Chapter 1: Inevitability
By the time she arrived, the east training room was quiet except for the rhythmic hum of ventilation and the steady sound of boots moving across the mat.
Evan was already there, stretching through a warm-up that would have looked almost casual if not for the focus in his movements — that fluid, efficient economy she’d learned was uniquely him. He was in a black tee and combat pants, sleeves rolled, bare forearms flexing as he tightened the straps on his gloves.
When the door slid open, he turned, and that slow, deliberate smile spread across his face like he’d been expecting her right down to the second.
“Evening, Doctor,” he said, voice low enough to echo faintly off the walls. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it.”
He glanced her over — hair pulled back, the lightweight training gear that made her look half-feral, half-dangerous — and the corner of his mouth quirked higher. “Guess I should’ve known better.”
Then, gesturing her forward with a mock-formal sweep of his hand: “Ladies first. Try not to break anything we’ll have to explain to Beckett.”
And in the quiet stretch of air between them, Atlantis seemed to hold her breath — the weight of every teasing word, every unspoken promise, gathering like static before a storm.
Evan slid his mouthguard in with a grin that said you asked for this, giving her the faintest of nods to start.
Charlie circled first—light on her feet, smaller frame making her movement deceptively lazy, like she was warming up instead of calculating everything about his stance. Evan moved with that deliberate, grounded ease that came from years of training—controlled, measured, the steady rhythm to her chaos.
He feinted right; she ducked under, pivoting so fast her braid whipped his arm. He felt her hand brush his side—a tap that might as well have said got you.
“Still think you can take me, Major?” she teased, breath quick, eyes bright.
Evan laughed, that low, dangerous sound that had been living under his skin for weeks. “Pretty sure I already did.”
She came at him again—this time faster—and he caught her wrist, twisting just enough to redirect her momentum. For a heartbeat, they were chest-to-chest, her breath catching as his grip slid down her arm and released.
“Physics,” she muttered, stepping back. “You’ve got about a hundred pounds on me, that’s cheating.”
“Leverage,” he countered, his tone all mock professionalism. “Basic combat principle, Doctor.”
Her eyes glinted. “Then let’s test the theory.”
She moved before he could blink, spinning low and sweeping a leg. He barely dodged in time, catching himself with a palm on the mat. When he came up, she was already behind him—small, fast, annoyingly graceful—and when he turned, she wasn’t backing off.
Their rhythm broke into laughter, quick breathless bursts between strikes and deflections that weren’t as clean as they’d started. She got close again—too close—and this time he didn’t step back.
One wrong shift of weight—hers or his, it didn’t matter—and the world tilted. He caught her waist as she collided into him, momentum carrying them both to the mat in a tangled heap.
For a suspended second, neither of them moved. Her palms were braced against his chest; his hands were still at her hips, holding her there. The sound of their breathing filled the room.
“...Well,” she said, voice a little breathless. “Looks like leverage wins.”
Evan’s laugh came low, almost a growl. “Not sure who actually won this one.”
She smiled down at him, and every line of tension that had been simmering for weeks tightened to a single, unbearable point.
“Call it a draw?” she murmured.
“Only,” he said quietly, “if we get a rematch.”
Neither of them moved to get up right away. The silence stretched, charged, until Atlantis’ lights flickered once—like even the City itself was holding back a sigh.
Shifting to sit straddling him-a knee on either side of his hips with her hands flat against his chest-she leaned down close enough for him to feel her breath warm against his ear, her voice low, "...a rematch, huh? You sure you're up for that, Flyboy?"
Evan’s laugh came out rougher than he meant it to, caught somewhere between amusement and the sound a man makes when he’s trying very hard not to lose the last thread of control he’s got.
His fingers were still resting at her hips—he hadn’t exactly put them there again, but he hadn’t found a reason to move them either. “Pretty sure,” he said quietly, eyes flicking up to hers. “But something tells me you’re not talking about hand-to-hand anymore.”
Her heartbeat was close enough that he could feel it, a quick, steady rhythm that matched his own. A thousand hours of drills and discipline told him to roll them, to stand, to reset distance. A quieter, far more human instinct told him to stay exactly where he was.
“Careful, Doctor,” he murmured, half-smile tugging at his mouth, “you keep that up, I’m gonna forget which one of us is supposed to be winning.”
