PHD #067: Chicken Wing
Chicken Wing
Summary: Tisiphone takes Stavrian up on his offer to spar. Easy victory, right? Right.
Date: 2041.05.04
Related Logs: None.
Stavrian Tisiphone 

<In Search Of: Gym @desc.>

The promised spar got delayed. Such an unfortunate chain of events, the explosion and subsequent new population in Sickbay. Kept Stavrian busy most of the last two days, stuck with doing just about everything outside the major surgeries that the doctors were needed for. Sucks to be the PA. Off for a while now, he's come up to the gym in an aging pair of sweatpants and a dull T-shirt, busy running. Not on a treadmill — how boring is that — but on a steady circuit around the room whether he's supposed to or not.

Enter Tisiphone in a pair of cut-off sweatpants and a tank-top, her squeeze-bottle in one hand, satchel thrown over the opposite shoulder. The bruises she picked up two days ago are fading to yellows and sickly greens, the shrapnel-gouges across her forearms a criss-cross of angry reds and pinks. Neither seem to bother her overmuch as she stalks in and sweeps a glance around, her gaze light and intent.

Stavrian's sneakers thud-thud-thud on the ground, steady as the tick-tick-tick of a hundred watches lying in a hundred duffle bags and pockets in this big, sweaty place. The zen timing of running, the exercising man's biological clock. He's been running a while, sweat plastering the front of his black curls down in a funny little helmet while the back has frizzed up like a halo. Someday his CO will kindly nudge him to get that cut. Till then, flop, curl, flop. Feet whap on the faux wooden floor as his tracks arc him around a curve and towards the exercise machines and water fountain. Maybe he'll stop there, maybe not.

Shrodinger's water-fountain, as temporarily claimed by Tisiphone for the sake of rinsing, then filling her squeezebottle. She's a little absurd in shorts and combat boots, though they're barely staying on her feet, the laces hanging in loose loops. Doubtless they'll be kicked off in short order. Another glance is swept around as she steps away from the fountain, and a sudden grin tugs at her mouth. "Hey. You with the face," she calls toward Stavrian, as his path arcs toward her position.

Bright blue eyes look up from their trancelike focus on the ground six feet out in front of them. Stavrian's weight shifts back on his heels, gradually slowing him to trip-tripped plunking steps on slightly wobbly knees, chest moving under the T-shirt as he takes in and pushes out some rapid, deep breaths. "Hey…you. With the chicken wing." That grin is worth slapping.

Worth slapping, all right, and someone looks sorely tempted to do so. Tisiphone's grin splits across her face and widens — or gapes, really. Incredulous. She slowly looks from Stavrian to her right arm and back again, pale brows shooting up paler forehead. She rolls her shoulder once before shaking — or is it flapping? — her arm out. Further commentary is even more mature — a quick squeeze of her waterbottle, squirting a short arc of water out at his face. "That's how it's gonna be, eh? Too tired to fight?"

"Bu-goooooock." Stavrian croaks a very good imitation of a chicken sound as Tisiphone moves (flaps?) her poor arm. Right before water hits him in the face, just as he starts to flinch away. The splatter gets him in the flushed cheek and his tongue flicks out to catch a salt-mixed droplet or two as it crests down past the side of his mouth. "You're the one cheating already. What's with the projectile weaponry, mama?" He tries to sidle past her, intent on actually /drinking/ something from that fountain. "Let me re-hydrate here. Did you stretch out?"

"You looked like you needed a drink," she replies in an utterly unconvincing innocent tone, on matters of projectile weaponry. "Just being helpful." Tisiphone pushes off in the direction of the gym-mats and boxing gloves as Stavrian moves for the water-fountain, but she cuts the angle close, aiming to (lightly) shoulder-check him as he moves past. Even in a friendly spar, such time-honoured traditions as the pre-scuffle must be maintained. Has she stretched out yet? "Not yet. Give me five, go powder your nose." Smirk. She heads for the mats.

Stavrian gets subtly more tense when she closes in on him without warning, as if something way deep in his subconcious expected a swift fist instead of a harmless bump. One wouldn't know it from his expression, which retains its smirk as he lifts his mouth from the cold stream of clear water. "Don't break the other arm while you do it. I'm not taking any excuses, here." Mmm, water, face back down. Mmmm.

