Here's another chapter, all ready to go - that didn't take long! I thought I'd get onto the first house Skybattle match, but I was enjoying John's time with Ronon too much, so the match will be in chapter 8. It's underway though and won't be many days in the writing!

Chapter 7

"That was a most enjoyable lesson!" said Teyla. She ran her fingers through her damp hair, bringing refreshing coolness to her scalp.

"Bloody ridiculous is what it was," protested Carson. "I'm never going to be able to do moves like that even without a sprained wrist."

"I'd take a sprained wrist if it meant I could sit and watch." Rodney's face was red and there were dark patches on his shirt. "Professor Teal'c just kept telling me to do the same thing over and over. Not that I want to be paired up and told to put it into practice like you two lunatics, but I'll probably be wasting my time with 'polish on, polish off' for the next year or two."

Teyla was mystified, but John seemed to know what Rodney was talking about.

"Ha, yeah! Rodney McKay - the next Karate Kid!" John flung himself into an extravagant pose, balancing on one leg. "Grasshopper style!" He appeared energised rather than exhausted.

"You were a challenging opponent, John," said Teyla.

"Challenging? How many times did you throw me on my ass, Teyla? Four? Five?"

"You allowed yourself to be distracted by others. When you focussed your entire concentration on me, I could not get past your guard."

John shrugged. "If you're too busy with the guy in front, there's usually another couple gonna come at you from behind."

"In your extensive experience of street fighting," mocked Rodney.

John just shrugged again. Teyla suspected that there was more truth in Rodney's words than he realised.

They arrived at the transporter.

"Nothing like fighting to work up an appetite for lunch," said John. "Hope there're fries today." He slapped at the display panel and the white shimmer indicated their arrival outside the Mess Hall.

"No way!" Rodney slapped the spot on the display that marked the Athar tower. "Showers first! I'm not eating my lunch sitting next to you in that state!" The transporter shimmered around them once more.

"Yes way!" John slapped again. "We can shower after lunch!"

Rodney shoved John hard so that he fell into Carson. "Give it up, Sheppard!" He pressed a spot on the display and held it down.

"No!" John ignored Teyla's restraining hand and brushed aside Rodney's barrage of open-handed slaps. He shouldered Rodney in the chest and bashed at the display.

"Can we just go somewhere? I feel sick!" Carson groaned as he picked himself up off the floor.

"You can't get motion sickness in a transporter, Carson," scoffed Rodney. "There's no sensation of movement at all."

"Maybe it's all the flashing, then. Or the being shoved."

"This is ridiculous," said Rodney. He reached for the display.

"Leave it, Rodney! John! Leave it alone!" Teyla had had enough.

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway." Rodney crossed his arms over his chest, injured satisfaction tilting his chin and slanting his mouth. "I think it's broken."

The display was dark and nothing happened when Teyla gently tapped a destination.

"Wonderful," said Carson. "Where did we end up?"

The doors slid aside to reveal an unfamiliar corridor. Teyla closed her eyes, took a deep, steadying breath and then opened her eyes again. She turned to face her friends. "Now we have neither showers nor lunch."

Rodney's arms folded a little tighter.

John looked at the floor and shuffled. "Maybe McKay can fix it."

Rodney spread his palms and waggled them. "Hello? Gym kit? Do you see anywhere to stow even the microest set of microtools?"

"I'd rather walk, anyway," said Carson. "I don't care what you say, Rodney. Those things make me sick to my stomach." He set off along the corridor. "Come on. There'll be a window here somewhere and then we'll see where we are."

There were no windows and the curving corridor soon ended in a set of double doors which stayed firmly shut when Carson swiped his hand over the controls.

Rodney pushed Carson aside. "I'll get it open!" He began pulling at the casing over the glowing door controls.

"Rodney, do not break it!" said Teyla.

"Yeah, leave it alone McKay. We're already in trouble for breaking the transporter."

"Well, what do you suggest? No transporter, no other visible exits - apply logic to the situation, Sheppard! This is our way home!"

For a moment Teyla thought she'd have to get between them. Or maybe slap them both to get them to focus on the problem instead of annoying each other. John's fists clenched. But then he shook his head, put one hand on Rodney's shoulder and gently but firmly moved him aside.

"Let's just see if I can persuade it to open," he said. "And if not, you can give it the full McKay treatment."

"Fine. Come on then, supergene."

