Punching Something

The fresh baked bread smelled delicious, but Leslie suspected this was not a good thing. She quickly got dressed and went to the kitchen, where she found two loaves cooling on the counter.

"That smells delicious," she said to Steve who was sitting at the table, clutching a heavy mug of coffee as if it was trying to escape. Leslie was proud he'd managed the coffeemaker, but she didn't mention it because he looked so tense. "You get up early?" Leslie asked gently.

"Couldn't sleep," he answered tersely.

"Nightmares?"

"Not exactly." Steve rubbed his eyes. "Just might-have-beens that never will be."

Leslie nodded understanding and patted his arm. "Why did you make bread?"

"I didn't want to wake you up, but I really needed to punch something," he said with restrained ferocity. "I remembered making bread with my ma …"

"Kneading is good therapy," Leslie agreed, though actually, she'd only made bread once or twice. "I'm sorry you had trouble sleeping, but we will benefit from your hard work."

Leslie got a serrated knife and cut two slices of the crusty bread. She spread the slices with butter and ceremonially handed one to Steve. They simultaneously bit down on the delicious, yeasty-smelling slices.

Leslie tried, she really tried, but the bread was tough and chewy. She barely swallowed her mouthful and her arthritic jaw hurt so much she didn't dare try to chew another.

Steve's enhanced jaws powered through the slice, but he sighed when he was done. "I spoiled it," he said regretfully.

"I think you overworked it," Leslie agreed. She'd read that it's really hard to overwork bread, because most people get tired before they reach that point, but Steve is a Super Soldier and sometimes doesn't remember his own strength.

"I haven't baked bread since this," he said, gesturing at his muscular body. "I'm sorry I wasted all this food."

Leslie would have told him it didn't matter, but she knew that wouldn't make him feel better.

"We'll find a way to use it," she said encouragingly. "We can toast it or make croutons out of it. We can soak it in gravy. Ooh, we can grind it up and use it as a thickener in soup or chili. Mmm, chili, that sounds like a good idea," she said.

"Not that spicy stuff," Steve said warily.

"No, this is a spiced meat and/or bean dish. It gets spices from chili peppers, but I don't make it super spicy. Don't worry, we won't waste your bread," she reassured her friend.

Steve looked a little happier as he thanked her.

"But I guess we need to find you a place to exercise," Leslie continued.

"Yes, please."

"We'll talk to Carlos after breakfast," Leslie decided. She wasn't heartbroken to delay the discussion of the space program and the Cold War. "And we'll prowl the streets. I kept you cooped up too long yesterday."

"I'd appreciate stretching my legs, but don't think I've forgotten about satellite TV," Steve warned.

Leslie snapped her fingers. "Rats! Curse your super memory," she said dramatically.

Steve laughed and gave his first real smile of the morning. Leslie counted it as a win.

They fixed a big breakfast for Steve and a small one for Leslie. Sliced thin and toasted, the bread was palatable. Another win. Steve finished most of the first loaf. Leslie wasn't sure whether he really enjoyed it or he just wanted to dispose of his mistake. Either way, he looked happier when most of it was gone.

Downstairs, they consulted with Carlos the concierge. He offered three suggestions of places that were vetted by SHIELD, including a local college where the track was available to the public starting at dawn.

"And we have a gym in the basement here," Carlos suggested. "It's good for middle-of-the-night workouts."

"That would be perfect," Steve said, sounding relieved. He was still worried about going out alone. He'd only been in this time for two days. He wasn't worried about getting lost, but more about getting Leslie in trouble if he got himself noticed.

They went down to the gym to check it out. Carlos set up palm print access for the two of them. Inside was a wide array of gleaming equipment with screens and buttons — stair steppers and exercise cycles and rowing machines — not that Steve knew what any of those were. He visibly shied away from all the fancy stuff, but his eye was caught by a punching bag hanging in the middle of the room, a hefty heavy bag just like the boxing club back in the old neighborhood. He smiled. This he understood.

Carlos showed him where the accessories were and Steve wrapped his hands. He paused. "You don't mind?" he asked Leslie.

"Take off your shirt and I won't mind at all," Leslie countered with a friendly leer.

Steve chuckled. A younger woman saying such a thing would have embarrassed him, but Leslie was already like the aunt he'd never had. Steve unbuttoned and removed his shirt, leaving just an undershirt.

"Yeah," Carlos breathed. Leslie just smiled.

Steve made a face at both of them, then stepped up to the bag. The spectators stood back, sitting on a bench against the wall near the door.

