[ The brown pit bull is sitting next to John's feet, and he wags his tail while Jim appraises him. He is a Good Dog. Inside, the dog sniffs around for a moment before John quietly tells him to sit, and so he does. ]
I know.
[ About the toasting gourmet sugar. Maybe he creepily knows everything about everyone he's going to visit because of assassin powers, maybe he just figured the odds were on that because he himself tends only to stock near-expired cereal and milk. ]
No. [ And he hands over what he brought, figuring they'll split it. ]
[ Jim takes the food without complaint, first placing the coffee on the table before opening the styrofoam up. He thinks about getting plates, but cancels that and gets just utensils instead (in true lazy bachelor fashion). Too bad the container's styrofoam; he could've cut it in half.
The toaster dings while he distributes the food between upper and lower levels. He feels a little bad about not paying for anything, so he makes sure John has more bacon than he does. It's the little things. ]
What time do you usually wake up? [ If he turns the container so its length is parallel to the table edge, he and John can sit beside each other and eat out of it comfortably. So, after retrieving cooked Pop Tarts and serving those up too, Jim takes one seat and pats the one beside him. ] Like, on a regular day.
I don't think I've ever seen the sun the colour it is right now.
[ He's gonna give the extra bacon to the dog. Just so you know.
John sits and procures a flimsy plastic fork from the takeaway bag, something about him eternally too formal even when he's not overdressed. He's in dark jeans and a darker pullover sweater this morning, and it makes the mottled bruises on his knuckles less jarring than if he were in one of his suits. Maybe he just fell, or something. Maybe he's a MMA fighter, or a cop.
[ Jim pokes at his eggs with a fork, scooping some up to eat. ] I mean, sometimes I have to work five more minutes overtime, and I hate it.
[ The eggs are good. Better than Jim can cook, mostly because Jim's cooking consists of burnt things and instant ramen. He offers some egg to the dog mostly because it's a really cute dog; Jim's always wanted one, but never had enough responsibility or initiative to really take care of one properly. ]
I can't imagine working... [ His lower lip juts out as he shrugs. ] A hundred hours overtime? Give or take?
[ Dog is extremely happy, wiggling in place from being seated at their feet. Occasionally he sniffs Jim's ankles with interest. ]
You don't like your job?
[ John eats mechanically, but it's all fine. Diner food and pop tarts are definitely better than what he usually cooks up - he's competent in the kitchen, he just ... doesn't care. Why put effort into anything when the only person you ever bothered cooking for is dead when you could just microwave a hot pocket or order out, honestly. ]
Freelance sounds great. [ Jim puts a piece of bacon in his mouth, his free hand reaching down so he can pet the dog at his feet. He's terribly cute--awfully well-behaved, too. While it isn't the easiest thing to picture, imagining John treating this animal with a gentle sort of kindness brings a smile to Jim's face. ] You're like Batman.
[ His hand scratches behind the dog's ear. Jim puts another forkful of eggs in his mouth. ]
I have the most boring job, meanwhile. You'd think selling paper would give more of a thrill, right? [ Nah. Even Jim knows that's pushing it. ] But it doesn't. Only thing fun about the office is pulling pranks on my officemate.
[ He tries not to think about the girl he's in love with marrying another man. Jim's really got to get over her. ]
So I gotta admit--pretty excited for the self-defence lesson, man.
[ It's hard to tell, because John's the sort of man who schedules his singular grudging daily facial expression for times when no other humans are around to observe it, but he sort of frysquints at Jim for a second. Like Batman.
(Maybe that one real gun-murdery Batman. That's a Batman, right?)
The dog is very pleased. ]
That sounds terrible, [ John concedes about his job, after eating his pop tart. ]
Do I need a big reason? [ Because Jim doesn't have one. He finishes his food, rounding it off with a good round of gourmet sugar, then finishes the coffee John brought for him. It could use some milk, but Jim's too lazy to get up and grab some. ] I mean, I'm curious.
I know a guy who's a purple belt in karate. [ He doesn't actually know if that's a high rank or not. ] It sounds like a good skill to have.
