"Distraction" by Bone

Sheppard smells like Wraith.

He's straddling an exam bed in the infirmary, holding a bandage pressed against his arm. His mouth's tight.

Sheppard has said Ronon can go, but he didn't tell him to, so Ronon figures he doesn't mind the company. McKay went off with Beckett, talking a mile a minute about all the things that had gone wrong. The woman, Weir, came in, frowned at him, asked him questions that he deflected like a shield until she left.

Teyla's somewhere nearby, getting her head looked at.

Sheppard keeps tugging at the bandage, looking at the damage underneath. He's breathing too fast and Ronon can see beads of sweat at his hairline.

"The trick is to think about something else," Ronon says.

Sheppard raises his eyebrows. "Something besides being eaten by a teenage girl?"

"Yeah," Ronon says. He sounds more confident than he feels. He's never been bled by a Wraith—not directly. But he knows how it feels for them to try, knows they take more than skin with them.

He's glad she's dead. Fiercely glad.

"Then how about we talk about that direct order you disobeyed?" Sheppard asks.

Ronon folds his arms. "Teyla explained that."

"You left her vulnerable," Sheppard says, his voice hard.

"You needed me more," Ronon points out.

Sheppard grimaces at that, his attention once again on the bandage, examining the ragged cut.

"It's just a scratch," Sheppard says. "I've had worse."

Brave words, but they both know it's not that simple. Nobody knows what the retrovirus will do if it's in Sheppard's bloodstream. Nobody knows what's going to happen next.

All Ronon knows is that Sheppard smells like tamped-down fear and Wraith and he's not leaving Sheppard's side until ordered to do so.

***

He trails Sheppard to his quarters, waiting for a dismissal that never comes. He closes the door behind him and watches Sheppard sit wearily on his bed.

Ronon stands just inside the door. The smell's even more overpowering in the close quarters than it was in the infirmary, and he finds himself breathing through his mouth.

"What?" Sheppard asks, dropping back on his good elbow.

Ronon shrugs. "You smell."

"You're not exactly a bouquet of roses, either, you know," Sheppard says, and Ronon feels a smile tug at his mouth.

"You smell like Wraith," Ronon says.

Sheppard flinches, then tries to cover it by sitting up straight again.

"You can smell that?" Sheppard asks. "Smell? Or sense, like Teyla?"

Ronon walks closer, pulls up a chair and sits when Sheppard cranes his neck to look up at him.

"Some of both. Right now, it's her scent on you," Ronon says. "I don't sense anything else."

Sheppard nods. "That's good, right?"

Ronon looks down at his hands on his knees. "I don't know."

He doesn't want to give Sheppard false hope. It doesn't serve any purpose.

"Right. Well, I guess I'd better see if I can wash her off," Sheppard says, shifting on the bed.

Ronon offers a hand to pull him up, pleased when Sheppard takes it.

Sheppard moves slowly into the bath, turns on lights that make them both look gray in the mirror. Ronon leans against the sink, watches Sheppard look at his reflection.

"I look awful," Sheppard says.

"You look the same," Ronon says, and Sheppard shoots him a look, then nods.

Whatever's coming, it hasn't started yet.

After one aborted attempt that almost ends in concussion, Sheppard stands stoically while Ronon yanks off his boots. He's surprisingly docile while Ronon skims his uniform shirt over his head, pulling it deftly over the bandage. Ronon keeps his eyes down; tries to think about anything but the smooth pale skin he's exposing, the dark patches of hair under Sheppard's arms and across his chest.

When Ronon works at Sheppard's belt buckle, brushing the tips of his fingers against Sheppard's belly, Sheppard sucks in a breath, but doesn't stop him until Ronon's hand is on his zipper. "I can get it from here," he says, and Ronon backs off, works to control his own breathing, covertly adjusts his aching cock. Even smelling like Wraith, Sheppard exerts a powerful pull.

Ronon paces in the sleeping quarters while Sheppard showers. He listens for any indication that all's not well. He's listening so hard he can hear the soap slide against Sheppard's skin, hear Sheppard's metal dog tags jingle when he moves. He hears a low groan that tells him Sheppard moved his bad arm too quickly. The sound makes the hair on the back of Ronon's neck stand up.

He wants to hear that sound again, but not in pain.

When the water's turned off, he can still hear each wayward drop make its way down the drain.

Sheppard appears in the doorway holding a towel loosely around his hips, his body still wet in places, hair standing on end. Ronon watches as he unselfconsciously hangs the towel on a hook, watches as Sheppard pulls striped shorts over muscular thighs and a taut, lean backside. He doesn't bother with a shirt.

Ronon watches as Sheppard approaches him, stopping a few feet away. Sheppard puts his arms out to the side and says, "Well? Better?"

Ronon steps close enough to get a good long whiff of soap, recycled water, and clean man. The Wraith smell is gone. Ronon closes his eyes, sniffs again, surprised at the strength of his relief in finding Sheppard's familiar scent again.

He opens his eyes, lets Sheppard see his smile. "Better."

Sheppard stretches out on the bed, crosses his feet at the ankles and puts his good arm behind his head. The bad arm lies still beside him like it belongs to someone else.

Ronon sits back down in the chair, spreads his legs to give his swollen groin some room.

"You don't have to stay with me," Sheppard says.

"Okay," Ronon says, leaning back, propping his feet on the end of the bed.

"I'm fine," Sheppard says, making a show of relaxing.

"I know," Ronon says.

