That's where all the strange machines for workin' up a sweat are, right? [He's about eighty percent sure he's right about that, but it's a strange room and a strange word.]
Yeah, that then! [He claps his hands together enthusiastically, though the camera doesn't catch it, since he's actually still peering into it from rather too close. The grin comes through, though. Up close and personal.] You free now? I can meet you there... pretty much any time. [Given he has absolutely no other demands on his time.]
[He almost asks if there's anything specific he should wear - he
sees people in the gym dressed differently, sometimes - but he realises
that this man won't know and he doesn't really have anything
anyway.]
I'll - meet you there.
[He at least shows up without his jacket or vest, just one of his
old and slightly frayed white shirts.]
Porthos doesn't bother to answer, though he does spend a moment fumbling with the damn communicator before he manages to turn it off. For his part, he shows up in the gym just a few minutes later fully outfitted in his normal gear, from studded leather doublet and heavy pauldron to swordbelt, pistol, and heavy, thigh-high boots.
"Credence!" He greets the boy with a smile, and while the scars might potentially make it sinister the deep dimples and easy warmth of it counter the effect neatly. "Good t'meet you, just gimme a minute here." And he starts to strip down for grappling; he wants all his gear here in case he needs it, but it's not needed for the lesson and he drapes his belts, with pistol, sword and main gauche, over the handiest piece of equipment with no real consideration for its purpose. It's followed in short order by his hat, his uniform pauldron, and his doublet. leaving him in just a loose and somewhat worn linen blouse and his leather trousers and boots.
"Now, d'you know anything 'bout fighting, or are we startin' off from scratch?"
"Yes, sir. That is - no - I don't know anything," Credence says, and then
adds reflexively: "Sorry."
He's watched the man strip off his outer layer with a little fascination;
he's never encountered anyone of Porthos' time period here, and it makes
him curious.
"Don't apologize," Porthos answers cheerfully enough. "It's not something t'be sorry for. Think of it this way, jus' means you don't 'ave any bad habits to unlearn, right?" And there is something to be said for that, though the idea of a grown man not having the first idea about how to fight is beyond strange to him.
For his part, Porthos doesn't really see all that much difference between how Credence is dressed and the vast majority of people he's seen aboard; they're all alien and strange, and apparently so far ahead of him that even the ones from... from Earth might as well be from entirely different planets as far as he can tell.
"C'mon this way, then." He leads the way out onto the largest section of open flooring, which not coincidentally happens to be covered in mats... and which Porthos pauses to shift his weight on experimentally. "What, d'they think we're made of glass or somethin', that we need padding t'fall down on?" he asks, bemused.
"I...I guess it's easier if you don't get hurt every time? If you're...just
practicing?" Credence suggests faintly. He's only ever been in here to
clean and fix the equipment.
"Well, there is somethin' t'be said for pain bein' a great motivator t'learn," he points out, eyebrows arching up. "But... this ain't meant t'be painful," he adds quickly, remembering his instructions. And while they might have been given by an inmate he chose to participate, so he'll abide by the remit he was given.
He looks around again and spots the heavy bags, which at least are somewhat familiar. "'ere, we'll start with this." He nods towards them and continues across the padded floor to where one of them hangs. "Teach you 'ow t'throw a proper punch, 'at'll hurt whoever you're hittin' an' not you, yeah?"
"'e said 'e wanted you t'have some fun," is the best answer Porthos can offer, though he has to admit the kid doesn't look like he thinks this is much fun. Maybe he just needs to get into it first. "An' hey, it's never a bad idea to 'ave some idea how to defend yourself, never know when it'll come in 'andy, right?" Have another dimpled smile, Credence, he's doing his best here.
As hardwired as he is to go for the worst possible conclusion, he thinks:
Quentin thinks he'll lose his magic. He'll do something wrong and Alec will
take it away and then he'll be helpless.
"Right," he says, doing the best he can to sound agreeable. "So - what do I
have to do?"
