Marvel Imagines

Punching Bag | Bucky

There was this, this concentrated anger pooling in an insidious vat in my soul. And I was in the basement, demolishing a punching bag, taking my anger out on it instead of a person like last time.

It's an inevitable evil- the thoughts will always worm their way back into my skull, flooding my body with guilt and rage at the same time. The 'shoulda, coulda, woulda' thoughts. The 'what if' thoughts. The 'if I had just' thoughts. None of those thoughts can bring back Bucky. Or at least, none of those thoughts can bring back James Buchanan. He's gone.

Since HYDRA got him, even after we got him back and rehabilitation happened, he's always been Bucky, just Bucky. Missing that strangely shaped piece that made him James Buchanan. I used to call him that, all the time. I can't bring myself to do it anymore, because it's not who he is anymore.

I re-laced my boxing glove after it had come undone again, and I continued punching. I ignored the small grains of sand that flew out of a tiny rip at the top of the bag, and if I punched particularly hard, all the sand would come raining out of my hair.

It was silent in the basement of the tower. Nobody was there but me, nothing down here was organic. It was a greyscale cinderblock room meant for uninterrupted, deafening silence. And it stayed that way- grey and silent- save for the sound of the bag rattling on its chain and the muted red color of my worn gloves.

James- Bucky- flashed though my mind again, and I drew in a loud breath. I shook my gloves off angrily and picked up one of the knives to my left, throwing it at the target directly behind the bag. It hit, in the same place as always, like a strange game of 'loves me, loves me not'. Except with throwing knives and more along the lines of 'my fault, not my fault'. I threw a couple more to get my anger out.

After my anger was drained, I stood and stared at the target while I laced my gloves back up. The shell of an old punching bag, I decided to pin it to the wall and use it for target practice after I had punched a hole through it last month. I knotted the left lace, pulling it a little too hard as I resumed punching the bag. Left, right, left, right, over and over, in the same place. Each punch was spaced a half-second from the next, giving the punching bag time to fill the impact spot with sand before I hit it again, so it wouldn't break. I kept it up, drilling my rhythm for a long time until I was interrupted. I heard the footsteps, silent as they were, and my fists went faster as soon as the dim light above me was reflected back by his arm.

"(Y/N), it's 2:48 in the morning." Bucky said, waltzing right up to the punching bag without regard for my current state. His presence put my on edge, as if evil were to appear at any moment.

"I am aware." I answered, saying each word in between each punch.

"You should go to bed, get some sleep. Rest your tired arms. You've been doing this every night for too long." My eyebrows slanted downward as I threw a rather hefty punch into the bag.

"I'm a grown woman," I responded, without pausing. "I tell me when bedtime is." He chuckled, nodding.

"I know." He didn't say anything to me for awhile, before he said one thing that set me off.

"You're thinking about HYDRA, aren't you." My fists found a way to speed up, and before it happened, I knew. The punching bag couldn't keep up with my punches enough to fill the hole with sand, and the impact of my punches got stronger until it burst. With a pure, low ring, the middle of the bag burst, the air escaping all at once and sand flying everywhere. I bent over, panting hard and looking down at the sand swimming around my shoes. Bucky took a step forward and put a hand in my back. Lightly, because the metal was cold on my bare shoulder.

"You know, it isn't your fault." He said, and I stood up straight and looked at him, shocked, my chest still heaving. I had never heard those words come out of his mouth before.

"But it is," I responded weakly, and Bucky shook his head lightly and pulled me into him. I didn't protest.

"I'm here now. Stop blaming yourself." He wrapped an arm around me, the rest of him surprisingly warm and reminding me of James Buchanan. "Let's go upstairs, okay?" Once again, I didn't protest. I let him guide me, and once our voices fell silent, the room went back to being silent, aside from the sound of sand pouring out of the bag behind us.