RP Logs: Stephen and Wardens
Jag: Morgan leaves, Stephen... stands at his desk for a moment, just... one big ball of tension and unhappness and anger. maybe slams his hands on t he desk or some other gesture
Kiki: ... which is when Max comes in?
Jag: Well, before he realizes he just n eeds to hit something, but yes. :) Max can come in
And Stephen's just... going out. And is all, short, clipped. "I'm going to the gym." Or practice room or whatever setup they have there.
Kiki: Max is like *stares* *follows to make sure he doesn't harm himself, because that mood? He's aware where it can lead*
Stephen: *stalks down to the open floor where there are pretty much only mats and punching bags, makes a perfunctory gesutre of wrapping his hands, and starts hitting a punching bag. a lot*
Max: *trails behind, wraps his own hands just in case, and watches till the inital fury has started coming out, and then clips out* What the hell happened?
Stephen: *punch. punch. punch. punch-punch* I had a visit from Warden Morgan today. *pant breathe pant. punch*
Max: *circling around Stephen+punching bag* Right. *bad enough by itself, but not enough to warrant this* And?
Stephen: They're trying to bring the Wardens up to strength. *just keeps hitting, that condescending stare, the sneer, the scowling, god he hates that man, and now, after years of labor and hard work and everything, now he dares come back when the Wardens are desperate and say, yes, now we need you? where the fuck was he when Stephen was young and willing*
((Heh. Insult to injury, you weren't good enough when you were young and willing to learn, you weren't good enough after all the sweat and tears and effort to bring his magical skills up to his fighting ones, he wasn't good enough all those years but now that the wardens are desperate, now they'll deign to take him))
Max: *pauses* Fuck. He tried to sign you up, didn't he. I gather you're not overjoyed at that idea. *moves just a little closer, holding the punching bag, looking around it, focused on Stephen's face*
Stephen: *punch punch PUNCH* He did. *punch* I declined.
*stops punching to catch his breath for a moment, wipe his forehead with th eback of his hand, leaving blood and sweat trails* He'll likely ask you as well, I think.
Max: Of course. And maybe. Can't do it. Defensive thinking only, me. *meets his eyes, then reaches to grab his wrist, turning his hand over, and gritting his teeth* Damn it, man.
Stephen: *halfheartedly jerks his hand away, then looks away* You'd make a good Warden. You already do the job anyway.
Max: *barks out a laugh, but his eyes remain tense and he grabs at his hand again, a bit daring, if you're going to fight, come and fight me, it will get you both relieved and beat up faster* I won't. I'm fit for a for a fight, not a war.
Stephen: *does look back at him then, eyes flashing bright and angry, but it's not Max he's angry at anyway even if his first reflex is to lash out* The Wardens need good people.
Max: Everybody does. I've chosen where to be. They'd kick me out in two months anyway.
Stephen: *short bark of something like a laugh* What makes you say that?
Max: I take orders. When I choose to. There aren't many there who'd get me to follow them. *shakes his head* We're helping them enough with what we do. I don't want the gray. Never have.
Stephen: *just sort of watching him for a long moment, still... very tense, but sort of loosesning up. A bit. then tugs his hand away again* Come, spar with me.
Max: *nods, moves after him, light at his feet and ready for a hard session. Knows enough that it will be needed*
--
Stephen, as per usual, had two of the wooden practice swords. Twirling each of them once or twice to get used to the weight; it had been a while since he'd used these. And then he took a stance, balanced and ready, by way of a tacit signal to Max that he was ready to begin when the other man was.
Max looked through the practice weapons and chose two as well - one normal length, and one shorter. For some reason he recalled the first time they'd done this. Years and years ago. Well he'd learned this and that since then. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet before moving to stand before Stephen. One circle with the longer practice blade. To feel the balance. Then he gave a small grin, and made a swift go for a cut, more to make an opening than aiming for actual success. Swing for the shoulder; knees bending and body tensing in readiness for the counter-attack.
Stephen blocked the attack with a swift movement of his left-hand sword which had almost enough force behind it to be an actual attack rather than a block. Unleashed, he didn't pull his swing as he moved his right sword underhand, under Max's arm to cut for the ribs and then, when that was blocked, the left hand sword curving out from Max's practice blade and coming down at his shoulder. His face was almost calm, if pale, but his blows had strength behind them. Bruising strength. Perhaps too much strength for a sparring session, at least within the bounds of propriety. He did feel a twinge of guilt for it.
Strong as the hit was when it connected - and it did, at the shoulder, Max was silent. The only mental comment at that point was, Yes, he's fast. But then again, so was he. He slipped away from the contact, and then made a quick sequence that started directed at the torso and then suddenly moved to an almost backhanded attack at the thighs, before aiming at the engagement of the blade, or blades, of the opponent. Making it up on the go. Draw Stephen away from thinking and into acting. Block, block, block. Connect on one or the other. Block again. After a few moments, there was only the rhythm of the thunks, and of heavy breaths.
He wasn't pulling back on his strength too much either. If he did, it would only make his blocks ineffective.
It wasn't long before Stephen was breathing hard. Not that that slowed him down in the slightest. Block, strike, block, strike, strike. It would have taken someone who knew him well to see that he was attacking more recklessly than usual, with more force. The casual observer would have seen nothing. About the only concession he made towards anything resembling sense was that he avoided blows that could do real damage to sensitive parts, like the head. For the rest of it he pulled no punches, wasted no opportunity for an attack. He threw strikes till the sweat beaded up on his skin, till his muscles ached and he ignored that, till his breath was becoming noisy and he ignored that too. There were ... there was too much inside. And it needed to get out. Every thwack of wood against wood or against muscle helped, but by the time his chest was heaving and his breath starting to rattle he was, at least for him, too far gone to stop.
