nonscriptum | hadriel { ic inbox }

Well, pretty sure I'd need at least a college education for a teaching license.

[Yeah, he can tell that this already considerable amount of sass will increase tenfold once they really get started.]

We'll manage. To be honest, if you ended up breaking any of my bones I'd be- [Pleasantly surprised?] -impressed. We can start with stuff like blocks, and getting out of holds today. Save the headbutting for later.

Depends what you're teaching and how underfunded the school is.

[It will definitely just get worse and worse so at least Nate's prepared. And Lance gives him a flat look for the other comments.]

I'm going to try very hard not to take that as either an insult or a challenge, and just say okay.

[Although he thinks of something else, and hesitates a moment before deciding to just ask; he might as well get a head-start on embarrassing himself.]

I do know something I specifically need to work on. Um... The last time I had to punch someone, I broke my hand pretty badly and I'd like to not have that happen again in the future.

[It had been so annoying. Of course it goes without saying that he'd rather not have to punch anyone at all ever, but he knows that's wishful thinking.]

[If Lance managed to break Nate's nose, he'd take the guy out for ice cream in celebration. It's not like it hasn't been broken before.

The noticeable increase in zingers is leading Nate to suspect that it's partly a defense mechanism. Lance doesn't want to be seen as an easy target, nor does he want others to assume he is a novice to any form of combat. A burden. Nate can't say he blames him, but sometimes it's better to be underestimated.

That last comment, though?

He has to physically stop, feeling a laugh seize at his lungs violently. It's not funny. It's really not funny. Except that it is.]

Oh, God- [He wheezes, patting Lance's shoulder as he starts to walk again, giggles wracking his frame.] Okay, that's- we'll work on that.

[Okay, Nate, uncalled for. Lance crosses his arms when they come to a stop, eyes narrowing a little, glowering at Nate with more annoyance than he actually feels. He could say something that would probably make Nate feel very guilty for laughing, but decides not to; it really is probably pretty funny, and it's not like Lance isn't aware of his own lameness when it comes to fighting.]

Are you done?

[He asks dryly when they start walking again, raising an eyebrow. Nate's definitely right in that the sass is a way to feel more confident and in control of the situation, because although he logically knows this is all fine and he trusts Nate, he's still anxious; it's not as though he's had the best history in fights, or with violence in general.]

Yep.

[He says through a toothy grin, picking up the pace a little. It isn't fair to make fun, particularly when he's almost broken his own hand in the past under similar circumstances, but that was less "improper form" and more "the guy he was punching was practically made of concrete."

For now, he tables the mockery. Should Lance engage in fisticuffs in the future, Nate genuinely wants him to be able to make it through without snapping his own bones against someone else's jaw. As they walk - nearly there now - he explains.]

You were probably curling all your fingers in too tightly, and the force of the punch broke them. It's normal to make a fist like that for everything but fighting, so the inclination wasn't wrong.

[Nate extends one of his own hands between them, palm up, to demonstrate.]

You tuck your fingers in a line so the tips curl into your palm; it'll feel a little awkward. You're making a flat surface so you have more area to punch with- [He indicates the proper shape.] -and you keep your thumb between the second and third knuckles of your index and middle fingers. It's safe there, because if you keep it curled under them when you make a fist, a single punch is gonna crack your thumb like a stale breadstick.

[Lance watches carefully, paying attention to both what Nate's saying and what he's doing; it all makes sense, but definitely feels a little weird as he tries to replicate it. He also has to very purposefully think about it, which makes him slightly worried about any ability to actually do it in a fight, but he reminds himself that's what practice is for.]

Right. Okay. I'd rather break my hand again than my thumb, so...

[He'll keep that last remark in mind. Breaking fingers is way creepier to him, and he knows it is to a lot of people, which is why breaking other people's fingers is such an effective tactic.]

Is there a best place to aim for? I know you want to avoid teeth for... All sorts of reasons.

[Like horrible, hand-rotting infections he's heard about in discussions in the lab. Ew.]

[He can sense the hesitation. Lance isn't yet comfortable with the shape he has to press his hand into for it to be effective, and it's apparent he's the sort of person who likes to be perfect at something as quickly as possible.]

Don't get too bent out of shape if it doesn't come easily at first. It will. You'll feel the difference when you're actually punching.

[They reach their post: a clearing abutting a rocky ridge, far enough from civilization to avoid being seen with enough space to not worry about breaking anything. As Lance inquires about effective areas for wounding, Nate huffs a little laugh and lets his bag slide to the ground in a small cloud of dust.]

