FroggTales

Lorne's team doesn't bother to ask about the tattoos. They don't have to.

Considering the Satedan script involved, and that the tattoos hadn't existed before Lorne went back to Sateda with Ronon, they know better.

Besides, they're far more interested in pestering Botany about cultivating the vesri fruit that had been brought back.

~~~

Carson doesn't find out until almost two weeks later, when the team comes back from P32-705 covered in ice and mud. Stackhouse and Cadman are already running fevers.

Lorne's only shivering with the onset of hypothermia, bleary eyed and sneezing continuously as he's stripped of gear and uniform. The startled exclamations draw Carson's attention, but don't stop the graceful curves and sharp angles from getting covered almost instantly by heated blankets.

"You think I would endanger him?" Ronon asks, bland and implacable, an unmovable mountain at Lorne's side.

Only Lorne's current condition makes Carson let it go.

That the tattoos have already healed doesn't hurt though.

~~~

"Did you want something, sir?" Lorne asks, hating the way his voice still rasps; health is slow to return. He doesn't bother looking; the lazy stride is all too recognizable, and the blatant staring almost intrusive.

"Not really."

Lorne can feel Sheppard's gaze tracing the lines bridging his collarbones, a curious, if oddly unwelcome, phantasmal caress. "Talk to Carson. I'm only allowed four hours." He pauses to sneeze. "On light duty, and I already worked today's shift, sir." He can't suppress a shiver, thankful Carson's prescribed lots of sun; the shower is only tolerable for so long, despite the respite from lingering bone-deep chill.

"Evan."

"Sir?" Opening his eyes slightly, Lorne peers up from his sprawl on the pier; Sheppard looks huge from this angle.

"Drop the sir," Sheppard says.

The questions Sheppard wants to ask, he won't, and Lorne knows it. "Yes, sir." He can't answer them. Won't. Same thing.

"Don't you think that's a little..."

"A little what? Sir."

"Excessive? Maybe?"

Lorne's snort irritates his throat, starting another coughing fit. His stomach clenches as he struggles to turn, make it easier to breathe through it.

Sheppard's on one knee almost instantly, one wrist under Lorne's hand, his other arm across Lorne's shoulders, hiding the markings there. "Easy, Major."

Lorne squeezes once in comprehension, but it doesn't help; the coughing segues into sneezing, then back into coughing, leaving him panting and weak when it's over, tears streaming in awkward lines across his face.

"Jesus, this wasn't..." Sheppard shifts his hold, sliding one shoulder beneath Lorne's head as he lowers them both to the mat, then sliding his arm out from beneath him. There's no way to miss the tremors from fatigue, the tiny lines of pain and exhaustion, where there had been none. Still, apologies don't come freely. "Here," he says, fishing two Altoids tins out of a pocket, one new, the other battered. "Peppermint, and the throat drops the Athosians make." He pauses, remorseful. "Might help."

Not wanting to risk yet another attack, Lorne suppresses a laugh; he's been sucking on Athosian throat lozenges for a week now, his whole team has, plus two of the nurses who'd caught a milder version of the P32 flu. The Altoids, though... He clumsily reaches for them, fingers colliding gracelessly with Sheppard's arm a few times before his hand is caught gently. "Mint, please." His voice is gone again, no more than a gravelly whisper.

The plastic wrap is absurdly loud over the sound of the ocean surrounding them, the wind through the city's towers. Sheppard pops the lid and takes two square-ish mints out, carefully setting them on Lorne's fingers. "Got it?" He sets the tins down on the pier, other hand reaching out halfway.

Lorne swallows painfully, trying to gather the energy just to lift his arm; his coordination is shot, but he manages to turn his head, and then the numbing taste of peppermint floods his mouth and sinus cavities. The relief is all he has strength to focus on, and is enough to make his eyes burn.

Sheppard's gone when Lorne looks again.

There are other things instead: a basket of Carson-approved comfort food; hot water bottles; rolled towels; and most important, Ronon.

~~~

Sheppard never does ask his questions.

A few days' deflections and abrupt subject changes - and judicious tinkering with duty rosters - constrains rampant curiosity among the rest of the population.

~~~

Three weeks later

"You'll be on P53-979--"

"Ocara, sir," Cadman chirps.

Sheppard glares at the interruption and shakes his head before continuing, "Ocara for three days, maybe five. It's the beginning of their harvest season, so expect--"

"To eat, drink, and beware of flying plums," Stackhouse finishes, chuckling. "We've been there, and heard the stories."

"I believe they are called ressint." Teyla nods. "You are blessed to be attending the harvest; ressint are a delicacy among my people."

"I can't get them to grow in the greenhouses here," Parrish grumbles.

Lorne hides his smile. "So, three days on Ocara," he says, stressing the name for Cadman's benefit. "Anything else we should be aware of?"

Sheppard makes a show of consideration. "No. You'll have two days' leeway, if you think it necessary. I want you back in rotation. Oh, and Lieutenant?" He glances at Cadman pointedly.

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't blow anything up while you're over there."

Cadman's eyes widen. "Not even if they ask me to?"

"Lieutenant--"

"John," Teyla starts, "while the Ocar have not been informed of the role they play in clearing personnel for fieldwork, I very much doubt they are unaware of it. They have become...somewhat aggressively accommodating, and I would not put it past them to have set aside anything that needs to be blown up for Lieutenant Cadman. Her...talent for it is not exactly a secret."

Sheppard looks as if he's swallowed a lemon, peel and all. "Yes, well. Don't go blowing up anything they didn't ask you to. Got that?"

