Notes: Thank you for your reviews, alerts, and PMs. As always, my apologies for the long wait.
Acknowledgements: Thanks again to my Beta, Amycat8733. All mistakes are mine.
Chapter 29
Despite feeling emotionally drained, this time John left Robinson's office with a smile. After three consecutive daily sessions, she had finally signed off on the electronic paperwork attesting that he was mentally fit to return to duty. With biweekly appointments set for the next couple of weeks, he definitely wasn't off the hook from mandatory counseling sessions with her, but he could officially resume his role as military commander. The physical recovery was taking longer, though—he wasn't going on an off-world mission any time soon. Lorne was going to be mighty happy to dump paperwork back in his direction. Being a desk jockey was not too heavy a price to pay for getting back to direct Rodney's search and rescue efforts.
He headed to the gym to work on his prescribed arm and shoulder rehab routine. Just as he got there, a bunch of sweaty, bruised Marines filed out, greeting him with the respectful yet casual salutes that were the norm for Atlantis veterans and usually took a few weeks for new arrivals to learn. In a corner of the now empty room, Ronon was toweling off, even though he looked like he had barely broken a sweat putting the soldiers through their paces.
"Hey, Ronon. Thanks for not breaking any of them today," John said.
"You're welcome," said Ronon with deadpan humor.
Just like old times, except that Ronon's gaze lingered on him a bit too long, clearly appraising his condition. Despite their good intentions, John was getting sick and tired of his friends and colleagues continually looking at him with concern, as if he was permanently damaged goods.
He sighed and said, "I'm fine."
"Okay. Are you allowed to spar yet?" Ronon said.
"Nope, but Carson gave me the go-ahead to start running tomorrow." As if the damage caused by the arrow, whip, knife and other things had not been not sufficiently punishing, being used by Vernara while tied with arms stretched out in various positions had messed up his right shoulder. Despite all the newfangled, accelerated healing methods Carson and Jennifer were using on him it would take at least another couple of weeks for the cartilage tears in his shoulder to be healed sufficiently for him to resume any physical activities that involved contact. He should be grateful since back on Earth—away from the wonders of Ancient medicine—this type of injury would have set him back at least four months.
"Good," Ronon said.
Silence reigned. John didn't have to stress out his spidey-sense to feel Ronon tracking his movements while he searched around for the correct baby-sized, weights and the resistance bands he needed for the physical therapy exercises. This was one of the few times that he found Ronon's lack of verbosity frustrating. They hadn't had a real conversation since the infirmary. Was he being oversensitive or was there something left hanging in the air between them? He finally found the items in a box next to a stack of rolled-up, rubber mats—it was kind of embarrassing that he had to borrow the equipment used by the civilian women for their newly instituted Pilates classes.
His good mood dwindling, John decided that he might as well broach a difficult subject. The previous day, he had given Ronon access to the report he recorded for Woolsey. He figured this was better than the alternative option of telling Ronon about Vernara and Khamala Prime. John could just imagine Ronon standing there stoically impassive, while he fumbled away trying to describe what happened without really saying anything specific. There was not enough alcohol in Atlantis for that scenario to become bearable. So John had taken the easy route to keep Ronon in the loop, which was his right as a member of not only his team, but also of his de facto family. He trusted Ronon with this information. If, god forbid, this stuff had happened to a member of his team (let alone anyone else in his command) he would absolutely need to know what happened.
"Did you listen to the report I sent you?"
"Yeah," Ronon said. "You did good getting out of there with Kharla."
"Thanks," John tried to read his expression, but (no surprise) he found no clue to what he might be thinking. Could Ronon have done something different in the same situation? Maybe he would have been able to tear the bindings with his brute strength and pull out a hidden knife from his dreadlocks to dispatch Vernara within minutes of waking up tied to that damned bed. While this sounded good, it didn't seem likely. "Is there anything we need to talk about?"
Ronon gave him a strange look. "Listen, uhm … I can't say that I know what you went through but I do know what it feels like to be used like a plaything."
"Jeez, a plaything? You really had to call it that?" It stung slightly little less than it should because Ronon was using it to refer to both of them. That's something they had in common now. As a Runner for seven years, Ronon certainly had tremendous experience being forced to be someone's entertainment.
"Would you rather that I called you a bedroom companion?"
Ouch, there was the proof that Ronon had paid attention to his recording. His teasing tone forced a smile out of John. "No, no, plaything is good."
