Ronon has to be careful. One wrong move will see him on the wrong side of the battle lines -- and he's not sure where those lines are yet. There are things that hold true no matter where one goes, and things that are specific to each group.

Whatever else, Ronon wants the support of Weir and Sheppard both, above and beyond what they gave him by hiring him. He watches them, learns their patterns. Sateda, LLC worked so differently from Atlantis Publishing, Inc. -- but, he knows, no matter which company you work for, some things are always the same.

Every morning, Sheppard puts his feet on his desk and his hands behind his head and invites people into his office to chat. Just to chat.

Every morning, Weir closes her office door and does paperwork, drinks coffee. Hazelnut cr?e, light with two sugars and skim milk.

Every morning, McKay comes up from the production department and hollers at everyone he can see: Cadman's late with her cover copy again, and Zelenka can't do a castoff until Lorne transmits the ms., and if Grodin is going to continue to ignore Parrish's proofreading queries, McKay won't be responsible for what happens!

Yeah, some things stay the same no matter where you are.

McKay has yet to notice him, but Ronon's yet to buy any books or put anything into production -- and he hasn't inherited any projects either. The last guy who had his job, Ford, went over to Harlequin to edit romance novels, and took all his authors with him. That's okay with Ronon; he doesn't have the sensibility for chick lit. Sateda did mostly military stuff -- history, political/military thrillers, SF. Ronon likes spaceships, maybe he'll try to find something with spaceships. Maybe politics and spaceships. He can do that.

He drinks his coffee and watches his coworkers and absorbs for a while, reads through submissions. He lets Sheppard do the talking, talk to agents, talk him up -- Ronon Dex, golden boy of Sateda, lured away to Atlantis right before the Wraith Alliance takeover of Sateda. The agents all want to know what made him leave Sateda, and Ronon certainly isn't going to tell them. He doesn't mind listening to their publishing gossip, but he won't be the focus of it. Publishing is a business of vultures and vipers and sharks, and he's going to wait as long as he can before he jumps into a pool of mixed metaphors.

Plus, Ronon would have stayed. He would have stayed through everything, through fire and brimstone and Wraith Alliance buying everything out and instituting a dress code and changing the focus of their books. He would have stayed for Kell, if Kell had asked -- but Kell had given in, had traded everything to the Wraith Alliance for the promise of his own future, and Ronon couldn't stay.

He tried to get the rest of them to leave with him, but Kell had their 401(k)s firmly in his grasp, and no one would listen to Ronon when he tried to tell them -- Kell is going to let the Wraith Alliance in here, you have to leave now.

He heard rumors that the same thing was done to the Athosian Press, but Teyla Emmagen plays things even closer to the vest than Ronon does, and she's not talking. Whatever the Wraith Alliance did to the Athosian Press, though, Atlantis Publishing absorbed it, pulled everyone who'd worked under Teyla into their company, gave them independence and a budget, publishes their books on weaving and spinning and living off the land with their own colophon, under their own imprint.

Ronon respects that. It was Weir's decision, he's pretty sure -- Weir and maybe Sheppard. Sheppard is the one who hired Ronon, but Weir is his boss. And she's a pretty interesting boss -- fair, evenhanded, willing to listen to both sides before making a decision. She's been working with McKay and Sheppard for a while, and having someone as hotheaded as McKay as the head of production, versus someone as chill as Sheppard for her head of editorial, can't be easy. Yet she's always got a smile, and Ronon has been keeping his ears open -- the editorial department is in and out of her office casually, calling her by her first name, chatting about her in affectionate tones at the water cooler.

There really is a water cooler and people really do chat around it. It's right near the fax machine and printer. Ronon is half bemused and half amused and willing to sit back and wait to see where he's going to fit into this motley group. If he does at all.

**

There is no evidence that Sheppard ever does any paperwork. His assistant used to be Ford, but when Ford left, they promoted Lorne. Lorne is always doing paperwork, running back and forth to the photocopier, distributing memos obviously not typed by Sheppard. Ronon is curious as to how the head of the editorial department never does paperwork, and on his list of things to do, he has: Find out.

Okay, maybe he doesn't actually have a list of things to do, but it's there in his head, and it starts with the production department, which is a floor below editorial, sandwiched between adpromo and art.

**

Day three: He goes down there. McKay is rocking back and forth on his toes, rubbing his hands together, and staring at the coffee machine, chanting, "Coffee coffee coffee."

"What, is it Kona?" asks Ronon, and McKay jumps.

"What? Oh, it's you, I see, is that how it's going to be, sneaking up on me when I'm not expecting it? Well, what do you want? I won't approve dec on a cover that I've already --"

Ronon holds up his coffee mug. "Just coffee."

"Get your coffee upstairs," replies McKay dismissively, and turns back around.

"Pot's cold upstairs." Ronon leans against the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest. "Coffee smells better down here."

"That is because I know how to make a pot of coffee, unlike you barbarians, and I don't use burned beans, and I grind it fresh." McKay sniffs disdainfully. Ronon wonders if he has a first name. The nameplate on his door only says "Dr. McKay."

"Is that what your doctorate is in? Coffee?"

"No." McKay turns around to give him a withering stare, and then returns his attention to the brewing coffee. "My doctorates are, in chronological order, Middle English morphology and syntax, applied linguistics in North America, and the history of punctuation in the Canadian novel."

"You have a doctorate in the history of Canadian punctuation?"

"Yes, what's your doctorate in?" asks McKay snidely as he pours coffee into his cup and sails past Ronon.

Ronon's doctorate is in political writing, the study and deconstruction of, which is, he thinks, part of what makes him so good at editing political thrillers, but McKay doesn't need to know that. He pours himself a cup of the coffee and takes a small sip. It is Kona.

**

Next to McKay is Radek Zelenka. Ronon leans against his door and sips his Kona. It doesn't need milk or sugar; this is not typical publishing coffee. The coffee at Sateda was so bad that most people just had their own coffee pots, or went to the cart on the corner at Bleecker.

"So you're Dr. McKay's right hand man," says Ronon.

"What?" Radek peers at him through thick glasses. "No no, we are not men like that."

"I meant --" starts Ronon, but Radek is grinning at him.

"Yes, ha! I am Radek," he says, and holds out his hand. He has a good handshake, firm, and no-nonsense. Ronon likes him already. He's wearing what Ronon has come to think of as the Atlantis Publishing uniform -- black pants and black boots and a colored t-shirt with a black blazer over it. Ronon stands out in his leather pants and duster, but they wouldn't have hired him if they hadn't wanted a rock star. "You are Ronon, replacing Ford."

"Yeah, nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too. It will be hard for you, everyone liked Aiden." Radek considers Ronon for a moment, and Ronon feels uncomfortably scrutinized. "I much like Sateda's books, for who does not like spaceships! But now you will edit books with spaceships for us, and I won't have to pay to read them. Fair to all." He nods, and Ronon nods back.

"What's your doctorate in?" asks Ronon as Radek reseats himself.

"Oh, well." Radek waves a hand. "We are all of us failed academics."

"But you do have a doctorate."

"Several, of course. Rodney would never hire anyone who could not boast at least two." Radek grins at Ronon. "Is worthwhile for you to note that I handle the castoffs and make sure that all information is inputted correctly, so come to me with problems, not Kavanagh."

"Kavanagh?" Ronon's heard of him, but Radek doesn't need to know that. Every company's got at least one. Sateda's was Freddie, a guy who couldn't tell his ass from his elbow, and never remembered to have books sent to the World Fantasy judges.

"Ah, Kavanagh Yes, we all try, but he hates it here. Yet won't leave. It is a torment for us all." Radek shakes his head. "The problem, I think, is DNA. You either?

"Have the gene or you don't," says Ronon in concert with Radek, and nods. "Yeah, we used to say that at Sateda, too."

"Do not," advised Radek in a low voice, "rely on Kavanagh for anything. But if you must, C.Y.A., my new friend."

"C.Y.A.?"

"Cover. Your. Ass." Radek nods decisively and turns back to his paperwork -- and Ronon figures that means he's dismissed. Okay.

**

The rest of the department wasn't around -- an internal proofreader, a couple of production managers.

He pours himself some more coffee and wanders into the art department. All the doors for the art staff are closed -- Dr. Carson Beckett, Art Director; Dr. Biro, Mass Market Art; one sign saying simply DUMAIS -- and there are giant printouts of book covers hanging everywhere. Ronon is familiar with some of them -- The Hive, Hot Zone, Trinity, Critical Mass, all the SF books. Others, he doesn't have a clue, but they're nice. In a bland kind of way.

Of course the entire art department is full of doctorates. Why not?

He's going in the wrong direction to get to the adpromo department, and he doesn't want to walk through production again, so he takes his coffee and goes back upstairs.

"You're late, man," says Lorne, jogging through the halls.

"For what?"

"Weekly editorial meeting. State of the union." Lorne jogs backwards and jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "Conference room is the last door down the hall by Weir's office. Go on in, I'm just getting Sheppard."

The conference room is not big enough to hold everyone in the editorial department. Ronon leans against the wall, cradling his coffee.

Cadman -- Cadman, Cadman, Cadman -- Laura, sniffs appreciatively. "Is that production's coffee?" she asks Ronon. She leans against the wall next to him. "How'd you get that?"

"I took it," says Ronon. He considers offering her a sip, but he's not sure what the rules about that sort of thing are here yet. This is an office full of contradictions -- no dress code, yet they all dress the same. More doctorates than a medical convention. Conservative hair and clothing but loud speech. Fighting, but not.

None of these things would have been tolerated at Sateda. Especially not after the Wraith Alliance got through with them.

No one in the editorial department wears the blazers that seem to be common to the rest of the departments. Laura Cadman is, but Ronon figures that's because she's Weir's assistant. Sheppard slams into the room and throws himself into the seat that was left empty. Lorne stands by the door, opposite Ronon.

"Fucking Kolya," Sheppard says, and runs his hands through his hair, making it stand straight up. "What's on the agenda for today?"

Grodin tilts back in his chair. "What's Kolya doing this time?"

"He's threatening to pull out of the Caldwell deal. Again. This time he wants assurances that McKay himself is going to handle the production on the project."

Everyone in the room snickers.

"Caldwell?" says Ronon. "Steven Caldwell?"

"Yeah, you heard of him?" asks Sheppard sarcastically. Of course Ronon's heard of him. Top of the New York Times list six books running, each staying there longer than the last. And he was published by Goa Ould, the third and biggest in the holy trinity, although the Wraith Alliance is creeping up fast.

"Yes," says Ronon, and steps back.

Sheppard looks around at everyone. "Well, why are we here?"

Cadman rolls her eyes. "You ask that every week."

"I have the list of books that are late to production," says Lorne, stepping forward and waving a small printout. "I also have the list of people who are late with copy -- Laura -- and the list of people who haven't returned their cover mechanicals to Carson. And --"

Sheppard snaps his fingers. "And everyone's met Ronon Dex? He'll be doing thrillers, SF, stuff like that. Ronon, this is everyone, you've met them all."

"Hi," says Ronon to the room, and everyone waves at him. He feels like he's back in grammar school. Or, rather, everyone waves at him except Teyla, sitting in the far corner of the room. She doesn't wear the Atlantis uniform -- she's got on jeans and hiking boots and a plaid shirt, and yet somehow manages to look like one of the sexiest women Ronon's ever met. She smiles at him and nods her head, and he knows there is no way he's got a shot with someone like that.

Which is all right, he figures, since she's a naturalist, and he doesn't like to camp.

"And!" says Sheppard. "McKay is annoyed again that you guys aren't filling out the estimating worksheets in a timely fashion. You don't fill that stuff out, he can't figure out how much making your books is going to cost. So get that all to him, otherwise he yells at me and I'll yell at you." Sheppard's chair thumps to the floor and he stands up. "I think we're done."

"Wait --" Lindsay pulls out a sheet of paper and presents it to Sheppard. "I need you to sign off on the new Hermiod fantasy."

Sheppard rolls his eyes, but signs it. "Why naked aliens?" he asks Lindsay, and he sounds almost whiny. Ronon suppresses a snicker.

"It sells," she replies primly.

"Fine, fine, but I want to go on record as saying that anyone who buys this crap... aw, nevermind." Sheppard puts both hands on the table and looks around. "Okay, folks, go."

Ronon lingers to walk out with Sheppard.

"How are you settling in?" he asks, clapping Ronon on the back.

"Just fine, thanks. Do you have a minute?"

"Sure." Sheppard sniffs. "Hey, is that production's Kona?"

"Yup."

Sheppard frowns at him. "How'd you get that?"

"Took it." Ronon offers the mug to Sheppard, who waves it away. Ronon shrugs, follows Sheppard into his office.

"Door open or closed?" he asks.

"Open," says Ronon. Doors closed mean people getting fired, plots in the hierarchy, or an important phone call, not just casual conversation. "I just wanted to go over "

"The chain of command?" Sheppard sits down and puts his hands behind his head, and his feet on the desk. "You find what you want to buy, figure out how many copies we can print, get the specs to McKay, who will give you the numbers to plug in -- paper, print, and bind, cover art, all that stuff -- and then you bring the printout to me. If it looks good, I'll sign off on it. But Elizabeth has to sign everything before you can make an offer."

"Caldwell," says Ronon.

"Oh. What about it? You ever work with Kolya? Man, the Genii Agency is a bitch. Their boilerplate is about three times as long as our standard contract." Sheppard shakes his head. "But Caldwell is gonna be worth it, if we can come up with the money."

"It shouldn't be a problem. Koyla is just playing with you, cause he's a dick. The Goa Ould is going down," says Ronon. He puts his coffee cup on Sheppard's desk and leans forward. It's not a conversation for closed doors, but it isn't something that needs to be broadcast. "Their publisher is leaving soon to start a new company. He's calling it Orii -- e-text, erotica, that sort of thing. He's taking some of the top people. I heard the Wraith guys talking about it; it should hit the trades soon."

"Hm." Sheppard's eyes narrow. "Have you told Elizabeth?"

"No -- only you."

Sheppard stands up. "Let's go, I want her to hear this." Sheppard hustles Ronon into Elizabeth's office -- it's decorated with book covers and African art. The first time Ronon stepped through the door, he'd wondered what a woman like Elizabeth Weir was doing working at Atlantis -- but she was damn good at her job. At least, from what Ronon could see.

"Tell her," prompts Sheppard, and Ronon does, filling her in on everything he heard from the Wraith guys about the new company, plus some of his own speculation. The Wraith guys weren't worried about Orii, but the Goa Ould guys were, and the Wraith guys found that really funny. Which Ronon thinks means --

"The Wraith Alliance is going to take over the Goa Ould," says Elizabeth, her eyes glowing. "I love it. After all these years, those bastards will finally get their comeuppance."

"Ah, Elizabeth, I hate to say this, but maybe that's not the best thing. We're all on shaky ground -- WalMart just cut their mass markets again, and we're getting more and more returns?

"I see what you mean, John," she replies, and taps her finger to her lips. "But let's worry about that when the time comes."

"It is always time to worry about the Wraith," says Ronon. He spreads his hands open and shows Elizabeth his palms. "At Sateda, we didn't think they were a threat -- what would they want with us? Two weeks later, hostile takeover."

"What does the Wraith Alliance want with Sateda?" Elizabeth's eyes flick from Sheppard to Ronon and back again. "Your books were good, but few -- you're not, say --"

"The Athosian Press?" fills in Ronon dryly. He stands up and nods his head. "I thought this was common knowledge, that the Wraith Alliance was trying for Goa Ould. Any day now, it's gonna be the cover of Publishers Weekly."

Elizabeth nods. "Thank you, Ronon. Please close the door on your way out?"

He does, and snags his coffee cup from Sheppard's office on the way back to his own, closes his door. So Weir and Sheppard aren't as plugged into the publishing gossip as he'd've thought. Complacent. Too complacent.

He stares at his door at drinks the last bit of cold Kona.

**

On Ronon's bulletin board when he took over the job were three things: A list of phone extensions, a memo informing Aiden Ford that Borders/Walden would take 20,000 copies of the new Jace Kanayo, Space Pirate In Love novel, and a list of approved holidays.

Ronon has tacked up: a memo from Elizabeth ("We're considering," it says in her neat script, "putting The Tower back into print. The Anderson rep is very excited about it. Please review the attached materials and let John know what you think."), his expense account number, the stockroom hours, a printout about the new Amazon.com Connect program, marked both "Confidential" and "COPY", and enough pushpins to spell out S A T E D A.

He doesn't have a nameplate yet, so he uses one of his business cards, taped to his door:

He didn't realize he was senior staff until he got the package of cards and stationery, but thinking about it, it makes sense. His salary is too good for anything but senior staff. He wonders if he should ask for an assistant, but he's always worked better by himself anyway. Paperwork's not so bad as long as you don't generate a lot of it, and he'll try to do everything by email if he can.

Ford left meticulous files, catalogues from every season going back five years, an archive of all the books he edited, shelves labeled for manuscripts-in-progress (delivered, edit, transmitted, copyedited, first pass, final pass), Post-It notes that are small rectangles, large rectangles, and perfectly square, all yellow, address labels already made out to review publications, stickers that say COMPLIMENTS OF ATLANTIS with the little Atlantis logo, colored pencils (red, purple, brown, and green), paperclips in three sizes, rubber bands in four (small, medium, large, and manuscript), manuscript boxes, unfolded and pressed together, red felt tip pens, and an entire drawer of packets of mustard, ketchup, salt, pepper, sugar, duck sauce, soy sauce, and salad dressing from Wendy's.

The bookshelf right at Ronon's eye level when he swivels in his chair has a Web10 and a Web11, Chicago14 and Chicago 15, The Encyclopedia of Torture, The Star Trek Encyclopedia, The Woman's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets, The Dictionary of Demonology, The Idiot's Guide to Voodoo, A History of Europe, The Encyclopedia of Hell, A Dictionary of American Idioms, and The Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus. And a cd; when Ronon pops it into the drive, it turns out to be a DOS program that he has to run from a command line.

It's an electronic version of the OED.

Ronon prints out the lists of meetings -- one every week with all of editorial, one every week with all of editorial and all of production, one every month with Weir and the marketing department -- and he makes a note to go introduce himself to the head of marketing and sales, Kate Heightmeyer -- and one three times every year with the sales reps.

He's not sure if he's in over his head or exactly where he's supposed to be. Instead of thinking about it, he sneaks down to the production department after he sees McKay in Elizabeth's office, and appropriates some of their Kona for him and Sheppard.

**

Ronon spent weeks trying to figure out what the Wraith Alliance could possibly want with Sateda. They did minor political thrillers, small time SF, lots of specialized military history. Locus explains it: It doesn't even take the Wraith Alliance a month to suck all the money out of Sateda's military history and SF books, and use it to finance their new line of paranormal chick lit horror erotica. And they fired Kell.

Ronon almost feels bad for his old mentor -- but Kell is the one who sent them all to the wolves. Kell is the one who betrayed everyone who worked for him. Ronon can't bring himself to care all that much.

He's taken to spending the first few minutes of the morning in Sheppard's office, discussing new projects with him. Sheppard's got an interesting view of books.

"They all suck," he says almost every morning. "So we need ones that suck and are interesting. Like how the Wraith Alliance books all suck and have sex."

"Is that a reference to their line of vampire erotica for pregnant women over the age of thirty-five?" asks Ronon. He props his feet on Sheppard's desk, his boots bigger than Sheppard's. He smirks.

"Maybe," says Sheppard. "Maybe not. What have you found, anyway?"

"I'm thinking about a new writer, a guy named Halling. Teyla referred him to me, since even though they've hooked up with you, the Athosian Press still isn't doing fiction."

"So what is it?"

"SF terrorism thriller." Ronon stretches a little. "I like it, there are a lot of guns and spaceships, and some terrorists."

Sheppard seems to perk up a little. "Bio-terrorists?"

"Yup."

"I bet Heightmeyer would have some great ideas for gifts to send to the reps with reading copies of a bio-SF-thriller."

"I'm worried it splits genres too much," says Ronon. He's thought a lot about this. "The cover would have to be either DNA or a spaceship, can't do both. Where do we stock it? The SF/F section, or the fiction section? Who buys it? People who are interested in spaceships and people who like bioterrorism?"

"No, neither, of course." Sheppard sighs. "Only people who like both."

"Like books about elves playing baseball." He and Sheppard share a glance of "Consumers are idiots" before Ronon stands. And right on time, because McKay is barreling in.

"Sheppard!" he says. "The idiots in your department --"

"Rodney, we talked about this," replies Sheppard. Ronon sneaks out around McKay.

"Oh, yes, yes, fine, the great and fine minds of editorial seem to have decided that the serial comma is no longer necessary for the functioning of a sentence! We are not a newspaper, Sheppard, and we --"

Ronon closes the door behind him. He's heard this one before; he himself is pro-serial comma. It is simply necessary. And, aesthetically, more pleasing.

Zelenka sticks his head in. "Is it the serial comma?" he asks seriously.

"Follett said that the serial comma is common sense," replies Ronon.

"Rodney has shirt that says, 'Serial comma equals instant karma'," replies Radek. Ronon considers the appropriate answer to this: his first instinct is to say "Cool" and wink; his second instinct is to snicker. His third is to stare at Radek.

He goes with the third and Radek is the one to snicker. "Instant karma," he repeats to himself, and heads down to Sheppard's office.

Ronon turns his attention back to Halling's book. He's pretty sure the whole thing is a secret joke between Halling and Teyla -- hell, the book is even called Athos, which turns out to be the name of the secret government program devoted to stopping the biovirus, which, of course, the government knew existed right from the very moment that the Wraaeth Corp. invented it.

Wraaeth Corp.

Ronon rolls his eyes and pulls up the profitability and liability form. If they don't pub the book in hardcover -- go right to mass market and airport bookstores -- and maybe get some cover quotes from Ronon's old contacts big enough names mean a big enough print run, and thrillers go over well in fall, and bio-thrillers are always a hit, since everyone's afraid of being hit by the next pandemic?P> He's jolted out of the numbers game by McKay's head, poked into his office and scowling. "And stop stealing my coffee!" yells McKay, and then walks away.

**

This year the Romance Writers of America are holding their annual conference in New York, and Elizabeth has declared that the entirety of the editorial staff must attend. Publicity attending is optional. No one else has to go.

