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kageygirlItty-bitty ficlet for ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
ane and mmmchelle, which is, I'm sure, the exact polar opposite of what they wanted to see. Which wasn't deliberate; it's just that my subconscious is no less perverse and contrary than my conscious mind. Doofus.
G-rated, spoilers through "Condemned."
In the Clear
John tries not to be too obvious about his surprise when he sees Ronon eating breakfast in the mess hall the next morning. Not that there's anything wrong with Ronon being in the mess hall, but John would have thought taking an arrow through the calf might require a bit more infirmary time. Then again, Ronon was already moving pretty well back there on Olesia when he had to.
Of course, homicidal prisoners and suborbital bombardments are damn good motivators, and John might just be projecting. The bruise across his own knee is aching like a son of a bitch.
"You're out," John says, setting his tray down across from Ronon and what looks like three helpings of everything being served. As greetings go, it's pretty lame, but no matter how eloquent John might be, Ronon just won't be pushed into talking if he doesn't feel like it. He's not too worried about being a poet.
Ronon gives him the kind of grunt that John's already becoming familiar with. He's either learning to distinguish between them, or just deluding himself that he can, but he thinks this particular one sounds like agreement. "Doctor says I heal quick," Ronon says, spearing a sausage link.
"That's good," John says, and it is. Handy, even. He wonders if the Wraith did that to Ronon, somehow, or picked him because of it, or if it's completely unrelated. He doesn't ask, though, since the Wraith are pretty much the sorest of sore subjects, and it's a little too early to face one of Ronon's "I will eat you if I have to" stares.
John makes himself look down and start eating, before Ronon's two-fisted technique can distract him yet again. The big guy's got a spoon this time, to go with the fork, and watching him plow through a plate of food is almost mesmerizing, like watching a building being demolished. John would worry about whether human digestion could keep up with that speed of intake, except that he's been watching how fast Rodney eats for over a year.
The two of them have got brutal efficiency in common, but Rodney actually uses his knife, instead of biting things off his fork. Come to think of it, John hasn't seen a camp knife around Ronon at all lately, but he suspects there's at least one hidden on him... somewhere.
When John looks up again, Ronon's plate is empty--no big surprise. And he's watching John--again, no big surprise. Except Ronon's generally been a little less overt about the "watching everyone all the time" thing; he's watchful, sure, but in a negligent, lord-of-the-jungle way, like he's not all that concerned about anything they might throw at him.
Either he's really that confident--and after playing tag with the Wraith for seven years, Atlantis has got to seem pretty tame by comparison--or he's trying to lull them into not paying attention to him, which John can relate to more than he might admit.
But this watching feels more like an opening of some sort, an overture, and John raises his eyebrows as he takes a drink from his coffee mug.
"You and McKay," Ronon rumbles.
He doesn't say anything more, just keeps staring, still hunched protectively over his plate, even though there's nothing left on it.
John finally has to ask, "What about us?"
"You're together," Ronon says.
John feels something in his chest lurch in alarm.
He doesn't startle at that, doesn't glance around at the people surrounding them to see if anyone overheard Ronon, and he goddamn well doesn't stutter out some kind of denial, though it's a close thing on all three.
Instead, John pushes his tray away, folds his arms and slouches back in his chair, and it's the most determinedly casual motion he's ever made in his life.
"What makes you say that?" he asks, going for amused and sardonic and incredulous. His mouth is dry and his breathing sounds too loud in his own ears, and he really wants more coffee, but he can't reach for it just yet, because he'll look like he's fidgeting.
Damn it. Rodney could get away with it, because he's always fidgeting.
Ronon is still not moving, and that somehow makes John want to fidget more, maybe to make up for it. He wonders what Ronon picked up on, if it's the way Rodney watches him sometimes. Or if it was something John did that gave him, them, away. He twists his fingers into his jacket, under his arms, feeling the fabric bite into his skin, and belatedly pastes on a smirk.
Ronon watches him for another minute, then... well, he doesn't exactly smile, but his face looks marginally less forbidding. "You're a worrier."
John says, "And?" and tries not to wince, because that came out a little too sharply.
Ronon reaches across and snags John's untouched biscuit--which is another thing John's gotten used to over the last year, having his leftovers poached, though his usual poacher is shorter, if no less unrepentant about stealing John's food. Ronon says, "You weren't worried enough, when the prisoners had McKay," and then all his attention is on the biscuit for the few seconds it takes him to demolish it.