"Okay then," Ronon folded his arms against his chest. "What I wanted to tell you is that it does get better."
"Thanks," he bit down a complaint that it was taking too long. His four days of horror and over a week of recovery were nothing compared to what the Wraith had done to a big chunk of Ronon's life.
John got busy doing sets of reps with the rubber exercise bands and puny weights. Ronon went to the bench press, added a couple of extra weights, and started lifting. Even if he had been physically allowed to do such a thing, John would not have volunteered to spot him, well remembering the look of disbelief Ronon had given him the first (and only) time he had tried to explain to him the need for such a safety precaution.
They continued for a while in companionable silence. John doing his somewhat painful and incredibly boring exercises because he had no choice and Ronon choosing to do something that he would normally scoff at, as a firm believer in keeping in shape by running, sparring with him and Teyla, and beating the crap out of the Marines. Expect for that last part, John also favored that type of fitness regimen. He was touched that Ronon had decided to hang around.
John let his mind mull over his most recent conversation with Robinson. He still couldn't quite believe how he had buckled under her no-pressure approach, spilling the secret that he had kept from his closest friends for over three years. His confession had made him think that there was something seriously wrong with him—maybe Vernara had succeeded in breaking him. Robinson's "you must be shitting me look" had made him snap out of that utterly depressing funk more quickly than all the reasoned words that accompanied it. She didn't quite put it this way, but apparently he had grown and matured in the past few years. Whatever. It felt as if a heavy weight had been lifted off his chest (something as heavy as what Ronon seemed to be easily lifting at that very moment)—not that he had any plans to let anyone else on that secret. No matter what Robinson said, he did not see any need to burden Teyla and Ronon by opening up that can of worms. Kolya was dead, Vernara and Hobson were dead—John wasn't—time to move on and not waste his time brooding about them and what they had done to him. Enough of this "woe is me" shit. Life was too short and he finally had people to enjoy it with.
And he definitely hadn't lied to Robinson. He had done a superb job dealing with how Kolya and some of his men had privately brutalized him before his very public feeding to the Wraith. In a way, he had managed to convince himself that it had never happened. After Todd returned his life, his body had healed completely—nothing bled, nothing hurt—maybe it truly had never happened. Instead, what took him much longer to control were the sharp memories of the excruciating pain from having his life sucked out. Every day for a week after his return to Atlantis, he had woken up in a sweat, sitting bolt upright on the bed, his hand pressed down on that spot on his chest. While the incidents became more sporadic, he lost count how many times they recurred. That nightmare had overwhelmed everything else for a long time.
Now, thanks to what happened on Khamala Prime, all this other stuff was bubbling up like scum from a broken sewer pipe (which fortunately, never happened in Atlantis). He had been truthful with Robinson about the Hobson attack not being the thing that bothered him much. He just didn't mention that in his more recent nightmares Kolya and his men were now joining in the mix with Vernara's assaults. This made him so furious. With what was going on with Rodney and just when things were getting really good with Teyla, he did not have time to deal with all this emotional shit.
"What's wrong, Sheppard?"
"Uh?" Hearing Ronon's voice made him realize that he had a death grip on the weight. He put it down. He was done with the exercises for the day. "Nothing, I'm fine."
Ronon did not look convinced. "Do you want to work out with the punching bag?" He said in an uncharacteristically upbeat tone.
"I'd love to buddy, but Carson would kill me if I did." John pointed to the bandage wrapped around his right bicep.
"Come on, your left arm is fine and so are your legs." Ronon walked over to the tall padded cylinder hanging in the corner. "I'll hold it for you."
Quickly weighing the odds of hurting himself and pissing off Carson, with the desperate need to hit something, John made a decision. "Let me get a boxing glove. There's got to be some laying around."
To stop himself from using his right arm, he put it back in the sling. Ronon helped him get his left hand laced inside the glove and then he got started. It felt so damned good to hit and kick that thing. At first he visualized certain (now dead) people he wanted to maim very badly. After a while, he just let himself go into an unthinking rhythm guided by muscle memory and fueled by slowly dissipating anger. Ronon kept the bag firm, never breaking his stance no matter how hard John hit it. Soon enough his black t-shirt stuck to his body drenched in sweat.
"You should shout to power your punch," said Ronon.
Dumbfounded, John stopped in mid stroke. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his wristband. "What?"
