Author: esteefee
Pairing: Sheppard/Dex
Rating: G
Words: 4,747
Categories: pre-slash, H/C
Summary: Missing scene from Brain Storm, this is Ronon and John's surfing trip.

A/N: The recent episodes of badness break my heart for so many reasons, not the least of which
they leave poor Ronon and John out in the cold. I need to fix that.


Caught Inside

by esteefee

Caught inside [from the Surfer's Glossary]—Surfer is caught between large breaking waves and the shoreline, waiting for an opportunity to get out to the line up.

Of course, the surfing plan went all to hell.

The beach was disappointing, way too long in the shallows, and the wind chose that day to blow out all the waves, collapsing them into useless chaos.

John was pissed, but Ronon just shrugged and suggested they go hiking instead, and pointed to some peaks high above the cliff line. John was in the mood to throw himself at something, ocean or mountain, it didn't matter which. He just wanted to get his mind off stuff. Off situations he couldn't control, and things he couldn't have.

Ronon was the perfect company for his mood. John wouldn't be alone, but he wouldn't have to talk.

They took the jumper a couple of thousand feet up to get a good start, repacked their gear for camping, and then began the hike. Lots of boulders and hand holds made it easy to climb fast. The incline was steeper than John had been expecting, but he'd always adapted easily to high altitudes—came in handy for a pilot—and for once it was Ronon who was breathing heavily.

John would have crowed about it a little if he weren't still so fucking pissed. Or depressed. Or something. Also, after a couple of hours the big guy had started looking in a bad way.

"You okay there, buddy?" John brought them to a halt when he saw how red Ronon's face was getting. They were half-way to the summit already, and this wasn't any race.

"Yeah. Fine," Ronon panted.

"Well, I'm a little bushed; what do you say we take a break?"

Ronon rolled his eyes, signaling he wasn't fooled, but he responded, "If you want," so John knew he was even worse off than he looked.

"Great." John shrugged off his pack near a set of smooth boulders and pulled out his canteen to take a swig. He offered it to Ronon, who shook his head. His face wasn't red anymore—in fact, now he looked a little green.

"Don't know what's wrong with me," he said sheepishly.

John shrugged. "Maybe just getting a little mountain sickness. It happens if you're not used to higher altitudes."

"Oh." Ronon let himself down heavily next to John and leaned against him. John was surprised at the contact, but leaned back in support.

Actually, it wasn't so surprising. Lately, ever since Todd had hijacked the Daedalus with Ronon and Keller aboard, Ronon had been a little more quiet than usual, but he'd also hung around John more. Probably because he'd been separated from the team and had had to take back the ship all on his own.

Team was everything to Ronon. John knew that; it was what he liked best about him, because he felt the same damned way.

"You should drink some, even if you don't feel like it." John nudged the canteen at Ronon until he took it. "Just, you know, let me know if you're gonna puke so I can get out of the way."

Ronon rumbled what sounded like a laugh. "Not gonna puke." But he only took a couple of small sips before resting the canteen on his leg. "Nice view."

It was. The big orange sun was high behind them, and the ocean far, far below was shimmering with darts of light as the wind chopped the water. Pretty to look at, but crap to teach Ronon how to surf in.

"Sorry about the surfing lessons."

"No big deal. We can come back."

"Any time. Well, anytime we're not under attack by hostile forces."

Ronon nudged him with an elbow, and said gruffly, "You worry too much."

Sometimes it seemed like John didn't worry half as much as he should. "You ready to move out?"

Ronon answered by pushing off to the side, but when he tried to get to his feet he suddenly swayed and sank back down to his knees. If John hadn't twisted over to support him, he would've landed flat on his back.

"Okaaay..." John held onto Ronon's shoulders to prop him up.

Ronon shook his head, and John ducked down to get a look at his face. Ronon was sweating heavily, and it looked like he really was going to heave his guts.

"Lie back down, big guy. Come on." John helped him sit down again up against the rock. "You gonna lose it?"

"I dunno. Maybe. My head is pounding."

"Okay. Hang on a second." John went scrabbling through his pack and pulled out the med kit. "You know," he said, handing Ronon a couple of aspirin, "you might've mentioned during the, oh, four hours we've been climbing that this was getting to you."

"Didn't want to mess things up." Ronon's head was drooping, his dreadlocks hanging around his face.

"You're not messing anything up. But I think we should plan on camping here tonight."

"All right." Ronon tossed back the aspirin, crunching them down with a wince.

"Drink some more water." John got up to unpack the tent and start setting it up. When he looked over, Ronon was lying down with his knees up and his head resting against the rock behind him.