Ronon scowls. "I do not edit romance novels," he says. "I'm not going."

"Hell, Ronon, I don't edit romance novels either," says Sheppard in that whiny voice that Ronon hates, because it always means that Sheppard will have his way. Damn it.

"Everyone must go," says Elizabeth firmly. "The RWA is a powerful group with literally millions of readers at their fingertips. Even the slightest hint of a relationship within a novel qualifies that novel for their annual Rita award. They're trying to legitimize romance --"

"Romance is legitimate," says Laura from next to Ronon. "More than --"

"Yes, we all know that romance novels account for more than fifty percent of the net sales of fiction in the country, who cares?" snaps McKay. "Does production have to attend? No? Then I'm leaving to get some work done. You people -- you have no idea what goes into making the damn books that you buy!"

"Thank you, Rodney," says Elizabeth, and smiles.

"Well -- you're welcome," he says. He actually is wearing a t-shirt that says Serial Comma = Instant Karma. Ronon kind of likes it. He can appreciate a good serial comma joke.

"It won't be so bad," says Elizabeth to the rest of the room.

"Yeah," says Lorne. "Romance writers drink everyone else under the table. Man, last year? I had a hangover for three days, and I think there are still pictures of me singing 'I Feel Like A Woman' at karaoke."

"Karaoke?" repeats Ronon.

"Don't worry." Laura pats Ronon's hand. "In those leather pants? They'll be all over you. Enough margaritas and you won't even notice them touching your hair."

**

It's easy to settle into a routine when he doesn't have much to do. Talk to Sheppard in the mornings, eat lunch while reading the trades, return phone calls in the afternoons, and then go to meetings at the end of the day. For two hours every Tuesday and Thursday, Ronon helps the junior staff read through submissions. They get some crazy stuff.

Sateda had to go out asking for things, everything was requested. That, Ronon figures, is the tradeoff working for a corporation like Atlantis. You get a bunch of stuff, but then you have to read it. Submissions about chain letters that actually kill, princesses who are rescued by centaurs, newspaper reporters uncovering Al Capone's body.

"Is Al Capone's body even missing?" he asks out loud.

"Would anyone care if it was?" replies one of the junior staff. Ronon doesn't even know her name, only that the way she licks envelopes is pornographic.

When he starts thinking sexy thoughts about twenty-one-year-old girls barely out of college, he knows it's time to stop thinking so much about the Wraith Alliance and the Orii E-Texts and get laid.

**

It wasn't that Ronon wanted to be a workaholic. But he was Kell's right hand man, and that comes with some sacrifices.

"To be honest," he says to Sheppard, "I didn't care."

"Me either," says Sheppard with a shrug. He's eating steak for lunch. Ronon is drinking red wine and picking at a burger. He's not hungry, just restless -- there's not enough for him to do during the day.

"Yeah," he says, and sits back, drains his glass and asks for another.

"You know what my wife always said?" says Sheppard, and Ronon nearly drops the glass.

"Your wife?"

"Chaya. She always said that I wasn't an alcoholic -- I was a publishing traditionalist." Sheppard stabs his knife in Ronon's direction. "But she was wrong. I'm an alcoholic."

"That's a grand old publishing tradition," replies Ronon tentatively.

"Exactly," says Sheppard, and goes back to his steak. Ronon stares at Sheppard's finger where the wedding ring would be.

"Women are weird," he says after a moment.

"Yup," says Sheppard. Ronon orders yet another glass of wine. That wasn't how he thought the conversation would go.

**

At the RWA conference, Ronon picks up a pretty-looking girl at the bar around the corner from the hotel by talking about the ridiculousness of Dryden's Latin preposition rule in prescriptive grammar, and takes her back to his apartment. She fucks him like a wild beast and then falls straight asleep, which he appreciates. Then he has a sudden attack of paranoia -- who knows anything about Dryden in this day and age? -- and looks through her purse. She's got a business card holder:

Nothing is ever fucking easy.

**

Neera calls him three times at home, and he deletes every message. He doesn't need to be fucking around with one of the Wraith's people, not even junior staff. Not even one who had a nice round belly and high breasts and a low, scratchy laugh.

**

The bulletin board over the printer in the editorial department says, at the top, FOR OFFICIAL USE ONLY.

Currently stapled to it is one of the phone lists that Ronon has, except it's about two years out of date.

Next to it is a picture of a child Ronon doesn't recognize from anything, and it says, in messy scribbling, "I have always been unhappy." It's yellowing at the corners. It doesn't look like it's ever been moved. Ever.

On the other side of the stapled phone list is a Post-It note with the fax number for the warehouse printed neatly in blue ink, and underneath the number, in black magic marker, it says DIAL 9 FIRST.

There's a bunch of political cartoons making fun of the current administration, and one of a man praying that says Dear Lord, Please grant me the ability to punch people in the face over standard TCP/IP. There's an announcement printed out from nytimes.com about consolidations in the Goa Ould, and a typed up quote from a submission -- His face was cut from stone and his eyes were as hard as dolls, but inside her analogy had him laughing near to tears -- and instructions for how to do a proper character count, signed at the bottom RM, as though anyone else would type that up.

In the center, in the place of honor, a printout that says:

**

The trouble with being senior staff and having no assistant is being out of the loop. Ronon doesn't get any of the good gossip. No one comes to sit in his office and chat with him, although every once in a while someone comes and says, "How do you get your hair to do that?" and he explains dreading -- but he's pretty sure that's research for books. Finally he sends a memo:

TO: ++AtlantisEdit, ++AtlantisProd
FROM: Ronon Dex
Subject: Dreads

http://www.howtodread.com

_________________________________

TO: Ronon Dex
FROM: Elizabeth Weir
CC: John Sheppard
Subject: Re: Dreads

Are people harassing you?

_________________________________

TO: Elizabeth Weir
FROM: Ronon Dex
CC: John Sheppard
Subject: Re: Re: Dreads

No.

_________________________________

TO: Ronon Dex
FROM: John Sheppard
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Dreads

Drinks?

_________________________________

TO: John Sheppard
FROM: Ronon Dex
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Dreads

Yes, now, please, thank you.

**

Sheppard really doesn't ever do paperwork. It's pretty amazing.

**

The Atlantis Christmas party -- better known as the Atlantis Non-denominational Winter Holiday Party -- is held in the conference room. Sheppard and Ronon run down to the liquor store in Union Square and load up a taxi with three hundred dollars of beer, wine, and liquor, and add a couple bags of chips for good measure. And a bag of pretzels for Elizabeth. Ronon tries to get lemon for the wheat beer, but Sheppard says that McKay is allergic, not to bother. And they get bitters and seltzer for Jaynie Russo, the mass market art director, who has volunteered to stay sober and get people into cabs at the end of the party.

She doesn't drink anyway, Sheppard tells Ronon, because the last time they had a party and she got really drunk, she did a strip tease for the CFO, Sam Carter.

"How did that end?" asks Ronon, interested in the first gossip he's getting in weeks.

"Badly, since Sam is straight and dating Jack O'Neill," replies Sheppard with a straight face.

Ronon glares at him. "Jack O'Neill, the Jack O'Neill? Our CEO?"

"Yup." Sheppard shoves another crate of beers into the freight elevator. "You missed the really interesting days, back when Jack and Sam weren't together and Jack and our -- well, I don't remember what he did, but he wore glasses and sneezed every time he got into an elevator. What was his name? David? Luke? Mark? Something. The three of them, together all the time. That was back when Elizabeth was head of marketing and sales, and Landry was the publisher -- unfun, my friend."

"Uh-huh," says Ronon. He grunts as he pushes another box onto the elevator. "And?"

"And nothing. It would be pretty stupid for Sam and Jack and Matthew? To be fucking around in their offices when they all live around here. The rumor just kind of died out after a while. And whatshisname is gone, off to do some kind of small press with that other guy, the big one -- Talc? Something. I didn't pay attention, it was junior staff stuff." Sheppard brushes off his hands and stares at the elevator. "That is a lot of booze."

Ronon steps back and examines it. "Will it be enough?"

"Probably not, but I have a bottle of scotch in my filing cabinet, just in case." Sheppard winks at him, and Ronon grins.

**

It turns out that when Carson the art director -- whose doctorate, Ronon eventually found out, is in fine arts, and from some school in the UK that Ronon's never heard of -- gets drunk, he gets maudlin for good old Scotland and his mama, and recites terrible Scottish poetry.

"This one," he says, standing on the conference table, "is by a man of vaunted personage! A man unappreciated! He -- He'd warn them a' o' fires o' hell! And pit some brimstone in as well!"

Elizabeth sits down next to Ronon. She's wearing a necklace of beaten gold. It's big, but somehow suits her, as does the glass of white wine in her hand. She looks relaxed -- even her hair looks relaxed.

"Well," she says, and pats his knee. "How are you settling in?"

"It's been four months," he says, and she nods. He thinks he's supposed to say something else. "I'm enjoying myself."

"Excellent. And the Wraith Alliance has been quiet lately." She sips her wine and surveys her people. Carson is still reciting poetry, but May Markham has jumped up on the table next to him and appears to be rapping. Ronon looks over at Elizabeth; she's smiling. "Sam Carter is going to do our year-end summary after the break, in January. We're in the red, but only a little -- we did better than last year."

"Next year we'll do even better with the Caldwell book coming out."

Elizabeth shakes her head. "No, we had to push that back -- again."

"Kolya giving you trouble?" Ronon finishes his glass of scotch -- Sheppard's private stash is far preferable to the Corona and Bass they put into recycling bins with giant bags of ice.

"No, this time it's Caldwell himself." Elizabeth sighs a little and finishes her glass of wine. "That's it for me."

"Don't leave," says Ronon immediately, putting his hand on hers, then jerking it away almost as fast. "I mean --"

"No, I have to go -- the later I stay, the more nervous everyone will be."

"This is them nervous?" Ronon raises an eyebrow.

"We're an informal group," replies Elizabeth, "and I'm sure Laura will fill me in on all the good gossip in the morning." She squeezed Ronon's hand and made her way through drunk and drinking editors and production editors and junior designers and some people Ronon still hasn't met, from the contracts department, and legal review.

As she leaves, Sheppard and McKay begin to argue -- "Hopefully is a dangling modifier, Sheppard, what is wrong with you?" -- "Without a comma, hopefully is just an embedded --"

Ronon sits back with his Scotch and grins.

**

According to the drunk girl from legal review, Elizabeth and Sheppard didn't actually ever have meetings together. They just fucked in their offices. But Ronon didn't think that was very likely -- a combination of factors, mostly walking in on Sheppard and McKay in the washroom a half hour ago. He backed out and stood there for a moment, then wrote a sign: OUT OF ORDER.

They still aren't back at the party. He hopes they're having more fun than him. He'd've thought being a senior editor meant, at least, better and more interesting gossip.

"So," says the girl, and hiccoughs. "What are you working on?"

"Mostly books about spaceships," replies Ronon.

The girl stares at him until her eyes cross, and she almost falls over. "So," she says. "What are you working on?"

Ronon decides it's time to find Jaynie and get this girl home.

**

His mother gives him a cat for Hanukah. It's a black cat with a pink nose. She names it Miew.

"Her name is cat?" says Ronon when she tells him.

"Yes," says his mother, and giggles girlishly. "Happy Hanukah." She kisses him on the cheek and pulls on one of his dreads. "I'm so glad you've given up the leather pants."

"I haven't, actually." But he's wearing jeans to his mother's house, because he knows eventually she'll want to deep fry things, and he doesn't want to deep fry anything -- not latkes, not doughnuts, and not a turkey -- in leather.

"Mmm? She scratches Miew behind the ears and smiles at Ronon. He has her cheeks, and her teeth, and her eyebrows, but his nose is all whoever his father is.

When Ronon takes Miew home, he decides to call her Khet, which is only slightly better than Miew, but he can't think of anything else. He lays on his bed with her on his chest, listening to her purr, running through names. He wants to call her Sateda.

He sticks with Khet, for she is an incomprehensible Thing, and sometimes calls her Khet Ket-et, for she is smaller than his palm.

**

Number of voicemails Ronon has when he gets back to the office in January: 47

Number of voicemails Ronon listens to more than two seconds of: 6

Number of voicemails from John Sheppard: 5

Number of threatening voicemails from Rodney McKay: 1

Number of emails offering Ronon: a PhD from the university of his choice, Viagra, Cialis, and the opportunity to invest in a Nigerian bank: 154

Number of emails from Rodney McKay: 8

Number of emails from John Sheppard: 3

Number of emails from Zelenka: 2

Number of emails and voicemails actually about work: 1

Number of emails from girls who want to sleep with him: 0

**

Ronon spends his first day back in the office avoiding everyone, including the mail guy, going on covert operations to appropriate the production department's Kona, and playing Jardinains. He hates those fucking gnomes, especially the way they wave at him and say, "Hiiiii! Hiiii" and then laugh when he misses the ball.

When he gets home, Khet has peed on everything, including his bed. That night he sleeps wrapped in his extra blanket on the kitchen floor, with Khet in his hair.

**

The winter launch meeting is held the second day back. Ronon doesn't have any books to present, so he spends the entire meeting drinking coffee, doodling on the presentation sheets, and thinking about Khet. What if he bought a book about a warrior cat? What if he bought a book about a tribe of warrior cats? In Egypt? No, in Israel? It could be Hanukah themed. His mother would swell with pride.

This is a book about mathematicians in love. This is a book about aliens. This is another book about aliens. This is a book about how the pyramids were built by aliens. This is a book about aliens in love. This is a book about how the pyramids were built by alien mathematicians in love. Okay, not really.

The reps say things like, "Can we get this in 5-1/8 instead of 6-1/4?" and "Dec covers? Foil and emboss? B&N will probably want a stand-up." and "There is no way I can sell this to WalMart." and "Amazon is only 2% of the market, who cares what they want?"

It's just like being at Sateda, except not at all, and Ronon feels kind of homesick.

**

"Ronon is that a cat?" Elizabeth pauses in his office door, smiling.

"I can't leave her at home," he says apologetically. He has a tiny litterbox for her under the table his mail basket is on, and he's rearranged his desk so that his monitor isn't on top of his desktop computer anymore -- now Khet's food and water are there.

"No, it's okay." Elizabeth comes in and sits down in the chair no one uses, and lifts Khet out of Ronon's grasp. "Hello, kitty, what's your name?"

"Khet Ket-et."

"Catca'at?"

"Khet Ket-et," says Ronon. Kheht keh-eht. "Small Thing."

"Ronon, that's horrible!" says Elizabeth, but she's laughing. "Have you showed her to Rodney?"

"Ah no." Because I'm avoiding him because I saw his penis in another man's mouth. Which doesn't bother me as much as it bothers him. But no. And again, no.

"You should, he loves cats." Khet is rubbing her face against Elizabeth's and purring even louder than usual. Elizabeth's eyes twinkle when she looks at Ronon, and he thinks maybe she knows what he knows, except no one knows it but him, so how could she? "I notice you haven't gone into John's office for some time."

"Three days," says Ronon.

"Not that you're counting."

"I'm catching up."

"No one does work on the holidays. That's like working Fridays in the summer." Her eyes twinkle even more. Khet's claws are combing through her hair. Ronon looks away.

"Is there a problem?" Ronon finally asks.

"Actually, that's what I wanted to ask you." She stares at him until he looks back at her. "Is there a problem?"

"Not on my end."

She pauses a moment, then nods. "Good. Go show Rodney your cat. Just don't let Kavanagh see, or he'll email HR."

Ronon lets Khet sit on his lap for a while, then tucks her onto his shoulder and takes her downstairs. He starts in the art department, walks through production to adpromo, and then doubles back when Radek calls his name.

"Is that -- cat!" Radek holds out his arms and Khet starts to mewl.

"She's nervous," says Ronon, pulling her carefully out of his hair. "She's not used to people."

"Ahhh, kitty," says Radek, and cradles her. He grins at Ronon, then raises his voice. "Rodney, you must come see. Leave the numbers, they will wait."

"Nothing will wait," says Rodney in a voice that Ronon has come to recognize as "not quite as grumpy as usual," but he comes out of his office. "Cat!"

"Khet Ket-et," says Ronon.

"Cat!" repeats Rodney. He immediately puts his face into Khet's belly, and she claws his head. "Ow! Ravening beast!"

"She claws you in love, McKay," says Ronon, and McKay glares at him.

"It's only because she doesn't yet understand how people interact."

"She's not a person."

"Cats are people here," Radek informs him and McKay nods.

"Cats are better than most people here," McKay adds, and cuddles Khet. "Can I take her into my office?" Ronon nods, and McKay keeps her in his arms for a while, while Ronon shoots the shit with Radek about new books and the pain in the ass new assistant in legal who keeps wanting them to trademark the names of all the series they publish, and how many lines they can fit to a page while making the text still readable so Ronon's newest acquisition -- an ex-Navy SEAL writing about secret government projects in New Mexico -- doesn't have to cut more than forty thousand words out of his book.

But Radek goes back into his office when the phone rings, and Ronon is stuck with McKay. He sits in the chair opposite McKay's desk for a while, and watches McKay type and write and pet Khet, and talk on the phone, all at the same time.

"So, Khet. Hebrew?"

Ronon looks up from The Storm & the Eye, which he'd slipped off McKay's shelf, and says, "Huh?"

"Khet. Hebrew."

"Arabic."

"You speak Arabic?"

"My mother's Egyptian." Ronon slips the book back onto the shelf and stretches.

"Huh," says McKay. "All right."

"So glad you approve. Can I have Khet back?"

"Is it a problem for you? Me and John?"

"You and -- what? No."

"Because you seem --"

"It's not the first time I've seen that, McKay, and it probably won't be the last, and --"

"So you were? McKay's eyes get wide and he starts snapping his fingers and Ronon starts to panic. "You're jealous!"

"I am not jealous."

"You're jealous. Of me!"

"No, I'm really not," protests Ronon. And he's not, except in the sense that they are having sex and he wishes he was. He only meant that it wasn't the first time he'd walked in on people having sex in an inappropriate public place. Hell, he did it himself back when he was an editorial assistant and didn't have to worry about lawsuits and people taking him seriously.

"So what's wrong?" asks Rodney suspiciously.

"It was awkward." Ronon shrugs. "And you left me a death threat."

"Well, I didn't mean it," says Rodney. He sighs.

"I do not want to be involved," says Ronon; he suspects that in another moment or two, McKay will unburden himself of some kind of feeling, and Ronon -- well, he doesn't want to be involved. If his coworkers want to be involved, he wants to be left out of it. Unless there's gossip he needs to know about in order to be able to do his job.

"Okay, okay," says McKay, and hands Khet over the desk. She's half-asleep. "Here's your cat. Khet." He snickers a little, and Ronon snickers a little, and then everything feels a little more okay.

**

Ronon takes Khet to the animal shelter and lets her pick out a friend. She picks another cat, which is relieving, since if she picked a dog, Ronon was going to have to do some fast convincing to get his landlady to let him have one. Ronon names the new cat Sen, brother, and suddenly Khet is all right to stay home while Ronon is at work. But it means two cats sleeping in his hair at night.

**

Number of times Sheppard said "Um" in the first conversation he and Ronon had after Ronon caught him giving McKay a blow job during the Christmas party: 12. Ronon counted.

**

The woman who runs the stock room won't give Ronon more than one Sharpie at a time. "And what do you need with a whole box?" she demands. He can't think of an answer, but he likes to have more than one.

She lets him have an entire spindle of CD-Rs, though, which he uses to burn music off the shared drives. Khet and Sen both seem partial to Parrish's Ella Fitzgerald albums.

**

Underneath the instructions for how to do a character count is a memo from Elizabeth: if anyone wants to join her for yoga during the day to work off those holiday pounds, they are more than welcome to meet her in the 17th floor conference room after lunch on Wednesday and Fridays.

Ronon's office is right outside the printer, and he can see the bulletin board from his desk, and he sometimes ends up staring at the notice. He's done yoga before -- to meet women, and then because his girlfriend did, and then to meet women again. Never quite worked out right; women were tetchy folk at the best of times about the dumb things men did to be around them.

But he goes -- because why not? Elizabeth in yoga pants, doing the downward facing dog? Might as well. It's been a while since he's done yoga -- mostly he jogs and lifts weights now, just maintaining -- and he could use some flexibility.

He could also use some sex, but he'll settle for yoga.

**

Elizabeth Weir in yoga pants is just as nice as he'd thought it would be.

"I've never seen you not in leather pants," she says to him when he shows up. He's wearing black sweatpants and a black t-shirt and has a black towel around his neck, and his old black yoga mat. He has a theme.

"Yeah, well, you can't do yoga in leather pants," he says to her as he unrolls his mat next to hers, and settles down onto it.

"Point," she says, and nods slowly. She sits down on her own mat -- pink -- and lifts her legs, stretches in splits, and waits.

He stretches his legs out in front of his body and puts his chin on his knees and waits with her.

She does not have any holiday fat to get rid of. He wonders why she wants to do yoga with the people who work for her when she could do yoga at the expensive gym exactly halfway between her Madison Avenue apartment and their office.

"How's Khet?" she asks.

"I got her a brother, Sen. I'm thinking of shaving off my beard."

"No, don't. I like it." She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, but he's staring right at her. She blushes, and he's charmed. "It suits you."

"All right," he says, and continues staring at her. She continues blushing. No one else shows up for yoga, and she looks as good doing the downward facing dog as he thought she would.

They do the half moon and the sleeping Vishnu and the warrior poses, all of them, and the hero, sideplanks and triangles, cobra, locust -- Ronon tries the side crow, which he used to be able to do, but can't get his balance right. As he falls over, he realizes that he hasn't thought about the Wraith Alliance or Sateda for the last hour, at least, and resolves to spend more time with Elizabeth -- especially because when he looks over at her, she's doing a perfect side crow, and laughing.

**

Ronon figures that after seven years of editing novels, he knows just about everyone there is to know in the publishing world. He's done coke with Stephen King's first agent, slept with more women who are attractive and incredibly smart than he's bothered to keep track of, had more than one book on more than one bestseller list by authors he discovered, authors he now counts among his friends... But that all only means one thing: it's really hard to get laid.