It wasn’t a warning so much as a confession—the kind of low, warm honesty that lived in the space between a laugh and a kiss.
With the slightest turn of her head, she brushed a kiss against his jaw, acutely aware of the heat of him that a couple thin layers of cloth between them did nothing to dispel. "... hand-to-hand is one name for it."
He drew in a sharp breath through his nose, her mouth barely a whisper from his skin. For a heartbeat, every bit of the soldier’s calm that usually sat between them thinned to a hair-line crack.
“Charlie…” It came out more like a warning than a word, though the way his hands flexed at her hips betrayed how little conviction was left behind it.
He could feel her grin against his jaw, that small, knowing curve that always meant she’d gotten to him. The lights overhead hummed, Atlantis’ faint ocean-song running beneath the silence.
Evan tipped his head just enough to meet her eyes; blue to amber, both of them breathing the same air now. “If we don’t stop,” he said, voice low and rough with restraint, “I’m not going to.”
It wasn’t threat or apology—it was the truth laid bare, steady and simple, waiting for her choice.
Leaning back just enough to look down at him, that wicked grin of hers slipped into something else entirely. Her tone shifted, losing the teasing note and taking on something that was a lot closer to pleading, "...promise?"
For a moment he didn’t move at all, just stared up at her, the muscle in his jaw tightening once before he finally exhaled through his nose. He sat up slowly, closing the last of the space between them until his forehead rested against hers.
“Yeah,” he said quietly, “but I’m not gonna take something that you’re not absolutely sure about.” His thumb traced a careful line just under her chin, lifting her gaze so he could read what was there.
When he spoke again his voice had dropped to that low, steady tone that was all Evan—soft but certain, the one that always carried a promise he would keep. “Tell me this is what you want, Charlie. And I’ll stop holding back.”
Hands resting flat against his chest, she could feel his heartbeat beneath her palms as she met his gaze without hesitation or reserve, "...Evan, I have never been more sure of anything in my life. If you're looking for consent, you absolutely have it." Leaning down until her lips were within a hairsbreadth of his, her voice dropped to a husky whisper, "I want you more than I have ever wanted anything."
Evan’s breath caught — not because of surprise, but because every wall he’d been bracing behind simply gave way.
For weeks, they’d been circling this moment, tension wrapped in laughter and sparring and too-careful touches. Now it was all right there between them, stripped of words, raw and certain.
He didn’t waste the space she’d left. One hand came up to the back of her neck, the other anchoring at her waist as he pulled her the last inch closer. The kiss started gentle — a question, not a conquest — but the answer was in the way she met him halfway.
When they finally broke for air, his forehead stayed pressed to hers, his voice rough enough to almost shake. “Then that’s it,” he murmured. “No more holding back.”
He kissed her again, slower this time, everything he hadn’t said in weeks threaded into the touch. The sparring mats, the hum of the city, the rest of the world — all of it fell away until there was nothing left but the rhythm of their breathing and the sure, quiet realization that neither of them was going anywhere.
For one perfect heartbeat, the world seemed to go still. The soft sound of the ocean through the walls, the hum of the lights overhead, even the distant echo of boots in the corridor—Atlantis herself seemed to hold her breath.
Evan’s fingers slid up along her back, reverent and certain, finding the curve of her neck, the warmth of her skin. Every careful wall he’d built around himself—habit, discipline, the need to stay in control—shattered under the simplicity of her honesty.
Charlie’s hands fisted gently in the fabric of his shirt, like she was anchoring herself in him and the moment all at once. When their lips met again, it wasn’t the rush of want that defined it but the quiet, staggering realization that they already belonged to each other.
The kiss deepened and softened in the same breath, laughter catching between them when they both moved the same way at once. His thumb brushed along her jaw; her nose bumped his; her laugh, quiet and bright, melted into his mouth.
When they broke apart, she stayed close—forehead to forehead, breath mingling, heartbeats still chasing one another.
“Charlie,” he whispered, the name coming out like a prayer and a promise at once.
She smiled, eyes half-lidded, fingertips tracing small, aimless patterns over his chest. “Told you I’d stop your overthinking.”
Evan laughed, low and rough, and wrapped his arms around her completely, pulling her in until she fit against him like she’d always belonged there. The warmth, the scent of her hair, the way the city’s hum seemed to settle around them—it was all a quiet kind of perfection neither of them had expected to find.