Sheppard's quiet, staring up at the ceiling.

Ronon clears his throat. "You said I smell. Should I wash?"

Sheppard turns his head, looks at Ronon. "No, you're good."

Ronon nods, settles himself more comfortably.

He waits until Sheppard's breathing slows and deepens, until Sheppard's body relaxes fully before he stretches out on the floor by Sheppard's bed, lets himself drift into sleep.

He's staying, and God help the army that tries to move him.

***

Sheppard wakes him with a stifled moan some unknown time later.

"You okay?" Ronon asks softly.

Sheppard leans over the side of the bed, looks down at him on the floor. "Yeah."

"Your arm hurt?"

Sheppard drops back out of sight. After a minute, he says, "No."

Ronon waits.

"Ronon —" Sheppard says, his voice low and tense.

Ronon sits up. "Yeah?"

"Distract me," Sheppard says.

Ronon takes a deep breath. He could talk to Sheppard, get his mind off things, but it's not really his strong suit. He's so much better at doing.

If Sheppard's surprised when Ronon surges up over him on the bed, he hides it well.

Ronon's careful to avoid Sheppard's damaged arm, but beyond that, he's not gentle. He shoves a knee between Sheppard's legs, drives home his insistent erection in the hollow of Sheppard's hip.

Sheppard absorbs his weight like he's been waiting for it, slides his good hand under Ronon's vest and pulls him down until Ronon covers him.

Sheppard's heartbeat stutters against his chest, and Ronon feels the solid bulge between Sheppard's legs beneath him, the sweaty damp of his bare skin. Ronon can't stop the guttural sound that escapes his throat, and Sheppard answers him with his own inarticulate noise.

"Take this off," Sheppard breathes into his shoulder, pulling at his ratty shirt.

Ronon rears back, straddling Sheppard's hips. He strips off his shirt and lets Sheppard look at him.

He likes the light that burns in Sheppard's eyes, likes the slight tremor in the hand that moves across his chest, down his belly. He likes the touch, wants more, presses down against Sheppard's hand. He likes the strength of that hand, the callused fingertips burrowing in.

He wets his dry lips, watches Sheppard's eyes follow the motion. He thrusts against Sheppard's hand in a rhythm he can't mistake, and Sheppard's eyes close, his head tilting back. Ronon lifts Sheppard's hand to his mouth and sucks in two fingers, maintaining the rocking roll of his hips.

Sheppard bucks beneath him, gasping, and Ronon rides the swell, keeping pressure where Sheppard needs it most. Sheppard pulls his fingers from Ronon's mouth, wraps his hand around the back of Ronon's neck, and drags him down, saying, "Come here, come here."

The change of angle ratchets up Ronon's need as his cock rams more firmly against bone. He hovers over Sheppard's mouth, waits for Sheppard to lift his head, reaching for him, waits for the broken moan before letting Sheppard's hand lead him down.

Sheppard's mouth scorches him. He breathes Sheppard's air until he's dizzy, everything slipping away but the man beneath him, the rigid cock pushing against his stomach, the hot, wet mouth he's taking hard enough to bruise, the hand holding his head in place with equal strength.

Ronon lets Sheppard take his weight, lets the driving rhythm push him, lets go in ways he hasn't allowed himself for years.

He comes before Sheppard, unable to hold back when Sheppard's tongue thrusts deep in his mouth. He's shaking, wet heat spreading under him, and Sheppard wraps his good arm around him, still thrusting, rolling his hips up even as he tries to catch Ronon's fall.

Ronon tunnels a hand under Sheppard's shorts, wraps it around his cock and hears Sheppard swear in his ear while he convulses under Ronon's relentless grip.

Ronon's not sure how long it takes before one of them moves. He heaves up, goes into the small bathroom and cleans up best he can. He wets down a cloth in the sink and brings it to Sheppard. He gives Sheppard a minute while he rummages in a drawer for another pair of shorts.

Sheppard takes the shorts without comment, pulls them on one-handed and drops back on the bed. He beckons to Ronon with a wave of his bad arm.

Ronon decides if the bed stood up to the two of them before, there's no reason it can't now, and he stretches out beside Sheppard, crowding him, though Sheppard doesn't seem to mind. He makes sure he's between Sheppard and the door.

"Thanks, Ronon," Sheppard mumbles, warm and lax against him.

Ronon puts his hand on Sheppard's chest, wraps his fingers around Sheppard's dog tags.

He doesn't feel much need to answer.

***

Ronon moves back to the chair after Sheppard nods off again, stretches out the kinks in his back from trying to fit two big men in a too-small bed.

He stares at the stark white dressing on Sheppard's arm.

Once he's sure Sheppard's really out, he pulls at a corner of the bandage, looks at the angry scratch.

Maybe it's nothing.

Maybe it's just a cut like any other that will heal and scar.

He looks at Sheppard's face, his mouth slack, his eyes moving behind closed lids, his mind apparently busy even in sleep.

Ronon remembers the female's face, teeth bared, eyes wild, remembers the double echo of his gun and Sheppard's, the sheer brute force it took to kill her. He shudders at the thought of more like her, Wraith made even stronger, even faster. He doubts he could have lasted an hour against her alone; he's certain Sheppard wouldn't have lasted a minute longer.

In saving him, Ronon knows he may have just delayed the inevitable.

He knows he may not be able to save Sheppard from this.

But as he sits and watches Sheppard sleep, he realizes he's perfectly willing to die trying.