xp_logs | Logan, Marie: Caught you knocking at my cellar door. (Reply)

Friday the 13th, late at night. Logan and Marie run through an unconventional training session. It doesn't last long, but the lessons won't be forgotten.

Logan identified himself to the security system and pushed open the doors to the secure section of the basement, looking at Marie. "Danger Room, right?"

"Definitely." She slipped past him and headed in that direction. "That way I don't have to worry about Mister Marko getting on my case about ruining school property."

He raised an eyebrow, watching her walk away from him. Ruining school property. He walked after her. "Plannin' on throwin' me through some walls, then, huh?"

Marie looked over her shoulder as she opened the door to the Danger Room. "I thought you wanted to practice properly," she said guilelessly.

"I was thinkin'...nevermind what I was thinkin'" he said, changing his mind halfway through. "I like your idea better." He walked over to the control console. "But let's make sure we're on th'same page. Y'want t'/fight/, not practice your forms full-contact?"

Marie raised an eyebrow. "Logan, I've been fighting in the Danger Room for months now. And practicing full contact is fine, but why waste good bruises on theory?"

Logan keyed in his access code, then selected a setting. She was so much like him, sometimes. "A'right." He waved toward the Danger Room proper. He got the feeling he'd be thanking a god he didn't believe in for his healing factor, by the end of this. "Let's go."

Marie pulled her gloves off and dropped them on the control panel and then headed for the open door to the inner sanctum, giving Logan a sweet smile as she passed. "Yes, Master Logan," she said cheekily.

Logan stared at the gloves for a long moment before following her in. As soon as he walked through the door, he cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders. "Y'ready?" he asked, eying her bare hands and shaking his own hands loosely, six twelve-inch adamantium claws sliding out from between his knuckles with a minimum of fuss.

She stretched her arms over her head, backing away from him, studying his face before letting her eyes drift down to his claws. "As ready as I'll ever be," she said quietly. She let her arms fall to her sides and stood in the middle of the room, looking calm but very young in her faded pink sweatshirt and pale blue tights. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, the shorter pieces held back in little plastic barrettes that could have been 'Yana's for all he knew. "Are you?"

He shook his head, drawing his claws back in, stripping off his sweatshirt and throwing it against the wall, and grinned. "Probably not." His grin faded and his eyes narrowed as he breathed deeply, finding his center, his balance, and pushing himself into the proper mindset for this. In nothing but sweatpants, he looked like what he was, an animal masquerading as a man. "But I'll live," he said, a slight growl tinging his words.

"Program, on," Marie said sharply, and the scene changed around them. She looked around her and then smiled at Logan. "I love you, you know." She was airborne the moment the last word was formed, moving faster than he'd ever seen her move before. She closed on him in less than a heartbeat and her heel was headed for his solar plexus as her other foot planted on the ground to brace her.

Logan hit the floor with a metallic thud, air rushing out of his body as he skidded on his back. He pushed himself to his feet and reevaluated the plan that he didn't have. Remembering their snowball fight, he dove at her. She levitated, as he'd expected, and he rolled under her. As they both spun to face each other he got in a punch to her stomach just as she hit him, sending him flying backward.

-Fuck.- The air went out of her and Marie let the blow carry her backward to lessen the impact but it still hurt worse than anything Piotr'd hit her with so far. She knew she'd breathe again in a moment and refused to panic over it but curled and rolled upward until her raised hand hit the ceiling first. The next breath she tried to take cooperated. The last person to hit her that hard had been Stanley. She dropped as fast as she could safely force herself, knowing she was expected, and didn't stop until her palms were on the floor by her feet. Logan's swing went over her head and she straightened up again with her fist under his ribs just off the midline to the left, hoping to damage something vital enough to slow him some.

