Summary:Cassandra decides to do some people watching at Alex's school, and then works to teach him a lesson in communication. At least, her style. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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The young woman known as Pesha Kalliope works in the English Department at NYU. A professor's assistant and responsible for much of the research needed for a group of four individuals charged with teaching the Freshmen class a strong look at the Classics as well as giving upper class-men some exposure to more esoteric works that are only touched upon in earlier classes. It was a demanding job, took up much of her time. But these days it was the highlight of her life considering what's passed.
"Hey, aren't you Tanner's friend?" The blond youth had asked her when she was prepping the next class and it was nice to be given some attention.
"Yeah, hi. You're Alex, right?"
"Yeah."
And that was all it took to start the conversation. To create that small connection and open the back and forth bridge where each could share their thoughts on the lesson plans and the coming challenges. Then once her task was done they had walked outside into the warm daytime air, a few hours before the rush hour begins but on campus many of the students are already rushing off or heading to the cafe.
Outside in the brisk end of Summer air, the young Olympian walked with her and from afar he seemed concerned and thoughtful as he listened to the words given him by the twenty-something TA. Her distress grew slowly as he brought up a topic that she didn't seem to care for but then a touch of relief reached her as he offered some measure of commiseration as they walked.
Occasionally students would look up from their place on that quad, giving waves to the passing pair and offering greetings. There was a group of four students playing hackey-sack, some others throwing around a frisbee. And no small shortage of couples stealing small kisses or warm embraces.
"Alright, well. I'll see what I can do. But that sounds pretty crazy, Pesha."
"I know. I know." She had been wringing her hands and frowning, the young man who had struck up the conversation seemed so disarming and easy to talk to. "I need to get to the Rathskeller, I'll see you next Thursday in class?"
"Sure," He said and gave her a nod, a small wave too, "Stay safe, ok?"
"I will."
And the young Greek woman rushed off.
Cassandra Cain isn't a morning person. Likely none of the Bat types are, what with the late nights. It doesn't help that today's been extra hot and muggy, making the indoors with AC seem all the more appealing.
Which is where Cassandra's been hanging out. In one of the buildings that overlooks the quad, seated at one of the large windows with coffee in hand. It lets her watch people interact with each other, from those that fumble their way through the sports, to those who have eyes only for each other.
The silent young woman recognizes Alex as soon as he enters her vision. The way he moves and carries himself as distinct as a fingerprint and she sits up a bit straighter as he makes his way across the greenery with the other woman. Brow furrowing, Cassandra tries to understand the conversation, but gets little more than the broad overtones. It doesn't help that she's missing even the concepts that might make things clearer.
As Pesha hurries off, there's only a lonely cup sitting in the window now, and a light tap, just once, on Alex's left shoulder. Cass is dressed in cargo pants and combat boots, an oversized hoodie on over a tank top despite the heat. It keeps her scars mostly covered. Her hair sticks up messily, as if she hasn't actually brushed it today. When Alex turns, that hand pulls back, fingers pressing together and palm out as she rotates her hand in a short wave. "Hi."
It's so rare that someone can sneak up on Alexander, he's usually aware of the moment, his surroundings, the people that he's seen. Only she is ghost-like in her movement, and precise in perceiving where the eyes of those are around her. So when she comes up and lightly taps his shoulder…
He turns with a look of real surprise.
And then it's a rush of warmth filling his features as she can see his body language change like someone had let up a shade from a window holding the sunset in view. His lips twist into a grin and he answers her with an echoed, "Hi."
A step back and he considers what she's wearing, looking her over and nodding his head, then meets her dark eyes with the bright blues of his own. His nod gains a slight emphasis as he gives it a final tilt of approval. One fingertip lifts to lightly boop her nose if she lets him. Then he rolls a shoulder to the side and gestures with one hand for them to walk together.
While they're walking, however, he withdraws his backpack from his shoulder, unslinging it and then looks to her. There's a metallic whir as he undoes the zipper and opens it towards her. Inside there are his black clothes that he's worn the last few times they'd rushed off to play. Apparently he's carrying them now.
Just in case!
Cassandra doesn't need to sneak up on him, of course. It's not like surprising him serves any *purpose*. But it does bring to mind old, happy memories. A father's pride when she managed to surpass him. Seeing it writ on Alex's face reminds her of those long-ago times.
When Alex looks down at her clothes, she looks down at them as well, before looking back up to him with an arched brow. What? The clothes are clean and fairly new and while they fit, they're not terribly flattering. She's almost as slim as a boy, and the relatively loose clothing makes thinking so an easy mistake. Especially with the short, tousled hair.