Max wan't stopping. The familiarity of exertion and pain was its own drive, but the very unusual recklessness was nudging at his awareness, feeding on the worry. He was getting beat up well enough, but the more-than-usual extending that Stephen was showing gave a few more opportunities. Which Max used, quickly, skillfully. Determinedly. He may have to fight in real when he's this ... no word fit right. ...moody. Couldn't let him get relaxed with ...
.. with what Stephen had told him. Determination to hurt wasn't enough to guarantee victory. Or survival.
Not that this was about either. Think. Hit-oof-hit thunk thunk thunk. Gasping for breath. If he had time to look, he might find it ridiculous, Stephen sparring in his work clothes, as in suit and necktie. He didn't. He was concentrating on blades, on eyes, on motions. Was that a real move or a faint? Blades engaged, he did get to use the shorter one as he had initially meant to - it could be slid out of a lock more quickly than a longsword. Slap-against-arm, turn away. Thunk-thunk-thunk. Clattter.
Shit.
"Damn you're... good." Max grabbed the remaining longer practice sword with both hands and went on. And he was. One of the best damnedest blades. No wonder he was somebody they'd tried to get quickly, first choices, when they urgently needed people.
Stephen smiled, if it could be called a smile instead of a feral sort of baring of teeth. "I've been practicing." Each word punctuated by a strike. He didn't say the first thing he'd been thinking, which was Tell that to Warden Morgan. That was, would have been, too much. And he was pretty sure he didn't want to think about Morgan right now.
Except he was. Which made his cheeks flush with shame and rage, which stung his eyes and tightened his chest and made him redouble his efforts on the attack. That for Morgan and his opinions. He could outfight any three Wardens, in magic as well possibly now that Solace had had her way with him, certainly with the sword. He was probably older than a good half of them by now, as much attrition as they had suffered. More experienced. And now Warden Morgan came to him with that stone-faced sneer and that fucking condescension and asked if he still wanted to be a Warden. No. No he did not. They'd already made up their minds, and that decision had become Stephen's decision. And ... any other thoughts along those lines went out of his head as thinking turned to simple fury and howling pain and he was twenty three again, being turned out of the office like a child who hadn't made the fucking football team. Damn them.
Strong dammit. Furious, angry. Strong and fast and light on his feet and almost blind. Max was no longer registering much more than motion. Not even Stephen's face, his eyes. Just arms and hands and blades. He was damned if he was going to suggest slowing down. He knew Stephen wouldn't go like that unless it was needed. Not calm, composed, smooth Stephen. Instead of stopping, he flowed into it. Yes, he was getting hit a lot. But yes, he could see openings. One hard hit just below a knee. Dodge, block, dodge, thunk. "I can... tell." Practising. He didn't fight like he was thinking of his practice now.
Max wasn't holding back anymore either. It was fight, and fight was a serious business. In his line of work.
Another connect. Back of Stephen's wrist this time. Bounce back.
Stephen yelped at the blow connected with his wrist, numbing it for just long enough to drop his sword. Dammit. It was enough, at least for the moment, to force him into a more calculated kind of mindset. Backing off just enough to shift his stance and his grip enough for a one-sword approach. This, he was less practiced at, although it remained to be seen he supposed if he was less skilled. He caught his breath, a little surprised at how labored it sounded.
"Not so bad, yourself," Stephen ventured, with a slightly crooked smile as he lunged forward on the attack on that last word.
Thunk-and-dodge.
The catching of breath had been welcome.
Thunk-thunk-thunk, blades crossed between them, faces close. "Concentrate. I don't mind..." push away, twirl, thunk, ow, thunk-thunk "... the rest of it. But I don't want that coming to you when you're in a real one." A real blade could have half-severed the wrist. The half-second he spent shying away from that thought cost him another hit. Hah. Concentrate indeed. "Either of us." Oh yes, he could parry neatly too. See? Block-block-counter-attack-block. That was more like it. Max shifted his waiting-position into a slightly lower one, bending his knees more. First bout of fury released. Now for the part which was a little more determined. Still angry, but less chaotic. Less familiar weaponry. Still hard work. Thunk. More circling around. More precise attacks, still strong. Flip of the sword. Waiting position. Attack-parry-counter-attack. Block. Or hit. Again, and again.
This isn't about Morgan getting him angry just now. The realization came mid-thrust, and made him change direction in startlement. It allowed him a touch. If a less foreceful one than intended.
He didn't want to think anymore. He didn't want to think about anything but the next attack, the next counter or block, the next blow. More calculated blows this time, more strategic attacks. He didn't really want to make Max bleed or bruise or fall over. But he damn well wanted... something. He didn't know what. The attacks slowed, again, though it was more that he didn't lower his sword out of stubbornness than anything. He was suddenly realizing that he had pushed himself harder than he had in a long time. God, his arms ached. Parry, thrust. Focus. Concentrate on this. Focus.
But now he was just tired. All the anger had drained out of him and was leaving something like a broken shell, an automaton that fought because that was how he had started and, at least a little bit, because he didn't want Max to see how bad it was. As if he had any chance of hiding it from him now, if he was to be honest with himself. Which he did try to be.
Max saw it, the moment when he realized how tired he was. Dodge. Parry. Next moment of waiting, he panted out, "enough for now? This I know you can keep up for a while." But he didn't lower his sword yet. Well he knew how strong the will of the other man. If he meant to fight till exhaustion, he would. That of one or the other. Max had no clue which would come sooner. His own was significantly closer than when they started, especially with the effort to block away the pain from the hits. But if Stephen needed more, more to drain away, more to drive whatever the edge was away, he'd be here.
That's what friends were for, after all.
"And the alternative could include shower, going home, rest, and a glass of Scotch." There were many ways to dull edges.
