[ it isn't like the houses here - he's allowed to go where he likes when he likes, wear what he pleases, eat what he pleases, say anything. just so long as he doesn't leave the premises without an attendant. that's what makes all of the rest irrelevant. he's watched, so so closely, like he's a bomb about to explode, even more closely than Hapsburg, where they just wanted him to sit in his room and be invisible until his body was needed again. he understands why. when natasha had first liberated the house, after all the questions and legal red tape, when he was set up with a hotel and allowed to go free into the city, he'd completely lost it. two hours, and he'd found himself in the middle of a crowded sidewalk, screaming. three paramedics injured, five police men put in the hospital, and a taser later, and he was stuck here.
in the first few weeks, the psych ward doctors learned better than to try medicating him or coming near him with any kind of needles or wires. it had all been yoga classes and guided meditation and counseling sessions he was either silent or profane for, with wardens following him around, standing just far enough away to feel like they aren't being suffocating, but still watching him closely any time another person passed by.
natasha showed up halfway through the fourth week, having come back from a mission and heard he wasn't out yet. refusing to cooperate, oddly silent outside of outbursts, unstable and violent. and yet, she'd sat across the table from him, and it'd only take about ten minutes of quietly prodding at him to get him talking again. just something familiar about her, after knowing her in Hapsburg, chats in sign language through the soundproof glass wall of his room, seeing her in the halls on his way to or from the labs. he knows she isn't who she told him she was, but she'd gone in regardless, into that hell, to get him and the others out. when no one else cared enough to so much as lift a finger.
she'd started coming regularly, first once a week, then twice, soon every other day. they'd talk, or watch what sitcoms were on the commons area TV, walk around the grounds. sometimes she'd bring a laptop and try to catch him up on pop culture. eventually, natasha gave him a cell phone, told him to text or call whenever her wanted, her personal number the only one programmed in. he knows they put a wire on her, sometimes, and a device in her ear to tell her what question to ask - the only way the shrinks have found to get anything real out of him, but he doesn't fault her for it. knows she's just trying to help. maybe someday he'll go into those too homey rooms with them and talk. not yet. for know, he's just doing what feels comfortable, and that's spending time with her.
like this, in one of the large gym rooms, with mats set out on the floor. for a long time, he'd insisted on training alone, wouldn't spar with her for fear of losing it and hurting her. turns out his strength isn't so much an issue when she's not only on par with him in terms of skill, but beyond. and the stray hits that have a bit too much force behind them? she's had worse, it seems. she's a normal girl fighting in a world threatened by titans, and god she seems so unreal. incredible, really. it becomes something regular, and when she has to leave for a few weeks on mission, Andyr spends the time texting her, bored with his days otherwise, but trying to cooperate better, for the fact she wants him to. by the time she comes back, he's missing her like hell, and they go straight to the mats again.
about halfway through the first fight, he catches her in a lock, and natasha gets herself free by kissing him, out of the blue. for a second he's stunned, and that's really all she needs to elbow him in the stomach and throw him on his ass, Andyr watching her, upside down, with a tilt to his head.
huh.
round two, and they go to the ground with a quick sweep, turning it into a grappling match, which always means being an awkward kind of close to another body, but isn't something andyr's ever felt self-conscious of, until now, with her legs wrapped around his hips, his arms gripping at her shirt, or her shoulder, or a forearm as they shift and struggle. it distracts him enough that his technique is completely off, and he's out shortly after, tapping his surrender against the mat and she arm bars him. natasha's grinning at him like there's some joke he's missing, and he's trying to figure out if she's doing this just for fun, or something else.
round three, and andyr's determined to play this game as well, too competitive to just accept the sabotage. at the first punch, he's slipping past, pushing flush to her, and kissing her full on the lips, a hand on her waist and another on her shoulder, as he lingers, tugs at a lip, and sweep a foot behind her ankles. a push at that shoulder, and she goes down, but not without taking him with, her shin kicking out the back of his knees, as they both dissolve into a fit of struggles for dominance, all groping hands and too close grinding, until she's straddling his hips, bright red hair falling in a curtain around them, with teeth pulling at andyr's lower lip, as she grinds a rhythm against the too prominent form of his hard length, easy to find through the thin pants he wears in the psych ward. the purpose of this was lost somewhere down the road to this point, and all he knows now is the sweet, slow friction she'd rolling out against him, the soft, smooth texture of her lips, the taste of peach chapstick, and his hands curling into the fabric of her shirt.