He's old enough now that he does know almost everyone -- and the people he doesn't know are the new hires, the kids who are just coming out of college thinking they're going to discover the next Chip Delany in the slush pile. Of course, Ronon remembers being one of those kids, going out on half-day Fridays in the summer and getting drunk under the hot sun, stumbling back to someone's apartment clutching bottles of water, getting stuck in train doors, sprawled on the floor and lazily kissing anyone he could reach.

He even remembers hungrily watching the older women -- publishing, he learned quickly, is a field in which women thrive, is a field in which 90% of the employees in all divisions are women, for whatever reason. He's not interested why, he just loves it. Women in sweatpants and thick glasses to whom no one's paid sincere sexual attention in years, who don't realize they have hourglass figures when they're naked; women who could talk as casually about the physics of wormholes and the under representation of the semi-colon as they could about which was better: cherry Coke or crystal Pepsi?

The way the younger kids watch him now -- because they are kids -- is the way he used to watch everyone else around him. His theory: everyone is sex- and touch-starved in their twenties. But he's almost out of his twenties, so what's his excuse?

Ronon gave it up, he had to, when he decided that he did want to be a force to be reckoned with at Sateda. No one would take him seriously if he'd slept with everyone in the room -- which, depending on the party, sometimes that was truth. Except for the men. Which he's not opposed to, in theory, but in practice it's harder, because he can count the number of openly gay men in publishing on one hand -- and he's not counting the Gay At Conventions guys who will sleep with anything at the SF orgies either, because they're gross and he's not interested.

Too old for a sexual identity crisis, plus he doesn't know if he can take himself seriously long enough to have one. He edits novels about spaceships and the military -- and sometimes both at the same time -- for a living, and has two cats who sleep in his hair at night, and a mother who loves him. It's a good life and there's no reason to be rocking the boat, and he doesn't even want more than that, except late at night when he can't sleep and he's watching the Discovery channel and he sees that even wild beasts fuck and get fucked and touch each other.

Maybe it would be better to be a gorilla; they don't care about going out to bars and meeting people to have sex with, because they just have biological destiny. They don't need to take themselves seriously; they don't even know that they exist.

**

John really is an alcoholic, which Ronon hadn't accounted for. He's known a lot of alcoholics -- publishing attracts them. Kell wasn't, but Kell wasn't a lot of things that he should have been. John keeps a bottle of scotch in his filing cabinet, behind the yearly evaluations. Ronon should have known that even the location had a real purpose; when John does Ronon's evaluation, he brings it out and pours two fingers into the paper-and-glue cups from the water cooler.

"To making it a year," says John and knocks his cup against Ronon's. Ronon watches as John drinks it fast -- not all in one gulp like a shot, but not sipping like you should with a nice 20-year-old scotch either. John pours a second drink while Ronon is still sipping his slowly, and advises, "If you don't drink it faster, the alcohol will eat through the glue and your cup will fall apart. Don't waste my scotch, man."

Ronon obediently drinks faster. "So, what's my evaluation?" He's sitting in the chair facing John's desk, his feet up near John's phone. John's leaning back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling.

The silence lengthens, and Ronon pours himself another finger of the scotch. It's good -- not as sweet as whisky or bourbon, but not just the burn of gut rot either.

Finally John says, "Good job," and pushes the evaluation over to Ronon. Ronon signs it without reading and pushes it back.

"John..." He stares into his cup. The amber liquid is already turning the paper of the white cup grey. He doesn't know what he's going to say, what he wants to say, if he wants to say anything at all. He settles for looking up and waiting.

"Ronon," says John, almost mockingly.

"Thanks." Ronon toasts John with his cup and finishes the scotch and leaves, goes back to his own office, plays Jardinains. He's got copy due, he's got a launch meeting in a few weeks for the book he acquired last year, and he's got a million phone calls to return from agents and authors, but he ignores it. It's eleven fucking am and he's drunk at work.

**

Ronon gets a copy of his evaluation, signed by John and Elizabeth and the head of HR, via interoffice mail the next week.

John wrote: Ronon is good at his job, so far. He gets in on time and comes to all the meetings and does his paperwork and gets along with everyone.

Elizabeth wrote: Ronon Dex has adapted very quickly to the editorial department and the procedures of Atlantis Publishing, Inc. He is well-regarded by his peers and a genuine credit to the editorial department and, indeed, the corporation. We are lucky to have him and I for one cannot wait to see what he's got up his sleeve for his next year with us.

There are a bunch of multiple choice questions, like, rate the employee 1 - 5 (1 being Unacceptable and 5 being Exceeds All Expectations) on the following:

Compliance to corporate policy Relationships with senior staff Relationships with junior staff Attitude toward work Interest in work Dependability/ Attendance/ Punctuality

Only 5s are circled for Ronon; there's no place to go from here but down.

**

The new assistant in editorial is fired after three weeks for calling McKay a fairy. Ronon steps between the assistant -- Jack? Jones? Jim? -- and a flailing, open-mouthed, red-faced McKay who, for once, couldn't seem to find the words he wanted.

"That was inappropriate," he says evenly. "Please go to your office. I'll be upstairs shortly."

"I will deal with this, Ronon," says Teyla, and her face is entirely blank, and Ronon is terrified. If he was a 22-year-old assistant from Ohio, he'd probably have shit his pants by now, just from one glance at Teyla's dark eyes.

She walks next to the assistant out of the room, and Ronon turns to McKay. "I need to use your phone," he says, and buzzes Elizabeth on speakerphone, fills her in on why Teyla is walking down the hall with --

"Jesse," sighs Elizabeth. "His name is Jesse. Thanks for the heads-up, Ronon. I'll handle it from here."

Ronon punches McKay's phone off and takes a deep breath so he doesn't punch the door. McKay is staring at him with a weird look on his face that Ronon can't place.

"Thanks," says McKay finally.

That wasn't what Ronon was expecting.

"Uh... you're welcome?" he replies, and leaves. When he twists his head at the door, McKay is standing at the corner where production meets art, and watching him, that weird expression still on his face.

**

Secrets Ronon has never told anyone, and never will: In 1998 he went to Lilith Fair with his girlfriend, sat on a blanket on the grass, and gave his first, messy blowjob to a boy with long hair and wide green eyes while his girlfriend was going to the bathroom and getting beer; when he was twelve, he jerked off to a picture of a woman in a nun costume holding her habit up to her waist and laughing; sometimes he still pulls out The Breakfast Club and wishes he was Bender, a guy with no fear (almost); he more than half wants the life his mother would like to see him have -- a steady job working for the city as an English teacher, a pretty wife with dreads to match his own, and a couple of nappy-haired children with brown skin and brown eyes and smart mouths; in the tenth grade, Ari Parra asked him out, and he said no, cause even though he and his mom both had two feet out of the projects, his head was still there, and he didn't want to get beat up for being a homo.

**

John corners him the next day. "You protected McKay," he says, leaning against Ronon's closed door. He's got a coffee cup in his hand -- My Life As An Ambiguously Gay Sex God, by Callum Keith Rennie. Coming in 2005 from Rainbow Sun, a Division of Atlantis Publishing, Inc. -- and what's in there is not coffee.

That's okay. Ronon's not drinking coffee either.

"What was I supposed to do?" asks Ronon. He leans back in his chair.

John shrugs. "It's just surprising," he says. "But thanks, if Rodney hasn't already thanked you."

"He did."

"Don't be offended."

"I told you last year that it wasn't a problem."

John stares at him and taps his fingers against his mug. "It's always a problem for straight people," he says, without looking at Ronon. "Even in an industry like this, it's always a problem for straight people."

"Bullshit," says Ronon, even though he half believes it himself; and then: "I'm not straight."

"Kissing a guy on a bet doesn't count, Dex." John slides down the door until he's hunched, the mug dangling precariously from his fingers, arms crossed.

Ronon stays quiet. He doesn't discuss his sexual history with anyone unless he's drunk and at a party and trying to stupidly one-up whoever he's with. It's not their business, he figures. Sometimes he wonders if it's even his own business. He's like a completely different person from who he was seven years ago, just starting out with Sateda, and Kell. There's a story he could tell John, but it isn't the kind of story John is looking for.

Ronon's important stories aren't about sex, but he bets John's are.

"Whatever," says Ronon, because there's nothing else to say.

"Yeah, whatever," says John. He sips his drink again. "Wanna go to lunch?"

"It's ten am."

"So?"

"Yeah, okay." Ronon grabs his jacket and puts up an away message on GoogleTalk and meets John at the elevator. They get sushi and talk about the assistants and Ronon takes the plunge and asks for one, because paperwork is mounting, and John offers him Jesse the Homophobe, and suddenly they're laughing, and it's okay -- or maybe that's the plum sake.

**

Very specific things about Atlantis Publishing that are different from Sateda:

Atlantis is owned by a parent corporation called the Gate Group; Sateda was one of the last independent book publishers.

At Sateda, everyone wore headphones to listen to music. Ronon's headphones were large and expensive and got him many Princess Leia jokes. Atlantis is noisy, full of conversation and warring music and shared iTunes and prank phone calls not at all deterred by the presence of caller id on every phone.

That particular difference makes more sense when Ronon thinks about another big difference: at Sateda, the editorial department was entirely in one room, desks shoved together like a police precinct. Only Kell had an office with a door, and up until the last year, the door was always open. (In hindsight, Ronon should have known something was going on the moment Kell started closing his door every afternoon.)

Every single person at Atlantis has their own office, and every department has shared space; the production department has their room with coffee and food and water and candy bars, editorial has the reception area with couches, the art department has an open space with filing cabinets and paper cutters and paints and things Ronon knows editorial is absolutely not allowed to touch. Marketing/sales has an actual conference room that no one is allowed into except marketing/sales, unless they're helping with something specific. Publicity has two extra desks where they put interns to work clipping reviews for distribution and file, plus another two extra desks that editorial types sit on when they hit publicity to chat. Ad/promo has a table and chairs in the middle of a hallway.

At Atlantis, there is a room in the basement with a special ventilation system, there specifically for smokers. It's an open secret, and the smokers are very careful. Sateda didn't have a basement.

Atlantis is full of quirky personalities who are affectionately tolerated. McKay has a crate of blue Jell-O in the stockroom; the crate requires fingerprint verification before it will open to display the blue Jell-O. Laura dyes all her food unnatural colors -- oatmeal is not supposed to be green. John gets drunk in the afternoons, Ronon and Elizabeth do yoga during the day, Zelenka sends memos written half in Czech, Dumais is slowly covering her body with tattoos, Grodin takes belly dancing lessons, there's a man whose name Ronon still hasn't learned who works for Teyla who always mixes his breakfast lemon yogurt with his breakfast cup of tea.

Satedans kept their quirks to themselves. Atlanteans are bold in their quirkiness.

Ronon was never good at sitting around, waiting for things to happen -- but he's still learning how to be bold.

**

At yoga on Thursday, right in the middle, Elizabeth stares at him for a long moment, then says, "You know I fired Jesse."

Ronon nods, and moves into the wheel. Elizabeth follows shortly after, and Ronon takes the opportunity to admire her ass. It's really nice, and she has dancer feet, with the high arches and squared off toes, and surprisingly dainty ankles.

And she's got a wedding ring, which sometimes he notices and sometimes he doesn't, depending on how he feels that day. It's slim and gold and rests easy on her finger, and flashes when she types, and wasn't there when Ronon first met her.

He wonders about her husband -- Simon. Why they split up. Why they're back together. What he looks like. What she's like at home.

Ronon has a few theories, including one that adds John plus Elizabeth plus alcohol plus a couch in Elizabeth's office plus an office party or a late night and gets... something Ronon has thought about once or twice in the shower.

**

This is makeup that Ronon wore when he was in high school, listening to Anthrax and Iron Maiden and My Dying Bride (and sometimes the Smiths and Joy Division, but he's adopted a very strict don't-ask-don't-tell policy regarding Morrissey and Ian Curtis): black eyeliner.

He told everyone at John's 38th birthday party that it was because Kim, his girlfriend when he was 15 asked him to and put it on him -- but he'd manipulated her into saying she'd like him to wear it, and she put it on wrong, and while she was smoking a Newport with her girlfriend Jackay, he surreptitiously fixed it.

Funny how he makes up stories about his memories and sometimes forgets that the story part isn't real.

**

There's not a poster of King Diamond or Metallica in his office the way there's a poster of Johnny Cash that covers the entire inside door of John's office, but there would be if Ronon was the kind of guy who felt like decorating his office. The model of the Millennium Falcon that he built when he was 18 during his first college finals week doesn't count. That's a masterpiece of art, and it sits on his bookshelf, between his Locus Award for Best Novel for Runner by Thia Duvall (which wasn't even an sf novel), and his Newberry Award certificate for editing Skylark by David Cadigan (which wasn't even published as a children's book).

**

Fridays in the winter, since they aren't half days and the junior staff can't spend the whole afternoon in bars, are days for talking. Every day is a day for talking, congregating in the hallway and sitting on the floor and crowding six people to an office to discuss Medieval lube, and stupid things politicians do, and the new Mac chip from Intel that lets you run Windows Vista, which isn't even available yet.

But Fridays people congregate around the reception desk and sprawl on couches and talk about old friends and crazy authors. Ronon doesn't usually join them -- it's usually junior staff. But their voices carry and he hears Laura and Lorne arguing about the beginnings of postmodernism, and he has to join in. He brings his coffee mug -- full of coffee and only coffee -- and slouches against the display shelves. Laura's flat on her back on the couch with her head in Lorne's lap; Lorne is carding his fingers through her hair. Laura's fingers are in Lindsay's hair, and Lindsay's legs are zippered with Dumais's legs, and Dumais is on her back on the floor with an arm over her eyes.

Stacks is stepping over them, shelving the shipment of new hardcovers.

"You're all idiots!" Dumais is saying when Ronon comes in. "Postmodernism started with art." She looks like their stupidity is killing her.

"Postmodernism in art and postmodernism in literature are different," says Lorne reasonably. "And then there's postmodernism in philosophy --"

"Art, philosophy, and literature are all tied together," says Lindsay. She sounds irritable.

"All this new technology," Ronon hears Stacks say as another book slides onto the shelf, "will eventually give us new feelings..."

"What's the nature of this discussion?" asks Ronon, because now his interest is piqued.

"Oscar Wilde was sarcastic and yet sincere; discuss." Lorne grins at him. "Did the Vietnam War indelibly change the voice of modern literature and make it self-aware? Discuss."

"...that will never completely displace the old ones," continues Stacks; Ronon realizes it's poetry. He doesn't recognize it the way he will sometimes recognize the obscure bits of Jim Morrison and Jim Carroll Stacks will doodle on the book schedule during meetings. "leaving everyone feeling quite nervous and split in two."

"Oscar Wilde was a moralist and Americans are drama queens," replies Ronon. His coffee is still too hot to sip. "Every political event sees America losing its innocence, changing the face of the cultural landscape, making us quote-unquote aware."

"Nothing was the same after 9/11," says Lindsay. Ronon looks at her for a measured second, and then at John, who's come up to sit in Stacks's chair.

"9/11 didn't change the writing style of any author," countered Lorne.

"I take it you're on the side that postmodernism hit American literature during the early 60s?" asks Ronon dryly. "We will travel to Mars even as folks on Earth are still ripping open potato chip bags with their teeth..." Stacks climbs onto the couch and balances on one foot to push a book onto the top shelf; Ronon is ready to jump over there just in case gravity wins. He keeps one eye on the evolving argument and another on Stacks, just to be on the safe side.

"Some time between World War I and Vietnam, American people underwent a cultural shift in perception -- nothing was sacred anymore. And," added Lorne with a tug on Lindsay's hair, "you can be cynical and earnest at the same time."

"Huh," says Ronon, and exchanges grins with John. Junior staff conversations about literature always strike him as ironic -- they are constantly arguing with each other really sincerely about the loss of sincerity in the postmodern world.

He'd done that once.

So had John, from the goofy grin on his face.

"Where do you stand?" asks Dumais, still without moving her arm off her eyes. He wishes she would -- she wears layers of eyeliner and glitter and has a tattoo on the side of her temple of the Atlantis Publishing Inc. logo. She's young and she'll regret that when she's older, go to a plastic surgeon and pay an exorbitant amount of money to have it removed -- or she'll keep it the way Ronon keeps his.

"I dunno," replies Ronon. "Sincerity is kind of precious when everything is ironic, but sometimes the sincerity is ironic too. So what's that?"

"Post-postmodernism?" suggests John.

"Why?," says Stacks, and leans against the wall, the box of books empty. "I don't have the time to make all the connections."

"Ford liked post-postmodernism," sighs Laura. "He always called himself a popomohomo."

"Like McKay?" says Dumais, and snickers, and Ronon is about to step forward and say something when she adds speculatively, "and all the rest of us, too, I guess."

"Hah!" says Laura. "If McKay sends up another damn query about whether the number denoting a book's place in a trilogy should be Arabic or Roman --"

"Hey," says John sharply. "McKay saves our asses constantly. He's saved your ass more than once, Miss Television-Without-The-Second-I."

"He doesn't have to be such a pain in the ass about it," grumbles Lorne.

"Oh, yeah? Lorne, tell me, how many times have you forgotten to put the name of an author on the spine copy?" John glares at him, and Lorne looks halfway abashed at least.

"McKay's a good guy," says Ronon. "He's just difficult."

Stacks meets Ronon's eyes and says, "A difficult woman needs a special kind of man," and giggles, and Ronon grins.

"I love difficult women," murmurs Dumais, and even John giggles a little at that.

**

November is the month that the SFWA holds its annual reception. Ronon almost never goes, even though it's the East Coast event for SF/F writers, editors, agents, and artists, except for, maybe, Readercon. He did his time going, drinking a bottle of gin, having sex in bathrooms with authors or young agents, or, once, a woman who turned out to be the new art director for Sateda, who had gorgeous round thighs and never wore panties and was happy to let Ronon go down on her under her desk for hours while she matched colors on mechanicals and spec'd type.

She tasted like grass, almost, but smoky, salty.

Ronon thinks about that while he waits on line for his name tag, and licks his lips. He needs to trim his mustache; it's beginning to fall into his mouth instead of delicately frame his lips. The beard is getting a little long too. And he keeps thinking that he should take out his dreads, but he remembers the brillo-head of his toddler years and never does.

He pastes his name tag to his vest -- in honor of the event, he's wearing brown leather instead of black, so he doesn't look so intimidating; it was McKay's sarcastic idea, but Ronon kind of liked it -- and goes to wander in search of the bar. There's cheap wine for free, or mixed drinks for a dollar each, so he gets a watery G&T and a straight up vodka, and a glass of red wine. He drinks the first two fast, and keeps the third for sipping.

The trick to getting through any SF/F gathering, he learned early on, is to get drunk as fast as possible, and keep a nice buzz through the event so that no matter who talks to you, they're interesting.

And he wanders, and wanders, and chats with some of his old authors who were cut loose from the Wraith Alliance, says hello to Anubis Jones from Goa Ould, listens to a group of four women who, by their smart, hip hairstyles and clothes, have to be in publicity, gossip about John's hair.

McKay is holding court in the center of a group of production guys and some authors Ronon knows he's supposed to recognize but can't quite put the faces with names. They're playing Prime/Not Prime, and McKay is clearly winning -- "I speak Estonian!" he crows, "Kass is prime!"

Zelenka, on the outskirts of the group, rolls his eyes at Ronon, and says, with a smile, "Come play?"

"Palatalization isn't my strong suit," replies Ronon, squeezes Zelenka's shoulder, and makes his way up to the top floor, where there's a patio for the smokers; he gets another glass of wine and bums a smoke off Caldwell, who's there with the whole of the Genii Agency surrounding him.

Caldwell's handshake is as firm as Ronon remembers, but the glint in his eye is new. Ronon published Caldwell's first novel seven years ago; it was the first novel Ronon ever edited. It sold out its print run, went back for more, Caldwell went to the Genii Agency, and that was it for Sateda. "I heard you were with Atlantis now," he says and squeezes Ronon's hand a little too tightly.

That could either mean (1) Good to see you, man, it's been too long; or (2) Let's have sex in a closet. Ronon decides to play it cool.

"Yup," replies Ronon, and lets Caldwell light his cigarette. Caldwell winks. So that's how it is. Well, Ronon has at least another hour to decide if he's going to fuck one of John's authors or not.

Probably not, but he'll play the game until time's up.

"How's that going for you?" asks Caldwell as Ronon drains his second cheap merlot. He's got one more, he figures, before his mouth starts to turn black.

"Pretty well. I'm working with --"

"Halling, Teyla Emmagen's friend. I heard." Cowen breaks in, an arm around Caldwell. "How's that going for you?" Cowen manages to make everything sound like a sneer; Ronon hates agents.

"Good," he replies shortly, then thinks of Elizabeth's face when she finds out that Ronon was rude to one of the biggest media agents on the east coast. "And how's it going with John and the new book?"

"He's a great editor. Brilliant," says Cowen, but Caldwell shoots him a dirty look.

"Interesting," says Caldwell, amending Cowen's declaration. "He and I disagree about several of the finer points of plot."

Ronon flicks the ash off his cigarette using his thumbnail and takes a long pull on the filter. "Sheppard's pretty reasonable if you explain yourself." The fresh air feels really good against Ronon's overheated face. He wants to sit down and have a long conversation with someone about the new Vernor Vinge novel and how it would've been good if someone else had written it; and he wants to find someone who works for Goa Ould and con a copy of the bio of James Tiptree, Jr. out of one of them -- he knows it's in ARCs now, and he wants a copy.

He doesn't quite remember why he stopped coming to these things; it's good to be out of his fucking apartment, out of his office, away from his computer and the damn laughing gnomes and the piles of manuscripts littering every floor he stands on.

"Nice of you to say, Ronon," says John, and suddenly his arm is around Ronon and a glass of clear liquid -- Ronon sniffs: gin -- is shoved into his hand. "I can always count on you for some mediocre praise."

Uh-oh. Shit.

"Steve," continues John. "Cowen, Kolya." Kolya grunts and Cowen glares and Caldwell looks pretty cranky.

"John!" says Ronon. "Elizabeth is looking for you."

"But --" says John, and Ronon interrupts.

"Sorry we can't finish this. Thanks for the smoke," says Ronon, and crushes the butt under his boot, grabs John, and makes for the door to get off the patio.

