Title: Opposites, well, you know…

Author: ChaosCarter

Series: Stargate Atlantis

Character/Pairing: Ronon/Teyla (what else)

Rating: T (or PG-13, if you like) … just to be safe.

Timeline: Well, sometime after Runner… other than that I suppose it doesn't much matter.

Disclaimer: No, they don't belong to me. None of them. All hail MGM and friends. Oh, and the Goo Goo Dolls too, because I can't write songs, so I borrow other people's. A/N: Hey y'all, it's been awhile! I'm back with pen in hand (or keyboard, as the case may be). Thanks you for all your prayers and kind words; they were truly the inspiration that brought my muse back to life. To everyone out there who's wondering, Vision is on a rather permanent-looking hiatus for now. It is simply too difficult at this point for me to continue, as I have not only largely forgotten what I wanted to do with the story but also have come to associate it with the painful memories of losing close family. I do intend, however, to continue to write (as evidenced by this little fic). Hope to be hearing from you all soon. Thank you and God bless.

This one goes out to Rach and Van. Thanks for listening!

Also thanks to rach0486 for the lovely beta work. Read her stuff, it's better than mine!

And I'd give up forever to touch you

'Cause I know that you feel me somehow

You're the closest to heaven that I'll ever be

And I don't want to go home right now

And all I can taste is this moment

And all I can breathe is your light

Well sooner or later it's over

I just don't want to miss you tonight

- Iris, by the Goo Goo Dolls

The only sound in the room that challenged the clacking of wood on wood was heavy breathing. Eyes and minds alike wandered, although their movements were much harder to track than the spinning footfalls.

She moved like a dancer, weaving in and out, never in one place for more than a fleeting instant. Her bare feet were a blur as they spun in endless patterns; her sparring sticks seemed to have a life of their own, falling like rain across his arms and back. Each was well placed, aimed to sting and leave a bruise.

His movements were less graceful. It was obvious he had been trained first in the ways of the sword; he used only one sparring stick and attacked almost exclusively with bold, blocky swings. His blows, while less strategically placed and far less frequent, brought fire where they fell and did considerably more damage.

The stick in her left hand rippled across his knuckles like a reprimand, and he hissed quietly. He had not been paying attention. The jokingly condescending look in her eyes clearly said that he should know better by know.

Largely aided by his stinging hand, his mind found its way back to reality, just in time to parry a harsh overhand strike. In moments the daydreams were forgotten as his mind snapped into defense mode. Years as a Runner had taught him never to underestimate an opponent; the blow was well deserved, he told his wounded pride. The reminder was appreciated.

A reminder, yes. He wondered if she incorporated her innate ability to distract him into her attack plans. God knows it was an advantage. His eyes were always drawn to the small things, things like a strand of hair that had escaped her low ponytail. Things like the way her skirt spun out as she ducked beneath a sideways swing, as if the move was effortless. Things like the way she hesitated to strike first, how she always seemed to be on the defense. Even her attacks were executed not with anger, but with humor and a tinge of care, as if they were meant to teach instead of harm. He supposed years of training with the youngsters and the past months with John had taught her to soften the blows.

Yet there was a strange longing within him to see what she was capable of. It was this desire that overcame Ronon as he doubled his efforts, swinging first at her head and then tripping her with a blow to the back of her knees as she ducked away. She fell to the ground but recovered quickly, rolling back over a shoulder and coming up under the protection of a spinning right stick. He swung again, this time at her side, only to hit air as she rolled once more.

Teyla took advantage of his temporary loss of balance, driving both her sticks into the back of his left knee. Ronon's legs buckled and he stumbled to his knees, one hand going underneath him to stop his fall. She moved up from behind him, ready to cross her sticks against his neck as she had done so many times with John.

Ronon's move was swift, and certainly had the element of surprise – he was not usually a man for strategy. He reached up quickly, roughly grabbing her upper arms, and flung her forward over his shoulders. Teyla fell to the ground with a loud thud, her head barely missing his knee; the training mat did little to soften the impact. She stumbled to her feet, spinning back to face him just in time to deflect yet another overhead arc.

The battle was all but lost, it seemed. It was all Teyla could do to throw off the blows that he rained down on her, and even so a few found their way through her defenses. They landed fast and hard.

His final swing was powerful, cutting its way through her planned defense. Sometimes brute strength trumped strategy, he thought, smirking as the stick snapped across her back and shoulders. He took advantage of her momentary stun to spin her around with his free hand and slam her roughly against the wall. The single stick came under her chin to her right side, not constricting her airway but in a good position to snap her neck, should it come to that. With his free hand he disarmed her, tossing her weapons onto the mat a few feet away. In the absence of a second stick, he used his body weight to pin her against the wall.

"I win." He growled quietly, a low rumble tinged with humor. It was not a question.

Then heavy breathing sounded unchallenged in the small room.

Her eyes opened after what seemed like an eternity, rising to meet his, dark emeralds only centimeters away from her own. A shiver rippled down her spine as she saw the emotions there; passion and reason fought a battle of their own. She breathed deeply. The only thought she could summon was that he smelled like spices. Not the sweet herbs used in cooking, gentle on the tongue with soothing scents. No, he smelled like the incense burned at a midnight vigil: heavy, thick, and intoxicating. Spices and sweat. She could feel his heart beating considerably faster than was normal as he leaned into her. She told herself it was simply a result of their sparring, just as his right foot sliding between her small bare ones was meant to support him as he kept her trapped.

