Fic: Standing Together (John/Ronon, FRM)
Apr. 29th, 2012 05:14 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kathierif_ficTitle: Standing Together
Author: kathie
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: FRM
Disclaimer: Not mine, transformative fanwork, no profit!
Summary: The aftermath of a mission gone wrong, and Ronon needs to make sure John is okay.
A/N: written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
satedan_grabass 2012, for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
busaikko and the prompts “Satedan culture!”; parts of “stranded and injured and having to rely on each other”. 4525 words
Warnings: head injuries
It is almost four in the morning and Sheppard – John – is awake, his body rigid and his breathing shallow. Sweat is drying on his skin, sharp-smelling like fear and the urge to run or to scream.
John doesn’t scream. Instead, he counts his own breaths until they are even and normal again, regular and controlled, and he relaxes every muscle he has control over.
And then, he runs.
He's careful when he pulls away, quiet and confident in his knowledge of the layout of the room around him and where exactly his clothes ended up. He doesn't even need the lights to find everything, from the boots by the door to the underwear at the foot of the bed.
When he's gone, Ronon rolls around and buries his face in the pillow, where John's head has been until recently. He breathes in deeply and forces the growl in his throat down.
It's the third nightmare in this week alone. Ronon knows about nightmares, he occasionally has his own, and he notices things.
He knows it's the third nightmare because he's been there for every single one of them, and he's been awake for every single one of them as well.
John’s nightmares, he knows by now, usually have some kind of trigger, and when they come, they come in circles. He never has them during a crisis, but always after - or maybe not always, he's not sure about that yet. John is good at hiding his nightmares, but Ronon is starting to learn the signs he has to look out for.
John is good at compartmentalizing, good at putting things behind him and not letting them affect him. But for some reason, he can't shake this one, can't get the last mission out of his mind.
He can't forget it.
Neither can Ronon.
Ronon exhales sharply into John's pillow.
This wasn't the first injury in the line of duty; not the first time they both had to deal with blood and pain and the threat of death while out on a mission.
Ronon doesn’t follow John, not even when the urge becomes almost overwhelming. He's sure he can find him easily - there aren't many places John goes when he needs space and time to think. If John had wanted Ronon to witness his distress, he would have stayed, would have gone back to sleep, or nudged Ronon, to fight off that jittery energy humming along his bones or to fuck it out of his system. Ronon would've been up for both, and John knows it.
John didn't pick any of these options. Ronon guesses that he either went to the cafeteria or to his office, to finish some paperwork.
He doesn't follow. If John needs some space, some distance, to find his balance after the last mission, Ronon can give him that.
Sometimes, he needs room for himself, too.
He goes back to sleep.
~~~
The thing about the last mission they went on is that it was bad; dig a fragment of a bullet out of Sheppard’s skull-bad. The projectile had pierced Sheppard’s skin and had lodged in the bone beneath, and it had been small enough not to do much damage beyond the blood loss. Still, it had been a close call, too close for Ronon’s comfort. He’s glad Rodney didn’t have to see it; glad that it was just him and Sheppard on that planet, even if that meant that he had to cut the bullet free with one of his knives while Sheppard’s blood poured red and bright over his hands and his pants and into the sandy ground beneath them.
The thing about the last mission is that it was fucked from the beginning, with the villagers hostile toward them simply because they were strangers and with their weapons developed beyond crossbows and spears. The trek back to the gate had been long and dangerous, with Sheppard injured and determined to make it no matter how and with angry villagers following them through the woods.
By the time they made it back to Atlantis, dirty and dehydrated and maybe a little feverish in Sheppard’s case, the wound had already started to heal under the bandages and Rodney never noticed the blood on Ronon’s pants under all the dried mud.
When John had grinned at him and had lightly said, “Just a scratch, Rodney,” Rodney had believed him.
Teyla hadn’t, but she’s wise enough not to mention it.
At least not when Rodney’s around.
~~
The door chimes, indicating a visitor. Ronon rolls silently to his feet and goes to open the door, his hand hovering over the gun in his belt.
It reminds him of his first weeks on Atlantis, how he was always tense and thinking that the Lanteans would try to take something from him or hand him over to the Wraith. The mistrust and fear he thought he’d managed to shake off in the years that had gone by has come back with vengeance after the weeks they spent on that planet, and he hasn’t managed yet to shake it off again.
It’s two in the morning, too late for anyone but John, who slouches against the wall like a young man who hasn’t learned to stand straight and proud like a proper fighter for Sateda yet.
Ronon wipes the thought away with a blink and takes a second look at John.
The shadows under his eyes aren’t worse than usual, at least. His lips are curved into a shade of a cocky grin, as if Sheppard knows exactly what Ronon is thinking.
He, too, hasn’t shaken the effects of their last mission, or he would be in his own room, asleep.
The smirk is widening as he takes a step closer to Ronon. “You busy?”
“It’s two in the morning,” Ronon points out, in case John actually just came from the labs to check out new Ancient stuff with Rodney and forgot the time.
“I know,” John starts, the cockiness overtaken by his usual, slightly awkward behavior when he thinks he assumed something about somebody else only to find out he’s wrong, and before he can apologize, Ronon wraps his hand around the back of his neck and hauls him into the room and against his chest.
John is tense, every inch the commander and taskmaster Ronon has learned to trust with his life. His muscles are almost vibrating with it, and Ronon growls and bends down to slant his mouth over John’s while his fingers dig into the muscles left and right of the nape of John’s neck.
