faith_5_by_5 (faith_5_by_5) wrote in city_limits, @ 2009-02-12 21:38:00 |
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Entry tags: | bastian sonnier, faith lehane |
Long Way
The West Loop gym was the closest thing Bastian had to a workout space other than the street outside of his house. He came out to the establishment a few times a month, used the equipment just to keep in shape, and as April loomed a little closer every day he'd started his training regimen in earnest. This year would probably be one of his last chances to win the Golden Gloves tournament before he got too old to compete anymore, and he was devoting a lot of time and energy to it. If nothing else, he'd have at least one trophy to put on his mantel when it was over.
The Cajun was working the heavy bag, concentrating on using his left because that was his off hand. He'd done a long series of stretches before getting started, planned to do some running afterward to build up his endurance. He knew he needed to drop some pounds, that the weighing-in could be an issue, but he felt generally okay about his condition. He hadn't run to pot quite yet.
Unlike the other people attending to their own workouts, Bastian was wearing an old pair of sweatpants and a faded t-shirt that said Marine Corps on the front and Semper Fi on the back. He could afford better duds, but it always felt like pride to him, and why buy something expensive just to sweat in it? His old togs would do fine, thanks.
There was a light lunch waiting for him in a paper bag next to the duffel he'd brought in from the truck. He needed to finish up with the bag first, then eat and do some reps. If he won this year, he could hang it up with dignity. And his left was improving. He just might end up pulling it off.
As much as Faith liked having her own punching bag, there were times where she felt the need to wander toward a gym and use the facilities there. This was one of those times, and the West Loop fit the bill perfectly. The Slayer worked on one of the smaller bags to the right side of the gym, pulling her punches enough to keep the bag from snapping off its hook and damaging anything else. It was a constant when working out, Faith trying to make sure her Slayer strength didn't get out of hand.
For some reason, working out in the presence of others -- even if there weren't that many people in today -- was just what Faith needed. She didn't feel quite so isolated at the moment, a small smile actually creeping onto her face as she pounded a right-left-right-right into the bag. She thought of everything Hayden told her as she worked out, using her workout as the muse on which to focus. The former Watcher's words made a lot of sense, and Faith appreciated how he would tell her something, whether she wanted to hear it or not. He also made her think, pushed in a friendly way she'd lacked for so long.
As bummed as the Slayer was that she'd lost Connor, she was glad to still call Hayden a friend. Every time she talked to him, the Slayer walked away being able to trust a little easier.
Pausing, Faith took a step back from the bag, wiping sweat from her brow with her wrist before removing the gloves. She watched the man in the Marines shirt working his bag, studying the way he lowered his left knee before striking the bag. If the knee dropped, then the shoulder probably did as well, which could be a tell in the ring -- or anywhere else, for that matter.
Thinking it rude to just blurt out fighting tips, the Slayer folded her arms over the red tank top soaked in sweat, cocking her head to the side. Judging by the way the bag was swaying, the guy had some strength to him. "Glad I'm not the bag," she quipped.
He'd been concentrating, steadily adding power to his blows while keeping his right hand up as a guard against an invisible opponent, and the voice broke his reverie enough that he dropped both hands. The bag smacked him in the chest, and he let out a quiet 'oof' before placing both palms on the top of the swaying object to hold it still. Merde, now he'd have to get back into the zone again.
"I glad you not de bag too," he said good-naturedly, turning to face the brunette who'd spoken up. He hadn't seen her in there before, he didn't think, but the gym attracted enough female customers that her presence wasn't unusual. Too old to be a college student, so she probably worked in some office somewhere. A drop of sweat threatened to run into Bastian's eye, and he swiped at it with the hem of his shirt. He looked down at his knuckles, shook his hands out.
"You waitin' for boyfriend?" It felt like a good guess at least, and he waved behind him towards a small group of men gathered around a bench talking among themselves. "Dey get done jawin' soon. Always stand around afterwards talkin', dem. Give dere mouths more workout than dere muscles."
Faith laughed a little, shaking her head. "No," she offered, uncrossing her arms. "No boyfriend."
Glancing over her shoulder at the group of men talking amongst themselves, the Slayer shook her head and rolled her eyes, her ears picking up enough words in the conversation to get the gist of what they were saying. As if, she thought to herself, figuring they were all on steroids or some such. Sure, that made for nice-looking arms and well-defined muscles, but based on the side effects of such drugs, Faith knew she would never give one a turn in the hay.
Turning her attention back to Marine-Shirt Man, the Slayer brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "And none of them, either," she added with a thumb pointed behind her.
