Mel & Namor | Skip and Catch

[xp_submariner]

Namor begins instructing Mel on the basics of aerial combat.



Mel wasn’t sure what she expected when she’d asked around for combat lessons. Something casual, fun maybe. Enough where she wouldn’t be useless in a fight again.

She oughta known that Namor didn’t do casual.

Standing by the lake in her running kit, Mel felt like she was under a microscope, the full force of his majesty’s scrutiny upon her.

“Um — thanks again fer agreein’ to do this. It’s awful nice of you.”

"We are never nice," Namor corrected with an obligatory fierceness as he circled the girl. The dockside was scattered with an assortment of weapons — most long ranged, and most blunted for training. Still, the Atlantean stood proud. "Know that this is a gift I bestow upon you, human. There are few who can truly appreciate what it feels like to command the air." He leaned forward then, judging. "You are right in that I will be awful, but not nice."

He broadly gestured at the weapon assortment. "Make a choice."

Brushing past Namor’s ominous warning, Mel considered the weapons. Though she didn’t have names for most, intent was clear. Stab, slash, hit, etcetera. A medium length staff piqued her interest.

Picking it up gingerly, Mel weighed it in her hands and attempted to give it a little spin. She looked over at Namor. “This one?”

Namor didn't even blink. In fact, the man could have practically been carved from marble. A disapproving statue. "Tell me why," he commanded with neither approval or disapproval, but also a patience befitting stone. He wasn't in a hurry.

‘It ain’t so intimidating’ didn’t seem like it would be an acceptable answer, so the young woman offered “Um — it’s lighter, so easier to carry when flyin’ . . . an’ looks . . . cool?”

The Atlantean still hadn’t budged. "I take it you have never held a weapon before," and this was also just that same, observational tone. He started to circle, considering. "Lighter. Ease," he repeated her words with mild distaste. "If you fear you suffer from limits, we will work around them."

He stopped, planting his feet. "Hit me."

“What?” Mel blinked.

"Hit me," Namor said in a lower challenge. "I won’t ask you again."

So she did, and the staff made a sad little sound when it hit Namor’s shoulder. Mel pulled a face, aware of how unimpressive that was. “Sorry —“

"Stop. None of that," Namor sighed through his nose. "Now, do it again. From the air."

“From the —?” She stopped herself, having learnt her lesson the first time. “Alright.”

Floating up a few feet, she swung at Namor again, this time making a much more solid connection. Well, it felt more solid at any rate.

It was like hitting a wall. A wall that smirked back.

"The first lesson of aerial combat," he said matter of factly and suddenly he was gripping the other end of the weapon, "is best taught practically."

With a shift of his shoulders and a pivot, he spun and yeeted Mel across the lake.

She landed with a splash, too caught off guard to remember she could fly. Swimming up, Mel surfaced and coughed. “Hey! What was that for!”

Namor, now holding both the original staff and a second, similar weapon in one hand, casually hovered over the surface of the water as he moved both through several rotations. Slide, twist, grasp — he moved it in a casually circular motion, thrusting forward with each exchange. The water rippled from the constant fluttering of his wings.

"A staff is a safe choice," he mused. "Our advantage in flight is reach. Swords are for flashy fools without options, and we," namely all fliers, "always have a new angle of attack. What I will teach you, however . . . "

There was a shift of mass as Namor let his form slacken and break. His control evaporated. He began the same movement again, but it was much more chaotic — what had been balanced strikes twisted him in the air, and would have possibly spun him like a top if he applied more force.

" . . . is to move with the weapon. To move like the wind."

He extended the staves, then, toward Mel. An assist.

And she accepted, because even though she was now wet and cold, that was really cool. Mel hoisted herself up to hover and flicked dripping fringe away from her eyes with a grin. “Alright.”

Namor's eyes narrowed. He began to spin the weapons slowly with one hand in a thoughtful figure eight as he appraised the woman hovering in front of him. "But before we continue," and his voice was like ice, "tell me what you desire."