"Well, 'ow 'bout we try an' give you the skills to keep that from happenin' again, then?" he offers cheerfully enough, though he's still trying to wrap his head around the idea of a grown man who's never thrown a punch. "First thing you gotta know is 'ow to make a proper fist, or the only one you'll be doin' any damage to is yourself.
"So 'ere, hold your hand out, an' then close it like this." He demonstrates with his own hand, extended palm down, and then folds all his fingers in before folding his thumb across the bottom of them all.
"Exactly, there you go, lad. Now, I want you t'aim at this spot, right 'ere." He touches his fingers lightly to a spot directly opposite Credence's face on the bag. "An' give it a good, hard hit, like this." And he demonstrates with a quick, sharp jab to the bag that sets it rocking.
Not many do, including his fellow Musketeers, so he's neither surprised nor bothered by the lack. "Good job," he encourages, because he can see Credence actually did try, and there's no point criticizing a failing the boy can't do anything about in the moment.
"You feel 'ow it came not just from your arm, but from your shoulders an' back?" He touches Credence's shoulder to reinforce his words. "Gave you more power'n if you'd used just your arm, an' you'll get even more if you get your hips into it too."
Porthos pulls his hand back immediately at the flinch, he's more than familiar with men and women wary of unsolicited touch, and for more than good reason. It tells him a little more about the boy's shyness and quiet as well.
"I won' touch you without askin' again," he promises, not solemnly at all, but as if it's simply an unexceptionable matter of course. "As for 'ow t'do that, look here."
He sets himself up at the bag, both hands raised and curled into fists in front of him, feet planted solidly in a way that makes it look like it might take a team of mules to move him, but also like he could move in any direction without hardly having to think about it. "You just... when you throw a punch-" He makes a point of moving a little slower this time- "You put your whole body b'hind it. Shoulders 'an hips an' even your legs if it's important enough." And he demonstrates, weight shifting into the blow as he follows through onto the bag. "You've got t'be careful to keep your balance, though. You put too much into it an' overbalance into your opponent an' they have you at a disadvantage."
He steps back and turns to Credence. "You ready t'try?"
He tries, and he does what he's told - a little stiffly, perhaps, but he
follows through. His shoulders, his hips, a slight shifting of his feet,
all of it going into the swing of his arm - and the bag still barely seems
to notice the impact, except for the way it jars his wrist and elbow.
He steps back, frowning faintly, shaking out his arm.
"Well, an' just 'how many folks d'you think are good at somethin' the first time they ever try it, then?" he asks reasonably. Because, yeah, the kid's definitely not a natural, but there's no point discouraging him, and he keeps reminding himself he's meant to be trying to make it fun... though he's got no clue how to go about accomplishing that. "An' that time was better." Because it was, even if it still wasn't impressive.
"Just, 'ere." He holds out his own arm again, hand fisted. "One thing t'keep in mind is that your wrist needs t'be straight, fist lined right up with your forearm, otherwise if you hit hard enough the most damage you'll be doin' is t'your own wrist." He demonstrates with a light punch this time, not rocking the bag at all, just showing the alignment of his arm.
"An'" He purses his lips, considering, then grins. "How 'bout this, there anyone you especially can't stand? Who you'd love t'see get a fist straight t'the face? 'Cause it don't hurt if you let yourself imagine you're hittin' them instead. Gives you a bit'a... insentive, eh?"
This would be perfectly fine advice in ninety-nine out of a hundred cases. Credence is the one left over.
He curls his fist again. He thinks of Mister Graves, the way he'd dismissed him for the very same flaws he's demonstrating now.
No power.
The abrupt pain blossoming from a hit to the jaw.
You're unteachable.
What Credence swings at the bag isn't a fist. It's a storm, a mass of hateful black energy, and it tears the bag from its moorings and hurls what's left of it at the far wall.
