They keep him 48 extra hours at Cheyenne Mountain, under guard and under quarantine, and every instinct he has says run, but Sheppard says, "Hang in there," and Rodney says, "I can't take you home until you've had all your shots," so he obeys.
They give him dogtags like Sheppard's, and a military ID card. "Cool," Sheppard says when he comes to pick Ronon up, looking exactly like he does back home, slouchy black off-duty clothes and funny too-big sunglasses. "Now you can buy beer." Ronon plays with the tags in the airport, and on the plane. They're like Sheppard's. They say he's Ronon, D. and Airman 1st Class (Sheppard says it's like a Specialist) and Buddhist. He asks what that means, and Sheppard says, "Close enough for government work."
He's too tired to do anything but fall into bed when he gets to where they're going. It's unfamiliar and he should be afraid of it, but every inch smells like Sheppard and Rodney and pizza, and that's enough.
He wakes up yelling, because something is ripping his hair out. He sits up in bed and his hand goes right away for his gun, because there's something moving fast, shooting almost across the walls of the room, something small and dark that attacked him. His gun isn't there; he remembers they made him take it off, and it's strange that he -- not that he let them, because Sheppard said it was safe, but that he felt relaxed enough to sleep without it. He doesn't know what this planet is doing to him, or how it's happening so fast.
The thing that he can't shoot comes to rest in Rodney's arms, still half-climbing his shoulder, long tail twitching in clear agitation. "What's the matter?" Rodney asks it -- low, sweet tones that Ronon has never heard from him, not ever. "Did the mean giant scare you?"
"He scared me," Ronon reminds him.
Rodney waves his hand dismissively. "Well, your whole head is covered with cat toys; he can't help it."
Ronon touches his hair instinctively, still eyeing the animal. It cranes its head around and eyes him back, evil yellow slitted eyes. "Does it have to be in the bedroom?"
"Of course he does! He's missed me!" Rodney rubs the top of its head, and it tips its head way back to expose its throat. Rodney strokes its throat with two fingers, and it growls at him. No -- it -- purrs at him, like a jautin. Weird. "Stop glaring," Rodney orders him. "He's perfectly friendly, and you'll learn to love him."
Rodney and fuzzy things. Ronon shakes his head and rubs sleep out of his eyes. "What if I get John to grow the beard back?" he suggests.
"John's not growing the beard back," John calls from the next room over.
"Don't worry about him," Rodney says to the animal, who rubs the top of its head under Rodney's chin, still managing to keep one demonic eye on Ronon. "I won't let him eat out of your bowl."
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They give him dogtags like Sheppard's, and a military ID card. "Cool," Sheppard says when he comes to pick Ronon up, looking exactly like he does back home, slouchy black off-duty clothes and funny too-big sunglasses. "Now you can buy beer." Ronon plays with the tags in the airport, and on the plane. They're like Sheppard's. They say he's Ronon, D. and Airman 1st Class (Sheppard says it's like a Specialist) and Buddhist. He asks what that means, and Sheppard says, "Close enough for government work."
He's too tired to do anything but fall into bed when he gets to where they're going. It's unfamiliar and he should be afraid of it, but every inch smells like Sheppard and Rodney and pizza, and that's enough.
He wakes up yelling, because something is ripping his hair out. He sits up in bed and his hand goes right away for his gun, because there's something moving fast, shooting almost across the walls of the room, something small and dark that attacked him. His gun isn't there; he remembers they made him take it off, and it's strange that he -- not that he let them, because Sheppard said it was safe, but that he felt relaxed enough to sleep without it. He doesn't know what this planet is doing to him, or how it's happening so fast.
The thing that he can't shoot comes to rest in Rodney's arms, still half-climbing his shoulder, long tail twitching in clear agitation. "What's the matter?" Rodney asks it -- low, sweet tones that Ronon has never heard from him, not ever. "Did the mean giant scare you?"
"He scared me," Ronon reminds him.
Rodney waves his hand dismissively. "Well, your whole head is covered with cat toys; he can't help it."
Ronon touches his hair instinctively, still eyeing the animal. It cranes its head around and eyes him back, evil yellow slitted eyes. "Does it have to be in the bedroom?"
"Of course he does! He's missed me!" Rodney rubs the top of its head, and it tips its head way back to expose its throat. Rodney strokes its throat with two fingers, and it growls at him. No -- it -- purrs at him, like a jautin. Weird. "Stop glaring," Rodney orders him. "He's perfectly friendly, and you'll learn to love him."
Rodney and fuzzy things. Ronon shakes his head and rubs sleep out of his eyes. "What if I get John to grow the beard back?" he suggests.
"John's not growing the beard back," John calls from the next room over.
"Don't worry about him," Rodney says to the animal, who rubs the top of its head under Rodney's chin, still managing to keep one demonic eye on Ronon. "I won't let him eat out of your bowl."