John doesn't take advantage of the chance to relax, though--in fact, he's so not-relaxed that his neck is starting to twinge from holding such a deliberately cocky angle. "And you think that means..."
Ronon doesn't answer, just flicks his eyes up at John again while chewing on the last chunk of biscuit. And damn it, Ronon doesn't have to answer at all, of course, because he's made his point.
"That doesn't mean we're together," John says, shrugging more stiffly than he wants to. He can't seem to loosen his shoulders. "It just means I trust McKay to be able to take care of himself."
Ronon grunts again, just a sharp sound of disagreement riding on a heavy puff of air. He's got John's number, and he's not buying John's story.
At all.
Well, hell. Apparently, John's been trying so hard to avoid being overprotective that he never considered the idea that maybe he didn't seem protective enough. And how was he to know that would trip them up?
John leans forward, slowly, resting an arm against the edge of the table. He reaches for his mug with the other hand, trying to look like they weren't discussing anything of consequence, painfully aware of the real possibility that his poker face sucks. If Seven-Years-Of-Limited-Human-Contact Guy can see right though him...
John lowers his voice, aiming for casual, unconcerned, or at the very least, not-freaking-out. "Is that going to be a problem?"
"Not for me," Ronon says. "You're the one he's with." He does smile this time--the little smile that keeps surprising John, the one that makes him look younger and a hell of a lot less scary.
It's a smile that Rodney's provoked more than once, come to think of it, and maybe that's the kind of thing that actually gave the two of them away.
John can't help but appreciate it when someone else likes Rodney, too.
John takes a deep breath and looks down into his mug, watching the dregs slosh around a little as he tilts it back and forth, before looking back up at Ronon. "Look, don't--tell anyone, okay?" he says quietly.
"No one to tell," Ronon says, with something like a shrug.
John can't keep himself from glancing at the breakfast crowd around them, and Ronon just snorts at him.
Okay. If Ronon's still not playing well with the other kids yet, then John has a little more time to work out the short explanation for "Don't Ask, Don't Tell."
Leaning forward again, Ronon pulls John's abandoned tray closer. "I think Teyla already knows, though."
John goes stock-still, and earns another one of those quick, playful grins, this one a little more pointed and the slightest bit evil. Then Ronon bends down and digs into John's congealing eggs with single-minded enthusiasm, while John just sits there, staring at the top of Ronon's head.
ane and mmmchelle, which is, I'm sure, the exact polar opposite of what they wanted to see. Which wasn't deliberate; it's just that my subconscious is no less perverse and contrary than my conscious mind. G-rated, spoilers through "Condemned."
In the Clear
John tries not to be too obvious about his surprise when he sees Ronon eating breakfast in the mess hall the next morning. Not that there's anything wrong with Ronon being in the mess hall, but John would have thought taking an arrow through the calf might require a bit more infirmary time. Then again, Ronon was already moving pretty well back there on Olesia when he had to.
Of course, homicidal prisoners and suborbital bombardments are damn good motivators, and John might just be projecting. The bruise across his own knee is aching like a son of a bitch.
"You're out," John says, setting his tray down across from Ronon and what looks like three helpings of everything being served. As greetings go, it's pretty lame, but no matter how eloquent John might be, Ronon just won't be pushed into talking if he doesn't feel like it. He's not too worried about being a poet.
Ronon gives him the kind of grunt that John's already becoming familiar with. He's either learning to distinguish between them, or just deluding himself that he can, but he thinks this particular one sounds like agreement. "Doctor says I heal quick," Ronon says, spearing a sausage link.
"That's good," John says, and it is. Handy, even. He wonders if the Wraith did that to Ronon, somehow, or picked him because of it, or if it's completely unrelated. He doesn't ask, though, since the Wraith are pretty much the sorest of sore subjects, and it's a little too early to face one of Ronon's "I will eat you if I have to" stares.
John makes himself look down and start eating, before Ronon's two-fisted technique can distract him yet again. The big guy's got a spoon this time, to go with the fork, and watching him plow through a plate of food is almost mesmerizing, like watching a building being demolished. John would worry about whether human digestion could keep up with that speed of intake, except that he's been watching how fast Rodney eats for over a year.
The two of them have got brutal efficiency in common, but Rodney actually uses his knife, instead of biting things off his fork. Come to think of it, John hasn't seen a camp knife around Ronon at all lately, but he suspects there's at least one hidden on him... somewhere.
When John looks up again, Ronon's plate is empty--no big surprise. And he's watching John--again, no big surprise. Except Ronon's generally been a little less overt about the "watching everyone all the time" thing; he's watchful, sure, but in a negligent, lord-of-the-jungle way, like he's not all that concerned about anything they might throw at him.
