lunabee34 | SGA fic: Artistry

This meanders all over the place like it wants to make Lorne a big ole slut but can’t quite manage it and it’s sort of a Christmas fic and I don’t have a handle on these characters AT ALL and I made up alien words and what is wrong with me? Save me from myself, y’all. *flails and hides*

Title: Artistry
Pairing: Lorne/Ronon
Rating: Adult
Vague second season spoilers
1600 words

This is for

ana_grrl because she is made of shiny awesomeness.

Few people on Atlantis know that Evan can draw. He doesn’t hide his talent, exactly; he just keeps it close to the vest, not quite private but not common knowledge either. If he’s honest with himself, Evan will admit he stays quiet because he likes to see that look on peoples’ faces—that moment of happy astonishment when they realize what he can make, what his hands can do.

Regardless, he has little time for art when he first arrives in Atlantis. He’s too busy learning how to navigate this galaxy that’s full of both the most beautiful and the most terrifying wonders he’s ever seen. Then Evan’s first Pegasus Christmas rolls around. Everybody who lives in the city (and a surprising number of Athosians and Daedalus crew) puts his name in Dr. McKay’s metaphorical and computerized hat and the next morning, Evan opens an email with the subject line Secret Santa to find Colonel Sheppard’s name.

Evan’s a little at a loss. Buying your CO a Christmas gift is a daunting task under the best conditions, but Dr. Weir’s imposed a twenty five dollar spending limit (or the equivalent of one half bushel of grangal beans for the Athosians) and Evan only has two days to decide on a gift before the weekly data burst to Earth. They’ve all got more money than most of them believe they’ll ever get to spend so why Dr. Weir insists on the skinflint approach to the holidays Evan doesn’t know, unless it’s to keep the Athosians from feeling like their gifts aren’t on par and Evan guesses that makes sense. But Evan can’t think of a single thing Colonel Sheppard might want that only costs twenty five dollars. He thinks for two days solid and then remembers that his grandmother always said that the best gifts are handmade. Evan really hopes Colonel Sheppard agrees with her.

When Evan decides to do a thing, he does it right. He takes pictures of the city from the pier at sunrise and at sunset and when the noonday sun is almost blinding on the breakers. He even snaps some aerial shots from the jumper, Teyla watching him curiously but saying nothing. Then Evan paints.

On Christmas Eve, the mess is completely transformed. Dr. Zelenka figured out how to work Atlantis’s internal radio system, so there’s music and people are dancing. Halling brought a tree from the mainland and someone (Evan suspects Lt. Cadman) has decorated it with dozens of blown up surgical gloves and tinsel crafted from yellow caution tape. Dr. McKay made a surprisingly un-narcissistic slide show that chronicles their time so far in Atlantis, and it plays on laptops left at strategic intervals throughout the room. The Daedalus transported a few cases of liquor along with everyone’s gifts and the punch is flowing freely. Evan can’t remember the last time his colleagues looked so relaxed.

Evan receives a wooden tray from an Athosian man he’s never met. The color of the wood is shocking—sepias and burnt umbers and the most startling orange. The grain is studded with large whorls, and although simple in design, the tray’s surface has been polished until it feels as soft as silk against Evan’s fingertips. Evan knows the work of a master craftsman when he sees it and he also knows that this gift he’s been given is worth much more than twenty five dollars. The Athosian greeting has always made Evan slightly uncomfortable but he doesn’t know any other way to communicate his gratitude, so he pulls the man’s forehead down to his own.

Colonel Sheppard gives Dr. Heightmeyer an indigo glass vase from M4X-143 and then Evan hands the Colonel his gift. Colonel Sheppard peels back the paper and stands transfixed, jaw dropped, until Dr. McKay stamps his foot impatiently and says, “Well? Don’t keep us in suspense.” Colonel Sheppard turns the painting so that everyone can see, the fingers of his left hand poised over Atlantis’s luminescent spires.

“Major Lorne,” he says. “Evan,” he says. “You made this?” And then Colonel Sheppard looks at him the way he looks at the sky, the way he looks at the city herself and Evan blushes, pleased. After that, the cat’s pretty much out of the bag as far as Evan’s artistic ability is concerned.

Evan’s always enjoyed going offworld with Dr. Parrish, but he enjoys it even more now that Dr. Parrish wants his help cataloguing the native flora they discover. The first time Dr. Parrish asks, they are on a world where the plant life is so delicate that exposure to any technological device that runs on batteries is harmful. After destroying an acre or two of wildflowers with the digital camera, Dr. Parrish asks Evan to draw the plants he singles out and Evan does. After that, whenever he accompanies Dr. Parrish offworld, Dr. Parrish asks Evan to draw, even when his drawings aren’t necessary.