Cassandra's nose wrinkles a bit, lips pressed into a line to keep from smirking as he boops her, turning away even as he's gesturing so they can walk together. She leans over as he shows her the interior of his bag, and then points at herself, shaking her head. Apparently, she didn't come to drag him off into the night. But then, it's still pretty early.
Cassandra points at him, and then to one of the buildings with that questioning tilt of her head.
There is no subterfuge to him, no hint of that duality she has glimpsed at times. There is simply this purity of feeling that he has no qualms about showing. It might well be almost infectious as others around them likely glance their way. As she shakes her head, however, at the black clothes brought forth. His eyebrows climb as if surprised even as the zipper whirrs again with the backpack closing.
He stuffs a hand into the pocket of his blue jeans, still a little too large for him. His white sneakers have scuff marks on them and he's wearing just a black t-shirt though this one shows an image of Indiana Jones seemingly discovering Han Solo in carbonite in a cave somewhere.
She makes her gesture and his eyes follow. Then he nods in agreement. This time there's no play at distraction. Instead he laughs a little, crinkles his nose at her… then /breaks/ into a run across the quad, towards the street, and the alley that likely will lead them upwards. Apparently it's a race to see who gets to the top first and he intends to win.
One of those questions that Cassandra can't really ask, is about that duality that she sees when watching him. One of the first things she noticed about him, actually.
Dark eyes linger on Alex as that surprise springs up and he closes the backpack, and then he's off and running. Which leaves her standing there for a moment watching him. Of course, they've drawn a bunch of eyes now, as people don't run around the campus too much. Especially if they're not playing frisbee or something. When Alex shows no signs of slowing down, Cassandra shifts her weight and starts to sprint after him.
It's only been a few weeks, a few months at best, that she's had access to regular meals and so she's not up to her potential. She'd still leave most of those around her in the dust as she chases after Alex.
For a brief moment it's a blur of rushing movement, slipping past students and visitors. Past the wrought iron gate the proclaims the area as part of the NYU campus, and past the blinking little green man that proclaims it's alright for them to cross, Alexander, abruptly /skiiiids/ to a stop and catches himself with one hand upon the brick wall of the building she had gestured toward.
He rounds to catch sight of her and she can see his head turned to the side, eyes widened and looking apologetic as he steps to her, apparently the race called off for the moment. His hand taps at his side, where she had that wound those few days ago and he opens his hands palm up towards her and says quietly. "I'm sorry I didn't think."
He shakes his head with contrition and then bites his lower lip, pausing long enough to peer and consider his mistake. His eyes lower, then lift to hers, brows rising as he asks silently how she is feeling.
By the time Alexander has skidded to a stop, Cassandra is close to his heels. She isn't caught by surprise though, sliding in next to him as she arrests her forward momentum in time with him. Dark eyes move back and forth between his, searching and slightly confused before winging upwards. She looks down to where her injury is, touching it and then looking back to him with a nonchalant shrug. As though the injury that would have most resting at home doesn't mean anything to her.
Instead, Cassandra points to his backpack, and then brings up both of her hands as though in prayer and then folds them open in imitation of a book before pointing to Alex, and then back to the building. Doesn't he have class?
Skepticism blossoms on the youth's features as he looks her in the eyes, one eyebrow raised and lips twisted. Then looks at her wound, then back into her eyes. Then he makes a small harumph as if not approving of her decision, but accepting of it. He slings the pack over his shoulder again.
When she asks him about class, Alexander takes a moment to puzzle it through and then shakes his head, holding up a finger and then opening his hands together like a book. Just one class today. And it's over. He steps back and then takes a step to hop up against the wall. One sneaker squeaks as he digs in and pushes himself higher to jump onto a garbage bin, then uses that increased height to leap for the lower fire escape.
The next second he's climbing up, though not rushing as he was before. He'll even stop to offer her a hand. What a jerk.
The negation is easy for Cassandra to pick up. The 'one' and 'book' are bit harder to work around in her head, but they've established some context for those, so she gets that. Alex's disapproval gets a slight smirk and roll of her eyes.
As the blond haired youth starts up the building, Cassandra easily climbs up after him. When he offers her a hand she takes it… only to tug him downwards so she can hop up and get a foot on his shoulder and use him as a springboard further up.
