nysalogs | ( closed )

[ dutch isn't usually one for mentoring anyone. she's not big on teaching, on patience, on any of that. the methods she knows to teach anyone how to fight are khlyen's and she isn't doing that to anyone. she isn't going to hand someone a weapon and tell them to kill or be killed, no matter how effective it had been in training her.

but she likes ros. she likes how sharp she is, how quick.

alvis is gone again, so the room that used to be his has been turned back into a training room of sorts. there's a sandbag hanging from a hook in one corner. no mats on the floor, though. ]

Hey. [ dutch says when ros makes it to her place, letting her in and jerking her chin toward that room. ]

[She's dressed terribly casually, which leaves her uncomfortable. She doesn't like going out in public if she's not pristine and perfect, but it'd be foolish to come to training dressed in a skirt and blouse. Instead: a sensible t-shirt and trousers, both of them built for exercise and wear-and-tear.]

Hello.

[She glances around. It looks . . . fighting-y enough, she supposes? She really has no idea what's supposed to go into things like this, but it looks good.]

Thank you for this, by the by.

[ dutch is glad ros had the good sense not to show up in a skirt and blouse. a skilled fighter could make even that work as an outfit to fight in, but there are better ways to ease into it. dutch herself is in leggings and a sports bra, a loose shirt that falls off one shoulder over the bra. easy to move in. ]

Don't thank me yet. [ her lips twist. she has no intention of going easy on ros, so there's a good chance ros won't want to thank her by the end of it. ]

Let's see what you've got. [ she moves into the middle of the room and stands there, hands loosely by her side. ] Punch me.

[It isn't that Rosalind is stupid. Logically, she knows that fighting is a skill like any other, and that the movement of one's body is as arduous a task to learn as any other. She isn't skilled in that area; that's just a fact. She's going to have a rough learning curve, and for once in her life, she won't go into it miles ahead of everyone else. She's got to accept that. She's going to be a novice at this for a while.

But at the same time, it's very, very hard for her not to think of someone like Booker DeWitt and scoff at the notion that he has anything approaching skill. And if a man like him could learn how to fight, surely it can't be so hard. Surely she'll get it by the end of the day; that's typically the case when she learns something new. She studies it for an hour, she tries it, she gets it by the end of the day. Why should this be any different than drawing or piano or chemistry?

Punch me, Dutch says, and there's just the slightest moment of hesitation. She balks, because she really isn't one for punching, any previous violence aside. Rosalind can kill a man, but she really isn't suited to fighting them.

But she shan't get anything done if she simply stands here.

It's a decent punch, in that at least she throws her weight behind it. It's a shite one, in that she really has no idea how to do this. She isn't completely hopeless; she knows how to hold her fist, and there's some imitation of DeWitt and Majima in the way she holds her body, but it's also laughably easy to dodge. So are any follow-ups-- and she will follow up, right up until Dutch tells her to stop or forcibly stops her.]

[ it's not a bad punch for someone who has no experience punching at all, but it's the sort of punch that makes clear that rosalind has no experience punching at all. dutch evades the first punch, and then the second and third and fourth. it's easy, the way she twists her body out of the way.

on the fifth punch, she takes a step back and pushes ros — not hard, but hard enough that her momentum will carry her forward, past dutch, stumbling across the mats without falling, hopefully. ]

All right, stop.

[ dutch considers, for a moment. ] You need to control your weight more. And your punches.

[ she nods to rosalind to come stand next to her, then demonstrates what she means. ]

[To her credit, though her ego is bruised, she listens attentively to Dutch's corrections. She shifts her weight as directed, readjusting her stance (though it feels terribly strange, and more than once she has to stop to rearrange herself again), and tries again.

And again.

And again.

It's a long, sweaty, arduous process, and by the end of a quarter-hour Rosalind is sick of it. She can work on an experiment for twelve hours straight, ignoring her body's complaints and aches, but this is . . . this is boring. There's nothing at all for her mind to focus on; it's entirely a kinetic skill, and so she ends up trying and failing to focus on it like a science, and thus frustrating herself. Her mind is desperate for a problem to solve, some equation it can figure out, and there's nothing here for it. All she has to do is force her body into memorizing things, and that's hideously hard.

But they don't stop. She's stubborn like that, and she won't stop anything until she's either exhausted herself or mastered it. So they go on, Dutch correcting her again and again, Rosalind resetting herself and trying again. And as the minutes pass, she does improve. She may never be able to beat an experienced fighter, but half an hour in and she's doing far, far better than she had before. She's got a small measure of grace, though she normally uses it for dancing; she isn't entirely hopeless.

