He'd managed to convince Joscelin that he could survive a few hours without the supervision of either of the Jones siblings and not do anything rash or stupid. As much as he loved Joscelin and Gwen, and even though he knew they were worried about him, Bishop was being to chafe under their watchful eyes. Casting a glance around the room in which he'd spent the majority of the time that he wasn't out in the field actively searching over the days since Dora's abduction, Bishop sighed. He needed to step away, blow off some steam.

He got up and headed down the hall to the training room, ignoring the subtle and not so subtle looks he got from the people he passed along the way. That an Auror had been taken was big news at the Ministry and Bishop's tirade when he'd found out had been much talked about. Fuck 'em. Let people say what they wanted. It was his wife and child that were at risk, not just a random Auror. It was personal.

The training room was empty except for one other person. Savage was in the far corner working over a punching bag. Bishop took his place at the other bag, grabbing a pair of gloves and imagining Verdelet's face as he began to work out his frustrations.

Jonathan was aware that someone else had entered the room. It was late, most of the hallways darkened, and the arrival of someone had him glancing over his shoulder. Rascaile, punching the bag with aggression. He looked tense, which, considering the circumstances, was perfectly understandable. However, the way he was belting the leather pointed to something that needed to pop, something that needed to be let out.

He had learned from experience that punching a bag was not exactly satisfying. You needed to feel skin under your knuckles, see the red of blood. It was calming, in a way, even when you knew the target wasn't the one you wished to inflict pain on. Jonathan understood needing to vent your hostility out on someone.

Letting his wrapped hands drop to his sides, a thin sheen of sweat covering his chest and arms, Jonathan turned to look at Bishop, watching the man's muscles bulge as he assaulted the punching bag. "Rascaile, that bag's not going to punch you back."

"That tends to be the case with inanimate objects," Bishop huffed, not slowing his assault on the heavy bag in the slightest. It wasn't satisfying him. He wanted to be provoked, to have his rage triggered and let loose. He wanted to cause pain and to feel it physically. His heart had hurt for days, but it wasn't enough. He'd failed to keep Dora safe and he needed to experience the pain wholly, and to pass that pain on. The damned bag didn't feel. It couldn't share his burden.

"I'm not quite sure the Ministry would appreciate you destroying their property," Jonathan said, padding over towards the Hit Wizard, his bare feet gripping the mats below.

Bishop grimaced, eyes flashing at the Auror who seemed set on being an irritation. "I'm very sure I don't give a kneazle's arse whether they appreciate it or not."

Holding up his hands in surrender, Jonathan shrugged his shoulders. "I'm just saying." It was very obvious the man needed an outlet for the aggression he'd be unable to dole out to the justified party. The Auror knew what that aggression could do if it festered. More than likely, it'd be released on someone the man did not wish to hurt, someone he'd regret doing so to later.

Jonathan had no problem taking a beating, especially since it would probably be the singularly useful thing he could do for the situation. "Maybe you should find another channel."

Ceasing his punches, Bishop turned to the other man, wondering if he was actually offering to be that other 'channel'. Many times over the years he'd sparred with Joscelin to burn off aggression. It worked well, but the thought hadn't even crossed his mind recently. He'd been too wrapped in his work on the case. "What? Like you?"

"At least I hit back," Jonathan answered, holding his arms out a bit. The Ministry was almost empty, everyone working harder in the last week than they'd probably worked in the last few months. Tonks was one of their own, and everyone was fighting to get her back. Jonathan was just taking that task a little more literally than most. "And I'm not going to tell you hold back."

Bishop stared at him for a long moment. It was tempting. The give of actual flesh was much different than a weighted bag, and the solid sounds of fists against skin would be profoundly satisfying. Pulling off his gloves, he tossed them aside. "No gloves. No headgear. No low blows. Just bare hands."

Nodding, Jonathan began unwrapping his hands. "This isn't going to bring her back." He was courting a beating, but he didn't want Rascaile to contain himself. If this was going to work, the Hit Wizard needed to be angry, he needed to give his all without hesitation. Holding back would be as satisfying as boxing the bag. It needed to be truthful. Maybe he wouldn't need to be drugged tonight. Maybe he'd wear himself out enough to fall asleep himself.

"Thanks for that nugget of brilliance, Savage." Like he didn't know he wasn't doing anything useful. Like he needed to be reminded. Bishop felt his blood begin to rush with adrenaline. He rolled his shoulders, then his neck, anticipation filling him. He was ready to kick arse. With a curl of his fingers, he spoke darkly. "Come on, then. Bring it."