He stopped in mid-strike when Max spoke and then, slowly, lowered his sword. The remaining sword. His wrist still hurt a little, and now that he'd lost the momentum of his anger he was feeling every little bruise and strike he'd inflicted on himself. And winced. Poor Max had to be feeling it worse.
After a moment's thought he nodded. "That alternative sounds good," he rasped out, breath still rattling through his chest, attempting to focus his eyes on something through the haze of sweat and other things. He wiped at his eyes with his hand again, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, winced as he opened up the new scabs. And then he looked at his hand as though he hadn't noticed he'd opened up his knuckles on the punching bag. Perhaps he hadn't. Which meant he probably hadn't paid attention to... He looked up at Max. "Are you all right?"
Angry, furious as he had been with Morgan, he didn't want to have hurt his friend. There was no excuse for lashing out at his friend in anger directed at someone else. And then, the insidious little voice in the back of his mind that reminded him if he'd been meant to be a Warden he would have been one years ago, speaking up and pointing out that perhaps this is why he isn't a Warden. Isn't fit to be one. Too much violence, too little control.
"Nope, I'm dying of my injuries in three days." Max snorted, although he wasn't exactly up to smiling just now. "Of course I'm all right. Though you sure know how to work those." He tossed his practice sword in the direction of one of the discarded ones... then sighed, straightened up, and walked to pick them up, and the short one, and then returned to Stephen and reached his hand for his remaining weapon. "With some luck, if I put these away we will only have our feet to trip on, rather than the swords too, on the way to the shower." Hah. Hopefully. There seemed to be a lot of mats to trip on or walk around in that direction...
Stephen flashed something like a smile. No, it was a real smile, just an exhausted one. That didn't reach his eyes. Too many memories in the way.
"I don't know, tripping over my own feet sounds like a risky proposition." But he managed. One foot in front of the other, passing his weapon to Max and getting things for the shower, towels and his own sweats from the locker. "You have a spare set of sweats here?"
Max was about to try some quip about trying to carry him around and the dangers of that when Stephen did start walking, and his lips quirked slightly. Bad joke time run out for now, and for the better. "Of course." He dropped the wooden blades haphazardly, but still on the right table, and dragged his feet after his boss. Friend. Sparring partner.
Friend still fit best.
Friend who was pushing himself. At least in the generally good direction of place to rest.
Lockers, right. Sweats. He caught up with Stephen - somehow - on the way further. After a couple of steps, he just put his palm on the other man's shoulder. I'm right here. I'm fine.
"Are you all right?"
Stephen stopped walking at the touch of Max's hand on his shoulder. So many ways he could answer that question and the one he wanted to use, I'm fine, was a complete and total lie that Max would see through before he'd finished the second word. "I'll be all right," he said after a long moment of thought. It wasn't a lie. It was even true, Stephen would be all right eventually. He had recovered before. He could do so again. "Thank you."
For the sparring. For taking the hits. For being there.
He stripped down without wincing this time, never mind that his body was already protesting the abrupt and brutal workout. No stretching before and he'd forgotten to stretch himself out after, and he was going to pay for it every time he moved out of a relaxed position. He hoped the hot water did something to unknot muscles already tense from the conversation and now tenderized from the beating he'd taken. And he was still feeling guilty about the beating he'd doled out for Max. At least a couple of bruises, welts were already starting to form on the other man's body. There were a few times when he would have watched Max strip down simply to watch. Now it was as though he was deliberately looking for signs of what he'd done to shame himself.
Aspirin. Max thought he had aspirin somewhere or other. The car, probably. It helped sore muscles. A little. And yes, he would share. But now hot water was ... sounding good.
And a little... um. Well, the sting couldn't be worse than others before, now could it.
He nodded a little. If there was something else that could be done to make Stephen better, all right? He was going to do it too. "Anytime. Anytime at all."
No, no wincing either. After all, he'd had worse. He'd even had worse from practices, though not in a very, very long time - and not against a single person. But then again. Max's lips quirked up. This was reminding him of the very first time he and Stephen had sparred with swords. The hits had been less... forceful that time, mostly. But a lot more numerous. He could still recall the - well, rather haughty - smirk on Stephen's face at the time. Superior, he had felt. Well, he had been. Still was. His eyes strayed to the other man's face, almost wishing for that expression - and only saw concern, and an expression like he had something sour in his mouth. And his eyes back on himself.
He tried to think of something bright to say, but well. His thoughts only circled back to what had caused this and he didn't think that would make things any better. So he just rolled his shoulders. "Shower's that way." A.k.a., I'm ready.
Stephen made himself smile a little but it didn't even convince himself, and after a moment he let it drop. Led the way to the shower.
He turned on the water as hot as it would go, working his head in a slow roll as his curls plastered to his forehead, working his neck, his shoulders in slow circles. Working his body slowly to exercise the muscles a little further before he started lathering up the washcloth and scrubbing off the sweat. He didn't look at Max, now. Didn't know why except that he was withdrawing into himself, into the stone and ice, jamming the mask onto place and the pieces back together as though he could return himself to normal by force of will alone. It didn't work that way, of course.
There was something about a shower, and if he knew what it was he would try to capture it and use it in particularly touchy negotiations. Perhaps the ostensible solitude. Perhaps the physical nudity implying, in a person's mind, the equivalent emotional and mental vulnerability. Perhaps because there were only so many things you could do with your hands and your body in the shower which left your mind free to wander, and his was spiraling circles with the dirty water down the drain. Soap suds all over his body. He stood and laid his hands on the ring around the central shower pole and let his head fall forward and the water wash the soap away and shivered with the numbness inside, despite the heat. He couldn't have explained it even if Solace had asked, and she knew what had happened the first time.