He doesn’t want Sheppard here, right now. He wants John, the man he has learned to trust with his heart.
John’s hands come up and tangle in Ronon’s shirt. He kisses back with a single-minded focus that Ronon admires. He doesn’t just give in and lets Ronon do his thing, he participates.
It’s not a fight for dominance. Ronon would win any fight on strength alone, John is his taskmaster and therefore Ronon has sworn his loyalty to him, but here, right now, they are as equal as two warriors who are both smart and cunning in battle can be. But this is not about dominance. This isn’t about bruising and breaking, even if their initial kiss almost makes it look like that.
John exhales into Ronon’s mouth and licks past his lips and teeth, one of his hands coming to rest against Ronon’s cheek. Ronon runs his fingers through John’s hair, brushing gently against the still angry and tender line behind his ear, hidden by dark hair, where he dug out the bullet.
“Okay?” he murmurs, his voice soft and his hands gentle.
John swallows. “Yeah,” he says roughly and lets Ronon take some of his weight.
He never lets him take a part of his burden – that is his alone to carry, and like a true taskmaster, John shoulders his duty without complaint. Ronon is proud to follow him, into battle and negotiations and exploring the many planets in the Pegasus galaxy, but sometimes, he wonders what it would’ve been like, if the Lanteans had arrived here ten years earlier than when they did, if they had found Sateda strong and proud instead of dead and broken, its remaining fighters scattered around the galaxy and without a taskmaster to guide them into a strong stand against the Wraith again.
He wonders if Melena would have accepted Ronon’s team into their household, if she’d accepted John as her brother; or if she would have liked Ronon to accept a brother or sister too, someone she considered special enough to include into their bond. Sometimes, he thinks that Melena would have adored Carson and that they would have to fight out, playfully, who had a right to the good doctor and who would call him brother instead of partner.
He usually pushes these thoughts away as quickly as he can. They are too painful, too raw on his heart to be considered for more than a second, but today, they linger.
“What are you thinking about?” John asks him, curiously twisting to look into Ronon’s eyes.
Ronon takes a deep breath and slowly releases it, lets his tension go with it like Teyla taught him, and brings his thoughts to the possible rather than the impossible. He presses against John’s body, warm and solid and most important of all, alive.
“Sateda,” he says gruffly. “Don’t want to, but…” He can’t change the past, can’t bring Melena back from the dead. It doesn’t stop him from wanting exactly that.
John grimaces. “Yeah,” he says, understanding perfectly, and Ronon leans down to kiss him again, deep and wet, licking against his tongue and the inside of his mouth, grazing teeth against his bottom lip and following it with a sweep of his tongue again, sucking teasingly on John’s own tongue when it follows Ronon’s while his hands cradle John’s skull and the silky strands of his hair glide through his fingers. It’s a kiss filled with tenderness, with the bittersweet memories of a home he’s long lost, and it gives Ronon an idea.
He pulls back, and John rolls his neck – he’s still not quite used to kissing someone who is taller than him, Ronon thinks. He’s flushed and his eyes are dark and hungry for more.
Ronon looks at him for a long moment. “Come here,” he finally says, his voice rough and shivery, and he tangles his fingers in John’s shirt and yanks, pulling it up and off. He needs the contact, needs to know that John is here and alive and breathing, and he needs John to say something to prove that his brain is still intact, that he didn’t lose anything just because of one lucky shot.
“A little impatient?” John asks, but he follows easily enough and barely flinches when Ronon wraps him in his arms and buries his nose in John’s shoulder, licking and sucking. “Easy, big guy.” His voice is soothing, and his arm comes up around Ronon’s waist to pat the small of his back.
John’s not really a big fan of touching like this. He’s okay with brief hugs and pats and nudges, but he gets uncomfortable with long hugs and all the romantic gestures Rodney’s currently discovering for himself and Jennifer Keller.
Ronon knows that, but he still can’t make himself let go. He clings to John with all his strength, and for once, John just lets it happen, as if he’s able to sense the turmoil in Ronon’s head.
“I want to mark you as mine,” Ronon says, his voice muffled. “I want…” He swallows and mouths at John’s skin again, trying to forget the memory of John’s head bleeding and painting Ronon’s hands and knife red.
“Easy, big guy,” John says again. “You okay there?”
“Yeah.” Ronon takes a deep breath, inhaling the smell of John’s body, and finally pulls back. “I’m good.” He runs his fingertips along John’s arm, over the mark the Iratus bug left behind. “It’s custom,” he says, “On Sateda.”
He leans in for another kiss, his tongue against John’s again and one of his brushing down the length of his spine to the waistband of his pants.
John makes a small noise and takes control of their kiss, adds a hint of teeth as he kisses and licks down Ronon’s throat.
His hands push at Ronon’s shirt, edge it up his stomach and chest until it is tangled under his arms, and he kisses Ronon’s chest, sucks the clean skin into his mouth until the blood rushes to the surface in rough-looking marks.
“Want to mark you and declare you as mine,” Ronon says, unconsciously falling into the old and familiar words of the ritual.
John pulls back and frowns at him. “What do you mean?” he asks, his eyes narrowing with a hint of suspicion.
Ronon takes a deep breath. “It’s custom, on Sateda,” he says, deliberately leaning back and away from John’s body. “You leave a mark on the people you claim as yours, and they on you, just like they leave marks on your life.” He shrugs. “Like a mate. A…wife, a partner. A family.” He lifts his leg and wriggles his toes. “Like family.” He points to the small, fine lines tattooed to the sole of is foot. “This is my grandfather’s line name,” he explains.
