sunnydalealum | (no subject)

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It's final exams week at the Slayers' Academy. Which means that about five young women were called in by Sarge at the beginning of the week, and told something to the effect of Right, miss. Sometime this week you're going to get tapped by surprise and put through twenty-four hours of whatever we can throw at you. Can't say what day, can't say when, but you've got to outlast the clock and acquit yourself well, 'cos surviving unharmed by hiding under the bed's for pussies.

The workout rooms off the upper-level armory are usually deserted this late at night. But there's a light on in one of them, and a familiar sound coming from inside: the thrup-thud of feet moving rapidly from one stance to the next, the flat slap of wood or flesh against padding.
lord, give me grace and dancing feet / and the power to impress
Jordie's there, alone in the room, beating hell out of a training dummy with one of the practice fake-Scythes.
lord, give me grace and dancing feet / let me outshine the moon
Which is a circumstance that would make a lot more sense if she hadn't finished her exam about four hours ago.

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One final blow that rattles the dummy on its post, and she swings the wooden axe up across her shoulders and turns toward him, smiling.

"Spoon," she says happily, through the panting breath of recent exertion. "Hi."

"Hallo, lass." Spoon responds, and he reaches into a pocket to pull out a box way too long to be jewelry. "Glad I caught you...got your graduation gift here."

Unless it's ... really, really long earrings ...

"You know, I thought that was you under the hood." She grins, and wrists sweat off her forehead. Her face is still pale, but there's no sign of that grim blankness of a moment ago.

Maybe you imagined it.

"Unless there's more than one of you out there dressed up like that?"

"Yeah, it was me." Spoon says, "Friend Axel got me the coat. It won't tear if I shift, see. Still covers me, even. Best bit of magic ever, not needing to worry about shite like that. I'll be going out for the next set as well. Secret, though."

He grins at her, he's sure she won't tell.

That doesn't mean he forgot the blankness. Just that he won't push yet.

Her grin goes conspiratorial, and she mimes zipping her own mouth shut.

And immediately spoils the impression by speaking. "Oh, I, I wanted to say." Slightly flustered, suddenly. "I ... heard a while ago? About your wedding."

Spoon's smile softens and he says, "To Ace, yeah. She's a seventy very odd year old cursed Time Lady. Pretty much right down me metaphorical alley. The girls, I adopted another one an' I'll show pictures if you want, love her."

Her smile's a little wavery, but sincere.

"Congratulations. Is what I wanted to say. To, to both of you -- all of you, I guess."

Spoon comes a little closer and wraps her in a hug. His coat smells...mostly like peppermint. Because he's always chewing gum. "Thank you, Jordie. Means a lot to hear from you.

"Still me favorite Slayer. Always."

She lets the axe drop to her side and then to the floor, the better to return the hug without poking either of them painfully in the ribs.

Her grip is tight, hard, and just a little shaky; her face is buried in his chest (peppermint smell, and if she needed an extra reason to have to fight tears, there it is).

"I'll miss you."

"You've got me number, Jordie. You can call any time." he assures her, nuzzling her hair. The coat is a lot softer than it looks from a distance. "You better call, or I'll come chase you and demand to know what's happened. And write. And visit."

The feel of his breath against her hair makes her inhale sharply (peppermint, underlaid with the clean-sweat-clean-dog smell of him), and she blinks hard and makes herself pull back.

There's something blocky and hard-cornered between them, which helps.

Oh hey, there's this box here. Perfect distraction!

Spoon takes a step back and dips his head; "Alright...open your present, luv."

She opens the box, and stares at what's inside it, her eyes lighting like stars.

"You got me wristblades?"

"Sorta." Spoon says, "Can't exactly buy them, can I? Made 'em for you. Some for the others, too, but yours are kainde amedha and starship with T-Rex inlay."

"...mine are kinda amwhatnow?"

Jordie's blinking a bit, and it's only partly because she's been awake for twenty-four out of the last twenty-eight hours.

"Acid blooded alien. Big black hissy thing. Don't bite 'em, really pisses da' off. Also you'd die. Uh. Your wristblades could go through explosive decompression and you'd just have to replace the teeth and bone bits."

She hasn't taken them out of the box yet; delicately, almost reverently, she runs the fingers of one hand over the bone inlay.

In a near-whisper: "They're beautiful."

"Good." Spoon says firmly, "Know they're a bit brutish, can't really fix that, but thought if you got a pair of stompy boots an' black jeans and shite they'd look like some of that chunky jewelry an' since there's almost no actual metal metal in them you could wear them about without having to hide them. Couldn't put the invisibility technology on them, it's electric and shocks like a bastard."

"Stealthy," she says, and smiles.

(Something about the smile brings back just a bit of her earlier expression, for a moment.)

"I like that."

"Everything alright, Jordie?" Spoon asks quietly, "Glad you like your presents, though."

"Hm?" A touch too quickly, a touch too brightly. "Everything's great. I passed the finals, I haven't got my official grade yet but they told me I passed, and I'm gonna get field assignment before the month's out and that's what I wanted."

Spoon doesn't believe her, but he's not going to say that right now. "Mmmm." is what he says, "Never doubted that you'd pass."

This smile's less tense, and a touch of color warms under the skin of her cheeks.

"I don't suppose you've got any clue where they're gonna assign me? I'm hoping for somewhere in the US." Wistfully: "I miss American food."

"I'm just the brawn, luv." Spoon says with a grimace, "They send me out there as the big black blur of hoy fuck what was that? and then I heal, and then they send me out again. They don't actually tell me any of that.

"Regardless, you'd better write. An' call."

"I will," she promises. "When I can."

She's looking down at the wristblades again.

"I figure the job's probably gonna keep me pretty busy."