John placed one hand on the control box and another flat on the doors. He closed his eyes and leant in. His lips tightened and a furrow dug itself between his brows. "It's not keen." He took a deep breath and leant closer, turning his head to one side to flatten his cheek against the door.

"You're trying to open it, not have a relationship with it," muttered Rodney.

The tension grew in John's shoulders and it crossed Teyla's mind that to force open a door so very firmly locked against them might not be a good idea. But then John suddenly sagged against the frame and the doors slid aside.

There was nothing there. Teyla relaxed from the fighting stance she hadn't realised she'd assumed.

"Phew," said John. "That was a toughie."

"With staggeringly little to show for it." Rodney marched forward into another short length of corridor, with another set of closed doors at the end.

"There's a window over there," said Carson. "Let's have a look. Hey, I can see our tower!"

Sneakered feet pattered on the smooth floor as Teyla joined her friends to look out over the towers of the Academy.

"It's not that far. We'll be home in no time once we've found a way out of here." Carson grinned at his friends. His face fell. "What?"

"Hm." Rodney tapped his finger against his chin. "Yes, once we get out of here - here being the place with extremely tight security, and oh yes, here being that particular area of Atlantis absolutely banned, vetoed and off-limits to any student."

"The south west pier," said Carson. "Crap."

"Crap, indeed," said Rodney.

John had both hands on the window frame. "Hey, I reckon I could get this open," he said. "And look, there's a balcony below. We could just drop down."

"Drop?" Rodney peered at the balcony. "Are you out of your tiny mind? There's a perfectly good door and you're talking about dropping?"

John shrugged. "It's an option."

"It's an option that is way, way down my list of options!"

"A list of two." John matched Rodney's folded arms.

"But there's a huge gap between those two items!"

This was getting them nowhere. "John! Rodney! We will first try the door," ordered Teyla. "And if we cannot get through or it leads nowhere, we will try the window." A third set of folded arms challenged those of her friends. Teyla's won.

"Sure." John moved toward the door and leant against it, his hands spread wide.

His face tightened once more, sweat broke out on his brow and he pressed harder against the door, his breaths quick and shallow.

"John, maybe you should not -"

The door gave. John staggered through.

Then suddenly he was rigidly upright, his hands flung out to either side, stopping his friends from passing. "Back," he whispered, harshly. "Back up. Slowly."

Teyla heard the warning in his voice, but risked a glance around the door frame, unwilling to let her friend face danger alone.

The corridor was black. Not dark and unlit, but simply and completely black, with a dense, impenetrable, light-absorbing darkness that could simply be a barrier, but wasn't. Though she could make out no shape or form, somehow black shifted upon black so that Teyla knew that this was no human construct but a thing that lived and moved, and as it moved toward them and chill dread crept into her body and heart, she knew it was a thing of wants and desires. And it wanted them.

Carson squeaked. Rodney's mouth gaped like a fish. John backed slowly, pressing his friends behind him. Then Rodney's stupor broke.

"Close the door, close the door, close the door!"

John gripped the frame and roared out, "Shut!" The doors slammed together. He slapped his hands onto them hard and his whole body shook.

"What's wrong? John?" Teyla put her hands on the door and tried to lend her strength to his.

"Trying… to get… through." John groaned between gritted teeth.

Then Rodney was next to her, and Carson's hands wriggled their way through. Teyla threw her will against the door and against the thing that was pressing back, hard, so hard that she didn't think they could hold it.

"Lock, dammit!"

Then there was a sudden deadening. Teyla could no longer feel that malevolent presence pushing at her mind. John collapsed and slithered to the floor. Teyla took a step back and then another, then sat down.

Rodney, panting hard, swiped a hand across his mouth. "What. The hell. Was that."

"Bad. That was a bad thing." Carson sat on the floor, hugging his knees.

"Yeah. Bad." John pushed himself up wearily, swayed, shook his head and tottered to the window. He glanced over his shoulder and, though his eyes were still full of fear, his lips quirked up at one corner. "Time to play Spider Man."

oOo

It was coming again. John could tell by his friend's silence and his short, clipped strides as they made their way down the slope, a chill in the air and the sun just disappearing below the high ridge of hills behind them. Bright light shone from the towers below, illuminating the area used for flying lessons.

It came. "I'm no superhero and I'm not taking any more risks!"

"We know that, Carson." Rodney's supply of patience had long since run out. "You don't have to keep on and on and on -"

"Well I think I do!"

