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xp_logsTuesday, mid-morning - sparring practice
After a restless night of tossing and turning, Sam wakes up slightly later than usual, and though that's not very late, he's still upset with himself. Which he seems to be a lot lately, and isn't too fond of it. He pulls on his workout clothes and stumbles down to the gym, looking pretty much like hell as he walks up to Alison.
"Sorry I'm late. Overslept." The words pour thickly out of his mouth like molasses before he can think of something better to tell her than the truth. He never, ever oversleeps unless he does it on purpose. It doesn't occur to him that Alison's sure to pick up on it.
Overslept, she repeats to herself numbly, biting her lips as she finishes wrapping the protective bandages around her hand. She takes a breath before looking up at Sam, the shadows under her eyes concealed as best as possible under a discreet layer of make-up. Oh.
"It's ok," she murmurs, reaching over for the other set of wrappings. "You must've been tired with staying up reading the book, and the first day of classes and all," she adds, making excuses for him as she reaches for his hand and starts winding the wrappings gently.
"Yeah. That's it." He goes along with her proclamations, as he hadn't really thought of any of his own. Staring down at her hands as she wraps the bandages, he dreads the moment she'll speak, and ask him something he doesn't want to think about, much less talk about. "I think." He coughs, and as he starts speaking, his voice is quiet and raspy. "Maybe I'm... Coming down with something. Real sore throat."
She finishes winding the bandages in silence, nodding slightly at his words. Don't want to be here. No talking either. I get the message. It's not fair. Why won't you just tell me? She holds his hand for a moment, then pats the bandages before looking at him, trying to hide her distress as best as she can. "Would you rather skip training? If you're feeling sick, I mean." She puts one hand to his forehead, looking at that rather than his eyes.
He shakes his head, almost jerking back when her hand touches his forehead, but not quite. This is so much harder than I ever thought it would be...Damn it, damn it, damn it. His eyes never quite meet hers; instead he looks at a point a few millimetres to the left of her left eye.
She grits her teeth at his silence, but forces herself to keep a neutral expression. Her hand drifts away and she looks down again. "No fever, at least," she manages to say calmly, bitterly applauding the years of practice at pretending, but biting her lip as she realizes he can't even look her in the eye.
Sam stretches out, slowly and well, trying not to let his thoughts get in the way of physical performance. He glances at Alison with worry in his eyes when he's sure she's not looking, and assumes his position with as much apparent indifference as he can muster.
Seeing him warm-up without a word, Alison manages to refrain from a sigh and does the same. She takes her time about it, working carefully around her bruises and figuring at least that she can spare Sam that much more time of having to deal with her directly. Anger simmers briefly inside, quickly be replaced by icy numbness however. When she's done she walks onto the practice mat and faces him, taking one of the basic defensive positions.
Sam takes a deep breath, attempting to gain perspective. He tries to focus, pushing the brooding thoughts out of his mind as thoroughly as he can. An aching throb forms in his gut, and he tries to reassure himself that it's only a result of his sickness. Sickness...right...if only I were actually sick and believed that excuse...
It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Sam's concentration is anything but on the sparring - even without the studied indifference, the simple fact that his breathing is so uneven it's not even funny is enough for her to know. She stands, uncertain, wondering if she should just call the practice off and set him lose. And wonders what happened that things got so bad without her even knowing how or why. She licks her lips, and then settles for attempting a simple feint and throw combination - one she'd never bothered to try on Sam before.
Sam gets through the easy drill, but barely, and shakes his head when they both step back. He shrugs, as if to apologize for his uncharacteristic ineptitude, and licks his lips, narrowing his world to the mat and Alison's movements. He tries to dissociate: imagine that it isn't really Al sparring with him. Shaking out his shoulders, he pulls a few offensive moves, but his style and technique are fairly weak. He knows it, and his eyes grow dull.
Being able to physically drown out her worries is usually a welcome respite for Alison - but today, even that haven is denied, and she is kept off balance by Sam's behaviour in general of late, and his atypical inability with the sparring. I could have taken you out twice, already, even as badly as I'm doing this now she reflects sadly, wishing he'd just tell her what's wrong and have it done with, rather than act this way.
Sam lets his mind go blank, numbly going through the motions of practice. He's slow and non-reactionary, and can't seem to figure out Alison's moves before she makes them, as he usually can. He wonders absently, in a remote corner of his mind, how badly it will hurt, or if it will even hurt at all, when she takes him down.
The opening is glaringly obvious to her despite the fact that she has yet to catch up with Sam in terms of practical combat experience, Alison finds it depressingly easy to block the oncoming punch and shift her weight, tucking one hand neatly behind his shoulder and using his forward momentum to push and trip. The firm grip he gets on her good arm, however, surprises her and she finds herself dragged down on top of him with a stunned 'oof' as they tumble to the ground.
Landing flat on his back with Alison uncomfortably straddling his hips, the breath is knocked out of Sam. He lies still for a moment, regaining it, staring into Alison's eyes as he does so. Her weight on him is unbalancing, upsetting, and his hazy mind doesn't react well. Pressing his lips into a hard line, his eyes glassy, he shoves her off. Hard. And as she lands on the mat, he springs up and runs out of the gym, slamming the door behind him and forcing himself not to look back.
Sprawled on the mat, the imprint of his hands still painfully present from being unceremoniously shoved away, Alison closes her eyes, listening to the sound of his footsteps as he run out of the gym. She flinches as the door slams, not from the loudness of the sound, but from the odd finality to it.
Slowly she curls up, sitting on the mat with her knees drawn up tightly to herself. And stays that way for a long time, rocking gently, unable to get up or even cry - not even trying to understand anymore.
