DISCLAIMER: The characters of H.G. Wells, Myka Bering, Pete Lattimer, Artie Nielson and Mrs. Frederic are not mine. The ones you don't recognize probably are. I do not own, nor do I have any official association with Warehouse13, SyFy or pretty much any other profit making entity. No infringement is intended. I'm simply borrowing the characters for a bit.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Another fic based on a submission to warehouse13headcanon . tumblr .com
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.
FEEDBACK: To Racethewind10[at]gmail.com

Sparring Partners
By Racethewind10


Pete wasn't even sure what made him stroll out to the orchard behind the B & B that afternoon. Well, alright, if he was being honest with himself, he did know, he just wasn't all that proud of his reasons. Part of it was curiosity, but part of it was apprehension. Pete still didn't trust H.G. Wells, no matter what Myka seemed to believe in the other woman. He did have faith in his partner though and so the agent kept quiet.

But the third time the two women vanished from the house, Pete couldn't help himself.

Walking as casually, (and as quietly) as possible, the ex-Marine made his way across the back lawn and into the orchard.

He heard them before he saw them and his steps quickened in alarm. Pete knew damn well what combat sounded like, and it was coming from ahead of him.

His heart was in his throat and he was just wishing he had a tesla when he ran around a flowering dogwood and nearly tripped. Shocked, the agent watched Myka twist her body and throw Wells to the ground with a style the ex-Marine had never seen before.

Instead of bouncing up or continuing the fight however, Helena clapped from her position on the ground, smiling (or rather grimacing as she struggled to get her breath back) in pride.

"Well done Agent Bering! I must say, I am impressed. That move took me at least a week to master."

With a boneless thrust of her hips, Wells used her shoulders as leverage and leapt up, brushing grass from her loose fitting pants. In fact, now that he was paying attention, Pete realized both women were wearing similarly styled clothing - loose and comfortable, but without anything flowing or hanging that would provide leverage from an opponent.

Myka, for her part, was beaming and rubbing her shoulder a bit. "I'm still not quite finding my center balance like you said, but I can feel it, just out of reach."

Wells nodded as if that was expected. "Do not trouble yourself. It's just like working any other muscle, it will get easier with time, until one day you will realize it's as natural as breathing and to be out of balance feels wrong."

Pete blinked. Wells sounded like one of the nuns he'd had as a teacher - one of the few who had truly viewed the instruction of youngsters as a calling. Before he could muse on that particular connection, however, Wells rolled her neck and settled into what the Agent instantly recognized was a fighting stance.

"Since it seems Mr. Lattimer is content to merely watch and not drag me off for endangering you, shall we go from the beginning?" Wells asked, amusement and anticipation making her voice somehow richer and golden, lessening the sting of her words.

Myka didn't bother to look at Pete, just settled on the balls of her feet and nodded.

It was clear, once the exchange began, that both women very quickly forgot they had an audience. And it was just as clear to Pete that something significantly more interesting that martial arts practice was going on.

Leaning against the trunk of a cherry tree, Pete watched his partner and the (in)famous author spar. For all he could tell Myka was still learning some of the moves, it didn't slow her down at all. When her new found knowledge failed her, Myka flowed effortlessly into take-downs or attacks Pete knew by heart from the Secret Service training. Both women were focused utterly on their opponent, both breathing heavily but steadily, both wearing matching expressions of focused joy.

Pete knew the space they were inhabiting: That perfect balance of mind and body when everything seemed connected and motion followed impulse without thought. It was an intoxicating rush.

As Myka and Helena closed, parried, attacked, blocked and closed with each other again, however, Pete saw something more. This wasn't just practice. The women in front of him moved with an intensity and familiarity of each other's bodies and styles that should have taken months - years - to develop.

Sometimes it almost looked as if they were following already choreographed moves, it was so seamless.

It was also insanely hot. No matter that Pete had long ago put Myka firmly in the "sister" compartment of his heart and mind, she still wasn't really his blood relative and right now, she was locked in a high skill martial arts battle with another woman who was more attractive than anyone with such dubious loyalties had any right to be.

When Helena finally managed to sweep Myka's legs from under her and pin her with a hold (Myka tapped out) Pete found himself blinking, shaken out of his reverie by the sudden cessation of the fight.

"Jeez you two, why don't you just get a room," he muttered, trying to cover his own embarrassment.

Myka laughed and Helena merely arched one of those damned eyebrows of hers.

"Somehow I doubt Leena would approve of us practicing Kempo on the living room," she replied mildly.

"Yeah well, just don't kill each other ok? Artie only gave us the weekend off," he shot back. And with that, Pete took his leave. It wasn't really that he felt bad for watching (and enjoying the show). Rather, it was that the undercurrents - the connection - he felt between his partner and the author made him feel like he was intruding on something very intimate and private and none of his damned business. And whatever else Myka might say about Pete (and there was probably plenty) the agent was not a voyeur and had no wish to cheapen whatever was growing between Helena and Myka.

What he didn't know, because he never turned to look back, was that there was little 'growth' remaining to be done. Still breathing heavily, Myka reached up and tugged at Helena's hand, pulled the older woman down beside her. A brilliant smile lit her face and her heart quickened further. The author's expression was gentler, but her eyes burned with desire as she closed the distance between them and claimed Myka's mouth, pressing the length of their bodies together and tangling their legs.

In the distance the sound of the porch door slamming carried on the breeze while hidden away in the tall grass, Myka and Helena found other, more pleasurable uses for their knowledge of each other's bodies.

The End

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