And then the moment passes, and Credence stumbles back, whole again and wide-eyed.
"Yes - he's still - this way," she says hurriedly, pulling him through the
door and down a short hallway into the next. Eggsy's lying on a slab,
bleeding copiously from a scalpel cut across his brow. They're in a morgue,
essentially, surrounded by huge steel drawers for cadaver storage.
"It's not as bad as it looks," she promises, "head wounds are always - "
But she's still fumbling for pads and surgical glue to seal it up.
"Why would you do this?" she asks him, wide-eyed. "He's not - Why would you
make him look like a roach?"
She's clearly not understanding the breadth of this.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2018-01-11 08:18 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-11 09:32 am (UTC)Yes, sir.
[oh good, someone who has no clue about anything either!]
no subject
Date: 2018-01-11 09:46 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-11 09:52 am (UTC)Yes, sir, I'm free now.
[He almost asks if there's anything specific he should wear - he sees people in the gym dressed differently, sometimes - but he realises that this man won't know and he doesn't really have anything anyway.]
I'll - meet you there.
[He at least shows up without his jacket or vest, just one of his old and slightly frayed white shirts.]
no subject
Date: 2018-01-11 11:50 am (UTC)"Credence!" He greets the boy with a smile, and while the scars might potentially make it sinister the deep dimples and easy warmth of it counter the effect neatly. "Good t'meet you, just gimme a minute here." And he starts to strip down for grappling; he wants all his gear here in case he needs it, but it's not needed for the lesson and he drapes his belts, with pistol, sword and main gauche, over the handiest piece of equipment with no real consideration for its purpose. It's followed in short order by his hat, his uniform pauldron, and his doublet. leaving him in just a loose and somewhat worn linen blouse and his leather trousers and boots.
"Now, d'you know anything 'bout fighting, or are we startin' off from scratch?"
no subject
Date: 2018-01-11 12:39 pm (UTC)"Yes, sir. That is - no - I don't know anything," Credence says, and then adds reflexively: "Sorry."
He's watched the man strip off his outer layer with a little fascination; he's never encountered anyone of Porthos' time period here, and it makes him curious.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-12 08:29 am (UTC)For his part, Porthos doesn't really see all that much difference between how Credence is dressed and the vast majority of people he's seen aboard; they're all alien and strange, and apparently so far ahead of him that even the ones from... from Earth might as well be from entirely different planets as far as he can tell.
"C'mon this way, then." He leads the way out onto the largest section of open flooring, which not coincidentally happens to be covered in mats... and which Porthos pauses to shift his weight on experimentally. "What, d'they think we're made of glass or somethin', that we need padding t'fall down on?" he asks, bemused.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-12 08:47 am (UTC)"I...I guess it's easier if you don't get hurt every time? If you're...just practicing?" Credence suggests faintly. He's only ever been in here to clean and fix the equipment.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-12 09:02 am (UTC)He looks around again and spots the heavy bags, which at least are somewhat familiar. "'ere, we'll start with this." He nods towards them and continues across the padded floor to where one of them hangs. "Teach you 'ow t'throw a proper punch, 'at'll hurt whoever you're hittin' an' not you, yeah?"
no subject
Date: 2018-01-12 10:27 am (UTC)"....okay."
He still has some very obvious reservations about this.
"...did Quentin say why he wanted you to teach me?"
no subject
Date: 2018-01-13 09:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-13 09:50 am (UTC)As hardwired as he is to go for the worst possible conclusion, he thinks: Quentin thinks he'll lose his magic. He'll do something wrong and Alec will take it away and then he'll be helpless.
"Right," he says, doing the best he can to sound agreeable. "So - what do I have to do?"
no subject
Date: 2018-01-13 10:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-13 10:20 am (UTC)He shakes his head. "No, sir, never. I've been punched," he adds, like that might be helpful.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-13 10:30 am (UTC)"So 'ere, hold your hand out, an' then close it like this." He demonstrates with his own hand, extended palm down, and then folds all his fingers in before folding his thumb across the bottom of them all.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-13 10:46 am (UTC)Credence does precisely that, hand curling into a tight fist just as shown.
