The idea of teaching Carmilla anything is almost so ludicrous as to be laughable.
And that's just what you do when she asks, eyes looking anywhere but yours and a slight, uncharacteristic blush coloring her cheeks. You know you shouldn't, this is another one of those brain-mouth filter moments you swore you'd work on, but you can't help it. She's standing before you, this vision of eternal perfection (or so you think, anyway), this incredible being who has seen war and death and chaos, and has lived through a sizeable portion of modern history, who has this annoying and endearing propensity to just drop truth bombs like they're all that run through her mind. Carmilla, who has probably forgotten more than you could ever learn.
"I want you to teach me how to fight," she'd muttered, unable to hold your gaze.
And so you'd laughed. And okay, definitely not the right response, but at first you're sure she must be joking. But then you'd noticed those eyes, so full of sincerity and underscored by...was that shame? So yeah, laughing was definitely not the answer the woman before you had been looking for. The shame is so unfamiliar in her eyes that you immediately sober and reach for her hands, taking them in yours as you angle yourself into her line of vision. The shame melts then, melts to an intense determination that is so much more like her, and bores into you such that the tiny dorm around you melts away.
"Why?" You question, softly, gently.
"Because, I-" She pauses, seeming to search for words. It's obvious she hadn't planned this, but she soldiers on anyway, "Because I couldn't save you. Or, I mean, I could. But I had to die to do it. And I should be able to protect you, a lady should be protecte-"
She stops again and steps away from you, throwing her hands up in frustration.
"That's not what I meant. Obviously you can protect yourself, I just…"
She sighs, her back still to you, lifting one (perfect, elegant) hand to her head, brushing stray locks away from her eyes.
"Carm, you don't have to explain, I can-"
"No, I need to get this out, but I'm trying to work out what I even mean. You'll have to excuse me, expressing myself without the platitudes and false wisdom of philosophers long dead is a new concept to me."
So you stand, hands clasped, waiting for her to sort herself out.
Because as weird as the request was, you're not opposed to the idea. Far from it. The idea of a sweaty, panting Carmilla in loose fitting combat clothes, body pressed against yours as she brings you to the floor is…
Well, quite frankly, it's sexy as hell.
You're snapped away from your mini-daydream when she turns back to you, eyes afire.
"In all my life, I've never learned to really fight. I've always been so strong that I didn't need it. And then I confronted Will, and my mother, and I realized just how weak I was. I was this mewling kitten compared to them. So I don't need to learn to protect you, that's obvious. You hurt Will more than I ever could with a single punch. But I think I need to learn this for me."
It might be the most you've ever heard her speak at once. And you can tell that this is something deeper, maybe more important than even what she's just told you could let on.
So you nod. You smile and take her hands again.
"Ok," you say.
/
The first thing you realize is just how goddamn strong she is.
In the most raw, physical sense, Carmilla is enormously powerful. Her form, energized from a large helping of her favorite B Positive out of her gatorade bottle, is a rippling mass of lean muscle and fluid movement.
Which is good. Perfect, even, for what you need to teach her. Because as sexy as she is in sweats and a tight black sports bra, the moment you step in front of her, you enter instructor mode and you can tell that she hadn't been expecting what you're about to tell her.
"Krav Maga is not like most martial arts. This isn't a spiritual art like many of the others, not a way to find yourself."
She quirks her head at that, worrying her lower lip a little as she waits for you to continue.
"My dad had me instructed in this because he's a paranoid nut sometimes, in the best way, but he chose this because Krav Maga is about brutal efficiency. There's no hand holding, no mercy. It's about breaking your opponent before they can react. Killing, if necessary."
You step back a few feet, relishing the feel of the soft mat beneath your feet. You were so grateful to Danny for letting you use the Summer Society's sparring room, because teaching this in your dorm would have been an exercise in futility.
"So," you say, trying not to betray your nerves, "I want you to try to punch me."
Immediately she looks uncomfortable, like maybe suddenly this wasn't such a good idea. And it's probably not. You know you only got away from Will due to the element of surprise, and that in a real fight, even a Krav Maga master might have trouble against a vampire. But you've given your word you'd teach her, as best you could, so you harden your gaze and square your stance.