They take a break a little ways in, just so Rosalind can catch her breath. She has absolutely no stamina built up, something that Dutch informs her she'll have to correct as time goes on. Fights aren't won entirely via raw power, but by outlasting. Rosalind agrees: she knows that well enough, because how many times had she seen that with DeWitt? But the thought of doing this over and over is . . . ugh.

Anyway. Soon enough they resume. She at least has the basics somewhat down (though whether she keeps them will depend on whether or not she practices over the coming days). She's a bit better prepared to spar against Dutch now, and so they go at it again. Not just with fists, but feet and legs. Rosalind plays more defensive than offensive, realizing even now that that's far more her strength. She dodges and weaves, and though it's clumsy and amateurish, it's at least better than before.

Not good enough, though. Certainly not for someone like Dutch. There's a split-second where Rosalind lunges, Dutch gracefully ducks to the left, and then there's a pressure hooking around her left leg. It yanks, and suddenly Rosalind is slamming flat on her back, the breath leaving her lungs as there's a sudden pressure atop her.]

[ rosalind improves — not overly much, not in a way that would make dutch proclaim her some prodigy at hand to hand, but steadily with practice. she's attentive and stubborn enough to, and not entirely graceless. it's not good enough for someone like dutch, but then there are few people who are good enough to stand a chance against someone like dutch. fewer people without added strength or superpowers of some sort.

so rosalind lands on her back, dutch following her down and setting her forearm against rosalind's throat. not pressing down, but close enough to make clear that she could.

she gives a grin, sharp. ] Not bad.

[Ah, and despite herself, her breath leaves her. That might simply be due to exertion, of course, but there's something about the way her eyes darken and flicker over her face that suggests otherwise.

Rosalind tips her head back, though she doesn't try and get up just yet.]

I'm flattered. Though I don't know if I'd be so kind in my self-assessment.

[ dutch doesn't let herself get distracted, but the reaction still reminds her of the night they'd spent together. the noises rosalind had made then. ]

All right.

[ the remark gets a grin from dutch, sharp. ]

Not bad for a complete beginner.

[That earns a bark of a laugh, and Rosalind tips her head back.]

There we go. I thank you, though my success is owed to my teacher.

Let me up.

What if I don't?

[ dutch makes no move to take her arm off rosalind's throat. maybe this is another lesson. maybe she just likes their respective positions right now. ]

[--oh. Her cheeks flush, but Rosalind doesn't look all that displeased. A little smile lights up her face.]

Then I suppose you'll have me trapped, won't you?

[One of her hands darts up, though, wrapping around Dutch's neck. She isn't choking her, not by any means, but there's a firm pressure there.]

What are you going to do about it?

[ this is still training. it's also something else, possibly, but whatever else it may be, it is training. dutch knocks rosalind's hand around her throat away with here free hand, trapping her wrist against the ground. ]

Good instinct.

[Christ, and her cheeks grow darker, but Rosalind doesn't submit just yet. One of her legs darts up, her knee bracing against her hip, trying to throw her weight to either roll them over or at least shove her off.]

Dutch--

Yes?

[ dutch says it brightly, a grin pulling at her lips while she counters that attempt at rolling them over. ]

[Her hand drags to her hip, gripping it tightly. She doesn't try to flip them over, but instead yanks it forward, grinding it down against her.]

Don't be a bloody tease.

[ mh. dutch's sparring sessions don't often end this way, but she can't say that it's never happened before or that she didn't see this coming. she doesn't try to resist the yank, letting their hips roll against each other. ]

But it's so much fun.

[ it's just a spar like any other. they've done this before and most of the time, james doesn't even need to ask her to stop and back off, though the agreement between them still stands, though that is still the condition for their sparring. it's just a spar like any other, a back and forth between them, james' longer reach and greater strength against dutch's smooth motions and litheness — until it's not.

maybe it's alvis' shirt still in one corner of the room, the glint of light that catches on the knife he's left behind. (she remembers him handing that knife to her. remembers knowing, with startling clarity, that he's giving her the power over his life. asking her to decide if he should live or die because if he keeps the knife — well.) whatever it is, for a moment, dutch loses control. her next punch isn't precise, it isn't clean. instead, it's hard and violent and explosive. more so than she's ever been with james. ]

[Generally, things are okay when they spar. She holds back and so does he. Sometimes he holds back too much, goes a little too soft and she throws him against a wall and Bucky grins as he admits he sometimes forgets how good she is. He expects today to be like any other. If she'd told him about Alvis, maybe he would have been aware of the shift.