For the first time in a long time, both of them stopped running from everything else and just were.
The silence stretched, warm and heavy as Atlantis’ gravity. Evan’s arms stayed locked around her, her head tucked perfectly under his chin, her breath a soft rhythm against his collarbone. The cool air of the training room kissed the sweat-damp skin of his neck, a counterpoint to the furnace heat radiating from where their bodies met. He could feel the fine tremor in her hands where they rested against his back, mirroring the unsteady beat of his own heart. Not fear. Something else entirely. Release.
Charlie shifted minutely, turning her face just enough to press her lips against the strong line of his jaw. A quiet hum vibrated in her throat. "So," she murmured, the word muffled against his skin, "this is what winning feels like."
Evan huffed a soft laugh, the sound rumbling through his chest and into hers. His fingers traced idle patterns on the small of her back, feeling the lean muscle beneath the thin fabric of her training shirt. "Who won? I distinctly recall ending up on my back."
"Strategic positioning," she countered, tilting her head back to look up at him. Her dark eyes, usually sparkling with mischief or intense focus, held a new, startling depth of contentment. "All part of the master plan."
"Yeah?" He brushed a stray wisp of hair that had escaped her ponytail back from her forehead. The simple intimacy of the gesture felt monumental. "Pretty elaborate scheme. Weeks of needling me. Setting traps in the mess hall. Accidentally-on-purpose brushing past me in the corridor."
"Accidentally-on-purpose?" She feigned outrage, though her lips curved into a smile that lit her whole face. "I have no idea what you're implying, Major. I'm a scientist. My movements are always precise." She punctuated the statement by tracing the edge of his collar with one fingertip, sending a jolt straight down his spine.
He captured her wandering hand, bringing it to his lips and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. The gesture silenced her teasing instantly. Her breath hitched. The playful gleam softened into something vulnerable, real.
"Precise," he agreed, his voice rougher now, holding her gaze. "And persistent. Relentless, actually." He kissed her palm, then the inside of her wrist, feeling the frantic pulse jump under his lips. "Drove me damn near insane."
"And yet," she whispered, leaning into him again, her other hand sliding up to cup the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the short hair at his nape, "here you are. Still sane. Mostly."
"Debatable." He lowered his head, his lips finding hers again. This kiss was slower, deeper than the ones on the mat, infused with a quiet intensity that spoke of weeks of pent-up longing. It wasn't just heat; it was discovery. The soft sigh she breathed into his mouth, the way her body arched instinctively towards him, the slight scrape of her teeth against his lower lip – each sensation cataloged, treasured.
When they finally broke apart, the air between them crackled. Atlantis' ever-present hum seemed louder, underscoring the silence. Evan rested his forehead against hers, their noses brushing. "We should probably…" he started, the pragmatism ingrained in him surfacing momentarily. "...get off the floor."
Charlie grinned, that familiar spark returning. "Why? It's surprisingly comfortable. And Beckett already thinks we're reckless. Falling asleep on the sparring mats would just confirm his suspicions."
He chuckled, tightening his arms briefly before shifting. "Come on, Trouble." He stood in one fluid motion, easily bringing her up with him, her feet barely touching the mat before she found her balance against him. Her hands settled on his shoulders, steadying herself or anchoring him, he wasn't sure. Maybe both.
They stood there for a moment, bodies still close, the air thick with the aftermath of exertion and the new, electric awareness of each other. The bright, unforgiving lights of the training room suddenly felt too harsh, too exposed. Evan scanned the familiar space – the racks of weapons, the reinforced walls, the scuffed mats – and it felt incongruous with the intimacy blooming between them.
"Your quarters or mine?" he asked, the question straightforward, but the underlying current undeniable. It wasn't just about location; it was about stepping definitively over the threshold they'd been dancing around.
Charlie tilted her head, studying him. The playful scientist was back, but layered over a newfound certainty. "Yours," she decided, a flicker of challenge in her eyes. "Fewer unstable chemical experiments lying around. Less chance of accidental explosions. Probably."
"Probably," he echoed, a smile tugging at his lips. He slid an arm around her waist, guiding her towards the door. Her smaller frame fit seamlessly against his side. The corridor outside was deserted, bathed in the soft blue glow of Atlantis' night cycle. The distant sound of waves against the piers echoed faintly through the metal structure.