"Carmilla! Hit me!"
You've obviously put enough of a challenge in your voice, because she steels herself as well, launching forward and throwing a respectable hook. She's holding back, she must be, because you can follow her movements so she's not using her super speed. And thank god, cause otherwise you would have been hit.
Instead, your training kicks in. Smooth, deliberate movements flow from your body as you deflect her arm and pivot her body over your own, throwing her to the floor and using momentum to follow, rolling until you're atop her, pinning her in such a way that despite her strength, she can't get the leverage to move.
And she's looking up at you with a respect you've never seen before. Not that she doesn't respect you (you hope), but this is...different. Like maybe you're more...equal? No, that's not right, but you can't spend the time analyzing because she's smiling, this bright smile that is so rare it makes your chest hurt and makes you forget that you've just thrown her like a ragdoll.
"That was pretty fun, cupcake. Can we try that again?"
And you smirk. Cause, okay, maybe this won't be so bad.
/
The towel feels coarse and rough in your hands as you dry off from your shower. Somehow, three hours had flown by in that dojo, and by the end Carmilla was by no means an expert, but she could definitely fight off a mugger in the streets. She'd even wanted to continue, but you both were laying flat against the mat, panting as though you'd run a marathon, so you had called it for the day.
But you loved the way her eyes had shone with excitement when you promised to continue teaching her.
You step out into the dorm proper then, hair twisted up in the towel with a second wrapped around your chest, more against the cold than for modesty's sake. She's on your bed, like usual, a blanket wrapped tightly around her lower body as she holds a huge, ancient looking book in her lap.
"Whatcha reading, spooky?" You ask, teasingly, "Brushing up on another dead language?"
She laughs, eyes on the book still, but it sounds forced, and its then you notice the tear streak just drying against her cheek. And that's, well, that's alarming, cause you don't know if you've ever seen her cry, not for real. So you slip on a pair of pajamas as quickly as you can before settling down on the bed next to her, leaning back against the headboard.
On the page is a painting of a stern man, ancient and noble, with hair like the night and sharp features that remind you strongly of-
"Carm, is that your dad?"
She nods, a finger tracing the frame around the painting on the page.
"Earlier, when I was... Well, when I was making a fool of myself trying to explain my reasoning, I said that a lady needed to be protected. I didn't mean that you couldn't protect yourself, or that you shouldn't, but-"
She sighs, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you in.
"I was raised a Countess-in-Training. Every day of my life was regimented, structured. I was taught that a lady should learn needlepoint, child-rearing, perhaps a craft or an instrument to keep her occupied while the man went to war, or ran the house. I was never allowed to fight or learn to defend myself."
She closes the book, another, smaller sigh escaping her lips as she takes one of your hands and holds it on top of the book.
"Maman was the same. We were Ladies, she would say. Let the boys get their hands dirty, that was their way. Ours was a way of seduction, of soft caresses and whispered promises. Even in death, I was raised, taught, that women were the weaker, softer sex. And I mean, I'm pretty badass," she jokes, "but I guess I never shook that teaching."
"Carm, I-"
She cuts you off then, turning to look at you with something akin to pride.
"Seeing you fight off Will like that, when you knew he could snap you like a branch, was eye opening. You were like some kind of superwoman. In over 300 years, I'd never seen a human stand up to a Vampire like that, and to have it come from a woman, well," she laughs then, a throaty laugh from deep in her chest that makes your stomach bottom out in the best way, "it was pretty sexy. But more than that, it opened my eyes. It gave truth to something I've honestly been too cowardly to admit, that maybe Maman and Father were wrong. That we're just as strong as they are."
And you know that she feels like she's not getting this out right, you can see the frustration in her eyes, but it's okay because you get it, and it's a pretty heady thing, being able to experience this discovery of independence in a person you thought had learned all there was to know in the world.
And you could tell her all of this. But instead you kiss her, once softly, and once again much more intensely, before you pull back, and you can see the sparkle of your eyes reflected in hers.
"I think it's time we introduce you to my good friend Buffy."