But he's not. She loses control, hits harder, less grace, more power, and he can see it in her eyes, the way that she's hitting to hurt, or trying anyway, and that hits something inside of him. Not quite the Soldier, but not quite Bucky, either. Some liminal space where they blend together in ways that he's typically not forced to acknowledge.

He doesn't fight to hurt, but the way he deflects is rough, hard enough to bruise, and there's a darkness to his eyes. He knows he should tell her to stop, but there's something almost hypnotic about the way they move together like this. But it's not something that can last, drawn tight and cast in shadows. He's looking for an opening, nothing gentle as he presses back.]

[ the physicality of sparring, the push and pull, the rhythm of it and the trade of punches and kicks — that is a language they both understand. it's easier than talking, more often than not, than confronting either of their pasts or what's made them into creatures that fight like this.

violence comes easily to dutch because it's what she was raised for, trained for, but it's controlled these days. she's a weapon, but she decides which way to point, when to pull the trigger. except alvis is gone, johnny is gone and khlyen's seen to it that there's a monster inside her that tries and tries to come out. (is she really better than aneela? some days, dutch isn't so sure. less crazy, maybe.)

she advances and he deflects and then he turns it around and for a moment, their fight is elevated to another level, more brutal but more beautiful because of it, too — and what does it say about her that she finds beauty in this? — and then he finds his opening and takes it. dutch lands hard on the mat, his metal arm over her throat. ]

[ he still owes her a spar and dutch has every intention of cashing that in, even if the reason he's coming to visit is to look at the odd creature she's found in front of her door. dorian ii, because dorian the original is an arrogant sod who decided to name it after himself. dutch refuses to let fondness colour her thoughts or show on her face when she thinks that. (she still feels fond, though.)

dorian ii has eaten an entire fruit from the jungle and lapped at some water. by the time garrus arrives, he's sitting in his basket, wide-eyed and alert. ]

[ so... here's the thing. he's coming over fully convinced of a few things. one. that thing is pretty cute. kinda reminds him of a pyjak. and two, he's probably not going to take it because LOOK. he knows how easy it is to get attached to these things. ]

So, where is the little guy?

[ they can definitely spar too, but this is the important part, ok? ]

[ she's not getting attached to the thing. she's not. attachment is a weakness and maybe dutch has been known to ignore that particular lesson khlyen's tried to teach her so many times in order to prepare her for the process of turning hullen, but that doesn't mean she's forgotten it.

but the thing's kinda cute, she'll give it that. in an ugly way. ]

Kitchen table, last I checked.

[ he shows up a little after their conversation, a bottle of wine in one hand. dutch lets him in. of course she does. ]

I haven't thrown your namesake out yet.

[ dorian ii is, in fact, still in his basket, having happily munched on some fruit and lapped at some water dutch has put in front of the basket on her kitchen table. for the rest, she's largely ignored the kinkajou thus far and dorian ii was content to doze in his basket.

he seems to be getting a little more alert, though, looking up when dorian comes in. ]

I'm preparing the Mother of the Year award for you already. Oh, look, it's right here.

[He raises the bottle with a laugh, but makes a beeline for the kitchen before he begins to open it. He's mindful of the kinkajou, settling down gently to let it breath without overcrowding it. Just carefully observing.]

Well, he didn't get his looks from me, but beauty isn't everything. Some admirer just left him here?

The kind of award I like.

[ dutch's grin is quick and sharp, barely betraying that she's teetering on the same edge that dorian's seen her fall off before, with alvis gone back into stasis. it isn't as bad as losing johnny, it isn't as bad as losing johnny and alvis, but she isn't happy.

the kinkajou is a distraction, at least. not the one she wanted, but a distraction regardless. ]

Someone sure did. No clue why.

Perhaps they thought you needed the company.

[He hopes it's subtle. Admittedly, Dorian isn't all that good at keeping tabs, so he can only guess at what she might be feeling. He would have brought wine regardless of a good or terrible mood, but hearing how things are is an added bonus.]

Which is silly, because you do have me.

Maybe they need to mind their own business.

[ but the spare room of her apartment is back to being a work-out room, sparring room, gym kind of place. most traces of alvis are gone again, packed into a box that sits under her bed. his knife is in the box alan foster had given her for christmas. ]

I'd be a lot more grateful for your company if you opened that wine already. [ her tone passes scathing and somehow lands on fond. gross. ]

( closed )

∆ ROS

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i know nothing about punching this is not gonna go well

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∆ BUCKY

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∆ GARRUS

slides in here way too late with starbucks

responds even later and without starbucks whelp

∆ DORIAN

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