For now, I'd say injure whatever you can get to easiest? [The "spray and pray" of hand-to-hand combat.] But the mouth will take off a couple layers of skin if you do it wrong, so try to concentrate on the throat, the eyes, the temples. The cheek if you have to. You can still knock a few teeth out that way without risking your hand.

[Lance is definitely a perfectionist, with a helpful dose of being convinced that if he doesn't get it right immediately then not only is it a huge failing but he's just terrible at whatever it is with no hope of improving. But he knows that about himself, and so he tries to listen to what Nate says instead of his own feelings on the subject at the moment.

Instead, he listens to the answer as he looks around at their location, shifting on his feet a little uncertainly before looking back at Nate.]

Okay. I'll keep all of that in mind.

[He means it, but it's probably obvious in his voice just how dubious he is that this is going to be useful. Not that Nate isn't providing useful information, just that Lance is not sure about applying it; he's never been too effective in a fight before, at least not without falling back on his gun or magic, and so this suddenly feels like a hopeless waste of time when Nate could surely be doing something more important.]

[Nate doesn't need a doctorate in psychology to tell that Lance is vastly discomfited with every passing second. It isn't like him to be so quiet, to cull his commentary into non-existence, to gaze so moodily at their surroundings as if waiting for something to go horribly wrong. The definitive lack of backtalk is what clues him in to the fact that Lance is...afraid.

Of fighting, or learning how? Of executing physical violence, or receiving it? Both? All of the above?

Nate realizes with a sudden gut-punch of dismay that he should have put the puzzle pieces together a lot sooner than just now. Lance's early childhood was a battleground for his own safety. He died trying to defend himself from a trained killer. The association is already tainted and while Nate won't cushion the experience with bubble-wrap, the least he can do is make accommodations for the reservations Lance obviously has.]

Hey. Look at me. [He raises his eyebrows at the wandering gaze.] You're new at this. It'll take some time. Stop overthinking it, your face is going to get stuck like that.

[He looks at Nate again as asked, quiet while he talks, but this time there's very little delay before he offers a comment of his own.]

There's no such thing as overthinking.

[He says it with the faintest hint of a smile, remembering a nearly identical conversation he had once at home when Booth had accused him of overthinking and Brennan had chimed in to say that was impossible. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and then continues more hesitantly.]

I'm just... I'm not going to be good at this, and I don't like not being good at things.

[And of course all the things Nate realized, which are much more the issue, but this is the one he's willing to admit to right now. Besides, it's sort of implying the rest, if incredibly vaguely; he knows he's not good at any sort of fighting from past experience, and the consequences for that were more than serious enough to instill a fear of failure.

But again, he reminds himself that it's just Nate, and it's fine. The light comments help keep that very apparent; this is just practice, and nothing catastrophic is going to happen even if he's the worst ever in history. So he takes another deep breath, then nods more to himself than to Nate.]

But okay. What are we doing first?

[Nate snorts; logically, Lance isn't wrong. Overthinking is impossible. Thinking so much that you become distracted and distant and somebody has to wave a hand in front of you to bring you back to earth? He's a pro at that. Just ask his wife, or anyone who has known him for longer than five minutes.

Crouching over his bag, Nate starts digging through its contents as Lance continues with an honesty he hasn't yet seen from the younger man. Little surprise that he's a perfectionist and admits to it, that he knows his discouraging attitude is a product of wanting to be good at something, posthaste. Nate's smile slants sympathetic. His first foray into scaling buildings was only moderately disastrous, but he's improved significantly since he was twelve.

It takes time.]

First.

[He pulls two rolls of what look like medical bandages from his bag, tossing them to Lance. Nate winks.]

I'm gonna show you how to wrap your hands so you don't break them.

[Lance catches the rolls, one in each hand, though he eyes them dubiously before looking at Nate again.]

I think I actually vaguely remember how to do this.

[From his sports adventures back in college before he'd decided to go with track.]

You box in school?

[Nate assumes it was education-oriented, because Lance really doesn't strike him as the FBI agent who goes jogging around the agency fields at Quantico. He's the kind of guy who has probably gotten stuck playing desk jockey one too many times - and how often does he get outside on a case, anyway?

He pulls two more rolls from the bag, standing and moving to Lance's side.]

They tell you what the point of the wrap is?

For about two days.

[It had not at all been a good fit for him, both for some of the reasons he's nervous now and because he'd also been about five feet tall. But he shakes his head at the question, watching Nate.]

