2019-12-05 - Fisticuffs on Krampusnacht

"I've got more rust on me than my ATV. If you've been keeping up on the donut theft, I should figure that'll make us about even."

Viktor's hand reaches out over the top rope of the ring in the middle of Kelly's gym. Both of his forearms, clearly visible thanks to the sleeveless nature of his slightly sweat-stained grey top, show signs of reddening welts from earlier blows. Obviously, the partner he's currently in the middle of replacing for someone new really, really liked looping hooks.

"...Unless you want to take this to the alley again."

The gym isn't too busy. Like Viktor, most of the other scattered occupants are here as an alternative to street parades and winter festivals littering the town outside. In here? No festivity. A glorious respite.

"Look, I have no interest in landing in a puddle of piss." Sutton replies, reaching up to take the hand offered down, clasping Vik's forearm. She kicks off her shoes before she gets into the ring. It's a new ring. How scummy could it have gotten since the last time she was in it scumming it up? She grunts once she's upright outside the ropes, then ducks under to get into the ring too.

"It'd cold in here." They don't seem to spend a lot of money on heating during the sharply cooling autumn months, and every time that door opens, which isn't too often on a night like tonight, a blade of cold slides through the place. "You sure you have enough juice left?" She's fresh off a run over here, still wearing some high cut running shorts, even in this weather, and a plain grey v-neck tee.

"Funny-" Viktor's barefoot. Matching pair, these two. Stepping away from the ropes once Sutton's started ducking under, he backs his way up to a corner to drape his arms over the top ropes that extend away from his makeshift padded leaning post. Those bright blue eyes watch her every step. Each footfall.

Everything about him at first glance says relaxed. Everything about him at second glance would suggest he's well aware of Sutton, what she can do, and has absolutely zero intention of taking her lightly. He takes a moment to brush some lint that somehow still lingers on his sweatpants, then rubs the tip of his nose with a thumb. If the cold bothers him, it doesn't show. If the cold bothers him, he's probably going to be throwing enough effort into warming up in a minute anyway. If he's tired, she's sure as hell not getting the gratification of him admitting it.

"-You came in here looking like someone wanting to do anything but talk, Harry."

Sutton's knuckles are a little bruised, right hand, which was evident as she wrapped them. Looks like she bare-knuckle popped someone right in the mouth sometime in the last twenty four hours. Which means it's going to hurt a little bit every time she connects with that hand tonight. "I always look like someone who doesn't wanna talk, except at work. It's just my face. At work I get paid to put people at ease and hold them together long enough for a real professional."

She checks the wrap on her knuckles. It's little better than bare hands, but at least her wrists and all those fragile bones have some support. "Not into talkers, Vik?" She ehs, giving her shoulders a shrug like 'you'll get used to it'. The grin that follows is a brief flash of teeth. She didn't really expect him to confirm whether he's tired. She ran here from Bayside. Maybe she's a little tired. Then again. Maybe not.

Vik's face breaks into the barest of smiles. Just a little lift at the corners of his mouth, eyes shining even in the gym's admittedly... 'functional' lighting. His hands were wrapped perfectly. Were. Earlier. If the sweat didn't give it away, the fact that they're now a little loose everywhere but the knuckles would give the idea that he's been here a while today. Something about the time of year.

"Love me some talkers. Could listen to them for hours." God knows what his past month's been like. There's a short grunt to break his sentence as he pulls himself away from the corner, dropping his gaze from her face to give each wrist a short rub and slight re-tucking where a few edges of the tape worked a little free.

He jogged here from Repose. Maybe he's a little tired.

Then again, maybe not.

Sutton seems to be at ease in the ring, so much the better this place smells like stale sweat and aging boxers. It's the best place to find sparring partners during the hours most people are off doing shit like shopping for presents and slurping eggnog flavored $5 lattes. "Whenever you're ready, love."

She's on the balls of her feet, and her hands come up after she checks the wrap again. She let someone else practice on her. Someone new. She's not sure she likes the tension they left. She usually wraps a little tighter. She'll know the first time she makes contact with some part of Vik's torso. "If you need some water first, I can get you a paper cup —"

Mid-sentence is as good a time as any to start, right?

Let's not beat around the bush. Sutton is terrifying. Viktor knows this. Any advantage is a good advantage, and with any luck coming out swinging as soon as she's finished checking her wraps is probably the best open chance he's going to get. Of course, everyone has a plan until they get hit in the face. Or, in his case, as it may be, everyone has a plan until acting calm and casual means you're slower than you would be if you weren't trying to hide the tension. The straight - uppercut - straight combination is quick.

Sutton's quicker.

