Untitled Fic 1/?: SGA McKay/Dex NC-17
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Pairing: McKay/Dex
Timeline: Following "The Tao of Rodney"
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: None this chapter.



Ronon practically threw Rodney onto the bench, in the back of the jumper. Rodney protested indignantly at the rough treatment, but froze—mid-diatribe—when he saw the furious look on Ronon's face.

“What were you thinking?” Ronon yelled. “You could have been killed!”

“We all could have been killed,” John added, unhelpfully, from the cockpit, as he prepared to take off.

“I was thinking,” Rodney said sharply, “that we might be able to get another ZedPM. One that we wouldn't have to share with our greedy cousins back home!”

“So you insult their gods?” Ronon asked. “Great plan!” His shoulders were squared, and his fingers twitched spasmodically, as though he desperately needed to shoot something.

“They were primitive morons, using one of the galaxy's most sophisticated power sources to create a pretty light show!” Rodney said. “They deserved to have their gods insulted!”

“Primitive morons, with giant, mutant, attack dogs,” John added.

“Could you please concentrate on flying?” Rodney snapped.

At the mention of the dogs, Ronon's attention snapped fully back onto Rodney. One of the dogs had taken him down, before they had made it back to the safety of the jumper, and it had been a very tense moment, before Ronon had managed to get a clear shot at it. “Are you hurt?” he demanded, as he began manhandling the scientist, looking for any sign of injury.

“Get off me!” Rodney yelled, slapping ineffectually at Ronon's hands. “If I was hurt you'd know about it! I'm fine!”

Ronon grabbed Rodney's flailing left wrist, immobilizing it. The hand, and the portion of arm extending from the jacket, was streaked with blood. “You are hurt,” he said accusingly. With a quick twist of his wrist, Ronon ripped the sleeve off Rodney's jacket, exposing several deep gashes and punctures on his forearm.

Rodney's eyes widened at the sight of the wounds, and the blood drained from his face. “Not fine,” Rodney amended, his voice rising sharply in pitch. “I'm definitely not fine.”

In the front of the jumper, John cursed. “How bad is it?” he asked, twisting his neck to try and get a look at the damage.

“He'll be fine,” Ronon said shortly, reaching for the first aid kid, which saw all too frequent use on their missions. A few of the wounds looked deep, but the bleeding had already slowed. “One of the dogs got its teeth in him.”

“Fine?” Rodney shrieked. “How is this fine? My arm got mauled by a giant wolf—god knows what diseases it was carrying!” He wrenched his arm away from Ronon's grasp and clutched it to his chest. “This could have been my neck! It was going for my neck! I could be dead right now!”

“You're right,” John said, rolling his eyes. “He'll be fine.”

***

John leaned against the infirmary wall, arms crossed, trying his best to remain unobtrusive. He had come through their recent misadventure relatively unscathed, but was in no hurry to fall under Beckett's control. There was one cut, on his knee, that would probably require stitches, and he just knew Carson would be pulling out his biggest needles when it came time to sew him up; a sort of medical reprimand, for having gotten injured.

Around the corner—out of sight, but still very much within hearing range—McKay was loudly, and unfavorably, critiquing Carson's treatment of his wounds. The insults were becoming less vehement, and rather less eloquent, as the painkillers Carson administered took effect.

John had gotten a good look at the bite, and it was nasty, but probably wouldn't leave any lasting damage. Rodney had been lucky; he'd seen the size of those teeth. Carson would probably have him doped up for a few days, which was always good for entertainment value. John knew it probably wasn't right to laugh at an injured friend, but a dreamy eyed, giggling Rodney was just too good to pass up.

Maybe this time he could get video.

Eventually, Rodney fell quiet and John turned his attention to Ronon. Usually Ronon was the epitome of cool after a crisis had passed, but now he paced the infirmary restlessly, his face set in a scowl, muttering darkly under his breath.

As far as flubbed missions went, this one had been a cakewalk. Yeah, there had been running, and screaming, and general fearing for their lives, but they'd walked away; no lives had been lost, no wars started, no solar systems destroyed; all in all, not bad. There was no reason for Ronon to still be that worked up over it, so whatever was bothering him, John didn't think it was attack dogs or ZPM hoarding natives.

When he thought about it, John realized that Ronon had been acting strangely for several weeks now; sticking close to Rodney on missions, and looming menacingly whenever the scientist spoke with the natives. It was as though he had appointed himself as Rodney's personal bodyguard.

His ruminations were interrupted when Teyla rushed into the room. “Is everyone alright?” she asked, somewhat breathlessly. “I was told there were injuries.”

Ronon growled, and stalked in the opposite direction, his hands clenched into fists. Teyla stared after him, her expression concerned. “What happened?” she asked John.

“McKay got bit by a wolf.” John offered.

“A wolf?” Teyla repeated, eyes widening.

“More of a mutant wolf, really,” he said. “Really big teeth.” Curling his fingers into fangs, he made what he felt was a fairly accurate representation of the wolves' gaping jaws.

“How badly was he injured?”

“He'll be fine,” John said dismissively.

“I see,” she said blandly. “Perhaps I was mistaken, when I assumed you could survive one mission without my assistance.”

“We angered the locals, they set their dogs on us, and we escaped,” John said. “I'm sure it would have happened, even if you were there.”

“Undoubtedly,” she said, with a heavenward glance. “And what of Ronon?”

“Him, I'm not so sure about,” John said. “He's been like that since we got back. I thought about talking to him, but then, you know, I decided I wanted to live. Might be better if we let him cool down first.”

“Has he given any indication, as to the cause of his distress?” Teyla asked.

“Not a word,” John said, “unless you count profanities. Though, he did seem pretty pissed at McKay. Even more than usual.”

“Ah,” Teyla said, as though all had been explained.

“Ah?” he repeated incredulously. “Keeping secrets isn't nice, Teyla.”

“It is not my place to say,” she said firmly. “But I do not feel that you need to worry.”

“Look around you!” he said, waving his arms to indicate the almost empty infirmary. “It's the middle of the afternoon, and no one's here. He scared them all off! Someone should worry.”

“I will speak to him,” Teyla promised. She eyed Ronon cautiously for a few moments, and then added, “Though, perhaps not right now.”

TBC