Stargate: Atlantis
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairings: Teyla/Ronon
Word Count: 995
Spoilers: None
Summary: He was told he had wasted the perfect partner, the perfect warrior to stand beside him in battle.
Warnings: Dark, vague descriptions of violence.
Disclaimer: Don't belong to me, so please don't sue!
Author's Notes: Finally something more than a drabble.. Oh, and please comment and let me know what you think, thanks!
He had never struck a woman.
But then he met her, and she changed everything. He saw her as his equal, rather than his inferior. Back on Sateda, they had always been taught that men were the workers, the soldiers, the providers, and that the women – they were the mother, and the wives.
In the seven years he ran he met many female warriors, but of them matched his own skills. He conquered every battle, but he did not class that as striking a woman, but rather defending himself from his enemy. He would never hit a woman through anger, or through jealousy or pain. That is not who he is.
But she changed everything. They fought and he won; but he felt her skills evolve, she took on his, and soon they were equal opponents. She could counter every of his maneuvers, and he could counter every one of hers. It seemed they were the perfect opposites for each other. But it frustrated him. He had never in his life met a man, let alone a woman, who knew him so well, knew what his next move would be, or knew what his fighting strategy was.
So when they fought, gradually the fights became dirty. Every blow meant to hurt and every hit meant to injury. She took them all, firing her own moves back at him, with as much force.
Soon, two sides of him formed. He would look at himself and see another man, a changed man, and a darker man. The Specialist that left Sateda all those years ago was gone. When they sparred he was arrogant, self-righteous and vicious. Any other time, he was impatient, tactless, and blunt – but despite that, she knew exactly how he worked and how he thought.
Sadistic as it seemed, he needed to hurt her, to make her fall. He needed to relinquish his control, and for every fight they drew he felt that control slipping through his fingers. He wanted her to feel pain, but in return he wanted to feel the same. That made it bearable – for all the pain he was causing her, she shot the same back at him. When she hurt, he hurt. He made sure he did.
And then one day he felt her resolve slipping and he got one punch in.
He felt his knuckles hard against her cheekbone, and he heard the sickening crunch of bone on bone. He fractured her cheekbone, but the release he felt sure he would feel never came.
Almost two months later, they fought again. Her first fight since their previous and with no hesitation she dealt the first strike. She was back on par, back to his – back to their standard.
They fought constantly. The second time, he broke his nose in two places, and she broke two fingers. They were told to ease of fighting, at least with each other. And they were told to fight fair.
For all of their lives they had always been the best, he of his company, and she of her people. And now they fought against they best they knew, at least the best in Pegasus. There was no way they were going to fight fair.
The third trip to the infirmary was almost a year later – they both had gone too far.
They had been captured and imprisoned for nearly four weeks. They had been used against each other. She was angry. He was angry.
No rules on their third fight. He had deep incisions in his arms and hands, thirty-nine stitches. She had several broken ribs; one narrowly missed puncturing her lung. This time they forbade them from fighting.
They continued to spar, but with other opponents. Each of them never lost. But they missed each other, and each others fighting techniques. He was told he had wasted the perfect partner, the perfect warrior to be beside him in battle.
Their relationship, albeit a fierce and violent one, could never be the same without that added brutality. And without a doubt her place beside him could never be filled with another.
So, they snuck off to fight – just one last time. And as expected they fought as equals, as they had been for the past two years. Their genders, male and female, made no difference. They were back to their standard. Just over nine years ago, he would never have thought that he'd fight a woman, let alone one that had the power to beat him – let alone one that he knew would beat him.
Their last fight lasted until she fell. They had been fighting virtually non-stop for an hour and they were both holding back, conserving their energy. Neither of them wanted to wasted our last fight.
But his elbow caught her stomach and she doubled over, winded. He fell to his knees.
He found no release. He never had done. Seeing her in pain certainly didn't make him feel more of a man. Seeing her bent over, gasping for air made him feel sick. A dull ache spread throughout his body. He had hurt her, and he felt regret.
She took a moment to stand and when she did she looked down at him on his knees before her and smiled.
Their relationship had always been turbulent. In the past they had fought, and they will continue, because that is part of their connection. For the first time in his life, as he looked up at her, he wondered why he had ever taken any pleasure from hurting this woman. He was wrong. His release, and his answer were as simple as the basic act of fighting with the woman who stood before him.
He has never struck a woman in violence or in anger, except one. And for nearly two years he continued to hurt the woman he loved. For the rest of his life, he promised her he'd never hurt her. He intends to keep that promise.