Jab.
Block.
Counter punch.
Hook.
Blow.
Parry.
Combo.
Jab.
Jab.
Caden was alone in the gym standing in front of a blood and sweat stained punching bag, her bright pink boxing gloves delivering blow after blow to the unfortunate bag.
Hook.
Block.
Jab.
Jab.
This is where she had always come to let out her emotions. Frustration, anger, sadness, depression, hatred, was all let out in this room, every time on this same bag.
She had always been a natural fighter -- Her time with S.H.I.E.L.D. proved it. But this, hand to hand combat, was her strength. She was a boxer, always had been. Her brother had been a boxer, often taking his little sister to the gym with him and teaching her basic punches and blocks. She received her first pair of gloves on her fifth birthday. Those gloves, bright pink with her name stitched on the side, were the first thing she unpacked when she came to live with Tony.
Tony noticed it right away. How could he not? No more than five minutes after she arrived, he had found her in the gym, swinging away at that punching bag. After that day, he had always pushed her to join a team, to be a real boxer, in a real ring, fighting other real boxers. She always had refused, saying all she wanted to do was to do it alone, whenever she wanted, not as a part of a team, having to be relied upon. She wasn't a team player, she had always told him, she was better off being alone. It just wasn't going to happen. She would drag her feet -- literally -- whenever he tried to take her to a trainer.
After three years of trying, three years of Caden just sitting down in the ring, gloves on her hands, glaring darkly at him, Tony finally stopped forcing her. He let her loose in the gym, bringing in all sorts of world class equipment for her to work with; bags, weights, bars, a sparring ring. She was happy in there.
So, he let her be.
Caden had always been an orthodox hitter, a natural right hander, but after the injury she took to her dominant arm during the Battle of New York, she had to switch. The doctors told her to just stop all together, any blunt force trauma being a threat to that arm.
She had laughed at them. Like hell she was going to stop.
For months, she spent hours, sometimes full days, in the gym, working on rehabilitation of her maimed right arm, and strength and coordination in her left. It was like starting over from the beginning, trying to convert from an orthodox fighter to a south paw. Out of habit, she would swing a right hook, only to feel extreme pain shooting throughout her arm and upper body. She just couldn't get it.
Caden started feeling depressed, assured that she would never be able to change. After six months, she decided to just stop, hanging up the gloves.
She was done.
That's when Rogers interfered. She still remembered his words. "Don't just quit because you have an obstacle in your path. Think of it as a challenge."
It took weeks of pleading and convincing, but exactly eight months after the Battle, Caden and Rogers walked into the gym, together. For hours everyday they worked out, running through drills, exercises, all concentrating on strengthening her left arm. It took time, a long time, but on the one year anniversary of the Battle of New York, Caden put her newly learned skills to the test.
Caden and Rogers sparred.
And she pinned him.
He never would say if he let her win, though Caden was sure he had. But the most important thing was, her right arm was in absolutely zero pain, and her left had not failed her. Rogers wore the mark of her perfect, maybe too perfect, left hook on his jaw for a solid week. Of course, she hadn't meant to hit him that hard, but he did tell her to go for it, so it was kind of his fault. So of course he wasn't angry, impressed rather, but she still felt bad.
Well, maybe not too bad. Even if Rogers had let her win, she still hooked him a good one, and who had the bragging rights to say they bruised the national symbol that was Captain America's face?
'Not many,' she smiled to herself as her memory came to an end. She sat down, taking off her pink gloves -- she had never bought another color besides pink -- and wiped the beads of sweat that had formed on her forehead. She was just taking a much desired drink of water when Rogers walked in. She smirked at him through her bottle of water when she saw he was in gym clothes and carrying his own personal punching bag.
"I see Tony told you to get your own bags after you kept breaking his?" She asked, winking at Rogers.
Rogers laughed shortly, easily lifting the heavy bag up and hooking it into place. "What are you doing here, Cade?" He asked, sitting down beside her. "I haven't seen you in here for a while."
Caden shrugged. "Just working some issues out," she said.
Rogers nodded, slipping on his boxing gloves. "Tony again?" He asked.
"Actually, no," Caden laughed slightly. "He's the one that has always told me to hit something when I am angry, something, not someone, mind you. No, my cousin isn't my problem. It's Bruce."
"Dr. Banner?" Rogers asked as he started to take a few easy jabs into the bag. "He's never seemed like a guy that would get on anyone's nerves. Then again, that is just my opinion."
"He's such a pushy thing when it comes to his work," Caden groaned, standing back up and lightly punching at her bag.
"Now, that I have noticed."
"It's just," Caden grunted, throwing a blow at her inanimate opponent. "He doesn't think I'm making enough progress with Bucky."
Rogers stopped punching momentarily. "Are you?" He asked.
"For what terrible condition the poor guy was in when I got to him, we've made a hell of a lot of progress. I'm getting full sentences, he's getting his memories back. Slowly, only one or two a day, but he's still remembering."
"I trust what you're doing, Cade," Rogers said sincerely. "Don't worry about what Banner says about it. You're the expert here."
"I know it's just..." She trailed off, not wanting Rogers to know more than he absolutely should.
She couldn't tell him about the project, he had always disapproved of her project with helping PTSD veterans back on their feeet and preparing them to to go back into the fire again. Caden had tried reasoning with him, saying they were given a choice, and they were; most of them chose to go back. Maybe it was because he was a veteran himself, she didn't know.
Besides, he still believed the project had been terminated after D.C. And it had been.
It's just that it had been resurrected when Bucky came to them, and they hadn't found the right time to tell Rogers that piece of information.
No, she shook her head. Rogers couldn't know about it. At least, not yet. Not until Bucky was ready.
"It's just what?" Rogers asked.
"Nothing." Caden shook off the thought.
"If it's one thing I have learned about you, Cade, it's that it's never nothing. C'mon, what's up?"
Caden shrugged. "It's really nothing, I swear. Hey, Rogers?" She asked, successfully changing the subject before Rogers could inquire more. "Want to spar?"
He looked at her quizzically, before nodding, a grin on his face. "Just like old times?" He asked, taking off his gloves.
"Just like old times," Caden confirmed. "Even though it's only been a few months since we last sparred."
"Just don't bruise my jaw again," he laughed, running his hand along his right jaw where the bruise once lay.
"Oh, I won't," Caden said with a smirk. "But I am going to beat you. For real this time. Just, take it easy on this sore wrist of mine, okay darling?"
"You always say that," Rogers pointed out, laughing. "And I always take it easy on you."
Caden balked, hands on her waist. "Is that the truth? Well, this time I am going to beat for sure."
"You always say that, too."
"Shut up, Rogers," Caden laughed, stepping onto the sparring mat, "Put your fists where your mouth is and get ready," she said, getting into fighting stance.
"Always am," Rogers said. "Good luck."
"Thanks, you're gonna need it," Caden said as she came at him with her signature left hook.