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“So, the first rule of self defense is run,” John says, giving her a heavy, doubtful side eye that speaks volumes about his faith in her to do so.
“Second?” She asks, arms crossed, foot tapping, watching him stalk circles around her like he’s going to drop her at any moment - her heart patters wildly every time she sees his step slow or his eyes move to a vulnerable part of her body, even though she knows that whatever “tells” he exhibits are actually fakeouts and dead ends. Just a way to get her nerves worked up so that she’s taking him seriously.
He stops in front of her, places a finger in the center of her chest, and she knows he could give a little push and she’d be flat on her ass.
But he doesn’t. He smiles. “Hide.”
She rolls her eyes. “The third?”
“Fight. And -“ he moves his finger against her bare skin, drawing her eyes and attention, then flicks her lightly on the forehead as punishment for falling for it. “Don’t roll your eyes at your superior.”
She rubs the pink mark. “Ow,” she tells him, even though the trick only stung a tiny bit.
“Now say, “yes, master.”” His eyes light with mischief.
Every piece of her fucked, masochist body wants to fight him on that if only to earn more brutality for it. But this is supposed to be critical training, even though her trainer isn’t taking it as such.
She figures that she’ll be the determined one, for once, so she tips her head, straightens her shoulders, and says, “yes, master.”
His eyebrow raises behind untamed bangs. “Good.”
“Did you take that from a job orientation class?” She asks him.
“What?”
“At jobs, they use the ‘run, hide, fight’ for active shooters.”
He shakes his head no, but it’s so hard to tell when and if he’s fucking with her…
“Have you ever had a normal job?” She wonders aloud.
He shrugs. “Then you already have the basics down. Excellent.” He continues circling. “Start small,” he says. “Then, work your way up.”
She nods, although annoyed with being ignored, continue.
“So, we start with running.”
She cringes. The mere thought of him watching her run laps is painfully embarrassing.
Wanting to impress and not kill this before it even gets started, she keeps her mouth shut.
“I’ll give you a minute head start.”
Wait, what did he say?
She almost laughs. “We’re racing?”
His grin is worrying. “No, I’m chasing you.”
In that case, she wants to ask for at least a five minute head start; eyes his thick, long legs. The taut muscle is visible shifting and tensing, even under his baggy sweatpants.
“You’re going to catch me,” she tells him, wanting to argue about this being unfair.
“Then you’d better start running,” he replies, flipping his wrist over to check the ticking time.
“What - where am I allowed to go?” Cool sweat collects at the nape of her neck.
“Anywhere.” He’s still looking at his watch, waiting patiently.
“When are we starting?”
His eyes flit up, glint at her, then focus back on the dwindling time. “Five seconds ago.”
Prickling anticipation drives her to argue. “How is that going to help me? Just running all day so you can keep catching me? Pretty soon I’ll get tired and will just give up and let you catch me.”
“Oh, that’s what I forgot to mention,” John murmurs.
Anger anxiety cocktail spikes. Forgot to mention? There’s a lot of shit that he’s conveniently forgetting to mention.
“If I catch you, I tickle you.” His grin grows into a sharp-bladed tip.
“John,” she says, voice worried, which delights him. “That is not fair. You’re going to catch me and you can’t just tickle me all day when you do.”
He’s a reasonable man. He’ll see her issue. She’s valid in her concerns, and they both know it.
“Yes I can.”
“Are you serious?!”
“Uh huh.” He taps his watch face. “Thirty seconds.”
Her shoes slip on the cushiony matts, landing her on her knees before she can start bolting.
He resists the urge to go to her. Thankfully, she’s not down for long, or else his concern would get the better of him.
She stands and runs. Up the stairs, already panting and sweating, adrenaline an ache that builds higher the farther away she gets from him.
Out the door of the gym, down the hallway, trying not to fall again and losing precious time because of it.
She’s in the cold before she knows what she’s doing. Her t-shirt does nothing to cover her from the frost, but fear and physical exertion help her stay warm.
Down the left block, then ducking through an alleyway, wondering if he’s on her tail by now.
Blessedly, there’s no snow on the ground, so she’s not leaving any footprints. Also, that means she can go faster and not have to worry about falling.
She rushes a corner and almost takes out an older man walking his dog, so, of course, she has to stop and profusely apologize.
“It’s fine, dear,” he chuckles.
She pats his friendly Labrador on the head. “Are you sure?” She looks him over, and he seems okay. Her memory says she ran smack dab into his frail frame, but maybe it’s just her psychosis acting up again.
“I’m alright, dear, where is your coat? Your skin is ice cold.”
“Oh, I left it at home, just going for a jog,” she replies, trying to be casual.
His fluffy dog pushes a wet nose into her hand and nuzzles her out of more attention.
“This is Sam,” the older man introduces. “He is very friendly.”
“He’s amazing,” she says, using both hands to stroke blonde, warm fur.
“Are you training for a marathon?” The man asks. “I hear there’s a big one by Macy’s next week.”
“No. Just exercising.” She smiles up at him, wondering how to politely break this conversation off and save her own ass.
Behind him, about half a block down, is her pursuer and teacher.
It would be better if he looked disappointed. So, so much better.
Her hand stills on Sam’s head.
That expression would be a glare if his mouth wasn’t pulled up at the seams. His eyes of brilliant brown are blown black. Like a shark. No, too intentional to be a shark - it isn’t pure hunger that drives him.
Gotcha.
Fear is the only thing she’s capable of feeling for a couple of seconds as she forgets what, exactly, is going on while an instinctual and ancient part of her remembers what it’s like to be hunted.
She’s going to feel really bad, later, about turning away from a nice man and his dog without so much as a goodbye and sprinting the opposite direction.
That trepidation just coils tighter the more she runs. She wasn’t built for this. Her legs are too short, her body too pillowy to gain any sort of momentum , her lungs too small for the air required in running.
It’s nothing but luck and adrenaline carrying her down crossroads and alleys.
She spares a glance behind her, and almost feels like she’s winning when she doesn’t see John.
It’s because he’s in front of her.
At the end of the gravelly side street, lounging lazily on the wall.
Michael fucking Meyers, that’s what this reminds her of. You never see him moving, but somehow he’s always catching up to you.
She almost falls again when turning around to dash the other way, but manages to keep a shaky, vertical grip on earth.
John surpasses her, the easy stride of his legs infuriating, and plants himself in her path so that she runs smack into his chest.
There’s no time to get away. He already has her biceps gripped tight.
She winces, writhes, glower resembling more of a pout.
“When you run,” he says, kissing her head with a soft mouth that contradicts his hard grip. “You zigzag. Go every direction. Never in a straight line. Never predictably. You have to not think about where you’re going, but focus wholly on your destination.”
“Helpful tips that I should have known earlier?” She tries, grinning dryly.
He chuckles. “If I just tell you, you won’t learn. Which reminds me: Let’s take you home and get you warm. I owe you some merciless tickling, don’t I?”
“I was hoping you’d forget,” she groans. “Second chance?”
“You’ll get plenty of chances,” he assures, leading her back to where she came.