"Like this?"
no subject
Date: 2018-01-13 10:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-01-13 10:54 am (UTC)"Okay."
He tries, and he puts his back into it as best he can, but he has nowhere near Porthos' upper body strength and it shows.
no subject
Date: 2018-01-17 08:34 am (UTC)"You feel 'ow it came not just from your arm, but from your shoulders an' back?" He touches Credence's shoulder to reinforce his words. "Gave you more power'n if you'd used just your arm, an' you'll get even more if you get your hips into it too."
no subject
Date: 2018-01-17 10:18 am (UTC)Credence startles slightly at the contact. He didn't quite see it coming and he's got years more experience of touch hurting than not.
"I - I don't know how to do that."
no subject
Date: 2018-01-19 08:34 am (UTC)"I won' touch you without askin' again," he promises, not solemnly at all, but as if it's simply an unexceptionable matter of course. "As for 'ow t'do that, look here."
He sets himself up at the bag, both hands raised and curled into fists in front of him, feet planted solidly in a way that makes it look like it might take a team of mules to move him, but also like he could move in any direction without hardly having to think about it. "You just... when you throw a punch-" He makes a point of moving a little slower this time- "You put your whole body b'hind it. Shoulders 'an hips an' even your legs if it's important enough." And he demonstrates, weight shifting into the blow as he follows through onto the bag. "You've got t'be careful to keep your balance, though. You put too much into it an' overbalance into your opponent an' they have you at a disadvantage."
He steps back and turns to Credence. "You ready t'try?"
no subject
Date: 2018-01-19 10:05 am (UTC)"Y-yes."
He tries, and he does what he's told - a little stiffly, perhaps, but he follows through. His shoulders, his hips, a slight shifting of his feet, all of it going into the swing of his arm - and the bag still barely seems to notice the impact, except for the way it jars his wrist and elbow.
He steps back, frowning faintly, shaking out his arm.
"I'm not good at this."
no subject
Date: 2018-01-20 12:58 am (UTC)"Just, 'ere." He holds out his own arm again, hand fisted. "One thing t'keep in mind is that your wrist needs t'be straight, fist lined right up with your forearm, otherwise if you hit hard enough the most damage you'll be doin' is t'your own wrist." He demonstrates with a light punch this time, not rocking the bag at all, just showing the alignment of his arm.
"An'" He purses his lips, considering, then grins. "How 'bout this, there anyone you especially can't stand? Who you'd love t'see get a fist straight t'the face? 'Cause it don't hurt if you let yourself imagine you're hittin' them instead. Gives you a bit'a... insentive, eh?"
no subject
Date: 2018-01-20 01:09 am (UTC)He curls his fist again. He thinks of Mister Graves, the way he'd dismissed him for the very same flaws he's demonstrating now.
No power.
The abrupt pain blossoming from a hit to the jaw.
You're unteachable.
What Credence swings at the bag isn't a fist. It's a storm, a mass of hateful black energy, and it tears the bag from its moorings and hurls what's left of it at the far wall.
And then the moment passes, and Credence stumbles back, whole again and wide-eyed.
(no subject)
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Date: 2018-01-11 01:11 pm (UTC)"Yes - he's still - this way," she says hurriedly, pulling him through the door and down a short hallway into the next. Eggsy's lying on a slab, bleeding copiously from a scalpel cut across his brow. They're in a morgue, essentially, surrounded by huge steel drawers for cadaver storage.
"It's not as bad as it looks," she promises, "head wounds are always - "
But she's still fumbling for pads and surgical glue to seal it up.
"Why would you do this?" she asks him, wide-eyed. "He's not - Why would you make him look like a roach?"
She's clearly not understanding the breadth of this.