![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Title: Trigger Happy
Rating: PG+ for violence, some language. Gen
Characters: Sheppard, Ronon, some Rodney and Teyla
Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate Atlantis.
Synopsis: He'd never had to think about it. Ronon stuns Sheppard, bad things result.
A/N: Just a little something I whipped up a while ago after watching Tabula Rasa. This is not a tag, though. Just a little Shep-whump and Ronon angst, with a pinch of humor on the side ;). Not beta'd, but was edited several times before being posted..
Trigger Happy
Ronon never had to think about it.
He'd stumbled on his blaster in a village culled long before he'd arrived; found it while picking half-eaten food from plates and digging through belongings. He'd spotted it on the floor next to a painted chest of clothes, dug up and dropped from fingers turned useless by a stunner. It had been during a time when Ronon was still young – only three weeks on the run - with just enough naivety left to feel like he was doing something wrong; painting scenarios in his head of everyday life with each house he entered to lessen the guilt of being a scavenger. He'd actually, silently, thanked the one who'd dropped the weapon (he'd imagined a man - soldier maybe, father protecting his family - but it could've just as easily been a woman or child.)
There'd been other technology – not weapons but bits and pieces of things that were like a blemish in the simple farming village. He hadn't wasted time dwelling on it; never thought of it again until after Sheppard's run-in with a people who called themselves Travelers, living in small ships getting even smaller, forcing them to leave people behind.
Life had been better – as better as the life of a runner could get – after finding that blaster. It hadn't freed him, but it sure as hell brought a smile to his face with every chest blown wide open and head blown clean off. The stun setting he'd discovered by accident. The gun had a switch, he'd tried it hoping for a wider chest hole, and so it took him a while to figure out why the Wraith he was sure he'd just killed was back on its feet. He'd been resentful toward the setting; only ever using it again, twice, as a runner – once to stop a pick-pocket, again after he'd assumed he was being hunted by two humans: a dark-haired man and a bronze-skinned woman.
Ronon had considered killing them that day, but he'd needed questions answered, and it was him against the Wraith, not him against the entire galaxy. Pointless to say, it was a good thing he hadn't killed them.
After that was when he'd gotten better with the settings; he didn't have to think about when to switch unless ordered otherwise. Whether stun or blast, the novelty of it never got old. Probably because of the weapon's rarity and the jealousy it sparked, being a – as Sheppard had once put it – “kick-ass space blaster” and all.
And there was no belittling the fact that it was the reason he was still alive.
The novelty was times three when Ronon was doing the chasing, depending on the quarry. Chasing a drugged and feral Sheppard kind of dampened the fun, but gripping the hilt pumped extra adrenaline that made him feel like he could run forever. He kicked through ferns and kicked up dark, soft earth following a trail even Zelenka without his glasses could pick out. Sheppard wasn't trying to lose them, he was just trying to get away, minus his usual mental capacity that would have taken into consideration things like strategy and stealth.
It wasn't Sheppard's fault. McKay might beg to differ but Sheppard had been nothing but professional with that queen woman, because negotiations joined at the hip with anal ceremonies always made John more interested in going home, less interested in everything else unless it was armed. It was simply misfortune they'd ended up on another world in need of the means to work Ancient weaponry (that, according to McKay, wasn't worth a horse's ass.)
McKay had called it when he and Ronon had noticed the way she'd kept batting her eyes at Sheppard in between cups of sour tea: she'd only wanted him for his genes.
Ronon heard splashing and slowed, raising his fist to halt anyone who happened to be behind him. He doubted anyone was – he hadn't waited for the others. No time.
Moving heel to toe over sound-swallowing dirt, he slipped up behind the nearest, thickest tree and peered around. Sheppard was standing knee deep in a fast flowing river, splashing water on his face. The day was cool – verging on cold – and overcast but the parts of Sheppard's face not covered by a young beard was beet red. He looked thin, shaky, and even from where Ronon stood he could see overlapping rings of crusted brown blood on both wrists. More blood dotted the filthy silk shirt and pants that had probably been a shimmering pearl white before Sheppard's escape.
Ronon had never really given much thought to the vices of most societies, yet even he had to wonder how stupid a people could get: dressing up a man like the guest of honor while drugging him just to get his “seed,” tying him down when the drugs didn't have the desired affect, then calling in the very people who he'd been taken from out of fear and consideration for the general populace.
