Four Sundays
There's a knock on John's door at god almighty AM. Fuck off, he says, and then, "What?" aloud.
The door opens. "Storm's cleared," he hears Ronon say. "Ever see the sunrise after a storm?"
"Ronon," he groans into his pillow, not bothering to roll over. "Remember what we said about Sunday mornings? That thing? About the pancakes?"
"Not to wake you up before the pancakes?"
"Un-hnn."
"But that's in five hours."
"Bingo." Shut the door on your. John falls back asleep before finishing the thought.
John's dreaming about fishing when the trout on his hook crackles something in his ear. "Sheppard."
The fish is speaking. John's kind of confused. "Sheppard," it says again, louder.
It occurs to him that fish is a symbol of Christ, but. That would be... too weird?
"Jesus...?" he says experimentally.
"Sheppard!" the voice snaps in his ear, and John sits up blearily. "Nngh?"
"Good, you're up," Ronon says over the comm. John feels his ear; he'd fallen asleep with his earpiece. Again. "That blue stork's on Pier E again," he hears, "Wanna check it out?"
He closes his eyes. "Jesus, Ronon. It's barely light out."
"Only time of day you can spot him. Come on. Get some exercise."
"Sunday, Ronon," John says with finality, and drops the earpiece on the floor.
"Shep--"
"No."
There's a soft whimper, and John's eyes snap open.
"It's okay," Ronon hushes, but he's not speaking to John. John's heart slows down; Torren's in Ronon's arms, and he still looks vaguely bundle-shaped. So that's good. That's good.
"Morning, Shep," Ronon says in a low voice.
"Ronon. What are you doing here?"
"Borrowed him."
"You mean kidnapped?"
Ronon's lips quirk. "Borrowed. Thought we'd go for a stroll. Storm's cleared again."
John sighs, and rolls out of bed. He slips on a USAF sweatshirt and drags his feet to Ronon, who's leaning against the door. "Give."
Ronon carefully transfers the little green bundle to John's arms. Little dude stays asleep.
"Well. Lead the way."
He follows Ronon to down the dimmed down hallways. Atlantis is quiet, on Sundays. Not as a rule, but sometimes it is. And it's nice.
The transporter takes them to the northwest balcony, which is the direction of this planet's sunrise. The sky's still black. Torren breathes against John's chest. "Smart bribe," John says, not moving the baby.
"I know," Ronon replies.
John turns to look at him. There's a hint of a smirk on his face. He looks calm, silhouetted by the moon. Young. Ten years younger than him, John calculates. It's easy to forget.
"So you don't get the concept of Sunday mornings, do you?" John asks.
"Nope," Ronon replies, grinning.
John can tell it's a lie. But he's had his fair share of PTSD and knows that he won't be able to get Ronon to talk without wanting to, and frankly. He's not really... good at that.
It's Sunday morning; Atlantis is sleeping. Dark clouds are evaporating in the distance, and a ray of pink cracks through them. It really is beautiful.