agonized, as if this is his worst nightmare coming true.
It probably is.
Ronon does the first thing coming to his mind, disregarding the part of his brain trained by the Satedan military and seven years on the run that screams at him to get away from Sheppard while he’s like this. He leans closer, presses his lips to John’s, and waits.
John makes a wounded sound before all but collapsing against him, crashing to his knees in front of Ronon, his arm still cradled by Ronon’s fingers.
“I’ll take care of you,” Ronon promises quietly. “If you turn worse.” His free hand squeezes John’s shoulder and then reaches up to tangle in his hair.
They both know that John will only get stronger, more resilient, if the change takes hold of him again, and that Ronon will be no match to him then. But Ronon has been trained to fight Wraith for years now, longer than he dares to count, and the Iratus-bug is a kind of Wraith too. There isn’t much of a difference between the two species in his mind, and Ronon has managed to be victorious against Wraith for more than ten years now. He’s killed more than a hundred of them, after all.
He can take care of Sheppard.
His mind quietly wonders if his loyalty is misguided, if he should bring as much distance as he can between himself and Sheppard, make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone.
He forces silence onto that part of his thoughts and uses his grip on John’s hair to guide him into another kiss, possessive and sharp-edged, his tongue in John’s mouth not giving the other man much choice but to give in, give up his control to Ronon.
This is still John, and as long as that doesn’t change, Ronon will stay here, by his side, helping in whatever way he can.
~*+*~
“My guess,” Keller says, “is that some of the changes the retrovirus caused are more permanent than Carson anticipated.”
“What does that mean?” John asks. He’s sitting on the bed, feet dangling, jacket abandoned next to him, his shoulders tense once again.
Keller lifts her shoulders and holds up her tablet computer. The information on it doesn’t tell Ronon anything, and judging from the expression on John’s face, he doesn’t do much better.
“It looks like some of the symptoms of the retrovirus didn’t get as much reversed and more…suppressed. The feeding by the Wraith brought them out again, probably by weakening you to the point where the suppressed characteristics can take over again,” Keller explains.
Ronon glances at the curtains around them, at John’s arm. “It gets worse every time,” he says. “Last time, it was just a little blue.”
Keller gives him a quick glance. If she’s surprised that he came in with John when she contacted the Colonel, she can hide it pretty well, and there is no way Ronon will let John go anywhere without him as long as he’s turning blue. He takes his oaths seriously.
As long as they don’t know how far the change goes, Ronon won’t leave John out of his sight for a second.
John doesn’t say anything. He lets Keller inject him with the same inhibitor Carson used the last time he turned into a bug, yanks his jacket back on over his scales, and listens to her instructions with a curt nod.
~*+*~
They leave the infirmary, side by side, and Ronon can feel the nervous energy rolling off of John in waves. He nudges him gently with his shoulder.
“Sparring?” he asks. “This time of the night, nobody’s gonna watch.”
John hesitates, but in the end, he gives in, just like Ronon knows he would. As long as John behaves like himself, Ronon knows which buttons to push to get certain reactions.
If he turns into the bug again, Ronon just needs to switch his mental raster from “John” to “Wraith” to know what John’s going to do.
Yeah, as if that is as easily done as said.
~*+*~
John’s reflexes are faster than usual, but not as accelerated as they were the last time. Ronon keeps carefully track of it, of John’s speed and endurance and the strength of his blows.
In the end, he manages to pin him to the ground, even if takes him longer than usual, and ensures his victory with a biting kiss that leaves John’s lips red and swollen. John’s chest is heaving under him, his legs fall open on their own accord, and Ronon grins widely.
“You engage the privacy lock?” he rumbles, his hand coming to rest on the bulge in John’s pants and curving almost gently around it.
John stills, swallows, closes his eyes. He nods, and Ronon yanks his pants down over his hips, just far enough to expose John’s dick to the air.
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t tease John. He just swallows him down, his tongue pressed against the underside of John’s dick, and feels him harden in his mouth. His fingers press bruises into John’s hips, bruises that will later turn the same shade of blue as the arm John has tossed over his face.
Neither of them cares.
~*+*~
A few weeks later, John’s arm looks as if it’s never been blue in the first place. They both pretend not to be relieved about it.
~*+*~
The Wraith hisses. “This is a surprise, brother,” he says, his hand still pressed against Sheppard’s chest. It’s his last words before Ronon is there, an inhuman scream on his lips as he breaks the Wraith’s neck without hesitation.
Sheppard sinks down and curls in on himself. He’s bleeding from a head wound, the color of his blood shockingly bright against his pale face. He looks freaked out and as if he's barely holding on to his sanity with his fingertips and the strength of desparation alone.
Ronon ignores Rodney’s babbling and the staccato of gunfire from Teyla’s gun as he crouches down next to Sheppard.