The bastards had lied: about John being taken by bandits, about needing help against a local “wild man,” about the local wild man having been a bane to them for years. He came out only during the gibbous moons, they said, which was why they had not needed help until now. They had thought the wild man gone for good and worried about him harming women and children. Then Ronon had found flecks of blood on a rock, Rodney took it back for Keller to analyze, and instead of a disease, they found Sheppard. Ancient scanners did not lie about DNA.
Up until that moment, Rodney had fretted the entire time over “space werewolves.”
Ronon whipped around the tree and fired. Sheppard, more high-strung than anticipated, leaped back. He spun around, eyes wide, pupils blown and chest heaving spraying flecks of foam over his lips. Rather than run, Sheppard roared and charged. Ronon's next stun made the pilot do one hell of a back flip, landing Sheppard on his stomach. Ronon twirled his blaster and shoved it into his holster.
It seriously never got old. He moved toward Sheppard.
Sheppard started to twitch. Then he started to convulse. Ronon ran, dropping to his knees and flipping a flailing Sheppard over. He patted the man's cheek, shook him by the shoulder.
“Sheppard. Sheppard! Wake up, Sheppard!”
Sheppard stilled, head rolling limply to the side. Ronon pressed his fingers into the clammy neck.
No pulse.
Ronon's own pulse rocketed. “Damn it!” He started CPR, counting under his breath, trying to keep the compressions slower than his own rapid heartbeat. On the second round of counts and compressions, Teyla and Rodney arrived.
Rodney shrilled. “What the hell! What did you do!”
“I just stunned him. I don't know what happened!”
Rodney called for a 'jumper – there was room enough for one to land by the shore. After Ronon's third set of compressions, Teyla had him switch places with her.
Ronon stood, feeling oddly numb, like he wasn't really there, like he was dreaming. He said, “I think I broke a rib.”
When Rodney squeaked, “You just can't stop damaging him, can you?” Ronon could only shake his head. He hadn't meant to. There was no hole in Sheppard's chest, which meant the blaster had been on stun. Sheppard was just stunned... supposed to be stunned.
When the 'jumper arrived, it barely touched down when the bay door opened and a marine rushed out carrying the mini defib. Teyla ripped the silk shirt open baring a pale and bruised chest. Very bruised: blacks and blues and greens mottling most of the skin from collarbone to the exposed areas of the ribcage. The panels were pressed to the chest, Sheppard arched then the panels were removed to apply more gel, leaving red where they had touched.
Ronon started in surprised when the marine shouted. “Got a pulse!” He was still numb, felt like he was drifting on a current in the general direction of the 'jumper, then from the 'jumper to the infirmary when they were finally back in Atlantis. Only Keller chased them off, herding them toward nurses to be checked over. They were all fine, though Ronon's nurse kept fretting over his blood pressure, fretting even more when it took three tries to get him to respond to anything she said.
In the end, she still found no reason for him to stay.
Ronon floated back to his room, unbuckled his holster and tossed it on the bed, stripped from his clothes and wandered into the shower. He had no idea how long he was under the hot spray, but when he finally emerged, he felt slightly more anchored.
Then he looked at the blaster.
He'd never had to think about it before. Just point, shoot; switch settings according to species. That was all. Nothing to it. Switch, point and shoot. He'd done it how many times? And always without a single regret.
He'd had it on stun. Sheppard had been stunned.
Ronon grabbed the blaster from its holster and held it, testing it's weight and grip. It felt no different, no heavier, no lighter. The energy cell spilled soft red over his wrist. The grip warmed in his hand until his palm started to sweat. He twirled the thing once then brought it up, aimed at the painting over his bed. It was so much easier to handle than any Satedan weapon he'd ever held – lighter, without having to waste seconds reloading. The only setback was the recharge which could take hours. But, still, he always wondered what kind of difference it would have made if they'd had weapons like this during the war.
He'd done what he'd had to do with Sheppard. Any other weapon, and Sheppard would have been bleeding out and without the use of a limb for a few weeks. Stunning was safer, more humane – harmless. It was either stun, injury or death.
No regrets.
But, damn it, it felt different – the gun, like it couldn't be trusted, like it had betrayed him, like... like...
