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As little as he could really say what he expected to come of his search for Bucky, if there was any hope of finding something of his friend there in the man who had been through more than he could have imagined in the long years he himself had slept, Steve could not help but feel himself getting frustrated at his own inability to make it all better. He wasn't a fool, he understood that it would be no easy matter. That as much as he might want to be able to snap his fingers and have Bucky be himself again, that aggravating, steady force in his life who had picked him up and dusted him off in that Brooklyn back alley and never once failed him, such things were impossible.
How many times had he read the file Natasha had given him? How many times had he attempted to read around the blacked out sections that detailed missions in an attempt to better understand what had been done to his friend?
He could not think of what he had found there in the meticulous notes regarding procedures and experiments and not feel sick. No more than he could look back to Bucky stepping out of the shadows while he had been out on a run and not want to clench his fists at the sheer helplessness he had felt at being able to make things right. A helplessness he felt at that very moment.
Where he would not retreat into himself and attempt to forget the world or the fact that he did have friends there in the Nexus, Steve decided that the gym and a weight bag were his best bets at shaving off something of his frustration. There was a sort of calm found there in wrapping his fists tight, remembering those long ago lessons Bucky had given him on technique and style. As there was in stepping up to the bag and finding a rhythm to the strikes of his fists against the canvas, to feeling his body pull in familiar ways, to the in and out of his breathing as he attempted to forget the difficulties of the world for canvas and flesh and bone.
How many times had he read the file Natasha had given him? How many times had he attempted to read around the blacked out sections that detailed missions in an attempt to better understand what had been done to his friend?
He could not think of what he had found there in the meticulous notes regarding procedures and experiments and not feel sick. No more than he could look back to Bucky stepping out of the shadows while he had been out on a run and not want to clench his fists at the sheer helplessness he had felt at being able to make things right. A helplessness he felt at that very moment.
Where he would not retreat into himself and attempt to forget the world or the fact that he did have friends there in the Nexus, Steve decided that the gym and a weight bag were his best bets at shaving off something of his frustration. There was a sort of calm found there in wrapping his fists tight, remembering those long ago lessons Bucky had given him on technique and style. As there was in stepping up to the bag and finding a rhythm to the strikes of his fists against the canvas, to feeling his body pull in familiar ways, to the in and out of his breathing as he attempted to forget the difficulties of the world for canvas and flesh and bone.