They walked in silence, the only sound their boots on the floor plating and the quiet rhythm of their breathing. The weight of what had happened, and what was about to happen, settled over them. It wasn't heavy, though. It felt… inevitable. Right. The tension that had thrummed between them for weeks had transformed, melted into a different kind of energy – focused, anticipatory.
As they rounded a corner towards the senior officers' quarters, a cluster of Marines emerged from a side corridor, laughing loudly. Evan felt Charlie instinctively shift, putting a fraction more space between them, though his arm remained firmly around her. His expression, usually open and approachable, instinctively settled into the calm, slightly detached mask of command. The Marines snapped to a semblance of attention as they passed.
"Major," one nodded, his eyes flicking curiously, but not disrespectfully, towards Charlie. "Doc."
"At ease," Evan acknowledged, his voice even. Charlie offered a tight, professional smile.
The moment the Marines were out of sight, Evan felt the tension ease from Charlie's shoulders. She leaned into him again, her hand finding its way back to his waist. "Smooth," she murmured.
"Practice," he replied quietly, his thumb rubbing a small circle against her hip. The brief interruption only sharpened his awareness of her closeness, the warmth of her skin bleeding through their clothes, the unique scent of her – ozone from her lab, faint sweat, and something indefinably her.
They reached his door. He keyed in his code, the mechanism sighing open. Stepping inside, the familiar, spartan space greeted him – neatly made bed, desk stacked with reports, a single framed photo of his sister’s kids on the shelf. It suddenly felt intensely personal, sharing this space with her.
He turned, closing the door behind them. The soft hiss-click of the seal sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet room. The city’s ambient light filtering through the viewport cast long shadows. Charlie stood just inside, looking around with that sharp, observant gaze, taking it all in. Her earlier bravado seemed to have quieted, replaced by a palpable nervous energy. She ran a hand through her messy ponytail, pulling it free and shaking out her dark hair.
Evan moved towards her, stopping a breath away. He didn’t reach for her immediately, just looked down into her face, searching her eyes. The playful challenge was still there, but beneath it lay an openness, a vulnerability he hadn’t seen before. It mirrored his own.
"No going back now, Sheppard," he said softly, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room.
A slow, genuine smile spread across her face, chasing away the last traces of hesitation. "Wasn't planning on it, Lorne," she whispered, stepping forward into the circle of his arms.
He met her halfway, his hands framing her face as his lips found hers. This kiss held none of the playful testing of the training room, none of the breathless surprise of the first touch on the mats. It was deliberate, consuming, a slow burn that ignited everything it touched. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt at his back, pulling him closer, eliminating any remaining space.
He tasted the salt on her skin, felt the frantic beat of her heart against his own. Her hands slid under the hem of his tee, cool fingertips tracing the muscles of his lower back, making him gasp against her mouth. He reciprocated, sliding his hands down, bunching the thin material of her workout top, exposing the smooth, warm skin of her waist. Her breath hitched, a sharp intake that mingled with his own as his thumbs stroked the sensitive dip just above her hipbones.
They moved without breaking the kiss, a tangled, stumbling dance towards the bed. The edge met the backs of Charlie’s knees, and she sank down, pulling him with her. He braced himself above her, his knees sinking into the mattress on either side of her hips. For a suspended moment, he looked down at her – hair fanned out against his pillow, eyes dark and wide, lips slightly parted. The sight punched the air from his lungs.
"Evan," she breathed, her voice thick, her hands sliding up his chest, over his shoulders. Not pushing, pulling.
He lowered himself, catching her mouth again, a groan escaping him as her body arched up to meet his, fitting together like interlocking pieces finally clicking into place. The city outside, the distant hum, the weight of command, the ever-present threat beyond the shield – all of it dissolved into the heat of her skin, the taste of her, the perfect, astonishing rightness of her body moving beneath his. His hand slid under her back, fingers finding the clasp of her sports bra with a soldier’s efficiency. Her answering sigh, lost against his neck, was pure surrender and demand.
The kiss deepened, a slow, deliberate exploration that left them both breathless. Evan traced the line of her jaw with his lips, down the sensitive column of her throat, feeling the frantic pulse beneath his mouth. Her fingers tangled in his hair, not guiding, just holding on as he dipped lower, the rough fabric of his shirt brushing against the newly exposed skin of her stomach. She gasped, a sharp, sweet sound that echoed in the quiet room.
