Irate - 2
(Part 1) | (Part 3)
Y/N’s curious, clumsy, and has a knack for asking the wrong questions at the wrong time. Bucky’s a hot-headed prick with a dark past and communication issues. Both are paired for training, and neither party is all too thrilled.
Word count: 791
You find the training room at precisely 6:28 a.m.
You’re rehearsing every possible angry excuse in your head. You’re new here. It’s not your fault the hallways are like the fucking labyrinth. It’s not like anybody was kind enough to provide you with a map of the place. And six a.m.? That’s less than four hours after your absolutely wonderful trainer had made it very clear that he was far from happy with having you as his trainee, which doesn’t leave you with a lot of time to sleep.
When you look around the room though, you realize it’s empty, and you almost sigh out of relief. There’s no need for excuses when there’s no one to give them to. Plus, Bucky can’t be mad at you when he’s late himself.
You decide to wait for five minutes, then scan the room one last time. He’s not here, and you doubt he’s going to show up. You’ve got better things to do anyway, like go back to sleep, so you’re not going to wait around any longer.
Bitter thoughts cloud your head again, and you mutter to yourself as you turn to exit the room, “If he couldn’t be up at six in the morning, why didn’t he just set a later time? What’s up with that attitude anyway? Why is he so–”
You feel it before your brain can ever process what happening. The bullet whizzes past your ear, so close that the rush of air it leaves as it goes raises the hairs on the back of your neck. The sound registers later, and you jump, whirling around with eyes wide.
“Tip number one,” Bucky says, standing up from where he was crouched behind the pile of sandbags. “Always be aware of your surroundings.”
Your heart feel like it’s caught up between two paddles of an intense game of table tennis. Your eyes narrow dangerously at how relaxed he is, just standing there, disassembling his gun as if hadn’t just shot a bullet inches from your head.
“Are you insane?” Your voice is so shrill it sounds foreign to your own ears. “You could have killed me!”
Bucky shrugs. “But I didn’t.”
You can’t believe your ears. Steve you can handle. Sam’s nice enough. But this guy? He's– he’s an absolute psychopath! It hasn’t even been twenty minutes into training and you know exactly how you’re going to die: with the contents of your brain splattered across the pristine floor of the training room, all thanks to Bucky Barnes.
The look on your face must speak for itself, because Bucky’s expression changes from nonchalant to serious again, and he strides up to you until he’s closer than he needs to be and his hand is grabbing your wrist firmly. Every fiery insult that’s manifested inside your head dies tragically somewhere on the way to your lips.
Bucky pulls out a roll of boxing wraps from his pocket and starts wrapping your right hand. “Tip number two,” he says, voice dangerously low this time. “Shoot where you aim.” He moves onto your left hand. “Misfiring can be fatal.”
When both your hands are nicely secure, he steps back. “You’re not ready for a gun yet. We’ll start with the bags.”
Turns out, you’re probably not ready for the bags yet either. When Bucky tells you to have your best at it, the punch you throw is so pathetic, you wince on behalf of your trainer. For a moment he just stares at you with an impassive look on his face. Then his eyes close and his hand passes over his face as he inhales sharply. When he opens his eyes again, there’s a tick in his jaw.
He positions your hands so that they’re right in front of your face. “Drop them,” he explains, “and you drop your guard. And when you punch, all the power should come from here.” His hands settle on your hips, and you can feel how cold they are even through the fabric of your tights. You flinch.
He steps away, and you try again. This time, you can feel the strength behind your punch, and you swell with a little pride. So you’re not that bad.
Two hours later, Bucky’s showed you a whole lot more about punching. You’re drenched in sweat and your arms feel like they’re going to fall off. When you can’t do anymore, you stop, dropping your arms to your knees and taking a moment to catch your breath.
When you glance up at Bucky, he nods, then studies his watch for a moment. When he look back up, a lazy smirk manages its way across his face.
“Do it again.”
(You’ve decided. You hate Bucky Barnes.)
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