Author: esteefee
Pairing: Sheppard/Dex
Rating: G
Words: 3,646
Categories: John h/c
Summary: Continues the Doors Series.
Most of this story occurs after Rodney's return after Brain Storm and the accompanying missing tag in this series, Closing Doors.
A/N: still not porny. Damn it. Soon, though, I promise.


Halik (Good Chance)

by esteefee


Ronon is teaching Sheppard how to play halik. He knows Sheppard is a smart man, one who is adept with numbers and strategies, but today he can't seem to master what Ronon doesn't even tell him is just a child's game.

Then Sheppard's radio chirps, and his eyes change, the skin going tight, but not in a smile.

So, then. McKay has returned.

"That was Woolsey. Rodney's back," Sheppard says. He waves his hand, "I'm gonna—"

"Yeah."

"I'll be back in twenty."

Ronon turns away, but is forced to look back when Sheppard doesn't move.

"Twenty," Sheppard says, his voice low. His truth voice.

Ronon nods, and Sheppard leaves.

:::

Sheppard is as good as his word. Ronon hasn't even had time to finish cleaning his primary set of knives when the door sounds permission to enter. Ronon lets him in.

"So, was that two glyphs to make a sport, or three?" Sheppard strides in with far too much energy; when he picks up the deck of cards, they spring from his fingers to scatter over the bed. "Crap."

Ronon kneels down to help him gather the cards. Sheppard's eyes are on his task, and he jerks a little when Ronon touches his arm. Ronon notices there's a cut on Sheppard's lip that wasn't there when he left.

"Hey," Ronon says.

"I remember: three glyphs. And four to make a cadre."

"That's right."

But Sheppard's still staring down at his hands. "Shit," he says in a low voice.

Ronon waits. Sheppard's jaw is tight, and his body speaks of post-battle tension. A near miss, or maybe a serious injury. Ronon knows a lot about Sheppard, about how he reacts in fight, about what he will do to protect the people he cares about, but Ronon doesn't know anything about the heart of the man.

He wants to, though.

"Fuck," Sheppard finally says. He's playing with the cards now, shuffling them in that weird fashion he has so that they fall with a whispering sound, oddly satisfying. "I don't get it. I don't understand why some people—"

He doesn't finish. Ronon leans against him for a moment, a solid contact to indicate he is there.

Sheppard drops the deck and rubs one hand up and down the back of his neck.

"Four to a cadre?" he says, looking over.

Ronon smiles. "And five to win. But you won't win," he says confidently.

"Oh, yeah?"

They settle down to play.

:::

It is two days before the team once again gathers to go on a mission. Ronon, Teyla and Sheppard spend the time in training and in testing themselves on the firing range to make sure they are all mission-ready after so much idle time. McKay is strangely absent, but Sheppard doesn't comment, and Teyla is too wise to push. Ronon knows they are still a team, but he wonders what will have changed.

He finds out when they meet in the ready room. McKay shows up late, looking flustered.

"Hi," he says nervously.

Ronon nods a hello as he straps on his thigh holster.

"It is good to see you, Rodney," Teyla says gently. "How was Earth?" She is already in her vest and is fastening her P-90 to the harness. Sheppard is checking his handgun carefully and doesn't look up.

"Oh, it was excellent. Excellent."

"Suit up, McKay. You're late," Sheppard says. He raises his head and looks at McKay expressionlessly. It's as if there is a glass wall behind his eyes. "We're going to P7I—"

"—862, yes, I know. Planet of the hobgoblins." McKay flushes for some reason.

Sheppard turns away without his usual smirk. Ronon catches his eye, and Sheppard's mouth softens.

"The Hobgogi," Teyla corrects. "A very kind people."

"They look like garden gnomes," McKay mutters.

Ronon doesn't know what garden gnomes are, but it's true the Hobgogi are a very strange-looking people with an odd fondness for tall, pointed hats. The men all have long beards but no mustaches, pretty much the only way to differentiate them from the women, who are as bulky and wrinkled as the men.

However, they make good shoes and boots, of a fine, supple leather, and Ronon is hoping he can trade for some of it to make a new pair of pants. He can never have enough pants.