"Let's go back," says John, twisting his arm out of Ronon's grip.

"No fighting," replies Ronon sternly.

"He's a pompous ass," growls John. Ronon grabs his arm again and manhandles him into the little coat check room, shoves him against the wall and keeps him there with an arm across his chest. "Get the fuck off!"

"You are too drunk," says Ronon, their faces together. He pushes his fingers into the pocket of John's black jeans, and tugs out his coat ticket. The wide-eyed coat check girl -- woman, she's at least sixty -- takes the ticket and disappears.

"I'm not too drunk."

"You are." Ronon doesn't let up the pressure on John's chest.

"Put your fingers back in my pocket, and you'll see how drunk I am," says John, and Ronon raises an eyebrow.

"And you're not too drunk?"

"Okay," relents John. "Maybe I'm too drunk. Actually -- I think I'm going to throw up." John pushes Ronon's arm off and dashes out the door and down the stairs. Ronon collects his coat and John's and tips the woman, and finds John outside, leaning against the wall, breathing deeply and talking to the new Del Rey editor.

John looks like he's going to puke all over the poor girl's shoes; Ronon makes their apologies and hustles him into a cab.

"Where do you live?" he asks. John's leaning against the glass of the window; Ronon knows that look. He's felt that look. It's a look that says, "I am about to puke and cold glass feels good." He wonders how many drinks John managed to have in the few hours they were there.

He gives his own address to the cabbie who says, "I don't go to Brooklyn," and Ronon says, "I'll give you an extra five bucks," and the cabbie says, "Six," and Ronon says, "Deal," and they take the Williamsburg Bridge with the windows rolled down and John's head hanging out.

John's hands are on his thighs, and Ronon keeps looking at them -- looking at him

John leans on him drowsily as they get out of the cab and says, "Today's the day my wife left me. I'm sorry, man, I'm sorry," and Ronon just sighs. He'd asked around about John's wife -- no one knows anything and she never went out drinking with them, and John drank heavy before, and there's nothing to worry about, everyone told Ronon. It's okay.

Which means, to Ronon's mind, that it was either the most pleasant and innocuous breakup of all time, or it was so hideous John didn't tell anyone.

Ronon leans toward door number two for the second time tonight.

Ronon's on the top floor of a five-floor walkup, and by the fourth floor he's practically carrying John, and by the fifth floor, he's ready for bed himself. He makes John drink a glass of water and swallow four aspirin. He gets John out of his tie and jackets, unbuttons the top few buttons of his shirt, and the button on his pants, pulls off his boots but leaves his socks on, and leaves him on the couch in the living room with a bottle of water and the bucket from under the sink.

John's a quiet drunk who just looks unhappier and unhappier, and Ronon wonders if he's like everyone else -- John's been in publishing more than twenty years, and is almost forty, and he's been with Atlantis for at least the last ten, and maybe he's bored? Maybe he hates his job.

His mother always told him that everything got simpler when you got older but he's not finding that to be true. He's finding it to be less and less true the older he gets. Everything is more complicated now.

He and the cats fall asleep watching the Military Channel, and he wishes he'd had more to drink before he left the reception, or at least hit the closet with Caldwell for twenty minutes, because he wakes up at three am horny as hell, but is too tired to bother jerking off.

**

Things Ronon learns from the book he reads while waiting for John to sleep it off and wake the fuck up:

60% of all email is written in English

There are words from 300 different languages within the English vocabulary.

50% of the English vocabulary is words made of Latin parts.

Irishmen propose by saying, "Would you care to be buried with me, Mother?"; Ronon cannot imagine a woman -- or a man -- responding positively to that question.

Fin is slang for "five dollar bill" from the Yiddish, finf.

Ronon is suffering from tsuris -- the gamut of painful emotions, some real, some imagined, some self-inflicted. That sounds about right.

**

Ronon still has the leather jacket, covered with patches and zippers and safety pins, that he wore all through high school. John probably went to some safe private school and wore a letter jacket and beat up the kids like Ronon; John probably took some pretty white girl in a pink dress to his prom and then took her virginity in a posh hotel room. Ronon's prom was on a boat that circled around the Statue of Liberty and he wore his first pair of leather pants and a Cradle of Filth t-shirt, and after the prom he and Sasha went with their group of friends to a diner, where Ronon and Kirill made out in between bites of pancakes so that Sasha and Connie would make out over a giant banana split.

Like three days later Sasha broke up with him and started dating Connie; there's still a faded bit of silver marker on the inside bottom hem of the jacket where she wrote, "I'm sorry, please don't hate me."

**

John likes Battlestar Galactica. He sits barefoot on Ronon's couch Saturday morning in a pair of borrowed sweats, drinking strong black coffee, critiquing the military strategy. He's right about half the time for survival, and right about half the time for genuine military procedure. Or what it would be like on a spaceship anyway, Ronon theorizes.

"What is it that you don't like about ferris wheels exactly?" asks John on a commercial break.

"I dunno," says Ronon, and shrugs. He's drinking his own mug of strong black coffee, but unlike John, he's also eating bacon and eggs. Which he's been nibbling on for almost an hour, so they're already cold, and he's wishing it was all pancakes, slathered in butter and maple syrup. "What do you like about them?"

John pauses. "Hm. I dunno."

"Why, then?"

"Why do you like spaceships?" John doesn't gesture to the poster of the NCC-1701, but Ronon knows he's looking at it.

"Spaceships are cool, John. Look at the Galactica."

"But," says John, leaning forward a little, "ferris wheels are real."

"Spaceships are real -- really hot," replies Ronon, and smirks.

"Shut up," says John, and Ronon smirks more.

"How do you even edit SF, man?" he asks.

John points a finger at him. "I said shut up!" But he's grinning.

**

In the last two years, Ronon has slept with six women: Jessica, Anita, Heather, Lisa Maria, Chase, and Iris. No -- seven: Neera. He almost slept with Suma, but when he cocked his head a different way, she looked almost exactly like his mother did when he was young, and he felt a little sick. He also almost slept with Boris, but realized just in time that Boris wasn't gay -- just French, and therefore a little more touchy than Ronon is used to.

He should have known better anyway -- the last time Ronon made the first move, he was in high school.

(The first time Ronon made the first move, he was in kindergarten, and pulled out the chair so that Aiesha could sit down.)

He almost went out on more than three dates with Iris, the hat model who almost made it onto American Idol, but she kept asking him about famous authors he'd met and the places he'd traveled, and after they slept together the third time (after the third date), she'd said, "I always thought I should write a book about my life," and Ronon groaned and never called her back again.

**

Ronon would make the first move on John, but he's not sure of the following: Is John in an actual relationship with Rodney? They yell at each other and argue, and it's excellent to watch, but he's not sure what they do once the office is closed. Would John be receptive? Why does Ronon want to sleep with someone who is technically his boss? Didn't he learn his lesson with Kell about emotional relationships with people he works with? He's never slept with a guy before -- why does he even want to? He knows what to do with women; dick isn't something he's sure about. Why try something if you could fail?

Ronon decides: wait for John to make the first move, if a move is going to be made. Until then, he'll stick to the girls he meets in bars near his apartment.

(This was a discussion he had with himself a few weeks after The Great John And Rodney Bathroom Debacle. He continues to have it with himself every time he and John are alone together for any length of time. It usually ends with Ronon telling himself to stop acting like a fifteen-year-old girl and do whatever the hell he wants, for Chrissake.)

**

At the Rastafarian Ital restaurant that night, Ronon meets a girl named Parsley, who wears a dashiki, and has a baby girl named Tomato. They both smell like patchouli and musk, and are vegan. Parsley has pale pale skin and Tomato has dark dark skin, and for the entire time Ronon eats with them -- callaloo with lentils and garlic in coconut milk and maffe and raw vegetable rolls, and Tomato gets sweet potato pudding -- all he wants is a family to go home to, instead of his cats.

Not instead of his cats. In addition to his cats.

He mentions he has cats, but Parsley and Tomato are both allergic, so Ronon goes home without even getting Parsley's phone number, which is too bad, because Ronon is pretty sure that his mother would love Parsley, despite some of her flaws -- like being Ital, and appropriating African culture, and stealing black men, none of which are things his mother would ever say, but she doesn't like it when Ronon dates white women, and those are sometimes the reasons why.

On the other hand, Ronon's mother's never been that stereotypical before; maybe he's using her as an excuse to avoid intimacy or something. He saw that on a talk show at some point on one of his sick days. Maybe it was Dr. Phil? It doesn't seem likely, though.

Ronon has standards, and one of those is: love me, love my cats.

In the shower, Ronon jerks off thinking of John laughing at Battlestar Galactica, his long white fingers buried in Khet's black fur.

**

TO: ++AtlantisPubInc
FROM: Ronon Dex
Subject: Saturday

...is my birthday. You can all buy me drinks at DBA at 4 PM.

http://www.drinkgoodstuff.com/ny/default.asp

________________________

TO: Ronon Dex
FROM: John Sheppard
Subject: RE: Saturday

How old?

________________________

TO: Ronon Dex
FROM: Elizabeth Weir
Subject: RE: Saturday

I can't make it, but I hope you have a lovely time. John will buy you a drink for me.

________________________

TO: Ronon Dex
FROM: Carson Beckett
Subject: RE: Saturday

An excellent venue choice! I'll be there.

________________________

TO: Ronon Dex
FROM: Dr. McKay
Subject: RE: Saturday

You would pick the one bar where they automatically put lemons in beers.

________________________

TO: Ronon Dex
FROM: Chris Stackhouse
Subject: RE: Saturday

The single clenched fist lifted and ready,
Or the open asking hand held out and waiting.
                  Choose:
For we meet by one or the other.

(--"Choose"
Carl Sandburg, b. 6 Jan. 1878)

(Happy Birthday.)

________________________

TO: John Sheppard
FROM: Ronon Dex
Subject: RE: RE: Saturday

Stacks sent me a really depressing poem. Do you think it's being implied that 30 is the death of life?

________________________

TO: Ronon Dex
FROM: John Sheppard
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Saturday

I'm 39, turning 40. Am I dead?

________________________

TO: John Sheppard
FROM: Ronon Dex
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Saturday

What is dead? What is life? What is is? What is what?

42.

________________________

TO: Ronon Dex
FROM: John Sheppard
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Saturday

Asshole.

**

John and Ronon match each other drink for drink; they start with black chocolate stout, which was on tap, and then move on to bourbon (the bar has 53 bourbons on the shelf, and they have made a pact to try each one), and Lorne gives a lecture on Why Tolkein Is High Modernist, and Laura smokes two packs of cigarettes minus the one Ronon steals and the four John steals, and McKay stays for one drink (a gin martini with four olives) and grumbles the whole time.

McKay leaves without John; Ronon feels simultaneously bad and pleased about this, but he's not sure which.

He's conflicted.

Ronon leans over and puts his face near John's. "I'm conflicted," he confides.

"I gotta pee," replies John amiably. "Come with me."

"Do I look like a woman?" Ronon demands, but he slides out of the booth and follows John into the bathroom.

The graffiti on the bathroom wall is a weird mix of literature quotes and phone numbers -- "Call 366-5492 for a good time, Carla gives head" and "He was all for fusion, or even sunshine -- whatever warmed the heart" on the same wall in the same handwriting.

Ronon pisses, and washes his hands while he waits for John, who is pissing a fucking river. "You know what I want for my birthday?" he says over the stream.

"A blowjob?"

Ronon leans against the wall and crosses his arms across his chest, hoping he doesn't look half as drunk as he feels.

"I was going to say, a model kit of the Serenity," replies Ronon.

John comes out of the stall and stares at him for a little too long, then washes his hands. Ronon feels hot, and his head is starting to hurt, and he thinks he might be too old for this shit now that he's thirty.

"A blowjob would be better," says John. On the other side of the bathroom, he leans against the wall, mimicking Ronon's stance, with his arms crossed and everything.

"You offering?" says Ronon.

"Maybe."

"It's a bad idea."

"Yup," replies John, but he already has his glasses off, he's already on his knees, on his knees in the bathroom, and Ronon's never gotten a blowjob in a bathroom before, that always seemed a little too -- something. Beyond the pale. Incredibly offensive to women. Something.

John's mouth is hot and wet and makes Ronon's skin tingle, and he isn't sure what to do with his hands -- John's hair? Against the wall? He puts one fist into his mouth, ?ause fuck, John's mouth is hot and wet and it's been a while since he's had a mouth around his dick, and John knows what he's doing, John's got him all the way down and is sucking, humming, is he even breathing?

"Nnnngh," groans Ronon, but John doesn't pull off, even when Ronon pushes on his shoulder, and Ronon comes down his throat, and, when John moves away to finish Ronon with his fist, on his face, and there's come on John's eyelashes, making them spiky, and Ronon can't fucking breathe, or think, or move.

He's sliding down the wall when there's a banging on the door. "Open the fuck up!" yells some guy on the other side.

Ronon puts his head in his hands and starts to laugh.

When he looks up again, John's wiped his face off. Ronon tucks himself back into his pants and stands, zips up.

"Let's go," says John in a low voice, and Ronon flashes back to five minutes ago, when John was making happy snuffling noises around his cock, and he feels, suddenly, perfectly sober.

**

John tastes bitter and sweet and salty from sweat, and he cries loudly into his pillows. His sheets are black and slippery, but not satin; Ronon hasn't felt fabric like this before. It's not cotton, but it's not polyester. It feels nice and cool on his overheated skin, but it's hard to get purchase.

Finally Ronon just lies on his stomach and puts his face in John's ass, and lets his beard tickle John's balls, and licks. And licks. He thinks he should feel embarrassed or ashamed or something -- something -- but he doesn't. He likes it.

It's pretty much like what he always thought it would be -- fucking a man. It's... it's like fucking a girl, with the hairy and the soft and the hard, except it's dick, and he never thought he'd really like it, but he does, he likes licking John's skin and wriggling his tongue inside, and feeling John writhing under him, hearing him groan.

He was afraid of doing it wrong, but he knows he's doing it right, because John likes it, and Ronon likes doing it, so how could it be wrong?

John's got lube and John's got condoms, and Ronon kneads John's hips as he leans over John's body, licks his neck, mouths his skin, swipes his teeth over John's ear, and murmurs, "Are you sure?" and John pushes back against him and groans, and Ronon carefully lines up his cock, and pushes into John's body. A little bit, and then a little bit more, and then more. It takes forever to get past John's muscles, and the sheets are slick with sweat and jizz and Ronon keeps slipping, his muscles burning, and finally he's in, and it's like the motherfuckinglode -- hot, tight, slick with lube that feels weirdly wet, tight, and hot, and hot and slick, and --

Ronon wraps one arm around John's chest and the other around his stomach, his hand tight around John's cock, and fucks him slow, as slow as he can, which turns out to be not very slow at all, because John starts growling at him. "Fuck me, come on, fuck me, come on, fuck me, come on, fuck me -- " and Ronon pushes him down onto the bed and digs his fingers into John's hips and thighs and just -- fucks him, taking long, harsh breaths through his nose and mouth, slamming his hips into John's ass, grunting and groaning, and he feels kind of stupid, but John loves it and Ronon loves it, and when Ronon comes, it's like fire.

**

Ronon showers -- John uses cheap, fruit-scented shampoo, and lemon-mint toothpaste, which, Ronon figures, means that McKay doesn't come here -- and then wanders around.

John's apartment is full of stuff -- books, model airplanes, quill pens and pots of ink, sweatshirts, dumbbells, rinsed-out plastic Chinese food containers holding paperclips and rubber bands and thumbtacks and binder clips and screws and nails and combs, quarters in a glass jar and pennies in a giant plastic bucket, an entire bookcase of back issues of Asimov's and Analog, four different acoustic guitars, three of them with a layer of dust on all the horizontal surfaces, expensive stereo equipment, two bookcases of media in four different formats, vinyl hanging on the walls, and coffee mugs. A lot of coffee mugs. Ashtrays, shot glasses, bottles of vodka and scotch and gin. Ronon doesn't find the porn, but John's probably got a hiding place for it, just in case someone nosy, like Ronon, decides to look around.

There are drawers of all different sorts of paper, more drawers full of pens -- gel pens and ink pens and ballpoint pens and felt-tip pens -- and a drawer for John's tax info, and a drawer for John's old evaluations; Ronon is not surprised to see that John's last corporate eval -- done by O'Neill -- noted, "Has so much potential, yadda yadda; his biggest flaw is that he doesn't get his paperwork done on time. Does anyone really care about his paperwork when we've got his brain? But the potential. Yadda."

Ronon's entertained by the "yadda" and wonders if John cares about living up to his potential.

John's coffee is in the freezer, along with vanilla ice cream and more Chinese food plastic containers full of what looks like soups, plus a bunch of frozen turkey dinners and fudge covered oreos. Ronon hesitates for a moment and then starts going through the cabinets -- Lipton tea, bags of lentils, a lot of poultry seasoning, dried basil, bags of white and brown rice, egg noodles, matching plates and cups and bowls in cobalt blue, and even more coffee mugs. Baking chocolate, buckwheat flour, a waffle iron that clearly has never been used -- the box is still sealed -- and a honey bear. Popcorn kernels, but no popcorn popper.

Ronon wonders, while the coffee is brewing, how much of the stuff he sees is half of what John had while he was married.

There are no photos of John with a wife, or with anyone, although near John's bed is a photo of a child and an older man, that Ronon figures is probably young John with his father or grandfather.

John's bedroom drawers just have a lot of clothing, and Ronon trades the towel around his waist for a pair of slightly too small sweatpants and a white t-shirt, and stretches out on the bed and stares at the ceiling.

The bed and John smell like sex and sweat and alcohol and cigarettes, and Ronon realizes that they left the bar without saying goodbye to anyone, or saying where they were going.

People are going to talk, but he doesn't quite care. He got his brains fucked out last night, and fell asleep before midnight, and now he's got a lazy fucking Sunday to pretend that the world doesn't exist before he has to go back to work.

And he's thirty. Weird.

**

John puts his face in Ronon's neck and Ronon feels and hears him breathe, wake up. His arms tighten around Ronon's body.

"Why did you become an editor?" asks John, his face muffled in Ronon's dreads and skin. "You look like you should be in a Rastafarian monastery or something." He's moving his face, pushing his mouth closer to Ronon's skin, licking it -- licking the tattoo of the Sateda logo on his neck.

Ronon could tell John about growing up in the Bronx, about moving to Brooklyn, about high school and the projects and scholarships, about good fucking luck. But it isn't sexy, it would break the fragility of the morning -- coffee and sex are in the air and John is warm against him.

"I like to read," he says, and turns over, muffles John's snicker by kissing him.

John's mouth tastes of sleep; Ronon knows his own tastes of strong coffee and the frozen fudge covered oreo he nicked from the fridge. He pulls John's leg up over his own, nudges down the borrowed sweats until their cocks are rubbing together, slick and soft and slowly slowly slowly.

**

Ronon goes to a lot of sf/f cons. He knows everyone, everyone knows him. But going as an employee of the number one sf publisher in the world is different, totally, than going as an employee of Sateda.

Everyone wants to talk to him. Atlantis throws the best parties with the most booze. He gets a bigger room with a bigger bed -- too bad he's too old for conference shenanigans. Too old or too tired or too something -- everyone else is up to no good until ass o'clock in the morning, but Ronon is just watching House reruns on USA or drinking scotch straight from the bottle and passing out on someone's floor.

The same questions are always asked:

What are you looking for? (Good books. No, really.)

Okay, what kind of good books? (The good kind. No, really. An interesting voice. A good story. Worldbuilding. Fast-pace. Innovative science. Compelling characters. Sometimes a romance, in the background.)

Oh, man, a romance? (Lots of different sorts of people read lots of different sorts of books.)

Where were you on 9/11? (On the train, late for work. Ronon walked to Sateda first, to try to find out what was going on, after the train stopped in the station. Then he walked from Sateda to his mother's house -- over the Manhattan Bridge, through the woods, down Flatbush Avenue until he hit his old neighborhood. Everyone was standing outside, kind of dumbly, but laughing, laughing -- this is what you get when you put white men in charge, this is what you get when you think it can't happen to you, this is what you get, this is what you get -- drinking from each other's cups and eating from each other's bags of potato chips, listening to the radio and staring at the grey sky. He'll never tell anyone at a con this, but he kind of loved it -- it reminded him of being young in the projects, when all the women would stand outside chatting on the stoop while the children ran around pushing each other down.)

Where were you during the blackout? (At work. Working. At first he'd thought that someone forgot to pay the electric bill again. Then he realized what was going on. He went to his mom's house that day too, but she was at the hospital, working a double shift, so he took off most of his clothes and laid on her roof with a bunch of teenagers, listening to old Biggie Smalls records, eating ice cream, and catching up on slang.)

**

Edit, photocopy, fill out the paperwork. Elizabeth calls him into her office and lays down the law: "You're falling behind. Were you serious about wanting an assistant?"

"No," replies Ronon. Then he stops and says, "Yes." Elizabeth smiles at him, and he shrugs. "Yes," he repeats.

"You have a go," she tells him, and punctuates that by handing him a yellow interoffice envelope. "Start with these resumes."

Ronon sifts through the resumes. He throws out all of the ones who come from people who have taken classes in publishing at NYU and Columbia, all the ones from people who list their MA as "literature," and all the ones from people who have never actually held a real job. He interviews the MBA guy, the former ballerina who dropped out of college to tend bar, the grandmother looking for something to do with her days besides go to museums and sit in Central Park with the other grandmothers, the sassy intellectual who shows up in thick black-framed glasses and chunky-heeled neon green shoes, the fresh-faced twenty year old from Ohio who hasn't even finished getting her BA from Bryn Mawr yet, and, accidentally, three fans-with-a-capital-F, who all promise slavishly to work for less money if they can just read the new Jonas Quinn fantasy novel before everyone else.

He sprawls on the couch in reception and rubs his face and complains to Stacks, who tells him, "We had evidence and no doubt -- I had seen birth and death, but had thought they were different." He raises an eyebrow, and Stacks says: "T. S. Eliot."

"Not finding an assistant isn't the end of the world." He sighs. "Elizabeth will be angry with me, though. There's nothing wrong with them; I just don't like them." He eyes Stacks who's playing some kind of game on the computer; probably spider solitaire from the way the mouse is moving.

