nonscriptum | hadriel { ic inbox }

[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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