It was weird to see Ronon incapacitated short of giant gaping wounds. And even then, he usually kept plugging away. But there was no enemy here, other than the pup-tent, which was giving John all sorts of problems. He managed to get the thing wrestled into place and staked down, and then went to gather firewood from the brush.

By the time he got back, Ronon had already cleared the ground and was setting down some rocks to mark the fire circle.

"Hey, you should be taking it easy."

"I pull my weight, Sheppard."

"Yeah. Usually more than, but we're on vacation here. No point in pushing it." John set down some small branches as tinder and piled the bigger chunks on top. He used the nifty Athosian fire-starter Teyla had given him to get the little blaze going, then went to his pack for food supplies. He waved some packets at Ronon. "Chicken or beef?"

Ronon swallowed and looked away.

"Still queasy, huh?" John tossed the beef back into his pack, opting for the chicken noodle soup. It was the same brand his father used to bring on their rare camping trips, before things changed between him. For once, the memory wasn't as painful; maybe because John's dad wasn't alive anymore to mutter at him in his head. See that, Pops? We have a better relationship with you dead.

He'd noticed a fresh spring where the wall of rock had cracked, and took a pot with him. As long as they were boiling the water it shouldn't be a problem; the planet had checked out as G1. Once he had the pot set up on their little cooking rack he pulled up a rock and sat next to Ronon, who was lying with his head on his pack by the fire.

"How're you doing?"

"Better."

"You should elevate your feet. It helps with altitude sickness."

"Shut up, Sheppard."

John shut up and looked at the fire. After a minute, Ronon shoved his pack down and rested his feet on it. John hid a grin.

The sun was starting to set, but the fire was burning merrily with a sharp smell, like eucalyptus crossed with pine. John flicked his eyes over to check on Ronon occasionally. The third time, Ronon caught it and grimaced at him comically, making John crack a smile.

When the water started bubbling, John got up and tossed in two packets of dried chicken soup, stirred a couple of times, and then pulled the pot off the fire to let it sit for a while. Then he portioned out two cups and handed one to Ronon, who sat up and grunted his thanks before sipping cautiously.

John blew on the broth and almost burned his tongue on the first mouthful. The taste of MSG-flavored chicken brought back more memories—his dad, cursing at the rickety, hinge-handled camping pot when it tried to swing back around and burn him. The way he'd pull out a flask after dinner and let John take a little swig from it to put some hair on your chest, Johnny.

The last time they went camping was a month before his mom drank herself into a high-speed introduction with an elm tree. She'd been driving her orange Corvette, the one she'd promised to give to John when he turned sixteen.

Seemed like nothing had gone the way he'd wanted for a hell of a long time.

"What're you thinking about?" Ronon asked, putting down his empty cup.

Shrugging, John said, "Nothing much."

"Doesn't look like nothing." Ronon rolled his head over to look at him. "This about McKay?"

John hid his reaction. "Who?"

"You know, smart guy? Talks a lot?"

"What about McKay?" Sheppard asked evenly.

Ronon lifted one shoulder. "Nothing. Just seems like things are different lately."

"Different how?"

Ronon's lips turned up in something that wasn't a smile. "Maybe I'm wrong. But when he had the Second Childhood it seemed like you two were close. And then something happened and you weren't friends as much. Like you're mad at him."

There was something wrong with the way Ronon was talking. Well, for one thing he was saying more than four words in a sentence, and it was coming out all stilted, as if he had to dig for each word. As if the spaces between them were filled with sharp rocks.

"He's been busy," John said just as carefully.

"With Keller, you mean." Ronon sounded bitter. Boy, did that expression look familiar.

"No accounting for taste," John said lightly.

"Nah. It figures. See, McKay likes whoever likes him. He needs people to like him."

That was harsher than John would stand for. "I like him."

"So do I," Ronon said, unconcerned. "That doesn't mean I think he's a good choice."

"She seems okay with it."

"I'm not worried about her," Ronon said staring at him, and John had to look away.

Ronon made a rueful sound. "She can take care of herself, anyway. Besides, she's like him—thinks too much. Wants to change everything around her to fit her ideas of the way things should be."

John wasn't sure how much he believed Ronon's casual dismissal. He knew Ronon had been dumped by Keller—had seen the tail end of a conversation that made him offer to spar with Ronon right afterward. John had paid for that little session for days.

But what Ronon was saying didn't exactly sound like sour grapes, and he wasn't that kind of guy, anyway. Sure, he held a serious grudge against the Wraith, but who could blame him? He also seemed to get alone fine with everyone in Atlantis—better than John did, in a lot of ways.