"I'll do it," says Stacks absently; this is the first time Ronon's heard Stacks say anything but poetry, he thinks -- and as though Stacks was privy to his thought -- "A tyrant spell has bound me and I cannot go, cannot go."

"Bronte," says Ronon, and feels far more satisfied with himself than he should.

**

Ronon's mother calls and leaves message after message, and finally Ronon goes to see her. He's not avoiding her -- he just... is avoiding her.

But she's still his mother, the same woman who helped him dread his hair when he was 12, and who never said a word about his Type O Negative posters, who never comes right out and tells him to find a nice girl and settle down.

She makes fried chicken and mashed potatoes and string beans for Sunday dinner; Ronon's brought an apple pie, and they nuke it, eat it with ice cream melting over it, and he entertains her with stories of the cats and his dates, and she stares at him suspiciously.

Number of secrets Ronon has successfully kept from his mother: 0

And John is a secret.

She stares at Ronon knowingly, but that might just be Ronon's imagination. He has an active and healthy, if a tad obsessive, one.

They watch Star Trek reruns and he takes out the trash for her. When he leaves, she squeezes his hand and says, "Ah, baby, I only want you to be happy."

He stands in the doorway; she's a tiny woman with long braids and a wide smile, and he wishes she had someone to take care of her, someone suited to her who appreciates her. Someone who won't leave her fifteen years old and pregnant, someone who won't make her go through nursing school by herself while working two jobs to support herself and her baby and her crackhead mother. Ronon doesn't remember his grandmother, has never met his father -- and he worries that he has that in him, criminals and drug addicts and cruelty.

"What does that mean, anyway?" he asks. "To be happy. Tell me what to do."

"Uh-uh, you're not ten years old anymore." She shakes her head and her smile gets wider. "Baby, you know you gotta do what you gotta do, no matter who says what. Like what you did with Kell."

Ronon closes his eyes and nods, gathers her up into a hug, lifts her off her feet. She's a tiny, miniature Amazon.

"Bring your young man by for supper," she instructs him when he finally puts her down.

"He's not my young man." Ronon zips up his leather jacket and shoves his hands into the pockets.

"If he's ashamed --"

"He's not ashamed. We're just not -- how did you even know?"

"A mother always knows. And you dropped a receipt from Duane Reade when you hung up your jacket." Her eyes twinkle, black as Ronon's leathers.

"Men buy lube for lots of reasons," says Ronon. He bought his just in case and also for masturbating, but he knows he sounds lame, and she's rolling her eyes, pushing him out the door.

"You didn't invent sex, you know!" she calls after him as he jogs down the stairs. He waves at her before he turns to walk to the train station, and wishes she hadn't said "sex" out where all the neighbors could hear.

**

Ronon plans it in his head: he'll go down to John's office to talk to him about something totally bogus, lean against the doorway -- women have told him he leans well, and it must work on men too, right? -- and John will --

No, he can't even convince himself of that.

Some night he'll follow John out and suggest they get a beer and once they're tipsy, Ronon will slither under the table and --

Not that either, it would never work, and Ronon would feel like an idiot on his knees on the floor of a dirty bar. And he's not an exhibitionist.

It's been more than a month and John hasn't said anything, and it's like nothing has changed between them. They still go out and drink, they still sit in each other's offices for hours at a time. They slap each other on the back and bump shoulders and that's it.

Except sometimes Ronon can feel the fucking tension stringing out between them and feels like he's spinning in place -- he's elastic potential energy. Ronon multiplied by John squared by sex equals Ronon being unwound further and further, feeling the stretch every second.

**

John stares at Ronon throughout O'Neill's State of the Union address -- Atlantis is up 25% overall, which is stellar, especially compared to the rest of the Gate Group companies. Their academic publishing is down, their magazines are down, and their children's books are down. But Atlantis is up, and rising.

And John stares at Ronon. And Ronon stares back. And McKay clears his throat, louder and louder, and then there's a thud and a yelp, and when Ronon turns to see what happened, Teyla smiles pleasantly at him.

**

Ronon ruins it when he makes a mistake -- he goes to John with a book by Daniel Jackson. He loves it -- it's amazing sf, full of wormholes and spaceships and alien races pretending to be gods to humans, and it's amazing fantasy, with pre-industrial worlds and navigation by stars and technology masquerading as magic and miracles. It's got a love story and it's got sympathetic characters --

And John says no.

"But it's Daniel Jackson," protests Ronon. He doesn't know much about the way Atlantis was before he arrived, but he knows that Daniel Jackson's name is one to conjure with. Hell, Ronon isn't even sure how he got the manuscript -- it just showed up in an interoffice envelope with his name scrawled across the whole thing in black permanent marker. Jackson is involved somehow with O'Neill and Mitchell and all of them, and he knows someone told him the story, but can't remember it.

But Daniel Jackson. A name to conjure with. And he can write too.

"No," replies John firmly. "We can't publish something by our CEO's whatever he is."

"Doesn't that make us perfect to publish it?" Ronon's clutching the manuscript to his chest. He loves it. He wants it. He can see the cover -- the strange glyphs that will attract the language nerds and the beautiful woman that will attract everyone and the mysterious alien in the background, with his alien weapons -- maybe Royo --

"I said no, and I meant no. I won't sign off on the paperwork for this." John's phone rings and he looks over at it. "I have to take this. Write a polite rejection and refer them to someone at Del Rey."

Ronon's mouth drops open and he can't get it to shut, and he storms into the hallway as John picks up his phone. "This is Sheppard," John is saying as Ronon closes his door. Carefully. Gently.

Then he turns and heads into Elizabeth's office. "Does she have time for me?" he calls to Laura as he storms past her desk. Laura splutters a little. Elizabeth is on the phone, her feet on her desk, facing the windows.

"I have to call you back," she says, and turns, and Ronon realizes that she must have seen him reflected.

"Sorry," he says, a beat too late.

"What's going on, Ronon?" she asks, hanging up her phone and smiling at him. "You look agitated."

"I have a submission from Daniel Jackson -- Daniel Jackson -- and John says we can't publish it." Ronon drops the manuscript on her desk. "It's good, Elizabeth."

"Why are you here if John said no?"

"I think we should do it. I can't send Jackson to another publisher -- we have to keep him with the Gate Group. Can you imagine if he went over to Del Rey with this? I don't -- I mean -- O'Neill!" says Ronon, totally frustrated, losing words. "We would be killed in our sleep if Jackson went over to the Wraith Alliance."

Elizabeth stares at the manuscript for a moment. Then another, then another. Then she sighs.

"Go," she says.

"Excuse me?"

He's working up a righteous fury when she says, "I'll give O'Neill a call and see what's going on with this. If Jack wants us to do this, we don't really have a choice. But --" and her voice gets colder -- "John did have a point, Ronon. We publish this, it looks like favoritism."

"It's all favoritism," replies Ronon as scornfully as he can. Inside he's jumping up and down, though -- god, it's a good book, it's a great book, it's going to make them millions of dollars, or at least hundreds of thousands, everyone is going to love it --

"John is going to kill you," murmurs Stacks, and Ronon knows Stacks is right. Ronon just went over John's head for approval on a project -- John's not going to be happy with that. But John is wrong.

Ronon can't find the words to say that, though, when John storms into his office an hour later.

"You went to Elizabeth," snarls John, "after I told you no? What the hell is wrong with you, Dex?" John kicks the door shut and Ronon stands up. "I said no."

"You were wrong," replies Ronon. They're practically nose to nose, Ronon's got his arms folded across his chest, they're both frowning. "You are wrong."

"We can't --"

"We can. We have. We will again. And we are going to. It's not a bad book!" yells Ronon.

"I don't care!" John yells back. "You're out of bounds!"

Ronon feels the perverse desire to yell "You are not the boss of me!" and kick John in the shins, but restrains himself and takes a deep breath and instead says, "You're right. I'm sorry I went around you. It was a judgment call."

John steps back and glares at him. "Don't do it again. Ever." Then he leaves Ronon's office, and Ronon watches him go, then grabs his jacket and slings his bag over his shoulder and leaves.

"Where are you going?" calls Stacks, but Ronon doesn't even look back. Fuck John -- fuck all of them, the whole goddamn company.

**

When Ronon was in high school, sometimes he and his friends would cut and take the D train out to Brighton Beach, singing Type O Negative songs the whole way, painting their fingernails with permanent marker and slouching on the orange and yellow plastic seats, their feet pressed against the metal poles, old Russian women glaring at them.

They'd get off at Brighton Beach and get coffee at Dunkin Donuts, sandwiches and croissants, then get back on the train and go out to Coney Island, walk around on the beach and the boardwalk. It was the best in the winter, abandoned and icy, windy and cold.

Ronon and Kirill used to have come-shooting contests in the dark corners near the bathrooms, and the girls would giggle and be the judges, and it always led to messy blowjobs and Ronon's fingers in heat and wet and someone panting and moaning in his ear.

For a while, while he was in college, and even up to just a few years ago, the D train was taken out of service. But it's back now, and shiny, and Ronon rides it out to Coney Island and thinks about Kirill and Sasha and Connie and their whole group of friends, math nerds and bio geeks and Kirill did theatre, was one of the only boys in their high school to sing and dance and not care about anyone making fun of him.

It probably helped that theirs was one of the only New York public high schools that didn't have any sports teams. Except, Ronon thinks, they might have had some gymnasts or something. He can't remember.

He's old, and he can't remember, and he can hardly picture Kirill's face, even though Kirill was his best friend all through high school.

It would be perfect, thinks Ronon, if he saw Kirill here on the beach.

Ronon sits on a jetty -- it's wet and it's going to ruin his leather pants, but he doesn't care.

He listens to his iPod, songs from high school, and thinks about how he used to think finding square roots was hard, and then he got to college and had to take Intro to Physics which, whoa, string theory, who knew? Ronon's never had trouble with paradox -- it's just translating theory into practice that gets him, every time. And now he works at a company where people don't always slot into place the way they should, and he just can't figure it out.

What does John want and what does Ronon himself want and how come Elizabeth is back to not wearing her wedding ring and is McKay really unhappy and what's -- what's going the fuck on?

Ronon comes to the conclusion that Type O and Metallica don't wear very well over time, but Suicidal Tendencies has, and he was totally wrong to go over John's head, but John made the wrong decision in the first place.

The sky is grey and the waves crash harder than Ronon remembers. He stops at Nathan's for a hot dog and French fries, paints his fingernails black with the permanent marker in his bag, and feels stupid.

Khet and Sen make him feel stupider when he gets home and realizes that it's past nine pm, and they haven't been fed. He opens a can of tuna for them, orders a pizza, and lets them eat all his pepperoni.

**

John's door is closed all morning. Ronon finally goes up and raps on it. "Enter," says John.

Ronon pokes his head in. "I just wanted to apologize again. I'm sorry for going to Elizabeth. I just think that something coming out of O'Neill's office warrants --"

"No no." John sighs and sits back. It looks like he's actually working on something, not just hiding the way Ronon's been doing. "Come in."

Ronon steps in and closes the door. "That's all I had to say."

"I'm sorry too," says John. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. "My reaction was over the top."

There should be more -- Ronon waits for John to say that he was jealous because O'Neill sent Jackson's manuscript to Ronon instead of John, or that -- or anything, really, it could be anything, but John leaves it there.

"Okay," says Ronon, after an awkward few moments of silence. "I'll let you get back to work."

"Hey -- " John slides his glasses back on. "Wanna have lunch with me and Caldwell?"

Ronon figures that as close to a peace offering as he's going to get, and nods his head, and John grins at him.

**

At Novita, during the lunch with John and Caldwell -- which, was there ever a man more obsessed with aliens really existing and spaceships? Ronon doubts it -- John presses his leg against Ronon's and drinks an entire bottle of red wine by himself.

"A traditional publishing lunch," Ronon slurs to Stacks later that day.

"Sign this," replies Stacks, and Ronon scrawls DEX across the bottom of whatever it is Stacks is holding out, and curls up as tight as he can into a ball, and hides under his desk.

He praises Jah and Allah and God and Yahweh and every deity he can think of for Stacks, who keeps everyone out of his office for the rest of the afternoon -- but it's John who comes to get him at quitting time.

"Let's go, time for more drinking," says John, and hauls Ronon up onto his feet, out of a sound sleep. Ronon blinks at him, and pushes his dreads out of his face, uses two from the bottom to tie them back.

"Drinks?" he repeats incredulously. At least the lights are off; whatever was in that chianti is going to kill him.

"Drinks," says John, and pushes Ronon against his office door, letting the door slam, and then his mouth is over Ronon's, smelling of grapes and basil, hot and sour, his hands on Ronon's cheeks, his body pressed against Ronon's, and through leather and wool Ronon can feel that John is getting hard.

Ronon fights through the kiss, fights through his blurry brain, fights his way out of the wine, and flips their positions, slamming John against the door, hands fisted in John's expensive shirt, nails scratching John's hairy stomach, kneeling to run his teeth over John's erection through his wool pants.

"Yes, God, yes," pants John as Ronon unbuttons and unzips, and is taking John's dick into his mouth even as he's pulling down John's pants and boxers. He's more than half-drunk and more than half-asleep, on his knees in his own fucking office, John's fingers twisting around his dreads, twisting under to the new hair growing that Ronon hasn't waxed yet, rubbing his nails over Ronon's scalp.

Ronon doesn't want to take his time; he wants this to -- to be something they work for, to be intense and fast, swallowing him whole. He takes John down as far as he can, coughs and pulls off, then does it again, and again, and again until John is all the way down his throat and his eyes are tearing and his breath stutters in his chest when he can breathe at all.

John is talking to him in bursts, murmurs, the nonsense words of fucking, his fingers on Ronon's head saying more than his dreamy voice ever could. Ronon is going fast but John is going slow, taking his time. Ronon sucks a finger in with John's dick and runs it back behind John's balls, and John is coming, hips jerking, bumping his balls into Ronon's chin, squeezing his ass around Ronon's finger, silent now except for moans.

**

"Be careful, Ronon," says Stacks. They're reviewing what needs to be done for the upcoming week -- Ronon will write the hardcover copy and Stacks will adapt old copy for new mass market paperbacks; Stacks will get the numbers and sales figures, and Ronon will do the P&L for the second Halling book -- and Ronon's not sure what Stacks is talking about.

"What?" he asks, squinting.

"Thus," replies Stacks slowly, holding his gaze, "Thus I polluted the spring of friendship with the filth of concupiscence and I dimmed its luster with the slime of lust."

Ronon raises an eyebrow, and Stacks sits back and looks a little abashed.

"I mean? Stacks stops and fumbles for words, then says, almost pleadingly, "I mean -- I was not only beloved but also I secretly reached the climax of enjoyment; and yet I was joyfully bound with troublesome tics, so that I could be scourged with the burning iron rods of jealousy, suspicion, fear, anger, and strife."

"Rimbaud?" asks Ronon, trying to be casual. He knows exactly what Stacks is talking about -- him and John, and their not-very-well-hidden secret affair, and -- actually, he's not sure what Stacks is talking about, unless Stacks -- of all people! -- was actually anti-queer.

"Augustine." Stacks's lower lip disappears between strong, even, white teeth, and then comes back out again. "People talk, and I defend you, but it's not going to stop them from talking."

"Don't defend me," orders Ronon -- then softens his tone. "It's all right, Stacks, it's --"

"It's not all right," insists Stacks. "It's not all right."

"Don't worry about it. Really." Ronon shakes his head and pulls the paperwork back to between them. "Now -- are you going to fill out the order forms for the copies due under contract, or do you need me to do it?"

Stacks stares at him for a moment before heaving a great sigh and bending back over the paperwork.

After Stacks is gone, Ronon sends Elizabeth an email: Is it a problem?

Elizabeth doesn't answer, but a few days later, as they're beginning to stretch to do yoga, he says, "Did you get my email the other day?"

She stops and stares at him until he looks up. "Is what a problem?" she asks pointedly, and he gets the picture.

"Nothing, guess I'm just overreacting," he says to her ruefully, and she smiles at him, moves smoothly into a split.

"It is hard, sometimes, to remember that we're all adults," she says with her legs stretched out to either side and her stomach flat on the floor, and he figures that's the only warning he'll get about melodrama in the workplace.

**

Some nights they go to John's and some nights they go to Ronon's; he locks Khet and Sen in the kitchen and they claw at the door while Ronon fucks John over the coffee table or on the giant armchair or on the slippery leather couch. Not every night. Some nights they go drinking first and John is too drunk to do anything but fall into a taxi.

**

This is the longest relationship Ronon's ever had, and it's not really a relationship. And it's not the longest if he counts the first time he heard "Give It Revolution" by Suicidal Tendencies.

He considers that sometimes, when he's supposed to be querying how a society would even go about creating a codex to decipher human/spider speech -- point at a coffee mug and say "mug" and see what the spider says, write that down, repeat with other objects? How would they figure out words for, like, existence? Humans say "existence" and spiders watch their hands create a circle and say, "Hhhrrrrmmmmggg" which means "circle"? Ronon's dubious.

From there he mostly stares at his bulletin board -- at some point, it became covered with junk that he knows he doesn't need. He can't even see the cork. And two offices down, behind that bulletin board, is John's office, and John sucked him off last night for hours, not letting him come, making him beg and growl, and then finally sucked him fast, with three fingers inside, and Ronon gets hard just remembering, thinking about the way John's fingers felt inside him, and --

"Boss. Boss." Stacks's fingers snap in front of Ronon's face, and he looks up. Stacks is glaring at him.

"Yeah?"

"Are you alive or not? Is there nothing in your head?" says Stacks, and spreads middle and ring fingers to make the Vulcan symbol.

"What do you need?" he asks.

"Do you see this?" A profitability and liability statement is waved in front of him. "Well, you put down that we're doing this project in hardcover at a price point of $26.90, which, as you know, is not a price point that exists in our system. Furthermore, it's only going to be 320 pages, which is a $24.95 price point. You will also notice that for co-op and advertising, you put $4,000. Do you know how much it costs to advertise in Locus? Realms of Fantasy? Do you know how much it costs to give a book co-op? Since you look offended at the questions, I guess you do. And isn't this something you want to push, the second Halling? So you're going to want, what? Incremental co-op? That's extra. And did I mention that we do have to pay for paper, print, and bind? Yet you left that blank."

When Stacks pauses to take a breath, Ronon interrupts: "Sorry?"

"What do you even have me for if you're doing your own P&Ls anyway?" demands Stacks, who then whirls around and stomps out.

Ronon runs his hand over his face and leaves early.

**

Number of times Ronon has tried to ask Stacks exactly which gender she/he is: 6

Number of times Ronon has ended up talking about the Brooklyn Cyclones, even though he doesn't know much about baseball: 5 1/2

Number of times Stacks has said, "I really don't believe in pronouns," and then went on to talk about the Brooklyn Cyclones: 1

Number of times Ronon fondly remembered the days when all Stacks did was quote poetry: too many to count

**

John finds Ronon at the bar they sometimes go to, down in the East Village. Before the bourgeoisie migrate from office cubicles to bar booths, the bar is pretty much empty except for a few people like Ronon who've made an early escape from work.

Ronon watches John walk into the bar; John zeroes in on him almost immediately, but stops to get a pint before sliding into the booth. Their knees bump.

"Hey," says John.

"Hey," says Ronon.

"I heard Stacks chewed you out." John chuckles and takes a long sip of his beer. "Assistants aren't supposed to be the boss of their boss."

"Thanks for the words of wisdom." Ronon glares at him. "I wish Stacks would go back to quoting poetry."

"And pick a pronoun, cause it's hard to talk about Stacks without using a pronoun but Stacks refuses, and we have to respect that. It's Stacks's decision," says John -- too solemnly. Ronon knows he's making fun of Stacks, but since it's not in a malicious way, and since their knees are still touching, Ronon doesn't feel compelled to defend his assistant.

"Stacks doesn't believe in pronouns, and pronouns don't believe in Stacks," replies Ronon just as solemnly. "But what am I supposed to do with Stacks anyway?"

"Elizabeth and I want you to pass on your knowledge. You know a lot about the business, Ronon -- give back to the community." John smirks at him and takes another long sip of beer.

"I don't have anything to give back to the community. Especially Stacks. When I'm being lectured on PP&B and how much incremental co-op to ask for?" Ronon shakes his head, stares into his empty glass.

And suddenly John is his boss, and not the guy he's fucking every once in a while -- his face is harsher and his eyes are tireder and his voice has an edge. He says, "Who brought you up? What did they teach you? Not just how to look at a manuscript and know what the page count will be, how many signatures, the thickness of a spine -- but the business, what it means to edit these books, how to make them work, character and plot and sentence structure, and how to talk to agents, and how to get recalcitrant authors back in line. It's more than numbers -- fuck, you were at Sateda, you should already know that."

"None of that counted for shit at Sateda -- it's just fucking lip service," Ronon shoots back. He wishes he was in a chair so he could push it back violently and knock it over. He has to settle for sliding out of the booth. "I'm going to get more beer."

John grabs his arm before he moves away, long fingers tight around his wrist. "Sit down," he orders in a steely voice, and Ronon can't help himself -- he sits. His mama raised him up right.

So did Kell.

"I never asked what happened at Sateda that made you leave, and I never asked how it was that you somehow miraculously knew to get out when you did --"

"I heard Kell. On the phone," says Ronon quietly. He can't meet John's eyes, so he stares at John's hand, still around his wrist. "He orchestrated it. No one believed me."

"Hm," says John, and in that one syllable Ronon hears condemnation -- but when he finally looks up at John's face, John only looks thoughtful. "I wish you'd said this before."

"Why? So you could --"

"Know to turn Kell away when he came asking about open positions last month?" John lets go of Ronon's wrist and sits back. His mouth is tight. "We're going to hire him to take my place."

Ice fills Ronon's chest: John is leaving. Kell is coming.

"I thought," continues John, "that you just have a disturbing habit of sleeping with your boss; I'm kinda relieved to know that you left because Kell helped the Wraith Alliance orchestrate a hostile takeover."

"With Kell on the inside feeding them information, it wasn't much of a hostile takeover. Just a bunch of ugly suits sweeping in, sucking the life out of everyone," says Ronon dully. He wants to leave, but he's read enough books -- he knows that everything can hinge on one bad decision, one explanation unheard, one question unasked. He can't be that person, that horrible clich -- "You're leaving?"

