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Sunlight. A blink, and Ronon wakes, poised. He rubs a hand down his beard and glances at his bedpartner, snuffling and twitching in his sleep. Orgasm turns James Wilson to gaping, gasping stillness, empties him and fills him at once. Ronon runs his hand down Wilson' spine, feeling his light warmth.
"Huh. The agency never mentioned him."
The mocking voice jerks Wilson awake, his eyes blurry with terror. "House! What-- the door was locked--"
Earth has made Ronon soft. His gun's still holstered, though he heard the tap of the cane in the hall. Mistake. Even cripples can kill, in Pegasus. And here.
"Yeah, if I can hear you whisper to your dead girlfriend, the loud moaning won't stay a state secret." The grey stubble and humped shoulders make House look like a Satedan gore-buzzard.
Ronon raises his chin, an acknowledgement, and House hmphs before limping away. Ronon's lived with McKay; that's practically a 'welcome to the family.'
"I--" Wilson sputters at the two of them: Ronon's casual, naked sprawl, and House's retreating indifference. Ronon grabs Wilson by his nape and pulls him into a morning kiss, satisfied again when Wilson's sounds turn pliant, and his worries slide away, forgotten.