Still, he sounded beat up, talking about Keller. John wished he could fix it, but he couldn't even open the subject without hurting Ronon's pride, and that was the last thing he wanted. And since John was pretty much in the same boat, he wasn't sure he could deliver a believable, "You're better off without her," speech.

Thinking of Rodney and Keller stung in a lot of ways. Even if it was pointless wanting Rodney for more than friendship, the truth was they were friends, at least, except lately it was Keller Rodney ate breakfast with and brought his triumphs to. Keller who hung out with Rodney while he was working. And the weird thing was, Rodney didn't even seem all that attracted to her. It was like he'd decided he needed a girlfriend and was solving for X.

Shit. John couldn't stop thinking about this. And that was a the whole point of this little trip; if he couldn't get it out of his head here, he was screwed once they were back in the city.

Ronon didn't seem to mind John's drift into silence—another thing John loved about the guy. It didn't seem to take much to make Ronon content: a warm fire, a full belly, and his blaster beside him. John didn't need to fill the air around Ronon with words. But for some reason he found himself wanting to talk anyway.

"Did you ever do this when you were a kid? Go camping?"

"Yeah. My mom took me out of the city almost every weekend. Said it was important to have a balance, stay close to the land and live without modern conveniences for a change."

"She taught you to track?"

Ronon nodded. "And hunt. And dress game."

"She sounds like a great mom."

"She was. She saved my life, teaching me that stuff. What about yours?"

John should have expected it, but somehow the question still took him by surprise, mainly because he couldn't figure why Ronon would want to know about his family.

Except Ronon had come with him to Earth when John's father died. Without even being asked.

"My mom taught me how to drive. I was twelve." He smiled at the memory—sunk so low in the driver's seat he could barely see the empty parking lot over the dash. "She liked to go fast," he finished finally.

Ronon gave a snort that was probably meant to indicate his complete lack of astonishment.

"She died in an accident a few months later." And where the hell had that come from? Once begun, though, the words didn't seem to want to stop. "She got drunk and hit a tree at a hundred miles per hour."

The sky had darkened, and Ronon's eyes seemed to glow in the firelight, watching him. Even though he didn't say anything, John felt a shift between them, as if something had been acknowledged, or accepted.

"I was eighteen," Ronon after a minute. "The first culling of my generation took my mother. When she was gone, there was no reason to stay, so I packed up the house and joined the force."

Ronon was maybe twenty-five now—John had never asked him his age—which meant it hadn't even been that long for him.

"Not that long for you. Me...it's getting harder for me to remember what she looked like," John confessed softly. "But every time I fly, she's there in the back of my head. She would have loved it. I wish we could've taken the jumper together to mach two so I could've watched her face."

Ronon smiled then, such a sweet, soft smile that John's heart clenched unexpectedly. He didn't realize Ronon could look like that—that anything John could say could put that expression on his face.

"Every time we walk though the Ring onto a new planet, I think the same thing," Ronon said. "All the places I've been. All the worlds I've seen."

It was a reflex, almost, or maybe instinct that made John reach out and put one hand on Ronon's shoulder just then. But when Ronon didn't shift away, he couldn't regret it.

They watched the fire until they got drowsy, and then they unrolled their sleeping bags and turned in. The best part of all was they didn't have to set up a watch.

For the first time, John truly felt he was on vacation.

:::

The next morning Ronon seemed recovered from his altitude sickness. The first thing he said when they woke up was he wanted to continue on to the summit.

"You sure about that? You looked ready to toss your cookies yesterday."

"Niice."

"Uh, sorry?" Usually Ronon had no problem with being teased.

"Nice expression. 'Toss your cookies.' It's funny."

John grinned over quickly before finishing with the coffee prep. The best damned thing about camping was drinking percolated coffee, but there didn't seem to be a percolator in all of Atlantis, so they were making do with freeze-dried. Rodney would have had a shit-fit.

For some reason it didn't bother John as much thinking about Rodney this morning.

Maybe it was the view—the sunrise was spectacular, the rolling fog off the water making an Impressionist painting of pink and yellow and purple. John opened his pack and pulled out Zalenka's camera, which he'd borrowed. He'd thought he'd have a chance to get some footage of Ronon on the shortboard, but this was good, too. He'd hand the movie over to Lorne and maybe get him to paint it.

They finished breakfast in near-silence, and then packed up and started to climb again. The rocks were getting bigger, but there was still a winding path, which was a good thing, because John hadn't brought any climbing gear.