"Leaving?" John laughs, a loud bark. "No, just giving up the fucking paperwork. Plus, you know, once you've been editor in chief, you can never go back. My friend, by this time next week, you'll be looking at Executive Editor John Sheppard. That's like being a colonel -- or even a general."

Ronon can't breathe. He presses his knees to John's and forces himself to take air in through his nose. Finally, he says, "You can't hire Kell."

"That's all I get? Not even a congratulations? I think I'm gonna make the junior staff salute every time I walk into the room." John smirks at Ronon, stretches out his legs, lets Ronon's legs rest on either side of his.

"Congratulations. You can't hire Kell," repeats Ronon insistently. He leans forward over the table. "The Wraith Alliance have been looking for a way to take Atlantis down -- you know they have. We're beating them consistently on every bestseller list, we're beating them for awards, we're beating them in raw sales numbers and in the industry percentages -- don't fucking look at me like that, damn it. Take me seriously for one second --"

The grin falls off John's face and he leans forward too, puts them nose to nose. "You think Elizabeth and I don't take you seriously? Think again, Dex; don't let this bullshit distract you. Obviously we're not going to hire Kell now. Obviously we're on the alert for Wraith Alliance attacks from the inside. Give us some credit for knowing how to run our ship, here -- we've been working together for years already."

The long silence between them is almost more than Ronon can bear, but he's not going to speak first, and he's not going to drop his eyes from John's. When John sighs and sits back and drains half his beer in one go, Ronon sits back too.

"I'm sorry," says Ronon under his breath. John's not leaving. John's not going anywhere. Ronon's not out of the loop -- John's not leaving.

John doesn't mean enough to him for him to feel this relieved.

"I heard that," replies John cheerfully. "So -- who do you think we should steal to come replace me? Not that anyone could ever really replace me --"

"Of course not --"

"-- but we can try, I guess. Maybe --"

"Teyla."

"Teyla? Nah, she's got her hands full with the Athosian Press." John's throat works as he finishes his beer. He slaps his hands on the table and stands up. "Another round." It isn't a question.

Ronon formulates his argument while John is at the bar, and is ready when John comes back. It feels good to switch gears, to stretch himself with a battle plan for the future of the company, to protect Atlantis and its holdings and its people. It's like he's doing what he's always supposed to have done -- be in a position where he can use his power and his damned stupid big brain to help make things work the way they're supposed to.

"Teyla's too good to be stuck with the Athosian Press --" he starts, and John interrupts.

"But she's got her hands full with the hunting and fishing and The Idiot's Guide to Tanning Caribou or whatever," says John. Ronon's pretty sure John enjoys this as well; he's got a look in his eyes that makes Ronon kind of hot.

"Absorb the Athosian Press into Atlantis -- don't keep them separate so much anymore. Instead of letting them be practically their own company, keep them closer, make them an imprint of Atlantis, change the logo a little, and let Teyla run everything. Everyone respects her, she knows what she's doing --"

"She doesn't know anything about trade fiction publishing," says John, but Ronon knows that now he's just playing devil's advocate.

"Teach her," says Ronon, and does a perfect imitation of the patented John Sheppard shrug-smirk-eyebrow quirk.

John's mouth curls up, and Ronon's belly flares with heat, desire warring with wanting to finish planning the future of Atlantis.

"Drink your beer," says John in a low voice, "and then we'll go home and you can fuck me."

Ronon chokes on the mouthful of beer and coughs it out all over the table.

"Or we could leave now." John stands up and Ronon looks from John's almost-full pint to where John is standing with his arms crossed over his chest and his legs spread and his chin down, stands up, and follows John out of the bar.

**

The first time John fucked him, it was in John's bed, a few weeks ago, on top of the sheets and blankets, with all the lights on, and Ronon's face in the pile of pillows. John used what felt like a metric ton of lube -- but first he used his tongue, and his fingers, and by the time John slid into him, Ronon had come twice and was sliding through gloppy wet unsexy come on the sheets, and didn't care, and was shaking, and was crying, gasping for breath.

This time, John pushes him against the front door and makes him bend a little, slicks him just enough so that it burns, and shoves in. Ronon groans all the way from his toes as John thrusts, banging against the cold door, leaning his forehead against the door, spreading his fingers as wide as he can to try to control himself. John sinks his teeth into Ronon's neck, bites and releases with each thrust in-pull out. His hands hold Ronon's hips steady, and they find a jittery rhythm, and John comes fast, before Ronon can, while Ronon is still cresting on the bone-melting pleasure.

"Fuck me now," demands John as he pulls out faster than Ronon would've liked. He throws the condom toward the trash can but doesn't check to make sure it falls in; Ronon grabs his dick and presses right behind it, right in front of his balls, holds his breath, closes his eyes -- John naked in the middle of the hardwood floor, their clothes littered around him, his hair sticking every which way, still wearing his glasses --

Ronon wants to push him to the floor and then fuck him through it, but he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, then grabs the back of John's neck and steers him toward the bedroom.

"Lube me up," he says to John, but instead of reaching for the bottle and a condom, John sinks to his knees and takes Ronon's cock all the way to the back of his throat in one smooth, practiced motion, lets his throat convulse on Ronon's cock. Ronon's knees go weak and he pulls away from John, pulls his glasses off.

Ronon carefully folds John's glasses and puts them on the nightstand as John gets onto the bed, lies on his back. They've never fucked this way, with John's legs up, his cock slowly hardening again. Ronon grabs the condom and rolls it on himself, slicks it up. He kneels and pushes into John just a little bit, just the head, and John's eyes flutter shut and he groans.

"Don't tease me -- don't -- ahh ahh ahh --" And Ronon shoves in, leans down to pull John's legs over his shoulders, balances on one hand -- fucking John takes goddamned acrobatics.

John is just as tight as he was the first time, and feels just as good, and Ronon sinks into the rhythm, concentrating fiercely on not coming, not until John begs, or comes again, or -- not until Ronon is ready. He slams into John's body harder and harder, overbalances and falls onto John's chest. John gasps through groaning, and tilts his head so their mouths touch; they're kissing, kissing, kissing, and Ronon is coming, he can't stop, can't wait, and John's hands are all over him, and he's all over John, and he can't stop.

**

Things John does that makes Ronon kind of like him:

He puts ketchup on spaghetti. This is abhorrent and yet Ronon finds it endearing.

He never talks smack on McKay, even though he's got lots of opportunities. Ronon's never met an editor in chief who didn't talk shit about the head of production before.

He is very quick to take the blame for things that his subordinates do, and then he reams them out in private.

He likes to lift up Ronon's dreads and lick and bite the back of his neck where no one can see.

He almost never talks about himself and almost never asks Ronon about himself and doesn't push.

He is really good at taking it, at lying on Ronon's bed and being fucked, at fucking himself on Ronon, at grunting and groaning and opening his mouth wide, at pretending none of it ever happened while they're at work.

**

Saturday night, digging through John's t-shirts to find something to wear to the bar around the corner, where they're supposed to meet a bunch of people from the office to celebrate Zelenka's birthday, Ronon finds McKay's t-shirt that says "Serial Comma = Instant Karma"; it still smells like McKay.

**

A mechanical lands on Ronon's desk on top of a precariously stacked pile of papers and books and submissions, knocking everything not rubber-banded together to the floor. When Ronon looks up, McKay is standing there with his arms crossed over his chest, frowning.

"Is there a query?" asks Ronon as mildly as he can.

"Is the main character T-E-apostrophe-A-L-C or T-apostrophe-E-A-L-C or T-E-A-L-apostrophe-C? You think you could be consistent? You editorial types are all the same, you think you can just make mistakes and production will fix them?" demands McKay.

Oh.

"Yes," says Ronon.

McKay glares at him, then whirls around and stomps out. Ronon cocks his head toward the door and hears McKay stop in the hall and berate Lorne -- "Tell your boss that my department has better things to do than chase down his damn paperwork!" -- before he storms up the stairs.

**

TO: ++AtlantisEd
FROM: Dr. McKay
Subject: IQ

From now on all ARCs will read "For those with an IQ of 80+" OR "For those who are not retarded" OR "For advanced readers only" UNLESS certain members of the editorial department (and you know who you are, Ronon) can remember that the appropriate phrasing is:

ADVANCE READING COPY?OT FOR RESALE

*not*

ADVANCED READER COPY?OT FOR RESALE Additionally, the production department would appreciate the cessation of coffee stealing. Buy your own Kona, cretins.

--RM _________________________

TO: John Sheppard
FROM: Ronon Dex
Subject: FWD: IQ

Are we going to address this?

_________________________

TO: Ronon Dex
FROM: John Sheppard
Subject: RE: FWD: IQ

No.

_________________________

TO: John Sheppard
FROM: Ronon Dex
Subject: RE: RE: FWD: IQ

This is going to be a problem.

_________________________

TO: Ronon Dex
FROM: John Sheppard
Subject: RE: RE: FWD: IQ

It's already a problem. Drink?

_________________________

TO: John Sheppard
FROM: Ronon Dex
Subject: RE: RE: RE: FWD: IQ

Scotch is not the answer.

_________________________

TO: Ronon Dex
FROM: John Sheppard
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: FWD: IQ

Scotch is always the answer, except when the answer is beer.

_________________________

TO: John Sheppard
FROM: Ronon Dex
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: FWD: IQ

Not today.

_________________________

TO: Ronon Dex
FROM: Dr. McKay
Subject: FWD: IQ

I mean it.

--RM _________________________

TO: Dr. McKay
FROM: Ronon Dex
Subject: RE: FWD: IQ

Wanna get a beer tonight?

_________________________

TO: Ronon Dex
FROM: Dr. McKay
Subject: RE: RE: FWD: IQ

Not if you're going to be an asshole.

_________________________

TO: Dr. McKay
FROM: Ronon Dex
Subject: RE: RE: FWD: IQ

I'll give it my best shot.

_________________________

TO: Ronon Dex
FROM: John Sheppard
Subject: FWD: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: FWD: IQ

Hey, where are you?

"You know what I really hate?" says Rodney. He's hunched over a bottle of Molson, his mouth twisted into a frown even more pronounced than the one he usually wears.

"People who don't appreciate the semi-colon?" asks Ronon, only half joking.

"Yes, that too, but also I hate? Rodney trails off. Ronon is pretty sure that the exact moment McKay became Rodney was after the seventh beer. Or maybe the eighth. Or maybe when Ronon had that shot of tequila.

Ronon waits.

"I hate that Nora Roberts is on the bestselling paperback list four times this week," Rodney finishes. Ronon just stares at him.

"Listen," says Ronon, "I'm sorry about John."

Rodney frowns harder. "What about John? Nora Roberts isn't his fault."

"What?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry. You know. You and John."

"That was last year. What -- you're sorry that -- you're an idiot. What are we talking about?" Rodney glares at Ronon and then at his beer, and Ronon feels like doing the same.

Instead he sits back on his stool. "You and John. I thought you had been?

"Stupidly fucking in a bathroom during a company party?"

"Uh, yes?"

"Do you feel particularly like a thirteen-year-old girl at this moment or are you always this sentimental?" Rodney leans over and snaps his fingers. "I need another beer."

The bartender, at the other end of the bar watching The Simpsons doesn't even look over.

"Hey!" yells Rodney. "I need another Molson!"

Ronon rolls his eyes.

When Rodney gets his next Molson, Ronon slips an extra two dollars across the bar and the bartender grins at him, goes back to The Simpsons. Lisa Simpson has an eating disorder.

"I'm always this sentimental," Ronon finally says.

Rodney snickers. "You and John, huh? Do you ever talk about anything or are you manly men who sit around grunting and drinking and doing the crossword puzzle in pen?"

"I never do the crossword puzzle in pen." Rodney's assessment is otherwise uncomfortably on the mark.

"I always do," Rodney replies, and bangs his beer on the table.

**

The Wraith Alliance calls Ronon and leaves him voicemails. Six in the last two weeks. He doesn't call them back.

**

John puts ketchup on macaroni and cheese, even the real stuff, the stuff with cheddar cheese and tomatoes on top that Ronon's mom bakes and freezes and sends home with Ronon "to share with that special someone you still haven't introduced me to, baby."

("Mom, your interest in my sex life is creepy." "Ronon, baby, I just want to meet the father of my grandchildren." "You've met the father of your grandchildren. Me. Their names are Khet and Sen." "Aw, baby, don't be like that." "Can we please change the subject?")

John puts ketchup on spaghetti, eggs, and meatloaf, and, hell, on pancakes. He puts ketchup on pancakes, he's a fucking heathen.

He says, "No, it's good like this, really," and forks up pancakes and homefries with ketchup on both, and salt, and maple syrup, and it's all Ronon can do not to gag.

Ronon is a traditionalist -- he likes bread crumbs on his mac and cheese. He likes a little maple syrup and a lot of butter on his pancakes. He likes salt on his potatoes and hot sauce on his eggs and in his Bloody Marys, and a lot of lazy sex on Saturday afternoons after brunch.

"You wanna talk about it?" asks John, with his mouth full of pancake and ketchup. Ronon steadfastly doesn't look at him, and instead focuses on the celery in his Bloody Mary. He thinks it's ironic that the vegetarian restaurant makes the best Bloody Marys in the city, even though they don't have Worcestershire sauce in them. They've got enough hot sauce to scar the inside of Ronon's mouth and that's better than anchovies some days.

"Talk about what?" asks Ronon, and crunches down on the celery. It makes a satisfying noise, and is also spicy. It will do.

"Whatever is bothering you."

Ronon looks up and John is staring at him. Ronon shrugs. "No," he says.

"Okay," says John, and Ronon thinks: this is definitely a plus to having a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend.

Then he ignores the part of his brain that wants to have a freakout that he's got a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend, and also the part of his brain that's a teenage girl who wants to know about relationships, and applies himself to his celery and pancakes and tempeh bacon, which is so gross, but covered in maple syrup it's not half bad.

John segues nicely into things that bother him, a list which apparently includes: the eye care coverage Atlantis has (John needs new glasses and wants a set of contacts for every once in a while, and Atlantis only gives them $200 every two years), the existence of the Brooklyn farm team, the reluctance of the Democratic party to actually effect change, the apathy of today's youth, and the memo Elizabeth circulated asking people not to put political cartoons in public spaces.

John raging against injustices is really more like John sitting back and complaining with his mouth full. When he gets to the corporate buyout of independent presses he looks guiltily at Ronon and adds, "And, you know, corporations in general. Like Starbucks! Which, at least they make an effort to support sustainable farming and fair trade, and I know that if I'm ever in India, I can get a cup of coffee with soy milk --"

"You don't drink soy milk," interjects Ronon.

"-- or hazelnut flavoring, or a chocolate-dipped biscotti --"

"You don't like biscotti."

"-- or anything I want," finishes John triumphantly, glaring at Ronon.

"The Wraith Alliance's been calling me," says Ronon, which is not at all what he meant to say -- he meant to say something like, "Why would you be in India anyway?" or "If you were in India, you'd drink the tea," or "Let's have Indian food tonight, that sounds great, I want one of those mysore masala dosa things."

John goes still, totally still, really still, and look at Ronon. "And?" he says.

"And nothing, I haven't called them back. I don't want to deal with them." Ronon finishes his third Bloody Mary and sets the glass to the side, drains his water, and shoves a giant piece of pancake into his mouth. When he looks up, John is still staring at him.

"You should talk to them," John tells him. "Get into the building. Look at their setup in the home office. Look at what they're doing. Make friends with an editor or a publicist or something." John leans forward. "Seriously, get us an in. Spy on them."

"No one is going to tell me any confidential information," says Ronon around his pancake. Which he's still chewing. Maybe it was too big.

"Yes, they will. People exchange confidential information all the time. You told us about Caldwell and the Genii and the Goa Ould," points out John.

"That wasn't confidential. It just wasn't public." Ronon swallows, even though he's not sure he's done chewing. The pancake is like a lump in his throat. "This isn't like an intern giving Neil Gaiman's address to her friends."

"Didn't you ever want to be like James Bond or --"

"Jason Bourne?" asks Ronon dryly. "I need a cup of coffee."

"Maybe that's a bad example." John grins at Ronon. "Take the interview. Elizabeth will tell you the same thing -- get in there. You think they really think they can get you away from us? They'll offer you a ridiculous amount of money that they know you won't take, and they'll try to get as much information about us as possible out of you, and then they'll tell you a few weeks later that they gave the job to someone in house."

Ronon eats more pancake.

"And," continues John, "at least this way you know they won't be interviewing Stacks or Lorne to try to get them to give us up. Which is stupid, because they might actually have a chance of stealing away Lorne or Stacks or Laura, and it would make more sense for them to do that, because Stacks and Lorne and Laura have more information than anyone about the way the company is run."

"Assistants always do," mumbles Ronon around another too-big piece of pancake. This piece is soaked through with butter and maple syrup and tastes like heaven. "We should go out for brunch more."

**

Ronon calls the Wraith Alliance and gets a polite female-sounding voice attached to the name Holly Martins, who makes him an appointment with Steve Michel -- "Mitchell?" repeats Ronon obnoxiously; "Mee-shell," says Holly Martins patiently; "Michelle?" says Ronon, and giggles when he hangs up.

**

Laura wants to know if she should go ahead with a brand new author, and Ronon coaches her: Can you picture the cover in your head? Who would you send it to for blurbs? Do you know what you'd write for the cover copy? How would you position it on the list? Which imprint would you put this in? Do you think there's a market out there?

He doesn't even need to know anything about the book to ask the questions.

The cover Laura describes to him sounds terrific -- black matte, the barest outline of a woman's body, embossed silver wings. Wings always sell.

But a good cover isn't enough and she can't answer any of his other questions, and finally she sighs and slumps back, her head in her hands.

"I don't know why I thought I could do this," she murmurs.

He's not sure quite what to do at this point -- encourage her? Discourage her? He settles for saying, "Elizabeth wouldn't have hired you if she didn't think you had a lot of potential."

Laura gives him a withering glare. "Oh please, Ronon -- Elizabeth hired me because I can alphabetize."

"Lots of people can alphabetize."

"Have you ever looked at the filing in this place? No one can alphabetize."

"Okay," says Ronon, because she has a point. He's heard more than one senior staff member singing the alphabet song while looking for contracts. He holds his hands out to Laura, palms up. "Do you want to do this? Because there are plenty of companies who are looking for people who can alphabetize that pay a lot more."

"I'm pretty much resigned to being poor forever," says Laura, and now she's smiling, so Ronon must have said something that resonated, even if he feels like he hasn't said anything at all. He tries to remember what Kell told him when he went through this, but he can't even remember going through something like this. Ronon never had any kind of petrifying self-doubt.

Not about his editorial skill, anyway.

"Why don't you talk to Elizabeth a little?" he suggests.

Laura scoffs at him. "Assistants can't do that," she says, stretching. Her shirt rides up a little to show him a smooth, creamy stomach, with pale blonde hairs on it. He wonders if she feels self-conscious because she's hairy, the way he always feels a little self-conscious because he's not. He wonders if people like to bite her skin a lot, if it shows marks easily -- then shakes himself out of it and focuses on her face. "Come on, you know that," she continues. "What would happen if all the assistants went into big mama's office every time we had a book we wanted to buy but didn't know how to?"

Ronon shrugs. That's what he does -- bounces ideas off Elizabeth and John until they've either all figured out how to make it work, or until they've convinced Ronon it's a bad idea.

"Anyway, thanks." Laura stands up and stretches again.

**

Ronon and John meet up at the Webb reading, at the Korova Milk Bar. They pinch each other throughout the reading, buy Webb and his friends and a bunch of Locus kids drinks, play nice, and make out outside, where they're the only ones smoking. It's just an excuse to get out of the crush -- it's maybe just an excuse, Ronon thinks, to talk to only each other.

**

Lorne throws himself into the chair near Ronon's desk. "Are you watching Project: Runway?" he demands.

"No?" says Ronon.

"Damn it!"

"What about the art girls?"

"They hate it. But the other night the guy made his model into an orchid!" Lorne leans forward. "And the other guy made his model into a muddy stream."

"Is there a modernist dilemma in there somewhere?" asks Ronon, grinning.

"I hate you," says Lorne, and leaves, bumping into Stacks on his way out.

"Is he still complaining about no one watching Project Runway?" asks Stacks.

"Yeah." Ronon reaches for the paperwork Stacks is bringing him, and starts flipping through contracts to initial the last page. "I don't get Bravo, though."

"Me either, I switched it for the National Geographic channel." Stacks leans a hip on his desk, and the scent of oranges and cloves wafts to Ronon.

"Did you have ham for lunch?" he asks, handing back the contracts.

"Yup." Stacks flips through them, double-checking to make sure he signed everything he was supposed to. When Stacks first started doing that, Ronon was kind of offended, but after it saved his ass three or four times, he stopped caring. Now he feels like it's kind of nice to have someone always watching his back -- he's not going out there alone.

"Smells good." He turns back to the submission -- he knows he's going to reject it. It's not bad, but it's not the best thing he's ever read, either. And he's doesn't hate it, but he doesn't love it. And he can't think of any good reason to reject it -- but he can't think of any good reason why it should be published either, and he figures that's reason enough to reject it.

He's composing the letter in his head -- Thanks for letting me take a look at WILD IN THE CITY by James F. Frisk. There's a lot of interesting stuff in here, and Mr. Frisk can obviously write his way out of a paper bag -- but only barely. We've already got a lot of faux-cyberpunk queer romances about wizards on our SF/F list, and I think this would just get lost in mid-list hell here. Good luck getting some other schmuck to publish this. -- when he notices Stacks hasn't left.

"Did you need something else?" he asks, without looking up.

"What are you doing next Wednesday?" asks Stacks, and points to the calendar Stacks hung on the second bulletin board Stacks got office services to put up.

There's a black X through Wednesday, to denote to Stacks that Ronon won't be in.

"Doctor's appointment," he says. Stacks's eye roll indicates to Ronon that Stacks doesn't believe him.

"You had a doctor's appointment last month. You had a physical. You're fine. You complained about cold hands and blood sucking lab techs." Stacks's foot taps on the floor. "What's happening?" Ronon watches expressions cross Stacks's face -- and wonders again if Stacks is male or female. Stacks is really the first perfectly androgynous person Ronon's ever met. Could be either, would look good as either, sounds like either -- he doesn't think he really wants to know.

