Ronon put up a token resistance, mumbling about staying awake before his eyes drifted closed. Confidence was one of John's pillars of strength and it lay crumbled beneath him.
Lay down. Sleep. Take the simple way out and wallow in the darkness. It'd be easy. But the transport would come tomorrow. Could he carry the water this time? Would be able to fight to get it?
The dunka was still stored away in his knapsack and the last thing he wanted to do was rifle through it. John slipped his hand inside, pulled out the precious water, but his fingers brushed against something that didn't belong there. Many thin sharp somethings. Barbed. Like pine needles.
They crushed easily between his fingers, producing a slight oily film and a strong scent. That skinny rat bastard!
John was seconds from grinding the orris into dust, but he hesitated, caught between principles and a ravenous stomach. If he owned a rabbit's foot and had a pet leprechaun, his chances at getting a decent amount of water were slim to none.
Not to mention the limited food supply or the mortgage on his life. Bottom line, Ronon would require more food, more water to have a fighting chance. John glared at the orris. How many times had McKay drunk pots of coffee to keep working? How many times had John used stimulants on duty during an emergency, logging countless hours in the sky or fighting on the ground?
When did the line start to blur?
If a small amount kept the hunger at bay until Ronon could get a fighting chance, then so be it. Counting out a hundred tiny needles, he pinched away ten, slipping the rest inside the thin piece of cloth. Smoking it was out of the question and it wasn't like he had a lighter handy, so lacking another avenue he popped them into his mouth.
They were bitter tasting; he chewed them quickly and washed things down with a swig of lukewarm water.
Nothing happened. Not that he expected a magical chemical reaction. His head throbbed, every inch of his body felt like a piece of roadkill. The cave granted a certain amount of mercy from the ugliness of outside, and John curled up on his side, the heat lulling him to sleep.
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Date: 2012-01-14 05:32 pm (UTC)Ronon put up a token resistance, mumbling about staying awake before his eyes drifted closed. Confidence was one of John's pillars of strength and it lay crumbled beneath him.
Lay down. Sleep. Take the simple way out and wallow in the darkness. It'd be easy. But the transport would come tomorrow. Could he carry the water this time? Would be able to fight to get it?
The dunka was still stored away in his knapsack and the last thing he wanted to do was rifle through it. John slipped his hand inside, pulled out the precious water, but his fingers brushed against something that didn't belong there. Many thin sharp somethings. Barbed. Like pine needles.
They crushed easily between his fingers, producing a slight oily film and a strong scent. That skinny rat bastard!
John was seconds from grinding the orris into dust, but he hesitated, caught between principles and a ravenous stomach. If he owned a rabbit's foot and had a pet leprechaun, his chances at getting a decent amount of water were slim to none.
Not to mention the limited food supply or the mortgage on his life. Bottom line, Ronon would require more food, more water to have a fighting chance. John glared at the orris. How many times had McKay drunk pots of coffee to keep working? How many times had John used stimulants on duty during an emergency, logging countless hours in the sky or fighting on the ground?
When did the line start to blur?
If a small amount kept the hunger at bay until Ronon could get a fighting chance, then so be it. Counting out a hundred tiny needles, he pinched away ten, slipping the rest inside the thin piece of cloth. Smoking it was out of the question and it wasn't like he had a lighter handy, so lacking another avenue he popped them into his mouth.
They were bitter tasting; he chewed them quickly and washed things down with a swig of lukewarm water.
Nothing happened. Not that he expected a magical chemical reaction. His head throbbed, every inch of his body felt like a piece of roadkill. The cave granted a certain amount of mercy from the ugliness of outside, and John curled up on his side, the heat lulling him to sleep.