The smaller boy planted himself firmly in the middle of the path and glared at his friends. John's eyes slid past him, down toward the shore of the lake and Ronon's 'house', for want of a better word.

"We could have been killed!"

"Yada, yada, yada!" Rodney mimed a talking hand.

"I don't know how you three can just throw these things off!" Carson was in full flood now. They'd be late for their flying lesson and John would be late for his first session with Ronon. "First that great black thing, and God knows what that's doing in a school - are they trying to get us killed? And then climbing down the side of the building with no ropes, no safety gear, like it was a normal thing to do! What's wrong with you three?"

"I did my best to keep you safe, Carson." John had tried it first, reached the balcony safely and then climbed back up again to help Carson and then Rodney climb down. Teyla had helped too, and made the climb look easy, like she was using a flight of stairs.

"Safe is not ending up in that kind of situation in the first place," said Carson.

"The transporter broke!" protested Rodney. "What were we supposed to do?"

"We could have stayed put and waited for someone to find us. They would have noticed the transporter was broken soon enough!"

That course of action hadn't even occurred to John, and judging by Rodney's arrested expression, not to him either.

"There is no point speculating on what would have happened. We did what we did," said Teyla. "And we are going to be late." She moved around Carson and jogged away down the path.

"I'll see you guys later." Glad to avoid further conflict, John waved and ran off the path and down over the short grass, picking up speed and enjoying the cool breeze from the lake as it swept over his skin and through his hair. It was a great evening for flying and he was a little jealous of his friends. But they wouldn't be flying free and high like he wanted to, and anyway, he was going to have a different kind of fun. Hopefully. Unless Ronon was taking the whole detention thing at face value.

John skidded to a halt. A line of trees skirted the shore below him, like scouts for the forest proper, which began a few hundred yards further round the lake and filled all the space between the lower half of the lake and the high moorland peaks to the west. Ronon's home sheltered beneath the line of trees, a short, stubby tower that John knew must extend below the ground and down into the structure of the city, but appeared, in its moss and ivy covered state, to be nothing more than a small, primitive cottage or shepherd's hut. It even had a chimney, from which a thin curl of smoke was rising.

The fresh, clean scent of water from the lake, the dry, sweetness of woodsmoke and the faint but distinctive aroma of rotting leaves in the autumn forest - they called to John in a different way from the call of the eons-old city. They called to the primitive instinct which told him to gather wood to keep himself warm, to fish the lake, to hunt through the forest and up into the mountains. Enough of books and lessons. It was time to be wild.

"You gonna stand there all night?"

John froze. A shadow detached itself from the gloom beneath the trees.

"Mr Dex! I didn't see you there."

"You weren't meant to." He made for the door of the hut. "Come in. And call me Ronon."

John followed Ronon inside. He blinked against the darkness and then blinked again in the flare of light from the fire as Ronon threw on a couple of logs. There was an enquiring whine from the tattered hearthrug and John realised part of the hearthrug was a dog. It sat up and yawned and looked at him.

"That's Runner," said Ronon.

"Oh."

"Because he likes to run."

"Oh."

"You should say hello."

John wasn't sure about dogs. A couple of the places he'd lived had had the little, yapping type, which he'd got on okay with, but this dog was huge.

"Go on. He won't bite. Unless I tell him to."

"Oh," said John again, not much reassured.

Ronon put a huge iron kettle on a hook over the fire and began clattering around in a small kitchen alcove.

John approached Runner. Sitting on his haunches, the dog's nose was level with his shoulder. "Uh… hey, Runner." He kept his hands firmly in his jacket pockets in case the dog was hungry and liked fingers.

A wet, very pointy nose poked him in the stomach then proceeded to sniff him in all kinds of embarrassing places.

"Get off!"

"Just give him a shove."

Bravely, John took his hands out of his pockets and pushed a hairy shoulder. The dog was obviously much stronger than him, but it took the hint. It yawned again, turned round several times on the spot, whacking John in the face with its feathery tail and settled down to become part of the hearthrug once more.

"Sit," said Ronon.

Succinct, thought John gratefully, assuming Ronon meant him, as Runner was already lying down. It was restful to be with someone who didn't talk unnecessarily. He sat down on one of the battered wing-chairs that flanked the fire. Ronon put a chipped mug of very strong tea on the rough-hewn table next to him as well as a tin plate carrying some kind of cake-thing. Then he took the seat opposite.

