Understudy

Author: Cheryl W

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Chapter 13: As Fate Allows

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A marine said it first, "Oh man, Dex, it's good to see you. The whole city thought you were dead." But it was the litany he will hear another dozen times. Everyone thought he was dead. And there are pats on his back, earnest "glad you're alive" smiles and nods from the those more respectful of his personal space.

Honestly, Ronon hadn't expected anyone to care if he were truly dead. He wasn't from their galaxy, hadn't been with the expedition long and had frankly gone out of his way to not make friendly with anyone beside the required interaction with his team. Until Sheppard came along.

He had …changed when this world's John Sheppard was found and joined the team. Became more…himself…his former self. But no, even different than that version of himself for that Ronon hadn't been given back, in some semblance, his best friend. Hadn't realized that stoicism, not speaking what was in his heart and …pretending to not care too deeply… it was a foolish, prideful way to live a life. Left things…unsaid. People not aware of their value…to him. And he would not take this second chance with another John Sheppard and make the same grievous errors.

Suddenly Ronon stopped cold in the middle of his trek back to the jumper. Everyone thought he was dead. Everyone. John. John thought he was dead. John who he had pledged he'd always be there for, who had lost so much already, was still tentative on giving his trust to anyone. Who had wanted to stay with Ronon and the other two marines but Ronon had ordered him back to Atlantis. 'And John thought I was killed, that he left me to die, failed me.'

Unleashing a string of Satadan curses, Ronon stalked for the jumper, ordered them to head back to Atlantis now.

Because as much as Ronon didn't think his death would have affected hardly anyone on the expedition, he knew it would mean something to John Sheppard. It would hurt him. No. It would tear Sheppard apart because he would believe he had left Ronon behind to die. That he had added another life to the tally of those who had died because of his mistakes.

'How did I apologize for a rumor of my death that I didn't start?' For meticulously breaking down John's walls so he'd let him in only to …do this to him. Perceivably die on him. Do what too many others had done?!

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Arriving on Atlantis, Ronon practically shoulder checked McKay as he smirked through a "Welcome back from the dead!" cheer because the one person Ronon needed to see…wasn't there. It meant that just because the rumors of his death had been proved wrong, John was still feeling the aftereffects of the what had almost been. What he thought he had almost let happened again.

Breaking into a run, Ronon dodged into a transporter, nearly knocked over two of McKay's lackeys on his exit and then made quick work of the distance to Sheppard's room. He pounded on the door, had even learned McKay's trick to override the lock but only found an empty room greeting his breaking and entering misdemeanor.

John wasn't there.

It was a kick in the gut to guess where he might be. 'My room.'

And John was there, his back to the door, staring out the window, half packed or unpacked boxes of Ronon's possessions scattered around the room. It was another blow to Ronon to know that John had assigned himself the task of packing up his things, of reverently wiping away all traces that he'd ever been there, from the room, from Atlantis.

Ronon knew how much that undertaking….hurt.

He had wanted to do it for his own John but he couldn't bear to walk in that room, see John's guitar, his Johnny Cash poster, to know that his best friend was truly gone. Instead Teyla and Rodney had done that honor for John but he knew it cost them part of their hearts in the doing.

'Just like doing this for me cost this Sheppard pain.'

It was only fair he honored the gesture, realized the man's pain, begged for forgiveness for the man's unjustified guilt. Even if Ronon had truly died, it wouldn't have been John's fault. He would never want John to carry that guilt. So he said something raw and truthful, something he wouldn't need to say to anyone else, something he wouldn't know needed saying to anyone else.

"I'm sorry, John," sorrow and grief and shame coiled in his soft, broken words. 'Sorry that you thought I was dead, sorry that that hurt you, sorry to put you through another round of grieving and guilt. Sorry that you thought I had broken my promise and left you after all my vows to never do that to you.'

John's shoulders were shaking and Ronon knew he was crying as his hand came up to cover his face. Because as strong as John was, this one like his own Sheppard, there had been too many deaths in his life, too many people who he had loved that he had lost, failed or who had let him down, too many levels of guilt for anyone to bear indifferently. To pretend it didn't hurt like hell.

It would have been easier for Ronon to keep his distance, to not acknowledge John's pain, certainly not share in it. But after all Sheppard had entrusted him with, all John had restored to him…that he had let him look at him and remember his best friend, ease some of his own devastating guilt for his Sheppard's death. How did you repay someone for patching up your soul? 'While I break more of John's?!'

It made moving to John's side instinctive, putting a hand on John's shoulder as natural as stepping between a threat and an innocent life. "I didn't mean to put you through that," another apology, another admission, but it felt so useless. You couldn't rewind grief, miraculously wipe away the scars, placate the new fears and the unavoidable reality that 'not this time but it's inevitable' because their lives…were not safe ones.

