[ he's always been of the opinion that anyone who says that fighting is like dancing has never been in a fight. a proper fight. one where the matter of winner or loser is more than a matter of pride and dignity and everything about survival and want and need, when it stops being what should be effective and becomes what works.
(whether that's biting a vampire or something else entirely is hardly important.)
but it doesn't stop him from admiring her as she practises — she's not a shadowhunter, no, and she lacks the inherent, automatic grace and balance that comes with being as such, but that almost makes it better. more entrancing and fascinating to watch. quidditch, that was what she'd called it, wasn't it? the game with the brooms and the balls (sticks and balls and hoops and there was an innuendo if he'd ever heard one—) had helped cultivate a sense of awareness of self that he didn't quite see when he watches anyone else.
(that he might not really watch anyone else is beside the point.)
fluid, he supposes, is the word more than graceful. it's still a little too dirty, too rough, too — everything to really be full of grace or technically perfect, but it would be (is) effective, and that's really all that matters, he imagines. for her, at least. (or for anyone of them when it comes down to it.)
but in spite of her faults and her missteps and her occasional lack of form, will thinks he can almost understand why some people might say it's almost like a dance.
almost.
not that he tells her any of this, of course. after a while of deliberately scrutinising her movements (or more accurately: after alternately appearing to scrutinise her movements and nap), he leans back against the wall, carefully crossing his legs and exhaling audibly and obnoxiously and— ]
You remind me of something. [ uttered — deliberately — in the tone of someone who can't think what, exactly, but is very, totally, exceptionally sure that it isn't flattering.
idk where i was going with this
(whether that's biting a vampire or something else entirely is hardly important.)
but it doesn't stop him from admiring her as she practises — she's not a shadowhunter, no, and she lacks the inherent, automatic grace and balance that comes with being as such, but that almost makes it better. more entrancing and fascinating to watch. quidditch, that was what she'd called it, wasn't it? the game with the brooms and the balls (sticks and balls and hoops and there was an innuendo if he'd ever heard one—) had helped cultivate a sense of awareness of self that he didn't quite see when he watches anyone else.
(that he might not really watch anyone else is beside the point.)
fluid, he supposes, is the word more than graceful. it's still a little too dirty, too rough, too — everything to really be full of grace or technically perfect, but it would be (is) effective, and that's really all that matters, he imagines. for her, at least. (or for anyone of them when it comes down to it.)
but in spite of her faults and her missteps and her occasional lack of form, will thinks he can almost understand why some people might say it's almost like a dance.
not that he tells her any of this, of course. after a while of deliberately scrutinising her movements (or more accurately: after alternately appearing to scrutinise her movements and nap), he leans back against the wall, carefully crossing his legs and exhaling audibly and obnoxiously and— ]
You remind me of something. [ uttered — deliberately — in the tone of someone who can't think what, exactly, but is very, totally, exceptionally sure that it isn't flattering.
and is determined to remember what. ]