hadriel { ic inbox }

[nonscriptum]

This is Nate, you know what to do. I'll...probably get back to you.

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[lifetothefullest]

[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.]

[nonscriptum]

[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.

[lifetothefullest]

[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?

[nonscriptum]

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.