Steve punched experimentally, getting a feel for the bag, concentrating to stay within himself. As he settled into a rhythm, his mind began to drift, back to Bucky and his father trying to teach him to punch, back to Peggy demonstrating the right technique when he was still a little guy.

Lost in the old days, Steve struck out with all his strength, just like Peggy had taught him.

The chain snapped, the bag flew across the room to smash into an exercise cycle, then fell to the floor, leaking sand from a mortal wound. The cycle crashed into the wall and rebounded to fall on its side, computer screen cracking and sparking.

Carlos rushed to unplug it, while Steve stood, arms hanging, mortified.

"I'm sorry," he said in a small voice. "That looks expensive."

"It was," Carlos said with breathless amazement. When the powerful Super Soldier seemed to shrink in on himself, the concierge recalled his professional manners. "Fortunately, it's paid for," he said briskly. "Captain, you are not the first agent to wreck this place. It's been allowed for."

He tugged Steve to a weight machine by the wall near the door and pointed to a couple of dents on the steel frame.

"Are those bullet marks?"

"Yes." He gestured in a line up the all and Steve's enhanced vision could see where bullet holes had been repaired and painted over. "This facility is for intelligence agents. One of our visitors was here recuperating after an operation that went sour. He was captured and tortured before being rescued. He was working on the stair climber there, when I carried in some fresh towels. He didn't hear me, but he saw a reflection and started shooting. Fortunately, his hands had been injured by the torture, so his aim wasn't up to par, but he blasted two machines and the wall before he realized where he was."

"I hope he apologized," Leslie said.

"He did, and he stopped wearing earbuds while he worked out — and we turned the stair climber to face the door."

Steve realized that all the exercise devices faced the door and not the wall, even though that made it more difficult to climb on the seat of the cycle. (It was even more difficult now that the cycle was lying on its side.)

"Really, captain, this isn't a problem. We have extra machines in storage," Carlos said. "Extra punching bags, too."

"But if I forget my strength again … Next time somebody might get hurt," Steve said sadly. He shivered when he thought that Leslie and Carlos might have been in front of him instead of behind him."

"I'll find someplace you can destroy punching bags to your heart's content," Carlos promised.

"He needs someplace he can go at night when he can't sleep," Leslie reminded Carlos.

"Try this," Carlos suggested, showing Steve how to set up a treadmill. "Start slow and work your way up to top speed."

Steve was doubtful, but he started walking, then jogging. He pushed the lever up to the max and began to run.

"Push it," Leslie called. "See if the treadmill can take it."

Steve's stride began pushing the treadmill beyond its limit. It began to whine. He stumbled forward when the "ground" didn't keep up with his pace. His grip kept him upright.

"Slow it down," Carlos instructed.

Steve chopped his stride, slowing until he was in tune with the treadmill.

"Can you hold that speed?" Leslie asked.

"Yes, as long as I concentrate."

"Then concentrate!" Leslie teased.

"Yes, ma'am."

With the treadmill on high, Steve jogged along. He wasn't pushing himself, but he felt his muscles loosening up. It wasn't all he needed, but it was something.

"What are earbuds?" he asked.

Carlos pulled his phone and earbuds out of his pocket. He demonstrated their use. "You can listen to music without bothering people around you."

He held one up to Steve's ear so he could hear. Leslie laughed when she caught a fragment of rap beat.

Steve yanked his ear away from the overly loud beat. "Is that what they call music these days?" he asked.

"It's not for everyone," Leslie assured him.

Carlos picked out Beyonce song from his playlist. "Better?"

Steve agreed the voice and melody were nice, but privately thought some of the lyrics were rude.

Leslie sat on a bench by the door, checking her email and sending sharply worded notes to her assistants' questions. She'd only been out of the office for two days!

"What else do you have for Steve?" Leslie asked Carlos.

"The next room has weights and open space for sparring," Carlos said.

"Are they free weights, because a resistance machine would be a bad idea," Leslie said.

"Yes, we have free weights," Carlos agreed. "And we have jump ropes," he suggested. "And high ceilings."

"Those sound good," Steve said. They sounded familiar, which was a relief. He began to slow down and stopped the machine, so he could check out the other room. It would probably be good for calisthenics, too.

Carlos tossed him a towel. Steve wiped off his face and neck, though he hadn't actually broken a sweat.

Leslie tossed him his shirt. "Thanks for the show," she teased.

"Don't make it a habit," Steve answered with mock sternness.

"Oh, I plan to," Leslie said lightly.

Laughing, they went to check out the weight room.