Summary: Ronon's first few days on Atlantis.
Word Count: 503
Disclaimer: Not mine
Ronon Dex outran his guards his sixth day on the city of Atlantis. He did not run from them, though at some point they probably started chasing him. They simply could not keep up. It had started to prickle unbearably, the constant presence of his two escorts in his peripheral vision. Every time he blinked and they were still there when he opened his eyes, he thought they were Wraith and he wanted to kill them.
Although they didn’t trust him enough to let him alone, they’d let him keep his weapons. It was strange, since he could have easily dispatched the guards. He could have done this without any weapons, with only his hands, or with their own weapons. It didn’t make sense. He believed for a bit that he had forgotten how to think like this, and the pretty woman in charge did in fact have him fully trapped and her people fully safe at the same time.
This was part of why he ran, because he thought trapped and his feet moved on their own, while the guards’ voices faded away and then vanished completely. He only stopped when he was surrounded by nothing but pier and water. His body screamed to make for the sea, to swim until the city was a sparkle in the distance. He would be safe and alone, on the mainland. The city was theirs, rigged with mechanisms to snare him at any time. In nature, he was at the advantage and they could not hunt him as well as he could hunt them.
And then he thought he was insane.
These people were not Wraith. He knew this, but his instinct identified every action as part of the chase. If they were not after him, they should be fleeing him. They should fear him, because he would bring the Wraith.
He thought he could feel the transmitter, pulsing underneath the gauze taped across his back. It was gone, in a clean glass tube in the infirmary, dark and deactivated. But he still felt it, an ugly hum strumming his veins and screaming up at the sky. The longer he stood still, the louder it was.
Sheppard came and found him, approaching casually and openhanded. He was tense and armed, and Ronon knew the woman in charge had ordered his capture. He made small talk, about the weather and the sea, in the same casual tone. Sheppard’s voice cut through the song of the Wraith, challenging it with careful, measured tones. Ronon listened, let the man come close enough to touch, near enough to fight.
Sheppard did not try to do either. He fell into step besides Ronon, some of the tension easing from his posture.
They ran together back to the city, and this time Ronon was careful to keep the same pace. The sound of his heartbeat filled his ears, drowning out the Wraith call as it always had. It seemed twice as loud, now, as his blood sang out to the brother at his side.