John gave a shaky exhale then stepped back to sit on Ronon's bed, head bent away from his friend, hand wiping away the last vestiges of his grief. John was silent and cut off and wanting Ronon gone and for him not to leave. "I thought I lost you like I lost her," his voice so quiet it was like a sole benediction at a gravesite. Something too pain, too private to let carry on the air, to let anyone but the dead hear what was in his soul.

Ronon knew who John was referring to: the female medic he had gone back for. The rescue mission that had killed twelve people and had forever tainted John's soul with regret and guilt. The best intentions rewarded with the worst outcome. Except John Sheppard had survived and Ronon would never want that outcome to change, was selfish enough to barter away lives to have Sheppard with him right then and there. Even this Sheppard, maybe especially this Sheppard because he knew loss and guilt the likes of which Ronon carried. His own John hadn't bore that weight…couldn't …fully understand Ronon's pain. This John did.

"It almost wasn't a rumor," Ronon confessed, hadn't planned to but they were both soldiers, knew the realities of battles and warfare and sacrifices willingly made for the greater good. Reaching out, he cupped the back of John's neck and tipped his friend toward him until John's head leaned against his own. "But if it had been my time…it wouldn't have been your fault. I ordered you to leave and that's all I needed from you, to follow my orders. The rest…how things turned out… almost turned out, that's on me…not you, John. I need you to tell me you understand that bad things happening, it's not because of you."

John clamped his eyes shut, hoarsely replied, "It feels like it is."

Ronon swallowed down his own emotions at John's misconception that he was a curse, that he heaped down evil on those he dared to care about when Ronon knew it was the direct opposite. "Stack up the numbers of lives you've saved since a Wraith was stupid enough to get on your radar versus the people who don't want you on Atlantis, which is just Kavanagh and he doesn't count. I think even you can do that math."

"Hey, I do math great!" John grumbled, giving Ronon a shove as he straightened up away from the man. Then he shot his friend an assessing, concerned look. "You hurt? You look like crap."

Ronon looked down at himself to note that he was covered in dirt and road dust but was unscathed. "Not a scratch on me."

John didn't dispute Ronon's brag, simply nodded his head. Then they fell silent again.

"I don't have a place here without you," John declared softly a few moments later, eyes on his hands not Ronon. "Sure, McKay and Teyla are outstanding teammates and have been …friendly and welcoming and Dr. Weir's tolerant of me and Colonel Sumner hasn't sent me on any suicide runs lately but…you expect something out of me they don't. Something that no one's wanted from me for….hell…since Afghanistan."

"What's that?" Ronon asked, totally uncertain what that could be.

John looked to Ronon, took the risk to bare more of his soul to the man he thought he had lost a week ago. "My friendship, to get to know me….or the ways I'm the same or different from your own Sheppard. And sure, you like me because I'm a knockoff of him but it's been…" he looked away again and his next words were shaky, "..a long time since anyone's wanted me around for anything other than my skill sets."

An earth saying popped into Ronon's head, said it as his eyes held John's. "Their loss…my gain."

John's lips turned up into a small but earnest smile. "I can live with that.." and then he pointed an accusing finger to Ronon, "and you better live with it too. A freaking week before you get back here?! Admit it, you were kicking back with one of those beautiful village women all this time."

"After seeing your ugly mug, they couldn't keep their hands off me," Ronon joked back and then he nudged John's shoulder with his. "And the way you look now…they'd even flock to Kavanagh."

John snorted at the insult. "Nice, hit a guy while he's been busy mourning you."

"Well, stop mourning me and start thinking about feeding me. I'm hitting the shower and then we're ransacking the mess hall," Ronon propositioned, climbing to his feet, ruffling John's unkempt hair before heading toward the shower. Turning at the bathroom doorway, he saw that John hadn't gotten up, was still sitting on his bed, surveying the room.

"John?" Ronon asked, not sure what his friend still needed to hear from him.

"Your stuff…" John began, waving his hand to encompass the boxes, but Ronon interrupted him, "We'll deal with it tomorrow." And there was a promise in that, that they would be there tomorrow, both of them.

John's eyes came up to Ronon's. "Yeah, tomorrow." Because that was the best they could do, plan on a tomorrow and do everything they could to ensure they both saw it. That's what brothers born of war did, they helped each other live to fight another day and another and another. Did it as long as fate allowed them to. And then some time even after that.

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TBC

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Sending out love to all reviewers and silent readers! It's been awhile but hope you enjoyed this albeit short update. I still have at least one more idea pinging in my head for this series but I'm game for thinking up more if you guys still welcome more updates. And hey, if you have some ideas you'd like to see, if it fits into my world view of this universe I might use them. No slash will be considered but I so love bromance and poor Sheppard getting damaged, but not too damaged that his booboos can't be miraculously healed by the end of the chapter.

Have a great day!

Cheryl W.