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Father Brown's life lacked physical activity, which was rather normal for his age and occupation – no one expects a priest to run fast or run at all. But it had always been an aspect of life that, to various degrees throughout his life, fascinated him (as something hardly achievable often does).
Flambeau, on the other hand, used – or at least used to use in his former line of business – his conspicuous body as frequently as his mind. His new career also required such talents as sprinting (in case a criminal fled from him) and brawling (in case a criminal actively chose not to). This is true for any private detective and perfectly known to anyone familiar with the tales about Sherlock Holmes – which, like many a contemporary of his, Father Brown was. His interest in them wasn't one of a fellow detective, or a friend of a detective, but simply of a curious reader looking for entertainment, and to his disappointment, this he hadn't found.
There was something, however, that caught his particular attention and left an impression – somehow, a rather unforeseen one, despite his being childishly impressed by every other thing he encountered. The subject in question was boxing.
Upon hearing Father's quiet but excited compliment regarding his fighting abilities, Flambeau laughed thunderously and made an unanticipated, yet rather logical suggestion.
"I could teach you, if you like."
"Oh, surely, I cannot," Father Brown retracted his enthusiasm like a turtle hides its head into the shell. "I doubt it's respectable enough – and I mean no offence. I'm afraid my robe and my collar will get in the way of this hobby."
"The robe definitely would, if it were Greco-Roman wrestling," Flambeau said with a smile of an expert. "But I understand your concern."
Father blinked at him sadly and, only thanks to the years of experience of studying humans' intentions (both conscious and not), caught the minute – somewhat roguish – change of the expression on the Frenchman's face.
"No," he shook his head before his companion could open his mouth to continue and make his mischievous point. "I'm not someone who would gladly keep a secret from my superiors. I'm not saying it's scandalous, but they are already distressed by my frequent proximity to dead people I meet for purposes other than giving them their last rites."
Flambeau waved his hand dismissively and responded with airy recklessness.
"Ah, a single lesson will do anyone no harm, and I have a reason to believe that you won't like it anyway after all."
"Please don't make assumptions due to my constitution," grunted Father Brown warmly.
"Oh, I meant only your peaceful nature, my friend. Your strength lies in your words of wisdom. You knocked me down from that tree and wrestled away the silver."
Father Brown smiled shyly like a child who is praised for his first good grade.
"Well, maybe, it won't do any harm indeed."
The first challenge – the second, if you count the Church's potential fastidiosity at Father's shenanigans – manifested itself much faster than exhaustion and imminent bruises. Apart from being blatantly distinctive, their height difference impeded the learning process in another way. Should they make no accommodation for it, Flambeau's blows would fly over FB's head, which would depreciate the educational effect of examples of defense moves, and the cleric's blows would find their target in the tutor's stomach, which isn't ideal in any situation, training or otherwise.
For their ring, they chose the yard behind the church, since it gave them enough cover and privacy, and also a solution to the abovementioned problem in the form of a wooden barrel, short and wide, that could be used as a stand. It was sturdy enough to carry Father Brown's weight and balanced the friends' height perfectly.
"I would recommend you take off your glasses, Father," Flambeau said, taking the stance.
"I'd rather decline this proposition," the priest laughed nervously, "since I won't be able to see you at all, or any target for that matter, which, I believe, is important to land a blow. I also trust you to not hit me in the face – unless, of course, it's vital for the training purposes."
"It isn't," Flambeau laughed too, very confidently. "Do not worry for your safety. Now, put your feet like this and your elbows like that..."
The trainer provided a simple but thorough instruction for the first steps of a match, then assessed Father Brown's pose and went back to his spot.
"The best way to learn is to try," he proclaimed wisely. "Let's begin with a jab."
At that, Father took a very deep breath, shut his eyes very tightly (which completely negated the purpose of leaving the glasses on) and put his right hand through the air. Then, upon contact, he heard a yelp and went cold all over.
His mentor was lying on the ground, with his hand over his nose, making noises of amusement. Father immediately prowled from the barrel and started running in spirals, first outward, then inward so he could better estimate what first aid was required.
"I am fine, Father, do not worry," the prone giant comforted him.
"I should have never agreed," the priest gasped, finally stopping to procure a handkerchief. "I should have never even mentioned it!"
"I do believe now that one lesson was much more than enough," Flambeau jested, raising back to his feet and straightening his long legs while Father Brown's shook in the knees, and added, not making it whatsoever easier for the priest. "And some harm was definitely done after all."
He received the handkerchief with dignity and wiped the blood – fortunately, very little – from his handsome face.
"I am so, so sorry," Father Brown mumbled.
"Look on the bright side," Flambeau attempted to provide consolation, "now your safety is no longer a concern should you come across both noble and ignoble criminals."
"Oh, I don't matter now, it's not me whose nose I very possibly broke! Do you need anything?" Father Brown continued the interrogation, somehow even more anxious despite all the reassurance. "Water? I think I have smelling salts somewhere in case a confession turns too intense."
"Again, I am fine and certainly not in danger of fainting," Flambeau shook his head (very carefully). "I honestly had worse. After all, the noses of my compatriots are an easier target than your English noses. Don't blame yourself. Only if you lend me your arm..."
He stumbled over to Father Brown's rectory with support of the latter and gratefully accepted an invitation for tea.
"Have you ever considered," Flambeau inquired nasally at the second cup, chewing a scone, "an idea of putting your own adventures to paper? Or if you don't want to do it yourself, I will readily be a Watson to your Holmes."
Father Brown blushed.
"The mere thought terrifies me," he sheepishly admitted, always the most uneasy when confronting pride. "And I don't mean your writing talent."
"As you wish, my Father," Flambeau conceded.