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After all the time he's spent moving from place to place, stillness as much a death warrant as the Wraith who waited for that stillness, Ronon doesn't expect earth to feel different. But it does. The wind bites in more pernicious ways than he's sure he remembers and the air smells. . .Ronon doesn't know the word for it. Perhaps the word doesn't exist back in the Pegasus. Or maybe he just never got around to learning it. Words aren't really his thing.

Sheppard seems to notice, but not in the same way as Ronon. Sheppard's awareness is in the way the man fits properly. Not that he's out of place on Atlantis. Only, there Sheppard walks like he needs to know what's around the next corridor every moment of the day. He's. . .slower on earth.

Ronon's not sure that's the right word.

Sheppard has odd friends; Ronon has learned to accept this fact. He's collected them from all over his world, all over the worlds where they walk through the event horizon to hopefully find friendliness available. The tall redheaded twins who speak over each other with identical inflections strike Ronon as somehow just a little more odd than most.

Sheppard's taken his time on planet to come and see them, however, so they must mean something to him. Ronon doesn't ask what. He knows enough to know when he doesn't want to know something.

On the third day of their visit, when the twins have stopped putting things in Ronon's food that make his dreads turn blue and have given up on trying to trip Sheppard (who's cannier than he looks) up, the one with the small scar by his right eye says, "We have this-"

"Prototype," the other one supplies.

Sheppard says, "I must have come back looking like more of an idiot than I used to."

The non-scarred twin (or at least, the scars are where Ronon can't see--he doesn't rule this possibility out) asks, "Are you unable to get hair supplies-"

"Wherever it is that you are?"

Sheppard doesn't give them the standard lie Ronon's heard him tell other earth acquaintances. Instead he grins. "The ladies like that tousled look."

"Ay mate," the two say together with knowing looks.

Ronon has to look away for a moment.

Sheppard, predictably, can't let it go. After a moment he asks, "Prototype?"

Scar Twin says, "For winter-

"Fun time."

"Not a joke."

Sheppard raises an eyebrow. "Not a joke?"

Non-Scar Twin puts on an affronted expression. "We know how to have fun without-"

"Being malicious."

Sheppard does not deign to respond to that. "Winter fun?"


Ronon has come across snow. Lots and lots of it, far more than the hill they've trudged up. Of course, there's more than enough for this "prototype" of the twins', which seems to involve riding down it on an open carriage that follows verbal instructions such as "weave" or "spin" or "skim."

At first the rush of it is nearly too-intense, something Ronon hasn't felt in quite some time. It's more simple than running past bullets or shockwaves, and has the motion that flight in a puddle-jumper never conveys. He can't get enough of it, not even when he can feel Sheppard's eyes on him, amused.

The amusement doesn't feel like mockery.

Ronon knows it's not when, in a moment where the twins are pre-occupied with trying to improve one of the toy's functions, Sheppard asks, "Having a good time?"

Ronon nods.

Sheppard grins, his eyes sliding slightly to the left. "Willing to share a ride?"

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Skin by egelantier, photo by microbophile