Sutton sings Carly Simon when she's sad, can barely toaster oven pizza rolls without burning them, and has the mystical strength of a steaming cup of green tea. She's not all that terrifying.

Oh, in the ring. Well. In the ring she's no slouch, and it comes of a lifetime of fighting to be better than her brother at hand to hand, and growing up with marines. She's fast, doesn't wind easily, but all it takes is one good punch from someone stronger in the right place and she's barfing all over the floor. Good thing for Sutton, Vik's not all that much bigger than her. Stronger, yeah. One blow glances, another is knocked by a forearm, and she answers it with an elbow feint, a left hook. If he doesn't back up fast enough, a knee follows that. She's going for body blows, just feeling him out. How is Vik's energy level tonight?

Viktor's as rusty as his old ATV, and Sutton's been off work for a while and so hasn't stolen nearly enough donuts.

His energy level seems fine. Speed? Notsomuch. Marine lineage pulls a fast one over Army. He was prepping for the knee. He knows Sutton. Not as well as most, for sure, but he knows her. The knee? The knee always comes. The knee he defends, not backing up but crossing his forearms to catch the blow on meaty flesh instead of soft rib. Unfortunately for him, all of that focus on the knee that does, at least, show up means he's blind to the left hook that came before. So eventually, he backs up, a whole new welt on his shoulder forming from the glance of knuckle, with no real chance to respond in kind.

Sutton backs off, shaking out her hands to check the fit of the bindings. Seems okay, in the end, because she doesn't call him off to take the time to re-wrap them. She's watching Vik closely, the way he recovers from all of that. She does think about how he was ready for that knee. Yeah, he missed the hook, but the knee he saw coming. Maybe she uses it a little too often in her combos. But it sure is fun. "I've gotten back into running in the last couple of months. Lots of whole grains and fiber and fish in my diet. I'm probably in the best shape of the year so far." Not so much with the donuts.

Now she tells him.

Let's be honest. Knees are always fun.

Once Sutton's done checking her wraps, Viktor takes a moment to shake out his own hands, circling lightly with sidestep to sidestep. Those wraps might be loose, but they hold for now. He'd like to say he was thinking about how she moves, how she's favoring one hand, how he's expecting the next couple of shots that she'll throw to be to work his body and drain the tank a little more. How if he really cracked her with a good shot, her reply would be likely to crack a rib.

What Viktor's really thinking is: 'Jesus Christ she's like a greased up coyote.'

Which doesn't really lend itself to accurate punches, even if he uses a quick little retort of "We should jog sometime." before the testing triplet of jabs come out.

"I—" Lured in with the jogging thing. Sutton never comes off the balls of her feet, so she's quick to move when he moves. She dances around a little, employing some of the footwork of a boxer rather than what she really is. Spars are always like this, tuning up your partner and dancing a little bit. Sometimes one or both sides holds back. She's used to that, with some men, at least at first.

She knows Vik well enough to know he probably fights differently when it's for real. So does she. She backs up quickly with the oncoming jabs, so when one does connect, it's with less force than it might have had. Still, it's probably gonna leave a mark. The second he finishes his combo, she goes on the offensive, pressing into his reach. This is either a grave mistake or it'll back him up some to give her more room. This time: jab - cross - hook! "Think that's a great idea." She grunts out with the punches. "How's your endurance?"

And so it goes.

This isn't a fight. It's not some do-all-be-all-end all battle. Sutton's not cornered in an alleyway fighting for her life, and Viktor's not weighed down by gear on dirt and sand and rock with a bayonet working through the threads of his plate carrier. You don't throw testing jabs in a fight. Not one outside of a ring. All that does is open you up to someone muscling inside, which is exactly what Sutton does, working each hit of the combination to opposing sides of his torso. He backs up. He gives her room.

She really is like a greased-up Coyote, and it's all Viktor can do to weather some of the blows on his forearms, circling in an ever widening spiral out towards the edge of the ring as Sutton proves that, at least for the moment, those jogs have done some seriously good work on her endurance, combinations of strikes coming out that'd leave more than a few of the gym's regulars panting by the midway point. Welts begin to form on Vik's inner arms, his biceps, shoulder. A few more, unseen, will be showing up in green and yellow on his torso in the morning.

Hit. After Hit. After Hit.

After H-

Viktor hasn't thrown anything for a while. No punches. No kicks. No elbows. No knees.

When a cross goes wide?

