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The five of them more or less tumbled into the gateroom, stumbling across the floor or ending up in a heap.
“Move!” John ordered, hauling Rodney to his feet. “The Jumper’s still coming, people!”
Ronon almost automatically rolled to his feet and followed the others up the steps, a voice in the back of his head telling him that the simple actions were taking a lot more effort than they should. And his leg was killing him—he’d hardly had time to notice the injury on Olesia, but now that the danger was gone and he could finally think of other things besides escaping imminent death as a Wraith appetizer, it was demanding attention.
With a whoosh, the wormhole shut down behind them, and the newly-returned Jumper rose through the ceiling hatch on its way back to the Jumper bay.
“Everyone in one piece?” John asked, giving his team a sweeping glance.
Ronon nodded, quickly regretting the action when the room spun around a couple of times. He fiercely blinked the dizziness away and subtly wrapped one hand around the railing for support, willing himself not to shiver. He didn’t remember it being so cold in this city.
He forced his focus back to the present and noticed that Carson had joined them at some point and was speaking with Eldon, the Olesian they’d brought back with them. With the others distracted, now was the perfect opportunity to get away to take care of his injury. Straightening up, he edged away from the group and slipped out of the gateroom, heading for his quarters.
“Right, then, let’s get you to the infirmary to be checked over,” Carson told Eldon; then he turned to the others. “And I want the rest of you there too. You’ve had a time of it from what I hear, and I want to make sure you’re all in one piece.”
“I think we’re all fine, Carson,” John said. “A little bruised and sore, maybe, but nothing big.”
“Don’t forget about Ronon,” Rodney piped in.
“Oh, right—hold up, where is Ronon, anyway?”
Heads swiveled, but the big Satedan was nowhere to be seen.
“What’s wrong with Ronon?” Carson asked in concern.
“He got hit in the leg with an arrow. Pulled it out right then and there!” Rodney sounded slightly freaked out at the memory.
“How long ago was this?” Carson asked, brows furrowed.
“Several hours,” Teyla answered.
“Don’t worry, Doc, I’m pretty sure he’s fine,” John supplied.
Carson sighed. “Yes, well, I need to take a look at him at any rate, so if someone could go and fetch him….”
“I’ll do it,” John offered, already turning to leave. “Meet you guys in the infirmary.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” Carson said. “The infirmary is this way, Eldon, if you’ll just come with me….”
John stepped out of the transporter and strode down the hallway towards Ronon’s quarters. He shook his head, reminding himself to inform the Satedan once again that post-mission physicals were mandatory, not optional. He himself felt like he’d been run over by a truck, and this trip to retrieve the newest member of his team wasn’t doing his weary body any favors. The sooner he could get in and out of the infirmary and into his own bed, the better.
The door slid open in front of him, and he stepped into the room. “Hey, big guy, I know how much you hate the infirmary, but—” he paused, realizing that Ronon was nowhere in sight. “Where are you?”
As if in response, a muffled thud came from the direction of the bathroom. Heaving a sigh, John crossed the room and called through the door, “Hey, buddy, I know you probably wanna get cleaned up and stuff—believe me, I do too—but Carson’s gonna be mad if I don’t bring you to the infirmary so he can look you over, so c’mon.”
The door remained shut, and John frowned. “Do I have to make it an order?” he half-joked, recalling their exchange on the island.
When no response came, John sighed. “Okay, I’m coming in.”
He waved a hand over the panel, then took a startled step backwards as the door slid open, revealing what was on the other side. “Whoa, whoa, Ronon, hold on just a minute.”
Ronon glared at him from where he sat propped up against the bathroom wall, but he didn’t lower the knife he was pointing in John’s direction.
John took a step closer, hands held out for the Satedan to see. “Hey, Ronon, it’s just me. You can put the knife down, okay?”
On closer inspection, John could see the Satedan’s too-bright eyes, the way the hand holding the knife was shaking slightly, the beads of sweat starting to form on Ronon’s forehead. “Hey, big guy, I can tell you’re not feelin’ so good, so why don’t you let go of the knife and I’ll get you to the infirmary so Carson can look you over, huh?”