"Excuses? Whatever." The snort trails after her as Tisiphone kicks her boots off to land near her satchel and settles into a quick warm-up regimen. Some of the routine is new — faintly painful-looking Recommended Stretches given to her by Sickbay for assistance in turning her chicken wing back to a full-fledged arm — but the rest is the same as it's ever been, equal parts standard warmup and yoga-like contortions. Three weeks since the cast came off, now, and she looks almost hale again. At the end of the stretches she does a few quick jumping-jacks, then casts about for the medic, and the gloves with which to pummel said medic.

Water good. Stavrian's careful not to guzzle; boot camp teaches you the hard way what happens when you're full of water and then get socked in the gut. He nurses carefully at the fountain in little 10-second sessions and then straightens up to stretch out his arms himself. When he makes it over to Tisi's warm-up spot, he's even been gentleman enough to fetch said gloves, a pair of which he tosses lightly at her. "Madam. Some protection for those delicate little wrists?" A smirk, but he's already putting his on too. No further breakages, please. "So. You going to tell me how the assessment thing went? Or do I have to guess?"

Delicate little wrists? Tisiphone catches the gloves with a quiet smack of palms on leather, and her fingers twitch as if she's considering immediately tossing them back with more force than they arrived. "Pff," she retorts — that'll show HIM! — with narrowed eyes. She curls her hands into tight fists for a second, making a few of her knuckles pop, then starts working them into her gloves. "You really can't figure it out?" she asks, a few moments later, glancing up from under her brows. "It- went fine. Went great. They were /so proud/ I took /all my vitamins/, too." Oh, the eyeroll. Godsforsaken medicators and their pills. "First CAP's tomorrow."

"I don't like assuming." Stavrian fastens the wrists of his gloves, velcro making its scriiitch-rip as he yanks it up and presses it down again a bit tighter. "Someone does good, they should be let tell it themselves. So the lion left her cage, huh?" A very slight grin, more like the subdued ones he usually flashes. Moves one side of his face and not the other. "Knew you would."

"Raaar." Tisiphone flexes her hands a couple times, her smile aimed down at the gloves. Another few leather-creaky flexes before she lifts her eyes again. "Let's make sure I don't choke in the launch tube, but- yeah. Yeah. Guess you were right." She bounces on her toes a couple times, tests her gloves against her own palms. Paff. Then, harder: smack. The sound seems to bring her out of the quieter, warmer smile and back toward something more feral. "Ready to dance?" She turns around, walking backward toward the 'boxing ring' of mats, grinning.

Even in the face of sweatier exercise than running, Stavrian doesn't toss off the dark T-shirt he was wearing. No tanks exposure for the shy, or modest - or whatever he is - medic. The smacking sound of glove on glove, he repeats with a puff of gloved fist into gloved palm himself. *Biff*. Almost expect a little speech bubble above him like in old comics. *ZOT!* *POW!*. Bouncing lightly on the balls of his worn sneakers, he flashes her a toothy little smirk. "'Dance.'." Snort. "Leave the cutesy words to command, huh? Let's /fight/." He motions with his hand. She can start anytime.

Another couple light bounces on the balls of her bare feet as the sleet-blue eyes fill with appraisal, before Tisiphone steps into the 'ring'. It's obvious in fairly short order that she's not sure how seriously to take this — overconfidence, thy name is Viper Pilot. While she's not so cocky as to leave her guard down, she shuffles in, light on her feet, trying to lure a punch out of the medic without seeming too rushed to throw one of her own. It's good to let them punch first. Confidence-building, you know.

A little grin twitches the right side of Stavrian's upper lip. His right hand stays close to his face, watching that precious grill area, the left kept down and ready to strike. She's fighting a southpaw, nice and awkward. He circles around her as she starts shuffling, keeping one foot in front of the other for balance and springiness. Like a cat eyeing a piece of yarn being dangled, one can almost imagine a little tail twitching, twitchy-twitch-twitch.

Cu-u-urious. That's not how it's supposed to go. The lazy appraisal sharpens a little, and her fighting stance tightens up a touch — just a touch — as something in the back of her head suggests this fun might take a little work in getting. A quick shuffle off to the side, as if to try and change the direction of Stavrian's circling, before abruptly darting in. Trying to crowd his space — not the fairest to try and use that against him, maybe — and aim a jab that precious grill area.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Tisiphone:Melee vs Stavrian:Melee
< Tisiphone: Success Stavrian: Failure
< Net Result: Tisiphone wins.