Max had just turned the water as hot as he would stand and let it flow over him, closing his eyes - screwing them a little agianst the sting. But then he looked. And what he saw...
He didn't speak, just splashed between the two showers, and put his hands over Stephen's shoulders. A touch to let him know, it's me. And then he started kneading. Lightly, through the falling water and the stray soap suds and through his own tiredness. This wasn't right. And he didn't know how, and asking, asking when somebody's hurting wasn't always a good idea. That only left presence - which was not there when one closed his eyes - and touch. And he knew touch. And how much it could help.
His hands were gentle, yet working on massaging the muscled back under the falling water without letting up. He would until and unless Stephen stopped him. Not the touch that would direct the mind towards intimacy. Just touch. Kneading, working to loosen things in the body as he could not right now in the mind. Connecting.
Still here. Can't get rid of me this easily.
Stephen's eyes shut tight, ignoring the water that fell through his hair and down his face. Water flowing over his cheeks. He didn't know what to do, how to move, where to go. The touches paralyzed him in place, anchoring him to the spot. Max's hands on his shoulders. Warm, strong.
Max had his back. That made him smile a little. If he'd gone into the Wardens he never would have met a cocky twenty-year old bodyguard, self-made soldier, who had turned into one of the greatest friends (one of the only friends) he'd ever had. That should have made him feel better, but somehow it didn't. Or not better enough. Still paralyzed, still not moving. Didn't want to move. Didn't want to step outside himself and face what he knew to be true.
Coward.
That self-inflicted insult made his lip curl slightly in a scowl just ugly enough to hurt. He shook his head slightly, straightened. Didn't push Max away, though. For whatever reason, and there were any number of reasons, he didn't want to do that.
Damn right Max had his back. Was his job. More than that. Was what he'd chosen to do. And he would again. That was no form of speech to make his friend feel better. Just plain truth.
His fingers worked down the back, then up again, feeling the muscles relax, and then tense again briefly, And then the straightening... didn't make him stop. Just work his way to the shoulders again. Then down the arms, a little more carefully. He'd landed a blow or two in that area. But the tight muscles needed the attention too. Carefully, firmly and gently. Up to the shoulders again, and the neck. There. That had to be something. He wanted to turn Stephen and give him a hug, too, but wasn't sure if the straightened shoulders didn't mean 'yeah, I'm going to be strong - to myself' in which case...
It just felt wrong, to see emotions so freely expressed outside... absolutely exclusive circle of trusted people. Anybody could have seen him in his office, in the hallway. Anybody could have walked in the gym. Hell, anybody could walk in now. This kind of thing wasn't relevant to Max. But it was, always had been, for Stephen. If this was stronger?
Small sigh, last squeeze of a shoulder, and Max returned to his own shower. Looking up to let the hot water over his face only for a moment, then looking again. Lathering himself quickl-- ouch. Okay. Carefully at places and quickly, and letting the water rinse him.
Stephen took a long, slow breath, and then another. And then a third. And then he turned off the shower, moving towards the bench with towels and sweats. And blinking as he realized, he wasn't hurting as much as he'd expected. Physically, anyway. Stephen glanced back over at Max, smiling slightly. A real smile this time, one that even touched his eyes and relaxed him for a brief moment.
"You're a far better friend than I deserve."
Max fumbled with the shower and followed. "You'll make me blush." But his voice was quiet. Then he sighed and smiled ruefully back. "Oh I don't think I'm better than you deserve. You underestimate yourself--" That made him blink. Since when? He started donning sweats, never mind he could dry himself more. It would evaporate on its own. No wincing still. But it was a question of pride. He thought. "Let's just ... get you home. I've got something for pain in my car. But honestly I'd say a stiff one sounds better and better."
Stiff drink, of course.
Stephen either didn't pick up on the potential double entendre or simply let it pass him by. He just nodded. Too numb, too exhausted to do more than follow where Max led without argument. Not the kind of following that trusted his expertise either; right now he would have followed his front-door receptionist if she had taken him by the hand. Fortunately, his front-door receptionist wasn't here to see this. No one but Max was here to see this.
He pulled his sweats on numbly, hair still wet and plastered to his head. Towel went into the laundry bin automatically; he wasn't thinking. At all. Clothes went into the bag, tossed casually and stuffed in and zipped shut. And then opened again as he blinked, remembered to get out his keys this time. Were those his keys? Of course they were, they were in his pocket. His mind felt like he was trying to force thoughts through cotton balls. He put the keys back in the duffel bag, took them out again. Zipped it shut. No, he needed the keys out and everything else in. Was there something he should be bringing home, if he was going?
"I should..." One finger pointed absently in the direction of what he thought was his office. "Um. The Taylor file..."
Max stared helplessly at Stephen's ... fumbling. "Yeah you should. Get home. Whatever else, it can wait till tomorrow." Yeah, the name rang a bell - a very distant one, true - and it did require some urgency, but not that much. Besides. He didn't think his friend was able to read right now--
He reached and took the duffel bag out of his hand, slinging over the same shoulder as his own baggage. After a beat, he reached and took the keys too, and Stephen's hand as well. He'd have some of the people at the house drive the car back there before morning; for now, he just hesitated and slung his arm around his shoulders too. Never mind anything else. Drive to the LaMarck home. Where he'd be better cared for than he could. And that is not fa-- not for lack of trying. Didn't matter.
They made it to a car. The one closer to the exit. Happened to be Stephen's, eh, whatever. If he would be angry for driving his car, they'd deal with it tomorrow. Probably. Right now... no. He didn't want him angry again - and then even more exhausted. Just wanted him safe.
ooc: Takes place... Nov/Dec 2004 in the WR timeline. RP log with Stephen: delamarck. Solace: dumornes_sol and Dia drgatesjones are mentioned. For those who didn't know. And it's LONG so be warned! So long actually that LJ didn't want to post it. So. Split in two! This is part one. Continued here.
