[ All that tension has to go somewhere, and Wash already knows that they're similar enough that a fight is one of the best outlets for it. A spar isn't quite that, but a good spar is close. There's a look in her eyes, something different, something serious, and Wash might lift his eyebrows slightly at that, offer her a bit of a smile as he finishes the last of his own water, sets it neatly aside.
Has she been holding back? God, he both hopes she has and hopes she hasn't, hopes so because it would be incredible to see her push herself even more, to see what she could really do -- and he doesn't, because hell, she beats him handily enough already.
Wash was never Maine, never Carolina, never Tex -- he was never York or North or any of the others, some of the best soldiers he thinks he's ever damned mt, that he thinks could be out there at all. He was never that good, he was never that strong, never that effortless. He kept up through hard work and determination, regimented intensive discipline, train more, train harder, keep up with the rest, be good enough to protect them and watch over them the way they watch over you. Natasha, well, she can say it was the people who took her, can say it was whatever they did to her, but she's without that here and Wash thinks she's pretty damned amazing all on her own. And Wash, for all his dedication, has never had that same touch of brilliance the others had.
He gets in position, readies himself, but for all that he thinks he's learned about the way she fights over the past weeks of sparring together there's something different about this, the look in her eyes and the way she approaches. She pushes off her back foot, and Wash does try to avoid it, to his credit, but her legs around his neck and the momentum is still carrying here forward. Natasha might not be trying to hurt him but the breath still gets thrown out of his lungs as he's flipped bodily over and slammed into the ground, and it takes him a few seconds before he's bracing himself against the ground, pushing himself up slightly, gasping.
Turning around to look at her, breathlessly; ] -- That one's new.
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Has she been holding back? God, he both hopes she has and hopes she hasn't, hopes so because it would be incredible to see her push herself even more, to see what she could really do -- and he doesn't, because hell, she beats him handily enough already.
Wash was never Maine, never Carolina, never Tex -- he was never York or North or any of the others, some of the best soldiers he thinks he's ever damned mt, that he thinks could be out there at all. He was never that good, he was never that strong, never that effortless. He kept up through hard work and determination, regimented intensive discipline, train more, train harder, keep up with the rest, be good enough to protect them and watch over them the way they watch over you. Natasha, well, she can say it was the people who took her, can say it was whatever they did to her, but she's without that here and Wash thinks she's pretty damned amazing all on her own. And Wash, for all his dedication, has never had that same touch of brilliance the others had.
He gets in position, readies himself, but for all that he thinks he's learned about the way she fights over the past weeks of sparring together there's something different about this, the look in her eyes and the way she approaches. She pushes off her back foot, and Wash does try to avoid it, to his credit, but her legs around his neck and the momentum is still carrying here forward. Natasha might not be trying to hurt him but the breath still gets thrown out of his lungs as he's flipped bodily over and slammed into the ground, and it takes him a few seconds before he's bracing himself against the ground, pushing himself up slightly, gasping.
Turning around to look at her, breathlessly; ] -- That one's new.
[ There's a smile there, though. A grin. ]