"Don't blow stuff up without asking first, yes, sir." Cadman's expression of earnest obedience and innocence is entirely too deceptive.

Lorne pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "Can we just...go?"

~~~

Lorne and his team settle into the Ocar guesthouse in time to share a leisurely breakfast with the mayor and his family, then head out to the ressint orchards to join almost the entire population for the First Day's harvest.

"Where is everyone?" Stackhouse asks, searching for the source of all the laughter and catcalls; only a few people are visible, managing bushels and baskets, most empty, a few overflowing with white and orange fruit.

"In the trees!" Parrish laughs, catching one of the local's attention. He waves back. "So, pick a tree, grab some baskets, and get climbing?"

"You'll want to go two rows over that way, this row's already claimed," someone calls from overhead.

"Well, we've got our marching orders," Lorne says, not bothering to hide his laughter.

~~~

Lorne has all but forgotten the "Beware flying plums" warning when the ressint hits his shoulder, the skin splitting open to expose dark purple flesh. The tang of sugar and alcohol lingers as he looks between the fallen fruit and where he knows Cadman perches, wedged in the branches.

It isn't her fault, but Lorne knows now how the flying plums rumor got started.

Well, that, and the tradition of First Day food fights.

The ressint all but falls off the stem in his hand, the fruit soft beneath gentle fingers. Overripe, fermenting, perfect.

Sheppard will never believe he started it.

"LORNE!" Cadman shrieks indignantly, brushing futilely at the sticky mess on her shirt.

Ocar of all ages swarm out of the trees, laughing as they take up 'arms'. Lorne grabs a couple of ressint out of the full bushel beside him and takes cover behind the nearest tree.

He's not quite fast enough to avoid the thump-splat on his back.

~~~

Two hours later, the orchard is a mess of mushy ressint pulp, tipped bushels spilling their cargo in bright piles.

The townsfolk crowd the river's edge, shedding sugary clothing to rinse in the slow, placid current; hyperactive children splash and play beneath the indulgent eyes of their parents.

For Lorne, it's a relief to strip himself of clothing that's long since been plastered to his body, glad of the lack of a nudity taboo here. He leaves his clothes on a rock for later, unaware of the awed silence that is sweeping the Ocar in his quest to be clean.

"Major?"

Instantly on alert at Parrish's uncertainty, Lorne turns, scrubbing the water from his eyes. "What is it?"

"Um." Parrish glances at the Ocar standing frozen all around them, staring at Lorne.

"Something wrong?"

"I--I'm sorry, sir, I didn't, we didn't know," Mayor Ceris babbles, frantic in his attempts to apologize. "We'd had no word, there was no indication that any of the Satedan Mirrored had survived--"

"Excuse me?" Lorne frowns. "I don't understand."

Ceris swallows hard and tries again. "Your Ronon Dex, he is--was, a Specialist?"

"That's what he claims his rank was, back on Sateda, yes. What does this have to do with--"

"You are his partner." It is something neither question nor statement.

"Yes." Shit, Lorne thinks to himself. The tattoos. "He's preparing for a mission to another planet."

"The Marks are new then." Ceris looks hopeful now, quiet murmurs breaking out among the other adults.

Lorne's team just looks confused.

Almost as confused as Lorne feels. "Yes, less than two months." He can feel the eyes on the tattoos, tracing the black framework across his collarbones front and back, the shields over his shoulder joints, the wide bands around his biceps. The dark blue script that shimmers in the right light, the red blocks and slashes rich as spilled blood against the pale gold of his skin. He knows they're important, almost sacred, but he'd thought it was personal.

Ceris smiles broadly, his obvious relief echoed in the sighs and nervous laughter from his fellow Ocar. "It is well, then. And we have another reason to celebrate - we had thought the Satedan Mirrored lost to the Wraith forever." He slaps Lorne's shoulder. "Come, come, you and yours should rest. We do not want you to leave early for lack of care!"

Lorne tries to quell the disturbing thought that he's gotten in way over his head, and makes a silent promise to roast Ronon over a slow fire for not warning him about this.

~~~

"Explain this to me," Lorne starts, trying not to squirm under Ceris' gaze. He's not sure he's ever felt as on display as he does now - he'd been asked, with painful courtesy, to leave the tattoos bare. As if the Ocars' awe wasn't enough, Cadman's obvious amused appreciation has added to the burden, and he's been left to avoid meeting her gaze over dinner, as well as anyone else's he can manage. "Just what is--are--were, the Satedan Mirrored?"

"Ronon didn't explain?" Ceris blinks in astonishment.

"Well, some, but you seem to know more about the...*social* aspects of it."

"Hmmm. Yes, I suppose. I can't say I know him well, but it would seem to be like him." He takes a sip of his mead, licks his lips. "He did take you to the temple on Sateda?"

"Yeah, he explained about the temple guard. Sort of."

Ceris nods thoughtfully. "I...do not know the full of it, what they were. Just that they were - are - bound by a profound trust and loyalty, able to anticipate one another. It is said that they were responsible for keeping the Wraith from taking Sateda in ages past."

"But Sateda was destroyed, we've seen the ruins," Stackhouse protests.

"Yes, this is true." Ceris sighs and shakes his head. "They were never common. While they have always been honored, and highly valued, what little we understand is that even the Satedans had become disturbed by the falling numbers."

"And there were not enough to push back the Wraith when they came," Cadman finishes quietly.

The silence then is intense, despite the background noise.

Dinner sits like a rock in Lorne's stomach; his plate is far from empty as he pushes away from the table, half-heartedly excusing himself.

~~~to be continued~~~