Kiki: ... which is when Max comes in?
Jag: Well, before he realizes he just n eeds to hit something, but yes. :) Max can come in
And Stephen's just... going out. And is all, short, clipped. "I'm going to the gym." Or practice room or whatever setup they have there.
Kiki: Max is like *stares* *follows to make sure he doesn't harm himself, because that mood? He's aware where it can lead*
Stephen: *stalks down to the open floor where there are pretty much only mats and punching bags, makes a perfunctory gesutre of wrapping his hands, and starts hitting a punching bag. a lot*
Max: *trails behind, wraps his own hands just in case, and watches till the inital fury has started coming out, and then clips out* What the hell happened?
Stephen: *punch. punch. punch. punch-punch* I had a visit from Warden Morgan today. *pant breathe pant. punch*
Max: *circling around Stephen+punching bag* Right. *bad enough by itself, but not enough to warrant this* And?
Stephen: They're trying to bring the Wardens up to strength. *just keeps hitting, that condescending stare, the sneer, the scowling, god he hates that man, and now, after years of labor and hard work and everything, now he dares come back when the Wardens are desperate and say, yes, now we need you? where the fuck was he when Stephen was young and willing*
((Heh. Insult to injury, you weren't good enough when you were young and willing to learn, you weren't good enough after all the sweat and tears and effort to bring his magical skills up to his fighting ones, he wasn't good enough all those years but now that the wardens are desperate, now they'll deign to take him))
Max: *pauses* Fuck. He tried to sign you up, didn't he. I gather you're not overjoyed at that idea. *moves just a little closer, holding the punching bag, looking around it, focused on Stephen's face*
Stephen: *punch punch PUNCH* He did. *punch* I declined.
*stops punching to catch his breath for a moment, wipe his forehead with th eback of his hand, leaving blood and sweat trails* He'll likely ask you as well, I think.
Max: Of course. And maybe. Can't do it. Defensive thinking only, me. *meets his eyes, then reaches to grab his wrist, turning his hand over, and gritting his teeth* Damn it, man.
Stephen: *halfheartedly jerks his hand away, then looks away* You'd make a good Warden. You already do the job anyway.
Max: *barks out a laugh, but his eyes remain tense and he grabs at his hand again, a bit daring, if you're going to fight, come and fight me, it will get you both relieved and beat up faster* I won't. I'm fit for a for a fight, not a war.
Stephen: *does look back at him then, eyes flashing bright and angry, but it's not Max he's angry at anyway even if his first reflex is to lash out* The Wardens need good people.
Max: Everybody does. I've chosen where to be. They'd kick me out in two months anyway.
Stephen: *short bark of something like a laugh* What makes you say that?
Max: I take orders. When I choose to. There aren't many there who'd get me to follow them. *shakes his head* We're helping them enough with what we do. I don't want the gray. Never have.
Stephen: *just sort of watching him for a long moment, still... very tense, but sort of loosesning up. A bit. then tugs his hand away again* Come, spar with me.
Max: *nods, moves after him, light at his feet and ready for a hard session. Knows enough that it will be needed*
--
Stephen, as per usual, had two of the wooden practice swords. Twirling each of them once or twice to get used to the weight; it had been a while since he'd used these. And then he took a stance, balanced and ready, by way of a tacit signal to Max that he was ready to begin when the other man was.
Max looked through the practice weapons and chose two as well - one normal length, and one shorter. For some reason he recalled the first time they'd done this. Years and years ago. Well he'd learned this and that since then. He bounced lightly on the balls of his feet before moving to stand before Stephen. One circle with the longer practice blade. To feel the balance. Then he gave a small grin, and made a swift go for a cut, more to make an opening than aiming for actual success. Swing for the shoulder; knees bending and body tensing in readiness for the counter-attack.
Stephen blocked the attack with a swift movement of his left-hand sword which had almost enough force behind it to be an actual attack rather than a block. Unleashed, he didn't pull his swing as he moved his right sword underhand, under Max's arm to cut for the ribs and then, when that was blocked, the left hand sword curving out from Max's practice blade and coming down at his shoulder. His face was almost calm, if pale, but his blows had strength behind them. Bruising strength. Perhaps too much strength for a sparring session, at least within the bounds of propriety. He did feel a twinge of guilt for it.
Strong as the hit was when it connected - and it did, at the shoulder, Max was silent. The only mental comment at that point was, Yes, he's fast. But then again, so was he. He slipped away from the contact, and then made a quick sequence that started directed at the torso and then suddenly moved to an almost backhanded attack at the thighs, before aiming at the engagement of the blade, or blades, of the opponent. Making it up on the go. Draw Stephen away from thinking and into acting. Block, block, block. Connect on one or the other. Block again. After a few moments, there was only the rhythm of the thunks, and of heavy breaths.
He wasn't pulling back on his strength too much either. If he did, it would only make his blocks ineffective.
It wasn't long before Stephen was breathing hard. Not that that slowed him down in the slightest. Block, strike, block, strike, strike. It would have taken someone who knew him well to see that he was attacking more recklessly than usual, with more force. The casual observer would have seen nothing. About the only concession he made towards anything resembling sense was that he avoided blows that could do real damage to sensitive parts, like the head. For the rest of it he pulled no punches, wasted no opportunity for an attack. He threw strikes till the sweat beaded up on his skin, till his muscles ached and he ignored that, till his breath was becoming noisy and he ignored that too. There were ... there was too much inside. And it needed to get out. Every thwack of wood against wood or against muscle helped, but by the time his chest was heaving and his breath starting to rattle he was, at least for him, too far gone to stop.
