“It’s just a flesh wound.”

John stared at him in stunned disbelief. “Flesh wound?” he repeated sharply. “Jesus, Chewie, that bastard damn near carved you open! If Teyla and I hadn’t gotten there–”

“But you did,” Ronon said quietly, his voice holding more gravel than usual and beginning to slur, his honey-gold eyes wide and soft and slightly unfocused, Beckett’s pain meds working on him. “Just like you always do.”

John exhaled sharply and ran a hand through his hair, throwing up dark spikes in every direction. “And what if one day I don’t?” he snapped, only too familiar with all the times in the past he had failed others and terrified of what would happen if ever he failed Ronon. Lost Ronon. God knew it had been close enough this time.

He still couldn’t shake the fear and horror that had gripped him as he and Teyla had come running into the clearing to see Ronon standing over Rodney’s unconscious body and fighting what had looked to be a losing battle with a huge Wraith drone. By the time John had killed the bastard, Ronon had been battered and bleeding heavily from the long, deep wound sliced with his own knife from his left side to his navel. Knowing how sharp Ronon kept his knives, John couldn’t imagine how he hadn’t been gutted.

But Ronon seemed much calmer about what had happened, though John suspected it was the drugs. Carson never stinted when it came to keeping the big Satedan loopy enough to treat.

“It’s okay,” Ronon breathed, sliding his hand across the bed and brushing his fingers against John’s hip, the intimate gesture shielded from view by the angle of John’s body. He grinned crookedly and gazed up through heavy-lidded eyes. “I knew you’d come. I just had to hold on ’til you got there.”

John sighed tiredly and bowed his head, sliding a hand around to the back of his neck and massaging the tight muscles there. His other hand, though, strayed to his hip, and to the long, dark fingers still resting there, his fingertips brushing against Ronon’s. “You scared me, Chewie,” he rasped, his throat and chest still aching with the fear that had gripped him then. “I thought–” He shook his head, the words refusing to come.

“Hey,” Ronon called softly, curling his fingers around John’s and tugging slightly. He was struggling just to hold his eyes open and could feel the heavy lethargy of sleep spreading through his body. But he fought it back for just a while longer, knowing this was more important. “I’m okay. Beckett said so.”

John chuffed out a weak laugh. That wasn’t exactly what Beckett had said. But Ronon seemed to have a happy, and maddening, talent for hearing only what he wanted to hear and blithely ignoring the rest. Which … okay. Pot, kettle.

He heaved another sigh and finally relaxed, settling himself gingerly on the edge of Ronon’s bed. And if anyone noticed Ronon’s hand resting against his thigh, well, they could just claim it was the drugs. Ronon’s eyes were drooping to half-mast, and John had to fight the urge to reach out and brush back the tendril of hair curling against his temple. Gone was the ferocity, the hardness, Ronon usually wore like battle armor, stripped from him by wounds and weariness and drugs to leave him looking young and vulnerable. John’s heart clenched.

“You gotta quit doin’ this to me,” he breathed hoarsely. “I don’t wanta lose you.”

Ronon’s eyes slid closed, but a slight, soft smile ghosted about his lips. “Not goin’ anywhere,” he slurred, rubbing his hand slowly against John’s thigh. “You’re stuck with me.”

John nodded, then smiled and brushed his hand against Ronon’s. “I think I can live with that.”

Edited at 2009-12-02 04:30 am (UTC)

You're more than welcome, sweetie. Glad I could make you feel better.

Thank you, ma'am. Always glad to melt you. ;-)

Yes, I am a sucker for mush. *g*