May 19, 2004
.05.19.04. - swing a things [imogen] *pd

[riverfront]

(imogen)
Evening.

It's not yet late, and the days are now deliciously long. Six am, one can wake up in broad daylight. Of course, James is not the sort to wake up at six am, so perhaps he goes to bed in broad daylight. At the very least, he does get to experience the long evenings that spill out toward night, still warm and sunshined, even with the clouds.

Imogen sits on a cinder block outside, glancing upward toward the sky, the slanting rays sparking gold in the flaming hues of her hair, and washing warm across her pale skin. Elbow rests on one knee, the degree of the angle sharper than ninety degrees. Her fingers move slowly, working out a particularly nasty crack of her fist. Another part of James's lesson, his fulfillment of the favour she's asked. Scraped knuckles, because god knows he didn't give her quarter and god knows she didn't know when to stop.

It's almost easy to see past her petiteness sometimes, the fragile impression of small bones, particularly when dressed as she is, in loose cotton pants, and a tank top, that allows a brief vision of her litheness, of the fact she was far from soft; the fact that she was far more solid than her size offered. Her tattoo runs sinuously over the curve of one bicep. Go a little farther up, and one can see the pale fading pink edge of a scar. Bullet hole, through and through.

Really, this was an effort in futility, or so it must seem. If a bullet can tear through her skin, she certainly cannot fight with fists and hands what has claws and teeth.

Her head tilts backward, flicking up across the cloudy sky, the sun burning yellow as it dips toward the horizon. After a moment, her weight shifts, elbow leaving her thigh to extend the arm, reaching out over the gravel to pick up her pager where it had been left, dusting it off before examining the display.

"I can see," she says, attention flicking toward James with a brief shadow of a smirk as her attention flicks from the tether of her career, "why you bind yer hands."

(james)
"Had off'r...."

admonishment drifts away on a coil of smoke
he did offer to bind her hands - once
secondary suggestion cut short by his own sense of self-preservation and her lifted brow

the "you'll learn" hidden by dreads swinging towards gravity's call
head bowed as he finished wrapping the strips of cloth around his own calloused hands
this time, it wasn't to protect his skin from rusted metal, crumbling bricks, or unforgiving bags
this time, it was to pad the impact of his own strikes from her pale, pale flesh

one point five hours later - she did, in fact, learn

a pile of tangled cloth occupies the ground between dully shined Corcoran II's
right hand flexing out the compression such binding caused
tendons upset the even flow of iridescent ink patterning inner forarm
for unlike Imogen, James is clad in only BDUs and belt holding them on lean hips
the black-ashed scars of his back presented in all their glory for the wall behind to see
dying sun and non-stop wind drying the sweat to salt hide earning summer's slow tan

"So other'n tha'...." words (amused) drift off as left hand stretches out, texture of still-bound hand closing lightly around her wrist, the pager plucked away and set aside before her hand turned over for his inspection of the scrapes ".... wh'else yeh learn a 'day."

she may be a thoroughly educated Doctor with the framed degrees to prove it
but this is his territory, where experience far outshines bookery
hand closes around the slender digit extending from her middle knuckle
pressure increases - slow and gentle - until the question is punctuated by a deliberate POP!
she can feel it all the way down into her wrist: pressure relieved, tension leaking away, minorly uncomfortable regardless of how grazed skin may protest

her arm released with the unspoken understanding that - off the training floor - he only explains when asked

(imogen)
Something he's learned about Imogen: she does not like to be touched. And so, when his hand closes about her wrist, a fine thread of tension that comes to birth within her muscles cannot be surprising. It's almost an animal stillness. Maybe it's simply that it's unpredictable, an action like that. Garou are dangerous. Ahrouns are worse.

But her fine boned wrist remains beneath the calloused touch of his hand, the beating thrum of her pulse tangible. So, she doesn't move, her attention flicking down to watch his manipulation of her fingers, jaw setting briefly as he brushes grazed knuckles. Breath exhales as the pressure pops, and she smirks faintly.

"Thanks..." she says, fingers flicking out slowly again, extending and drawing inward, testing the breadth of response that she has. Consider that for her, her hands are important. He knows, though not from experience, that she plays an instrument, and what's more, her job depends on the dexterity of each digit.

Her hand passes briefly over her face as if the action could wipe fatigue from her, though it won't. The action continues upward, pushing back strands of hair from her face, half loosed from activity and not yet bothered to be recontained. "Punch usin' th' first two knuckles o' yer fist, no' th'whole o' it," she says, a hand dropping to her neck, rubbing the back briefly before falling to rest elbow on her extended thigh, fingers dangling toward the glass strewn ground.

"Weight back t'block..." she's converting what was learned through action into words, "'nd don't throw weight too far to punch."

