The training was meant to be easy. And yet, instead, you had been at it for hours.

The air in the makeshift gym, a corner of the Raiders’ headquarters hastily cleared of furniture, scratched and cracked, had become thick. The scent of metal, dust, and sweat mingled with the sound of your labored breathing and punches ringing off the walls.

Jabber had never ceased grinning. You, however, had not.

Sweat dripped down your brow, stinging your eyes. Your legs shook with every step, your muscles in your arms giving out, and your breathing had become irregular, ragged. Each breath was a scratch at your throat.

He, however, was still dancing. He moved with the lightness of a dancer, his elasticity a source of unpredictable power. His eyes shone with a near-feverish intensity. The longer the fight went on, the more he seemed to be enjoying himself.

You gritted your teeth. Not wanting to be the first to break.

One last push forward, you tried to hit him again. A swift punch, straight, aimed at his side. Your arm felt heavy, too slow. He caught it without any struggle.

His fingers wrapped around your wrist.

“Too predictable”.

he sing-sang, his voice full of amusement.

Not a chance to react, his kick was swift, precise, powerful, and aimed at your stomach. The air rushed out of your lungs in a swift, sharp intake. The world shrunk around you.

You fell to your knees. Your hands on the ground, your head lowered, you couldn't catch a breath. The ground scraped against your fingers. Your heart pounded in your ears.

And then that laugh, so uncontrolled, so sharp, and so familiar. His.

You raised your eyes just enough to see him standing over you, his hands on his hips, his chest not really moving with breathing, not really out of breath at all.

He had more endurance than you did. Much, much more. And that made you angry, in an almost embarrassing way.

His footsteps were coming closer, slowly, deliberately, and then he stopped right in front of you.

You saw his hand, and then you saw him looking at you, his crooked smile, almost tender, almost, but for the crazy glint in his eyes. There was no mocking in his eyes, no scorn, no disdain. There was only eagerness, and challenge, and a hint of respect.

“Another round?”

he asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughed, his hand still outstretched, still there. His way of telling you that he didn’t think you were weak.