Like every other so-called friend in his life: Satedans who weren't Satedans. Ronon had yet to come across a Satedan capable of waking hope for the future of their people in him. He was seriously starting to wonder if that was his fate in life: to be the last real Satedan left in this galaxy.
Ronon tossed the blaster back on the bed. It didn't really matter. The gun wasn't even Satedan weaponry, and he'd done what he had to do.
A call over the comm brought him back to the infirmary and a thrashing Sheppard. Keller needed him to hold Sheppard down as they cleaned and bandaged his wrists.
“He woke up before we started,” she said. “Talk to him. It might help calm him down.”
Ronon held Sheppard by the shoulders that proved his initial assumption. Sheppard was thinner, his shoulders a lot bonier than usual. Sheppard was shirtless and covered to the waist by a sheet that a nurse made sure stayed around his waist as his legs jerked and kicked. He was buried in bruises, front to back, most of them finger shaped, others the general shape of fists and hands.
When Sheppard's heart-rate and breathing increased, Ronon almost let go, realizing how the contact had to be registering to Sheppard's addled brain.
“Talk to him,” Keller said as she swabbed the abrasions.
It's all right and you're safe sat precariously on the tip of his tongue. What came out of Ronon's mouth, pushed through a suddenly tight throat, was a hoarse, “Sorry Sheppard.” Because he was, whether he liked it or not. Yeah, he'd done what he'd had to do, but it had hurt Sheppard and Sheppard was already hurt enough as it was.
He would stun Sheppard to his heart's content if that's what he needed to do, but never in a million years would he ever intentionally hurt him.
When Jennifer finished cleaning, wrapping, then dressing Sheppard in a gown, she had the others brought in for a quick rundown of Sheppard's problems. Drugged, obviously. Beaten, a little undernourished either due to the drugs or the way he was treated. No signs of sexual assault, so Sheppard hadn't given and the queen hadn't taken. Oh, and Sheppard had a broken rib, more than one. As for why Sheppard being stunned stopped his heart, Keller blamed it on the drugs, exhaustion, and general poor health – all of which could be easily remedied. Sheppard was going to be fine.
Rodney patted Ronon on the shoulder. “Sorry I blamed you.”
Ronon just shrugged. “Still my fault.” Which prompted a tedious round of 'no it wasn't' from both teammates until he placated them with a, “Fine, whatever.”
Rodney and Teyla left, knowing they hadn't accomplished a thing and also well aware that they weren't going to.
Ronon pulled up a chair and sat. Sheppard was unconscious, having worn himself out, but Ronon didn't care. He was a man of action, and preferred his apologies to be more than just words.
-------------------------------
The nine-mil was lighter than the P-90 but not as damaging. Ronon liked the way the P-90 could cut an almost perfect line right down the middle of the target but he wasn't fond of the weight. That was the problem with using one weapon for the better part of his fighting life – it made him fickle. He wasn't supposed to be fickle. Fickle people didn't live long, especially in battle. Especially on the run.
Being stationary was making him go a little soft. If he wasn't careful he'd start getting picky about what he ate, and that just wouldn't be right.
Ronon set the nine mill down, picking the P-90 back up.
“I'm gonna assume this is you expanding your horizons...”
Ronon's finger paused right when it was about to squeeze the trigger. He turned his head. Sheppard stood in the doorway, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, still pale, still thin, still bruised even if they were starting to fade, and holding Ronon's blaster in his hand. When he headed toward Ronon, his movements were stiff , his shoulders a little hunched. But then it was only this morning he'd been released from the infirmary, spending the better part of the day sleeping.
He still looked like he needed more sleep.
“And not looking for something else to carry around in that holster of yours,” Sheppard finished. He held the blaster by the barrel for Ronon to take it by the grip. When he didn't, Sheppard set it on the table next to the nine-mil.
Ronon shrugged, clicking the P-90's safety on. “Nothing wrong with trying other stuff out. Might be a good idea to carry something extra. Power cells take forever to recharge.”
“Tell me about it,” Sheppard said, hands on hips as he studied the two weapons on the table. He then scratched the back of his neck, looking pensive. “On the other hand, if you do ever decide to carry something else, you think, maybe...?”
Ronon clicked the safety back off and sprayed the paper target right across the middle.
Sheppard winced. “I'm taking that to be a no?”
