Disclaimer: I don't own anything.
Author's Note: I am very disappointed with where the writers have taken this. It could've been handled so much better, but instead they've made it an extremely sudden and out-of-character decision for Jennifer to make, and teeters on the fine line of where many of us fans of R/K have put her on a pedestal, towards pushing her into just plain bitch territory. Now that we've been strung along for months, this is something of how I felt after seeing last night's episode.
"Oh…well, I just wanted to go get something to eat."
"Oh, well...I just thought--"
"You were wrong."
"Well, do you still wanna get something to eat?"
"No. I better, uh, I better go."
And, with that, he hurries away. It is a good thing his feet know where they are going, because Ronon's brain is completely veiled with thoughts. He does not understand. What have the past few months been? Almost kissing during the quarantine, her constant vigilance while he was detoxing, her gratitude from his rescue during the Wraith attack with Kiryk, or her happiness the past few days on the Daedalus…Ronon can hardly see where he is going. He wonders if he is pissed or hurt or just plain disappointed. Maybe a mix of all three? And more?
His feet have led him to the training room. Ronon is immensely grateful that is empty. If there were someone in there they would no doubt ask for a sparring lesson, and Ronon does not think his temper is in check enough right now to fight safely. He paces for a moment, hands tying his dreads into a thick ponytail. He strides to the eighty-pound punching bag stand in one corner of the room, and without first wrapping his hands, gives it a strong right hook.
He is not angry. He is furious.
Foolish boy, he thinks, as he continues to hit the bag. Why would she be interested in you? Of course she would pick Rodney. They can have actual conversations about things—what did you think you were going to talk to her about? How to skin and tan game?
Ronon throws in a few high kicks for good measure. The bag is rocking now, disturbed by the force of his hits. Can't believe I hurt myself on purpose just to go see her in the infirmary.
With every contact between the weight back and his fists, Ronon cannot help but think of Melena. Stupid…to think she might fill that hole…
He wants to scream. He wants to cry, but that is so terribly weak.
How will we work together now? Awkward silences and—
"Hey, man." John strolls into the room.
Ronon is startled. His hand glances the side of the bag, and slams into the metal bar the bag is suspended from. He hears a crack, feels the pain, and almost revels in it, before yanking his hand back, surveying the damage.
"I'm sorry!" John grimaces when he comes over to see. "I should've been more careful."
Ronon's knuckles are scraped and bleeding, and he knows he has dislocated his thumb. But it's not Sheppard's fault. "It's okay." Grasping his right thumb with his left, he snaps it back into place. It almost makes his eyes smart, but he simply grunts, and looks at the bleeding, now dripping down his arm.
"Maybe you should go see Jennifer, get that checked out--"
"No!"
John meets his friend's eyes when he says this. There is no need for anything to be said. He nods. "Come on. We can dig up a first aid kit somewhere."
John is no doctor, but he can make a decent field dressing. He has cleaned and patched Ronon's hand up as neatly as possible, tying a bandage around his bruised and bloody knuckles, and the two men now sit at the bar in the pub, shot glasses of bourbon in front of them.
John would like to say something to comfort him, but there is not much to be said. He does not confide in Ronon for everything; he would not expect Ronon to do the same. Ronon will talk about it when he is ready. In the meantime, John can be a good friend. So they sip their whiskey in companionable silence.
The next day, Ronon and John head down the hallway towards the gate. John has gotten special permission for a day off, and he and Ronon are going to spend it on a boat, fishing and drinking beer. John has always thought a little sun and guy bonding is the best medicine for a broken heart, and he carries a few fishing poles under one arm and a tackle box in the other. Ronon is carrying a small cooler full of Heineken and a brown sack of potato chips and sandwiches.
John sees Jennifer coming down the hallway and tries to duck into another hallway, dragging Ronon with him, but it is too late.
"Oh, my God, what happened to your hand?" Jennifer exclaims.
"It's fine," Ronon barks, but Jennifer has picked it up, examining the bandaging.
"This looks like a twelve-year-old cleaned it up--"
Ronon snatches his hand away as though she has burned him with witchfire. She looks up at him, but seven years of running has been very good training. Ronon is Not There right now. His face is an empty mask, betraying no emotion at all, eyes dead and glassy. He holds his hand away from her.
"Doc," John says quietly. "He said it was fine."
Jennifer glances over at John. He is looking at her, face dark and nearly as unrevealing as Ronon's. She nods. "Have a good time on your trip."
Neither of them says anything, but continue on down the hallway. Jennifer watches them, and wants to say something, anything, but, once again, there is nothing to be said.