The tall blond was smiling to her as he reached down with one hand in her direction. And as she met his eyes and slipped her hand in his, she could even see the pleased look of him that seemed to say, 'yay, she's accepting my help.' and then she /yanks/ and he loses two fingers of his grip, sneakers digging into the wall to keep him there…
As she plants that combat boot on his shoulder and /leaps/ upwards. Only for her to be chased by a short incredulous half-laugh that'd be greater if he had thought it might not have drawn more attention. When she catches his eyes she can see them narrowed in completely feigned growliness, nose crinkled lips thinned and sooo angry. But not really.
It does, however, make him redouble his effort to pursue her. Taking several quick handholds and pulling himself upwards with a faint grunt of exertion. Enough to start to close the gap until she flips up and over and onto that rooftop…
Only for him to plant a hand and vault over, landing in a crouch a few feet away from her and shaking his head as if discounting her victory for her cheating. But as he rises she can see that affection there all the same.
That head shaking is about all that Alex has time for. As he vaults over the parapet wall, he sees her standing there and while he's shaking his head he sees her start to charge towards him. She's not running from him this time, it's definitely towards him and leading with a fist.
It's not some half-speed tap, either. If he doesn't block or get out of the way it's likely to clean his clock. Or would, were he human. He might also mistake the force behind the slight woman's blows, as he can see that she's holding back her full strength. And really, how hard could she possibly hit?
She has seen it before, in the times that their conflicts have been their worst. When the muscle memory and training for Alexander takes over and he moves in a way that is almost second nature. His smile had been there, pleased to see her. Only for her to make that snap motion darting forwards. She is so /damnably/ fast that it forces him to defend with that purity of spirit that he's conjured forth.
She leads with a fist, and he instinctively is pushing himself back, falling backwards on his off-foot and turning his shoulders to the side. There's a rush of air as her strike slices past him, the back of one palm slapping against her forearm to further make sure it slides past her target even as his own fist snaps back and then forward.
Yet she is able to counter it almost in the exact same way. Slap-thap-whap-slap! The punches fired as hard as her own as if on instinct. Ending with his sides turning as he aims an elbow towards her brow though she's able to slip past and away even as they square up once again.
Gravel crunches under his foot as he circles to the side, awaiting her next movement. And she might then realize that since they had last met he'd decided. He was going to talk less. And he was going to _listen_ to her.
One movement flows into the next, and then into the next and as Alex turns aside that first blow, her pace seems to pick *up*. Pushing his speed. Pushing his skill. He sees that careful restraint relaxed and the blows he turns aside are punishing. It almost seems like she's dancing with him, because even as he's flowing into his next strike, she's sliding away. She turns just so and all he feels is the brush of cloth.
As Alex gains that brief lull, that distance as the square up again, there's the light sheen of sweat on her brow and her lips parted as she breathes. But that moment is all there is. Less time than most would need to draw any sort of conclusions. Punch, kick, knee, elbow, in order to avoid getting his clock cleaned he doges and blocks until finally she catches his foot, sending him sprawling down to the roof and she stands there with fists hanging at her side and panting slightly, gaze on him.
As he works to regain his footing, he might notice the disturbance of the gravel ballast on the roof around them where their feet churned it up. In a perfect circle, starting where she's standing.
For him, so much of this is but the moment. The single instant of focus needed to hold his own with her. He is that clear of being, that singular of purpose. She has seen him angry before, though now in these shared instances of rushed impact and skillful movement, he is without emotion. For his concentration is entirely on her.
Through it all he had been following her lead, letting her guide them as they had moved and rushed and come together. There had been moments when they had each turned simultaneously and the backs of their wrists would collide, with fingers subtly bent like the tiger's claw. She could see in the loose t-shirt he wears how his powerfully athletic and muscular form would clench, bicep tensed and forearm taut as defined as her own as they matched strength to strength. And then they were moving once again.
He had been content to follow, to see where she led him. And then as he fell, falling at the perfect point opposite her, a faint sheen of sweat upon his brow as he looked up at her…
It came to him. The perfect circle, the clean curve. She had built this with him. For him?
He rose.
Their eyes locked and his hands drew forwards. Not a formalized stance, but the one he uses when he gives entirely of himself. He takes two slow deep breaths, the exhalation a whispered soft 'tssssaaaah'. And then he moves.
A half-leap pushing him forwards, leg uncoiling to strike at her shin, his other foot landing and then drawing a laaaanguid sweep towards her ankle, skidding across the ground as if trying to deprive her of balance and force her to leap just so and to the side.
It is a flurry of steps, strike and counter strike with each of them lunging past each other at one point, their arms almost entwined like twin vipers seeking to bury fangs into the necks of their prey. And then he retreats his features softening…
As that circle beneath their feet now was the image of the Yin and the Yang, of the two being of the one, and the sharing of the self.