After that, he moved a bit more slowly for a while, waiting for his body to heal. Internal bleeding never helped, in a fight. He watched her move, though, and when she started to turn her body, obviously intending to fly in that direction, he turned with her, kicking high and sharp. He was sure it caused him as much pain to move like that as it did her to take the kick to her hip. He stumbled back, after, still in obvious pain.

Hurting him wasn't what she wanted. But if she could hurt him without hesitation, she could do anything she needed to do. "We do what's gotta be done," he'd told her once. (Besides.) She rallied fast from the kick, grateful that she didn't need to stand, and pursued him relentlessly while he was injured and off-balance. (She'd be damned if she were going to lose to him out of sentiment.) She got her hand on one of his wrists when he moved toward her and reached for his power while she jerked him close to add more impact to the heel she aimed at the side of his knee.

He dropped as soon as she released him. His knee was dislocated and his mind was hazed by her pull. He knew he'd fucked up. On his stomach, slamming his fist into the simulated hardwood floor and screaming, "Fuck!", he looked like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

He pushed himself over onto his back and when she came at him again, he sat up quickly, using that force to supplement his strength when he punched her. She flew backward, slamming into the far wall, and he pushed himself to his feet, his knee not quite mending itself yet.

She slid to the floor and when he reached her, he grabbed her shirt, dragging her to her feet. He could see the panic in her eyes just before she slammed the heel of her hand into his throat, crushing his trachea.

He couldn't breathe. There was nothing to breathe /through/ and his body couldn't heal it fast enough for him not to feel it. And then her foot was in his gut and he was flying across the room, crashing into the opposite wall. His mind flashed black and when it cleared, darkness still crowded the edges of his vision. No air. He couldn't breathe.

When your opponent falls, this simply indicates the next phase of the fight. He was on his face against the wall opposite her, rolling over with hands to his throat. Blood from his impact trailed down after him. Everything was crystal clear from the smell of blood to the sound as he struggled for air that wouldn't come. She was at his side in two strides, part of her frightened for him and of herself but it was over-ridden by drills and adrenaline and the rush of his fierceness under her skin.

Always continue the fight until your survival is guaranteed. Her foot took him in the side, flipping him over. Then she kicked him again to make sure he was stunned before she dropped with a knee between his shoulderblades and reached for his right wrist.

Never expect quarter and never give it until your operational aim has been achieved. She wrenched his arm up and around behind him, her other hand forcing his head back with her fingers tight in his hair. The motion strained his damaged throat further and her knee in his back wouldn't let him inhale. Her hand tight on his arm was dragging the life out of him. The dark, slithy sensation began to rise up in her as she held him down.

Fuck. /Fuck/. He couldn't. Fuck. He pushed himself over, /hard/, wrenching the arm she held out of its socket as he did so. She rolled beneath him and his free arm came up, fist clenched, and drove down into her, hard and fast. His mind was charcoal grey and he was running on pure instinct. And it wasn't until his knuckles made contact with her shoulder that he realised his claws were being driven deep into the floor beneath her.

Her hand fell away from his arm.

The pain brought her back to herself and it wasn't just the wild icy heat in her right shoulder, it was the shocking realization of what she'd pushed him to do that cleared her head. He lay over her, supported only by his hand where his fist had her nailed to the floor, his lips tinted blue and his eyes wild. He inhaled then, a thin, tearing sound, and /looked/ down at her.

Her eyes were wide, her lips leaking blood. His claws sheathed themselves immediately and his hand slid off her shoulder to the floor. The haze slid away and he wheezed in another breath, past his larynx, which was just beginning to heal.

She didn't smell like fear. She smelled like trust. She should smell like fear. He'd nearly killed her. Thank fuck she didn't smell like fear. He might have finished it, on instinct, if she had.

He pushed himself back onto his heels and held his hand out toward her face, intending to heal her. His other arm still hung limp by his side.

