Soul Stealer ~ (A Bucky Barnes Love Story)

My Tears Ricochet

"What did the punching bag ever do to you?"

I swung my right arm, grunting when it connected with the bag, refusing to acknowledge Bucky or my tumultuous emotions.  The hook attached to the chain in the ceiling snapped just as the bag exploded, spilling copious amounts of sand onto the gym floor.  Sweat dripped from my face and soaked my clothes as I kicked the useless bag out of the way.  Grabbing another I hooked it up and stepped back, flexing my aching fingers.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I pivoted on the ball of my foot, swinging a vicious roundhouse kick into the bag.  "No."  I spun back around, landing a series of left and right hooks in rapid succession.  Maybe if I kept punching it would dislodge the awful feeling taking root inside me.

"Evelyn," he sighed, moving into my field of view. 

When I refused to look at him he stepped forward, grabbing my arm.  I reacted on instinct, twisting out of his grip and sending a left hook sailing towards his handsome face.  He ducked under it easily, coming up in a fighting stance though it looked like the last thing he wanted to do.

His reluctance pissed me off even though he wasn't the person I was mad at.  That was the problem, everything I was thinking and feeling wasn't rational.  I felt abandoned.  Deep down I knew it wasn't my mom's fault her mind betrayed her, but it was like being stolen from her a second time.  It wasn't fair to her, but it felt like she didn't love me enough to hang on to my memory. 

Snarling I attacked Bucky, lobbing an offensive assault that drove him back.  He easily deflected each blow, his body fluid and graceful from years of training, but never, not once, did he counter.  His reluctance to fight me only added fuel to my already raging fire. 

Much like weapons I avoided hand-to-hand combat during my captivity with HYDRA at all costs, only relenting to save the man I was currently trying to pummel.  I may be no match for the Winter Soldier, but I was far from a pedestrian.  My mom taught me to throw a punch before my 10th birthday.  Fighting, as it turned out, was in my blood, along with a host of other things I never wanted.

We were a blur of hands and feet, moves and counter moves, both panting with exertion as we weaved our way around the gym in a complicated dance.  He was the superior fighter, we both knew that, but I was fast and fueled by pure fury. 

Grunting I launched myself at him, trying to deliver a flying knee kick, but he spun deftly to the right at the last second.  His eyes widened ever so slightly, the only indication he realized I'd been holding back in our sparing sessions.

"Enough Evie!" he warned, catching my hand in his metal grip.  He twisted the limb hard and I was forced to twirl around, my back pressed hard against his muscular chest as he pinned my arm behind me.

It wasn't enough because the terrible feeling was still simmering just below my skin.  It felt oily, awful, and I wanted it gone. 

Not ready to admit defeat I stopped resisting and instead spun in the direction of my twisted arm.  The pressure on the joint eased and I was able to take a deep breath in relief.  My evasion surprised him, and his grip loosened just enough that I was able to wiggle free.

Before he could recover I used his knee as a springboard to scale his tall body, quickly wrapping one of my thighs around his neck while I twisted my body around and reached for the floor.  Unable to combat the centrifugal force he was thrown to the floor with a barely audible "ompf" while I rolled off him and to my feet, spinning to face him.

"This doesn't have to end in a fight," he said somberly in Russian, already up and awaiting my next attack.

"It always ends in a fight," I countered.