“Why did you get a tattoo of your grandfather’s line name under your foot?” John asks. He looks as if he wants to reach out and trace the lines with a fingertip, but he stops himself at the last moment.
Ronon shrugs. “Because I’m standing on the shoulders of my forefathers,” he explains, “just like future generations will stand on mine.” He grimaces slightly. “If there ever is a future generation of Satedans now.”
John looks intrigued. “Do you have one for…for Melena?” he asks, and Ronon realizes that this is the first time he mentioned her name with one of his teammates present.
The thought sends a sharp jolt of pain through him. Melena is – was – the love of his life, the blossom of his lifetree, the woman he had been promised to since the day of her birth. She’d been one of his best friends outside the military since they’d both been old enough to talk.
“No,” he says roughly. “There was no time. The Wraith came before I could.” He taps his forearm with the big tattoo Rakai did for him when they got the chance. “She’s in this one.”
“Huh.” John reaches up and scratches the back of his head. “So…you want to do what, exactly, with me?”
“Mark you.” Ronon has a split second to realize what John is worried about, and when he does, he reaches out and closes both hands around John’s wrists. “Nothing bad,” he promises, his thumbs sweeping gently across soft pale skin. “Won’t hurt you. I promise.”
He remembers dragging and carrying John through the woods, forcing limbs that simply didn’t want to obey his commands anymore into action. He remembers the primitive gun going off, the surprised expression on John’s face when his knees buckled as soon as the bullet burrowed under his skin.
“Nothing permanent,” he adds. “No danger.”
John nods, and his simple, uncomplicated agreement fills Ronon with unexpected relief.
“Good,” he breathes and tugs John close, a hand at the back of John’s neck, tilting his head toward him for a kiss.
This is familiar, this they both know, and the muscles under Ronon’s palm unknot almost on their own. John makes a questioning sound at the back of his throat.
Ronon pulls back and grins at him.
“How are you planning on doing this, then?” John wants to know.
“You’ll see,” Ronon says, but he doesn’t elaborate and crowds John against the side of the bed.
~~
There is one thing Ronon finds himself admiring about John: It’s his uncanny ability to take what’s given to him and try to make the best of it. Stranded on an abandoned planet, the Wraith at their heels? John Sheppard doesn’t give up, but tries to find a way to overwhelm his enemies and get his team home safely. Genii prison, being fed on by a Wraith – Sheppard finds a way out, even if Ronon doesn’t always agree with his methods, he can’t help but respect the results. Alien ritual? He doesn’t even need to know why, or what exactly the ritual is for, as long as there is no danger and no harm done to any of the participants, Sheppard will gladly assist in any way he can.
However, Ronon doesn’t want this to be like one of these harvest ceremonies they took part in, where John shifted from foot to foot, focused on the task at hand and his role in the play while he mentally composes a report already. He wants John to understand, wants to make this one special.
He wants to make it count, because it counts for him.
“When you are mine,” he says and licks down John’s chest, tongue catching on rough chest hair, “I’m taking care of you.” He leans up and sucks a kiss against John’s throat, his beard rasping against John’s stubble. “I follow you into battle,” he continues and splays a hand over John’s hip. “And I lay down my life, my arms, and my honor for you.” His fingertips push at the waistband of John’s pants, and he grins teasingly and dips them underneath the fabric. “I’d be a good brother for any mate you chose,” he says seriously and palms the soft bulge under John’s pants.
John makes a small sound at the back of his throat, half protest and half lust, and arches his back, pressing himself more firmly against Ronon’s touch.
“How are you planning on marking me?” John asks, short of breath and his eyes narrowed. Even with the distraction of arousal, he hasn’t forgotten what Ronon wants to do.
Ronon rolls off the bed in one smooth move and kneels down by the chest Teyla gave him, where he keeps some of his most prized possessions and the lube.
The marker Zelenka gave him smells sharp and artificial, like the alcohol in the hospitals of his homeworld. Ronon inhales quietly as he uncaps it and hovers it over John's shoulder.
"I hope that washes off," John says teasingly, but he relaxes into Ronon's pillow and grins, pleased with himself for some reason.
Ronon thinks for a moment, tongue caught between his teeth, and then, he starts writing.
"I swear, on my grandfather's line's honor," he says, "to honor his bond, to hold it and cherish it, as long as I can." The words flow down John's arm, in old, classic Satedan cursive. The marker's tip is fine enough to allow for the delicate arches of the letters, and Ronon adds Atlantis' gate symbols along the inside of John's forearm, to add weight to his pledge.
It's been a while since he wrote in Satedan. He's been studying some of the Earth letters, but the familiar shapes quickly come back, his hand and head remembering them and their delicate beauty.
"I will honor your strength and integrity as taskmaster and leader and follow your lead in the fight against the Wraith." Ronon looks up from his writing at John's face. "And every other enemy," he adds, his voice pitched low. "I protect you and your family from harm, even from yourself if necessary. Your family becomes my family."
He writes the word family in the crook of John's elbow and switches to the blocky Athosian letters for Teyla's and Torren's names, to the still strange Earth letters for Rodney's, Jeannie's, Madison's. He glances at John's face before adding Dave Sheppard and his offspring to the list as well before returning to Satedan script. "I will stand together with you and yours and support you with everything I have and everything I am. This Ronon Dex swears in the memory of the Ancestors." His name, his signature, ends up straight across the pulse point in John's wrist, the way Ronon has intended it, and seeing it there fills him with a wild tangle of emotions.