Taking a step towarp of Testosterone Overload, Faithfrom the Group of Testosterone Overload, Faith gave the bag a firm left, just enou to get the bag swaying before she caught it again. She preferred hitting the bag without gloves, but she didn't like having to clean the wounds on her knuckles if she tried it for too long. But going bare-handed just felt more natural, and it was how she always fought anyway.
Faith doubted she'd ever take on a vampire with a pair of boxing gloves.
"I'm Faith."
"Bastian." It was almost a grunt, and the big carpenter turned enough so that he could start tapping the bag with his fists again. Half of his attention still on her, he added, "I nuh see you here before. You go to de aerobics? Office girls from downtown come for dat, I hear de music all de way out here." He pointed all the way across the room towards a more enclosed space, shrugged philosophically. "De salad and bottled water crew, I guess."
He felt a little self-conscious with her standing there watching him, since he'd never had so much as a spotter, much less a trainer. When he was still in the service it had been different, one of the sergeants had shown him the ropes before he'd had his first matches, but since he'd gotten out he'd stuck to it on his own. Bullheadedness, he supposed, but who was paying attention? Some things a man had to learn on his own.
"You long way from Boston."
Faith gave a sideways grin, cocking her head to the side. Bastian was perceptive, that much was certain -- especially since Faith thought she'd lost much of her accent over the years. Considering she hadn't been to her hometown since Kakistos killed her first Watcher, the Slayer figured she'd lost much of her Boston heritage.
Apparently not.
"And you're a long way from the bayou," she shot back with a good-natured smile, folding her arms over her chest after wiping a bead of sweat from her right temple. "Just ... needed a change of scenery, I guess. Don't really make a habit of staying in one place that long."
There were exceptions, of course; the stay in California had been long-term, even if she bounced between Los Angeles and Sunnydale, and she'd spent a lot more time in the Nevada desert than originally planned. Even with recent events, Faith thought she'd stay in Chicago for a while, both because of the things she had to do and the personal attachments she still had. Tempting as it might've been at the time, running away wasn't an option anymore.
"What about you?"
"I serve in de Marines wit' dis old boy named Pritchard. He from Bah-stahn, always said to me how I talk funny. Huh." Bastian looked at Faith sideways, one eyebrow lifting as if he were sharing a joke with her. "He sounded a little like you." He'd never paid that much attention to accent differences as a younger man, there'd been no need for it when almost everyone he knew spoke with at least a hint of Cajun patois. Having accustomed his ears to the way others talked, he'd learned how to sound out where some people came from.
"You here for work, den?" He was still imagining her as one of the women he saw coming from city hall, or maybe an insurance agency where she answered phones. There was even a chance she'd walked past one of the sites he'd worked on, which would have drawn the catcalls like no one's business. And no boyfriend? He thought back to meeting Melinda. Maybe Faith didn't 'operate' that way either.
"City spreadin' out a lot dese last couple of years, lots of good jobs. Your job downtown?"
"More or less," Faith said, arching her shoulders a little before grabbing a nearby towel and wiping off her forehead. She wasn't really all that comfortable with just blurting out that she was a Slayer -- not because she thought the man would use that information in some way against her down the road, and not even because she was afraid he wouldn't believe her.
No ... after her conversation with Hayden, Faith decided to make a stronger effort to define herself as something other than a vampire hunter. What that left her with, Faith didn't know, and she was kind of wondering how exactly she could spin her job for the purposes of this conversation -- she didn't like the idea of outright lying, telling Bastian she did something completely different from what she actually did.
Still, he'd asked, so ...
"I go pretty much where I'm needed," she said, choosing her words carefully, giving her forearms the same treatment with the towel she'd given her forehead. "I work a lot of nights, helping people who need it.
"Pay sucks, but the work's good. What do you do?"
"Work for Lomax Brudders, doin' construction," Bastian answered, mentally altering his initial image of the brunette. She was an EMT, maybe, working on one of the ambulance crews in the city. "Pay not so good dere, either, but I contract out an' dey like me. It jus' me at home, so I don' need much." He shrugged a little, stopped punching the bag to turn more of his attention to her. The interior of the gym was hot, and he peeled his shirt away from his stomach to create a small breeze.
"Not many women come in here alone," he told her, tilting his head towards the men who'd been talking earlier and were now gathering up the last of their towels to head outside. "Guys like dat treat it like a meat market, make girls nervous. Dey don' mean no harm, mebbe, but it still makes a sketchy environment for some girls. Women. Ladies." The former Marine rubbed the back of his neck before lifting his shoulders in a slightly embarrassed fashion.