“I'd be pissed if you lost it.”
“I wouldn't lose it,” Sheppard replied, a little bit of a whine in his voice. He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Listen, Ronon. Rodney told me what happened. When you stunned me.”
Ronon slapped a new cartridge in. “And?”
“And... I don't know. He and Teyla think you're acting different. Kind of mopey, quiet... even for you. They think it's 'cause you're feeling guilty or something.”
“I did what I had to do,” Ronon said, switching the safety back on. He needed to put up a new target, first.
Sheppard stared at him. “I know, big guy. I know. I was out of it, nuts. What else were you gonna do?”
“Exactly,” Ronon said. He turned the P-90 over in his hands, making sure to keep the business end pointed toward the mutilated target. He had no idea why he was hesitating about changing the target, unless he was bored already. He thought about target practice using knives. Supposedly, the gym had a dummy just for the occasion. But he still didn't move.
“I told you I was sorry, right?” The words poured out of his mouth as though his brain had been conspiring against him this whole time, just waiting for an opportunity to mutiny. “You were unconscious when I did, so... I am, though. Just so you know.”
Sheppard snorted. “Crap, Ronon. How the hell were you supposed to know what would happen?”
Ronon shrugged. “I do that too much. Fire without thinking. I mean, I know stunning is harmless but, obviously,” he gave the weapon a hard cock, “not all the time.”
Sheppard pinched the bridge of his nose like he was coming down with a headache, or really had woken prematurely. He sighed again. “Ronon. Come on. It was an accident, one I survived. Besides,” he dropped his hand to his side, “out of all the trigger happy people or things out there with the potential to shoot me, I'd rather it be you.”
Ronon frowned at him, absolutely certain Sheppard hadn't gotten enough sleep. “What?”
“Because with you, at least I know there's someone around who's looking out for me afterwards. You can shoot me anytime,” but quickly added, “within reason.” He then gave Ronon a hearty clap on the shoulder and headed out.
Ronon turned his attention to the weapons on the table. Switching the P-90 for his blaster, he changed settings and blew the rest of the target from the clip.
His thumb automatically flipped the settings as he slid the blaster into his holster.
He never had to think about it.
The End
Rating: PG+ for violence, some language. Gen
Characters: Sheppard, Ronon, some Rodney and Teyla
Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate Atlantis.
Synopsis: He'd never had to think about it. Ronon stuns Sheppard, bad things result.
A/N: Just a little something I whipped up a while ago after watching Tabula Rasa. This is not a tag, though. Just a little Shep-whump and Ronon angst, with a pinch of humor on the side ;). Not beta'd, but was edited several times before being posted..
Ronon never had to think about it.
He'd stumbled on his blaster in a village culled long before he'd arrived; found it while picking half-eaten food from plates and digging through belongings. He'd spotted it on the floor next to a painted chest of clothes, dug up and dropped from fingers turned useless by a stunner. It had been during a time when Ronon was still young – only three weeks on the run - with just enough naivety left to feel like he was doing something wrong; painting scenarios in his head of everyday life with each house he entered to lessen the guilt of being a scavenger. He'd actually, silently, thanked the one who'd dropped the weapon (he'd imagined a man - soldier maybe, father protecting his family - but it could've just as easily been a woman or child.)
There'd been other technology – not weapons but bits and pieces of things that were like a blemish in the simple farming village. He hadn't wasted time dwelling on it; never thought of it again until after Sheppard's run-in with a people who called themselves Travelers, living in small ships getting even smaller, forcing them to leave people behind.
Life had been better – as better as the life of a runner could get – after finding that blaster. It hadn't freed him, but it sure as hell brought a smile to his face with every chest blown wide open and head blown clean off. The stun setting he'd discovered by accident. The gun had a switch, he'd tried it hoping for a wider chest hole, and so it took him a while to figure out why the Wraith he was sure he'd just killed was back on its feet. He'd been resentful toward the setting; only ever using it again, twice, as a runner – once to stop a pick-pocket, again after he'd assumed he was being hunted by two humans: a dark-haired man and a bronze-skinned woman.
Ronon had considered killing them that day, but he'd needed questions answered, and it was him against the Wraith, not him against the entire galaxy. Pointless to say, it was a good thing he hadn't killed them.
