Ronon can't sleep. Not even after months of living on Atlantis. He sleeps for an hour or two, and then he awakens, fast, sits up, breathing hard. He doesn't dream, nothing so easy. He walks the hallways of Atlantis, all of his weapons to hand, and nods at the militia-on-guard when they pass each other. He checks on the scientists in their various labs, the militia barracks, the Gate of the Ancestors, the offices.

Elizabeth Weir sleeps in her office most nights, curled into a ball on her cushions. Perhaps that's what leaders do on her world.

Sheppard is his commander, his leader, his task-master. But Elizabeth Weir is in charge of them all, the Stada. On Sateda she would be the Tepet, the highest queen priestess, to be protected at all costs, she who remembers, she who passes the knowledge, she who keeps the peace.

The Lanteans, they don't work this way, but Ronon cannot break the habits formed of a lifetime. To stay alive for five more cycles in Kell's section would have seen him assigned to guard the Tepet from the Wraith -- and seven years later, that is what he's doing. It is just not the Stada Tepet.

He settles in front of her office door and glares at those who would disturb her; if it is important, he will know of it through his little earpiece. When she shows signs of awakening, he steals away, back to the barracks and the scientists. He stops to get food, tucks some away for later, for bribing and trading, for just in case, and takes an extra muffin with the sweet brown struwtsalle inside to give to Elizabeth Weir at their mission briefing later. They are her favorite, yet she won't take one unless she's sure everyone who wants one has had -- but if it comes from him, she will take it.