Disclaimer: I don't own "Stargate: Atlantis" and I don't claim to. (If I did, Teyla and Ronon would be happily married with half-a-dozen kids by now.) I am making no monetary gain from this, it is meant for entertainment purposes only.
Summary: Sometimes I could swear I had two children, rather than one. RononTeyla fluff.
Warnings: Unashamed fluff
Dedication: To Dia.Dahling. Did you have to plant this in my head? LOL
Author's note: Dia.Dahling said that she noticed a trend in my writing – Ronon and Teyla almost always have a little girl. So she challenged me to write them having a son. Here is my response. I hope you enjoy, and thanks for checking this fic out!
Mason sat up in bed, dark hair tousled. A yawn stretched his jaw as he rubbed his sleepy green eyes. "Mama?"
I ran my hand over his hair and smiled into his angelic face. "Time to get up. It is your birthday, remember?"
"Yay!" Mason threw off his covers and leaped out of bed in one smooth movement. He pounded for the door, then paused and returned to throw his arms around my neck in a strangehold. "Thanks, Mama!" Then he was out of the room, a blur of movement that left me behind.
I chuckled, got to my feet, and followed. "Kitchen, Mason!" I called after him.
At the end of the short hall, my husband Ronon caught our child and swung him up to sit him on his hip. "Whoa, Mason. What's your hurry?"
"It's my birthday!" Mason strangle-hugged his father and leaned back. "Did you forget?"
"No, 'course I didn't." Ronon ran his long hand over Mason's dark hair and smiled. "Happy birthday, son."
Two pairs of identical green eyes sparkled at me, and I wrapped my arms around my middle to try to contain my overwhelming joy. Ronon and Mason, my family, my love, my life. I would do anything and everything for both of them. I'm so proud to call them mine.
Ronon carried Mason to the kitchen, and I trailed behind silently. I looked past Ronon's shoulder to the long box sitting on Mason's chair. I hoped he liked his present. It had certainly been hard enough to hide from him. The inquisitive four-year-old (who was now actually five) got into everything. Dr. McKay came to me on more than one occasion with complaints about my son. Mason would always smile angelically and deny all accusations.
My husband set our son down and motioned to Mason's chair. I stepped up next to them and put a hand on Mason's head of untamable curls to turn him. "Happy birthday, my son."
Mason squealed and darted for his chair. His small fingers eagerly tore into the bright paper, scattering fragments everywhere.
Ronon wrapped his arms around my shoulders, and I felt the tenseness in him that matched mine. He was as uncertain as I: would Mason like his gift?
Mason gasped. For a moment he stared into the box with openmouthed astonishment, his green eyes twice their normal size. At last his head jerked around to stare at us in disbelief. "Am I dreaming?" he whispered.
I moved over to kneel next to him. "No. Go on. Take them out."
Mason reached into the box and withdrew the two polished Bantos rods his father had carved and I had painted. The rods, made specifically for him with his name written in Athosian on one and Satedan on the other, fit his hands perfectly. He stared at them, then at his father and me. "Thank you!" he suddenly burst out. He grabbed me around the neck and hugged me tightly, whacking me across the back of the head with one of his rods.
I chuckled and very carefully disentangled his arms. "Careful, Mason."
"Sorry, Mama." The apology was quick, he'd already run to hug his father. "Papa, Mama, thank you!"
Ronon picked up Mason and settled him on his hip again. "You're very welcome, Mason. You're five years old today: the traditional time to learn how to spar."
In this city of people foreign to us, with customs of their own, I felt it was nice to be able to hold on to a few traditions. In this case, giving our son Bantos rods and teaching him how to spar for his fifth birthday. "You will be a strong, proud warrior," I said. I rubbed his back and smoothed his curls. "Just like your father."
Ronon smiled at me and kissed his son's forehead, then my lips. "Just like his mother," he corrected softly.
Mason kept one arm hooked around his father's neck, both rods held carefully in his hand. He extended the other to me.
I stepped up and settled myself in the hug. I rested my head against Ronon's chest, where it also leaned against Mason's. The warmth of my family around me, on this special day for my son, brought another rush of love to my heart. I wrapped one arm around Ronon's waist, the other around Mason's back, and whispered: "I love you" to both of them.
"Love you," they both whispered back. One called me mama, the other Teyla. They were my boys. My life. My love. My heart. I loved them both, and would do anything for them.
Mason finally let go and looked at us both with wide, excited eyes, and I knew the moment was over. But that was okay. "Can we spar now?" His voice was tight with hope.
Ronon looked at me with eyes as bright and wide as his son's. It was at moments like these that I could swear I had two children, rather than one.
I held up my hands and laughed. "Go, boys. Have fun."
Ronon kissed me enthusiastically, and Mason hugged me tightly. Then they both left, cheering and laughing.
I stood in the center of my kitchen, closed my eyes, and breathed a prayer of thanks to the Ancestors that Ronon and Mason were mine.