A/N - Admittedly, I just needed to lighten things up for a wee scene, hence the motorcycle part. It's just ... so Ronon. Anyway, please enjoy.
Ronon stared at the slip of paper in his hand, his eyes narrowed. He had barely ever spent any of the money he earned out of his pay. Enough for necessities, a little on gifts for the many holidays that abounded. But beyond that, he often forgot that he even earned a salary. And yet as he stared at the number on the piece of paper the machine spit out he was unsure if there should be quite so many digits.
He took a seat on the bench and pulled out the cell phone he'd bought as soon as he was able to slip away from Lorne. His fingers moved clumsily over the screen as he opened the calculator app. He took his time adding the yearly salary. He'd gotten a cost of living raise each year, along with bonuses here and there. It turned out that never touching the money had paid off, literally. The account was interest-bearing, Sheppard had said on one occasion. By the time he finished his calculations, the number he'd come up with matched exactly with the digits on the slip of paper. It wasn't a mistake.
The knot in the pit of his stomach eased as he rose from the bench and pulled up the map app. The salesman had only been too happy to teach him to use the features of the phone. The little programs were mostly useless to him, but the man had been overly helpful. Ronon carefully typed in the address, though he had to start over several times. The letters on the screen were painfully small.
The screen flashed and the words came in a soft, automated voice. "Calculating." A few seconds later, the image of a map came up. Ronon frowned. The route would take him directly there, but didn't clarify the city's confusing public transport system. Two streetscars and half a dozen different bus routes. Ronon lowered the phone and cursed, stuffing it into his pocket along with the receipt.
The sound of traffic was broken only by the occasional honking of a car horn, or the dinging of the bells of the street cars. The roaring was unexpected. He turned to search for the source of the sound. He couldn't drive, not really. He'd tried several times, both on previous trips to Earth and since they'd been in San Francisco. He'd had to reimburse Jeannie Miller for a new mailbox. Twice. He also had to pay to replace the hubcap on Sheppard's rental after a disastrous, literal, run-in with a lamp post in an empty parking lot. To this day, Ronon could have sworn there was no lamp post there.
The rumbling sound was vaguely familiar. As the vehicle drew closer, he realized it was something he'd seen before. They were all over the streets of San Francisco, he'd even seen one in Vancouver. But never up close. As the machine popped and roared and rumbled and began to slow, Ronon realized it was perfect.
He stepped into the street directly into the path of the vehicle, causing the operator to swerve and swear, coming to a stop just beside him, the two wheeled vehicle tilting precariously before the man put one booted foot on the pavement. His voice was angry as he flipped Ronon the bird and shouted the words over the roar of the machine. "What the hell, man?"
Ronon ignored the man's ire as he reached out to touch the curved form of the black part covering the front wheel. He raised his voice to be heard over the idling engine. "What is it?"
The man stared at him as if he were an idiot. "Harley Softail."
Ronon watched as the man motioned him away. Instead of leaving, he pulled closer to the curb and killed the engine with the flick of a switch. A second later, the man pulled the helmet from his head and pinned Ronon with a cautious stare. "You nearly made me wipe out, y'know."
"Sorry." Ronon replied automatically as he moved closer to the vehicle. It was small, it would be easy to maneuver. He crouched beside it and reached out to touch it, snatching his hand back as he hissed. That part was hot. He popped his finger into his mouth, sucking at the tip of his burned finger as he rose.
The man was frowning at him. "You never seen a Harley before."
"I'm not from here." He said simply. "Is it easy to drive?"
"To ride? Yeah. Well, it depends, I guess." The man arched a brow, extending a hand. "I'm Ray."
Ronon dropped his gaze to the man's extended hand and then shook it after a moment's hesitation. "Ronon." He returned his attention to the bike. "Where can I get one?"
"Um. The dealership. Ever been on a bike before, friend?" The doubt in the man's voice was obvious.
He shook his head. "Nope. But I want one. Where do I go?"
The man stared at him for a moment and then broke into a grin, extending the helmet. "Get on."