Marie intercepted his touch with her arm, the sleeve of her shirt keeping his skin from hers. "Not yet," she whispered, remembering what happened to him when he healed her too soon. "Just... breathe..." A faint smile crept over her bloody mouth as she met his eyes, as though they shared some private joke between them. The pain was incredible as the adrenaline faded. The floor was cold through her shirt and her slowly pooling blood failed to keep her warm. "We have time."

Logan's teeth clenched and he forced another breath into his body, coughing afterward from the pain. He wheezed in another breath, more slowly this time, never looking away from her eyes. Because she'd taken so much out of him, he was healing more slowly than usual, but it really only took thirty or forty seconds for him to be able to breath easily enough that she couldn't complain. "I'm okay," he growled, forcing the words out around his tortured larynx.

He leaned down and kissed her, smearing the blood on her lips and instinctively pushing his power at her, forcing her to accept it.

She kissed him back hungrily, her good arm sliding around his neck to hold him close. The power under her skin reached out for him, unleashed and ravenous. They were so familiar to each other, it was as simple as breathing for them to share this way, simply reversing the control they practiced with every other kiss. She stopped them before it went too far, as soon as her pain began to fade, tasting the agony and the damage returning to his body as she stole from him.

The kiss drained his ability to remain conscious and he slumped against her, his head sliding against her wounded shoulder. A few minutes later, a choked breath signaled the return of his powers; he forced his eyes open, staring at her face, his cheek still resting on her shoulder.

He could feel her arms around him, her body pressed close and snuggled against him. As his shoulder slid back into place, he pushed himself up just enough to see her clearly. "Y'okay?" he rumbled.

"I am now." She reached up with the arm he'd injured to brush her fingers cautiously over his cheek. "You?" He looked so worn, so old and tired, that she briefly regretted provoking him to the encounter.

"I'll live," he assured her, his voice still raspy, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips. He turned his face into her hand, pressing his lips to her palm for a quick second before drawing away.

"It's all good, then." Her expression was wondering as she looked him over. "I..." She pushed herself to sitting, peeling her shirt out of the congealing blood, and leaned back against the wall. "...I love you," she said, her eyes still fixed on him.

He sat back on his heels, wincing slightly at the pain movement still caused. He'd never have to worry that she couldn't hold her own in a fight. She'd nearly killed him, would have if he hadn't nearly killed her, to stop her. The thought was sobering. "I love you, too."

Marie realized that she didn't have to be able to stand to get up and so she willed herself up, testing limbs and balance. Her head spun as she rose but she shook it off after a few breaths. Once she was steady, she let her feet touch the floor and held out her hands, covered in the cuffs of her ruined sweatshirt to him. "Lesson over, Master Logan?" There was no cheekiness in her voice now, only love and respect for him.

"Yeah." Logan looked up at her, not quite ready to stand. "Yeah. Lesson's over." He'd learned a lot. He slipped his hands into hers and let her pull him to his feet.

She held him close, supporting both of them with her head resting on his shoulder. His heightened senses lingered in her and she could smell the trails of emotion and reaction on his skin, familiar to her but now identifiable for the moment. It comforted her, the scent of him and the sound of his heart and his breath. She kept very still for a time, until he could hold his own.

He waited until he'd found his balance, his strength, then pushed himself straight, joints cracking as he did so. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in, and murmured, "C'mon. Let's get outta here."

"Hungry?" She shifted so that she was beside him, arm around his waist, pressed as close as she could to his side without hindering his movements. "We both need a shower." She spoke as though they were simply returning from a long hike or something equally mundane. The implications of what had gone on swirled around in her head but instinct told her that only good conclusions could come from them, so she let them float while her mind recovered.

"Danger Room. Program Wolverine Four: End." Logan stooped to grab his sweatshirt, then pushed through the doors and out into the control room. "A shower sounds good," he said, holding her close as he opened the control room door and stepped into the hall.

Credits:
Title & Tag: Our Lady Peace, "The Needle and the Damage Done"
Quotes regarding 'Quarter' as used by Marie are from Offensive Close Combat by T. Law