John stares down at his arm, the unfamiliar writing covering his skin, with an unreadable expression, but when he looks up, he looks relaxed enough for Ronon to risk kissing him and sealing his pledge with his lips.
The marker gets capped, and Ronon drops it when John kisses him back, tongue slick against his and his teeth a sharp hint of danger. John rolls them over until he's straddling Ronon's hips, their chests pressed together as they continue kissing.
Somehow, they manage to peel each other out of their pants without breaking their kiss and without breaking anything, despite John wearing his boots and despite Ronon's pants being laced tight.
"Where'd the lube go?" John asks breathlessly, and Ronon shoves it into his hands, follows it with a bite to the juncture of John's shoulder and neck, where the skin tastes like salt.
"You wanna...?" John trails off with a hitch to his breath, and Ronon feels the tangle of emotions that was caused by seeing his name on John's skin fray and spread out, carried by his blood into every cell of his body until he can barely breathe, and he mutely shakes his head and spreads his legs.
John's pupils are blown wide, his hair sticking up. He bites his lip as he fumbles with the lube and clicks the bottle open, the sound loud over the rush of blood in Ronon's ears.
While John coats his fingers, Ronon spreads himself open further, his legs falling apart without his conscious decision and one knee coming up, to make room for John to move closer and put his fingers where Ronon wants them.
Where he needs them.
He grunts at the first contact, the cold a shock to his system, but John croons at him, his touch gentle and slick as he rubs his fingertips across Ronon's skin, shallowly pushing in and pulling away until the slow burn of arousal is undercut with a sharp edge of frustration. Ronon growls and pushes back, his body clearly asking for more, and John gives in, pushes his fingers in deep and twists them until Ronon can see stars behind his closed eyes.
He slowly blinks his eyes open when John pulls away, only vaguely aware of the time that has passed or the sweat rolling down his sides and the backs of his knees. Arousal thrums through his blood, and with a surprised jolt he realizes that the constant weariness, the tension and the urge to flinch at the slightest sound are gone for now.
He trusts John to keep him safe.
He trusts John to protect him, the same way he protects John. It's a circle, and they are standing back to back, keeping each other safe from the Wraith, like partners.
Like family.
Like team.
He groans when John slides into him with one sharp thrust, his body opening around John's length and accepting it easily. John stills for a moment, struggling to keep his body under control, and Ronon can enjoy the feeling of being stretched wide and taken care of.
His shoulderblades curl up and off the mattress when John starts moving and sets a fast-paced rhythm, his hand clenches against John's shoulder. His other hand grabs John's wrist, his thumb pressing over the dark marks of his own name, etched with marker onto the soft and vulnerable skin of John's wrist.
John lets him cling to him while they fuck without complaint. He grunts and angles his hips, trying to reach that little spot inside Ronon, and after a while, he reaches out with the hand not caught between Ronon's fingers and closes it around Ronon's hard dick, which until this point has been ignored. It pulls Ronon's attention sharply away from the stretch of his ass and the thrum of pulse under his fingers and makes him focus on himself again instead of John.
Vaguely, he is aware of the sounds escaping from his tightly clenched teeth, of the sweat rolling down his body and making the sheets cling to his skin, but the majority of his focus is on the sweet bite of arousal, the feeling of John pushing into him and slowly dragging out again, the cool hiss of breath when John curls over him and brings his mouth close to Ronon's shoulder, the slide of his tongue across Ronon's chest, leaving invisible traces and writing of a different kind behind, the kind of writing that is invisible to the eye and that goes through the skin and right to the heart, adding John's name to those already written there - the names of his parents, his siblings, Melena, Tyre and Rakai and all those people that meant something to Ronon in his life, and there, at the end of that list, in the round, still unfamiliar letters of the Lanteans, John's name gets added, with blood instead of ink, never to be removed.
He comes with that thought filling his mind.
John makes a deep growling sound deep in his throat and thrusts into him again, once, twice, three times, before freezing for a long moment.
He has a surprised expression on his face, as if he didn’t expect this to happen. It’s close to the expression he wore when he got shot, but Ronon shakes his head and forces the thought away.
He has John’s back. He will look out for him now, will protect him, even more than before, but even then, he knows he couldn’t have prevented that lucky shot from coming close, too close to John’s life.
The Ancestors give, the Ancestors take, he thinks and stretches lazily. John pulls out and rolls to his side next to Ronon, his hair looking even more ridiculous than before.
John grimaces and twists, and pulls the marker from under his back, and Ronon’s eyes are drawn back to the writing on his arm. It’s only a little smudged by his sweat, but Ronon is pretty sure that a good long shower will take care of it.
It doesn’t matter. The important mark is on the inside of Ronon’s heart, written in blood, but when John rolls around, uncaps the marker and touches its tip to Ronon’s forearm, he can’t suppress a shiver.
John glances at his own arm and at Ronon’s face before shrugging. The marker catches slightly on Ronon’s sweaty skin, and when he looks down, he sees a wild scribble along the muscle of his arm.
A scribble he’s seen often enough, but it still takes him a ridiculous amount of time to realize that it’s John’s signature.
It’s not the old Satedan words of a marking ritual, but, Ronon figures as he presses his face to the scar behind John’s ear, another mark of his strength and his stubbornness and his ability to survive to fight another day, it’s close enough to count.