“You okay?” he asks gruffly.
He sees Sheppard’s throat work for a moment before he manages a jerky nod.
“Yeah, I’m fine, buddy,” Sheppard rasps and opens yellow eyes to look at Ronon with slitted pupils. “Or not.”
Ronon’s fingers tighten on his gun.
“It’s getting worse,” he says. “They see you as one of theirs already.”
Sheppard grimaces at that and struggles back to his feet. “Great,” he sighs, back in control, and reaches for his gun with fingers that are distinctively blue already. Ronon knows that it won’t be much longer until the scales appear, bursting from John’s skin and spreading up his arm, probably further than the last time, up to his shoulder and neck, covering his chest and back.
He reaches into one of his coat pockets and pulls out the hypothermic needle Keller gave him weeks ago. He’s been carrying it with him on every mission since then, had Keller show him how to administer the inhibitor without Sheppard ever knowing what he was doing.
“What is going on?” Rodney snaps behind his back, an almost hysteric edge to his voice.
Ronon can’t blame him for it.
“Wraith feeding from him,” he says by way of explanation, pulls John back down and pushes the needle under his still soft skin. He doesn’t add anything else. It’s not his place, it’s up to John how much he wants their teammates to know – even if Ronon thinks they have a right to know, need to know so that they can start carrying the inhibitor with them the way they all have some of the allergy medication Rodney needs.
It’s a team thing.
“Not now,” John manages. His breath is still going too fast, and Ronon hauls him up to his feet and forward. “We need to get out of here, before more Wraith show up.”
Rodney gives Ronon a look that screams of betrayal and worry and injured pride, promising him a tirade later, but for now, he bends down, grabs John’s gun from John's stiff fingers, and covers their six while Teyla takes point.
~*+*~
John keeps his eyes half-closed, hiding the alien shape of his pupils, even when they start to turn back to normal already. He wears his jacket, his hand curled in his pocket, and on first glance, he looks like on any other day, relaxed and faintly amused, as he walks toward his room, Ronon by his side.
The conversation with Rodney and Teyla went as well as they both expected it to be, both of them disappointed in John’s apparent lack of trust and John stumbling his way through something that vaguely resembled an explanation and apology.
In the end, they forgive him for, as Rodney put it, being stupid, and as far as Ronon can judge, John is enough in control of himself not to warrant any more guards than just him. Keller agrees with him, which is probably the only reason why they aren’t followed by two or more soldiers right now.
He doesn’t even ask before following John into his room, the door whooshing closed behind them and plunging them into darkness.
Ronon hears John exhale, and the lights slowly come on until it’s not pitch dark anymore and Ronon can see John, the tense and unhappy line of his spine, the tired bow of his shoulders.
He doesn’t say anything, just watches as John slowly pulls his hand free from his pocket and shrugs off his jacket, letting it fall where he stands. He lets John sink down on the edge of the bed and stare down at the laces of his boots and at his fingers, blue-skinned and fingernails showing the beginnings of transforming into claws.
“Let me,” he says and folds himself down in front of John, to disentangle his laces for him. He keeps one eye up, to be prepared should the bug take over and John attack him, but John doesn’t move a single muscle. He looks as if he’s holding his breath while Ronon pulls off both of his boots and sets them aside, tugs at his socks until John is barefoot.
“What are you doing?” John asks after a moment.
Ronon shrugs and climbs back to his feet. “Taking care of you,” he replies and tugs at John’s shirt. “I promised.”
John doesn’t fight him as Ronon coaxes him out of his clothes and into clean ones, doesn’t protest when Ronon pushes him down onto the bed again and takes off his own clothes.
He shifts onto his side and lets Ronon curl around his back, pulls the blankets up to their shoulders and sighs when Ronon slides a hand across his stomach to hold him close. He doesn’t react to Ronon making sure his gun is close, but out of John’s reach, just like he doesn’t react when Ronon presses his lips to the small spot behind his ear.
Ronon lets him.
The lights dim, and enough time passes that Ronon allows himself to doze off slightly, John a warm and comfortable weight against his front. He snaps awake the second John shifts, but that’s okay with him.
He’s not here to relax.
Not today.
He’s here to make sure John is safe, until John can trust himself again.
~*+*~
It’s the middle of the night when John turns, curls with his forehead against Ronon’s chest and exhales sharply.
“What if it sticks next time?” he asks, his voice muffled by Ronon’s skin.
Ronon curls his hand across John’s shoulder blades, pulls him close and holds him tight.
“Don’t let the Wraith feed from you again,” he replies, “and we don’t need to find out.”
What he wants to say is we’ll deal with it then, together, but, he thinks, his body, protectively curled around John’s, does that better than any words could.
~end