But, really, pronouns are helpful, damn it.

"Okay," says Stacks slowly, and sits down. "What's wrong?" Stacks's foot closes Ronon's door with a muffled bang, and Ronon jumps. "Do you have HIV? Have you told John?"

Oops.

"I don't have HIV," says Ronon irritably -- and is weirdly touched when Stacks lets out what sounds like a truly heartfelt sigh.

"Time is running out, or absent when needed most," says Stacks in a breathy voice, eyes closed.

"Who's that?" asks Ronon.

"Katie Levin. You've never heard of her." Stacks's eyes open. "Don't change the subject. What's wrong with you? Not -- cancer?"

It says a lot to Ronon that Stacks thinks HIV is worse than cancer, but he's not sure exactly what that a lot actually means. He files it away for later, and replies, "Can you keep a secret?"

"Don't be an idiot," says Stacks automatically. "I mean -- uh. Yes."

"I'm going to interview at the The Wraith Alliance -- ah! Before you say anything, you should know that it's -- John -- Elizabeth --" Ronon fumbles to explain, because he doesn't quite understand it himself. "It's reconnaissance," he finishes.

"Oh." Stacks nods and stands. "Why didn't you just say so? Damn it, you scared the shit out of me. Asshole." Stacks hits him on the shoulder and stomps out, without even calling a line of poetry back -- like maybe, "You're an asshole, but I'm getting used to you," or --

"I have a thing for assholes who tell good stories," Ronon murmurs. He doesn't know where that's from, but one of his ex-girlfriends used to say it to him all the time. He thought maybe it was kind of affectionate.

**

Also on the bulletin board, Stacks pinned: lists of due dates for hardcover copy, mass market copy, catalogue copy, author information sheet copy, revised publicity releases, copy released to the internet; manuscripts due to production; highlighted schedules to show when Ronon's books are coming out; a handwritten note that says, "AVON TO DO PARANORMAL YA VAMPIRE ROMANCE?" which Ronon has no idea about at all; two P&Ls that have been signed by John and Elizabeth, and scheduled, that Ronon has put off making offers on so as not to look too eager; a postcard from a friend of Ronon's from college who is now living and working in South America; a picture of Ronon in eyeliner and lipstick with his hair pulled into a ponytail on top of his head that he's pretty sure was taken during an epic game of Truth or Dare at the last company party, but he can't remember.

**

The new Locus is on Ronon's chair one morning. There's a paperclip in it, and a note from Elizabeth: LOOK AT THIS. --EW

Ronon tosses it onto his desk. He always means to read Locus and never gets around to it. It never says anything he needs to know anyway -- like he needs to read articles about how people used to bike ride when they were kids, and look at pictures of all the authors in the world succumbing to the Wraith Alliance?

No thanks.

He picks it back up, and tucks it into his bag. Maybe he'll read it on the train or something. Eventually.

**

Lorne and Lindsay and Laura (what the fuck?) stop in before leaving. Lorne says, "Instead of going on an interview and pretending to be interested, I think you and John should dress up as ninjas."

Ronon raises an eyebrow, and looks at Stacks, who is sitting in the chair near Ronon's desk. Stacks blushes a little.

"Uh-huh," says Ronon.

"Seriously," says Lindsay. "We voted."

"You voted," repeats Ronon.

"I want to see John in spandex," says Stacks. "He always wears T-shirts and turtlenecks."

"It'll be a nice change," adds Laura with a wicked smile.

Ronon looks around at them and finally says, "Ninjas don't wear spandex."

"Are you a ninja?" demands Stacks. "No? Then shut up!"

"Yeah," says Lorne. "Ninjas could wear spandex if they wanted to."

Ronon frowns for a second, sips his cold coffee -- ugh, it's from at least four hours ago -- and then points out, as reasonably as he can, "Spandex is shiny and catches the light. If a ninja wore spandex, it would be too hard to melt into the shadows. Ninjas are far more likely to adopt, say, armed forces battle dress -- like long sleeved T-shirts and cargo pants and holsters."

"I want to see John in a thigh holster," says Laura immediately.

"Me too," says Lindsay. She has a dreamy look in her eye. "Can you imagine?"

"Get out," says Ronon, groaning.

"Tell us what he's like outside the office," says Lindsay. She squeezes her hands together, and Ronon interprets: she means, "Tell us what he's like naked, while you're fucking him." He feels his face start to heat.

"Yes, tell us," says Lorne, grinning wickedly.

"Out, out, out!" Ronon hustles them all -- even Stacks, who he picks up by the upper arm -- out of his office and shuts the door. Then he slumps against it, and lets out a long sigh.

He'd like to see John in a thigh holster, too.

**

Sunday morning after showers and John shaving, cursing Ronon's straight razor, Ronon is editing, John is reading a battered and worn copy of Our Angry Earth, there's bagels and coffee, NPR is on in the background, and the windows are open.

John snaps his fingers and Ronon looks up, and John says, "Don't forget you were supposed to call your mother," and Ronon is suddenly, unaccountably, entirely petrified.

His eyes wide, he drops out of his chair and crawls over to John on his hands and knees and buries his face in John's crotch, mouthing the denim until it's wet and smells like spit and coffee and John's dick is hard, straining against the fabric. Ronon sits back on his heels and smirks up at John.

"Fuck you," says John, and unbuttons his jeans one-handed -- he's still holding onto the fucking novel, which Ronon loves for some reason, it's hot, and his glasses are a little smudged and falling down on his nose, and his hair isn't poking into the air, it's falling over his eyes, and his cock is hard and leaking and Ronon's mouth waters for it, wants it, but wants to watch John stroke it more.

Ronon's hand goes to his own denim-covered dick, rubs it hard, presses, makes it hurt a little, bounces on his feet watching John slowly, lazily, stroke his own cock.

"Do you want it?" John says in a gravelly voice, and, oh, God, yes, he does -- please --

Ronon nods, and makes a noise in the back of his throat, and he hasn't been so fucking unsure of himself since what? College? High school? But John makes him worried, he can't predict, exactly, what John is going to do, and he loves it, but it's scary, but he likes it, fuck, he loves it, and --

John slides out of his chair and loses the book on the way, twists his fist in Ronon's hair and hauls him to his feet, and they're stumbling over each other to get to Ronon's bed -- and sometimes Ronon wants to just say to hell with it and fuck John on the floor, but John's old, he's got bad knees, and Ronon feels so fucking domestic, but he doesn't even care, because he'll take John any way he can get him, even on the bed that still smells like sex and beer from Saturday night.

John shoves him onto the bed, and Ronon falls onto it harder than he needs to, waits on his back for John to climb between his legs, opens his own jeans and pulls his dick out while John strips down. Ronon works for his body, works for every single muscle, but John runs, and is naturally long and lean, almost too skinny sometimes. Ronon squeezes his dick to calm himself down -- he wants fingers inside him, a fist, a tongue, wants bruising hands on his body and John's teeth on his neck, scraping his tattoo.

And he gets it -- he gets John's cock, slick and hot, rubbing against his. He gets John's mouth on his neck and face, gnawing his collar bones and biting at his nipples and grazing, just barely, the skin of his cock, making him jump, John's hands petting everywhere they can reach, pushing and pulling Ronon out of his clothes.

John pulls out a condom and tosses it on the bed next to Ronon's head, but slaps Ronon's hand away from it. Oh God, oh God, John almost never tops, but when he does he makes it last forever, makes Ronon hump the bed and cry and pull his own hair.

The first time, Ronon felt open and exposed -- some guy was looking at his ass. But as soon as John's tongue brushed over him, Ronon realized that John probably didn't care if his ass was a little hairy or if one of his balls was bigger than the other or if the hair on his arms stood up in goosebumps every time John pushed another finger in. Ronon didn't care about that shit on John.

(That's when Ronon knew he was in trouble, but he doesn't think about that moment, usually, because John had four fingers in him and thinking about it makes Ronon have to dash to the nearest bathroom and jerk off.) (Plus, if he thinks about that moment, he has to start thinking about what this means and if it's a relationship and it's pretty much like that moment before in the living room, when he looked around and realized he and John were the fucking Ropers.)

John pushes in a finger using just spit and precome and Ronon gasps, "Let me turn over," and John, leaning over him, standing on the floor, says, "No," and Ronon says, "Yes," and John says, "No," and Ronon says, "Fuck --" and John shoves in another finger and bites Ronon's mouth, chews the corner of his lips, his chin, bites too hard right over his Adam's apple, and pushes in harder, and Ronon comes all over himself and John without even touching his cock, because John's right there, and Ronon's seeing stars, his hands closing into fists holding nothing.

"I'm clean," says John. "Are you clean?" And Ronon blinks at him, watches his mouth move. He's still wearing his goddamn glasses, his hair is still mussed up, his mouth is all red, and Ronon almost wishes he hadn't just come because he wants to throw him over and fuck him until they're both exhausted.

"Clean," repeats Ronon stupidly.

"Clean," says John. He's holding the condom packet, but it's not open -- and Ronon suddenly gets it. Clean. Like they haven't been fucking other people, like they haven't been wearing condoms for oral sex, like they haven't been sharing needles clean.

"Clean," says Ronon in a stronger voice. "Yeah."

And suddenly John's got a handful of Ronon's come and is pushing in without a condom and Ronon knows it's gotta be mostly psychological, but he's never fucked anyone without a condom, and it's like -- it's like sex, but more, it's like a commitment or something, and he's not afraid of committing but he's -- he doesn't -- this isn't --

His brain shorts out and he wraps his arms and legs around John and just holds on.

**

McKay stops Ronon in the hall. "Covert ops?" he says and Ronon shrugs. "Well, I have some suggestions for you. For example --"

Ronon thinks McKay's probably seen every spy movie ever made, right up through Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, because his advice includes not to trust women wearing white patent leather boots.

**

Ronon really likes the call reports. The sales force is out in the field, selling the books, and, unlike McKay and Zelenka and even Stacks, Ronon can read something that perhaps isn't punctuated perfectly without turning on the "track changes" function and sending a marked up Word document back to the sales rep.

The best call reports come in from Maguire Reed, who drives a teal '66 Buick Skylark, and sells through Eastern PA and New Jersey. Every once in a while he stops into the city. He wears cowboy boots and a cowboy hat. Ronon once asked why, and Maguire informed him that it was because he's short, and cowboy boots make him taller.

Ronon can't really argue with that.

Plus, Maguire always manages to get bookstores to take more books than anyone thought he would -- his call reports always explain his methodology too: "My niece is married to a great guy from Ecuador. One of my best friends married late in life to a woman from Columbia. A lot of my stores think they live in a Dick and Jane world. So we have to market around these stores and find the growing Hispanic market. They're out there. We just have to make people see them."

Today's call report says:

Title & Imprint: Rainbow Sun Miz Lucy George Washington Account Feedback: I got no idea who is Miz Lucy. Because I have not done so much homework as I should but so far the great review from the Guardian and the story itself about timeless love is a the reason I am getting this book in everywhere. Brokeback Mountain but about girls! This could be the big sleeper on the Rainbow list. How could you not love a woman named Lucy George Washington? I hope we are doing something big or unusual at BEA. I suggest a teaser ad campaign on the theme. Who Is Lucy George Washington? Leave little magnets or buttons all over the convention center with the same message. Plant little ads in that BEA daily newspaper or send through e mail. Leave table napkins with the question everywhere. Then put out a message saying "Find out at the Rainbow Sun booth" and people will come a lot. I myself haven't read this yet, but I'm planning too, definitely, because I hear it's got a happy ending.

All the other reps just write reports that say, "Powell's took 48 copies of The China White Affair mass."

Ronon figures that's the kind of call report he'd write. Maybe that means he needs to find someone like Maguire, so that their call reports complement each other.

**

TO: ++AtlantisPub
FROM: Elizabeth Weir
Subject: John Sheppard & Teyla Emmagen & the Athosian Press

As you all know, John Sheppard has spent the last five years as the Editor In Chief of Atlantis Publications, Inc. He has done stellar work with us, shepherding projects, training junior staff, and making himself generally indispensable to the running of this place.

I am both saddened and pleased to announce that John will be taking more time for editorial work in the future -- he has been promoted to Executive Editor.

Teyla Emmagen has agreed to merge the Athosian Press into Atlantis Publishing, Inc. and become our Editor In Chief.

This will change several procedures and quite a few internal unwritten rules, beginning with this one: all Athosian Press staff can now acquire for any Atlantis Publishing, Inc. imprint as long as all appropriate protocol is followed -- and vice versa.

Lorne will continue in his role as John's assistant, and Lindsay is being promoted from Editorial Assistant to Assistant Editor, and will become Teyla's assistant. I will be circulating another memo later today detailing the rest of the staffing changes that will occur with the full integration of the Athosian Press into Atlantis.

Let's all welcome Teyla and the Athosian Press into our fold, again, and congratulate John. Hopefully this change will help Atlantis Publishing, Inc. continue to grow and maintain our status as one of the top publishing companies in the world.

~Elizabeth Weir

**

John's new office is clean and organized, and Ronon thinks meanly that it won't last very long. When Ronon goes in, McKay is already there -- with a bottle of John's favorite scotch and a mug that says, I was Editor in Chief of Atlantis Publishing, Inc., and all I got was this lousy mug.

Ronon scowls.

"Take it easy, Conan, I'm not macking on your boyfriend," says McKay, and swats Ronon's arm with his wrist.

"McKay," drawls John, and Ronon isn't sure he likes that he knows that John's got a special "McKay voice". "What did we say about using slang?"

"Yes, yes, whatever," says McKay, flapping his wrist. He folds his arms and rocks back and forth on his toes. "Don't think this means that you can continue to be late handing in your copy. I know it's your fault, despite Lorne's best efforts to take the blame. Lorne is never late with his copy, only yours, so you might want to discuss with him effective ways to disguise the evidence."

Ronon grins at McKay and McKay grins back, and then it's John who looks cranky and suspicious, which Ronon finds acceptable.

**

Reasons why Ronon wouldn't take a job with the Wraith Alliance anyway:

The Wraith Alliance cheats authors out of money by putting a tiny clause in their contracts which allow them to sell as many copies of a book as they want at high discount -- like, seventy percent off the cover price -- to distributors and retailers. Within that clause it states that when books are sold at high discount, authors don't get royalties, or their royalties get marked down so much that they make only pennies per book.

The Wraith Alliance makes even its most senior editorial staff clock in and out. With punchcards. Like it's 1972 or something.

The Wraith Alliance has a very strict dress code -- no jeans, no t-shirts, no sneakers. Ronon's not sure where his leather pants and shitkickers fit into that.

The Wraith Alliance doesn't allow their editors to have free books from other parts of the company. That would be like Atlantis saying that editors who work on sf/f books can't have free mysteries. That's practically inhumane, and definitely, in Ronon's opinion, immoral.

The Wraith Alliance has all ports blocked except 80, and whatever they use for their corporate email, which means no Trillian, no FTP, no SSH. Ronon uses gmail and GoogleTalk anyway, but what if he wanted to use AIM or get a website or something? Better to be prepared. The Wraith Alliance also has a rule against downloading media onto computers, and a list of approved technology. That means no Windows Media Player, no iTunes, no Winamp, no Real Player, no Adobe Photoshop, and no GoogleEarth. And no Jardinains.

Ronon just can't abandon the fucking gnomes like that.

**

The The Wraith Alliance offices are chrome and black and white, like a bad painting from the 1980s, complete with white leather chairs and couches in their reception areas. Splashes of color come from strategically placed vases with orchids. Ronon wonders how much money they spend on the orchids alone.

He's not sure what he was expecting -- maybe something a little more grey and dreary and Mount Doom, a little less a Bette Midler movie or something.

Holly Martins is tall and lethally blonde with long legs and a short skirt and too many teeth when she smiles. She's as tall as Ronon in her spindly heels, but Ronon figures he wins for being most imposing, because when he stands up, in his black t-shirt and black leather pants and steel-toed boots and long black leather duster, she takes a step back.

Point the first to Atlantis Publishing, Inc.

He follows her down an aesthetically unpleasing hallway to an office with walls that are entirely windows, covered by nothing.

"Steve Michel," says the man behind the desk. He has long white hair and black eyes and he's also got too many teeth, just like Holly Martins. Ronon has his number right away: Long hair shows he's in touch with youth culture and a bit of a maverick, and white hair implies that he is confident enough to not have to dye it.

Ronon isn't impressed.

Ronon's painted his nails for the occasion. Black. With a skull and crossbones he hurriedly did with a brand new bottle of Liquid Paper that he appropriated from Stacks's desk when he stopped in at the office. (Not to check on things. To get more business cards.)

He sees that Steve's had his fingernails manicured.

Steve's palms are soft.

Ronon hates him immediately.

Steve displays his employees for Ronon, and Ronon remains unimpressed.

Like at Sateda, the editorial department of The Wraith Alliance is on one floor, all in a big room, desks shoved together. The editor in chief has his own office, and so does his assistant. Everyone else has a hideous grey cubicle. No one has personal items anywhere. Ronon gets the full tour -- the publicity department is on a separate floor, the production department is on a separate floor, the art department is on a separate floor. The only people with offices are department heads and the finance departments.

If Ronon had been considering taking a job with The Wraith Alliance -- which he wasn't, but if he had been -- this would be on the list of negatives. Ronon sees people he knows vaguely from nights of drinking, a lot of young kids who clearly have no idea what they'd gotten themselves into, everyone wearing suits and ties.

Is there a point to having an editor wear a suit and tie to work? Ronon can't think of one.

Back in Steve's office, Steve goes on and on about the opportunities that the Wraith Alliance offers.

"Atlantis gives me as many days off as I want," says Ronon, interrupting Steve's monologue. "I have great healthcare, and they sent me to the Glasgow WorldCon last year. What's the Wraith Alliance going to do for me?" He leans forward and presses his fingers together into a pyramid shape. "Work with me here, Steve. Why should I really leave Atlantis? What do you have up your sleeve?"

Steve does a very good faux-offended face. "The Wraith Alliance is the largest publishing company in the world, Ronon."

"And? Atlantis has you beat for awards two years running."

"Genre awards?" Steve sneers. "Really, Ronon, you can do better."

Genre, repeats Ronon in his head. Huh.

"And what are you working on now outside of genre?" prompts Steve.

Actually, several things, but Ronon isn't going to tell Steve that. "I'm working on an antho of sf stories from the twentieth century showing the development of queer thought through sf shorts."

Steve smirks at him and that makes Ronon nervous, but he just sits back in his uncomfortable chair and waits. "Yes, I'd heard that was one of your interests," says Steve. What the fuck does that mean, is what Ronon wants to know. "I'm interested in how John Sheppard convinced you to move to the Gate Group holdings did he offer you opportunities to explore your editorial boundaries?"

Ronon is not an idiot. "Actually, he offered me a lot of money," he says, and matches Steve's smirk. "How much will the Wraith Alliance offer me?"

"We offer you better than money -- we offer respectability."

"No one respects you." Oops, didn't mean for that to slip out. Ronon stands up. "I'll show myself out. Thanks for your time."

"Ah, Ronon? Steve's laughter follows Ronon out of his office and down the hall. Ronon waves his hand at the brittle blonde secretary.

"Don't get up," he says, and pushes out the doors, toward the elevator. Where a familiar ponytail is standing -- it's Kavanagh.

Ronon can get on the elevator, or duck into the men's room. Confront Kavanagh or hide?

**

"So what did you do?" asks Elizabeth. She's sitting across from John and Ronon at a table in the back of Novita. Ronon loves the food, but the atmosphere makes him nervous -- he's sitting next to John at a table with flickering candles and their boss. The situation doesn't sit right with him.

Maybe because he's never sat next to John at a table with flickering candles and just them alone. Them and a bottle of wine.

Ronon wonders if he's turning into a woman with thoughts of anniversaries and What This Means and Where This Is Going.

He puts down his fork, looks at Elizabeth, and shrugs. "Men's room." John snorts, and Ronon and Elizabeth both glare at him. Ronon goes one better and kicks him in the ankle. "Maybe I'll have a chat with him later this week, tell him he was spotted, ask what was going on."

"It's not like he knows anything about the company he could take over there," says John. He's still grinning. "Oh no! Atlantis Publishing has decided to make the serial comma official house style! After all these years of lazy copyeditors --"

"John," says Elizabeth firmly. She focuses on Ronon. "You can't just --"

"I wasn't planning to torture him," snaps Ronon. Then he relents: "Well, maybe a little. But only a little."

"McKay and I will speak to him if we think it's appropriate," replies Elizabeth.

John sighs heavily. "We never get to do anything fun."

"Is there anything else?" she asks.

"It's strange to think Wraith is going anti-genre or something," he says around a mouthful of duck, raspberries, and pine nuts.

"That's not really going to affect their list," says Elizabeth. She pokes at her gnocchi, then sets down her fork. "What I am worried about is what it means for the industry that they're trying to poach genre editors. My editors. Maybe they're going to try to move into genre?"

"Maybe they hate all science fiction, fantasy, mystery, romance, western, historical, and thrillers?" suggests John. He sips from his glass of dark red wine, and then adds, "I guess that leaves chick lit and magical realism."

"And non-fiction," Ronon reminds him.

"Can our society really be a place where chick lit is considered a genreless genre?" Elizabeth sounds weary, but is smiling. She rubs her hand over her face. "What about women's fiction?"

"He didn't tell me much about the list they have for this year, but? Ronon pauses to eat more duck. "I guess they're cutting down? There's not too many editors in the pool there. I counted six, plus two empty desks, plus a few assistants who apparently rotate. Can you imagine what Stacks and Lorne and Laura would do to us if we made them rotate between editors?"

"I would rather not," replies John, and he grins at Ronon. Ronon grins back, but Elizabeth frowns at them. The grin drops off Ronon's face.

He addresses Elizabeth: "I saw that Steve had Ballantine's catalogues on his desk. Del Rey. Baen. Maybe he's looking to snap them up."

Elizabeth looks down at her almost-uneaten gnocchi. "Maybe," she says, but she doesn't sound convinced.

"I look at it like this," says John, and gestures with his glass of wine, which sloshes dangerously. "Either the Wraith Alliance is gonna buy us and they wanted to interview Ronon to put us off the scent, or they can't afford to buy out Gate Group and they want to steal Ronon away."

