Playing with Danger [closed - Mai]

[donovan]

[ for Mai - W for possible language]

He didn’t really have a good reason to be there in the first place. And if someone were to question him, he’d be hard pressed to give a straight answer as to why he was in the building full of dance studios, especially being that he was still carrying the football from his practice earlier. Of course, in all honesty, he wasn’t particularly sure why he was there himself, wandering aimlessly through a mostly abandoned building.

The hour was late, the sun had set over two hours before, and the building had emptied of its occupants as they all went to do whatever it was that dance majors did after a hard day’s work. Donovan hadn’t really been in this place before and after chasing an errant ball in the general direction of the building, some inner desire had been piqued and he gave in to his adventurer’s spirit. It wasn’t like he was here to cause trouble. No, he was just here to look around.

The first two floors had yielded nothing of interest, being mostly classrooms where Donovan assumed some sort of teaching other than technique was performed. He had never been interested in dance, but there were bound to be aspects of it that were taught from behind a desk. Regardless, the rooms held nothing but tables and chairs and old chalkboards. Scattered about were old posters of what he assumed were famous dancers as well as inspirational quotes. Some of the quotes had been “modified” by the students in humorous ways and never taken down over the years. In short, it looked like every other building he had explored.

By the time he got to the third floor, the few people left in the building had begun to disperse. A late class let out and he ducked into an empty studio while the lithe forms of the dancers walked past. The room was empty save one wall covered with a mirror and a few mobile bars that he assumed were used for practicing their positions. Donovan was never one for watching himself, so seeing his reflection in the mirror room was a bit disconcerting. But the floor…the floor was interesting. It was made of old hardwood and though some places were more worn than others, it was still fairly even.

Checking the hallway through the tiny glass window in the door, Donovan made sure that everyone had already passed by before flicking on the light. Time was on his side now…more than likely the building was empty by now. Of course, he was taking the risk of being locked in, but most of the buildings let you out after closing, just not in again. Regardless, he wasn’t too worried about it.

He set his football down and began to run some quick foot drills. Donovan was a master, and though he wished he could claim it was due to tons of practice or natural talent, he knew part of it was due to his gift as a mimicrist. The ability to copy any physical motion exactly as you had witnessed it being performed was handy as well as a hindrance. Some things were better when they were earned.

The ball balanced easily on his foot before he began to kick it lightly in the air and let it drop back down upon his leg. The game was to keep it from touching the floor, though the walls themselves were fair game. He couldn’t use his hands and it couldn’t touch the floor, but that’s what made it fun. In his mind he kept count of the amount of times he successfully prevented the ball from hitting the wood floor while his body simply moved as needed. Even though he was a mimicrist, this fluidity of motion was all his own. The timing, the thought behind each calculation of where to move next…yes, these things were his. His and his alone. And no matter what ‘talent’ he may have discovered in his teen years, nothing could take away the feeling of true accomplishment.

[mai]

One would think that after sixteen years of stretches, several sacrificial tutus, and five years of pointe work, nothing prepared Maisha for the toil of new shoes. The pain, which she had blocked from her memory since the last time she wore through her shoes, was unbearable. This was the first practise that she had really had to get used to the stiff shanks and merciless satin. Oh, but the shoes, rather than slippers, were what made a dancer a dancer, her instructor informed her three hours before, and if she couldn’t deal with the pain and discomfort she had no right in being there. Her instructor was a beast - the same monster that had coached her through the last five years, in fact, once her old (and more favourable) instructor told her she was ‘ready’.

That was a baptism of fire. She had waited for so many years just like every other dancer before her, to be told she was ready. To be told she had to be fitted for the shoes that would allow her to really put her body to the test. It took a year to build the strength, confidence and skill to be able to hold the dancers’ most infamous and most gruelling position, to stand and to dance completely en pointe. But it was the same pair of shoes that lasted her since then until lately. It was to be expected really, when someone danced in the same pair of shoes for hours and hours every week for a number of years that the poor shoes would eventually wear thin and weak, and would have to be replaced. Mai put it off as long as she could and earned a few bruises for her stubbornness too, but just last week she resigned and went to be fitted.

