"noa, no." (jeuneage) wrote in warrantlogs, @ 2015-12-31 16:09:00 |
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Entry tags: | liam hyde, noa garland |
i got no regrets, had to take my soul back.
WHO: Liam Hyde & Noa Garland
WHAT: Boxing gloves are only so useful.
WHEN: The 29th
WHERE: Whiskey Sour training room
WARNINGS: tame, shockingly
She hated the boxing gloves. They curved awkwardly, they were sweaty, the strap was itchy. This pair was far from new, the leather fraying, and Noa had to resist the urge to shudder upon slipping them on — which, of course, seemed more difficult every time. The gloves were disgusting, but necessary. Stray curls, where they weren't pinned up into the bun, stuck hotly at the nape of her neck to her skin, both warm and cool. It had been half an hour already, and her arms were aching. It was during her brief water break just prior that she wondered if she'd stretched enough. Would she suffer for it? Probably. She slammed a determined fist into the punching bag, exhaling hard with the resistance. It made for an amusing image, as Liam who was feeling rather angry(more so than usual, thanks to Jaime's christmas antics). "God, you really suck." Noa paused where she stood, not looking over her shoulder at the sound of his voice (and it sounded so uncomfortably similar to the one inside her head). Her shoulders raised slightly with her pants. "That's why I'm here," she pointed out without her usual spark, reassuming proper stance and sending off a right hook. Liam had to hand it to her, someone else would have stopped and insulted him. Even if they knew their shortcomings it was never nice to hear it stated—a wound for the world to see. "You're still doing it wrong." Uninvited he slipped right up close, his hand closing on the nape of her neck and squeezing. "You're too short." Trust Liam to point out something that couldn't be fixed, but that was not entirely what he was saying. Just that his choice of expressing the underlying idea had to come out this way. The moment he enunciated that last consonant, Noa reacted: one sharp elbow coming in, directed for the space between his lungs. It was automatic, instinctive — frightened. It collided but not before he had thrown his free arm in the way, still that had hurt. "Well, look who is a little jumpy." Obviously enjoying her discomfort as he dropped his hold and stepped around the punching bag, there was cruelty in that smile. All rage barely lidded waiting for the first provocation to reach out and bite. "Next time, throw your head back - it's harder to block something higher like that, even if their hands are around your shoulders. With any luck, shortie, you hit their face or their neck." The apology that the gunner had readied disappeared like steam from a kettle, fear still circling her throat. Her heart was racing at a different, more erratic pace now, both familiar and unfamiliar. She wasn't afraid of Liam; she was afraid of so much more. She could race and swerve at high speeds down a race track; she could step into haunted buildings and not cry; she could probably parachute out of a starship if need be. But this was another sort of fear, one she didn't wholly understand. Fear of injury. Fear of dying alone, of being carted off to an unknown place and left to waste away. Noa tried to flex her fingers within the gloves, but the effort was useless. "So," her voice was shaky, if Liam cared to notice, and he did but dismissed it, "you're saying you're cool with me busting your nose next time?" "I doubt that you could. Take off those ridiculous gloves, when you punch someone outside you're not going to have them." Fighting forms were all well and good, but in a dirty fight? It was the bites and scratches and low blows that counted. He was walking to the side, lifting off his jacket and dumping the arsenal of tools in his pockets next to it. "When you fight," he cracked his neck; ignited and eager and hungry, "You do it as if your life depends on winning." Folding her tongue up inside her mouth, Noa watched him cautiously, reading his body language. Was he opening himself up for a spar? Was he expecting her to try and hit him? The movement read as much, and she supposed the gloves were too hot to keep wearing, besides. Warily, she peeled one off, the velcro ripping so loudly that it nearly made her wince. "I know I'm not going to have them," she sighed, almost irritably. The next glove didn't come off as terribly. But Liam didn't want to spar with Noa, kicking one of the stray gloves into the corner. It would be too much like a cat playing with its food, and Liam - for all his temper and flaws - didn't want to hurt a crew member. "So don't have a go at the punching bag like it's a punching bag." Liam opened his hands before creating a deliberate fist. "Don't think about technique right now, you just want to defend yourself, yeah?" His fist connected, the bag twitched - metal protesting as it swung back and forth. Nothing about that blow had been refined, it had just been angry. "All the training didn't keep any of you kids safe, making it worthless." The gunner wordlessly trailed the bag where it swung, his words sinking in at an odd angle. Training had been virtually worthless, that much was true. She had struggled like a cat being forced into a carrier at best. She had kicked and screamed and tried to bite, but that had been desperate fear kicking in, not her training. What good had it really done her when in the end she hadn't even been able to walk out of it on her own two feet? Frustration bubbled up like hot lava, and Noa lashed out at the bag, her posture falling slightly but the emotion behind it forcing the chain to protest on impact. Damn it. Liam's arm came around to hold the bag, and gestured towards it. "Again, and again until your knuckles hurt. Don't be lazy." She huffed petulantly, irritably. "I'm not lazy." Punctuated by a set of two crosses and a jab, her hands already feeling terrible. In a real encounter, there would be no gloves. Just fists and sharp knuckles and tender skin threatening to break. She'd seen split knuckles before; they were no joke. How hard did someone have to strike to bleed? "Really." He waited until there was an opening and shoved the bag at Noa with as much force as he could muster(anchored chain permitting); she sloppily caught it with a heave of air forced from her lungs. In Io, scuffed knees and bruised knuckles were a daily occurrence. He figured that if someone could replicate what he had done - how he had grown up, even if just a tiny bit - it might prove to be more useful than training. Liam was good at his job, not because his technique was better than Hector's(it wasn't) or his aim better than Castor's(it wasn't), but because fighting was his nature. The violence behind the slammed skulls was real, it cried and begged and made sense. He wasn't a soldier, he wasn't even a judge. He was not a hound to be leashed in. Liam was an executioner of violence. On whoever was the most convenient target. Noa found her breath again and shoved it back toward him, the muscles in her already aching arms protesting with the effort. "Yeah, really." His arms came around it, impact against his chest(it felt good, her anger). "Let's see your knuckles." They sounded like a taunt, almost, and they rubbed the wrong way inside of Noa's ribcage. She shook her head, curls slipping as she directed another jab into the bag. Raw knuckles weren't far away, but it wasn't time to show them off just yet. Liam hoped that when she did, they would reflect the incandescent rage she carried inside, not as good as spilt blood, but it was a start. It was some progress, one angry punch at a time. |