“Um . . .” She pondered this for a moment. “To be able to handle myself when the time came fer it, I guess? To not be so . . . ” The word ‘useless’ hung in the air between them, unsaid. “To not be needin’ protection.”

"Be clearer than that," he said through clenched teeth, although not in anger. "It is more than simply using — or being — a weapon. I," and he had stopped spinning and remained still as before, "was forged for wars long forgotten by human minds as a hero. A monster. Both. You have a choice."

But what was a weapon if not a hero to some and a monster to others? There didn’t seem to be an option other than both. Mel thought back to her conversation with Marius about the abduction and the X-Men, thought about Madin. If, when, something like that happened again, she wanted to be ready.

She looked him in the eyes then, something set in her face that hadn’t been there before. “I want to be a hero, fer myself, fer others. I want to be prepared . . . But,” and this was the bit she had been afraid to admit before. The vengeful part of her that clawed at her insides no matter how hard she smiled. “I also want to be able to hurt those who hurt me, hurt the ones I care about.”

"Good." The ice had left his tone only to infuse the entire man with a sharper, serious demeanor. Namor's thin smile should have had fangs. "I can work with vengeance. I do not go back on my word, Just Mel Guthrie, and I will teach you how to make anyone who crosses you suffer."

He offered the original staff to her again. "First, there is work to do."

A triumphant grin passed over her face as she accepted it for the third time. If this had been a test, Mel felt like she passed. “Where do we start?”

Namor's smile grew cruel. "Practice," but he said it like someone promising a new, inventive form of torture. One he seemed far too eager to try. "Shall we?"

“Yer the boss.” A statement which Mel felt she would soon come to regret, like many of her life choices. Oh well, something to be learnt from every experience.

"First, then." He held his arms in front of him to grasp the second staff, signaling for Mel to do the same.

Mel copied his movement, watching intently.

Namor reviewed her. It wasn’t a hair to ankle sweep, but a single glance, focused on her grip, that took in the rest of her. He clenched his jaw, and reached forward to gently adjust her hands. One toward the middle of the staff, and the other, palm up, to rest upon it.

He pulled away then, leaving her balancing the staff with one hand, to mirror the gesture himself.

"While the staff is most useful for strikes," was given matter of factly, "you must first build power in flight." His hands moved, indicating a spin and catch technique. Weapon traded hand over hand. "Now," he said with a nod, "show me."

Following his demonstration, she spun the staff with her bottom hand and caught the first end with the top hand- albeit slowly. Her brows knit together as she tried to pass it back down to the other hand, but it had moved from center. It didn’t feel right.

"Stop," Namor said with only mild command. "Loosen your shoulders." He helped to demonstrate, tightening his traps and lats rigidly only to let it go. Finally a practical application for not seeming to own a shirt.

He raised his weapon to help demonstrate. "Skip," he offered as the wooden rod danced between his grips, "then catch the weapon. Slowly." Which was, in fact, slower than Mel had previously thought.

“Huh.” She tried again, even slower, and skipping the first end to catch the second. Her hands stayed centered and it was much more fluid. “Like that?”

"Acceptable." It was a statement paired with only a breath's worth of difference between his previous judgment, the slightest shift of a glacier. "For now," and that cruel glee was back, "you'll practice for an hour every day over the water until you build what I deem is proper stamina and speed."

Biting back the comment she would’ve made had it been Sam, or anyone other than Namor, on how that seemed a lot, Mel nodded. She couldn’t help but preen internally at the perceived compliment. “Okay, sounds good. I can do that.”

"We will see," the once king said flatly.

He hovered there — if not patiently, something close enough to it — in wait for Mel to resume her work. When she did, however, Namor did not simply leave her to it. He joined her in slow practice. An example, or a drill instructor, or something in between. Whichever it was, the two flew there, together, practicing spin work over the lake.