Woolsey, on the other hand, asked them in the mission briefing to acquire some of the dye the Hobgogi use for their treatment process. It has some chemical in it that Keller can manufacture into a simple antibiotic for trade.

"Sulfonic acids," McKay says without prompting as they are walking from the Ring toward the village, "were used to make sulfa drugs, the first antibiotics on Earth. In World War II, sulfa drugs saved the lives of countless soldiers."

"Your entire world was at war with itself? Twice?" Teyla doesn't sound surprised, and Ronon suppresses a laugh.

"Oh, more often than that. Of course, Canada doesn't often involve itself in global conflicts. Not like some countries."

But Sheppard doesn't respond to the dig. He is alert, his eyes weaving back and forth across the forest, and seems to be ignoring McKay's patter entirely.

McKay's mouth forms into a crooked line, and he doesn't say anything further until they get to the village.

Arek Padula, the leader of the council, is already in the town center with two of the other members. For some reason, all three have coated their beards and hair with the yellow mud-dye that is the trademark of their tanning process.

"Happy Walasha, Sheppard Colonel." The little man always puts their titles last.

Sheppard gives a nod. "How's it going, Councilor?"

"What, may I ask, is Walasha, and does it have something to do with—" Rodney waves his hand at Arek's hair, which is sticking straight up in mustard colored shoots. Teyla gives Rodney a stern look.

"Walasha is the day we give thanks for survival. We give thanks to the creatures for their bounty, and to the earth for the scoria that is so important to our lives."

"Ah. The scoria," Teyla says. "It is the scoria we wish to speak to you of, Arek Councilor. Would it be possible to sit down and discuss a possible trade?"

"Of course! The land is generous to us, and on this day of all it behooves us to be generous to our friends. You must join the festival meal, and of course Sheppard Colonel, your leader, will dress his hair in the ritual manner."

McKay smothers a laugh. Sheppard ignores him and turns toward Ronon. "Don't you think Ronon's hair would be better—"

"Don't even say it, Sheppard," Ronon growls, and Sheppard's eyes light up with a smile.

"No, it must be you, Sheppard Colonel, as representative of your tribe." The tiny man bows and holds out his arm toward his tent. Sheppard gives them all a last, backward glance filled with despair before he precedes Arek into the tent.

"Well, this, at least, should be amusing," McKay says. "Almost worth it to have to leave Atlantis at a critical point in my research."

Ronon grunts neutrally, not wanting to encourage McKay's whining.

Teyla, of course, turns and politely asks, "What are you working on, Rodney?"

"Oh, an old favorite—a recombinant power source utilizing some old equations I came up with for the dimensional bridge. Well, Jeannie helped," McKay says grudgingly, "But the primary concepts are all mine."

"It sounds fascinating," Teyla says, anything but truthful, and Ronon hides a smile by turning to scan the village. Here and there he spots a yellow, mud-caked head. Some children are playing just off the square, batting a small, leather ball back and forth with a stick.

"I wonder if Sheppard can teach them baseball," Ronon asks, pointing toward the kids.

"Sounds like fun," Sheppard says from behind him. Ronon turns, and Sheppard smiles at him ruefully, his mustard-yellow hair sticking straight up in a series of triangular points.

McKay snickers out loud. Teyla's chuckle is more restrained.

"Yeah, yeah," Sheppard says, but he is smirking directly at Ronon.

Ronon reaches out and pats the top points. Sheppard bends his head, letting him. They're sharp and prickly against his palm.

Rodney makes a weird sound.

"Nice," Ronon says, meaning it. The color makes Sheppard's eyes look greener in contrast, and he looks exotic, like one of the elite courtesans back on Sateda.

Ronon is in trouble, he thinks. It is too soon to feel this. Because things are not normal between Sheppard and McKay, which means Sheppard is still holding onto something. It can only stand between them.

He pulls away and goes back on watch.

The ceremonial dinner begins. Torches are lit, even though it is not yet dark, and dancers come out to the sound of deep drums. They stamp the earth and raise their hands, chanting as they turn in a great circle at the center of the square. The team sits with the council at a long table covered by a canopy, where they are served fresh fruit and hot, spicy meat on sticks. Yellow ribbons of leather are laced around their utensils and dangle from the handles of the various pots and bowls holding the food. They eat while the dancers dance, and then the drums thunder into silence.