"Kia," Ronon's loud voice resonated in the gym. At a more normal decibel, he added actual words, "You know, like in that fighter movie."
John gulped down a sip from his water bottle. "Is that a line from Kickboxer? I don't remember it."
"No, it's from the one with the boy in the loose, white clothes," Ronon released the bag and stood on one leg, the other knee bent high.
John recognized the very good impression of the crane kick pose. "The Karate Kid?"
"The old guy in that movie is much funnier than the trainer in Kickboxer," Ronon said in a reasoned tone. He returned to his position behind the bag. "Come on, you're not done yet."
"Yes, sensei," with his good arm straight down his side, John did a mock karate bow. "You know, you already have the beard and mustache thing. I bet when you go bald, you'll look like a giant Mister Miyagi."
Ronon gave him a toothy smile, "Satedan men never get bald."
"Oh, you've got to mention that to Rodney when we get him back." John resumed pounding the bag.
By the time Ronon (the sensible one for once) made him stop, John ached allover. He probably needed to ice both arms and shoulders before taking a shower. Out of habit, he looked at his wrist to check the time. There was nothing there. He hadn't been able to find his watch and dog tags in the haste to escape Vernara's compound. Lorne had already taken care of providing him with replacement dog tags, their familiar weight against his skin a source of normalcy. Getting a hold of a new watch would be more problematic since the one lost on Khamala Prime had been his backup. The innards of the previous one had been fried when Wraith-Rodney had overzealously zapped him with a stunner.
A look at the large clock hanging on the left side of the gym, told him that there was plenty of time to take care of his achy and stinky body before his lunch time rendezvous with Teyla and Torren. Today there would be no convalescent afternoon siesta; he was going to get back to work right after the meal.
As they walked out, Ronon said, "Do you want to meet at the usual time tomorrow to run?"
"Yeah, that sounds good," John was eager to return to his normal routine. "You know that I'm going to slow you down."
"That's okay," Ronon tactfully did not mention that even when in the best shape, John always slowed him down. Well, except during that unmentionable bug metamorphosis incident.
Not much later that day, John sat in the mess hall with Torren and Teyla. He felt pretty good after a hot shower, ibuprofen and an unplanned fifteen minute nap. He had not intended to fall asleep when he sat on what Teyla called the lazy chair—he shouldn't have raised the footstool and closed his eyes. It had worked out for the best. Getting woken up semi-gently by Torren under Teyla's indulgently smiling supervision was quite a treat.
His mood was further boosted up by the fact that he was back in his uniform. The food tasted better than usual and Torren was saying some of the funniest things. Today most of his sentences started with Why. Despite Teyla's glares, John couldn't help himself from tossing in a few ridiculous answers to prod him on. He got a warm and fuzzy feeling listening to Teyla's ever patient answers through Torren's persistent interrogation.
John remembered the first time he had held him while he flew a Dart to escape Michael's Wraith Cruiser. Maybe it was because he'd been woozy from blood loss, but he could have sworn that the newborn had latched a hook straight to his heart. That tiny lump of flesh with huge dark eyes was part of Teyla—The woman he had fallen in love with a long time ago and lost because of what turned out to be an all-around massive failure to communicate. And now Torren was calling him Da and Teyla didn't mind. Actually, she seemed kind of happy about it. Yet, so far he had resisted the temptation to call him son in return—he didn't know if he had earned that right yet.
When they decided to get married, he and Nancy had agreed to put on hold the issue of raising kids for a few years while they focused on their careers and, with the little time they had to spare, on each other. That had been one of the few smart moves they made as a couple. Their plan hadn't worked out very well, their marriage unraveled in the second year, ending in divorce by year three. Not a good environment for any child. This short-lived marriage coupled with John's loss of his mother at a young age and the experience of being raised by a distant father (with lots of paid help) had convinced him that he was not fatherhood material. Being with Teyla and Torren had made him rethink that. He eyed Teyla speculatively, wondering if at some point in the future she might want to have a baby with him, a little sister or brother for Torren. Wouldn't that be something?