*end
Author: kathie
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: John Sheppard/Ronon Dex
Rating: FRM
Disclaimer: Not mine, transformative fanwork, no profit!
Summary: The aftermath of a mission gone wrong, and Ronon needs to make sure John is okay.
A/N: written for
satedan_grabass 2012, for busaikko and the prompts “Satedan culture!”; parts of “stranded and injured and having to rely on each other”. 4525 wordsWarnings: head injuries
It is almost four in the morning and Sheppard – John – is awake, his body rigid and his breathing shallow. Sweat is drying on his skin, sharp-smelling like fear and the urge to run or to scream.
John doesn’t scream. Instead, he counts his own breaths until they are even and normal again, regular and controlled, and he relaxes every muscle he has control over.
And then, he runs.
He's careful when he pulls away, quiet and confident in his knowledge of the layout of the room around him and where exactly his clothes ended up. He doesn't even need the lights to find everything, from the boots by the door to the underwear at the foot of the bed.
When he's gone, Ronon rolls around and buries his face in the pillow, where John's head has been until recently. He breathes in deeply and forces the growl in his throat down.
It's the third nightmare in this week alone. Ronon knows about nightmares, he occasionally has his own, and he notices things.
He knows it's the third nightmare because he's been there for every single one of them, and he's been awake for every single one of them as well.
John’s nightmares, he knows by now, usually have some kind of trigger, and when they come, they come in circles. He never has them during a crisis, but always after - or maybe not always, he's not sure about that yet. John is good at hiding his nightmares, but Ronon is starting to learn the signs he has to look out for.
John is good at compartmentalizing, good at putting things behind him and not letting them affect him. But for some reason, he can't shake this one, can't get the last mission out of his mind.
He can't forget it.
Neither can Ronon.
Ronon exhales sharply into John's pillow.
This wasn't the first injury in the line of duty; not the first time they both had to deal with blood and pain and the threat of death while out on a mission.
Ronon doesn’t follow John, not even when the urge becomes almost overwhelming. He's sure he can find him easily - there aren't many places John goes when he needs space and time to think. If John had wanted Ronon to witness his distress, he would have stayed, would have gone back to sleep, or nudged Ronon, to fight off that jittery energy humming along his bones or to fuck it out of his system. Ronon would've been up for both, and John knows it.
John didn't pick any of these options. Ronon guesses that he either went to the cafeteria or to his office, to finish some paperwork.
He doesn't follow. If John needs some space, some distance, to find his balance after the last mission, Ronon can give him that.
Sometimes, he needs room for himself, too.
He goes back to sleep.
~~~
The thing about the last mission they went on is that it was bad; dig a fragment of a bullet out of Sheppard’s skull-bad. The projectile had pierced Sheppard’s skin and had lodged in the bone beneath, and it had been small enough not to do much damage beyond the blood loss. Still, it had been a close call, too close for Ronon’s comfort. He’s glad Rodney didn’t have to see it; glad that it was just him and Sheppard on that planet, even if that meant that he had to cut the bullet free with one of his knives while Sheppard’s blood poured red and bright over his hands and his pants and into the sandy ground beneath them.
The thing about the last mission is that it was fucked from the beginning, with the villagers hostile toward them simply because they were strangers and with their weapons developed beyond crossbows and spears. The trek back to the gate had been long and dangerous, with Sheppard injured and determined to make it no matter how and with angry villagers following them through the woods.
By the time they made it back to Atlantis, dirty and dehydrated and maybe a little feverish in Sheppard’s case, the wound had already started to heal under the bandages and Rodney never noticed the blood on Ronon’s pants under all the dried mud.
When John had grinned at him and had lightly said, “Just a scratch, Rodney,” Rodney had believed him.
Teyla hadn’t, but she’s wise enough not to mention it.
At least not when Rodney’s around.
~~
The door chimes, indicating a visitor. Ronon rolls silently to his feet and goes to open the door, his hand hovering over the gun in his belt.
It reminds him of his first weeks on Atlantis, how he was always tense and thinking that the Lanteans would try to take something from him or hand him over to the Wraith. The mistrust and fear he thought he’d managed to shake off in the years that had gone by has come back with vengeance after the weeks they spent on that planet, and he hasn’t managed yet to shake it off again.
It’s two in the morning, too late for anyone but John, who slouches against the wall like a young man who hasn’t learned to stand straight and proud like a proper fighter for Sateda yet.
Ronon wipes the thought away with a blink and takes a second look at John.
The shadows under his eyes aren’t worse than usual, at least. His lips are curved into a shade of a cocky grin, as if Sheppard knows exactly what Ronon is thinking.
He, too, hasn’t shaken the effects of their last mission, or he would be in his own room, asleep.
The smirk is widening as he takes a step closer to Ronon. “You busy?”
“It’s two in the morning,” Ronon points out, in case John actually just came from the labs to check out new Ancient stuff with Rodney and forgot the time.
“I know,” John starts, the cockiness overtaken by his usual, slightly awkward behavior when he thinks he assumed something about somebody else only to find out he’s wrong, and before he can apologize, Ronon wraps his hand around the back of his neck and hauls him into the room and against his chest.
John is tense, every inch the commander and taskmaster Ronon has learned to trust with his life. His muscles are almost vibrating with it, and Ronon growls and bends down to slant his mouth over John’s while his fingers dig into the muscles left and right of the nape of John’s neck.