Max wan't stopping. The familiarity of exertion and pain was its own drive, but the very unusual recklessness was nudging at his awareness, feeding on the worry. He was getting beat up well enough, but the more-than-usual extending that Stephen was showing gave a few more opportunities. Which Max used, quickly, skillfully. Determinedly. He may have to fight in real when he's this ... no word fit right. ...moody. Couldn't let him get relaxed with ...
.. with what Stephen had told him. Determination to hurt wasn't enough to guarantee victory. Or survival.
Not that this was about either. Think. Hit-oof-hit thunk thunk thunk. Gasping for breath. If he had time to look, he might find it ridiculous, Stephen sparring in his work clothes, as in suit and necktie. He didn't. He was concentrating on blades, on eyes, on motions. Was that a real move or a faint? Blades engaged, he did get to use the shorter one as he had initially meant to - it could be slid out of a lock more quickly than a longsword. Slap-against-arm, turn away. Thunk-thunk-thunk. Clattter.
Shit.
"Damn you're... good." Max grabbed the remaining longer practice sword with both hands and went on. And he was. One of the best damnedest blades. No wonder he was somebody they'd tried to get quickly, first choices, when they urgently needed people.
Stephen smiled, if it could be called a smile instead of a feral sort of baring of teeth. "I've been practicing." Each word punctuated by a strike. He didn't say the first thing he'd been thinking, which was Tell that to Warden Morgan. That was, would have been, too much. And he was pretty sure he didn't want to think about Morgan right now.
Except he was. Which made his cheeks flush with shame and rage, which stung his eyes and tightened his chest and made him redouble his efforts on the attack. That for Morgan and his opinions. He could outfight any three Wardens, in magic as well possibly now that Solace had had her way with him, certainly with the sword. He was probably older than a good half of them by now, as much attrition as they had suffered. More experienced. And now Warden Morgan came to him with that stone-faced sneer and that fucking condescension and asked if he still wanted to be a Warden. No. No he did not. They'd already made up their minds, and that decision had become Stephen's decision. And ... any other thoughts along those lines went out of his head as thinking turned to simple fury and howling pain and he was twenty three again, being turned out of the office like a child who hadn't made the fucking football team. Damn them.
Strong dammit. Furious, angry. Strong and fast and light on his feet and almost blind. Max was no longer registering much more than motion. Not even Stephen's face, his eyes. Just arms and hands and blades. He was damned if he was going to suggest slowing down. He knew Stephen wouldn't go like that unless it was needed. Not calm, composed, smooth Stephen. Instead of stopping, he flowed into it. Yes, he was getting hit a lot. But yes, he could see openings. One hard hit just below a knee. Dodge, block, dodge, thunk. "I can... tell." Practising. He didn't fight like he was thinking of his practice now.
Max wasn't holding back anymore either. It was fight, and fight was a serious business. In his line of work.
Another connect. Back of Stephen's wrist this time. Bounce back.
Stephen yelped at the blow connected with his wrist, numbing it for just long enough to drop his sword. Dammit. It was enough, at least for the moment, to force him into a more calculated kind of mindset. Backing off just enough to shift his stance and his grip enough for a one-sword approach. This, he was less practiced at, although it remained to be seen he supposed if he was less skilled. He caught his breath, a little surprised at how labored it sounded.
"Not so bad, yourself," Stephen ventured, with a slightly crooked smile as he lunged forward on the attack on that last word.
Thunk-and-dodge.
The catching of breath had been welcome.
Thunk-thunk-thunk, blades crossed between them, faces close. "Concentrate. I don't mind..." push away, twirl, thunk, ow, thunk-thunk "... the rest of it. But I don't want that coming to you when you're in a real one." A real blade could have half-severed the wrist. The half-second he spent shying away from that thought cost him another hit. Hah. Concentrate indeed. "Either of us." Oh yes, he could parry neatly too. See? Block-block-counter-attack-block. That was more like it. Max shifted his waiting-position into a slightly lower one, bending his knees more. First bout of fury released. Now for the part which was a little more determined. Still angry, but less chaotic. Less familiar weaponry. Still hard work. Thunk. More circling around. More precise attacks, still strong. Flip of the sword. Waiting position. Attack-parry-counter-attack. Block. Or hit. Again, and again.
This isn't about Morgan getting him angry just now. The realization came mid-thrust, and made him change direction in startlement. It allowed him a touch. If a less foreceful one than intended.
He didn't want to think anymore. He didn't want to think about anything but the next attack, the next counter or block, the next blow. More calculated blows this time, more strategic attacks. He didn't really want to make Max bleed or bruise or fall over. But he damn well wanted... something. He didn't know what. The attacks slowed, again, though it was more that he didn't lower his sword out of stubbornness than anything. He was suddenly realizing that he had pushed himself harder than he had in a long time. God, his arms ached. Parry, thrust. Focus. Concentrate on this. Focus.
But now he was just tired. All the anger had drained out of him and was leaving something like a broken shell, an automaton that fought because that was how he had started and, at least a little bit, because he didn't want Max to see how bad it was. As if he had any chance of hiding it from him now, if he was to be honest with himself. Which he did try to be.
Max saw it, the moment when he realized how tired he was. Dodge. Parry. Next moment of waiting, he panted out, "enough for now? This I know you can keep up for a while." But he didn't lower his sword yet. Well he knew how strong the will of the other man. If he meant to fight till exhaustion, he would. That of one or the other. Max had no clue which would come sooner. His own was significantly closer than when they started, especially with the effort to block away the pain from the hits. But if Stephen needed more, more to drain away, more to drive whatever the edge was away, he'd be here.
That's what friends were for, after all.
"And the alternative could include shower, going home, rest, and a glass of Scotch." There were many ways to dull edges.
