It's after Ronon's gone, and John can still feel the empty spot at his side. A new team member fills the space, but not quite, not fully. Every meeting, every mission, every crisis, he finds himself forgetting that Ronon's not there, turning to his left, eyes traveling a bit to high. A constant empty void that knocks him off his game for just a second, half that, but enough to make a difference, make him weaker, make him scared.

He's off-world, some vacant planet with a tiny group of natives in need of medicine and supplies after an attack by two lone wraith. It's this more than anything else, these days, after the fall. He can't say he doesn't miss the excitement, but Pegasus is safer now, and he sleeps better knowing that.

Except tonight.

It's midnight, and he hears footfalls outside his tent, whispers, his name, a voice low, rough.

His hand finds the cold metal beside him on the ground, finger steady on the trigger. But it's Ronon who pushes his way through the flap, and then John's on his feet, his fingers at the back of Ronon's neck, thumb brushing his tattoo, mouths crushing against each other's.

"Where the hell have you been?" He whispers, lips wet and brushing against Ronon's.

"Had things to take care of," Ronon grunts in his usual unconcerned way, fingers sliding under John's shirt, brushing the skin just above the tops of his pants.

And John smiles. God help him. What else did he expect?

"Don't ever do that again," he orders, his face suddenly stern. He's only able to hold it for a second though, because by then, Ronon's tugging his shirt over his head and pulling him down to the soft padding on the ground.

Tomorrow, he thinks. We'll talk about it tomorrow.