* C O M B A T // !

“You’re not a sabertooth tiger: your instincts are shit,” Peter replied. “I dare you to name one time where you followed your instincts and they were dead-on.” As he spoke, he fixed Jonathan’s fist so he didn’t break a finger, and lifted his elbow a bit more than he had lifted it himself. “There’s an insane amount of technique that goes into being able to either do damage or protect yourself with just your body,” he said.

You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. –– That is, unless you offer the horse insider information on how to fix the atrocious way he had been fighting, it would seem. Peter didn’t allow himself the full-blown victorious grin he’d been wanting, but he did quirk his lips just a tad, taking his gloves off. “Of course,” Peter said, stepping up next to Jonathan. “Couple’a things, then. Put your fists up.”

Peter leaned back, not wanting to correct Jonathan and tell him that O’Hare was one of the best fighters in her own right in this place. He watched her roll her eyes, and saw that she wasn’t going to correct the kid, so he let it slide. “If we had ended this here, which we won’t since you don’t want to, I’d have shown you the throw I did mid-round-one,” Peter said. “Or maybe how I kept out of your fists of fury right at the start of two. Maybe next time, since you don’t want to.” Peter adjusted his wraps, and stretched his neck for a minute. “O’Hare, ready to count down for round three?”

“I’m pretty sure I said we were boxing, not brawling, ” Peter said. He glanced at O’Hare. “Have we been boxing, or have we been brawling?” The trainer snorted, and replied, “You’ve been boxing. Mad Max over there has been falling, mostly.” Peter shot her a look saying you’re not helping, and turned back to Jonathan. “I can keep going,” he said, something of a warning. “Or we can do something that would actually benefit you. Your call.”

Peter saw Jonathan lunging for him, and he easily stepped to the side of the off-kilter punch. He could have done more damage: combat was what he was built for. But Peter hadn’t been doing this just to cause pain. He’d been called in by Peyton to get the hot-head to cool off, clearly. Since he was clearly still seeing red, Peter let Jonathan’s body weight and his speed to the work for him, watching as the guy went sprawling. “Face hits are against the rules,” Peter said, hands on his knees from a safer distance. “We either go back to one, or you call it and we start training.”

When O’Hare called for the end of the second round, Peter stepped back, pretty sure she had done so a bit short on time. He hadn’t gone easy on Jonathan, no, but he had pulled a few of his punches. There had been a particularly-worrying feeling when his gloved fist had made contact with Jon’s ribs toward the end of the first round, but they’d pushed through. Peter moved back to ropes, grabbing his water and squeezing some into his open mouth, dribbling a bit onto his chin. Swiping at the water, he looked over to Jonathan, and then beckoned O’Hare over. “Go check on him,” he said. “Call it if he’s not gonna.” 

As Peter made his way into the ring, it occurred to him that Jonathan Lund had no earthly idea what it was that Peter did around here. He offered Jon a bit of a confused, amused glance, and pulled the top rope up, sliding between it. As he did so, one of the other people who worked at the training center came over with a stopwatch. “O’Hare is gonna keep time and judge,” Peter said, nodding at the girl he had come to know fairly well from his time as a permanent resident of the Lake Grimstone Training Center. “Any low blows, and we’ll start again from Round One,” Peter warned, though he didn’t think that Jon really understood what that meant yet. He sidled up to his space, and put himself into his ready position. “Ready when you are, O’Hare,” he said, waiting for them to be called into time.

“That sounds even worse,” Peter pointed out, rather unhelpfully. –– But, sure. If the guy wanted to waste his time without planning, Peter wasn’t going to stop him, no. Apparently, all he was going to do was kick his ass a little bit. Having finished tying his wraps, Peter pointed to the boxing ring. “We’re not going at each other,” he replied. “This isn’t Fight Club. We’re boxing. Twelve rounds, three minutes. Nothing below the belt, holding, tripping, kicking… you know the rules of boxing, right? They apply.” He shrugged, offering Jonathan an expectant stare. “So… are we doing this?”

Being no stranger to the droves of people who were of the opinion that they’d come out on top of a fight, Peter shrugged. “Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” he said. Over the years, Peter had handed many-an-ass to many-a-resident: the sparkle of it all had dulled a bit. With a sort of bored lethargy to him, he grabbed his wraps and began getting ready, leaning against the wall as he did so. “Tried to escape, huh? Sounds like you need a better plan there, Ace.”

“Something like that,” he agreed. What else was there to say? I have been one huge existential crisis for the last decade, so this is pretty much par for the course sounded… needy. And he didn’t need anything other than a goddamn break. “…this is weird, right?”

“Oh, that makes a lot more sense, actually,” Peter replied. Peyton had called him that morning and asked him to show up at the gym. –– Like he hadn’t been planning it already. “Looks like they wanted someone to hand your ass to you,” he explained. “That sucks. For you, I mean. Should be fun for me.”

Peter narrowed his gaze, in part due to confusion, though there was some small part of… he wasn’t sure. Contrary energy which compelled him to do the opposite of what people said. Oh, if you’re inviting me to sit down, maybe I won’t! Instead, he settled in, not saying much for a long minute. “So, uh. Trouble in paradise?”