"Drink. Eat."

John did. The cake looked like a lump of concrete but was soft inside and filled with dried fruit. He reached for his mug of tea to wash it down and a cascade of crumbs fell to the floor.

"Uh, sorry."

"Doesn't matter."

It clearly mattered to Runner, who lurched to his feet and proceeded to hoover up the crumbs with much panting and wuffling. He continued to sniff around when all the crumbs had gone and his hot breath and rasping tongue tickled John's bare ankles where his jeans were too short and he'd run out of socks.

"He knows you now. You're one of the pack," said Ronon.

"Uh… cool," said John.

Ronon drained his mug. "I like dogs," he said. "They don't talk, they know what you're thinking and they like to run."

John wondered if this was a standard he would be expected to meet. Mute running he could do, but he had no idea what was going on in Ronon's head.

Ronon stood up, took the mugs and plates into the kitchen area and made a lot of noise about washing up and doing other stuff which John didn't watch because he was too busy looking at the items hanging from the rafters above his head.

There were bunches of dried herbs, rough, papery bundles that he thought might be onions, and something which looked like half a pig. And actually, there was the other half, hanging separately. Or maybe it wasn't a pig. John wasn't used to seeing animals in longitudinal cross-section, so he wasn't sure.

There were also weapons; a couple of unrealistically large guns (maybe Teyla's monster stories were true) and some big knives or small swords, their blades wrapped in cloth.

John's gaze fell and wandered past a dresser with ill-fitting drawers, stacked with a variety of china, books and ammunition, over a scarred wooden slab of a table from which hung a row of workmanlike cleavers, and onto the far side of the little house, where there was a bed with a remarkably colourful patchwork quilt and a little door which might lead to a bathroom. And if not, there was the lake.

"Come on." Ronon loomed above him, a rifle in the crook of his arm and another held out to John.

"Um… It's getting dark." Guns? They were taking out real guns? Was Ronon going to teach him to shoot?

"Some things only come out at night." This was said with a very slight narrowing of Ronon's eyes, which might mean he was joking. Or not.

"Okay…" John stood up and took the weapon. "Is it loaded?"

"Do I look stupid?"

"Huh." John laughed nervously.

"Here. This is how you carry it." Ronon adjusted John's grip. "This bit here?"

"The trigger?"

"Don't touch it unless you're ready to fire. Ever. You keep your finger like this, see?" His long finger stretched out straight, past the trigger with no chance of pulling it by accident. "See?"

"Yeah, I see."

The dark eyes bored into his. Other rules might be broken, but never this one.

"Yes, sir, I'll do that. Just how you said."

Ronon grunted. "Don't call me sir."

They went outside. Ronon showed John how to hold the weapon to his shoulder, how to aim, how to take the safety off and how to fire. Then he showed him how to load and how to empty the chamber and made his longest speech yet about gun safety and always being aware of the status of his weapon and never pointing it at anything he didn't want to shoot, even if he thought it wasn't loaded.

Then he watched as John loaded the weapon and told him to fire it into the forest.

"It's dark."

"You're not aiming to hit anything."

"I might. Someone could be in there. Or an animal." A monster? No.

"There's no one there."

"There could be. Some hiker could've wandered in."

"There's a shield. Didn't you know?"

John shook his head.

Ronon waved an arm in a big arc, pointing up into the sky and all around. "Like a big bowl, upside down," he said. "No one can see in, no one can get in."

"Oh." John raised the weapon, but held his finger in the trigger safe position. "There still could be."

"Kids aren't allowed. Teachers don't go in there. 'Cept me."

"Jinto or Wex would."

Ronon crouched down. "It's good you're thinking about safety. But I'd know if there was someone there. I'd know."

John nodded, settled the weapon in the hollow of his shoulder, curled his finger around the trigger and squeezed. The recoil was fierce and there was a terrifyingly amazing boom. John drew in a breath to whoop with excitement, but let it out slowly. He checked his weapon, made sure it was safe and then looked up Ronon, schooling his face into seriousness, a soldier waiting for his next command.

Ronon's lips twitched. "Good job, shrimp."

John grinned. Even being called 'shrimp' was okay - he felt like a little shrimp next to this huge man.

It was fully dark but for a light above Ronon's door and the breeze from the lake was chill with the promise of night and winter. John shivered.

