Well. No wonder Steve let Sarah stay, even though she was the noisiest of the three Pokemon. Jim watches them for a moment, a little surprised at the familiarity of their routine, like they do this all the time. I guess that's one way to up the difficulty.
He shakes his head a little, and takes a few minutes to do some stretches, not all that eager to wreck his wrists just because he wanted to get to the punching sooner. Bones would never let him live it down. Or go anywhere else by himself, for that matter.
Once he feels he's readied himself enough, he turns to the punching bag, his feet shifting into a boxer's stance on reflex, and he gives a few experimental taps with his fists, testing the weight and resistance of the bag. Satisfied with what he finds, Jim sets into one of his old routines, a simple set of jabs and hooks, getting the bag swinging from the increased force of his hits. It takes him a short while to find his rhythm, especially with the periodic barks keeping time, subconsciously adapting his pace to roughly follow. He's a little rusty at this, but the longer he circles the bag and lays into it, the more it comes back to him, old reflexes taking over and directing his pent-up stress and worries at the swinging target. There's no one he imagines he's hitting, no one person he can target for his nightmares or guilt or fears, just the solid snap of taped knuckles striking leather and the faint burn of working muscles,
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branchandroot
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Date: 2017-12-10 07:32 pm (UTC)He shakes his head a little, and takes a few minutes to do some stretches, not all that eager to wreck his wrists just because he wanted to get to the punching sooner. Bones would never let him live it down. Or go anywhere else by himself, for that matter.
Once he feels he's readied himself enough, he turns to the punching bag, his feet shifting into a boxer's stance on reflex, and he gives a few experimental taps with his fists, testing the weight and resistance of the bag. Satisfied with what he finds, Jim sets into one of his old routines, a simple set of jabs and hooks, getting the bag swinging from the increased force of his hits. It takes him a short while to find his rhythm, especially with the periodic barks keeping time, subconsciously adapting his pace to roughly follow. He's a little rusty at this, but the longer he circles the bag and lays into it, the more it comes back to him, old reflexes taking over and directing his pent-up stress and worries at the swinging target. There's no one he imagines he's hitting, no one person he can target for his nightmares or guilt or fears, just the solid snap of taped knuckles striking leather and the faint burn of working muscles,