Either he's really that confident--and after playing tag with the Wraith for seven years, Atlantis has got to seem pretty tame by comparison--or he's trying to lull them into not paying attention to him, which John can relate to more than he might admit.
But this watching feels more like an opening of some sort, an overture, and John raises his eyebrows as he takes a drink from his coffee mug.
"You and McKay," Ronon rumbles.
He doesn't say anything more, just keeps staring, still hunched protectively over his plate, even though there's nothing left on it.
John finally has to ask, "What about us?"
"You're together," Ronon says.
John feels something in his chest lurch in alarm.
He doesn't startle at that, doesn't glance around at the people surrounding them to see if anyone overheard Ronon, and he goddamn well doesn't stutter out some kind of denial, though it's a close thing on all three.
Instead, John pushes his tray away, folds his arms and slouches back in his chair, and it's the most determinedly casual motion he's ever made in his life.
"What makes you say that?" he asks, going for amused and sardonic and incredulous. His mouth is dry and his breathing sounds too loud in his own ears, and he really wants more coffee, but he can't reach for it just yet, because he'll look like he's fidgeting.
Damn it. Rodney could get away with it, because he's always fidgeting.
Ronon is still not moving, and that somehow makes John want to fidget more, maybe to make up for it. He wonders what Ronon picked up on, if it's the way Rodney watches him sometimes. Or if it was something John did that gave him, them, away. He twists his fingers into his jacket, under his arms, feeling the fabric bite into his skin, and belatedly pastes on a smirk.
Ronon watches him for another minute, then... well, he doesn't exactly smile, but his face looks marginally less forbidding. "You're a worrier."
John says, "And?" and tries not to wince, because that came out a little too sharply.
Ronon reaches across and snags John's untouched biscuit--which is another thing John's gotten used to over the last year, having his leftovers poached, though his usual poacher is shorter, if no less unrepentant about stealing John's food. Ronon says, "You weren't worried enough, when the prisoners had McKay," and then all his attention is on the biscuit for the few seconds it takes him to demolish it.
John doesn't take advantage of the chance to relax, though--in fact, he's so not-relaxed that his neck is starting to twinge from holding such a deliberately cocky angle. "And you think that means..."
Ronon doesn't answer, just flicks his eyes up at John again while chewing on the last chunk of biscuit. And damn it, Ronon doesn't have to answer at all, of course, because he's made his point.
"That doesn't mean we're together," John says, shrugging more stiffly than he wants to. He can't seem to loosen his shoulders. "It just means I trust McKay to be able to take care of himself."
Ronon grunts again, just a sharp sound of disagreement riding on a heavy puff of air. He's got John's number, and he's not buying John's story.
At all.
Well, hell. Apparently, John's been trying so hard to avoid being overprotective that he never considered the idea that maybe he didn't seem protective enough. And how was he to know that would trip them up?
John leans forward, slowly, resting an arm against the edge of the table. He reaches for his mug with the other hand, trying to look like they weren't discussing anything of consequence, painfully aware of the real possibility that his poker face sucks. If Seven-Years-Of-Limited-Human-Contact Guy can see right though him...
John lowers his voice, aiming for casual, unconcerned, or at the very least, not-freaking-out. "Is that going to be a problem?"
"Not for me," Ronon says. "You're the one he's with." He does smile this time--the little smile that keeps surprising John, the one that makes him look younger and a hell of a lot less scary.
It's a smile that Rodney's provoked more than once, come to think of it, and maybe that's the kind of thing that actually gave the two of them away.
John can't help but appreciate it when someone else likes Rodney, too.
John takes a deep breath and looks down into his mug, watching the dregs slosh around a little as he tilts it back and forth, before looking back up at Ronon. "Look, don't--tell anyone, okay?" he says quietly.
"No one to tell," Ronon says, with something like a shrug.
John can't keep himself from glancing at the breakfast crowd around them, and Ronon just snorts at him.
Okay. If Ronon's still not playing well with the other kids yet, then John has a little more time to work out the short explanation for "Don't Ask, Don't Tell."
Leaning forward again, Ronon pulls John's abandoned tray closer. "I think Teyla already knows, though."
John goes stock-still, and earns another one of those quick, playful grins, this one a little more pointed and the slightest bit evil. Then Ronon bends down and digs into John's congealing eggs with single-minded enthusiasm, while John just sits there, staring at the top of Ronon's head.