He lead the way, conscious of Ronon's heavy breathing behind him. Every so often the wind would shift direction and John would get a whiff of Ronon's scent, familiar and warm, bringing a wash of associations. Hiding, or trapped together in a cell, knowing when the time came for action Ronon would be there, ready to fight, ready to protect him, even if John told him to leave him behind and run.

John had never had someone like that under his command before. Even Holland, who had a smart-ass remark for every occasion, still never went against a single one of John's orders. Until the day he didn't didn't obey the command to stay, to live.

"The sounds are different up here," Ronon said, interrupting his thoughts.

"Something about the air pressure. McKay could tell us why."

"Yeah, endlessly."

The urge to defend Rodney faded when John recalled the smug look on his face when he announced he was bringing Keller to Earth with him for the convention. Can you see Nye's expression when I walk in with her on my arm? Rodney had crowed.

"Another hour to the summit," Ronon was saying. He'd stopped for some water, and John had halted too, automatically. He shaded his eyes and looked up at the peak. It would be a tough go the last couple of hundred yards—closer to true rock climbing, and he took a covert look at Ronon to check that he was up for it.

Sweat was gleaming on Ronon's bare arms, but he was breathing easily, deeply, and there was an open look on his face as he took in the view. He tilted the canteen back and John watched him swallow, then made himself look away.

Stupid. Want to get the hots for another team mate? Like one, stupid, hopeless crush isn't enough?

But John had always been attracted to Ronon, from the first time he'd seen him take out three Marines at once during his evaluation. Nothing new there, just a vacancy now that made him look with fresh eyes.

John realized with a plunge of sadness he was giving up. It was long past time he should. Yeah, it had been more than a crush, if he had to be honest, but it could never be too much more when the reality had never materialized. The zing he felt existed between them was never going to be enough to break through McKay's basically conventional nature.

Ronon was right: Rodney wanted people to like him. Maybe if life had been kinder to him when he was younger, if he'd had a family who cared about him, and friends instead of tormentors of the smartest, geekiest kid in school, he wouldn't need it so badly. Would have maybe bucked the system, taken on the world with John.

Maybe if John wasn't such a goddamned coward himself, he could have shown Rodney he could be worth it.

The terrain got rougher, and he and Ronon started helping each other up and over boulders and loose rocks. Maybe he wasn't as focused as he thought, because when they were about two hundred feet from the summit, John slipped on a bad toehold and started to go down. He felt Ronon grab his collar at the last possible instant, and John swung wildly, flailing and banging his left arm against the sharp rock before he could find his footing again.

"Jesus. Thanks," he said when he could breathe again. Ronon gave him a look that called him an idiot, and then frowned.

"You're cut."

Like it was a signal, the numb ache in his arm turned into a burn, and he felt the sting of his own blood. "Well, shit."

"Let's get to the top and we'll take care of it."

John was more careful going up the last part, feeling like a lame-ass every time he reached to grip with his slippery left hand. Finally, they made it to the summit, a ring of flat space around a small pile of rocks in the center. John dropped his pack and drank in the view with one hand clamped around his arm.

He could see for miles, it felt like. He could see the oddly sharp curve of the planet behind the wide, blue ocean. He walked around to the other side, where another mountain range towered over a deep, forested valley. It could be Earth, except for the way the trees were subtly wrong, and the way the larger, orange sun make the colors seem off.

Still, it was beautiful, and he turned to share it with Ronon, only to find the big guy digging the first aid kit out of John's bag, apparently oblivious to the incredible view.

"Ronon, come look at this."

"Let's do this first," Ronon replied, holding up a field dressing and a packet of first-aid wipes. John sighed and walked over to sit on the rock next to him.

"Stupid," John muttered, then hissed when the cold antiseptic burned into his cuts. Ronon's touch was matter-of-fact, pressing hard in spite of John's twitching. He kept his big hand clamped around the pad covering the wound and looked at John.

"Could use some stitches."

"No way. Not you and a needle." John had made a little too much fun of Ronon's leather stitching in the past, maybe, because he looked a little offended.

"Look," John said quickly, "it'll be fine. We'll get the edges dry and use some butterfly tape."

Ronon tore open another antiseptic pad and started cleaning him again, this time a little more harshly. John wasn't sure if it was punishment or not for the sewing crack, but it burned like a motherfucker.

"Fuck."

A quick look at Ronon's face revealed a carefully suppressed grin.

"Bastard."

Ronon didn't respond, just pulled away the pad. Then he leaned over and blew air over John's cuts.

John jumped a little at the sensation. It felt good, but weird. The sting eased, but at the same time he was all too conscious of the sensation of Ronon's breath on his skin. Hyper-aware of it, and of the warm grip holding him steady.