He'd intended to go straight to her home. But three hours after the salesman at the Harley dealership swiped his card and sold him his very own motorcycle, it wasn't going well. At all. Ronon cursed as the pavement rose up to greet him, yet again. He leaped away from the bike as it hit the ground. Again. Thankfully, the crash bars he'd let himself be talked into buying and having installed before leaving the dealership, turned out to be an excellent investment.
They'd started as slick chrome, as shiny and pretty as the rest of the bike, with its sleek black lines and comfortable leather seat. This was supposed to be easier than a fucking car. But now, those crash bars were banged to hell and back from the half a dozen drops in the last half-hour. He'd only made it hald a block from the fucking dealership before realizing he may have bitten off more than he could chew. It was supposed to speed up his mission to get to Grace's house to confirm Lorne's unbelievable story. The other man had to be mistaken.
But first, Ronon had to make it there. He turned around, crouching to grip the bike at the spot the salesman had shown him before leaving the lot and lifted the bike yet again. He'd gotten really good at two things since signing on the dotted line. Falling over on his motorcycle and picking the fucking thing up. They were, he now knew, crucial skills. Or at least that's what he told himself as he threw a leg over and righted the behemoth for the seventeenth- no, eighteenth time in the last hour.
Ronon pressed his lips into a grim line and popped the clutch into neutral again, restarting the bike yet again. He muttered the words to himself in a rhythm that Ray had taught him, in the parking lot before he'd left Ronon to his own devices. "Clutch in, neutral, friction zone into first."
The bike gave a roar as he went through the motions, lurching forward half a foot before stalling. Ronon cursed as he lost his footing and went down. Again. He leaped away. Again. Turning his back to the bike, he growled and gripped the bike. Handle bar. Sissy bar. Walk it back. It wobbled for a moment before he felt the bike slip from his grasp and fall over the other fucking way. Again.
Ronon resisted the urge to kick the bike. Instead, he rounded it, turned his back and began again. He was focusing so hard he didn't notice the approach of the other man until Ray was pulling up behind him and honking. Ronon's face colored immediately, his embarrassment rivaled only by his determination not to fail.
Ray appeared beside him, gripping the bike and helping him to steady it without a word, moving to set the kickstand down. Ronon unfastened the helmet and took it off, setting it on the seat. He hadn't been so hot in his life. He jerked down the zipper of the heavy jacket he'd purchased as part of a full set of protective gear, stripping out of it as he watched Ray return to his own bike and open one of the bags attached to the back. He returned a second later, extending a bottle of water to Ronon. "You just about done trying to do it on your own?"
Ronon wrapped his fingers around the blissfully cold bottle and lifted it to his lips, draining most of it in several long gulps. He leaned his head forward, pouring the rest over his head and down his sweat-soaked back. His t-shirt was already plastered to his skin. He gave Ray a rueful look and then sighed, nodding. "Yeah." He paused for a moment, glancing back down the road. "How long you been following me?"
"I was at the light when I saw you fall off and go ass over head on the right turn out of the parking lot. I was gonna leave you, but by the time I made it around the block, you were only ten feet further and headed for the ground again. I really don't want to have to live with your death on my conscience." Ray leaned against the bike and folded his arms over his chest, shaking his head. "You know, most people start out on a much smaller bike."
"I'm not a small man." Ronon retorted.
"I mean the engine size, not the bike size." Ray reached out and patted the gas tank affectionately. "This is a powerful engine and you have to respect it. This is nearly 1500ccs of pure power. It's a monster. Most people start out on a 500, maybe a 750 if they've got the stomach for it. I figured at first, you must really have a death wish."
Ronon frowned, his eyes lingering on the lines of the bike. He may be shit at teaching himself how to ride it, but he loved the feel of it. Powerful and commanding. "I don't want to die. I've already done that. It's not fun."
Ray stared at him for a moment. The man was older, thin gray hair haloing around his temples and nearly bald on top. "You have a girlfriend?"
That was the last question he expected. Ronon frowned and nodded. "Wife. Yeah, why?"
The other man reached out, fingers skimming over the throttle. "Think of this like a clit. You have to handle it just right to get it to going, to make her purr like a little kitten. And then, just as you feel the pressure start to build, you give her a little more. And then more, and then suddenly it's perfect. She's cumming and you're riding her like she's your old woman in her prime."