"Everyone wants me," says Ronon, and smirks at John.

**

Reasons why Ronon likes riding the train with John: John always has a book; John always has his iPod; John always manages to find them two seats relatively close together, but not actually next to each other; John never tries to have any sort of conversation on the train at all. Ever.

**

Even though it's a work night, John comes to Ronon's apartment after tiramisu and espresso and lemon-mint sorbet. He plays with Khet and Sen, sprawled on Ronon's living room floor, his shirt off, jeans unbuttoned, while Ronon takes a shower.

They fuck, and it's slow and sweet, tiny explosions of pleasure for what feels like hours. Ronon can still feel it when they lope into the office the next morning, carrying matching black travel mugs filled with coffee -- black for Ronon, light and sweet for John.

McKay pronounces them "disgustingly cute and domestic" in the elevator, but McKay is standing slightly too close to Zelenka, so Ronon ignores him. Plus, Ronon's heard from Stacks who heard from Lorne who heard from Cam Mitchell that Sam Carter, who has an ongoing feud with McKay, was seen coming out of his office looking slightly rumpled.

Ronon's only seen Sam Carter three times in his whole career, but she's stacked and blonde and brilliant, so he doesn't feel too badly for McKay having to look at him and John.

**

Things Ronon does when he gets into the office in the morning: turns on his computer and logs in (username: atlantis/ronodex -- someone's idea of a joke? / password: metalepsis), drinks his first cup of coffee while checking his work email, drinks his second cup of coffee while checking his personal email (from his mother: jokes; from undergrad buddies he never sees anymore: jokes; from his thesis advisor: jokes; from his ex-girlfriend from grad school: daily updates on her wedding plans; from the private list of feminists in sf he was invited to join last year: jokes -- how many production managers does it take to change a light bulb?). He listens to his voicemail and writes down all the messages on a little notepad, and hands it off to Stacks, who comes in right on cue with a third cup of coffee to plan for the day.

The rest of the day will go like this: Ronon has to call back three agents, arrange a payout schedule for the graphic novel he just bought, and write copy for four hardcovers. Stacks will write the paperback copy, do the paperwork for the deals, and call Dot Logan to reassure her that Ronon's not ignoring her, it's just that he's only had her manuscript in hand for three days, and will need more than that to write an editorial letter.

Then it's finally time for lunch, which Ronon usually eats at his desk while reading Analog or Asimov's or, sometimes, The New York Review of Science Fiction, and then he makes his phone calls, and then he sneaks down to production and steals some Kona, and then he plays Jardinains instead of writing his copy.

Sometimes he hangs out in John's office. Sometimes he hangs out in McKay's office, making fun of Canadian pronunciation just to listen to McKay splutter.

("How many production managers does it take to change a light bulb?" he asks McKay, and McKay snaps, "Do I look like I have time for light bulb jokes?" which is the answer, which makes everyone around them shake with suppressed laughter.)

Ronon dodges Stacks and any implications that he might be slacking off or avoiding writing copy, and sometimes advises junior staff on what to do -- like, "Don't buy a book about a giant pickle rampaging through a fantasy world strangely like medieval England. No, don't do it. You'll regret it" and "Stacks will punch you in the face if you continue to use pronouns when referring to Stacks, and I won't stop Stacks from doing it, so shape up" and "The way to get Sheppard to listen to you is to sound excited. Elizabeth wants the numbers -- John wants to know that you're invested in the project."

He eavesdrops on Bates, the quiet guy in the office next to his, fighting with whoever it is he's fighting with -- over supper, over movies, over television, over what time he'll be home. Ronon guesses it's his girlfriend or his sister, and that he can't tell makes him nervous to ask.

Usually by now he's got one or two more voicemails, since he never answers the phone. Sometimes from his mother -- "Come see me, Ronon, baby, my first born!" -- and sometimes from panicky authors -- "Am I getting a BookSense mailing? Do I want a BookSense mailing? Do I have a cover yet?" -- and sometimes from agents -- "Ronon, call me back, I need to change clause six-b" -- and once from the Phoenix chapter of RWA, asking him to judge a contest (he passed that message on to Lindsay; not, as Stacks accused, because Lindsay is female, but because Lindsay edits romance novels).

One more cup of coffee and more Jardinains and sometimes some Snood, and he's done for the night, grabbing his coat and bag and leaving, a manuscript in hand. Sometimes he leaves with John, sometimes he doesn't; sometimes he leaves with Stacks and Lorne; sometimes they all go out for beers and sometimes they don't. Mostly it depends on whether or not Ronon is avoiding Stacks and a lecture about writing his copy and answering his phone.

**

TO: MichelS@wraith.com
FROM: Ronon Dex
Subject: Wraith Alliance

Steve:

Thanks again for bringing me into the Wraith Alliance and showing me around. After much thought, I've decided that I'm not the right match for your company. I wish you the best of luck filling your open positions -- and appreciate the time you spent.

Best, Ronon Dex

**

Ronon sneaks in for some of McKay's Kona and catches Kavanagh alone. He looms over Kavanagh, arms crossed.

"Dex," says Kavanagh shortly.

"Kavanagh." Ronon nods, fills his cup, leans against the doorway so Kavanagh can't leave. "So what do you think about it?"

"About what?"

"About Steve Caldwell leaving Atlantis to write for the Wraith Alliance's new sf imprint." Totally untrue, but Kavanagh doesn't have to know that. If he's working with the Wraith Alliance, he'll run and tell them and it'll hit Locus before anyone bothers to confirm with Elizabeth, John, the Genii Agency, or Caldwell himself.

Ronon keeps his face impassive as he sips the coffee. McKay makes the best coffee Ronon's ever tasted -- not that Ronon would ever tell McKay that. Doesn't make it less true.

"I hadn't heard that." Kavanagh always looks like he's glaring at someone. "But I can't say I'm surprised. The incompetent way these departments are run -- I'm surprised we're still in business at all!"

"Really?" says Ronon.

"Really." Kavanagh moves to push past him, but Ronon stands still. "I need to get by."

Ronon steps out of the way and watches him go. He figures this can go one of two ways: Kavanagh goes to McKay and asks if Caldwell is really leaving Atlantis -- which, of course he's not, now that John has more time to spend paying attention to him -- or Kavanagh tells the Wraith Alliance and they call Kolya and Cowen and one of those two bozos calls John.

Then they know Kavanagh is -- is what? Spying for the Wraith? John is right -- what could Kavanagh give them except style sheets and maybe a copy of their P&L template or something.

Suddenly Ronon feels pretty fucking stupid.

**

He fills in Stacks, leaving out the part about Kavanagh, over lunch at the vegan macrobiotic raw restaurant around the corner. Stacks is eating something that looks like seaweed covered in bugs. Ronon is eating pudding. A lot of pudding. There's banana pudding, raspberry pudding, apple pudding, and blueberry pudding. He has three of each.

"These are pretty good for vegan macrobiotic puddings with no chocolate," says Ronon, licking his spoon and reaching for his last cup of banana pudding.

"Heathen," says Stacks, and sniffs.

"So I need to pick your brain," says Ronon. "And not about poetry."

"We have called to you to come across with a word to us," replies Stacks. Instead of sighing, Ronon eats more pudding.

"What's the word on me?" he finally asks. "What's the junior staff say?"

"About you, or about you and John?"

"And how does everyone know about me and John? What makes me people think there is a me and John?"

Stacks grins wickedly, even white teeth flashing. "John and me, Ronon."

"I will fire you right now," threatens Ronon, but they're both grinning. "No, really, tell me -- what am I not getting here?"

"You guys leave places together and you come into the office together and you're always in one or the other's office and you agree on almost everything and when you disagree you don't fight out loud the way you do with everyone else and --"

Stacks is ticking these off on long fingers, one eyebrow raised. Ronon tunes back in to hear, "And he blew you in the bathroom, there's not much more obvious than that."

"He's --" Ronon stops.

"Yeah, we all know about McKay. They never really hit it off the way you guys did, though. They never left or came in together."

"Do you guys watch the security tapes or something?"

"Yeah, from the smoking lounge." Stacks grins again, then reapplies focus to the seaweed-and-bugs.

"This is all circumstantial. You have no case," declares Ronon, and takes a mouthful of the raspberry pudding. It's not as good as the banana.

"We don't need evidence. You just admitted it. And you admitted it the other day, when I asked you if you had HIV. Plus, you know, Locus." Stacks shrugs.

"Locus?" repeats Ronon.

"Yeah, the picture of you and John." Stacks's eyebrows are raised again. "You didn't see it?"

"No," says Ronon stupidly. "I don't read Locus."

"Maybe it's time to start."

"That's helpful," he snaps, then sighs and rubs his face and apologizes.

**

The picture of John and Ronon in Locus is not incriminating.

Unless someone is looking at it.

It is a picture of Ronon and John at the reading a few weeks ago -- Ronon is slouched against the wall and John is leaning, and they are both smoking, and they are staring at each other and grinning.

Ronon doesn't remember the picture being taken.

**

John and Elizabeth sometimes entertain themselves by telling stories of before the Gate Group bought Atlantis Publishing. Sometimes McKay chimes in. This is usually Friday afternoons, and it's only happened once or twice that Elizabeth has come out of her office, coffee mug in hand, smiling at the junior staff, leaning against a wall and listening to them gossip about authors.

Inevitably, someone will say: Publishing is so boring now, nothing fun happens.

"Publishing isn't a business that lends itself to interesting industrial espionage," says Elizabeth, and Ronon thinks darkly of Kavanagh and the Wraith Alliance. "Mostly what happens is funny only to us, and only if you were there --"

"Like the police coming?" says John, and he's already cracking up, he hasn't even started the story yet.

Elizabeth's sigh is heartfelt. Ronon sits up a little straighter -- he's on the floor, leaning against the glass doors (which they're going to have to get rid of, he knows, because they're apparently a fire hazard), and across from him on the couch is McKay, chuckling, with a schedule in one hand and a cup of Kona in the other. Next to McKay is Teyla with a grease pencil and old cover slides for books they're reprinting, and the junior staff is crowded on the far side of the room in a big Hobbit pile.

"Okay, spill it," says Laura. "The police?"

"This was the year before the Gate Group came to Atlantis," says Elizabeth, settling into her story. She's got a twinkle in her eye that makes Ronon's heart ping a little. "We ran through receptionists back then -- well, the way we do now, actually." Elizabeth smiles a little wider directly at Stacks, who is back at the receptionist desk for the day, the sixth one in as many weeks having quit two days before.

"And," says McKay, not looking up from the schedule, "they were all incompetent morons who couldn't even answer the phone properly, much less shelve books and keep the miscreants away."

"So we have the splatterpunk kids here," continues John. Ronon deliberately doesn't look over at him. "And we take them out to lunch, and we come back having had a good time --"

"A very good time," says McKay, and Elizabeth shushes him.

"No editorializing!"

"You have to remember," says John, addressing the junior staff, "that splatterpunk was really big for a while, and it was all about chainsaws and body parts and ripping someone's head off to fuck their neck --"

"That is so gross," says Laura, and Lindsay rolls her eyes.

"Quiet," Laura orders. "So the receptionist is clearly freaked out --"

"And she calls the police." Elizabeth is giggling. "The boys leave, and the police arrive, guns drawn! And they come into the office -- this is when we were on 26th street, in a tiny office space, practically a rabbit warren --"

McKay finally looks up. "And the brutes with their guns yell, 'What's going on here?' and heads -- this is my favorite part -- heads pop up from their cubicles, everyone saying, 'Nothing' and 'Nothing' and 'Nothing' --"

"And from the back of the office," Elizabeth finishes, "we hear poor O'Neill -- oh, we were a trial to him -- say, 'I resent that!'"

Ronon joins the junior staff in laughing, and even Teyla's cracked a smile.

"Did you fire the receptionist?" she asks McKay.

He shakes his head. "What, fire someone for being an incompetent nincompoop?" he asks disdainfully. "Not Atlantis!"

"Kavanagh," whispers someone -- Ronon thinks it's Lorne.

"Actually, that's a funny story, too," says John, swinging around. Ronon accidentally catches his eye, and John's smile gets a little warmer. Not a lot. But enough that Ronon notices, and hopes no one does.

"That is a funny story," agrees Elizabeth.

"It's a ridiculous story," announces McKay, and rolls his eyes.

"Well, tell it to me?" requests Teyla, and puts a hand over McKay's on the paper. Ronon shakes his head slightly. McKay is definitely not the most attractive guy Ronon's ever met, and yet for some reason everyone seems drawn to him. He's an asshole to them, and they can't stay away. Ronon doesn't get it, but he's not gonna question it -- as long as McKay's got a rotating smorgasbord, he'll leave John for Ronon. Maybe.

"She gets fired a few days later," says McKay, relenting. "When she goes up to Elizabeth and says --"

"'What are you really doing?'" says Elizabeth in a squeaky voice. "And I say, 'What do you mean?' And she -- what was her name?"

"Stacey," says McKay, and John raises an eyebrow. "What?" McKay shrugs and only looks a little defensive. "She was blonde."

"Stacey," repeats Elizabeth, "says to me, 'No, really, like, totally, what is your, like business for real?' And I? Am completely boggled."

"Until we realize that Stacey cannot understand that we all like our jobs. Therefore we must secretly be selling drugs." John pushes up off the wall he's been leaning on and runs a hand through his hair. "Or something."

"I guess our business would be more interesting to outsiders if this was Prohibition and we were running a speakeasy." Elizabeth looks rueful. She pushes off the wall too.

"You mean if we were a completely different business doing completely different things?" asks McKay snidely.

Teyla says, "I've always been interested in alternate dimensions and their possibilities. I find it reassuring that there is an alternate me who --" and suddenly the junior staff is back to speaking loudly over each other about string theory and the space-time continuum and Star Trek episodes and McKay is louder than all of them, disclaiming their ridiculous theories of the fabric of reality, and when Ronon looks back, John and Elizabeth are gone.

**

These are problems Ronon has had since coming to Atlantis:

Kavanagh took an instant dislike to him -- although Ronon is told Kavanagh takes a dislike to everyone. Books Kavanagh works on almost always end up troubled -- missing maps, accidentally copyedited to have Australian punctuation, incorrect author biographies, late proofs, no turnaround time for author review. And with no proof that Kavanagh orchestrated all the mishaps.

Once Carson is given a cover concept, that's what he goes with. Nothing can ever change. If Ronon tries to change the cover concept, Carson clucks his tongue and says, "Ah, laddie, you should know by now that we don't hold with that sort of thing here!" And Ronon is never sure if he's talking about Ronon's changes to the covers, or the very idea that a cover can be changed.

One of the interns has been stealing the archive copies of books, no matter how many memos are sent around reminding the interns that books with orange stickers on the spines are not to be taken off the shelves except by the production department. This isn't actually Ronon's problem -- except when he's looking for a copy of The Black Medusa because Halling wants the second book's epigram to be a quote from it, and Ronon needs to double check the wording.

Someone changes Ronon's screensaver from the moving stars to the marquee, and it always says something different about sex. Not really a problem -- except for the one time when Ronon's mother came for lunch (a day when John was in New Jersey at the sales conference -- not a coincidence) and the marquee said, "Sex on television can't hurt you unless you fall off." (Ronon's money is on Lindsay, Bates's assistant, who edits romance novels and has the bawdiest sense of humor of them all -- but he's never been able to catch her at it, and if Stacks knows, Stacks is not telling.)

A few months before Ronon arrived at Atlantis Publishing, they moved all the files on all the books to a storage facility in New Jersey reputed to be able to get them any file they needed out of the facility and back to Atlantis by the next day. They have yet to be able to get any file at all back from New Jersey. This is the subject of much debate during editorial meetings, and usually degenerates into a shouting match of "I always said this was a bad idea!" and "No one likes you anyway!" with at least one person giving a running commentary of what other publishing houses have done in this situation and another listing off how much it would cost to move the files back.

Someone is stealing Ronon's extra fine point Sharpie markers.

**

Kavanagh has a habit of inserting author bios when editors forget to include them. The worst was when the new Hermiod novel was published -- one million hardcover jackets with the wrong bio: The author of the Hermiod series does not have a biography because her editor was too lazy to supply one. Bad editor. No cookie.

A flurry of memos were sent, and Kavanagh won that round, because he pointed out to anyone who would listen that the reason editors are sent proofs and mechanicals is to make sure all the information is accurate. No one could really argue with that, although several more memos were sent critiquing Kavanagh's methodology.

Ronon's favorite is McKay's thirty-one page treatise, entitled, The Methodological Limitations of Your Fucking Stupidity.

Elizabeth points out, "This doesn't mean Kavanagh is giving information about us to the Wraith Alliance."

John points out, "Just because Kavanagh is an idiot doesn't also mean he's a traitor. Unfortunately."

McKay points out, "As much as I'd like to see you beat him up, you're lacking in proof. And logic."

Zelenka points out, "Kavanagh is stupid, yes, but not moron."

Kavanagh points out, "I CAN HEAR YOU FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS WALL, YOU CRETINS. I AM NOT GOING TO WORK FOR THE WRAITH ALLIANCE, NOR AM I TELLING THEM OUR DEEP DARK SECRETS ABOUT THE SERIAL COMMA."

This starts a shouting match between all the production editors -- and the production manager -- regarding some obscure serial comma fact that Ronon doesn't know and doesn't want to know.

He escapes as quickly as possible, taking with him a mug of McKay's Kona.

**

John lounges in Ronon's office, drinking Ronon's pilfered Kona. They've been interrupted four times -- Lorne, Lindsay, Laura, and Stacks, all except Lorne coming to Ronon for advice.

"How do you get anything done?" asks John. He's got his feet up on Ronon's desk. Ronon glares at him pointedly.

"You mean with people always in my office?"

"Yeah." John totally misses the irony. Or ignores it.

"I don't." Ronon looks down for the fifth time at the same paragraph and still can't get it to make sense. He just circles it, and moves on, except he has the same problem with the next paragraph.

"You should be in management."

"I don't want to manage anything." Ronon scowls. "Go away."

"I want to meet your mother." John says it absently, like it's the sort of thing people just talk about.

"What?" Ronon turns away from the computer. John is paging absently through Ronon's copy of The Dictionary of Middle Earth. As far as Ronon knows, John is the only person who's ever touched it, much less opened it. Ronon doesn't have a thing for Hobbits.

"I dunno," says John finally. He shrugs, but doesn't look up from the book. "You see her every week, mostly. You talk about her sometimes. I bet she's cool."

"No," says Ronon, as firmly as he can.

John looks up and smirks at him. "Are you ashamed of me?"

"I hate you," says Ronon. "With the fire of a thousand suns."

"I bet your mom and I would get along really well."

"That's what I'm afraid of," replies Ronon darkly.

**

Ronon presses John up against the wall of the shower, against the tile that stays cold no matter how much hot water courses over it, and fucks him using just the cocoa butter lotion that Ronon has for his skin. They smell like heat and sweat and chocolate for the rest of the night, and Ronon doesn't think he'll ever again be able to smooth the cocoa butter over his skin without thinking of how it felt to be inside John, his mouth on John's neck, his arms around John's chest, fingers in his chest hair, John's sharp cries echoing off the tile.

**

Ronon watches John sleep. They're in Ronon's big bed, and the cats are curled up by their feet. John turns forty in a few days. Ronon turns thirty-one in a few months.

It kind of sucks being a grown up. Ronon's still paying back his fucking student loans, he's not an adult, he cannot be in a grown-up relationship with a real grown-up person.

Then again, he thinks, grinning into the darkness, he's not. If there's one person less grown up than him, it might just be John Sheppard.

John needs a haircut. The hair on the back of his neck is getting too long, it's going to be like a mullet soon. And there is one silver hair mixed in with the black ones. Ronon half wants to pluck it out and half wants to leave it there so he can make fun of John in the morning.

The closest they've come to talking about being In A Relationship is John asking to meet Ronon's mother. No -- and also fucking without condoms. That's like being married, right? But if they were any different -- hell, they're practically string theory. If they did anything any differently, they'd be different people. It would be a different world. It would be one of Teyla's alternate dimensions.

In an alternate dimension, Ronon figures he and John probably drove up to New Paltz and got married, or never fucked again after the first time, or even were straight. Ronon figures there's an alternate dimension in which he's a gangbanger. Maybe he even mugs John on the subway.

Ronon's not going to mention this to John, any of it -- the act of observing changes that which is being observed, right? He's fine with the way they are.

He puts his face into John's neck and breathes in the scent of chocolate and sweat, wriggles a little closer to John's warmth in the bed, feels Khet and Sen rearrange themselves at his feet, falls asleep.

**

Senior editor Ronon Dex fled from Sateda Books Ltd. when the The Wraith Alliance moved in there. Since arriving at Atlantis Publishing, Inc., he's had several award winning sf/f novels, two political thrillers on the Times list, a USA Today bestselling gay romance novel -- and, most recently, Daniel Jackson's #1 bestselling novel Door to Heaven, on the USA Today list for five months and counting, currently in production to star Kurt Russell and James Spader.

Dex says, "A company like The Wraith Alliance is bigger than Atlantis, and they have more money, but authors know they can count on Atlantis to take good care of them and give their books the personalized attention they deserve. That's the kind of place I wanted to be; it's why I didn't stick around to see what The Wraith Alliance was going to do. A company can't move in and create a family atmosphere; it has to be organic."

Dex, the rock star golden child of the sf/f industry pauses here, and then goes on to praise publisher Elizabeth Weir for her industry savvy, executive editor John Sheppard for his editorial acumen, and -- shockingly -- his assistant, Chris "Stacks" Stackhouse.

"Stacks," he says warmly, "keeps me on my toes and makes sure my paperwork gets done. Ask any of my authors -- they'll tell you Stacks is the one to talk to if you want anything from my end of the office."

When asked about Dex, Stacks told us, "I am the Fates' lieutenant; I act under orders."

We're told Dex's future is even brighter than his outlook on the industry -- by the time you read this, he'll be Elizabeth Weir's Associate Publisher, with a corner office and his very own filing cabinet.

To submit to Ronon Dex, send three chapters and a three page synopsis and an SASE to Atlantis Publishing, Inc., New York. No queries, no faxes, no emails, no cold calls.