Ronon taped him up, one careful strip at a time, his tongue tucked in the corner of his mouth, then wound the field dressing tightly around John's arm. He gave John a pat when he was done, and John had to smile.

"Thanks."

"No problem." Ronon rose with a grunt. "C'mon, let's eat."

This time Ronon made lunch while John cleared the ground and set up the tent. The afternoon grew cool, and he was grateful for the hot meal and the spicy Athosian tea Teyla had shoved in their packs with a smile.

Night fell, shading the purple twilight into flame-flickered darkness. Ronon had set up his sleeping roll by the fire, his long legs crossed and one hand cushioning his head from the lump of his pack.

"It's good we came here," he said, the first time either of them had spoken for hours. John liked having Ronon's silent company, but at Ronon's words he felt a spark of energy, like a reaching out, a wanting. There was something tender under his ribs; he'd long ago recognized the need to ignore it, to firm his jaw and avoid the inevitable ridicule that would result from his usual stumbling forays into serious conversation.

But tonight felt different for some reason, and so John said, only slightly halting, "I'm glad you're here with me. Glad it was you."

Ronon turned his head and the firelight danced across his cheekbones, changing his expression from one second to another so John had trouble reading him.

"We should do it more often, Sheppard." Maybe it was a trick of the firelight, but Ronon seemed so young at that moment, his expression almost afraid, not that fear and Ronon were two words he was ever inclined to put in a sentence together.

"Only if you want," Ronon said after a moment.

"Okay," John said, his voice going unaccountably soft on him. "Yeah, all right."

Ronon's eyes squinted in an almost-smile. "Or even back at Atlantis. We could...hang out more." He looked away. "Now that you're not as busy."

Hang out, he'd said, but it sounded like more, maybe a lot more, and the weird feeling under John's ribs fluttered, making his face heat.

"Sounds good." John's voice was slightly hoarse, and he bent for his tea, taking a sip. "Anytime you want," he said more easily.

After a long moment of silence, Ronon closed his eyes and tilted back his head. "Ex-cellent," doing an almost perfect Keanu Reeves.

"No more Bill and Ted for you, buddy," John muttered.

:::

Three days later they were back down the mountain, just in time for the waves to get really good.

Ronon looked outstanding out there, his white grin flashing wide the first time he managed to stand up on the board. He was wearing goofy orange Hawaiian bathing trunks with big white flowers. John couldn't stop laughing, but he tried to film it anyway without shaking the camera.

"You were amazing, buddy," John said when Ronon finally called it quits. He kept his eyes off Ronon's slick, muscled chest.

"I can't believe you took so long to show me this thing," Ronon said, handing him the board. "You've been holding out on me, Sheppard." He smacked John on the back hard enough to unbalance him in the high water, and then caught him with both hands on his shoulders.

And didn't let go. John looked up, curious, meeting Ronon's eyes, which creased in an almost-smile.

"All right, my turn now," John said, a little breathy, and took the board out for another set, this time focusing on enjoying himself instead of trying to lecture and surf at the same time. The salt water burned a little in his sore arm, but there was something peaceful about waiting in the lull, bobbing on the swells. Over the next half hour he caught three good ones, all the old instincts coming back as he carved the glassy surface. Finally he rode the last big one all the way down to the shore where Ronon was waiting with a look of amazed pride.

John didn't want to admit how much he needed to see that expression on Ronon's face.

They were both quiet again while they cleaned up and settled down for dinner, but almost every time John looked over, he found Ronon watching.

:::

The next day they flew the jumper back to Atlantis, and John waited for Rodney to return. He waited, not letting himself know he was waiting, but he was, just the same.

He also knew he would have to do something when Rodney did come back. But he felt the usual, familiar pressure holding him in check, because even though he could have pushed it at one time and maybe succeeded, there were some things he wouldn't do, even as much a bastard as he was.

Still, it had to be acknowledged, if only once, or John would never stop being angry. Just this once, and then he could maybe finally move on.

In the meantime, in between paperwork and useless staff meetings, he and Ronon sparred, and ordered Ronon his own surfboard, and went running. And if for a change Ronon let him close in so they were running side-by-side when the catwalk wasn't too narrow, and if he gave John an occasional, sly look in the ready-room showers, well, it was allowed. John started letting himself imagine, and after a while he didn't get that sinking feeling of loss anymore.

Instead, he ended up going back to his quarters to jack off.

Three weeks passed, and when Woolsey notified him that the Daedalus was in range and Rodney was about to beam down, John made his way to the gateroom.

He was done with waiting.



End.

ETA: The next story in the series is a Ronon POV remix: Outside the Box.