femmejosephine | For Porthos: Self-Defense Class

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porthos

For Porthos: Self-Defense Class

She hadn't been sure about it when one of the shelters had asked her to teach a self-defense class. Well, actually, they'd started by asking if she knew anything about that, and she'd said that she did. She'd lived on the street, after all. Self-defense was required, even without Section training.   She'd told them she had never been formally trained in it, and that was true. She'd been trained in offense more than defense.

Still, they'd asked if she'd do it. She'd considered it for a while, then decided she could do it without revealing too many of her skills. She didn't want to do that both for her own safety and to avoid too many awkward questions. Having a murder conviction was a disqualifying detail for almost every shelter, which she understood fully.

Tonight had been the third class. They'd started the course with a discussion of personal safety and personal space, as well as being aware of environments and strategies to get help when you didn't look like someone anyone would want to help. She'd wanted to emphasize to them that there was a mental as well as a physical component to defending oneself. Now they were moving into basic countermeasures, balance shifts, and non-lethal disabling strikes.    Everyone, including her, had to be the victim and the attacker at least twice with three different people. She was, not surprisingly, the best at taking people down and at attacking them, even those larger than she was, though she had played her skills down considerably.

When it was over, she was tired, but happy. Her students thanked her as they left, and she hoped that they'd retain something, that they'd be able to defend themselves if needed.   Only time would tell, though, and she smiled a little as she flipped the switch to turn the lights in the gym area off.

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Porthos likes spending his time at the shelter. Now, especially now, when he's making monthly donations to the place, he feels compelled to spend a little more time with them in order to see where his money is going and what's happening. He watches the self-defense class curiously, remembering Nikita and remembering enjoying her company. He's a little surprised, though, by her skill -- normally people don't impress Porthos with their hand to hand, but she's clearly had training.

He's waiting for her outside the shelter, sitting on a bench and being patient. "Where'd you learn to fight like that?" he asks.

She'd seen Porthos lurking, although he probably wouldn't describe it that way, and she wasn't surprised that he was waiting for her. She was a bit surprised that he'd started the conversation the way he did. Not a hello or a how are you or anything. But then, he was a soldier, and the niceties of conversation were optional in a lot of ways. She knew it.

She was also going to tease him about it.

"And good evening to you too," she replied. "I'm fine, thank you, and class went very well."

Porthos raises his brow as if to accept blame for charging into the conversation as blatantly and bluntly as he did. He shrugs, unable to help himself for his curiosity, thinking that he knows her well enough to jump right into it. "Where'd you learn that stuff?" he asks, getting back to the topic before she can drive him off it.

Single-minded, he was, and she chuckled as she sat down next to him.

"Skinny twelve year olds don't last long on the street if they can't defend themselves. Skinny twelve year old girls have it even worse," she replied. "You probably know that pretty well. Well, maybe not the being a girl part."

That was completely true, and also not the total truth. If she'd been a street fighter only, she would be more of a brawler, and there was part of her that was. But she had been trained, and the forms were visible if you knew what to look for.

Porthos gnaws on his inner cheek as he forces himself to stay settled and not bring his guard up. She knows enough about his past that he can be open and he feels like maybe she understands, somehow. "I was scrawny until about fifteen," he says with a nod of his head. "So, yeah, I know." He gives her a sympathetic look. "How long were you on the street?"

"Fifteen? Lucky you," she laughed. "I don't think I really started filling out till sixteen or so."

Developing was one thing. Filling out was another, and she'd been short of food enough times that she looked scrawny for a long time. She still was slim, but that was body type.

"Six years, on and off. Sometimes I'd go to shelters or they'd try to put me into foster care. Never took. I didn't like rules. Or answering to anyone."

She still wasn't fond of them. It was a problem.

"I know that feeling," he admits, wishing again that he didn't given that he doesn't like that his whole life had been filled with that until he joined the Army, then the Musketeers. "Was there a reason you learned, though? Someone?" he ventures carefully.

It seemed like he was going to keep asking questions, and she didn't mind answering them, but they might need (or want) booze first.

"If we're going to talk about our painful pasts, I think I need a drink first," she suggested. "Just a drink. I know you're taken."

He also didn't tend towards her gender, as far as she knew, which wasn't much. But it was good to be sure both people knew the ground rules.

Edited 2015-05-17 00:52 (UTC)

Porthos laughs at that. "You have no idea how taken," is his jest, warmth bubbling in his voice as he gets to his feet and nods. "Of course," he promises, gesturing onwards. "I've never been one to turn down a drink with a beautiful woman. Why would I stop now?"

Nikita rolled her eyes indulgently at the casual compliment and the comment about being taken. If he meant any double entendres in there, she did not want to know about it. She didn't have any issue with anything anyone decided to do in the privacy of their own flat, but it wasn't her business.

"Hey, I just want to make sure there are no angry Frenchmen chasing me down for having a drink with you," she laughed. "I used to live in Paris, so I have seen enough angry Frenchmen to last me."