The analogy made sense. Ray seemed to know that Ronon was fitting the pieces together. He continued bluntly. "But if you try to give it too much power before you've stroked her just right…" The older man raised a hand and slashed it across his neck. "She cuts you off because she's done."
"Just like a woman." Ronon confirmed quietly.
Ray nodded. "And like a woman, if you handle her wrong, she can and will kill you."
Despite himself, Ronon broke into a grin. It was the first moment since he'd woken up in the Atlantis infirmary that he found a spot of brightness. "Got it."
"Good." Ray gave him an answering grin and reached for Ronon's helmet, extending it to him. "Now put your gear back on and Papa will teach you how to fuck properly."
It was another three hours before Ray trusted Ronon enough to let him go on his own. It had been a good distraction from the shitshow the morning had been. While he wouldn't say he was proficient on the bike, or even good, he was at least getting the hang of it as he turned left on the street that Grace lived on. He slowed as he watched the numbers on the mailbox as they increased. 2703. 2705. And then there it was. 2707. He pulled alongside the curb and thumbed the cutoff switch as he pushed down the kickstand and turned the front tire all the way to the left, as Ray had taught him to do.
Ronon pulled the helmet off and surveyed the tidy little house where Grace lived. It was a pretty sage green with dark gray shutters and a broad front porch that was littered with thriving plants. The driveway was empty, so the chances of her answering were slim. For a moment, Ronon felt relief. It was a cowardly impulse. If Lorne had been telling the truth, it would turn everything upside down. Even now, Ronon hoped it was a mistake, that the other man had been wrong. Because if he wasn't, Ronon was going to rain hell down on his wife.
He tried the knob only to find it locked. He glanced back to the road, to the bike that had the sleek helmet hanging from the handlebars. There was no sign of anyone in the street. Grace had chosen a quiet neighborhood. Ronon slipped the lockpick set from his back pocket and set to work on the door. Less than a minute later, he was slipping inside and closing the door behind himself.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light inside the house, but it was just as tidy as the outside. Ronon slid the lockpicks back into his pocket beside the bike keys and stepped forward. The entryway was small. A staircase to the right led upstairs to a loft, while the rest of the house seemed far deeper than the narrow front would lead him to believe. A series of doorways on the right side of a long, narrow hallway. Ronon approached the double doors, heavy wood with windows set into them, white lace curtains offering barely a hint of the room on the other side.
He twisted the knob and pushed it open, stepping inside. The room was small, but so was the house. A cream-colored sofa dominated one wall while the other held a TV and entertainment center. On the last remaining wall a large tank was set up, with a turtle floating on some kind of a raft, warming itself beneath a light. Ronon approached the tank for a closer look. A small turtle, much like the one that Beckett had once shown him pictures of, immediately drew itself into its shell. Ronon frowned and turned to survey the room more closely. It was clean, but was clearly lived in. A few brightly colored books were stacked on the coffee table beside the remote control and on the couch a stuffed rabbit sat propped in the corner beside a stuffed turtle. Ronon's heart quickened as he tried to think of a reason, any reason, to dismiss the items.
He stepped back into the hallway and headed for the next room. It was a kitchen. It was spotless, save for the bright blue plastic plate on the counter and the small spoon that beside it. Ronon's brows drew together, his chest tightening as he lifted the spoon. It was tiny, far too small for his large hands, too small for even Grace's. Lorne had been telling the truth.
Ronon dropped the thing on the counter and spun, his brain suddenly going a thousand miles an hour. His lips pressed into a thin line as he made his way toward the door and out into the hallway again. It was only then that he noticed the shapes of the framed pictures on the wall. He reached out, searching for a lightswitch. When he flipped it on, the dim hallway was flooded with light. And there, on the walls of his wife's home was the evidence of the life he could have had.
Directly in front of him was a picture of a tiny, sleeping baby, a head full of dark, downy fuzz that stuck up in every direction. On its little ankle was a band with print too small to tread. Ronon moved to the next picture. The baby was older in this one, though he wasn't familiar enough with children to guess how old. Wild curls haloed around the baby's head as she gave a gummy smile, tiny hands waving toward the person holding the camera. The next was clearly at a celebration of some kind. The girl was literally wearing a cake. It was all over her face, her hands, her toothy grin broad as that dark hair, longer now, stuck to her forehead and cheeks, caked with icing.
