Senses
- sight -
She's become accustomed to the sight of him moving through Atlantis, tall, dark and brooding like the archetypical lone hero.
He's always moving.
Even if there are moments where he stands still, the sense of movement goes with him.
If Elizabeth was of a poetic bent, she might say he has a wandering soul: an Odysseus of the Pegasus galaxy, cursed by the 'gods' to wander unending. More practically, she guesses that he's lived too much of his recent life on the run, and seven years of running is not going to be overcome by a few months in Atlantis.
In spite of this, he seems to be settling in well among the Atlantis personnel.
The easy lope, the casual stride, the predator's grace is more marked in him than in any other man she's ever known, and he draws her eye as she stands on the balcony and watches the teams go out.
His head turns as though he can feel her gaze. One brow arches up at her.
Elizabeth looks elsewhere.
- sound -
He says what he needs to say and not much more, conserving words, ignoring the niceties of meaningless conversation.
She wonders if whoever came up with the word 'laconic' had Ronon Dex in mind.
His years on the run made him the strong, silent type. There's a coolly appraising gleam in Kate's eyes as she studies Ronon, as though she'd like to get him to open up his mind and rummage around there. Atlantis is nothing if not full of people whose passion for their work borders on obsession.
Of course, Kate wouldn't get more than a dozen words out of him.
Elizabeth accustoms herself to the sound of his voice, deep and terse, with the dry humour that makes it sound like he's laughing behind his beard. Maybe he is.
She hears his laugh in the corridor once, counterpoint to Teyla's smooth voice, and wonders at the rich timbre of it. But it dies as they come into view of her.
"Elizabeth," Teyla says, smiling.
Ronon is more formal and yet, somehow, also intimate. "Dr. Weir."
She greets them both, and tries not to imagine how her name would sound on his lips.
- smell -
The aroma of the sea is offset by his distinctive scent: musk, sweat, and deep-turned earth, as though the years on the run seeped into his flesh and bones.
Unlike the other men in Atlantis, he doesn't use the chemical aftershaves and deodorants, although he keeps himself fastidiously clean. And while Elizabeth might prefer the familiarity of the stringent scents, individual as a signature - Rodney, John, Radek, Caldwell - she can't ignore the elemental attraction of a man who doesn't resort to such things.
"Ronon."
"Dr. Weir."
She's not sure when this became habit - meetings on this balcony late at night, watching the stars glimmer over the sea as the wind breathes the fierce, male scent of him into her nostrils and stirs her blood.
"How's the training going?"
His head turns and he bares his teeth at her in a fierce grin. "They're getting better."
"Not good enough to beat you?"
"Never."
Elizabeth smiles as she leans against the railing. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they don't. But she savours the scent of him, the olfactory intoxication that is all she'll allow herself in Atlantis.
- taste -
The taste of him in her mouth is bitter, sweet, and piquant on her tongue, like an Italian vinaigrette.
If kissing Ronon Dex was on her to-do list for today, she obviously wasn't paying much attention this morning, because the mouth that traced from her earlobe to settle on her mouth was a surprise.
So, too, is the tang of him - not the flavours that her tastebuds transmit to her mind, but the intensity of what she feels in his kiss: a hunger she understands, a ferocity that thrills her, and a grief that makes her ache.
He's been trying to reconnect with people again - to regain some shadow of the man he must have been before the Wraith hunted him down like a beast. Connection with his team-mates was easiest - the camaraderie he remembers from the military in Sateda. Connection with the rest of Atlantis...
Elizabeth didn't plan for anything like this to happen, but she savours the moment.
And when he lifts his head and lets his eyes rest on hers, gauging her reaction, she draws him back down for another taste.
- touch -
She's become accustomed to the feel of him in her arms, hot, fierce, and heavy like the archetype of the perfect lover.
Skin to skin, mouth to throat, with her hands pressing flat against the muscles of his back, his restlessness finds peace of a sort as they move together in exquisite motion.
Elizabeth likes the feel of Ronon in her, filling her. She likes the way he focuses on her, darkly intense. Her cry of release is muffled beneath his lips, tongues melding in eager caresses. Deep laughter reverberates in his chest as her hands grip sweat-slick flesh, urging him not to stop.
Not that he would.
Something in her enjoys the way he spends himself in her, a wild and urgent need.
Afterwards, she likes the weight of his body against hers, skin to skin, the naked press of his muscles against her flesh. He traces his fingers over her skin and watches her watch him. If he's not a man for speech, his fingers are eloquent enough.
She runs her fingers over his body, wondering at the scars, but in silence.
Touch is too intimate for words.
- fin -
FEEDBACK: is a wonderful, wonderful thing.