Note: Thanks to Himadesu for the excellent beta! NC-17.
It doesn't take long for John to find him. If Ronon isn't in the mess hall or his quarters, odds are he's in the gym or out on a balcony somewhere inhaling fresh air like John used to smoke cigarettes. John sidles into the gym, leans back against the weapons cabinet, and silently watches Ronon beat the hell out of a heavy bag. The place is otherwise empty at this time of night, and the air recyclers have pumped most of the day's sweat stench out of the room. Ronon doesn't acknowledge him. John can tell, though, from the way he slows the pattern of his punches and starts his cool-down routine that he knows perfectly well John is there.
When Ronon finally turns to face him, John throws a towel at him. It surprises him into something almost like a smile, and John catches a flash of white teeth before the focused look is back and John finds himself being stared at. A second later Ronon has an eyebrow raised, and John wonders that Ronon has managed to turn things around on him already.
Ronon's gaze feels almost tangible, even from across the room, and John sees Ronon's lips move before he connects movement to sound.
"Sheppard?"
John folds his arms and takes a long breath to steady himself. Ronon had been typically monosyllabic at the post-mission debrief, despite it being his first mission as part of the team. The caginess is still unnerving. On the other hand, Ronon spoke more today than in all the time they've known him, and John's still trying to wrap his head around what happened in the prison camp. "You surprised me today."
Ronon waits.
"I would've thought you'd have more self-control after everything you've been through, you know? I was also pretty sure we were clear on putting the team's survival first. I shouldn't have to remind you that I'm not leaving anyone behind. Not unless I absolutely have to." John pauses. "We are clear, right?"
"Yeah."
"Because here's the thing: you made me make it an order."
Ronon shrugs.
"And I realized something about you. You need that." John's shaking his head, a bemused smile breaking over his face.
Ronon darts a glance at him and looks away.
"I wouldn't have called that."
"I can see that," Ronon grumbles.
"It's nice to give up a little control sometimes, isn't it?" John knows he's pushing buttons here, and it isn't that he can't help himself. It might be a risk, but Elizabeth was right. He needs to find out who this guy is.
It doesn't surprise him that Ronon's holding his tongue.
"Answer me," John says, to see what happens.
"It is." Ronon lifts his chin a little and if it were just a staring contest, he would beat John hands down. But it isn't. John's eyes are fixed on Ronon's and he's willing him to get it: he is what he is. He does his job, he plays mostly by the rules, and he isn't hiding a damned thing. Gradually the prickliness fades from Ronon's bearing. John watches as Ronon's lips relax from their hard line, and Ronon's head tilts, his breathing speeds up. John's so caught up in figuring out what's going on in Ronon's head that it's a surprise when, a moment later, Ronon strips off his ratty sleeveless shirt and lets it fall to the mat. He's licking his lips, laying all his focus on John.
Shit. Of course Ronon would up the ante. John wonders if Ronon's responding to him as a defensive tactic, or if this is how he normally greets an ally, or possibly a superior, prying up the corner of his shell. It's interesting as far as team dynamics goes, but crap, there's no mistaking the shift of Ronon's hips and this isn't what he'd planned at all. With an effort, John drags his eyes up from Ronon's body and shakes his head. "Not an option, is that understood?
"I understand chain of command, if that's what you mean."
"Good," John answers, but Ronon neither steps back nor puts his shirt back on.
Instead he takes a step forward. "I didn't think you'd want me to beg."
"I, uh, don't." John stares back at Ronon, trying to figure out how things escalated to this and how the hell to fix it because if it doesn't stop right now, he's pretty sure this'll all come back later to bite him in the ass. "Look, Ronon, it's not personal, but it's not an option. Not if you're on my team, and I need you on the team. So, you should, uh, put your shirt back on."
There's an insolent grunt and the words "How long?" hang in the air. John's distracted, though, by the broad chest and the tattoo on the side of his neck and by how smooth and salty the skin there looks. It takes him a minute to figure out what Ronon's asking.
"I really can't say," he says when he can make his mouth work, and it's the truth. The only things he can imagine taking Ronon off his team involve disaster, demotion, or a massive influx of fresh personnel…none of which he wants to deal with anytime soon.
Ronon narrows his eyes, opens his pants, and starts to stroke himself.
John chokes on a breath and makes an embarrassing noise, but Ronon's left hand is gently rolling his dark, heavy-looking balls and his right hand pulling hard at his thickening cock, and what the fuck did John think he was playing at here in the first place? How was teasing the big, scary guy into revealing himself supposed to be a good idea? John looks back at Ronon's face, and the look he gets is pretty damned close to a glare.
"Uh, Ronon?"
Ronon keeps stroking and doesn't break eye contact. He doesn't even blink. "Your eyes follow me," he says, "no matter what I'm doing."
"Well, 'follow' is a strong word," John hedges, and he hasn't felt this caught since…at least since they'd found themselves surrounded by convicted murderers that afternoon. The second time.
Ronon looks amused in an unmistakable and deadly way. Then he licks his lips again and John catches another glint of teeth. "You want me."
"Funny, I thought we'd established that," John snaps. He's annoyed now, partly at himself for thinking, like an idiot, that he'd had any idea what he was getting into, but mostly he's annoyed at Ronon for standing there fucking his own fist in the middle of the damned gym as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
When John looks back up, he catches the bare edge of something in Ronon's eyes before it vanishes back under cover.
John says emphatically, "No".
Ronon closes his eyes and strokes faster.
"Jesus, Ronon, stop."
Eyes still closed, Ronon's voice rumbles, "Is that an order, Sheppard?"
John can't pull his eyes away from the motion of Ronon's hand, but this is not what he planned on, or even what he wanted. He doesn't know what the hell he wanted. In a quiet voice, John answers, "Yeah."
Ronon shudders then, comes all over his hand, and stops.
John stares for a moment, more than a little shaken, and tries to read the expression in Ronon's eyes. There's the usual defiance, a ghost of a dare. Then Ronon's lips part and John sees the hunger, the unsated thirst. John's acutely aware of the pressure in his groin, but he'll be damned if he fucks his team up any more than he already has, no matter what his dick has to say about it.
Ronon's standing there, dripping. John turns on his heel and leaves.