He throws Sutton. Fingers wrap around her forearm quick as a shot, the man pivoting on the balls of his feet bring the arm he intended to grab by the wrist up and over his shoulder. He's got about six inches on her, which means when that pivot has his shoulder meeting her collarbone, he's already crouched. He'd have to be. From there, it's all leverage, pulling on that arm like a seasonal celebratory cracker and leaning forward with all the effort he can muster. It's not a perfect throw. It won't go in any textbooks. She's more likely to go over to one side than directly over the top of him, but goddamnit, it's the best he can do when his arms are on fire.

"Eh. It's been better." He eventually replies. Panting.

It's a good day for sharp little knuckles and tenderizing combinations. Sutton gives Viktor little room to breathe on the trip across the ring, pressing her advantage and backing him up. What she forgets, of course, is that you do not wanna put a man like Viktor into a corner. Or maybe she's counting on it. Maybe she wants to see if he'll really unwind and fucking hit her. He doesn't do that, not exactly.

Hit after hit after hit after — wheeee!

Sutton knows she's gonna take a trip when her arm's caught, but Viktor executes the move so smoothly, and up and over she goes! The blonde's small, and her legs come off the ring floor. She flips in the air, the world gone spinny, She slams down on the mat largely on her hip and side, the meat of her ass and thigh taking much of the impact. It's a damn good thing that road rash has had a few weeks of healing. WHUMP!

Motherfffff. She doesn't say it. She doesn't say anything for a couple of beats. Well, more like eight.

What she says is, "See that." It takes her a couple more beats to get up, like she's not sure if he rattled loose anything important. "Wow."

By the time Sutton's up, Viktor's down, slipping down in the corner after giving a short pat to the back of her hand. The breathing doesn't come easy, with flickers of a wince showing at the edge of every inhale. Call the man a patty, because he is well and truly tenderized. Give him a couple of minutes on the grill, flip him over, and ta-da, perfectly done.

"I think you caught my floating rib." He mutters, one hand pressing against where at least three hits landed. The first one was fine, the other two just drove home the spike. "You've..." The other hand, the one that so recently saw her feet leave the floor, points. "You've been getting better. There really much call for all that practice in such a sweet lil' ol' town as this, Harry?"

...Look, they're acquaintances. He doesn't know her that well.

"Are you joking?" Sutton's reply is swift to that question. When he goes down, she takes a knee in her place in the ring. "You've been here... how long? A while. Long enough, I think." She doesn't recall the exact timing he probably told her once, because these are the small talk sort of questions people ask. This instance, it's rhetorical. "You're not coughing up blood, so you'll be fine." She comments off hand before continuing on with, "This town you can't even count on being safe when you're dreaming."

A smarter person would have already left by now. A smarter person would have turned around the first time they got sucked into a dream and almost killed. By shit that isn't really there. At least not there in this reality. "The first time someone I loved tried to strangle me to death and I almost didn't get out of it, I started coming here more. I run everywhere. I'm not going out like that, Vik. It's not happening again."

"This place will fuck with you. So get your head on right and keep it right."

Viktor shuffles his ass a little closer to the corner, straightening up his back to rest against the padding there, wincing once more as the adjustment puts a little more pressure on his right hand side. Sutton really had the left going. He's going to be wheezing in his sleep for a couple of days.

And he's quiet when she talks. I mean, it's Vik, he can be quiet a bunch, but, like he said, he could listen to talkers for hours. He watches her face. Her expressions. Where she looks when she mentions aspects of the town. Where she doesn't look when she mentions being strangled. By the time she's telling him to keep his head right, he's given up on holding his torso to tuck his knees up a little and rest his forearms over them, linking up his hands as they hang loose. "I have questions." He asks like someone who reached the end of a tour and will now be that dick who keeps people waiting while the tour guide has to dredge up old facts they learned on their first day. "Mainly on the inflection you used on first time. Is this becoming a regular thing?"

It's a good thing she punches ex-marines with her right hand and saves her left for Army guys. Means Vik got the fresh knuckles.

Sutton drops both knees to the floor of the ring and sits back on her legs, her hands resting briefly on her thighs. She brings her hands up to adjust the wrappings. Nope, she brings her hands up to undo the wrapping entirely. She glances over when he says he has questions. Her gaze flicks over the position he's assumed, the wrap of his arms around his knees, the drape. "Happened twice." She pulls one wrap mostly free. "Won't happen again."

"Mitigating circumstances or not. Like I said, town's fucking weird." She reaches up to rub her bare hand over the back of her neck before she starts in on the other wrap, then rolls her shoulders as if to loosen them. "Don't worry about me, love. I know how to bury a body if it needs burying." She meant that to be a lighthearted thing, but it doesn't come out that way.

"I've got 20 acres of property."