Nope, not too fa-…oh, hell, everything's fair in a fight. Had Stavrian thrown his first punch a second earlier he probably could've avoided that strange little hangup of his, but as it stands the little bout of freeze-up costs him getting hit. His head turns, her glove getting him in the temple, and a fast sidestep immediately sets about rectifying this nasty 'touching' situation, darting away from the pinning between her and the 'ropes'.

/Someone/ tried to instill some sort of sparring manners in Tisiphone at some point — she immediately bounces back a step after the hit, watching Stavrian reposition over and through her gloves. "So stop being cutesy and /fight/, then," she calls on a light huff of breath before trying to close in again. No cheap bum-rush this time, the jabs aimed at his upper chest.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Tisiphone:Melee vs Stavrian:Melee
< Tisiphone: Bad Failure Stavrian: Success
< Net Result: Stavrian wins.

"Aww, do I have to?" Haw haw. Stavrian /looks/ like he's about to duck his way past her punch, body twitching like someone about to cut and run again — his then abruptly knocks hers to the side and reponds with a controlled but nicely square blow straight to the gut that he uncovers, BOOMF. "If you insist, dear."

HUFF. Tisiphone bounces back, not quite as lightly as she bounced in, her gloves wavering for a second as she tries to regauge. Not as familiar with fighting a southpaw as she could be, perhaps. "Don't get cocky," she tells him, her voice a little tight from breathlessness, as opposed to anger. Don't get cocky? O Irony. She tries to circle around to Stavrian's right, pressing in again for two quick snaps at his face.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Tisiphone:Melee vs Stavrian:Melee
< Tisiphone: Success Stavrian: Good Success
< Net Result: Stavrian wins.

Stavrian chuckles under his breath. His cheek's smarting a little from the hit, but probably not half as much as her solar plexus is. He's far better at this than he looks — certainly /faster/ than he looks. The snaps are avoided deftly, one by whicking his head to the side and the other blocked, followed up by a fast feint to the midsection he just whomped her in and then a gloved left hook to the side of her chin.

She's smarting, all right — her breaths ending on a hitch a split-second before they want to, shoulders hunched forward a little further than optimal. Of course, all the 'don't hit me here' body language does is paint a target over it. Tisiphone's reflexes are good, but misguided — she falls for the feint and dodges right into the hook. WHAP. She stumbles back two steps, catching herself on the third with a hand drawn up to her face. Blink. Blink. Two sharp shakes of her head and a resquaring of shoulders later, she's circling in again, rapidly-blinking eyes narrowed in glittery-intent wariness.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Tisiphone:Melee vs Stavrian:Melee
< Tisiphone: Good Success Stavrian: Bad Failure
< Net Result: Tisiphone wins big.

It happens. He's not hitting as hard as he probably could, but Stavrian's not playing games with her either. Shoulders kept carefully tense, ready to throw the next punch but waiting to catch one of those elusive openings…which he swings for, an uppercut that would've worked if not for a sudden bout of disobedience of one ankle, jamming his knee forward and him off balance just enough that it misses its mark and leaves him open.

He's off-balance, and she's got something to prove. Tisiphone goes back to what worked before — barging right up into Stavrian's space. The off-mark uppercut is slapped aside, hard, with the back of her left hand; the twisting motion continues, from her hips up to a whipsnap of her shoulders, bringing her right fist across toward the side of his face.

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Tisiphone:Melee vs Stavrian:Melee
< Tisiphone: Success Stavrian: Failure
< Net Result: Tisiphone wins.

The punch beats a loud sound of laughter out of Stavrian. Not mocking, just having a bizarre amount of…fun with this. Even as she sets his face to be taking a beautiful bruise that'll look great with his blue eyes. Till it yellows. His head snaps to the left as she hits his jaw, leaving him open for a second shot before he recovers again, backing up and rolling his shoulders, then bringing the gloves back up again. "Bu-goooooock." Toothy grin.

