He's watching me through calm, cool eyes, calculating and observing my every movement with smooth precision. I examine him closely, one hand on each side of his face, my body inches away from his; his hands are pressed flat against the metal that holds him upright, like black ink stains on the white wall. His fingers claw and flex at his sides, and I can see the turmoil of thoughts swirling in his eyes, debating, planning, questioning – his blade is resting at our side, out of his reach, lying beneath mine. They make a silver and black cross on the floor.

He's pinned between the cold metal wall of the Training Center and me, and I can feel his breathing on my throat and see the details of his flesh. His lips are parted as he draws in breaths, moist and smooth; he's composed, face emotionless and pale against the dark, sweat-slicked hair that falls in fringe around his face and over his scar. His back is straight and his head is tilted up so he can look me directly in the face, even as I tower over him, a wall of muscle and flesh. I slip my hand away from the wall and curl it around his cheek, my fingers like a cage to him, tangling up through his moist hair; I drag my thumb over the scar between his eyes, slow and purposeful. He doesn't move away from my touch, but he doesn't lean into it, either.

He's standing perfectly still, but he's poised on the edge of his resolve, teetering between giving in to my touch and fighting against me. His eyes narrow when I sweep my thumb down his nose and over his cheek, beneath his dark eyes that are watching me closely, as if to show me he is granting me permission to touch, to feel what I want until he says otherwise. Slowly I trace his skin, stopping only to peel my glove away with my teeth. I cast it aside, and it falls with a slap on the metal floor, like a black leaf in autumn. His skin is moist from sweat beneath my calloused touch, and I draw a pattern over his cheek that spirals down into his mouth, over his parted lips and along the bottom of his chin.

He's leaning his head back to allow me access to his throat, but his eyes are still locked with mine, and coming from him the action seems far from a sign of submission to my touch. My fingers curl over his throat, and I think how easy it would be to simply tighten my grasp now and feel his life slip away beneath my touch. His pulse flutters like the wings of a bird beneath my fingertips, and I pull the invisible design I had been drawing from his cheek to his collar. The back of my hand brushes over the moistened fur of his jacket, and it sticks to my skin, warm and wet from our battle. He watches me as I slip my fingers down the front of his white tank top, feeling the muscle that spreads over his chest beneath, feeling the moisture of sweat.

He's prying his hands from the wall to rest them on my arms when I move my hand back up to his chin and grip it painfully tight. He watches me as I bend my head down, and we pause, my eyes on his, for a long moment. He doesn't push me away. I bring my mouth to his, soft at first, gradually spiraling deeper, harder. I slide my tongue along his lips and he tastes of blood and sweat and a cool, metallic twist of para-magic and Shiva's kiss. His eyes are open, watching me, as I push my tongue into his mouth, exploring and wandering, clumsy and sloppy; he watches me even as my other hand slips away from the wall beside his head and begins to creep up his back, beneath his shirt.

He's letting me kiss him; he's letting me touch him. I bring my body closer to his, and slide my knee between his legs, trapping him in place and giving me more support to deepen the kiss and explore his body. I draw my hand away from his chin, tangling it in his hair, and, using the grip I've gained, I jerk his head to the side, providing me with a new angle to deepen the kiss. He doesn't make a single sound, his eyes watching me, hazy and half-lidded; my other hand slides down the curves of muscle on his lower back, sliding to his belt, and I work my fingers beneath the edge of coal-black leather, around the blood-red belt.

He's shoving me away the moment my hand strays beneath the edge of his leather, his hands that had once been lax and peaceful on my arms tightening harshly as he pulls back from the kiss, forcing me off of him, away from his body. I yield to his force, staggering back and giving him his space. He watches me through narrowed eyes, scolding, and I know I've reached that point, further into it than before but still so far away. His lips are parted, red and moist from our kiss; he doesn't say a single word to me as he draws himself upright, composed, and stalks to Revolver. He draws it into his hand and cradles it against his hip, like a lover, sliding it into its sheath, and I watch as he leaves this hallway, his back to me, not even looking over his shoulder as I watch him go. I compose myself as well, smoothing back my sweat-slicked hair with my bare hand. I bend down, gathering Hyperion from the metal floor, slinging it onto my shoulder; I grab my discarded glove as well, shoving it into my trench coat pocket where it crumbles and folds in on itself, a discarded leaf.

His footsteps sound in the distance as he leaves, and I fall into rhythm with them, following his path.