[Edge]

"Well, my reputation just went down the drain." The grey-eyed foreigner announced as she walked in, setting her purse down and taking her shoes off unconsciously. As she peeled her coat off and set it on the coat rack, she noted that Yuriy's, Ian's, and Sergei's coats were absent. Given that the door was unlocked, Jayda could only assume that Boris was in.

"You have a reputation?" His voice originating from somewhere in one of the apartment's side rooms, –bedrooms, she assumed, but she'd never been in them- Boris sounded a little sceptical. Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, Jayda moved further into the apartment, wondering which room the burly man was in.

"Not anymore, no. Most of my peers think I'm either a psychopath or a masochist, my professors keep asking me if I'm okay and if things at home are alright, and now nurses are starting up with that we're-very-concerned-about-you crap." She answered, albeit a bit sulkily, as she moseyed around. "Where are you?"

"Door to your left." Came the curt response, followed up by, "So stop acting like a freaking girl, then."

Frowning, Jayda turned to her left, her eyes landing on a half-closed door, a dim light emanating from somewhere inside the room. Should she enter? That sort of struck her as crossing a boundary... but, then again, Boris didn't really acknowledge boundaries the way most people did; either you had a green light, or you were horribly mangled. Or possibly dead.

Not exactly encouraging, but Jayda figured if the man hadn't tossed her out of one of the many fifth floor windows at that point, he probably wasn't ever going to. Hopefully. Taking a deep breath to prepare herself in case she needed to scream blue bloody murder or run away, Jayda pushed the door open a little more and strategically placed herself in the doorway. There. Technically she wasn't invading his territory, but she wasn't just awkwardly hovering outside of his room either.

The room beyond the plain, painted oak door was almost Spartan in its simplicity, with little more than a bed, a desk, a dresser, and a closet. No decorations were fixed onto the walls, and the desk bore no ornamental lamps or knick-knacks of any kind. The closet was perpendicular to her, its plain, folding doors opened. She thought she could hear some rummaging around from within the closet, but she wasn't sure. She couldn't see Boris anywhere.

"What do you mean acting like a girl?"The redhead wanted to know, and there was no mistaking the faintly affronted undertone to her question. "I don't run away, crying for help. I don't cower and hope someone comes and saves me. I fight back, don't I? How is that girly?"

"Like a girl, not girly." Boris muttered, and his head appeared from behind the closet door, his coal-black eyes fixing her with an agitated stare. "You coming in or what? I don't have all goddamn day, you know."

There wasn't much she could say to that, she Jayda complied and moved further into the room, until she stood at the foot of the bed, now parallel to the closet. What she saw was quite a surprise.

Mounted onto the wall, behind several shirts and jackets that were hung up on hangers –all currently pushed to the side- was possibly the biggest display of knives she had ever seen. The man had everything from hunting knifes to utility knives to what she suspected might be military-issue knives, all shiny and clean and impossibly sharp. A light from within the closet lent the hard, tapered edges a sharp glean, and she saw that some of the knives had quite detailed work along the blades.

Holy crap.

"You're girly, but you act like one, too." Boris continued, picking up a large hunting knife with serrated edges towards the bone-handle hilt. He tested the edge against the pad of his thumb, only to decide that it was satisfactory and put it back. "You run around pissing people off, and then you get all bloodied up every time someone gets the jump on you. Why? Because you're completely fucking helpless. If it were me-"

"Boris, if it were you, there'd be a bloodbath and then Yuriy's head would explode." Jayda interrupted without really meaning to. The words had just sort of slipped out of her mouth before she'd had time to think about the pros and cons of actually saying what she was thinking.

Boris stared at her for several long, awkward moments, and Jayda started calculating just how far away the front door was and if she could make it in time, only for the man to snort and continue talking. As he did, he continued to select and check the various knives, looking for defects or insufficient sharpness meticulously.

"Whatever. You're helpless. You suck at fighting." He set another knife –a kukri knife this time- back onto the rack, and picked up a machete. Strangely, Jayda didn't feel particularly threatened.

It probably helped that she'd opted not to point out what an unbelievably sexist statement he'd just made. Boris didn't debate things like feminism and gender equality. Boris just broke people's faces in a number of nightmare-inducing ways.

Of course, she hadn't witnessed any of this herself, but Ian was very good at telling graphic stories, and Sergei always confirmed them. Ian alone she might have disbelieved, but Sergei didn't exaggerate.

Chewing on her lip as she thought about what the man had said –she knew better than to get offended and throw a fit about a lack of confidence in her skills; whatever might be said about the man, when it came to fighting, he knew his stuff. If Boris thought she sucked, then she probably did.

"Okay... So teach me."

"What?" From the look Boris was giving her, he was seriously questioning her mental stability and wondering if there was something seriously wrong with her.

What he didn't know was that, secretly, Jayda was, too.

The Canadian pointed at one of the bowie knives on the rack and, completely ignoring the Russian's disbelieving stare, noted, "That one needs to be sharpened a little more on the one side."

"Anderson."

Boris, it seemed, was the only one to still refer to her by her family name. Given the man's inherent distrust of everyone and anyone, as well as his normally hostile disposition, Jayda didn't take it personally.

"What? You said I sucked, so do something about it. Teach me how to fight properly." It all seemed very logical from the redheaded Canadian's viewpoint. Oh, sure, it was also absolutely bat-shit insane, because she was basically giving Boris permission to beat the crap out of her, but there was no denying that it was a terrifyingly logical idea.

A tingly feeling at the back of her neck prompted her to meet the man's eyes, and his expression was no longer one of disbelief. Instead, his eyes held that same calculating look that Yuriy always had, taking stock of her height, weight, and muscle mass before reaching a conclusion.

"Nyet."

Colouring with anger, she bit out, "Well, then, don't start complaining-"

"You're too damn small, Anderson; I'd snap your neck like a twig if I just punched you."

Well that was a scary thought. Shifting her weight from one foot to the other, Jayda asked, "So, what, then?"

"Ask Yuriy to teach you." Boris muttered, and then he reached for the bowie knife. "He's the least likely to kill you by mistake."

Jayda pointedly ignored the goose bumps she felt all over her arms and neck, and she put the sudden fluttery twisting of her insides down to residual nausea from her prescription antibiotics.

She spoke once more without realizing it, only to wonder if she really was mentally all there, because, seriously? "Okay, I will. Thanks."

"Don't fucking mention it. I'm not joking -Ian will never shut up if he finds out."