The hell of new shoes reared its ugly head like a repressed nightmare that day, and it was the same stubbornness that had Maisha refusing to show her pain. When class broke up and the other dances - so few in such an advanced class - left the room in a cloud of chatter and smiles, Mai stayed behind. She waited until every one of them had left, even the Beast, before she showed any sign of weakness. First came the whimper as she resigned, and sat down on the cold, polished floor where she had been standing. Her jade green eyes screwed up in anguish as she unlaced first her right shoe and then her left, and paused. She knew that as soon as she took them off the pain would be worse still, so she had to pace herself.

She wasn’t wrong. Her poor feet, usually as lithe and supple as the rest of her, ached immeasurably when the cold air hit the sore, red skin. She knew that much longer and she would have blisters the size of Brazil, and cracked and swollen skin in gaps most people never even considered. For now they weren’t too bad, the marks of the most sensitive points worn deep into the skin on her toes and ankles, which generally meant they were a good fit.

She needed to get up, to have a shower and change before she left like the others, but she really didn’t like the idea of much movement at all let alone using her feet. She had to though. The stress and intensity of the whole class had left her exhausted rather than invigorated like it usually did, and the fine film of moisture that made her jet black leotard cling to her skin was testament to that. She rolled her head forward, stretching out the tense muscles in her neck and shoulders, and let her eyes close.

The room was quiet beyond the blackness of her eyes. The wooden floorboards creaked and cracked every now and again as though the room itself was trying to relax after the exhausting practise. The corridor outside the still open door was empty and as she strained to listen she couldn’t hear a thing. Beyond the floor length windows the outside world was quiet. It wasn’t raining, she could hear no wind, and-

Thud.

She was frowning before she even had her eyes open, directed straight at the open door. Her silent, peaceful meditation was broken rudely by a-

Thud.

Exhaling sharply, Mai pushed herself gracefully to her feet, the self sorrow over her pain so easily overcome by irritation that someone, whoever it was, clearly didn’t understand the sacredness of her own personal silence. Of course, the sound was only heightened by the complete absence of noise elsewhere in the building, and her own efforts to hear whatever she could, but still, her point was valid. She didn’t replace her shoes though, nor did she endeavour to cover them, even though the redness had all but faded by now. Her bare soles pressed solidly against the cold floor as she left the dance room and paused just outside the door. She glanced around her, waiting for another sound to reach her ears to show her the way, but she had no need for the obvious direction. As she looked down the dark corridor to her left a light - the only other one on that floor still lit - bled from glass panel of a closed door several yards away.

Maisha turned on her toe and walked, with a gentle toe-first stride developed over the years of ballet and high heals, straight to the source of the light and her annoyance. She didn’t bother to pause to peer through the glass before wrenching the cold metal handle and forcing the door open. Another step had her just inside, bared feet on wood once more, where her own arrogance had her hand placed firmly on her hip before the victim of her glare looked up to meet it.

She faltered ever so slightly, because she wasn’t expecting eyes quite that blue, or quite that innocent, to look back at her.

“Do you have any idea how many people would skin you alive for bringing that thing in here?” she questioned spitefully as she let her jade eyes flicker to the ghastly football in the man’s possession.

[donovan]

Donovan was completely absorbed in his own movements and the rhythmic sound of the ball pounding against the floor and walls that he had no idea that anyone else had entered the room. It was simply kick-bounce-dodge-heel-knee-kick-repeat. His mind was blissfully blank as the simple motions allowed him to for the first time that day not to focus on any of his problems. That is…until a sudden motion from the corner of his eye caught his attention and he was surprised to find a striking woman standing there with a look that could melt metal.

His sudden distraction broke the pattern he had established and without his careful attention, the ball came flying at him and slammed into his head before bouncing back towards the wall. There was a grunt of pain as Donovan raised his hand to rub his now ringing head and attempted to answer her only to see the ball heading back in his direction again. Prior to becoming the recipient of yet another embarrassing bang to the head, Donovan was able to catch the ball and tuck it beneath his arm before attempting to answer the still agitated girl.

“Well, uh…I…” Words failed him. There she was, glaring at him and his football. Yes, he wasn’t supposed to be here. Yes, it was inappropriately used a studio to practice his form. And yes, he was rather embarrassed to be caught and even more so that his normal functions seemed to be abandoning him, leaving him to blush and stammer.