After that was when he'd gotten better with the settings; he didn't have to think about when to switch unless ordered otherwise. Whether stun or blast, the novelty of it never got old. Probably because of the weapon's rarity and the jealousy it sparked, being a – as Sheppard had once put it – “kick-ass space blaster” and all.
And there was no belittling the fact that it was the reason he was still alive.
The novelty was times three when Ronon was doing the chasing, depending on the quarry. Chasing a drugged and feral Sheppard kind of dampened the fun, but gripping the hilt pumped extra adrenaline that made him feel like he could run forever. He kicked through ferns and kicked up dark, soft earth following a trail even Zelenka without his glasses could pick out. Sheppard wasn't trying to lose them, he was just trying to get away, minus his usual mental capacity that would have taken into consideration things like strategy and stealth.
It wasn't Sheppard's fault. McKay might beg to differ but Sheppard had been nothing but professional with that queen woman, because negotiations joined at the hip with anal ceremonies always made John more interested in going home, less interested in everything else unless it was armed. It was simply misfortune they'd ended up on another world in need of the means to work Ancient weaponry (that, according to McKay, wasn't worth a horse's ass.)
McKay had called it when he and Ronon had noticed the way she'd kept batting her eyes at Sheppard in between cups of sour tea: she'd only wanted him for his genes.
Ronon heard splashing and slowed, raising his fist to halt anyone who happened to be behind him. He doubted anyone was – he hadn't waited for the others. No time.
Moving heel to toe over sound-swallowing dirt, he slipped up behind the nearest, thickest tree and peered around. Sheppard was standing knee deep in a fast flowing river, splashing water on his face. The day was cool – verging on cold – and overcast but the parts of Sheppard's face not covered by a young beard was beet red. He looked thin, shaky, and even from where Ronon stood he could see overlapping rings of crusted brown blood on both wrists. More blood dotted the filthy silk shirt and pants that had probably been a shimmering pearl white before Sheppard's escape.
Ronon had never really given much thought to the vices of most societies, yet even he had to wonder how stupid a people could get: dressing up a man like the guest of honor while drugging him just to get his “seed,” tying him down when the drugs didn't have the desired affect, then calling in the very people who he'd been taken from out of fear and consideration for the general populace.
The bastards had lied: about John being taken by bandits, about needing help against a local “wild man,” about the local wild man having been a bane to them for years. He came out only during the gibbous moons, they said, which was why they had not needed help until now. They had thought the wild man gone for good and worried about him harming women and children. Then Ronon had found flecks of blood on a rock, Rodney took it back for Keller to analyze, and instead of a disease, they found Sheppard. Ancient scanners did not lie about DNA.
Up until that moment, Rodney had fretted the entire time over “space werewolves.”
Ronon whipped around the tree and fired. Sheppard, more high-strung than anticipated, leaped back. He spun around, eyes wide, pupils blown and chest heaving spraying flecks of foam over his lips. Rather than run, Sheppard roared and charged. Ronon's next stun made the pilot do one hell of a back flip, landing Sheppard on his stomach. Ronon twirled his blaster and shoved it into his holster.
It seriously never got old. He moved toward Sheppard.
Sheppard started to twitch. Then he started to convulse. Ronon ran, dropping to his knees and flipping a flailing Sheppard over. He patted the man's cheek, shook him by the shoulder.
“Sheppard. Sheppard! Wake up, Sheppard!”
Sheppard stilled, head rolling limply to the side. Ronon pressed his fingers into the clammy neck.
No pulse.
Ronon's own pulse rocketed. “Damn it!” He started CPR, counting under his breath, trying to keep the compressions slower than his own rapid heartbeat. On the second round of counts and compressions, Teyla and Rodney arrived.
Rodney shrilled. “What the hell! What did you do!”
“I just stunned him. I don't know what happened!”
Rodney called for a 'jumper – there was room enough for one to land by the shore. After Ronon's third set of compressions, Teyla had him switch places with her.
Ronon stood, feeling oddly numb, like he wasn't really there, like he was dreaming. He said, “I think I broke a rib.”
When Rodney squeaked, “You just can't stop damaging him, can you?” Ronon could only shake his head. He hadn't meant to. There was no hole in Sheppard's chest, which meant the blaster had been on stun. Sheppard was just stunned... supposed to be stunned.