"Never know de right word to use anymore, me," he admitted with a sheepish smile. "Ya'll keep changin' de rules on us, guess to keep us confused."
The Slayer chuckled at that, shaking her head and giving the punching bag between them a series of soft jabs. "Long as you don't call me bitch or slut, we're five by five."
Faith watched the other men leave, she shook her head and smirked. She could more than likely take them all, Slayer powers or no, and she damn near made the crack that she thought hers was bigger than theirs. She bit her tongue, though, giving the bag another couple punches, ending with a half-strength uppercut with her right hand. Bastian seemed cute in his own little unique way, and the way he just kind of rambled on a little made the smile on Faith's mug refuse to go away.
Construction work and a little on the awkward side ... sounded like someone else Faith once knew. The cajun accent was a definite plus, though.
"Huh." It was the same snort-laugh from before, but his expression was serious. He had more home-training than that, at least. "You box?" he asked, gesturing at the bag before stilling it with his hand. She'd even thrown the punch right, without her thumb tucked into her hand the way a first-timer would. The gym gave self-defense classes on weekends, women on Friday, men on Saturday. If she was working in the city at night, she'd need the skills.
"Is a rough place, Chicago, 'specially now dat Lincoln Park is gonna get built back up." Bastian shook his head. It was still a bad idea in his opinion, reconstructing the place without the prior use of flamethrowers, or maybe some kind of cleansing by a priest. To remove the stain, in whatever way was even possible after something like that. "Hate to be de first renter in dere after what happened."
"Not really," she said with a shrug. "Just, where I grew up? You learned to defend yourself. Had a trainer when I was a teenager. Always told me I didn't have technique, but made up for it with grit."
A nice, innocent retelling of a past involving prophecies and fantastical stories that took a lot of time to sink in. Faith already had a repertoire of moves when she was called, and her first Watcher had done what she could in the combat department. The older Faith got, she liked to think her fighting style was more refined, but she wasn't all about hitting things that moved right now. Recent events made Faith keep the fisticuffs reserved for punching bags and vampires.
Even sparring was out of the question right now.
"You ain't kiddin'," she added, her expression darkening a little once Lincoln Park was mentioned. New Year's had been a hell of a party, and not in a good way. To think they were actually going to let people live in that area, when who knew what was still crawling around in there -- the Slayer just didn't understand it. Everyone saw what was in there when the wall broke; who in their right mind would want to live there?
"Disaster waitin' to happen, ya ask me," she added, jabbing the bag once more.
"I read papers, you know," Bastian said, giving the bag a counterpunch to swing it back in Faith's direction. "Article after New Year's say, how many more t'ings livin' in holes and like dat. Me, I nuh want no part of it, not even for de money dey pay to help build. Middle East was bad enough. Nuh, I stay away, me."
He was shaking his head back and forth as he talked as if she might argue with him, his hair brushing the back of his neck where he'd let it grow out in the last few months. He'd probably need to get it barbered properly soon, but he was putting it off for another week or two. "So you jus' come around to keep in shape? Must live close. Traffic get so bad after five o'clock, I keep expectin' to see cops directin' de cars through the intersection outside."
"Pretty much," the Slayer shrugged. "I got a bag at home I work out on a lot, just ... I dunno, gettin' a little stir-crazy, had to get out."
Though traditionally a loner, Faith found of late she felt more comfortable when surrounded by others -- even if she didn't necessarily know the people in her proximity. Suddenly one to worry about whether or not she had personal connections, Faith figured this was an extension of that. To spend time by herself led to thought, and while the Slayer was no longer as averse to the concept of self-reflection as before, she still knew too much thought could lead her to a bad place.
Somehow, even something as simple as idle chatter with a stranger helped keep things in perspective.
"Exercise good for you," the carpenter said sagely, then patted his big stomach with both hands. "Not that you'd know it from lookin' at me, but I'm at fightin' weight. I go to Golden Gloves in April, jus' before my birthday. Want to win dis year, I gettin' almost too old to fight. I caught shrapnel in Afghanistan, two pieces of metal left behind below my knee. Civillian doc say dey should come out, but I not know if it leave everythin' intact. It not kill me to leave it dere dis long, why fiddle wit' it, non?"
The decision not to have the surgery yet had been a drawn-out process, and on days when he thought about the two bits of scrap metal buried under his flesh it made his heart clench up, but he didn't want to botch his last chance in the tournament. He'd be thirty-five by the time the next contest rolled around, too old to put on the gloves again. Boxing was a young man's sport, and he wasn't twenty anymore. He could get his leg looked at when it was over.
