Title: Something Real
Author:
renisanz
Category:
Romance/Angst
Summary:
During Adrift, Elizbeth questions what is real. Ronon answers.
Rating:
PG
Words:
356
Warning:
Spoilers for Adrift.
Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, this fic wouldn't exist.
Notes: Another ship I've never written, as requested by beth_soprano for my drabble meme. I've never written anything in this ship, and only read a few stories, so I have no idea whether anything like this has been written before.

. . . . . . . . . .

She turned at the sound of the door swishing open. She should probably be resting, having just cheated death, but sleep was elusive as it always had been. Maybe she was afraid of the dreams she'd have with Nanites swimming around in her brain. Would they materialize into her subconscious, as they had in the past. How could she be sure that the same thing wasn't happening that had before. Maybe Atlantis was safe, and this was all an elaborate illusion.

"Hey," She turned, then, at hearing his gruff voice. Heavy, booted feet crossed the room to her.

"You okay," he asked, and she looked up to see his green eyes filled with concern and...something else.

"No, not really, but I suppose that wouldn't matter to any one," she sighed, meeting his eyes.

"Why not?" He crossed his arms over his broad chest.

"It was a mistake for them to do this. John should have known this was too great of a risk, a security risk even. I don't want to live knowing there's a small chance I could be turned into a weapon to be used against you. Against everyone I'm supposed to protect."

Ronon tilted his head to the side and then, to her surprise, dropped beside her on the bed, the weight of him causing her to lean into him a bit. His arm was warm against hers.

"He did what he thought he needed to."

"Yeah, well, that's not much comfort now."

Ronon didn't have any more words, for he shrugged, his arm rubbing against hers.

She stared down at her hands folded in her lap itching for something to do with them to stamp down the strange urge she had to touch him.

Then something brushed against her neck, the backside of his hand, and she turned her face to him as his fingers snagged around the back of her neck, massaging. His beard tickled her chin before his mouth brushed brushed against hers, a hint of pressure—of promise—before he pulled away and enveloped her in his arms.

Could this be real?

For the moment, she didn't care.