Evan finds these missions relaxing—the scratch of pencil on paper, the sun browning his arms and his neck as he works, Dr. Parrish muttering under his breath and pressing leaves between sheets of plastic. After one such mission, Ronon corners Evan in the gym.

“I saw what you gave Sheppard at Christmas,” he says. “You’re eritaya.”

“What?” Evan says, confused. He’s not sure, but he thinks Ronon just insulted him and after watching Ronon beat the crap out of more Marines than he can count, he is sure that he doesn’t want to be on Ronon’s bad side. Ever.

“Eritaya. Artist. One who lays the heart bare.” Ronon looks grave when he says this, as if he is reciting something sacred from memory.

“Um, okay,” Evan says. This is rapidly becoming the most bizarre conversation he’s had since he suffered through Dr. Beckett and Dr. McKay’s discussion of the foods they like that most other people find utterly revolting.

Ronon says, “I want a new tattoo and I want you to draw it for me.”

Evan nods, relieved. Now things are making a little more sense. “Just tell me what you want and I’ll be happy to sketch it out for you.”

Ronon scowls. “No, no. That’s not the way it’s done. You watch me, the way you watched Sheppard and then you’ll know what to draw.”

Evan almost says, “You’ve got it all wrong. I don’t watch Colonel Sheppard. I have never watched Colonel Sheppard. The hard on that man has for Atlantis is visible from the Milky Way,” but then he gets it, what Ronon means, and he doesn’t know why but Evan agrees.

So for the next three months, Evan watches Ronon Dex. He watches Ronon spar, the long span of his torso beading over with sweat, the animal grace of his limbs as they flex and curl with fierce precision. He watches Ronon eat, always cleaning his plate as if he can’t completely shake the hunger of the last seven years. Evan watches him laugh, watches him cuff Dr. McKay on the side of the head, watches him carry an unconscious Teyla through the Gate and run her to the infirmary with his braids flying behind him.

The days pass and Evan has absolutely no idea what to draw for Ronon but another thing has become abundantly clear. At some point, Evan realizes that he has stopped watching Ronon and started watching Ronon. This problem is compounded by the fact that ever since that day in the gym, Ronon’s been spending as much of his off-duty time with Evan as he does with his team.

Like now. Ronon is kicking Evan’s ass at Mortal Kombat Annihilation, the controller dwarfed by his huge hands. Evan throws his controller down in disgust and they drink beer (Sam Adams, black market acquisition) in companionable silence for awhile. Evan likes that about Ronon, the way he’s not afraid to let a silence stretch.

In the quiet, Evan can focus on the way Ronon’s throat works when he swallows, the heat that soaks into him where their knees casually touch. Then Ronon does something entirely unexpected. He plucks Evan’s beer from his hand and sets it on the floor and then he kisses him—sweetly, tenderly, not at all the way Evan thought Ronon would kiss. Ronon drags his mouth down Evan’s neck to his collarbone, his beard scraping a heated line into Evan’s flesh and Evan’s breath comes faster and catches in his throat.

“Been wanting to do that for a long time,” Ronon says, sliding his hands under Evan’s worn T-shirt.

“Wait,” Evan says. “Is that what this whole tattoo thing was about? You hitting on me?”

Ronon laughs. “Yeah.”

“Oh, thank god, because I have no idea what to draw for you.”

“There are other ways to lay the heart bare than with ink.” And then Ronon unzips Evan’s pants and pushes them down to his knees and his mouth is so hot and perfect on Evan’s cock that the whole world falls away except for that wet suction and the pleasure building in his body. Evan comes and Ronon swallows him down and when they kiss Evan tastes himself.

Ronon slicks up his cock and presses Evan down into the floor and Evan doesn’t question this turn of events in the least. After all, he’s been watching Ronon for months now and he knows what he wants. Ronon makes the most filthy, delicious noises when he fucks him, wet gasps and broken moans, and when he comes, he pants out words in Satedan that Evan can decipher from their tone.

Later, when they are folded into a bed that’s much too small for them both, Evan traces lazy circles on Ronon’s hip. He’s starting to get some ideas now and he has the feeling it won’t be long before he knows exactly what belongs on the canvas of Ronon’s skin.

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From:

kelliem.livejournal.com

Guh.

Well done.

From:

SGA fic: Artistry

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