He stopped in mid-strike when Max spoke and then, slowly, lowered his sword. The remaining sword. His wrist still hurt a little, and now that he'd lost the momentum of his anger he was feeling every little bruise and strike he'd inflicted on himself. And winced. Poor Max had to be feeling it worse.
After a moment's thought he nodded. "That alternative sounds good," he rasped out, breath still rattling through his chest, attempting to focus his eyes on something through the haze of sweat and other things. He wiped at his eyes with his hand again, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, winced as he opened up the new scabs. And then he looked at his hand as though he hadn't noticed he'd opened up his knuckles on the punching bag. Perhaps he hadn't. Which meant he probably hadn't paid attention to... He looked up at Max. "Are you all right?"
Angry, furious as he had been with Morgan, he didn't want to have hurt his friend. There was no excuse for lashing out at his friend in anger directed at someone else. And then, the insidious little voice in the back of his mind that reminded him if he'd been meant to be a Warden he would have been one years ago, speaking up and pointing out that perhaps this is why he isn't a Warden. Isn't fit to be one. Too much violence, too little control.
"Nope, I'm dying of my injuries in three days." Max snorted, although he wasn't exactly up to smiling just now. "Of course I'm all right. Though you sure know how to work those." He tossed his practice sword in the direction of one of the discarded ones... then sighed, straightened up, and walked to pick them up, and the short one, and then returned to Stephen and reached his hand for his remaining weapon. "With some luck, if I put these away we will only have our feet to trip on, rather than the swords too, on the way to the shower." Hah. Hopefully. There seemed to be a lot of mats to trip on or walk around in that direction...
Stephen flashed something like a smile. No, it was a real smile, just an exhausted one. That didn't reach his eyes. Too many memories in the way.
"I don't know, tripping over my own feet sounds like a risky proposition." But he managed. One foot in front of the other, passing his weapon to Max and getting things for the shower, towels and his own sweats from the locker. "You have a spare set of sweats here?"
Max was about to try some quip about trying to carry him around and the dangers of that when Stephen did start walking, and his lips quirked slightly. Bad joke time run out for now, and for the better. "Of course." He dropped the wooden blades haphazardly, but still on the right table, and dragged his feet after his boss. Friend. Sparring partner.
Friend still fit best.
Friend who was pushing himself. At least in the generally good direction of place to rest.
Lockers, right. Sweats. He caught up with Stephen - somehow - on the way further. After a couple of steps, he just put his palm on the other man's shoulder. I'm right here. I'm fine.
"Are you all right?"
Stephen stopped walking at the touch of Max's hand on his shoulder. So many ways he could answer that question and the one he wanted to use, I'm fine, was a complete and total lie that Max would see through before he'd finished the second word. "I'll be all right," he said after a long moment of thought. It wasn't a lie. It was even true, Stephen would be all right eventually. He had recovered before. He could do so again. "Thank you."
For the sparring. For taking the hits. For being there.
He stripped down without wincing this time, never mind that his body was already protesting the abrupt and brutal workout. No stretching before and he'd forgotten to stretch himself out after, and he was going to pay for it every time he moved out of a relaxed position. He hoped the hot water did something to unknot muscles already tense from the conversation and now tenderized from the beating he'd taken. And he was still feeling guilty about the beating he'd doled out for Max. At least a couple of bruises, welts were already starting to form on the other man's body. There were a few times when he would have watched Max strip down simply to watch. Now it was as though he was deliberately looking for signs of what he'd done to shame himself.
Aspirin. Max thought he had aspirin somewhere or other. The car, probably. It helped sore muscles. A little. And yes, he would share. But now hot water was ... sounding good.
And a little... um. Well, the sting couldn't be worse than others before, now could it.
He nodded a little. If there was something else that could be done to make Stephen better, all right? He was going to do it too. "Anytime. Anytime at all."
No, no wincing either. After all, he'd had worse. He'd even had worse from practices, though not in a very, very long time - and not against a single person. But then again. Max's lips quirked up. This was reminding him of the very first time he and Stephen had sparred with swords. The hits had been less... forceful that time, mostly. But a lot more numerous. He could still recall the - well, rather haughty - smirk on Stephen's face at the time. Superior, he had felt. Well, he had been. Still was. His eyes strayed to the other man's face, almost wishing for that expression - and only saw concern, and an expression like he had something sour in his mouth. And his eyes back on himself.
He tried to think of something bright to say, but well. His thoughts only circled back to what had caused this and he didn't think that would make things any better. So he just rolled his shoulders. "Shower's that way." A.k.a., I'm ready.
Stephen made himself smile a little but it didn't even convince himself, and after a moment he let it drop. Led the way to the shower.
He turned on the water as hot as it would go, working his head in a slow roll as his curls plastered to his forehead, working his neck, his shoulders in slow circles. Working his body slowly to exercise the muscles a little further before he started lathering up the washcloth and scrubbing off the sweat. He didn't look at Max, now. Didn't know why except that he was withdrawing into himself, into the stone and ice, jamming the mask onto place and the pieces back together as though he could return himself to normal by force of will alone. It didn't work that way, of course.
There was something about a shower, and if he knew what it was he would try to capture it and use it in particularly touchy negotiations. Perhaps the ostensible solitude. Perhaps the physical nudity implying, in a person's mind, the equivalent emotional and mental vulnerability. Perhaps because there were only so many things you could do with your hands and your body in the shower which left your mind free to wander, and his was spiraling circles with the dirty water down the drain. Soap suds all over his body. He stood and laid his hands on the ring around the central shower pole and let his head fall forward and the water wash the soap away and shivered with the numbness inside, despite the heat. He couldn't have explained it even if Solace had asked, and she knew what had happened the first time.
Max had just turned the water as hot as he would stand and let it flow over him, closing his eyes - screwing them a little agianst the sting. But then he looked. And what he saw...