Besides, after hearing about the great Finland paper problem, I think I need to know.
You're not a CEO, so you're probably okay, [ John says mildly. He's finished with his food, and as he sips his coffee absently, the dog wiggles in place like he's about to try and hop up towards him. John makes a 'hm' noise and points at him, calm down. ]
Alright. Well. [ Hm, the philosophy of getting the shit kicked out of you, or -? Naw, boring. ]
Keep in mind if you try to hit someone hard enough to drop them, you need to be in a life or death situation. That shit in movies where people get hit in the head with a frying pan and peacefully pass out isn't real. If you get hit in the head hard enough to be knocked unconscious, you're in very real danger of being dead. It's why boxers get brain damage.
[ John looks at him and seems satisfied with that disclaimer. Don't accidentally kill anyone, kids! Alrighty. He stands up. ]
Got it. [ No joking tone there as Jim gets up too. He supposes he'll clean the table up later.
For someone who's never thrown a serious punch in his life, there's nothing else Jim can do but agree; besides, he's seen a man with a concussion before, and anything worse than that is not something he wants to be responsible for unless he absolutely has to be.
When he considers it, though, it's likely the self-defence training is just for his own personal benefit than anything else. Some sense of accomplishment in the fact that, hey, he did it. There aren't very many other victories to his name. ]
Hey, you ever trained in a special style? [ It's what he asks as he stands in his now-empty living room with John, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. ] Or did you just learn all of this on your own?
I did some training, [ is deliberately opaque. There's no sociably comfortable way to say he learned a variety of martial arts styles purely so that he could figure out what worked best with handguns. ]
No matter what you learn, it's not like there are rules when you actually get into a fight. Alright, stand how you think you should if you're going to throw a punch.
[ John's dull voice transitions without fanfare, watching Jim position himself and then stepping closer to adjust him and ramble a bit about torso-hip-swivel force being connected to shoulder-arm-fist and the way those movements help. The rocket science of punching people. ]
[ All of John's logical explanations go right over Jim's head. As he's shown the wave of motion his arm goes through when he punches, he doesn't quite understand it beyond 'so this is how far my arm's gotta go'.
John is facing him, but Jim doesn't trust himself enough to not punch him accidentally somehow (he has the coordination of a drunk grandmother). So he makes sure to turn ninety degrees first before giving his first throw, which is way too strong and makes his arm socket hurt. ]
What does 'contort myself' mean? [ But Jim does try the punch a little slower, finding that at least this method keeps his arm socket from hurting like a bitch. He's never felt weaker in his life. ] Hey, should I have stretched before this?
[ Jim doesn't practise tai chi, but this feels a lot like what he imagines it to be like, as lame as throwing the same punch at 5% speed is.
Given that such a thing won't hurt anyone, he turns and slow-punches John. It's more like a tap than anything, but still. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
I know.
[ About the toasting gourmet sugar. Maybe he creepily knows everything about everyone he's going to visit because of assassin powers, maybe he just figured the odds were on that because he himself tends only to stock near-expired cereal and milk. ]
No. [ And he hands over what he brought, figuring they'll split it. ]
no subject
The toaster dings while he distributes the food between upper and lower levels. He feels a little bad about not paying for anything, so he makes sure John has more bacon than he does. It's the little things. ]
What time do you usually wake up? [ If he turns the container so its length is parallel to the table edge, he and John can sit beside each other and eat out of it comfortably. So, after retrieving cooked Pop Tarts and serving those up too, Jim takes one seat and pats the one beside him. ] Like, on a regular day.
I don't think I've ever seen the sun the colour it is right now.
no subject
John sits and procures a flimsy plastic fork from the takeaway bag, something about him eternally too formal even when he's not overdressed. He's in dark jeans and a darker pullover sweater this morning, and it makes the mottled bruises on his knuckles less jarring than if he were in one of his suits. Maybe he just fell, or something. Maybe he's a MMA fighter, or a cop.
After a moment, ] Two PM, thereabouts.