With a start, Ronon broke out of his daze, and his arm dropped to his side. He wiped a hand across his forehead and squinted at Sheppard. “I’m fine. I can take care of myself.”
“Sure, buddy,” John replied, approaching slowly until he was within a foot of the Satedan. Crouching, he started to reach out to him, but thought better of it. “Is it okay if I touch you?”
Ronon stared at him blankly for a moment. “Why?”
“So I can check your fever.”
Ronon stared at him for another long minute, then moved his hand just enough to send the knife sliding across the tile floor to somewhere behind John.
John took that as a yes and reached out slowly, pressing the inside of his wrist to Ronon’s forehead. “Man, you’re burning up. Your wound get infected?”
Ronon’s gaze shifted down to his leg. “It’s fine.”
“You know,” John said, “it’s okay to not be fine. Can I take a look?”
Ronon hesitated, then gave the smallest of nods.
Making sure to keep his hands in Ronon’s line of sight, John tugged up the leg of the Satedan’s worn pants, pausing only briefly at the hiss of pain that came from Ronon. When the wound came into view, John groaned. “Oh, yep, that’s definitely infected.”
Ronon glanced down at the wound, getting a good look at it for the first time. He was with Sheppard on this one—his leg was red and swollen, and the entrance and exit wounds had a yellowish tinge to them. This was what he got for running around with an open wound in whatever filth had been on that prison island.
“C’mon, I promised I’d bring you straight to the infirmary. Carson’s probably pitching hissy fits by now,” John said as he rose. “Can you walk?” he asked, holding out his hand.
Ronon glared in response, bracing himself against the sink and trying to stand.
The moment he was on his feet, the world tilted and he pitched sideways. John grabbed his arms to steady him, and Ronon tensed, every muscle in his body as tight as a bowstring.
“Okay, that’s a no on the walking,” John said, pretending not to notice Ronon’s discomfort as he looped the Satedan’s arm over his shoulders and half-supported, half-dragged him out of the bathroom and over to the bed. “Stay put,” he ordered, depositing Ronon on the bed and keying his headset. “Beckett, this is Sheppard; uh, we’re gonna need a gurney in Ronon’s quarters.”
“What seems to be the problem, lad?”
“He’s running a fever, can barely stand up. Pretty sure his wound’s infected.”
“We’re on our way. Beckett out.”
“Don’t need a gurney,” Ronon growled, making another attempt to rise.
John pushed him back down, noting with concern how easy it was to do so. “You can’t even stand up, Chewie. Just take it easy and let someone help you.”
“Last person who offered to help me when I was sick tried to cut my throat.” The fever must’ve loosened Ronon’s tongue; the words slipped out before he could stop them.
John’s eyes widened ever so slightly; then a look of understanding crossed his face. He sat down on the floor a few feet from the bed, resting his arms on his knees. After a moment, he spoke. “I get it, you know—you’ve been alone on the run for so long that it’s hard for you to trust anyone.”
Ronon didn’t answer, choosing instead to stare at the ceiling and fight off the nausea that was plaguing him.
“I’m sorry.”
That got Ronon’s attention. He turned his head to look at John. “Why?”
“I knew you were injured, and I didn’t check up on it. I should’ve known that it would get infected in a place like that.”
Ronon looked back at the ceiling. “Not your fault.”
“It sorta is. I’ll do better from now on, okay?”
“Why do you even care?” Ronon asked, hating the sudden roughness of his own voice. Stupid fever.
“Because you’re a part of our team now. And that means we’re gonna take care of you, no matter what.”
The fever was messing with his brain, Ronon decided, because a small spark of hope ignited somewhere deep down inside him at the colonel’s words. And even as he tried to tell himself this was only temporary, that it was only a matter of time before these people turned their backs on him, the spark continued to burn.
And as he heard Carson’s voice, sounding far, far away, and as blackness began to swallow him up, he allowed himself to believe, just a little, that he might have finally found a home after all.