’She looks like she should be tapping her foot. Her…bare…foot. Her bare and rather sore looking feet.’ That’s when it hit him that she was more than likely a dancer, and despite the fact she was the most exotic looking woman he had ever laid eyes on, she had every right to be upset over his use of this space. And yet her feet kept drawing his attention. They were definitely dancer feet. Probably beautiful at one time, but now they were tools, honed to perfection to dance in the tight and hard shoes of a ballerina.

Donovan had an urge to offer a massage, an unexplainable and unreasonable urge. He wasn’t a forward kind of person and especially not to people he didn’t know, but this woman seemed like she was so hard and rigid that she needed something. Another stray thought, another blush.

Finally, he forced his thoughts to form a cohesive sentence. “My apologies. I dinna realize anyone else was here. It was jus’ an empty room wit’ a mirror. I wouldna broke anything.”

He ran a hand through his thick, black hair, unsure of what to do. Obviously offering a massage was out. And though running out the door was a possibility, the fact it would brand him a coward made it not even an option. His heart pounded, so loud he feared it would echo through the room and give away his nervousness. The exact cause of which he would later seek to define and pinpoint, but here, in the moment, his only clue was that those eyes had him glued to floor.

Then, with out fully understanding how, Donovan was able to reach a level of calm acceptance and regain that balance he always strove to maintain. His lips parted into a sheepish smile and he gave his broad shoulders a shrug.

“But no, I don’t really have any idea how many people would skin me fer bringin’ my ball in here. From the looks of things, I think it’d jus’ be yeh.”

[mai]

As ferociously tempered as Maisha could be, there was something hysterically funny about a six-foot-something man getting owned by his own ball. She could have given it away, hell, she could have warned him, because anyone watching the scene could see it was about to happen, and it didn’t take any special gifts to see it either. The ball had shot like a bullet from his controlling touch, but as soon as he looked at her with that startled bunny expression, the ball had hit the far wall and was soaring back to meet him. There was an tiny urge to warn him and save him pain and embarrassment, but as with all such awkward urges, Mai buried it before it saw light.

Shifting her weight to her other foot she bit down on her tongue as her nostrils flared in an attempt at laughter. She buried that urge too, as well as she could, but the humour had long since infected her eyes and there was little she could do about that. For a fleeting moment, as the ball hit the back wall again, she wondered just how hard this man’s head must be for it to have such purchase to send the football off again so easily, but it was back in his hands and shoved casually under his arm before she could dwell. She fought the instinct to turn her nose up at him and stalk away, but right then she wasn’t sure why. There was something about his ‘I meant to do that’ attitude that had her amused enough to stay where she was.

As soon as he tried to speak, she was able to get control back over the laugh that she had been battling with, and her dangerous glare returned. And then, ugh, the gall of the man, to stare like that! Her brow creased in frustration as her glare turned indignant. If there was one thing - only one thing on her otherwise proud body - that made Maisha self conscious, it was her feet. She had decided years ago that dance was more important to her than having the dainty, delicate, manicured toes of most bombshells that walked the French streets. But her dance came at a price. It wasn’t that her feet were hideous, and most of the time when she wasn’t wearing in new shoes they appeared perfectly normal, but when they were sore and bruised as they were now it was a different matter. Some people just didn’t understand the importance of have good, hardwearing, strong feet, especially to a dancer, and when people don’t understand something they tend to be idiots about it.

Letting the door close with a snap behind her, Mai folded her arms loosely in front of her, shifting her weight yet again to bring one of her feet behind the other as though to hide it. Apparently that did it, because as soon as she did and his stare left her poor feet, a raspberry coloured blush swarmed his cheeks. Good, she thought as she lifted her head that little bit higher, the sooner he learns how to control his rudeness the better.

At least he wasn’t staring elsewhere.

Then came the apology - better late than never - but, like his crystal eyes minutes before, his voice took her by surprise. A single eyebrow raised over her softening gaze and she drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly. That accent was a rare one to hear in this part of the world, even with the diversity of Marseille and the neighbouring towns. It sounded strange coming from the tall, lean man, as though whoever created him had felt a need to give him something to break the uniform perf-

She cleared her throat, blinking away any thoughts that could possibly put this stranger in a good light. The awkward silence that punctuated his words was enough time for Mai steal a moment to retie the elastic that held her hair away from her clammy face and shoulders. She did so with the same amount of urgent force that she wanted the man standing before her to cower from. As soon as she’d finished he was talking again, and Mai’s hands were on her tightly-clothed hips again, her mouth dropping open just slightly as her tenacious scowl returned.