"In," said Ronon.

There was more strong tea and Ronon cooked bacon and eggs in a huge iron pan. They ate by the fire.

John's thoughts returned to his most recent adventure. Perhaps Ronon knew about the black creature, thing, whatever it was. Would he say anything, though? Give anything away? Some careful strategy was needed. Extorting information from adults was a skill that John had had limited success with over the years, but he knew that there was always a way in if you thought carefully enough. Pestering had served him badly on several occasions and certainly wouldn't work on Ronon. There must be an angle, though.

John set his knife and fork neatly on his tin plate. "I was wondering… what's the creepiest thing you've hunted?"

"Wraith," said Ronon, without hesitation.

"Oh. Yeah, I guess. They're creepy guys. But they're, you know, basically human-shaped."

"Doesn't make 'em less dangerous."

"No. I see that." John sucked some dried egg yolk off his thumb. "But I bet the Ancients left some really creepy stuff lying about. I mean, like really weird… creatures?"

Ronon shrugged and rumbled. In agreement?

"Like stuff that isn't human-shaped and maybe not anything-shaped."

No response.

John looked down at his plate. "I guess I'll wash up then."

He collected Ronon's plate and cutlery and both of their mugs and brought them to the kitchen sink. Then he went back for the frying pan.

"You don't have to do that."

"It needs doing."

The water in the sink was still warm. John squirted in some extra soap and washed up the dirty things, putting them on the draining board. Ronon joined him and dried and put the stuff away. He didn't speak. Neither did John.

John tipped out the water, wiped around the taps and tried to leave everything tidy, not just because he'd been made to do all these things and more from a young age, but because there was a certain comforting simplicity in domestic chores; and besides Ronon had shown him how to shoot.

He finished tidying. He twisted a damp cloth between his hands. "So… uh… thanks. A lot."

Ronon stuck his thumbs in his belt and looked down at him, silently.

"Um… next week?"

Ronon nodded.

"Cool. I'll go then?"

Ronon whistled a short, commanding chirrup. Runner twitched into instant alertness.

"It's dark. He'll go with you."

"But it's safe. You said there's nothing out there. And there's a shield."

"I said there was nothing then. And a shield can't help if there's something already inside."

John swallowed. The windows were black and there wouldn't be much light once he was out of the pool cast by the lamp above Ronon's door, not until he was up near the greenhouses. "And is there? Something inside?"

"Maybe." Ronon's eyes fell. His fingers played with the bone-handled knife at his belt. "You know there was bad stuff going down. Years ago. When you… you know."

John nodded.

"Maybe there could be again. If O'Neill and the others weren't protecting this place. And me, too. I help, where I can."

"The defenses here are good, though, right?"

"Yeah. They are. But some of 'em are a bit too good. Some of 'em wouldn't know a Wraith from a kid. So don't push it. Don't go where you're told not to." The bushy eyebrows lowered over glittering eyes.

"Okay."

"I mean it."

Did he know? Had John's questions led him to the correct conclusion? And after all, they had broken the transporter and forced a couple of doors. Things like that left a trail.

"I'll try to stay out of trouble."

One of the eyebrows rose. Maybe John would reach Runner's exalted status one day; he had a good idea what Ronon was thinking right now.

"Off you go."

John grinned and let Runner push past him out of the door.

"Wait!"

The dog circled back, barking a deep-throated woof. John turned around.

"It's cold. Where's your coat?"

"Didn't bring it."

"Why not?"

John shrugged. "I don't feel the cold," he said. Which was mostly true, although not the reason he hadn't brought a coat. He probably would've got one of Ryan's cast-offs if he'd stuck around.

"Here. Take this."

Ronon ducked back inside and reappeared holding a beige chunky-knit sweater. John took it and pulled it over his head. It covered him to his knees, and he immediately felt warmer. "Thanks," he said, pushing the long sleeves up his arms.

"Your welcome."

Runner's long, wet nose prodded John's hand. The dog barked again and hurtled away up the hill and John laughed and ran too, following the feathery tail and echoing barks out into the night.

I love inventing friendly animals and Runner seemed like such an appropriate name. He's an Irish wolfhound/greyhound cross, and maybe other things - very big and hairy anyway. Ronon makes better cakes than Hagrid did and I think he might have made that patchwork quilt too. He definitely knitted the sweater. Anyway, onto the Skybattle match!