Surveying the room, John noticed Kharla sharing a table with Dusty and a couple of her friends. Dusty was talking, probably telling them one of her outrageous stories, and the others were smiling and laughing. He was glad that Kharla was making friends. Since their momentous chat, he and Kharla had encountered each other a few times in the hallways and in the mess hall. They had exchanged friendly words but nothing more. He did not feel very comfortable being around her and he sensed that she felt the same about him. They had nothing in common, he was way too old to be her peer and the physical aspects of what happened between them were too much to overcome, even if they both agreed to absolve each other of any blame. He suspected that at some point Eva might suggest joint counseling sessions but he hoped to be proven wrong.
As he took a second glance at Kharla, another more awful thought suddenly struck him. He dropped his fork back in the plate. Crap, why hadn't this occurred to him before?
"John, is something wrong?" Teyla said.
"No, I just remembered that I need to talk to Lorne," he tried to sound calm and reasonable.
He did have to talk to someone, but Lorne was definitely not the right person. He smiled at Teyla before taking another bite of food. Fortunately for him, she got distracted by Torren dropping his spoon (probably imitating him) and switching to the hands-on approach to feeding himself, not a pretty sight with all that tomato sauce and elbow pasta.
Torren's performance food art gave John time to mull over the problem at hand. Could such a thing really have happened? As hard as he had been working on suppressing them, vivid memories from the rape resurfaced. He had no trouble remembering the agonizing pain that shot through his back and arm, and the overwhelming sense of panic as he struggled to stop what was happening. But his recollections of how his body behaved below the belt were hazy at best. Oh, what the hell, he told himself. The details were irrelevant, after what Vernara had forced him to do of course it was possible that he had gotten Kharla knocked up. This was not at all what he had in mind when he fantasized the possibility of fathering a sibling for Torren.
He took another surreptitious glimpse at Kharla, searching for clues to help him figure out if she was pregnant or worried about being pregnant. Brilliant idea! All he got from his deeply honed observation skills was that she enjoyed the food and the company. Time for another approach. Being a healer and a smart woman, Kharla must have considered this possibility long before it occurred to him, he reasoned. Maybe she wasn't worried because she had already gotten her period. Or maybe not.
From their only lengthy conversation, it was pretty clear to him that Kharla hadn't mentioned her rape to the medical people. That meant that they wouldn't have had the opportunity to talk about the morning after pill or the availability of pregnancy tests. She probably wasn't even aware that such things existed. Another thing to consider was that he knew nothing of Kharla's personal beliefs and cultural traditions about … anything, let alone what to do if impregnated through rape. Would she want to go through with such a pregnancy? Would she decide to keep and raise the baby? If so, would she want help in supporting and raising the child? As far as he was concerned, what she did with her body was her choice, but if there was a kid around with half of his genes, he had to share responsibility.
His mind went a million miles a minute rattling off and rejecting all sorts of options about what she might do and what he should or could do in different scenarios. The food in his plate lost its appeal, a sick feeling building up in the pit of his stomach. Bottom line: he must determine what was going on and, if needed, he had to find a way to support Kharla in whatever she decided to do—all of this had to be done without jeopardizing his relationship with Teyla and Torren.
Teyla continued with the gargantuan task of wiping down Torren's face and hands. The large plastic bib with a clever built-in trough had miraculously protected his clothes (now he understood why it was one of Teyla's most treasured San Francisco shopping expedition finds). Under normal circumstances, John would have been happy to volunteer to toss him in the bathtub and give him a good scrubbing. He got as much a kick out of the bathtub toys as the kid did. Who could resist an armada of rubber duckies and toy boats? Unfortunately, with his still busted arm, he currently wasn't in any shape to safely give the kid a bath. He also had some serious fact finding and thinking to do.
With what he thought was a calm expression set on his face, he rose up from his seat. "Sorry, Teyla, but I've got to go. I'll catch up with you in a couple of hours." He ruffled Torren's hair, "You be good to your mama, little buddy."
Before he could get a hold of his tray, Teyla fingers lightly touched his arm, "Is there something the matter, John? Are you not feeling well?"
"I'm fine. I just have to get started with work. I'll see you later." Instead of going with the impulse to kiss her lightly on the top of her sweetly scented head, he brushed his hand against hers.
"Please do not forget that Carson said you should not to overtire yourself."
"Don't worry," John said as he picked up the tray. He strode toward the exit.
Once he reached a deserted section of the hallway, he clicked on a secure channel of the com. "Hi Doc. I'd like to talk to you about something. Do you have any time now?"
Footnote
Who is John going to talk to? I would love to hear your thoughts. Just a few chapters left.
