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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"...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."

"They always do, luv." Spoon says, "But you can spare us a couple minutes a week. Who else will teach Cora dreadful American slang to go with her dreadful British slang?"

Jordie starts to giggle.

"Can I teach her to say whatevs and hella cool?"

"Yes to whatevs, but leave hella until she's at least ten." Spoon says firmly, "Penny doesn't really get to cuss...she's effectively mute without her translator. She can manage yautja, but hasn't vocal cords."

"No cursing until she's at least ten, got it."

A beat, and she starts to giggle again.

(Even with Slayers, sleep deprivation will eventually cut in.)

"That's me girl." Spoon says, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, "Come away now, luv. When was the last time you slept? You sound like me on the tail end of a bender.

"I will deny until I die that I giggle. Ever."

"I slept!" she protests, but she's moving with him toward the door, if slowly. "After the exam was over. Um ... three hours worth."

"Even Slayers need more than that." Spoon says, keeping her shoulders firmly under his arm so she can't easily slip away, "Point me toward the barracks...wait, hood."

He tugs it up with his other hand. Anonymous black hood for the win.

"I couldn't stay asleep." It's more a complaint than a defense.

"The dorms are around the other side of the main building."

"I can sit with you until the next trial starts, if you want." Spoon says. He'd do the same for his daughters. (Okay, he'd blow off the trial entirely for his daughters, but the thought is there.)

"...No, I'm okay, really."

She comes to a halt just inside the door of the workout room.

"Anyway, they won't let you into the dorms."

"You'd be surprised what I've done that I'm not allowed." Spoon informs her cheerfully from the depths of the hood.

Cheerfully, but in a harsh rumble that he sweet-talked his translator into providing so he wouldn't sound like Spoon. "And, luv, okay would mean that you weren't working yourself exhausted just after passing with flying bloody colours."

"I wasn't working myself exhausted," and this time her voice is defensive. "I just -- Spoon, passing the exam doesn't mean I'm done. It means I'm just getting started. It means the real work's coming."

She's looking up into the hood. Her eyes are searching for his, and there's no lie in them.

Spoon sighs and says, "Yeah, but you need to rest. If you don't, you'll get tired and get killed. I don't want to go to your funeral, Jordie. Don't make me do it. Promise me you'll take care of yourself."

Jordie bites her lip and drops her gaze at the word funeral, but she's nodding.

And looks up again when she says "I will. I promise."