"I stubborn man, like my daddy," he told Faith, and a shadow flickered across his face and disappeared, almost imperceptible.
The Slayer allowed herself a chuckle. "Pretty stubborn myself." To a fault, lotta times.
The bit about shrapnel stuck in Bastian's leg caught Faith a little off-guard. Suddenly, a pair of gut wounds and a coma didn't seem so bad. As a Slayer, so much of Faith's life dealt with monsters and the various injuries and other ailments they could inflict. Hearing about an everyday guy suffering such an injury in something "normal" like a war ... she didn't have much experience with it, but Faith figured this was what perspective felt like.
Still, though -- to have two bits of metal stuck in your leg, work a physically-demanding job in construction and box on the side? Bastian was one tough dude, from the sound of things. Faith had to admit, she was impressed.
"Usually don't like bein' told what to do."
"Try de Marines," the Cajun suggested, deadpanning the comment, then allowing himself to smile. "Dey take you and put you in line wit' a quickness. Did for me. I not want to go at first, but was not so bad. And dey pay for my school when I come home." He gave the bag a medium-strength left hook, watched it sway on its chain.
"Was glad to be gone when Katrina come t'rough. I go down to help family salvage what dey can, den come back. Too much sad, huh?" The Cajun swatted at the bag again, rubbed the back of his neck with his other hand. "You a rescue worker, you mighta been dere."
Faith imagined herself in the military for a brief moment, decided it would've been a colossally bad idea. Given her attitude toward authority, particularly in her younger days, that was one of those situations that would've ended before it even started. Still, she had to respect anyone who chose that lifestyle and stuck through it, serving something more important than themselves of their own volition, and not because some unseen force gave them supernatural powers.
The Slayer shook her head. "I was in Cleveland when Katrina happened," she said. "No natural disasters there, but things were ... bad."
Like, Hellmouth bad. She kept things vague, though, not sure what Bastian's knowledge level was when it came to that sort of thing. And if one were particularly liberal with the definition, Faith guessed a Slayer could be considered a rescue worker. Only instead of a loud vehicle and a medical supplies kit, Slayers were outfitted with sharp chunks of wood and a lot of abilities only seen in science fiction flicks.
Besides, Faith guessed rescue workers weren't nearly as violent. At least, she hoped not.
He nodded, looking at his hands contemplatively. It was getting to be three o clock, which meant that if he was going to do his reps and then get in some laps he was going to have to get after it to have a chance of beating the worst of the rush hour traffic on the way home. The tape on his hands was beginning to make his knuckles itch. The big carpenter gave the bag a lazy one-two combination.
"I got to get back to dis," he told Faith with a rueful smile. "I take much longer, it be seven before I get home. Was nice meetin' you, though. Mebbe you come around when I'm here again, we talk more. I got to start workin' hard so I can make weigh-in qualifications. Dis belly nuh help, it always hungry." He touched his stomach through the sweat-dampened fabric of his shirt, rolled his eyes a little. "My stomach hates trainin' season worse den de rest of me."
Chuckling, Faith gave a warm smile, brushing strands of dark hair behind her left ear. "Good luck," she said.
Flipping her towel over her left shoulder, the Slayer wished she'd thought to bring a bottle of water with her. She's have to pick one up on the way home, and a shower was probably in order before her nightly patrol. Seeing a black marker just lying on a nearby bench, Faith grabbed it and wrote her cell phone number on a strip of athletic tape that had been next to it. Handing it to Bastian, she added, "In case you wanna train or somethin'. And if ya don't mind a little advice? Don't dip your left knee when ya throw that left."
Heading toward the lockers to grab her coat, Faith grinned a little to herself. It wasn't so much handing a cute guy her number because he was cute -- though Bastian did have a certain charm about him -- but because Faith realized she was capable of having a conversation with someone that had nothing to do with what she did or anything relating to her past. It was nice, being able to just shoot the shit like that.
It made the Slayer feel normal. She needed that sometimes.
He was looking down at the piece of tape she'd given him, a contemplative look crossing his broad features, then he tucked it out of sight. He'd have to remember to check his pockets before tossing his sweats into the washer. Faith seemed like someone he'd be comfortable having a beer with later on. And he did have to watch that knee, keep it from telegraphing his next move.
He went back to working the bag, leading with his left again, his expression turning serene as he listened to the sound of his fists hitting tough leather. A meditation on the physics of plodding ever forward.