Time for a second shot? Tisiphone won't shy away from a gift-wrapped opening like that, nosir. She doesn't bounce backward after the contact, as Stavrian helpfully manages that part on his own. "The /frak/?" she mutters at him, meeting his toothy grin with a bemused-going-on-feral one of her own. "Frakking /perfect/ and still you-" There's a snort as she surges forward, coming in with her left shoulder leading. A lower punch than her others have been, aimed for the diaphragm. If you can't breathe, you can't fight, right?

<FS3> Opposed Roll — Tisiphone:Melee vs Stavrian:Melee
< Tisiphone: Failure Stavrian: Success
< Net Result: Stavrian wins.

"Perfect? Fft." She gets that little whap in there, a sacrifice Stavrian makes so he can pivot sharply on his right foot, some of that speed coming back. "Hermes, draw near, and to my prayer incline, messenger of Zeus, and Maia's son divine…" Her momentum becomes his momentum. Her glove hits his midsection and shoved downwards to plunge her off-balance herself, and pop her neatly in the chin. Little spiky yellow speech bubble over her head: *WHOMP*. "Prefect of contests, ruler of mankind, with heart almighty, and a prudent mind…."

*WHOMP* indeed. Tisiphone stumbles forward into a second pop to the chin. As before, she stumbles back two steps, gloves already coming back up — but that third rebalancing step somehow ends with her on her backside and one elbow on the mat, instead. Wait. That's not right. She shakes her head sharply, then again, before looking up at the Stavrians. Blinkblink. There. Stavrian, singular.

Stavrian steps back from her to catch his own breath as she goes kabonk. He leans over, bracing his hands on his knees as air whooshes from his lungs in a healthy outpour, and is sucked back in. "…great life-supporter, to rejoice is thine in arts gymnastic, and in…" Breathe. "…fraud divine." Sweat drips down both temples from his damp hair, patting into droplets on the floor. His knees bend, crouching him down a few inches from her feet, face flushed healthy red. Lifting a finger, he waves it haphazardly in her airspace. "Can you see this?" Facetious. he's grinning.

Immediately, a quick though light slap at the waving finger, and an expression that's trying to be a scowl but is too busy grinning, instead. "Frakker. Of course I can. You didn't hit me that hard." She's still blinking rapidly, though, and sits forward with a groan to lift her hand to her poor, poor aching jaw. "Hermes," she mutters as she gives her jawline a tender rub. "I've got a story to tell you, sometime." Pause. Wince. "Gods Above and Below, you're faster than I thought you'd be."

"My patron," Stavrian discloses under his breath. "He'll love a story much as I will." A swift exhale through pursed lips that puffs out his cheeks and he sits back on his butt, stretching his legs out on either side of her feet. Leaning over the right one, he grabs her water bottle and offers it into her airspace, with a faint grin. "Not like you're a rock sitting there waiting to get railed on."

"Felt like I was. Twice with the sucker-punch. I got you good once, at least." Tisiphone's eyes linger on the side of Stavrian's face for a moment before she accepts the water bottle and gulps down several thirsty mouthfuls before wiping the bottle across her brow. It's barely cooler than the room, but it's still enough against exertion-flushed skin. "We'll do this again sometime?" She looks back to the medic, drinks again, then offers the water bottle back. "Sometime soon," she amends. Another tender rub at her jawline.

"Sometime after I've showered, definitely." Stavrian smirks and picks at the front of his T-shirt, which if it wasn't already soaked with sweat after his run is just about plastered to his chest by now. Left glove pulled off then, and right glove, tossed by the side of his knees. "SHit, I haven't had a really good fight in a long time. Besides with Marines screaming in my frakking face. So who taught you to box, Navy?" He took off his wedding ring before he'd put them on, third left finger having that distinctive band of lighter skin around where the rest of his hand's taken on the dirt of the day. His pinky automatically scratches at the flesh spot, even if he doesn't seem to notice he's doing it. Water bottle's reached for, brows making a grateful lift. Ahh, water.

Therein the wisdom of tank-top vs. T-shirt — the sweat shining on Tisiphone's skin gets to easily evaporate away. It'll start getting chilly, eventually, but for now she seems not to notice. She leaves off rubbing at her jaw, turning the adrenaline-glittery gaze back on Stavrian's, then down to his hands as he fidgets — then back across to her own, as she starts pulling off her gloves. "Moira taught me," she says as she fusses with the velcro. "I mean- she's the one who got me started. My, ah. Caseworker. Back when I was in juvie." A quick little grin there, equal parts daring and cautious.

