[closed] We already made the Mulan joke

[whyarewehere]

Who| Grif and Washington
What| Wash has convinced Grif to do some actual powers training, and Grif is way apprehensive.
Where| Training rooms
When| After this comm post
Warnings/Notes| N/A

Grif is mostly just upset with himself. Letting Wash talk him into this was a moment of weakness, this is going to be a disaster, and there's nothing he can do to stop it.

Well, he could stop it. He could just leave before Wash gets here. Grif's fast and he knows a number of good places to lay low around Legion World, it would probably work. But even if he does, ditching Wash won't take back that Grif actually agreed to it. He brought it on himself. Grif is the architect of his own doom.

So, he leans on a wall and screws around on his comm to distract himself from his own poor decision making while he waits for Wash to get down here.

Comments

[unrecovered]

It's Wash's turn to be late this time. If he's going to be completely honest, the fact that he lied to Grif to get him here - promised him specific help that he didn't actually know how to provide - bothers him. Getting Grif to voluntarily show up to training is like catching a goddamn unicorn, and Wash needs to make the most of it, for both of their sakes.

So he does one of the few things he hates more than anything else and dives into Epsilon's memories to get at the Alpha's, pulling up all the data he could find on speed units, narrowing the search parameters to implementation records. It gives him the information that he needs, yes, but it doesn't apply directly to the situation at hand, and the calculations aren't adding up, aren't processing correctly-

Because a human brain isn't capable of making calculations on the same level as an AI, and Wash is very much human.

Pulling himself out of the memories is like surfacing from a tar pit: ugly and painful and exhausting, but ultimately doable with the right leverage and enough determination. Wash clings to his sense of self and shakes the remaining threads of binary out of his brain, walking slower than usual down the halls towards the training deck. There's a reason he rarely ever goes memory diving like that. Hopefully the information he managed to retain will work.

He's still a little shaky and fighting off a mild headache when he finds the room Grif is in, but if he doesn't bring any attention to it, hopefully Grif won't notice (and if he does, hopefully he won't say anything). He knocks on the door frame and raises an eyebrow. "Honestly, I'm surprised you're still here. I thought you'd change your mind." There's no sarcasm in it; he's actually a little impressed.

[whyarewehere]

Grif is, luckily for Wash, too busy worrying about himself to notice that Wash is a bit out of step. He scowls at the freelancer just a little, his posture defensive.

"Yeah well, if I did you'd just get after me on it again eventually. Let's get this shit over with."

It's not like he accepted an offer to help him or anything, god.

[unrecovered]

"True." Wash isn't about to argue that one.

"You realize this isn't going to happen overnight. It's going to require actual sustained dedication on your part. If you don't commit, it won't work." Grif and commitment are like oil and water, true, but Wash needs to make sure they're on the same page before they get started.

[whyarewehere]

Grif raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"What are you, my life coach?"

He's trying. Really he is. Mouthing off is just so easy to do, though. It's like laying a piece of ham in front of a labrador. ...Or in front of Grif, really.

[unrecovered]

"Nah, just your personal trainer." There's a joke in there somewhere about how Grif needs a cleanup crew more than he does a life coach, but Grif has made himself vulnerable enough to take Wash up on his offer for training, and that deserves encouragement, not a slap in the face. Sometimes the low-hanging fruit is better left alone.

"I wasn't kidding about requiring commitment, though. Are you willing to do that?"

[whyarewehere]

That vulnerability is part of why it's hard for him to stop coming up with more stupid shit to say. It's how Grif protects himself from self-examination and admitting he's trying.

Because if he actually cares about the outcome, the inevitable failure hurts.

He exhales heavily.

"Alright," he says. "Fine. But if you laugh, I'm done."

[unrecovered]

"Deal." The question now is which will give out first: Grif's commitment or Wash's poker face. He's betting on the former.

"Now, when was the last time you did a push-up?"

[whyarewehere]

There isn't a rule against Grif laughing, and he does. Hard.

Then he realizes.

"...Oh, wait. You're serious. Um."

Grif makes a teetering motion with one hand. "Probably like... a medium-long-ish time ago?"

Sarge would force the issue every once in a while, but it even then he didn't exactly put forth a solid (or successful) effort.

[unrecovered]

Wash just waits for it. Yeah, he kind of figured that was the answer.

"Okay." He's always wanted to say this. "Now drop and give me twenty."

[whyarewehere]

Oh christ what has he done to himself?

"Does this actually have to do with the speed thing?"

He's just a little skeptical. And delaying. Always delaying.

[unrecovered]

Yep, he expected this. "The better shape you're in, the better your endurance will be, which means you'll be able to use your speed longer and more efficiently. If you want a technique focused on your arms, then your arms need to be in shape. Twenty pushups. Now."

[whyarewehere]

Grif looks at him. He holds out for several more seconds, groans, and gets on the floor with the resignation of the condemned.

He doesn't manage twenty, it's more like fifteen and they are some of the sorriest, slouchiest, shortest pushups this deck has ever seen. Then he flops over. "Fuck."

He hates everything.

[unrecovered]

That was really sad. It's also about what Wash had been expecting, if he's going to be honest with himself.

Now is probably not the time to tell Grif that only pushups with perfect form count and that, to that end, he'd done maybe two. He'd implement that rule later. Probably much later.

"Roll over, Grif. Twenty situps. Go."

[whyarewehere]

"I'm starting to feel like you're getting revenge on me for something I didn't even do yet."

Because clearly this is personal and torturous future-related vendetta, and not someone trying to help him do the bare minimum of exercise.

...Or Grif's just looking for more things to say because this is just so goddamn embarrassing.

Probably both.

His sit-ups are just as bad. Feet won't stay planted, pulling his neck up with his hands, the works.

[unrecovered]

"Yes. I'm getting revenge on you by helping you be a better person," Wash deadpans. "That's how we do it in the future."

Okay, not only is this sad, but Grif's going to strain his neck at this rate. That's exactly what they don't need: a speedster in a neck brace. He stops Grif a few situps in and changes Grif's form - arms crossed over his chest, hands on his shoulders - then kneels on Grif's feet to keep them from moving. "Try it again. Touch your elbows to your knees."

[whyarewehere]

Grif has to strain. He's not strong and his gut gets in his way. It continues to be a tragedy in here.

"Fit people can be terrible people too," he grouses in between attempts.

It takes him three to actually manage to reach.

[unrecovered]

"I know," Wash deadpans. "I'm right here." Self-deprecating humor is great, especially when no one questions how accurate it is.

"That's one. Keep going."

[whyarewehere]

"Ha," Grif manages as he forces his way to sit-up number two.

"How many of these fucking things do you want?" he pauses to ask, already knowing he's not going to like the answer.

[unrecovered]

"Like I said: twenty. You're at two."

[whyarewehere]

"Bullshit, that was like five right there!"

[unrecovered]

"It only counts if you get all the way up." He pauses momentarily, waiting for the inevitable bow-chika-wow-wow-

That doesn't come.

Right.

"Keep going."

[whyarewehere]

Grif can think of a couple of smart retorts along that line, but this is already uncomfortable without him making it worse.

He gets through the twenty by spending it thinking about how much he'd like to go back in time and punch himself in the face.

"There! Twenty! Jesus!" he gasps, then flops to the mat like he has no bones. He hates how hard that was and how much it took out of him and he'd like to just go die right about now.