The fourth picture was the one that made his vision blur though. It was Grace and the girl. Her blue eyes were soft at the edges with joy and pride as she held the child in her arms. It was the sight of the girl, though, that made him inhale sharply. He reached out and carefully removed the picture from its hook.
It was the first picture in the series where she looked like a child, and not an infant. Her hands were up, held carefully in Grace's own grasp, above her head as they stood in the sand, the ocean behind the pair. Her hair was as wild as his had been when he'd been young, riotous curls that were so dark a brown they were almost black. Her eyes though, were a reflection of his own. Dark, mossy green.
Here was the proof that Lorne hadn't lied. There was a child. His child. The girl named Anara. It was his mother's name. Grace had named their daughter for his mother, as he'd once told her he would have liked to if his life had mapped out differently than it had at that point. Ronon closed his eyes against the rising anger and confusion.
She'd told him she couldn't have children. The pain in her voice when she'd confided in him about it wasn't possible. Ronon had taken her at her word. There was some medical name for it, something he couldn't begin to recall. He hadn't cared, had dismissed it at the time. He had been relieved then, knowing that a child would be even more of a distraction from his mission. But now? Now he was holding a picture of a daughter.
He opened his eyes and raked a hand through his hair, staring down at the picture for a few moments longer. He turned, as if on autopilot, to the final door that stood open at the end of the hallway, just past the bathroom. When he stood in the doorway, there was the final piece of evidence, as if the picture hadn't been enough.
The child's bedroom was tidy enough. A small bed sat in the corner of the room, clad in a comforter of pale pink and blue plaid. A huge mound of stuffed animals took up half the bed. Ronon headed for the bed and reached for one of the animals at random. A cow, maybe? He held it for a moment as he took a seat on the bed and turned his attention to the room. The closet door stood open, tiny clothes hanging on a low bar, with a row of impossibly small shoes lined up neatly on the floor beneath it. A dollhouse, a small plastic barn with farm animals scattered around it. There was a bright purple metal frame, like the one that Keller had tried to make him use before releasing him from the infirmary, but it was the size a child might use.
Ronon frowned at the sight of it, but continued his mental inventory. A bookshelf full of books, tubs of art supplies, a few framed drawings on the wall. Ronon rose to his feet, dropping the cow to the bed and crossing the room. At about Grace's eye level, he saw the familiar outline of the marking. Ronon lifted a hand, absently touching the tattoo on his neck that he'd borne since the day he'd reported for training camp when he'd joined the military.
On top of the dresser was a single framed photo, one he had a copy of on his nightstand back in Atlantis. It was a picture from the Christmas party he'd taken Grace to long ago. He stood behind her, arms wrapped around her, wearing that stupid suit Sheppard had insisted he put on. He was wearing an idiotic grin as he rested his cheek on top of Grace's head. She was smiling toward the camera, her hands resting on top of his. Fuck. He'd been so happy that night. It had been one of the few nights he was truly happy right after he came to Atlantis. She had a picture of him on display in their daughter's room.
Ronon turned to survey the room again. It was innocence as a still life portrait. It was the life he should have had all along. The confusion gave way to rage, to grief, and he doubled over, howling out his pain in full for the first time since he'd woken in the infirmary. The first life he should have had had been taken from him, ripped away by the Wraith. The second life, he'd done that on his own. He'd robbed himself of it. And now he stood in the center of the proof of it. His wife and child had built a life without him, and he'd done that. All on his own.
He drew in a breath only to scream again, a long, wordless bellow of fury and pain that went on and on until he was breathless, until he was blinded by the tears and the hurt. Until he was on the floor, sobs wracking his body, as Ronon finally found the end of it all. Not in all the time he'd been captured, tortured, beaten, and left for dead had he ever doubted his will to survive or questioned why he fought on, endlessly reaching through for some elusive freedom. But now… he was. On his knees in his daughter's bedroom, in the shadow of the life he should have seized when he'd had the chance, Ronon Dex was finally broken.