“No, actually, it wouldn’t just be me.” Ugh, he was so ignorant. “Here,” she snapped, walking the distance between them with a grace that defied the way she snatched the football from under his arm. He was taller, this close. “Let me break it down for you; these floors are specially built to dance on. Each one costs about as much as your college tuition. To replace them after they’ve been mistreated to within an inch of their life would cost as much as you’re probably ever going to ear playing your silly ball game,” - she rapped her fingers on the leather orb firmly in her grasp in front of her - “and just as much for the acting lessons it’d take for swing a football game these days. I have to admit some of the Champions League players deserve Oscar nominations with the way they roll around like they’ve been shot if another player comes to close…”

Rant over, and embarrassed enough to feel the need to defend it, she sighed heavily. Her brilliant green eyes finally left his face and glanced deliberately to the mirrored walls that surrounded them. “Besides, the floor’s just been polished and you could crack a mirror if you’re not careful.” There. Logic. He couldn’t argue with that. With one unsure, fleeting glance back at his sky blue eyes, Mai turned on her toes and strode back to the door and the hallway beyond, football still in her hands. After all, he couldn’t do much damage if he didn’t have it.

[donovan]

Donovan grinned at her retreating back, more intrigued now by the woman of fire than he had already been. While logic stated that to aggravate her further would border upon insanity, he couldn’t help but wonder where the strange desire to test that temper came from. He was used to strong women, hell…he grew up in a house full of them. But this one wasn’t a sister or mother, and she was much more appealing. ’Playing with fire can get you burned, Kenzie. But oh, what a way to go.’

Of course he should be contrite. He should feel a bit of guilt and remorse for abusing this room in such a manner. But he also was fairly confident that nothing bad would have happened. So long as his concentration had not been broken, he would have never lost control of the ball. But explaining that wouldn’t exactly put him in a better position with the firebrand who had left him standing in the empty room with no ball.

His mind finally clicked that if he was going to get his ball back, he’d have to follow the girl. Donovan smiled again and pulled open the door and looked to see which way she went. A shadow moved down to the right and Donovan turned to follow it. Odds were they were the only two in the building and that meant any movement not his was hers.

“Wait…can I have my ball back?” His voice called out into the darkened hall. There was no reply but he was pretty sure she had heard him. In his mind he imagined a wicked grin on her face as she led him on a merry chase through the building.

He paused, slowed his breathing and just listened. A door opened and closed up ahead. From the sound of it, it was on the left side of the hallway, but he figured that she’d probably have a light on in the room when he got there. Donovan did find a light switch near where he stood, but leaving them off was part of the fun.

Donovan picked up the pace and began to look for the tell-tale ribbon of light that would be peeking out into the hall. Sure enough, there it was…an inconspicuous solid wood door with only a hint of light. He straightened and rolled his shoulders to loosen his muscles before putting a hand on the door knob and stepping inside.

’What is it about her?’ Donovan couldn’t pinpoint it, but this woman intrigued him from the moment her voice cut sharply through his concentration. And then there were her long shapely legs, flashing green eyes, and full lips set in a line as she turned to glare at him. Perhaps the reason he felt so compelled was the fact that he hadn’t met anyone like her before.

He had never believed his own hype; he had never lived up to the star jock role that people assigned to him. Donovan wasn’t comfortable enough with girls to lead them on and his relationships could be counted on one hand. It came from watching his older sisters coming home with broken hearts…knowing the kind of pain they went through made him reluctant to play games with others’ hearts.

His lips twisted into a small smile as he watched her, knowing full well she knew he was doing it. Earlier when his attention was captured by her feet, he had a feeling that she was upset over the fact he had noticed them. But how could he not? It wasn’t like what she thought, that he was repulsed by them. Far from it…he had simply felt the urge to touch them. A strange, and probably border-line mental patient kind of desire, but it was there.

“Look, I’m verra sorry if I’ve upset yeh…but if yeh don’t mind, could I have my ball back? I promise to never mis-use your precious wood floors and mirrors again.” Donovan lifted his black brows and raised his shoulders a bit in what his mother called his ‘please forgive me?’ pose. “And, if yeh also don’t mind…could I get yer name? It’s no’ often I get such a well-delivered reprimand.”