Porthos' smile turns gentle and reassuring. "Nah," he promises. "Don't worry. I'm loyal and Aramis knows as much. It's a drink," he promises. "And I won't make any moves on you so long as you don't make any on me," he teases with a smirk, thinking they can go to the local pub around the corner. "Besides, Aramis lets his anger show with near-misses from a rifle. He's our best shot in the garrison."

"That's a deal," Nikita agreed with his statement about not making moves if he didn't, and motioned to the pub on the corner in a wordless suggestion. She was fairly certain they were thinking about going to the same place, but who knew? The pub was the kind of place that didn't ask too many questions, which was a good thing considering its proximity to a shelter. It was also not somewhere that she was likely to get blood in her beer, which had always been a disqualifying detail for her.

"It takes a bit of skill to deliberately miss, I think. Sends a pretty clear message, too."

Porthos gives her an encouraging nod and a smile, happy that she's willing to trust him enough to have a drink. There was a time when he wouldn't even be okay with that, so he'd glad that's not the case for either of them. "Well, Aramis is pretty good at clear messages and his aim," he admits. "Me? I'm just glad he's our sniper. I'm just the muscle."

"You know, not making an all brawn and no brains joke is really difficult with a set-up like that," she teased him lightly as they approached the pub door. She didn't fully trust Porthos any more than she fully trusted anyone else, and she was always prepared for him to use what he knew about her against her, but until that happened, she was willing to have a drink with him.

And if he did decide to do something stupid, she would handle it. He was larger than her and just as trained, probably, but that was how it went sometimes. Not all fights were as easily finished as the flips she'd just been doing on her self-defense students.

"But I'm going to resist, because I am a good person."

She wasn't. Not in a lot of ways. But that was what made the statement funny, at least to her.

"I got all the brains and the sense," Porthos boasts, which is possibly the scary part about his life in the Musketeers, but so it goes. He smirks, though, when she talks about resisting, shrugging because he has brawns, and more than enough brains.

He settles at the counter of the bar, lifting his hand to get the bartender's attention. "What do you prefer to drink?"

She actually did believe that, for all she teased him about all brawn and no brains. He'd lived on the street, and that took a lot of brains if you didn't want to die. It made people wary, suspicious, and smart, or it made them dead. She preferred the former.

"I'll just have a cider," she decided. "At least for now. We get too much into the past and I might switch to vodka."

"That's what wine and brandy are for. Good in good times, perfect in bad," he says and orders them both a cider and a bottle of red wine, in the event she wants to share. If she doesn't, then Porthos will still be fine. Drinking with Athos has given him a tolerance that would be the envy of most -- other than alcoholics, of course. "Are we going to get too much into the past?"

Red wine was so French, but she didn't mind. It was probably going to be a good wine, at least. She'd learned a bit about wine in Madeline's Deportment Classes, but not as much as a Frenchman knew or even had forgotten.

"You're the one who started asking questions about where I learned to fight," she pointed out. And she was the one who hadn't completely shut him down immediately, so they were in this together.

Edited 2015-05-25 01:15 (UTC)

"How'd I know it was your past where you learned it?" he points out, feeling like he ought to at least get in that he's not at fault for the past coming home to roost, not when he couldn't have known. "Besides, if you really don't want to talk about it, we don't have to. I know I don't love to, not without a drink first."

"And that's why I have one," Nikita agreed with a little toast to herself. "It's not a far guess. You know I lived in shelters. You know I got kicked out. You know I had to survive, however I could. That means I learned to fight. And to make deals, however I needed to with whoever I needed to. Probably a familiar story."

She and Porthos had too much in common sometimes.

"Who taught you?" Porthos asks curiously, because she's right that it's familiar, though he didn't have the shelters part. Then again, it's not like any of the orphanages would have even taken him when he'd lived, which is more a jab against the times, he's come to realize. He doesn't ask when she'd stopped, because he never had and he doubts she has either.

She thought about that for a moment. Before Section, who had taught her? Had anyone, or had she just learned because she had to? In Section, it had been Sensei, of course, or one of Sensei's helpers.

"I dunno that anyone really taught me, officially," she replied. "I mostly watched the other kids and learned where and when to hit people. I also learned the fine art of running away."

"I learned the running away first," he admits, because he'd been young and spry and had figured out how to be quick with his hands, but not quickly enough. "Learned to fight in the army, though," he says, with a firm nod of his head, remembering how it had made him better than just a thief and a coloured boy.

It'd made him powerful.

It was difficult to admit any of her past to anyone, but she'd told Cole a bit, vaguely, and maybe she could tell Porthos a bit, vaguely.

"Running away is highly underrated," she agreed, and sipped her cider while she considered what she could say.

"Yeah, after I was off the streets, I worked for some people who taught me to fight more formally, too. Never got rid of what you might call the street fighting bits, though. Drove some of my teachers crazy."

"Teachers?" Porthos asks, latching onto that bit. For all that he understands her past and shares a lot of what she's saying, he has to wonder what kind of teachers she's talking about. "People who taught you to fight, like for a job?" He's sort of had that with the Musketeers, but he doesn't know that he'd ever call them teachers, exactly.

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