until a rip sounds out.
ah. oops. that would be natasha's collar. ]
Shit. [ he hisses out, cursing himself for letting his mind go that far, while he has her in his hands. ] Sorry.
no subject
in the first few weeks, the psych ward doctors learned better than to try medicating him or coming near him with any kind of needles or wires. it had all been yoga classes and guided meditation and counseling sessions he was either silent or profane for, with wardens following him around, standing just far enough away to feel like they aren't being suffocating, but still watching him closely any time another person passed by.
natasha showed up halfway through the fourth week, having come back from a mission and heard he wasn't out yet. refusing to cooperate, oddly silent outside of outbursts, unstable and violent. and yet, she'd sat across the table from him, and it'd only take about ten minutes of quietly prodding at him to get him talking again. just something familiar about her, after knowing her in Hapsburg, chats in sign language through the soundproof glass wall of his room, seeing her in the halls on his way to or from the labs. he knows she isn't who she told him she was, but she'd gone in regardless, into that hell, to get him and the others out. when no one else cared enough to so much as lift a finger.
she'd started coming regularly, first once a week, then twice, soon every other day. they'd talk, or watch what sitcoms were on the commons area TV, walk around the grounds. sometimes she'd bring a laptop and try to catch him up on pop culture. eventually, natasha gave him a cell phone, told him to text or call whenever her wanted, her personal number the only one programmed in. he knows they put a wire on her, sometimes, and a device in her ear to tell her what question to ask - the only way the shrinks have found to get anything real out of him, but he doesn't fault her for it. knows she's just trying to help. maybe someday he'll go into those too homey rooms with them and talk. not yet. for know, he's just doing what feels comfortable, and that's spending time with her.
like this, in one of the large gym rooms, with mats set out on the floor. for a long time, he'd insisted on training alone, wouldn't spar with her for fear of losing it and hurting her. turns out his strength isn't so much an issue when she's not only on par with him in terms of skill, but beyond. and the stray hits that have a bit too much force behind them? she's had worse, it seems. she's a normal girl fighting in a world threatened by titans, and god she seems so unreal. incredible, really. it becomes something regular, and when she has to leave for a few weeks on mission, Andyr spends the time texting her, bored with his days otherwise, but trying to cooperate better, for the fact she wants him to. by the time she comes back, he's missing her like hell, and they go straight to the mats again.
about halfway through the first fight, he catches her in a lock, and natasha gets herself free by kissing him, out of the blue. for a second he's stunned, and that's really all she needs to elbow him in the stomach and throw him on his ass, Andyr watching her, upside down, with a tilt to his head.
huh.
round two, and they go to the ground with a quick sweep, turning it into a grappling match, which always means being an awkward kind of close to another body, but isn't something andyr's ever felt self-conscious of, until now, with her legs wrapped around his hips, his arms gripping at her shirt, or her shoulder, or a forearm as they shift and struggle. it distracts him enough that his technique is completely off, and he's out shortly after, tapping his surrender against the mat and she arm bars him. natasha's grinning at him like there's some joke he's missing, and he's trying to figure out if she's doing this just for fun, or something else.
round three, and andyr's determined to play this game as well, too competitive to just accept the sabotage. at the first punch, he's slipping past, pushing flush to her, and kissing her full on the lips, a hand on her waist and another on her shoulder, as he lingers, tugs at a lip, and sweep a foot behind her ankles. a push at that shoulder, and she goes down, but not without taking him with, her shin kicking out the back of his knees, as they both dissolve into a fit of struggles for dominance, all groping hands and too close grinding, until she's straddling his hips, bright red hair falling in a curtain around them, with teeth pulling at andyr's lower lip, as she grinds a rhythm against the too prominent form of his hard length, easy to find through the thin pants he wears in the psych ward. the purpose of this was lost somewhere down the road to this point, and all he knows now is the sweet, slow friction she'd rolling out against him, the soft, smooth texture of her lips, the taste of peach chapstick, and his hands curling into the fabric of her shirt.
until a rip sounds out.
ah. oops. that would be natasha's collar. ]
Shit. [ he hisses out, cursing himself for letting his mind go that far, while he has her in his hands. ] Sorry.