He paused, lifting his head. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with desire, watching him with an intensity that mirrored his own. A silent question hung between them. Her answer was a wordless whimper, her hips lifting slightly off the mattress in silent invitation. Her hands slid down his back, strong fingers digging into the muscle, pulling him closer, demanding.
He needed no further encouragement. His mouth found the peak of one breast, tongue swirling, teeth grazing lightly. She cried out, a sound that was half-surprise, half-pleasure, her back arching sharply off the bed. Her reaction was electric, fueling his own need. He lavished attention on one breast, then the other, learning the sounds she made, the way her body tensed and trembled under his touch. Her hands were everywhere – in his hair, raking down his back, clutching at his shoulders – a frantic counterpoint to the deliberate rhythm he was setting.
Her breathing was ragged now, shallow gasps punctuated by soft moans. "Evan...please..." The whispered plea, raw and unfiltered, shattered the last remnants of his control.
He shifted, his hand sliding down the plane of her stomach, over the waistband of her leggings, lower. He found the heat and dampness waiting for him, her body already opening for his touch. A low groan tore from his throat as his fingers slipped inside her. She was slick, tight, clenching around him instantly. Her head thrashed against the pillow, a choked cry escaping her lips.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice rough, strained. Her eyes flew open, locking onto his. He held her gaze as he moved his fingers, slowly at first, exploring, then with increasing pressure, finding the rhythm that made her gasp, her hips lifting frantically off the bed to meet his touch. Her nails dug into his bicep, her other hand gripping the sheet beside her head, knuckles white.
He watched the pleasure wash over her face, the way her lips parted, the flutter of her eyelids, the flush spreading down her chest. He added the pad of his thumb, circling that tight bundle of nerves with firm, steady pressure. Her back arched impossibly high, a strangled cry tearing from her throat that wasn't quite a word. She shattered, trembling violently, her inner muscles clenching rhythmically around his fingers, holding him deep inside her as wave after wave of sensation crashed over her.
He kept his touch firm, steady, anchoring her through the storm, feeling every exquisite tremor until the tension finally bled out of her, leaving her boneless and gasping on the bed beneath him. Her eyes drifted shut, lashes dark against flushed cheeks, a small, utterly satisfied sigh escaping her parted lips.
Evan slowly withdrew his hand, bringing his fingers to his mouth. He tasted her, the sharp, musky flavor exploding on his tongue, a primal confirmation of her surrender. The sight of her, sated and open beneath him, the taste of her on his lips – it was almost too much.
He lowered himself, bracing his weight on his forearms beside her head. He brushed damp strands of hair from her forehead, his touch infinitely gentle now. Her eyes fluttered open, dazed but filled with a warmth that stole his breath. A slow, sleepy smile touched her lips.
"Okay," she breathed, her voice husky and wrecked. "Definitely winning."
He kissed her, deep and slow, letting her taste herself on his tongue. Her arms came up around his neck, pulling him down. When he lifted his head, his own need was a physical ache, demanding, urgent. He reached down, fumbling with the fastening of his pants. His eyes never left hers, the blue-grey depths holding a question, a final permission sought in the charged silence.
Her answer was a slow, deliberate slide of her hands down his back, over his hips, her fingers finding his, helping him push the fabric down. Her gaze was steady, unwavering, holding his as she guided him to her entrance. He felt the slick heat, the incredible tightness, the tip of him pressing against her. The world narrowed to that single point of contact, the hitch in her breath, the answering throb of his own body.
With infinite care, he pushed forward, sinking into her warmth inch by excruciating inch. Her gasp was sharp, her body tensing slightly before relaxing around him, enveloping him completely. He stopped when he was fully sheathed, buried to the hilt, her inner muscles fluttering around him in a pulse of pure sensation. He dropped his forehead to hers, breathing harshly, fighting the overwhelming urge to move.
"Charlie..." Her name was a prayer, a groan, an oath.
Her legs wrapped around his hips, locking him in place. Her hands slid up his back, pulling him impossibly closer. When she spoke, her voice was a raw scrape against his ear, filled with desire and fierce possession. "Don't hold back now, Flyboy. Finally."