When the 'jumper arrived, it barely touched down when the bay door opened and a marine rushed out carrying the mini defib. Teyla ripped the silk shirt open baring a pale and bruised chest. Very bruised: blacks and blues and greens mottling most of the skin from collarbone to the exposed areas of the ribcage. The panels were pressed to the chest, Sheppard arched then the panels were removed to apply more gel, leaving red where they had touched.
Ronon started in surprised when the marine shouted. “Got a pulse!” He was still numb, felt like he was drifting on a current in the general direction of the 'jumper, then from the 'jumper to the infirmary when they were finally back in Atlantis. Only Keller chased them off, herding them toward nurses to be checked over. They were all fine, though Ronon's nurse kept fretting over his blood pressure, fretting even more when it took three tries to get him to respond to anything she said.
In the end, she still found no reason for him to stay.
Ronon floated back to his room, unbuckled his holster and tossed it on the bed, stripped from his clothes and wandered into the shower. He had no idea how long he was under the hot spray, but when he finally emerged, he felt slightly more anchored.
Then he looked at the blaster.
He'd never had to think about it before. Just point, shoot; switch settings according to species. That was all. Nothing to it. Switch, point and shoot. He'd done it how many times? And always without a single regret.
He'd had it on stun. Sheppard had been stunned.
Ronon grabbed the blaster from its holster and held it, testing it's weight and grip. It felt no different, no heavier, no lighter. The energy cell spilled soft red over his wrist. The grip warmed in his hand until his palm started to sweat. He twirled the thing once then brought it up, aimed at the painting over his bed. It was so much easier to handle than any Satedan weapon he'd ever held – lighter, without having to waste seconds reloading. The only setback was the recharge which could take hours. But, still, he always wondered what kind of difference it would have made if they'd had weapons like this during the war.
He'd done what he'd had to do with Sheppard. Any other weapon, and Sheppard would have been bleeding out and without the use of a limb for a few weeks. Stunning was safer, more humane – harmless. It was either stun, injury or death.
No regrets.
But, damn it, it felt different – the gun, like it couldn't be trusted, like it had betrayed him, like... like...
Like every other so-called friend in his life: Satedans who weren't Satedans. Ronon had yet to come across a Satedan capable of waking hope for the future of their people in him. He was seriously starting to wonder if that was his fate in life: to be the last real Satedan left in this galaxy.
Ronon tossed the blaster back on the bed. It didn't really matter. The gun wasn't even Satedan weaponry, and he'd done what he had to do.
A call over the comm brought him back to the infirmary and a thrashing Sheppard. Keller needed him to hold Sheppard down as they cleaned and bandaged his wrists.
“He woke up before we started,” she said. “Talk to him. It might help calm him down.”
Ronon held Sheppard by the shoulders that proved his initial assumption. Sheppard was thinner, his shoulders a lot bonier than usual. Sheppard was shirtless and covered to the waist by a sheet that a nurse made sure stayed around his waist as his legs jerked and kicked. He was buried in bruises, front to back, most of them finger shaped, others the general shape of fists and hands.
When Sheppard's heart-rate and breathing increased, Ronon almost let go, realizing how the contact had to be registering to Sheppard's addled brain.
“Talk to him,” Keller said as she swabbed the abrasions.
It's all right and you're safe sat precariously on the tip of his tongue. What came out of Ronon's mouth, pushed through a suddenly tight throat, was a hoarse, “Sorry Sheppard.” Because he was, whether he liked it or not. Yeah, he'd done what he'd had to do, but it had hurt Sheppard and Sheppard was already hurt enough as it was.
He would stun Sheppard to his heart's content if that's what he needed to do, but never in a million years would he ever intentionally hurt him.
When Jennifer finished cleaning, wrapping, then dressing Sheppard in a gown, she had the others brought in for a quick rundown of Sheppard's problems. Drugged, obviously. Beaten, a little undernourished either due to the drugs or the way he was treated. No signs of sexual assault, so Sheppard hadn't given and the queen hadn't taken. Oh, and Sheppard had a broken rib, more than one. As for why Sheppard being stunned stopped his heart, Keller blamed it on the drugs, exhaustion, and general poor health – all of which could be easily remedied. Sheppard was going to be fine.
Rodney patted Ronon on the shoulder. “Sorry I blamed you.”