Arek stands. "Happy Walasha!"

The crowd responds, "Walasha alla!"

With one hand holding his drink, Arek raises the other in some sort of sign and two yellow-robed figures come forward. They have something burning in covered clay bowls that dangle from a chain, and they raise and lower the bowls. Smoke comes out and drifts fingers through the air. It smells strange, almost like eggs, but with a spice over it.

There's a cough next to him, and Ronon looks over. Sheppard's eyes are looking teary and red, his face flushed.

"Sheppard?"

"Shh," he says, and coughs again quietly.

The drums boom three times, and Arek speaks. "On this day, we give thanks to the suns. We give thanks to the earth, and the bounty it provides, its creatures, its plants and minerals that give life. Walasha alla! Walasha alla! All must give thanks."

The crowd murmurs, "All must give thanks."

"All must give thanks."

"Walasha alla!"

The two incense burners swing their pots, and again the smoke pours out. It stings Ronon's nose, but it's a pleasing smell.

Sheppard coughs again, this time without stopping right away, and Teyla meets Ronon's eyes. They both lean toward him. Rodney is sitting just past Teyla, still eating, but he frowns.

"Colonel Sheppard, are you all right?" Teyla asks quietly.

Sheppard reaches for his water glass and knocks it over. Ronon grabs it and refills it from the pitcher, handing it to him.

After Sheppard drinks, he rasps out, "It's okay." He wipes his hand over his face and says, "I think I'm okay."

But he doesn't sound certain. His breathing is short and a little thick. Ronon jerks his head at Teyla and they both rise to pull Sheppard to his feet.

"What—?" he says.

"I think some fresh air," Teyla suggests. "Rodney, remain here to be our presence." Then she and Ronon help Sheppard past Rodney and the others, and away from the pavilion. Once they are in the open, Sheppard bends over and puts his hands on his thighs. He coughs again, long and hard, a terrible, wheezing sound.

Ronon is past concerned. "We have to get him back to Atlantis."

Teyla nods. "I'm feeling no ill effects from the incense. Are you?"

"No, none."

"Then I will stay behind with Rodney. I feel secure we can continue the negotiations."

"I'll send Lorne with a marine to back you up."

"Hey," Sheppard gasps in a harsh whisper. "Who's the leader here, anyway?"

Teyla bends over and presses her forehead to his. "Feel better, John."

"Tell Arek we said thanks for the food," Ronon says, and pulls Sheppard upright before urging him down the path toward the Ring.

For once, Sheppard doesn't fight him.

:::

They only make it half way before Sheppard falls. Ronon had been expecting it, but Sheppard is such a sudden, dead weight that Ronon has to grab him with both arms and drop to his knees to keep Sheppard from hitting the ground. He holds Sheppard practically in his lap and looks down into his pale face.

Sheppard isn't breathing.

Ronon knows what to do. He knows what to do. He spent three days training with Keller, refreshing old lessons he'd learned during basic training. Three enjoyable days when she flirted with him and he made jokes about her kissing the practice dummy, who was named 'Brad.'

But this isn't practice, and Ronon's heart is pounding louder than the Hobgogi's drums as he lays Sheppard gently down and tilts his head back. Ronon listens for any air, then breathes for him, his lips pressed tightly down to make the seal. It is his first chance to taste of Sheppard's mouth.

Not how Ronon wanted it to happen.

He breathes out. Breathes in again. He is getting dizzy, giving all his air to Sheppard.

"Sheppard, don't do this," Ronon says, panting, and then takes another deep breath and bends to Sheppard's mouth.

It grows increasingly difficult to force the air down Sheppard's throat, like the opening is constricted, and suddenly Ronon remembers the medicated pen they are supposed to use in the case of an allergic reaction, which this almost certainly is. Rodney insisted everyone be trained in its use because he is certain he will be poisoned by the dangerous citrus fruit.

Ronon stops the breathing long enough to feel for Sheppard's weak pulse, and then he digs through the pockets of Sheppard's tac vest until he finds the epi-pen. He stabs it into Sheppard's thigh and presses the plunger.