So she told herself. But while the voice in her head reminded her that this was a battle, that she was trapped and unarmed, and that the wood digging into her neck was beginning to become painful, another voice began to make itself heard – a voice that had a decidedly different idea of his intentions. Her eyes closed; she could feel his breath on her cheek as he leaned in closer…

And then he was gone. Cold air washed over her face and neck as he stepped away, and her senses struggled to adjust to the sudden loss of contact. He was two full strides away by the time she cleared her head, his back turned to her as he ran a hand through his hair. Silence reigned for several minutes, but the tension in the room dragged them out over centuries.

Ronon started when a loud thud sounded behind him; he turned to see Teyla kicking the mat back to its proper place. She bent down to retrieve her sparring sticks, but even as she rose her eyes remained locked on the floor.

Teyla tried to calm her emotions, to summon some form of rational thought. Somewhere inside she knew that he was too honorable to take advantage of her like that. She grimaced internally at the memory of John's actions under the influence of the Wraith gene; she couldn't imagine Ronon subjecting anyone he cared about to such a feeling of fear, of utter helplessness. But again, the tiny voice of her heart argued tentatively – it wasn't the same.

Her breathing gradually slowed, her pulse returning to normal as she brushed past him to straighten a pile of towels that had been knocked over during their fight. She could feel his gaze on the back of her neck, and she tensed involuntarily, but she couldn't yet summon the courage to glance up from the cold metal of the floor. Taking a deep breath, she finally turned, steeling herself to meet his eyes.

She cursed mildly as she tripped over his feet, now right behind her own. With the grace earned in his years of running he had come up behind her, unnoticed. Her hands came up reflexively, landing on his shoulders to steady herself. An apology formed on her lips, and she opened her mouth to speak – only to be cut off as he muttered something that was never meant to be coherent. Casting his weapon aside, his hands came up to hold her face roughly as he closed the last few inches of distance between their lips.

Teyla tried to fight back the sensory overload. Her sticks clattered to the floor; she felt Ronon's shift in balance as he kicked them away, leaning in even closer, if it was possible. His lips were rough but gentle on hers, sending sparks shooting down her spine. She could feel him hesitate, waiting for a response, his thumb stroking her cheek softly.

Her mind finally focused enough to move. She felt more than heard a low, rumbling growl in his chest as the fingers of her left hand wove their way into his dreadlocks and settled on the back of his neck. Ronon took this as the sign of assent he had been waiting for, and the corners of his mouth tipped up in a small smile she could feel against her lips. He nibbled softly on her bottom lip as one hand dropped to her waist, his fingers sliding beneath her tunic to splay across the small of her back. She gasped at the sudden contact, losing the last fragments of rational thought. Ronon chuckled quietly before taking advantage of her open lips to deepen the kiss, running his tongue across the roof of her mouth. It was about then that both warriors broke their cardinal rule and lost track entirely of everything in the room except for each other.

Some time later, how much later he was unsure, Ronon was jolted back to the Pegasus Galaxy by a small tug on his pant leg. Pulling away reluctantly, he gazed into Teyla's eyes for a few seconds before glancing down.

His eyes met a pair of small, inquisitive blue ones. A boy stood there, no more than six years of age, with a grin that displayed a large gap between his front teeth. Ronon stepped back slowly, straightening his shoulders, trying to maintain some form of dignity as he surveyed their new company.

A group of twenty or so Athosian children had made their way into the small room, ranging in age from the boy who was now playing with Ronon's boot laces to Dayar, a tall girl who he knew to be seventeen. Each was holding a pair of sparring sticks and had discarded their shoes; a few in their late teens also wore knowing grins as they stared openly at their teacher and her companion.

Teyla had by now recovered and sought out her sparring sticks, and she smiled as the pushed her way past Ronon. "Good morning, children. Thank you all for coming on time. This is Ronon Dex," she inclined her head towards the tall man, who had moved forward and was now standing well within her personal space. Most of the children nodded their heads in recognition. "He will be joining us today for a demonstration, for I think Mr. Arden has accumulated enough bruises for this week." The children giggled and turned to look at an older boy leaning warily against the wall, who colored slightly. He had the eyes of a fighter, Ronon noted, and the muscles to back it up. Ronon assumed this was Teyla's usual sparring partner. His eyes continued to survey the children as his warrior senses gradually regained control, temporarily subduing the storm of his emotions.

After making a full pass of the room his eyes dropped again to Teyla's. "Will you aid me in a demonstration?" she asked, as the children paired off with their sparring partners.

He smirked, taking his time to proudly pick up his discarded stick. "Gladly." He nodded quickly before throwing himself headlong into an overhead swing. As she spun past him, he murmured quietly so that only she could hear: "You'd just better hope I don't win again."


A/N: So there it is, y'all. Thanks much for reading it, and I hope you liked it. Once again fluff controls my life, although I think these two deserve it. If you did (or if you didn't, for that matter), I'd appreciate it if you'd drop me a review. Criticism, as long as it is constructive, is perfectly welcome.