Not really, but I assume it's to stabilize the joints and tendons?

[That would make sense, right?]

You're not too far off, actually.

[Tucking one wrap in his pocket, he unravels the first and shows him where to loop it before starting the process. Slowly, with the intention of Lance following along.]

It's partly for safety, partly for stability. A good wrap tightens your fist when you clench it, keeps it in the right shape. If you get in a fight you obviously won't have time to wrap your hands up, but at least you'll know what your fist is supposed to feel like before you take a swing.

[It's a form of muscle memory training that he didn't have at his own disposal when he first started throwing punches in the cafeteria or the schoolyard, but it should serve Lance well in getting him acclimated to the feeling.]

[Lance pays careful attention to what Nate's doing, copying his movements and beginning to wrap his hand as Nate does.]

Right, okay. That makes sense. The less time you have spend thinking during a fight, the better.

[He distinctly remembers how fast everything had happened in the fight at home, even if at the time the moments had also seemed to stretch out. So much had happened in such a short time, and it had gone from a back and forth exchange to being over in just a few seconds.

He still doesn't know, exactly, what he could've done, even looking back. That certainly doesn't help his confidence but at the same time it's also a good reason to be learning, even if he hasn't quite realized yet that he's stopped copying Nate's wrapping and is instead sort of just staring down at his hand.]

[Lance acknowledges, processes, and seems to get stuck again. Nate has to wonder if this is what it's like working with his own damn self when he gets caught up, or drifts into a new train of thought. People frequently tell him it's annoying, so, probably.

It's a lot. He exercises patience, tugging his own wrap off and moving around in front of Lance. Gently prying the fabric free he finishes the wrap for him, picking up the conversational slack.]

You're gonna suck the first few days we work on this, [Nate warns him, pinning the cloth to the back of Lance's wrist.] Until you find your rhythm. Practice makes perfect.

[Stepping away with a reassuring pat to Lance's bicep, Nate retreats back to his bag for the punching pad he brought.]

Put that other wrap on, Rocky.

[He snaps out of it as soon as Nate moves to help finish the wrap, immediately somewhat embarrassed both for zoning out and for need the help because of it.

But Nate is being patient and so Lance takes a moment to let out a long, quiet exhale, refocusing on watching what Nate's doing and then nodding in understanding at his words. Right. Okay, he's going to suck at this, and it's fine; they both know it, so no pressure, right?

He works on the other wrap as Nate goes to dig through his bag, finishing it quickly and shaking off the rest of his mood.]

So, did you ever have any actual lessons, or did you just pick everything up through experience?

[The tone of the question is purposefully light, not because he thinks it'll be a touchy subject but because he's trying to keep a positive attitude and move on with this whole thing.]

[Nate cobbled together something akin to a punching pad - with limited resources like theirs, he didn't exactly have a choice - and fishes it free now: canvas with a MacGyvered handle, fabric and leather in a general oval shape. He didn't want Lance throwing punches at his face or chest for practice.

Not at first, anyway.]

Experience, mostly? [He doesn't think that coaching from his older brother on how to take hits more effectively qualifies as a professional lesson.] After Sam got kicked out of Saint Francis I got picked on a lot more often. Had to learn really quickly what not to do.

[Time and again he would get written up, receive the usual chastisement from a livid Sister Catherine, overhear the concerned please for his well-being from Father Duffy. It wasn't so different from other prisoners or a warden with a big stick.]

Didn't really matter if it was street kids competing for an alley, or some overly-friendly inmates, or the cartel. Everyone hits the same. You learn which buttons to push and you get fast, or... [His note wrinkles at a brief memory and he stands, fitting the pad over one hand.] You bleed out in a gutter.

[Yeah, bleeding out a gutter--or a parking garage--isn't fun, and Lance almost makes a morbid comment about such, but decides not to. Instead, he files all that information away and raises his eyebrows, giving a small grin as he wanders a little closer.]

Did you ever break your hand?

From making a fist the wrong way? No.

[He's lucky. Luckier than he knows, and lucky enough that it may be noticeable to others. The kind of scrapes that Nate walks away from with a quip and a smile would kill most men.

Nate remembers trying to clock a blockhead employed by Katherine Marlowe, though, and how ineffective boxing maneuvers were until he roped a safety line around the guy and pushed him out of a falling airplane. Treasure hunting needs hazard pay.]

From punching a guy with a jaw made of granite? Almost. Now show me your stance.

hadriel { ic inbox }

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