"Juvie, huh?" Stavrian's tone seems to have a little bit of a smirk tucked in there. He lifts up the back end of the bottle, sucking thirstily at the cool liquid. Adam's apple in motion, three swallows, then he closes his eyes and lets a squirt of water splash onto his forehead, cleaning away some of the concentrated salty sweat running into his eyes. Lashes drip beads of water as he hands the bottle back, squinting. "What'd you go to juvie for? You want me to guess, or would that be way gauche?"

"You? Gauche?" Grin. Tisiphone props the bottle in front of her ankles, holding it in place with her feet as she finishes fussing with her gloves. One of them is dropped down near the squeeze-bottle, the other kept to be slowly turned over and over by restless fingers. "You'd guess? Yeah. I'd let you take a crack at it." She turns her left wrist a little, rubbing at a spot just inside the lining of her cuff as she watches him. No pressure. None. At. All.

Stavrian smirks. He considers as he stays sitting how he is, feet out in front of him and open about 45 degrees, leaned forward so his elbows can rest on his legs. Many people can't sit like that for very long unsupported, but it doesn't seem to bother him. One blue eye squinches partway shut, and a reply comes out with a stream-of-consciousness sort of burst. "I'd guess…property damage of some kind."

Before the fight, the ease of bendiness would have received a look of surprised puzzlement. With her jaw throbbing as it is, the look the medic receives is…not-so-surprised. Added to the list of Things What Shouldn't Be Underestimated, perhaps. Tisiphone looks back to the glove she's fidgeting with, giving a single wry chuckle. "Public mayhem." That's ticked off on her pinky. "Destruction of CMC property over a thousand cubits." Ring finger. "Defiance of curfew under martial law." Middle finger. Ah, irony. Then, the index finger, which she touches, rubbing at the finger-pad, but doesn't immediately rattle off. "Conspiracy to enact sedition. They didn't get that one." Which explains what she's doing here — and still alive, really.

"No kidding. And they still gave you a commission?" Stavrian's tone is a cross between surprised and kind of smug. Fleet Navy, joke's on you. "Promise you'll tell me /that/ story next time too?" He sits back, dragging his feet in crossed. Agile shift of weight forward and he starts to stand, unrolling his spine.

"Moira was a miracle worker — or the suit signing off on my paperwork had his approval stamp on autopilot." Fond eyes, scornful grin — it's an odd expression as she casts her mind back over the memory. "Come to think of it. Probably both." As Stavrian starts to stand, Tisiphone drops back onto her elbow and watches him, her free hand rubbing again at her chin. "Sure," she says. "Sure. I catch you long enough for the telling, you'll hear it."

"Good. I'll tell you one too…think you'll like it." Stavrian kicks out his feet, stretching his ankles, then leans over and offers down both hands to pull her up. "Got an appointment I have to keep." His fingers wiggle playfully. C'mon. "But after that we'll grab some tea and trade. Somewhere JAG can't hear." Slight grin.

Pale brows arched just so, the scornful barb in her grin smoothed away as Tisiphone pulls her mind out of old memories and back to the here and now. A pale-eyed glance from the offered hands to Stavrian's face before she pushes up off her elbow and reaches out to accept them for the boost up. Fine, fine. Since he insists. "Deal," she says. "You've got me curious." Uh-oh.

"I know." Stavrian even wiggles his dark brows to seal that deal. His hands are still flushed from the heat of the gym and the gloves, giving her fingers an absent squeeze before he lets go. "Anyway, go shower. I'll catch up to you later, alright? And nice work — " Already rocking back on his heels, two steps pass before he tacks on the end. " — Money Shot."

Tisiphone will see that brow-wiggle and meet it with a playful narrowing of her eyes. Hard to say if she keeps the grip on his hands longer than strictly necessary — it's there and gone, if she does, and she /did/ just take a couple jabs to the facebone. Maybe she's still dizzy. She's scrubbing at her scalpfuzz when Stavrian drops the callsign-bomb, and her hands stop short. Two steps he backs away. Three. Four. It's not until the fifth that she's suddenly laughing, even as the embarrassment crawls hotly across her face and scalp. "Get. GET!" she shouts after him, flinging a glove to ensure the rest of his retreat.

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