He doesn’t want Sheppard here, right now. He wants John, the man he has learned to trust with his heart.
John’s hands come up and tangle in Ronon’s shirt. He kisses back with a single-minded focus that Ronon admires. He doesn’t just give in and lets Ronon do his thing, he participates.
It’s not a fight for dominance. Ronon would win any fight on strength alone, John is his taskmaster and therefore Ronon has sworn his loyalty to him, but here, right now, they are as equal as two warriors who are both smart and cunning in battle can be. But this is not about dominance. This isn’t about bruising and breaking, even if their initial kiss almost makes it look like that.
John exhales into Ronon’s mouth and licks past his lips and teeth, one of his hands coming to rest against Ronon’s cheek. Ronon runs his fingers through John’s hair, brushing gently against the still angry and tender line behind his ear, hidden by dark hair, where he dug out the bullet.
“Okay?” he murmurs, his voice soft and his hands gentle.
John swallows. “Yeah,” he says roughly and lets Ronon take some of his weight.
He never lets him take a part of his burden – that is his alone to carry, and like a true taskmaster, John shoulders his duty without complaint. Ronon is proud to follow him, into battle and negotiations and exploring the many planets in the Pegasus galaxy, but sometimes, he wonders what it would’ve been like, if the Lanteans had arrived here ten years earlier than when they did, if they had found Sateda strong and proud instead of dead and broken, its remaining fighters scattered around the galaxy and without a taskmaster to guide them into a strong stand against the Wraith again.
He wonders if Melena would have accepted Ronon’s team into their household, if she’d accepted John as her brother; or if she would have liked Ronon to accept a brother or sister too, someone she considered special enough to include into their bond. Sometimes, he thinks that Melena would have adored Carson and that they would have to fight out, playfully, who had a right to the good doctor and who would call him brother instead of partner.
He usually pushes these thoughts away as quickly as he can. They are too painful, too raw on his heart to be considered for more than a second, but today, they linger.
“What are you thinking about?” John asks him, curiously twisting to look into Ronon’s eyes.
Ronon takes a deep breath and slowly releases it, lets his tension go with it like Teyla taught him, and brings his thoughts to the possible rather than the impossible. He presses against John’s body, warm and solid and most important of all, alive.
“Sateda,” he says gruffly. “Don’t want to, but…” He can’t change the past, can’t bring Melena back from the dead. It doesn’t stop him from wanting exactly that.
John grimaces. “Yeah,” he says, understanding perfectly, and Ronon leans down to kiss him again, deep and wet, licking against his tongue and the inside of his mouth, grazing teeth against his bottom lip and following it with a sweep of his tongue again, sucking teasingly on John’s own tongue when it follows Ronon’s while his hands cradle John’s skull and the silky strands of his hair glide through his fingers. It’s a kiss filled with tenderness, with the bittersweet memories of a home he’s long lost, and it gives Ronon an idea.
He pulls back, and John rolls his neck – he’s still not quite used to kissing someone who is taller than him, Ronon thinks. He’s flushed and his eyes are dark and hungry for more.
Ronon looks at him for a long moment. “Come here,” he finally says, his voice rough and shivery, and he tangles his fingers in John’s shirt and yanks, pulling it up and off. He needs the contact, needs to know that John is here and alive and breathing, and he needs John to say something to prove that his brain is still intact, that he didn’t lose anything just because of one lucky shot.
“A little impatient?” John asks, but he follows easily enough and barely flinches when Ronon wraps him in his arms and buries his nose in John’s shoulder, licking and sucking. “Easy, big guy.” His voice is soothing, and his arm comes up around Ronon’s waist to pat the small of his back.
John’s not really a big fan of touching like this. He’s okay with brief hugs and pats and nudges, but he gets uncomfortable with long hugs and all the romantic gestures Rodney’s currently discovering for himself and Jennifer Keller.
Ronon knows that, but he still can’t make himself let go. He clings to John with all his strength, and for once, John just lets it happen, as if he’s able to sense the turmoil in Ronon’s head.
“I want to mark you as mine,” Ronon says, his voice muffled. “I want…” He swallows and mouths at John’s skin again, trying to forget the memory of John’s head bleeding and painting Ronon’s hands and knife red.
“Easy, big guy,” John says again. “You okay there?”
“Yeah.” Ronon takes a deep breath, inhaling the smell of John’s body, and finally pulls back. “I’m good.” He runs his fingertips along John’s arm, over the mark the Iratus bug left behind. “It’s custom,” he says, “On Sateda.”
He leans in for another kiss, his tongue against John’s again and one of his brushing down the length of his spine to the waistband of his pants.
John makes a small noise and takes control of their kiss, adds a hint of teeth as he kisses and licks down Ronon’s throat.
His hands push at Ronon’s shirt, edge it up his stomach and chest until it is tangled under his arms, and he kisses Ronon’s chest, sucks the clean skin into his mouth until the blood rushes to the surface in rough-looking marks.
“Want to mark you and declare you as mine,” Ronon says, unconsciously falling into the old and familiar words of the ritual.
John pulls back and frowns at him. “What do you mean?” he asks, his eyes narrowing with a hint of suspicion.
Ronon takes a deep breath. “It’s custom, on Sateda,” he says, deliberately leaning back and away from John’s body. “You leave a mark on the people you claim as yours, and they on you, just like they leave marks on your life.” He shrugs. “Like a mate. A…wife, a partner. A family.” He lifts his leg and wriggles his toes. “Like family.” He points to the small, fine lines tattooed to the sole of is foot. “This is my grandfather’s line name,” he explains.