Almost instantaneously Sheppard's back arches and air wheezes harshly into his lungs.

He's breathing on his own. Ronon discards the pen and reaches beneath Sheppard's shoulders and knees, using the strength of his relief to haul himself to his feet with Sheppard in his arms.

And then he runs for the Ring.

:::

The steady beep of Sheppard's heart is in an off-balance cycle with the mechanical pump that breathes for him. It takes eighteen breath repetitions for the sounds to synchronize until, for a brief moment, they occur on the same beat before parting ways again.

Ronon counts over a hundred of these synchronized beats before Sheppard finally moves. Ronon tenses, but Sheppard doesn't awaken.

His hair looks soft and clean, and Ronon wants to run his fingers through it. The orderlies have cleansed it of every particle of the yellow mud, because Keller determined it was that which caused the larger systemic reaction, rather than the incense; Sheppard's exposure to that had probably triggered the coughing, but not the convulsions.

In both cases, Keller assured Ronon that now they have isolated the problem, it is merely a matter of time before Sheppard recovers.

Her voice—hesitant, concerned—was at odds with her eyes, which looked puzzled. Ronon thinks maybe it's because he had both hands resting on Sheppard's arm while she talked.

It doesn't matter. Only the words she spoke. Sheppard will be fine. Sheppard will live, undamaged.

If Ronon hadn't remembered the pen...

He'd been out of his mind, he realizes only now, looking back at the moment when he discovered Sheppard wasn't breathing. Worse than with any battle sickness, Ronon hadn't been capable of thought.

That's not good. It was merest chance he remembered the medication. He isn't much of a thinker when it comes to technical things; he prefers to leave the science to McKay, who would have realized instantly what the problem was, and with it the solution.

"I'll need more training," Ronon says suddenly.

"Unh." The sound comes from Sheppard, and Ronon's eye snap upward.

Sheppard is awake now and looking at him, mouth moving around the tube.

"You have a tube in your throat," Ronon says. He squeezes Sheppard's fist, and Sheppard's fingers open to curl around his.

Sheppard's eyes crinkle.

"Don't—" Ronon's voice is choked, and he clears his throat. "Don't try to talk. I'll get Keller."

Keller bustles in at Ronon's call and looks at Sheppard's chart and the readings from the various machines. Finally, she steps up to the bed.

"Colonel, we're going to unhook you from the breathing apparatus and see if you can do it on your own, okay?" Keller calls for another nurse. Ronon moves back, hoping they won't ask him to leave.

They unhook the tube connected to the one in Sheppard's mouth, and then after Sheppard breathes on his own for a few minutes, Keller nods and gestures Ronon over.

"Help me hold him up. We're going to remove the tracheal tube. John," Keller leans over Sheppard, "I want you to cough out on my signal. All right?"

Sheppard blinks.

Ronon steps to the side of the bed and helps Sheppard sit up. Then Keller is saying, "Now!" and Sheppard coughs and jerks, his heart rate picking up a panicked beat, until Keller finishes pulling the tube out.

Sheppard coughs a couple more times then says, "Thanks," in a rough whisper.

Ronon knows he should let go, but Sheppard's shoulders fit perfectly under his arm, the warm contact reassuring. Keller gives him an odd look, but Ronon doesn't care. It's only when Sheppard pats his other hand and says, "It's okay, buddy," that Ronon eases him back down onto the bed and steps to the side.

"Hey," Sheppard says.

"Hey."

Sheppard smiles at him, but Ronon can't smile back just yet.

Keller goes around doing her thing, then cranks the bed upright and brings Sheppard a cup of water.

"Welcome back," she says after he drinks. "You're probably wondering what happened."

"I think I figured it out," Sheppard says hoarsely. "I should have been listening closer during the briefing. But I'm guessing I'm allergic to the sulfate stuff in the mud."

Ronon knows why Sheppard was distracted.

"Highly allergic," Keller says, sounding disapproving.

"I didn't know. I'm allergic to a lot of antibiotics—"

"Erythromycin, Tetracycline, Doxycycline—" Keller ticks off, reading from Sheppard's chart on her pad.