A smirk works its way across her mouth again as her hand lifts, closing briefly in expression, "and this is not a bloody sword."

(james)
she does not like to be touched
James has, from previous events, learned this valueable lesson
which may, consequently, relay the importance of why he chooses to do so now
also knowledgeable of her expert eye
he makes no interruption explaining his examination

feeling out the tense nerve responses as unobtrusively as he can
delegating with patience and pause what's damage, and what's her own internal reaction
nothing more than a teacher's fingertip touch outlining the probable damage
meager flexion ascertaining judgement's call
offhandly pointing out areas for her to remain aware of workout's toll
outlining what will, in time, strengthen or change
(ever seen a boxer's knuckles when he makes a fist?)
he knows how important her hands are
he knows, innately, the woman he's dealing with
so her thanks is accepted with little more than a nod
smoke extracted from his lips to flick the ashed log onto the gravel to his right

"Throw fr'm y' shoul'r." no intructor's tapping out physique, he only gestures with the Camel scissored between index and middle fingers "use y'r hips, aim jus' pas' y'r targit but dun' lean in sa much ya lose y'r stance."

correction in the addition explicit definition, teach but do not ridicule mistakes
plain as the eye can see - Imogen is far from the first James has schooled
he knows how to relate to ignorant without pinpointing fault

deep umber eyes strafe left, attention caught by the movement of her hands
he could easily, even quickly, rub out the knots and aches brought on by the workout
but Imogen doesn't like to be touched - and there's a few other consequences he won't think of
so the offer doesn't even forumulate to completion in his mind

"Nuh." chuckled on another exhale before the Camel's crushed out in gravel "Notta swor', s'wha' keeps fuckin' y' up."


(imogen)
And she pays attention, regarding him with dark eyes that are intense in their directness. It's almost familiar for her, now. She's had it since he met her, and long before that. She is, most likely, committing the lesson to memory. Ask her in a few days, in a week, and she might even be able to repeat the lesson word for word, right down to the accent. There's that kind of impression in the way she pays attention.

A brief low scoff, which is Imogen's version of a snort, "I almost keep expectin' yeh t'declare 'right of way.'" Head shakes briefly, tendrils of hair spilling across her cheekbone, only to be pushed back with an impatient hand. "And yeh move while I'm waitin'." Explanation perhaps, though it might not work, out of context, for reactions a split second later than they should be.

"I'll get it," smirked as she leans, reaching for cigarettes that had been left with her pager, picking up the package and tapping it lightly, without yet getting out a fag.

(james)
"Takesss practi'." statement accompanied by shrug of strong, scarred shoulders "I learn' a th' street, withou' time a plan 'r reac'.... so it's 'ngrain'." seems her explanation worked, in obliquely comparing his method of schooling to her structure in fencing tradition and discipline "Once y' un'erstan' the basic a balance a stance 'n form, th' res' is improv."

she does not yet pull out a fag
he, however, stretches to tap the open end of the soft pack
forcing it to dip down and spill twin cancer sticks into waiting fingers
other hand nimbly producing battered and scuffed brass Zippo
one smoke's lit, and filter dents between his teeth as the remaining objects offered

"Y' learn' fas'..... won' take long a catch onna th' swing've it."

(imogen)
"Yeah," dryly offered.

"Swing from the shoulders, use yer hips and aim just past your target. -"

"Ta," reaching out and up to take the cigarette and zippo from him, turning the battered metal between nimble fingers before lighting up, the orange glow bright in the fading near black sun. Smoke spills softly from her lips as she completes her sentence. "- I'll catch on th'swing of it alright." The pun is terrible, but so dryly issued that the humour is mostly in the fact she almost doesn't sound like she's joking.

(james)
the pun was terrible
the pun was damned tragic
and her deadpan is met with widely lopsided smile
at least he didn't use some horrible dance metaphor

"C'mon."

the Ahroun stands, long and limber though he arches arms above his head anyway
loosening up the muscles slowly coiling in twilight's inspired cool-down
dreads shake down over the broadly lean set of his shoulders
juxtaposing ropey texture with rippled scar-knotted flesh though the colors blend in shadow
extention reverses in fold to pick up his pack and wrap
idly plucking at the remaining hand's binding as boots take him back towards the door

"Cravin' pizza."

(imogen)
C'mon. A brief echoing smirk as the kinfolk's weight shifts forward, drawing herself up to stand.

Cigarette held in her mouth, her hands brushing briefly at her pants before she follows the Ahroun back toward the factory. Pizza works. One hand catches the door on it's swing back, stopping it from slamming hollowly, leaving it only a dull thud in the falling night.

Posted by james at May 19, 2004 12:00 AM