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wordwitchAuthor's note: A great deal of gratitude is due to ![[insanejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/ij-userinfo.gif)
ladyholder, who encouraged me to write this, and to Callie Sullivan, who wrote the transcript from which I am working.
Thank you both.
The really nice thing about a base the size of Cheyenne is that when you say you need a suit, full mourning, perfectly tailored and now, they have someone on call to bring you something and alter it to fit. And the really nice thing about living in a combat zone with no need for US currency is that I didn't have to touch a dime of my mom's money to afford it or the outfits Ronon chose.
I'd never had, or wanted, access to any of my dad's money. And I refused to honor him with my uniform and medals: he'd never wanted me to go into the Air Force, and I would be munched by Marilyn Manson before I listened to a single individual gush about how proud he must have been of me.
So we were kitted out without leaving the Mountain, and were able to fit in a full night's sleep - a solid seven hours, no alarms or anything - in beds that were made long enough for human soldiers, and even for a super-sized Satedan like Ronon. Frankly, I expected nightmares, but the solid sense of miles of rock around me did the same thing that Atlantis' briny air did: convinced my body I was safe from anything truly dangerous. So we were able to beam out the next morning, Cheyenne to the Apollo to Nashville, and pick up a nice funereal beemer to sail down the curving country roads the forty-two miles it took to get to what my dad had intended to be our ancestral home. I was briefly glad to have Ronon and not Rodney: Ronon doesn't care how fast I drive. Or don't.
Ronon is ... Ronon is kind of a balm to my existence. He watched me for a while, decided he knew enough about me, decided that was good enough for him, and has never ever asked me to be anything or anyone other than that. I didn't have to be a good enough soldier - or bad enough not to draw dangerous attention. I didn't have to be diplomatic, or rude enough not to be tapped for an inappropriate duty. I didn't have to hide my brains or try to keep up, either. It makes it easier to talk to him, not having to prove or protect myself. And easier not to talk to him, when all I wanted to do was to try to figure out what the hell was going on in my head.
Because there was still this great silence in my head. And behind it, somewhere, moved something huge. Something dangerous. Something that I very much hoped would not break free at the funeral.
Part 3
ladyholder, who encouraged me to write this, and to Callie Sullivan, who wrote the transcript from which I am working.Thank you both.
The really nice thing about a base the size of Cheyenne is that when you say you need a suit, full mourning, perfectly tailored and now, they have someone on call to bring you something and alter it to fit. And the really nice thing about living in a combat zone with no need for US currency is that I didn't have to touch a dime of my mom's money to afford it or the outfits Ronon chose.
I'd never had, or wanted, access to any of my dad's money. And I refused to honor him with my uniform and medals: he'd never wanted me to go into the Air Force, and I would be munched by Marilyn Manson before I listened to a single individual gush about how proud he must have been of me.
So we were kitted out without leaving the Mountain, and were able to fit in a full night's sleep - a solid seven hours, no alarms or anything - in beds that were made long enough for human soldiers, and even for a super-sized Satedan like Ronon. Frankly, I expected nightmares, but the solid sense of miles of rock around me did the same thing that Atlantis' briny air did: convinced my body I was safe from anything truly dangerous. So we were able to beam out the next morning, Cheyenne to the Apollo to Nashville, and pick up a nice funereal beemer to sail down the curving country roads the forty-two miles it took to get to what my dad had intended to be our ancestral home. I was briefly glad to have Ronon and not Rodney: Ronon doesn't care how fast I drive. Or don't.
Ronon is ... Ronon is kind of a balm to my existence. He watched me for a while, decided he knew enough about me, decided that was good enough for him, and has never ever asked me to be anything or anyone other than that. I didn't have to be a good enough soldier - or bad enough not to draw dangerous attention. I didn't have to be diplomatic, or rude enough not to be tapped for an inappropriate duty. I didn't have to hide my brains or try to keep up, either. It makes it easier to talk to him, not having to prove or protect myself. And easier not to talk to him, when all I wanted to do was to try to figure out what the hell was going on in my head.
Because there was still this great silence in my head. And behind it, somewhere, moved something huge. Something dangerous. Something that I very much hoped would not break free at the funeral.
Part 3
