Loud.
Alive.
Sound bounces, careens laser–sharp in Atlantis — synapses. The automated doors whoosh open and close — exhalations. Human glances thunder in slow ebb and flow — pulsate.
He bolts — retreats — back to his room in the afternoon. A long, curved rectangle hugging the side of a cylindrical tower, one entire wall is a window. Soft daylight filters through the scudding clouds. He stretches out on the bed, boot–clad feet dangling off the end. The mattress curves to receive his weight, a softness that no longer feels foreign.
The first night, Ronan slept on the metal–alloy floors. It wicked heat away from his body in a familiar way. Hands pressed to the ground, he could feel neither the rumble of footsteps outside nor the hum of too–human voices on his fingertips. Imagining wind and rock and soil, he drifted to sleep, firearm in hand.
When they talk, he pretends to remember. Weir is made from words, spins the world from a verbal web. Ronan has forgotten them, forgotten the texture and weight, the binding and unbinding of human voices. Words build bridges between people, but he can give her none and she is adrift without anchor. His silence chases her down the hall and he breathes in relief.
The others speak quietly. Sheppard balances on a ball of words — dodging, twisting, deflecting. But when he really speaks, he corrals and herds, leads and pushes. He begs no understanding, no winding acknowledgement and Ronan is almost glad to follow. Teyla speaks with her body — the arresting arc of her shoulder marks a life of grace, the pounding rhythm of her feet is the momentum of survival.
The last one Ronan doesn’t understand completely. McKay. The hard sound bounces on the back of his palate when he mouths the word at the dim ceiling. That one makes sounds, but not speech; all day, like the pounding of surf. He very seldom needs words when he has the grace of honest hands and un–shuttered eyes.
The day winds down to evening. There is a whoosh and the door slides open. Ronan’s thought is broken. It is Sheppard. Doors open differently for him; faster, with a thrum of suppressed energy. He’s probably leaning casually in the doorway, the insouciant grace of an uncoiled spring. The ceiling tiles are lit by the setting sun and Ronan doesn’t get up.
"Teyla and I were heading down to the mess to get some dinner. You want to come along?"
He’s beginning to spiral into the cracks of their silences. Drifting on the current of their tidal voices, Ronan slowly remembers the shapes of unseen bridges.
"Sure."
Back to Fiction