Viktor says it casually as a lighthearted thing, but it might not come out that way. Not that he's offering. Or anything. What. "Surprised you let it happen at all, to be blunt with you. I've seen the thousand-yard-stare from a few of your ER admissions and can only assume they tried to start something." It's not a completely change of subject, but it may be something to drag the topic somewhere a little more suitable for their level of familiarity.

"One guy started crying."

He doesn't touch his wraps.

Aw, isn't that a sweet reminder about all that heavily forested land perfect for losing a body in.

"Yeah, I didn't see it coming the first time." She doesn't break eye contact when she says that, but after a moment her gaze goes wandering. She does a quick check of the gym to see if anyone's waiting for the ring. It's a slow night. Most people are spending a night like tonight at one of those winter festive things. Or screaming in the dark, as they do. "Yeah, nobody touches me in my rig." She slowly begins re-wrapping her hand, starting with the sore one first. "He was crying because he thought he was going to die. I didn't do that."

She maybe yelled at him some first, though. And might have told him if he didn't settle down he'd bleed out on the floor of her ambulance, and she hates a mess. "Like I said. Won't happen again. If it tries to..." Well, there's always a hole to be dug in the woods, isn't there?

"Your ribs aren't too bruised, I was thinking about doing eight miles on Sunday."

Look, it's a lot of land, with far too few bodies. The ratio is all off.

Now. Now Vik touches his wraps. It's a slow and methodical process, seemingly spurred on by Sutton's glance around the gym. Like the motion itself, even without anyone waiting for the ring, said 'Time to get moving.' "There's a route I like. Starts up at the hospital. Nice and roadside for four miles, trail path for another four." His eyes have settled somewhere off to the side of her left foot, not really watching what he's doing on his hands. Steer. Conversation. Away. From. Choking.

Shit. He couldn't help but re-engage eyecontact. "I mean. If you think you're up to it?"

Sutton winces when she re-wraps her bruised hand tight as she usually likes it and makes a fist. Yeah, that's gonna need a new round of cleaning out. She probably shouldn't have come in today, and given her knuckles a chance to heal, but who's gonna make a sound decision like that? "I haven't done a proper trail run in a while. Should be fun. I'm there. I can just hitch a ride up there one day if you want to do it after work. I have some normal person shifts this week."

Off comes the wrap again. "I'll even let you set the pace." There are reasons she doesn't tell people her mum's an endurance athlete. For funny times like these when a dude asks her if she's up for a run.

Viktors eyebrow flashes up for a second at the wince. Then back down. He's in a glass house. He can't throw stones.

He flexes his own hand in something of an unconscious sympathy before cutting right to the point. "Who'd you punch? Why? Did they cry too?" And what MIGHT look like a thumbs up to her punching someone in the face is actually a thumbs up to the whole plan about running. He doesn't know her mother's an endurance runner. Mainly because she doesn't tell anyone, but also because in their little breaks outside the doors of the ER, Viktor never once chose to ask 'So what do your parents do for a living?' over 'Rough day?'

Instead, all he mutters is a quiet little "Careful, Icarus."

It might seem like Sutton didn't hear that little warning, but there's a twitch at the corner of her mouth at the mention of Icarus. Sutton does blow a lot of smoke, though her trash talk today is pretty low key. "Marine." She gives her hand a shake. "Right in the mouth. Naw, he didn't cry, but he made my partner cry." The lady pops people who make Oakes cry. Check. She squints briefly, but doesn't say whatever it is that occurred to her to say next.

Sutton glances across at Viktor, watching him for a couple beats before she says, "You don't wanna set the pace, we switch off every two miles." More inclusive, less challenging. Slightly. She smiles.

"Really." Viktor says.

Before slowly starting to pull himself up against the corner post into something resembling a standing position. He was crouched for too long, the cramp set in. Exercise time is over. "A Marine. Huh." His weight shifts. Ball of foot to ball of foot, the wraps hanging loose in a softly closed fist that he waggles a few times to get it to start looping around his wrist. As good a sign as fight time being over as her own wraps coming off.

He gives her a little nod at the idea of switching off the pace, then plants a foot and a hand on two of the ropes of the ring, giving the woman an exit. "And he didn't cry? Are you absolutely sure?"

Sutton rises, wraps looped in one hand. "Marine," she affirms. "He only has one leg, so he's been through worse, but he did fetch me a beer right after." She makes her way over to the ropes, ducking through the space Vik so kindly opens up between them for her. "Thanks, pet." Once both feet are out, she jumps down and sweeps up her shoes, moving to a bench to sit and pull them back on, lacing her barefoot running shoes up tight.