He didn't speak, just splashed between the two showers, and put his hands over Stephen's shoulders. A touch to let him know, it's me. And then he started kneading. Lightly, through the falling water and the stray soap suds and through his own tiredness. This wasn't right. And he didn't know how, and asking, asking when somebody's hurting wasn't always a good idea. That only left presence - which was not there when one closed his eyes - and touch. And he knew touch. And how much it could help.
His hands were gentle, yet working on massaging the muscled back under the falling water without letting up. He would until and unless Stephen stopped him. Not the touch that would direct the mind towards intimacy. Just touch. Kneading, working to loosen things in the body as he could not right now in the mind. Connecting.
Still here. Can't get rid of me this easily.
Stephen's eyes shut tight, ignoring the water that fell through his hair and down his face. Water flowing over his cheeks. He didn't know what to do, how to move, where to go. The touches paralyzed him in place, anchoring him to the spot. Max's hands on his shoulders. Warm, strong.
Max had his back. That made him smile a little. If he'd gone into the Wardens he never would have met a cocky twenty-year old bodyguard, self-made soldier, who had turned into one of the greatest friends (one of the only friends) he'd ever had. That should have made him feel better, but somehow it didn't. Or not better enough. Still paralyzed, still not moving. Didn't want to move. Didn't want to step outside himself and face what he knew to be true.
Coward.
That self-inflicted insult made his lip curl slightly in a scowl just ugly enough to hurt. He shook his head slightly, straightened. Didn't push Max away, though. For whatever reason, and there were any number of reasons, he didn't want to do that.
Damn right Max had his back. Was his job. More than that. Was what he'd chosen to do. And he would again. That was no form of speech to make his friend feel better. Just plain truth.
His fingers worked down the back, then up again, feeling the muscles relax, and then tense again briefly, And then the straightening... didn't make him stop. Just work his way to the shoulders again. Then down the arms, a little more carefully. He'd landed a blow or two in that area. But the tight muscles needed the attention too. Carefully, firmly and gently. Up to the shoulders again, and the neck. There. That had to be something. He wanted to turn Stephen and give him a hug, too, but wasn't sure if the straightened shoulders didn't mean 'yeah, I'm going to be strong - to myself' in which case...
It just felt wrong, to see emotions so freely expressed outside... absolutely exclusive circle of trusted people. Anybody could have seen him in his office, in the hallway. Anybody could have walked in the gym. Hell, anybody could walk in now. This kind of thing wasn't relevant to Max. But it was, always had been, for Stephen. If this was stronger?
Small sigh, last squeeze of a shoulder, and Max returned to his own shower. Looking up to let the hot water over his face only for a moment, then looking again. Lathering himself quickl-- ouch. Okay. Carefully at places and quickly, and letting the water rinse him.
Stephen took a long, slow breath, and then another. And then a third. And then he turned off the shower, moving towards the bench with towels and sweats. And blinking as he realized, he wasn't hurting as much as he'd expected. Physically, anyway. Stephen glanced back over at Max, smiling slightly. A real smile this time, one that even touched his eyes and relaxed him for a brief moment.
"You're a far better friend than I deserve."
Max fumbled with the shower and followed. "You'll make me blush." But his voice was quiet. Then he sighed and smiled ruefully back. "Oh I don't think I'm better than you deserve. You underestimate yourself--" That made him blink. Since when? He started donning sweats, never mind he could dry himself more. It would evaporate on its own. No wincing still. But it was a question of pride. He thought. "Let's just ... get you home. I've got something for pain in my car. But honestly I'd say a stiff one sounds better and better."
Stiff drink, of course.
Stephen either didn't pick up on the potential double entendre or simply let it pass him by. He just nodded. Too numb, too exhausted to do more than follow where Max led without argument. Not the kind of following that trusted his expertise either; right now he would have followed his front-door receptionist if she had taken him by the hand. Fortunately, his front-door receptionist wasn't here to see this. No one but Max was here to see this.
He pulled his sweats on numbly, hair still wet and plastered to his head. Towel went into the laundry bin automatically; he wasn't thinking. At all. Clothes went into the bag, tossed casually and stuffed in and zipped shut. And then opened again as he blinked, remembered to get out his keys this time. Were those his keys? Of course they were, they were in his pocket. His mind felt like he was trying to force thoughts through cotton balls. He put the keys back in the duffel bag, took them out again. Zipped it shut. No, he needed the keys out and everything else in. Was there something he should be bringing home, if he was going?
"I should..." One finger pointed absently in the direction of what he thought was his office. "Um. The Taylor file..."
Max stared helplessly at Stephen's ... fumbling. "Yeah you should. Get home. Whatever else, it can wait till tomorrow." Yeah, the name rang a bell - a very distant one, true - and it did require some urgency, but not that much. Besides. He didn't think his friend was able to read right now--
He reached and took the duffel bag out of his hand, slinging over the same shoulder as his own baggage. After a beat, he reached and took the keys too, and Stephen's hand as well. He'd have some of the people at the house drive the car back there before morning; for now, he just hesitated and slung his arm around his shoulders too. Never mind anything else. Drive to the LaMarck home. Where he'd be better cared for than he could. And that is not fa-- not for lack of trying. Didn't matter.
They made it to a car. The one closer to the exit. Happened to be Stephen's, eh, whatever. If he would be angry for driving his car, they'd deal with it tomorrow. Probably. Right now... no. He didn't want him angry again - and then even more exhausted. Just wanted him safe.
ooc: Takes place... Nov/Dec 2004 in the WR timeline. RP log with Stephen: delamarck. Solace: dumornes_sol and Dia drgatesjones are mentioned. For those who didn't know. And it's LONG so be warned! So long actually that LJ didn't want to post it. So. Split in two! This is part one. Continued here.