He knows now that she has words. Well, word. Presumably there *are* more, but it means she's not mute. He's seen her respond to his words and sounds. She's not deaf. She's used ASL, though broken and stilted. No other languages. Except this. Here, with him, she's described a perfect circle. Without giving him the words of what she was doing. Without taking time to plot out how to do so. All amidst the speed of combat that few could keep up with.
As she stands there, waiting and watching as he looks around and slowly sees, Cassandra straightens. Her hands relax as she watches him draw breath and then, as he lets it out, her lips curve into an almost secretive smile and her weight settles down into ready as he moves at her.
Now, she listens to him. Follows where he wants to lead while making him work for it. Making him speak louder. Harder. Insistent. There is the soft shhh as cloth rubs against cloth, movements twining them close together and then breaking apart. He can feel the hard planes of her against his own, lacking the softness of the other girls he knows. This one is like his weapon. Hard and sharp.
As they finally break apart, stepping back and away, he stands in the eye of one of the halves of the symbol they've drawn and she in the other. Her chest rises and falls quickly now, because she's still out of shape. She looks down around at them, and then over to him, and the smile she gives him is bright and blinding, innocent in a way that no one with scars like hers and skills like hers should be able to conjure up.
She has composed for him, and he in turn has composed for her. When the smile illuminates her features so he can't help but return it. That t-shirt hugs the supple contours of his form, faintly darkened by the effort she's drawn from him. Up there in the afternoon sun it is as if they were in their own little world. And to him, that is entirely the case for she is the center of it.
When he draws himself up, retaking stance and opens his hand to her, it's now less defensive or aggressive, it is an invitation. A request to dance. And when she accepts his smile is still there, though his focus is no less, almost a gentle mirror of her wild smirk.
There is a leap as he crosses that design beneath them, landing upon the other side, and his leg twisting smoothly through the air, sneaker coming up and around for her to slip past and away. For a few blurring moments it is all rush and movement, twist and evasion. There is a flicker of a thrusting punch as she strikes out the same moment as he does. Only for each to catch the other in a single shared perfect moment of impact. Her knuckle catches the corner of his mouth and there's a faint tear and flash of blood. While his is slightly off target and leaves only a bruise. Yet it phases neither of them.
When she lands he twists and a backfist uncoils with the whipcrack of youthful strength only for her to accept it and catch his wrist. Yet he gains hers. For a brief instant they are very close together, arms wound, near enough that when she turns and is about to strike and sees his eyes…
That the match for the moment is over. Just for now, as he breathes slowly, deeply, controlled. His features are flushed, and he has that masculine scent of exertion and shampoo and a faint tang of blood from where she tagged him.
Again he touches her cheek yet once again. And perhaps now she knows what he means with that gesture.
There is no hesitation from her, not in these matters. With words and questions she's left to stumble in the dark but here, in this, she trusts herself to know where she needs to step.
Hand placed in his, barely a touch, an acknowledgement before they begin. Even left sweaty and winded, she winds up to full speed in time to keep pace with him. Each of his moves calls to hers, strike and turn and slide and as she makes her mark on him with clean perfection, she smirks at him even as he leaves his mark upon her.
As they come to a halt, the tension of her body sings against his, like a string drawn taut. He can feel the heat of her breath against his face as dark eyes meet light from scant inches away. There's the tang of ozone in the air along with the scent of sweat and blood and the lingering sweetness of soap.
And then Alex touches her face and that tension falls away. Her gaze shifts down briefly and then back up, but before she might do anything more there is the crack of thunder that ripples across the sky, drawing her attention upwards just before the sky opens up and the rain that's threatened all day with the sticky heat of humidity finally comes crashing down. Cassandra gives a breathless laugh and then pulls away, tugging up the hood on her hoodie and racing for the edge of the building, pausing only to look over her shoulder to see if he's coming.
It was just a single shared perfect instant. His eyes with hers, drifting between each of her beautiful irises as his breath drew short. Alexander only had long enough to take a slow swallow, to try and focus.
And then the call of lightning flashes across the sky, the peal of thunder rolling across them with the strength of inevitability. And it causes them both to laugh, that nervous light sound of two like souls finding each other in the unlikeliest of places.
The rain begins to fall around them, and she draws off, his hand holding hers until her fingers slip free and she is off towards the edge of the building. But when she looks back to see if he's coming. He's already stepping forward, grabbing his backpack up again and rushing to catch up with her. The smile on his face telling her that same sentiment as when he touched her cheek, and each time she asks him to come and play.
They rush off. Together.