“Why did you get a tattoo of your grandfather’s line name under your foot?” John asks. He looks as if he wants to reach out and trace the lines with a fingertip, but he stops himself at the last moment.
Ronon shrugs. “Because I’m standing on the shoulders of my forefathers,” he explains, “just like future generations will stand on mine.” He grimaces slightly. “If there ever is a future generation of Satedans now.”
John looks intrigued. “Do you have one for…for Melena?” he asks, and Ronon realizes that this is the first time he mentioned her name with one of his teammates present.
The thought sends a sharp jolt of pain through him. Melena is – was – the love of his life, the blossom of his lifetree, the woman he had been promised to since the day of her birth. She’d been one of his best friends outside the military since they’d both been old enough to talk.
“No,” he says roughly. “There was no time. The Wraith came before I could.” He taps his forearm with the big tattoo Rakai did for him when they got the chance. “She’s in this one.”
“Huh.” John reaches up and scratches the back of his head. “So…you want to do what, exactly, with me?”
“Mark you.” Ronon has a split second to realize what John is worried about, and when he does, he reaches out and closes both hands around John’s wrists. “Nothing bad,” he promises, his thumbs sweeping gently across soft pale skin. “Won’t hurt you. I promise.”
He remembers dragging and carrying John through the woods, forcing limbs that simply didn’t want to obey his commands anymore into action. He remembers the primitive gun going off, the surprised expression on John’s face when his knees buckled as soon as the bullet burrowed under his skin.
“Nothing permanent,” he adds. “No danger.”
John nods, and his simple, uncomplicated agreement fills Ronon with unexpected relief.
“Good,” he breathes and tugs John close, a hand at the back of John’s neck, tilting his head toward him for a kiss.
This is familiar, this they both know, and the muscles under Ronon’s palm unknot almost on their own. John makes a questioning sound at the back of his throat.
Ronon pulls back and grins at him.
“How are you planning on doing this, then?” John wants to know.
“You’ll see,” Ronon says, but he doesn’t elaborate and crowds John against the side of the bed.
~~
There is one thing Ronon finds himself admiring about John: It’s his uncanny ability to take what’s given to him and try to make the best of it. Stranded on an abandoned planet, the Wraith at their heels? John Sheppard doesn’t give up, but tries to find a way to overwhelm his enemies and get his team home safely. Genii prison, being fed on by a Wraith – Sheppard finds a way out, even if Ronon doesn’t always agree with his methods, he can’t help but respect the results. Alien ritual? He doesn’t even need to know why, or what exactly the ritual is for, as long as there is no danger and no harm done to any of the participants, Sheppard will gladly assist in any way he can.
However, Ronon doesn’t want this to be like one of these harvest ceremonies they took part in, where John shifted from foot to foot, focused on the task at hand and his role in the play while he mentally composes a report already. He wants John to understand, wants to make this one special.
He wants to make it count, because it counts for him.
“When you are mine,” he says and licks down John’s chest, tongue catching on rough chest hair, “I’m taking care of you.” He leans up and sucks a kiss against John’s throat, his beard rasping against John’s stubble. “I follow you into battle,” he continues and splays a hand over John’s hip. “And I lay down my life, my arms, and my honor for you.” His fingertips push at the waistband of John’s pants, and he grins teasingly and dips them underneath the fabric. “I’d be a good brother for any mate you chose,” he says seriously and palms the soft bulge under John’s pants.
John makes a small sound at the back of his throat, half protest and half lust, and arches his back, pressing himself more firmly against Ronon’s touch.
“How are you planning on marking me?” John asks, short of breath and his eyes narrowed. Even with the distraction of arousal, he hasn’t forgotten what Ronon wants to do.
Ronon rolls off the bed in one smooth move and kneels down by the chest Teyla gave him, where he keeps some of his most prized possessions and the lube.
The marker Zelenka gave him smells sharp and artificial, like the alcohol in the hospitals of his homeworld. Ronon inhales quietly as he uncaps it and hovers it over John's shoulder.
"I hope that washes off," John says teasingly, but he relaxes into Ronon's pillow and grins, pleased with himself for some reason.
Ronon thinks for a moment, tongue caught between his teeth, and then, he starts writing.
"I swear, on my grandfather's line's honor," he says, "to honor his bond, to hold it and cherish it, as long as I can." The words flow down John's arm, in old, classic Satedan cursive. The marker's tip is fine enough to allow for the delicate arches of the letters, and Ronon adds Atlantis' gate symbols along the inside of John's forearm, to add weight to his pledge.
It's been a while since he wrote in Satedan. He's been studying some of the Earth letters, but the familiar shapes quickly come back, his hand and head remembering them and their delicate beauty.
"I will honor your strength and integrity as taskmaster and leader and follow your lead in the fight against the Wraith." Ronon looks up from his writing at John's face. "And every other enemy," he adds, his voice pitched low. "I protect you and your family from harm, even from yourself if necessary. Your family becomes my family."
He writes the word family in the crook of John's elbow and switches to the blocky Athosian letters for Teyla's and Torren's names, to the still strange Earth letters for Rodney's, Jeannie's, Madison's. He glances at John's face before adding Dave Sheppard and his offspring to the list as well before returning to Satedan script. "I will stand together with you and yours and support you with everything I have and everything I am. This Ronon Dex swears in the memory of the Ancestors." His name, his signature, ends up straight across the pulse point in John's wrist, the way Ronon has intended it, and seeing it there fills him with a wild tangle of emotions.
