Title: Corps-a-corps 1/3
Author: Karen Jephson
Rating: Definitely R and NC17.
Disclaimer: Joss may have created Giles for profit, but I've stolen him for
love. Can't afford him, but he's all mine.
Pairing: Giles/You.
Dedication: To the 'deep breath'ers' on GRB for making me go there, and
GylzGirl who likes to push me to stay once I've arrived. And to our
listmoms. They always work hard at thankless jobs, and never get the
appreciation they deserve.
NOTE: There will be another part to this. It's probably more a sequal than a
part 3 or 4. It has yet to be written.
Corps-a-corps: lit. "body-to-body"; physical contact between the two fencers
during a bout.
Square pools of light spread dimly across the wooden floorboards, shrouding most of the room in darkness. The full moon shining through the ceiling level windows bears silent witness to the movements of the sole occupant, the exercise pads upon which he treads muffling any noise. His well-worn knee length boots mold his long legs almost as lovingly as the soft leather pants that stretch with every move. The sinews on his legs tighten as he repeats the familiar pattern. Lunge, step back, lunge, retreat, strike. The foil in his left hand obeys his silent commands as though an extension of his arm, moving swiftly through the air to strike down an invisible enemy. The impression of a pirate is only enhanced by the platinum hoop hanging from his left ear.
His breathing increases as he moves faster through the steps, sweat beading on his exposed forearms. After hours of training, the shirt is now damp from the exercise. He'd long undone the buttons to allow some of the artificial cool from the air conditioner reduce his body heat. The dampness of his chest hair belies the success of that ploy. He pauses to wipe some sweat from his forehead, before running his hand through the now curling hair. Sighing, he undoes the top button on his trousers to minimize any physical restriction and begins again, moving along the full length of the exercise mats and back again.
With one final set of intricate moves and a killing lunge, he stands upright and salutes his imaginary nemesis. Sighing, he moves toward the bench running the length of the wall beneath the windows. Taking a towel from the seat he lovingly, gently wipes the length of the blade before replacing its protective tip and laying it against the bench. Turning, he sits and waits for his breath to return to its normal rhythm and his arm and leg muscles to relax. Finally he bends and grasps the foot of one of his boots as he lifts his leg up. Slowly, he pulls the boot from his leg, allowing the leather of his trousers to shake itself free from its confines. He massages the thigh almost absent-mindedly, working the tense muscles loose. Only when he's satisfied does he repeat the same procedure with the other leg. He then pushes the cuff of his trousers up, exposing light cotton socks. Grabbing the top of the material, he rolls it down, the hairs on his legs springing up as the slight breeze from the air conditioner caresses his cooling skin. As he exposes his long, well shaped feet, he rotates the ankles, then massages the sole of each one. Finally, he spreads his toes against the wooden floor as he selects another spare towel and wipes the remaining sweat from his face and down his exposed chest and stomach, stopping only where the shirt is still tucked into his trousers.
Standing, he collects the used towels and foil and makes his way to a cabinet on the adjoining wall. He secures the foil in its place, then strokes his hand lovingly along a sabre standing next to it. He pauses, something warning him he's not alone. Grabbing the handle of the sabre he spins, lifting his weapon to challenge his unknown intruder.