After a restless night of tossing and turning, Sam wakes up slightly later than usual, and though that's not very late, he's still upset with himself. Which he seems to be a lot lately, and isn't too fond of it. He pulls on his workout clothes and stumbles down to the gym, looking pretty much like hell as he walks up to Alison.
"Sorry I'm late. Overslept." The words pour thickly out of his mouth like molasses before he can think of something better to tell her than the truth. He never, ever oversleeps unless he does it on purpose. It doesn't occur to him that Alison's sure to pick up on it.
Overslept, she repeats to herself numbly, biting her lips as she finishes wrapping the protective bandages around her hand. She takes a breath before looking up at Sam, the shadows under her eyes concealed as best as possible under a discreet layer of make-up. Oh.
"It's ok," she murmurs, reaching over for the other set of wrappings. "You must've been tired with staying up reading the book, and the first day of classes and all," she adds, making excuses for him as she reaches for his hand and starts winding the wrappings gently.
"Yeah. That's it." He goes along with her proclamations, as he hadn't really thought of any of his own. Staring down at her hands as she wraps the bandages, he dreads the moment she'll speak, and ask him something he doesn't want to think about, much less talk about. "I think." He coughs, and as he starts speaking, his voice is quiet and raspy. "Maybe I'm... Coming down with something. Real sore throat."
She finishes winding the bandages in silence, nodding slightly at his words. Don't want to be here. No talking either. I get the message. It's not fair. Why won't you just tell me? She holds his hand for a moment, then pats the bandages before looking at him, trying to hide her distress as best as she can. "Would you rather skip training? If you're feeling sick, I mean." She puts one hand to his forehead, looking at that rather than his eyes.
He shakes his head, almost jerking back when her hand touches his forehead, but not quite. This is so much harder than I ever thought it would be...Damn it, damn it, damn it. His eyes never quite meet hers; instead he looks at a point a few millimetres to the left of her left eye.
She grits her teeth at his silence, but forces herself to keep a neutral expression. Her hand drifts away and she looks down again. "No fever, at least," she manages to say calmly, bitterly applauding the years of practice at pretending, but biting her lip as she realizes he can't even look her in the eye.
Sam stretches out, slowly and well, trying not to let his thoughts get in the way of physical performance. He glances at Alison with worry in his eyes when he's sure she's not looking, and assumes his position with as much apparent indifference as he can muster.
Seeing him warm-up without a word, Alison manages to refrain from a sigh and does the same. She takes her time about it, working carefully around her bruises and figuring at least that she can spare Sam that much more time of having to deal with her directly. Anger simmers briefly inside, quickly be replaced by icy numbness however. When she's done she walks onto the practice mat and faces him, taking one of the basic defensive positions.
Sam takes a deep breath, attempting to gain perspective. He tries to focus, pushing the brooding thoughts out of his mind as thoroughly as he can. An aching throb forms in his gut, and he tries to reassure himself that it's only a result of his sickness. Sickness...right...if only I were actually sick and believed that excuse...
It doesn't take a genius to figure out that Sam's concentration is anything but on the sparring - even without the studied indifference, the simple fact that his breathing is so uneven it's not even funny is enough for her to know. She stands, uncertain, wondering if she should just call the practice off and set him lose. And wonders what happened that things got so bad without her even knowing how or why. She licks her lips, and then settles for attempting a simple feint and throw combination - one she'd never bothered to try on Sam before.
Sam gets through the easy drill, but barely, and shakes his head when they both step back. He shrugs, as if to apologize for his uncharacteristic ineptitude, and licks his lips, narrowing his world to the mat and Alison's movements. He tries to dissociate: imagine that it isn't really Al sparring with him. Shaking out his shoulders, he pulls a few offensive moves, but his style and technique are fairly weak. He knows it, and his eyes grow dull.
Being able to physically drown out her worries is usually a welcome respite for Alison - but today, even that haven is denied, and she is kept off balance by Sam's behaviour in general of late, and his atypical inability with the sparring. I could have taken you out twice, already, even as badly as I'm doing this now she reflects sadly, wishing he'd just tell her what's wrong and have it done with, rather than act this way.
Sam lets his mind go blank, numbly going through the motions of practice. He's slow and non-reactionary, and can't seem to figure out Alison's moves before she makes them, as he usually can. He wonders absently, in a remote corner of his mind, how badly it will hurt, or if it will even hurt at all, when she takes him down.
The opening is glaringly obvious to her despite the fact that she has yet to catch up with Sam in terms of practical combat experience, Alison finds it depressingly easy to block the oncoming punch and shift her weight, tucking one hand neatly behind his shoulder and using his forward momentum to push and trip. The firm grip he gets on her good arm, however, surprises her and she finds herself dragged down on top of him with a stunned 'oof' as they tumble to the ground.
Landing flat on his back with Alison uncomfortably straddling his hips, the breath is knocked out of Sam. He lies still for a moment, regaining it, staring into Alison's eyes as he does so. Her weight on him is unbalancing, upsetting, and his hazy mind doesn't react well. Pressing his lips into a hard line, his eyes glassy, he shoves her off. Hard. And as she lands on the mat, he springs up and runs out of the gym, slamming the door behind him and forcing himself not to look back.
Sprawled on the mat, the imprint of his hands still painfully present from being unceremoniously shoved away, Alison closes her eyes, listening to the sound of his footsteps as he run out of the gym. She flinches as the door slams, not from the loudness of the sound, but from the odd finality to it.
Slowly she curls up, sitting on the mat with her knees drawn up tightly to herself. And stays that way for a long time, rocking gently, unable to get up or even cry - not even trying to understand anymore.
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