John stares down at his arm, the unfamiliar writing covering his skin, with an unreadable expression, but when he looks up, he looks relaxed enough for Ronon to risk kissing him and sealing his pledge with his lips.
The marker gets capped, and Ronon drops it when John kisses him back, tongue slick against his and his teeth a sharp hint of danger. John rolls them over until he's straddling Ronon's hips, their chests pressed together as they continue kissing.
Somehow, they manage to peel each other out of their pants without breaking their kiss and without breaking anything, despite John wearing his boots and despite Ronon's pants being laced tight.
"Where'd the lube go?" John asks breathlessly, and Ronon shoves it into his hands, follows it with a bite to the juncture of John's shoulder and neck, where the skin tastes like salt.
"You wanna...?" John trails off with a hitch to his breath, and Ronon feels the tangle of emotions that was caused by seeing his name on John's skin fray and spread out, carried by his blood into every cell of his body until he can barely breathe, and he mutely shakes his head and spreads his legs.
John's pupils are blown wide, his hair sticking up. He bites his lip as he fumbles with the lube and clicks the bottle open, the sound loud over the rush of blood in Ronon's ears.
While John coats his fingers, Ronon spreads himself open further, his legs falling apart without his conscious decision and one knee coming up, to make room for John to move closer and put his fingers where Ronon wants them.
Where he needs them.
He grunts at the first contact, the cold a shock to his system, but John croons at him, his touch gentle and slick as he rubs his fingertips across Ronon's skin, shallowly pushing in and pulling away until the slow burn of arousal is undercut with a sharp edge of frustration. Ronon growls and pushes back, his body clearly asking for more, and John gives in, pushes his fingers in deep and twists them until Ronon can see stars behind his closed eyes.
He slowly blinks his eyes open when John pulls away, only vaguely aware of the time that has passed or the sweat rolling down his sides and the backs of his knees. Arousal thrums through his blood, and with a surprised jolt he realizes that the constant weariness, the tension and the urge to flinch at the slightest sound are gone for now.
He trusts John to keep him safe.
He trusts John to protect him, the same way he protects John. It's a circle, and they are standing back to back, keeping each other safe from the Wraith, like partners.
Like family.
Like team.
He groans when John slides into him with one sharp thrust, his body opening around John's length and accepting it easily. John stills for a moment, struggling to keep his body under control, and Ronon can enjoy the feeling of being stretched wide and taken care of.
His shoulderblades curl up and off the mattress when John starts moving and sets a fast-paced rhythm, his hand clenches against John's shoulder. His other hand grabs John's wrist, his thumb pressing over the dark marks of his own name, etched with marker onto the soft and vulnerable skin of John's wrist.
John lets him cling to him while they fuck without complaint. He grunts and angles his hips, trying to reach that little spot inside Ronon, and after a while, he reaches out with the hand not caught between Ronon's fingers and closes it around Ronon's hard dick, which until this point has been ignored. It pulls Ronon's attention sharply away from the stretch of his ass and the thrum of pulse under his fingers and makes him focus on himself again instead of John.
Vaguely, he is aware of the sounds escaping from his tightly clenched teeth, of the sweat rolling down his body and making the sheets cling to his skin, but the majority of his focus is on the sweet bite of arousal, the feeling of John pushing into him and slowly dragging out again, the cool hiss of breath when John curls over him and brings his mouth close to Ronon's shoulder, the slide of his tongue across Ronon's chest, leaving invisible traces and writing of a different kind behind, the kind of writing that is invisible to the eye and that goes through the skin and right to the heart, adding John's name to those already written there - the names of his parents, his siblings, Melena, Tyre and Rakai and all those people that meant something to Ronon in his life, and there, at the end of that list, in the round, still unfamiliar letters of the Lanteans, John's name gets added, with blood instead of ink, never to be removed.
He comes with that thought filling his mind.
John makes a deep growling sound deep in his throat and thrusts into him again, once, twice, three times, before freezing for a long moment.
He has a surprised expression on his face, as if he didn’t expect this to happen. It’s close to the expression he wore when he got shot, but Ronon shakes his head and forces the thought away.
He has John’s back. He will look out for him now, will protect him, even more than before, but even then, he knows he couldn’t have prevented that lucky shot from coming close, too close to John’s life.
The Ancestors give, the Ancestors take, he thinks and stretches lazily. John pulls out and rolls to his side next to Ronon, his hair looking even more ridiculous than before.
John grimaces and twists, and pulls the marker from under his back, and Ronon’s eyes are drawn back to the writing on his arm. It’s only a little smudged by his sweat, but Ronon is pretty sure that a good long shower will take care of it.
It doesn’t matter. The important mark is on the inside of Ronon’s heart, written in blood, but when John rolls around, uncaps the marker and touches its tip to Ronon’s forearm, he can’t suppress a shiver.
John glances at his own arm and at Ronon’s face before shrugging. The marker catches slightly on Ronon’s sweaty skin, and when he looks down, he sees a wild scribble along the muscle of his arm.
A scribble he’s seen often enough, but it still takes him a ridiculous amount of time to realize that it’s John’s signature.
It’s not the old Satedan words of a marking ritual, but, Ronon figures as he presses his face to the scar behind John’s ear, another mark of his strength and his stubbornness and his ability to survive to fight another day, it’s close enough to count.
*end