Ronon just shrugged. “Still my fault.” Which prompted a tedious round of 'no it wasn't' from both teammates until he placated them with a, “Fine, whatever.”
Rodney and Teyla left, knowing they hadn't accomplished a thing and also well aware that they weren't going to.
Ronon pulled up a chair and sat. Sheppard was unconscious, having worn himself out, but Ronon didn't care. He was a man of action, and preferred his apologies to be more than just words.
-------------------------------
The nine-mil was lighter than the P-90 but not as damaging. Ronon liked the way the P-90 could cut an almost perfect line right down the middle of the target but he wasn't fond of the weight. That was the problem with using one weapon for the better part of his fighting life – it made him fickle. He wasn't supposed to be fickle. Fickle people didn't live long, especially in battle. Especially on the run.
Being stationary was making him go a little soft. If he wasn't careful he'd start getting picky about what he ate, and that just wouldn't be right.
Ronon set the nine mill down, picking the P-90 back up.
“I'm gonna assume this is you expanding your horizons...”
Ronon's finger paused right when it was about to squeeze the trigger. He turned his head. Sheppard stood in the doorway, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, still pale, still thin, still bruised even if they were starting to fade, and holding Ronon's blaster in his hand. When he headed toward Ronon, his movements were stiff , his shoulders a little hunched. But then it was only this morning he'd been released from the infirmary, spending the better part of the day sleeping.
He still looked like he needed more sleep.
“And not looking for something else to carry around in that holster of yours,” Sheppard finished. He held the blaster by the barrel for Ronon to take it by the grip. When he didn't, Sheppard set it on the table next to the nine-mil.
Ronon shrugged, clicking the P-90's safety on. “Nothing wrong with trying other stuff out. Might be a good idea to carry something extra. Power cells take forever to recharge.”
“Tell me about it,” Sheppard said, hands on hips as he studied the two weapons on the table. He then scratched the back of his neck, looking pensive. “On the other hand, if you do ever decide to carry something else, you think, maybe...?”
Ronon clicked the safety back off and sprayed the paper target right across the middle.
Sheppard winced. “I'm taking that to be a no?”
“I'd be pissed if you lost it.”
“I wouldn't lose it,” Sheppard replied, a little bit of a whine in his voice. He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Listen, Ronon. Rodney told me what happened. When you stunned me.”
Ronon slapped a new cartridge in. “And?”
“And... I don't know. He and Teyla think you're acting different. Kind of mopey, quiet... even for you. They think it's 'cause you're feeling guilty or something.”
“I did what I had to do,” Ronon said, switching the safety back on. He needed to put up a new target, first.
Sheppard stared at him. “I know, big guy. I know. I was out of it, nuts. What else were you gonna do?”
“Exactly,” Ronon said. He turned the P-90 over in his hands, making sure to keep the business end pointed toward the mutilated target. He had no idea why he was hesitating about changing the target, unless he was bored already. He thought about target practice using knives. Supposedly, the gym had a dummy just for the occasion. But he still didn't move.
“I told you I was sorry, right?” The words poured out of his mouth as though his brain had been conspiring against him this whole time, just waiting for an opportunity to mutiny. “You were unconscious when I did, so... I am, though. Just so you know.”
Sheppard snorted. “Crap, Ronon. How the hell were you supposed to know what would happen?”
Ronon shrugged. “I do that too much. Fire without thinking. I mean, I know stunning is harmless but, obviously,” he gave the weapon a hard cock, “not all the time.”
Sheppard pinched the bridge of his nose like he was coming down with a headache, or really had woken prematurely. He sighed again. “Ronon. Come on. It was an accident, one I survived. Besides,” he dropped his hand to his side, “out of all the trigger happy people or things out there with the potential to shoot me, I'd rather it be you.”
Ronon frowned at him, absolutely certain Sheppard hadn't gotten enough sleep. “What?”
“Because with you, at least I know there's someone around who's looking out for me afterwards. You can shoot me anytime,” but quickly added, “within reason.” He then gave Ronon a hearty clap on the shoulder and headed out.
Ronon turned his attention to the weapons on the table. Switching the P-90 for his blaster, he changed settings and blew the rest of the target from the clip.
His thumb automatically flipped the settings as he slid the blaster into his holster.
He never had to think about it.