She jams her wraps in a small cross body messenger bag beside her, zipping it up. "It's funny, I went to break in and chuck his prosthetic over the balcony, but he was awake and wearing it when I opened his door at three in the morning." She tightens the laces on her other shoe. "It's like nobody sleeps around here."

Viktor blinks, just the once, at the word 'Pet.' "Well, at least you got a beer out of it. Last time I punched a Marine I just got the short straw on security detail." He mumbles in reply, actually still managing to sound pissed about it after all this time. Which, given that would have been Korengal Valley, fair enough. He'll be pissed about that forever.

Sliding out of the ring himself, he hunts down his own running shoes, left resting next to his small kitbag, half of it covered by the warm coat he actually bothered to bring. Just in case it rained. Because this place. And rain. It's a fair bet. "That's because they're rookies." He adds, sitting his ass down on the floor to put on his own shoes, and taking a good three attempts at the laces while he does so. "I can still fall asleep standing up. Best thing I ever learned."

"Between you and me, I hate beer. Hate." Sutton finishes off her shoes and digs around in her bag's pocket, pulling out a little mp3 player. The tiniest one attached to a pair of earbuds. Yeah, she still rocks wired earbuds. "Sounds like it's been a while since you punched a marine. You should get back in the saddle." Yes, that's exactly what you should do, Vik. Take no life advice from Sutton!

She glances over at Vik. "I can say I've fallen asleep in some weird places in strange positions. Can't say it's ever been standing up." She seems impressed by this feat. She looks at him for a couple of beats, then swings the earbuds around her neck to hang while she clips the player to her shorts and then threads the wire under her shirt so there's zero chance it can catch on something while she runs. "I mainly level up at Candy Crush during down time at work. I see I have something to aspire to." She stands, dragging her pack with her to slap the velcro together across her chest.

"I found a couple I like, won't lie. Need to grow my beard out an extra foot or so and start wearing plaid before I start recommending brands."

Viktor reaches in to his bag and... hey, look. Earbuds. With wires! Snap. Although there's no MP3 player for him. Just his phone. "Just run yourself fucking ragged, Harry, then find a nice corner to stand up in. Helps if you wake up at 4:30 in the morning and do a quick 6 mile run." His own headphone wire tucks down his tank, a hand blinding having to search up the bottom for a while to find the damn thing. At one point, his tongue even pokes out from the corner of his mouth. With that all settled and done, he pulls himself back up to standing, hauls the phone out of the bag, plus in the headphone jack, and jams the thing into the pocket of his sweats, picking up his coat to put it on. Oh, and zipping up the bag, which is quickly thrown over a shoulder. "You get good enough-" He turns her way. "-You can totally Candy Crush it while sleeping."

She's given a little nod, like he just imparted the most sage of advice. "Wanna hit up a food stand on the boardwalk? My kitchen smells of burning plastic and electronics right now, and for some reason, that has me craving this one stand's burritos."

Sutton gives the cross strap a tug, finds it secure enough. Satisfied with that, she glances out the window. No rainfall. It seems the weather report that promised a clear and chilly day were accurate this time. "Do not grow a beard." Ok then.

"Stop talking. You say 4:30 and I never see 4:30 unless I haven't been down yet or I'm staying with my parents and Dad wants me to take a run on the waterfront with him." She shakes her head at that, but doesn't say more. "There's a reason I bunk with them as little as possible." Except for all of the week leading up to and after Thanksgiving. But that was other reasons in play.

"Yeah, man. That sounds good. I love the horchata at that little fishy place. I know just the stand you mean. We can hit both." She leaves her earbuds dangling from her neckline for now, and heads for the door. "What happened in your kitchen?"

"I have no intentions to, Harry. I live out in a fucking cabin in the woods. I get any more than this-" Viktor's hand comes up to rub the small amount of winter fluff that lines his jaw. "-And people'll start making assumptions." That may or may not technically be correct, but that's beside the point.

Bag comfortable on his shoulders, arm seeking out the second strap to make sure the weight is at least spread evenly, he joins her in heading for the door, tugging on his own headphone wire to get them tucked around the back of his neck. The bag hangs long enough that it won't be an issue, and last time he let them hang loose, he lost one of the rubber ear pieces. A pain in the ass he wishes not to repeat.

"You know, I'm pretty sure my toaster was victimized and destroyed. But honestly? I'll be fucked if I know how."

"It's always the goddamn toasters," Sutton mutters as she pushes out into the night, holding onto the door with her fingertips to prop it open until Vik's through. Of the kitchen appliances, the toaster is certainly the shiftiest is probably what she means, but damned if the way she says it doesn't carry the undercurrent of something else.

Never trust a toaster.