Ok, this was going to be smut, because, I wanted to write smut. But the setup I had in my head didn't turn into smut, and then the ending wanted to happen, and, no smut. Sorry about that. So, um, gen. Also, I hate the spelling 'Ronon', but that's what it seems to be settling out as.

Title: Alpha Males
Fandom: SGA
Characters: John, Ronon
Rating: G
Summary: Alpha males on the lek. About 850 words.


This time he waits outside the gymnasium until Ronon and Teyla finish sparring. He doesn't mind watching. Two lithe bodies, muscles shifting under sweat-sheened skin; the sound of heavy breathing, of sticks clacking against each other. Aesthetic in an abstract sort of way, he tells himself.

Ronon is taller and heavier and stronger, and although Teyla is quicker he eventually pins her, her back on the floor, a stick across her chest. When she yields she looks up into Ronon's eyes with an expression John can't decipher, but he feels vaguely uneasy, just watching from the doorway.

"Bravo," he calls, walking into the room. Teyla nods once at Ronon, and when he releases her she scrambles to her feet and goes to where John stands by the door.

"He is very good," she says, sounding almost defensive.

"And so are you. You still kick my ass, you know. I wouldn't have a chance against him."

"Maybe you should try, Colonel." Her eyes hold his for a moment, an unreadable message in their depths; then she leaves the room.

Ronon stands with his arms crossed, and John notices with satisfaction that he is still breathing hard. Teyla had taxed him, and his victory had not been quick.

"So, Ronon," he says, playing it casual. Just two guys hanging out in the gym. "You given any more thought to joining us?"

"Working for you."

"Well, yes, I would be your boss, I suppose."

Ronon's eyes travel up and down John's body deliberately. Measuring him, assessing him. "Haven't decided."

"Well. You just let me know if there's anything I can do. To help you decide, that is."

Raising an eyebrow, Ronon picks up the sticks Teyla had dropped, hands them to John.

John looks first at the sticks, then at Ronon. "Come on," he says, "this isn't Animal Kingdom. What are we, alpha males on the lek?" Ronon smiles, and it strikes John that he is exactly that, the alpha male who has prowled his way into a new territory, and the lazy smile on his face is a predator's smile. The smile of the African lion who knows damn well there's nothing that can take him, except maybe another lion.

He looks through the open door. Teyla has gone, and the guards that had been assigned to watch Ronon are standing there, looking bored, only half-watching from the corridor. He leans the sticks against the wall while he shrugs off his jacket, then takes them up again, letting his body fall into a defensive stance. "All right."

A lunge to the left. A quick whirl, a quick block as Ronon's stick slashes down toward him. He doesn't duck the next blow completely, nor the next, but then he gets a good one in, and easily rolls away from Ronon's counterattack. Thrust and parry, attack and defend. Ronon's style is different from Teyla's, more aggressive but also more straightforward. He doesn't feint, he doesn't step back strategically to trick John into an ill-advised advance. He just fights, hard and fast.

Lunge. Thrust. Roll. He could use Ronon's fighting style against him by striking in unexpected directions, making unpredictable moves; or at least he could if he were better with the sticks, because it is clear to him that despite his superior tactics Ronon has the superior force, and it isn't a matter of if he was going to go down, but when.

He gives it a Hail Mary try, a two-step pass around his opponent's right side with a feint to one side and a whirl to the other, and slices his stick into Ronon's legs as though he were trying to fell a tree. But those legs are fully as massive as tree trunks, and John is not quite strong enough, and Ronon staggers, but does not go down. Instead he turns, grunting and with a quick upthrust he catches John squarely in the chest with the stick in his left hand, and it is all over.

John lies for a moment with his back hard against the thin padding of the practice mat, just feeling the blood in his veins settle again. He half expects Ronon to place a foot on his chest in the classic hunter's pose, or perhaps rip his throat out with his teeth. Instead he holds out his hand, pulls John to his feet.

If they had been on the African savannah he would have slunk off, but he's damned if he's going to let the new lion take over. That's not the way the American military works, thank God, and he usually fights with P90s and not sticks. So he straightens his back into something like parade rest, smiles at Ronon, and says: "Guess I need some practice."

"I will practice with you," says Ronon. The thought makes all John's muscles ache a bit more. "If I have time left after my duties."

"If you have - does that mean you're staying?"

"I will work for you, yes."

"Huh," says John. "You beat me," he points out.

Ronon smiles. "You fought me."