Bodyslam

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A/N: As always, illustrative gifs are at the bottom of the page. Enjoy a chunk of fluff in these difficult, scary times. If blood and violence upsets you, skim the last half of this chapter.

Wear a mask. Black Lives Matter. Keep raging. 

Mitch examines his face in his phone screen, the thin trickle of blood from the not-yet healed and now reopened cut over his eyebrow bright in sharp contrast to the mottled bruising around his eye and the paler skin of his cheek. He can't help but smile a little, snapping a quick photo and sending it with the caption "So things are going well."

His smile widens when he gets a quick reply consisting of nothing but Scott's face frowning in mock disapproval.

Footsteps indicate Nine's return to ringside and Mitch looks up, still smiling, as she sheepishly hands him the first aid kit. "Quit with the look," he chides. "I said aggressive, you were aggressive."

"I mean, you did tell me I have to do exactly what you say, so..." she shrugs, then gestures towards his head. "Was that a blade, or...? I can never tell."

Mitch dabs at the wound gently with a piece of gauze, using his phone camera as a mirror, then presses firmly to stop the bleeding. "Nope, you don't wanna blade there. This was just bad luck. Sometimes if you get hit just so on the browbone, with downward force, the bone will split the skin. That's how some guys will get color if they can't blade - if the promoter doesn't allow it, or if the city has ordinances against intentional blading, you can usually open someone up by stiffing 'em a few times right where this little cut is." He pockets his phone and pantomimes punching in a downward fashion to illustrate. "Hurts like hell but it's effective."

"That's...um, horrifying. Are you serious?"

He pulls the gauze away and folds it, touching the unbloodied side to his forehead. It comes away clean. "It's not any more fucked up than cutting your own head open with a razor blade. Which," he tucks the gauze in his pocket. "You do either here, in the center of your forehead, if you want a massacre and don't care about scarring." He moves his finger to trace his hairline. "Or here, along the hairline. That doesn't always give you the crimson mask effect unless you get a gusher, but it's cleaner and the scars are more hidden. You can also gig behind your ear, right in the crease where the cartilage meets the skin, for a real mess but not many people do that anymore." Which is a shame, really, because it's interesting and unexpected and....hm.

Nine squints. "When do I get to learn how to blade?"

"First of all, you need to learn to do a lot more than four halfassed spots before that thought should even begin to occur to you. Second of all," he pulls out his phone again to check the time. "That's a topic for training class, not self defense class. And speaking of training, Scott should be back in ten and I want you to spend a few minutes practicing those throws you learned on him since he's bigger. We'll go ahead and end here so we can both take a break. Tonight's class is gonna be a shitshow."

"I wasn't expecting anything less." She falls quiet, gears almost visibly turning and her fingers twisting each other nervously.

Mitch hasn't known her for long, just a few weeks now, but he's already picking up on her body language and her tells. She's weighing whether or not whatever she's about to say will get her yelled at. These self defense classes are more informal and laid back than training sessions, and though he tolerates - and generally enjoys - Nine's snarky sense of humor during them she's well aware that her primary objective is to shut up and learn.

"Can I ask you something?" she finally blurts.

Must be worth the risk. He gestures for her to go ahead.