"Yeah, but I've never tried sulfa drugs."

"Well, it's down here now."

"Sorry," Sheppard says, shrugging, but his eyes are on Ronon.

"We've got the reaction under control, that's the important thing. You'll be my guest for twenty-four hours under observation, then I'll cut you loose. But you should be fine. Thanks to Ronon." Keller cuts her eyes over for a second.

"Yeah?" Sheppard looks at him, and Ronon's face burns a little.

"He gave you an injection of epinephrine at a critical point."

"You weren't breathing." Ronon is puzzled to find his voice rough and uneven.

"That wasn't nice of me," Sheppard says, weirdly gentle.

"No. No." Ronon drifts closer to the bed.

Keller clears her throat. "I'll have someone bring you a lunch tray from the mess, Colonel. I want you to take in fluids, as well."

"Aye, aye, Skipper." Sheppard is still looking at Ronon when Keller walks out.

"So," Sheppard says after a minute.

"So." There's a small, metal stool next to the wall behind the bed. Ronon rolls it out so he can sit by Sheppard's leg.

"Sorry about this."

"Not your fault."

"Thanks for, you know—" Sheppard gestures, then winces when his IV line stretches tight.

Ronon lifts the blanket to give the tube some slack. "No problem."

"You always come through for me."

"'S no big deal." Ronon ducks his chin.

"Well, yeah it is. To me." Sheppard coughs. "Is the rest of the team okay?"

"Yeah. Teyla finished the negotiations. I sent Lorne and some guys and they all came back with what Keller asked for. Woolsey is happy, too. Teyla went to get Torren and she'll be by a little later."

"Good. Glad I didn't screw things up." Sheppard's eyes close for a second, and then he looks at Ronon. "You don't have to stick around if you've got stuff—"

"I'm good."

"Oh. Good." Sheppard doesn't smile, but his face relaxes somehow. Ronon notices he doesn't ask if McKay is coming.

"McKay called in from the lab to check on you."

Sheppard doesn't respond. His legs shift under the blanket.

"Look, Sheppard—"

"John."

Ronon's breath catches for a second.

"I mean, you should call me that." Sheppard looks uncomfortable. "Don't you think?"

"John," Ronon says slowly, tasting it. He knows he wouldn't be able to call his leader that out in the field, but it feels right, here, now, with his hand still where he placed it after adjusting the IV, resting on John's forearm.

"Yeah?" Sheppard sounds relieved.

"John," Ronon marshals his words carefully, hearing them in his mind, wondering if he will screw up the saying of this thing. This important thing that needs saying. "McKay is team."

He expects Sheppard—John—to snap at him, but instead John just sits there silently, his eyes staring across the room. Finally he says, "Yeah, okay. I hear you."

Ronon goes on, feeling like he's walking on ice. "Because otherwise...if you don't let things be like they were, then it's too—"

"I know, Ronon." John sounds tired. "It'll make it too important. It'll mean too much."

"Yeah." Ronon is relieved. "That's it. And I don't want it to mean anything," he finds himself saying fiercely. He hadn't realized how strong it was, this push in his heart.

John's eyes widen a little, and Ronon discovers he's clamped down too hard on Sheppard's arm. Easing his grip, Ronon tries to calm himself.

It was the taste of John's mouth, maybe. Like a claiming. It makes it all real where before it had just been a wish, a desire, a hope.

"Hey. Buddy." John sounds worried.

"I'm good," Ronon says.

After a pause, John says, "I'll be out of here in twenty-four hours." For a second Ronon thinks he's changed the subject, and then the meaning clicks, and a tingle starts in Ronon's groin.

"I can't wait." Ronon smiles so widely that John laughs.

"Me, neither." They grin stupidly at each other, and then John says, "So, in the meantime—how about a nice game of halik?"

"I'll go get the deck." Ronon stands up.

"What does it mean, anyway, 'halik'?"

There's a crazy warmth in Ronon's chest when he responds, "It translates as 'Good Chance.'"

John's slow smile makes the warmth bubble over. "I hope so," he says.

Ronon hopes so, too.



End.

ETA: The next story in this series is Interlude: Exeunt, Pursued By a Bear.