Jonathan grinned darkly, lowering his center of gravity. He'd never been the best at wandless, his smaller size being a hindrance, but he knew how to dart. He rushed forward, ducking under a well aimed punch as his head, punching Bishop in the ribs as he passed. He wasn't here to actually fight the man. He was here to be fought on. He was alright with that, but he needed Rascaile to actually want to hit him. If the anger in the man's eyes was any indication, Jonathan wouldn't have to worry about that.

Bishop grunted as Jonathan landed a punch, his own miss ratcheting up his frustration. He was a large man, well over six feet tall with muscles to spare. At the moment, though, his anger was making him sloppy and the smaller man was just a bit quicker in his reaction time. He swung a second time, narrowly missing again, and cursed loudly. Taking a deep breath, he focused, and when Jonathan rushed him this time, Bishop landed a solid strike to the Auror's jaw, snapping his head to the side.

Feeling his lip split under the sturdy punch, Jonathan shook his head, ignoring the sting as the salt from the sweat on his upper lip slid into the cut. He didn't reach up to check if it was bleeding. Instead, his tongue swept out, catching and tasting the coppery taste of his own blood. Nodding, he crouched again, this time waiting for the larger man to attack him.

They circled each other slowly, Bishop taking a perverse pleasure in the rivulet of blood running down Jonathan's chin. He rushed forward, feinting a blow to the right. As his opponent twisted to avoid the hit, Bishop caught him in the kidney with his left. Jonathan had told him not to hold back and he wasn't, adrenaline and pent up fury fueling his aggression. He needed this.

Knowing he'd be pissing blood in the morning, Jonathan cringed at the heavy hit to his lower back, spinning away to avoid another direct hit. His arm lashed out, catching Rascaile in the cheek, the solid sound of flesh hitting flesh filling the training room, the only other sounds the heavy breathing of the two occupants. The left hook Rascaile rocketed his way was dodged, but the following punch to Jonathan's gut was not. Air rushing from his lungs as the larger man continued to pummel him, the Auror held his arms up, catching most of the punches on his lower arms, blocking the brunt of the damage.

Bishop continued the barrage of fists for several minutes, attacking mindlessly until the heated energy had finally burned out and left him suddenly exhausted. He looked at Jonathan and the bruises that were beginning to bloom across his body and sucked in a breath. He hadn't intended to mark him so viciously. The man hadn't said a word, he'd just taken it, getting in a punch of his own where he could. He'd just let Bishop beat the hell out of him. "Are you alright?" he asked seriously.

Jonathan's bare right fist came out, catching Bishop unaware.

Shaking off the sting of the hit, Bishop's eye opened a little wider. "I guess so." Jonathan was grinning slightly - at least it looked like he was grinning. It was getting difficult to tell due to the swollen lip he was now sporting. Chuckling a little, Bishop ran a hand over his face. "You want to get another in before I hit the showers? I'd say you've earned it."

"Are you tired," Jonathan asked, already feeling the bruises forming under his skin, "feel as satisfied as you can be until you find the bastard and gut him?"

Bishop's mouth set in a thin line. "Verdelet will be lucky if that's the worst he gets. But yes, I'm as close to relaxed as I expect I can be. Thanks."

Jonathan laughed then, a deep rolling chuckle. "Oh, believe me, it was my pleasure." His tongue ran along his swelling lip as he grinning, ignoring the pain as the cut grew deeper with the movement. "Just try not to destory anymore Ministry property, yeah? My trainee was one of the ones who had to clean up your last mess and while I want her to learn, the way of the janitor is not exactly in my lesson plans."

"I'll do my best, although the ways of the cleaning crew are not wholly unhelpful. Did you ever see that Muggle film The Karate Kid?" Bishop moved left hand in a circular motion, then his right. Taking on a terrible Japanese accent, he said, "Wax on. Wax off."

Grinning, having no idea what the man was speaking of, but being glad that he seemed in better spirits then he'd been while pummelling the punching bag, Jonathan nodded. "I'll make sure to let her know it'd be a rewarding secondary profession."

Bishop snorted and started for the showers. Maybe he'd head home for a few hours of sleep. He was tired, bone weary even, and he'd be more likely to find a hint of Dora's whereabouts with a refreshed mind. "Goodnight, Savage. I owe you one."

Summary: Jonathan helps Bishop blow off some steam.