[ A beat. ]
I work a lot of nights.
no subject
[ Jim pokes at his eggs with a fork, scooping some up to eat. ] I mean, sometimes I have to work five more minutes overtime, and I hate it.
[ The eggs are good. Better than Jim can cook, mostly because Jim's cooking consists of burnt things and instant ramen. He offers some egg to the dog mostly because it's a really cute dog; Jim's always wanted one, but never had enough responsibility or initiative to really take care of one properly. ]
I can't imagine working... [ His lower lip juts out as he shrugs. ] A hundred hours overtime? Give or take?
no subject
You don't like your job?
[ John eats mechanically, but it's all fine. Diner food and pop tarts are definitely better than what he usually cooks up - he's competent in the kitchen, he just ... doesn't care. Why put effort into anything
when the only person you ever bothered cooking for is deadwhen you could just microwave a hot pocket or order out, honestly. ]I do... freelance.
[ So he sets his own hours. ]
no subject
[ His hand scratches behind the dog's ear. Jim puts another forkful of eggs in his mouth. ]
I have the most boring job, meanwhile. You'd think selling paper would give more of a thrill, right? [ Nah. Even Jim knows that's pushing it. ] But it doesn't. Only thing fun about the office is pulling pranks on my officemate.
[ He tries not to think about the girl he's in love with marrying another man. Jim's really got to get over her. ]
So I gotta admit--pretty excited for the self-defence lesson, man.
no subject
(Maybe that one real gun-murdery Batman. That's a Batman, right?)
The dog is very pleased. ]
That sounds terrible, [ John concedes about his job, after eating his pop tart. ]
Why do you want to learn self-defense?
no subject
I know a guy who's a purple belt in karate. [ He doesn't actually know if that's a high rank or not. ] It sounds like a good skill to have.
Besides, after hearing about the great Finland paper problem, I think I need to know.
no subject
Alright. Well. [ Hm, the philosophy of getting the shit kicked out of you, or -? Naw, boring. ]
Keep in mind if you try to hit someone hard enough to drop them, you need to be in a life or death situation. That shit in movies where people get hit in the head with a frying pan and peacefully pass out isn't real. If you get hit in the head hard enough to be knocked unconscious, you're in very real danger of being dead. It's why boxers get brain damage.
[ John looks at him and seems satisfied with that disclaimer. Don't accidentally kill anyone, kids! Alrighty. He stands up. ]
no subject
For someone who's never thrown a serious punch in his life, there's nothing else Jim can do but agree; besides, he's seen a man with a concussion before, and anything worse than that is not something he wants to be responsible for unless he absolutely has to be.
When he considers it, though, it's likely the self-defence training is just for his own personal benefit than anything else. Some sense of accomplishment in the fact that, hey, he did it. There aren't very many other victories to his name. ]
Hey, you ever trained in a special style? [ It's what he asks as he stands in his now-empty living room with John, hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. ] Or did you just learn all of this on your own?
getting rl'd a bit, sorry for slow
No matter what you learn, it's not like there are rules when you actually get into a fight. Alright, stand how you think you should if you're going to throw a punch.
[ John's dull voice transitions without fanfare, watching Jim position himself and then stepping closer to adjust him and ramble a bit about torso-hip-swivel force being connected to shoulder-arm-fist and the way those movements help. The rocket science of punching people. ]
no worries! take your time \o/
John is facing him, but Jim doesn't trust himself enough to not punch him accidentally somehow (he has the coordination of a drunk grandmother). So he makes sure to turn ninety degrees first before giving his first throw, which is way too strong and makes his arm socket hurt. ]
Ow--
no subject
[ John looks from Jim's face to his arm, as if puzzled when he could have possibly injured himself. Invisible ninja? Magic wall? Nope, just air.
I n t e r e s t i n g. ]
Maybe just go through the movement... slowly. And don't contort yourself.
no subject
[ Jim doesn't practise tai chi, but this feels a lot like what he imagines it to be like, as lame as throwing the same punch at 5% speed is.
Given that such a thing won't hurt anyone, he turns and slow-punches John. It's more like a tap than anything, but still. ]