Irate - 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: 1465
“Can I ask you a question?”
You want to say you sound suave and totally collected, but really, it comes out more like you’re being suffocated simultaneously. Bucky’d decided that you were severely out of shape and proposed going for a run. It was a great idea in theory, but now you’re starting to think the running is more for him to be able to rub in your face the fact that he’s fit and you’re not.
You ask anyway. “Steve mentioned these abilities I could have. What did he mean?” The question’s been bugging you for a while. Given the chances, you should have gotten at least one opportunity where your supposed abilities got their time to shine, but nada. Do you even have powers? What if it’s something pathetic, like conjuring hot sauce at the snap of your fingers?
You’re so busy snapping your fingers that you almost don’t notice that he doesn’t respond, or even acknowledge that you asked a question.
“Why are you so grumpy all the time?” You’re not the kind of person to snap at someone else, especially not someone that’s supposed to be your superior. Plus, it’s not even among the questions you have in mind, but it’s just such a pressing issue. How can someone be so angry twenty-four seven anyway?
His face takes on a look that you’ve become pretty accustomed to in the last few days: He stares straight ahead of him, not a single emotion flickering over his features, and you know that he’s supressing an eye-roll.
He doesn’t answer.
“See what I mean?” You widen your eyes dramatically and throw your hands up. “You can’t even give me an answer!”
If he’s riled up, he doesn’t show it, and in all honesty, it’s getting you riled up. You’re not going to back down until he gives you some kind of response. Maybe you can even unlock his cliché backstory. So you press further.
“C'mon! There’s got to be something.” No response.
“Even Batman has a reason to be brooding all the time!” He turns to glare at you and you falter for a moment. “Okay, okay, cool, nothing about Batman.”
Bucky closes his eyes and exhales slowly, then faces forward again and picks up the pace. You struggle to keep up with him as he runs you up a hill and through a trail in the forest. You run in silence as you catch your breath and relish in the cool shade of the trees, until you can’t bite your tongue any longer.
“Are you afraid of bats?”
He halts without warning, digging his heels into the ground to come to a complete stop. You keep going, not even noticing that he’s stopped, until you’re running into him. Literally.
Bucky gives you a look of pure exasperation as he grabs your wrists, stepping forward and pulling you in until your hands are resting against his chest. There are so many other questions on your mind, but you can’t remember a single one all of a sudden.
“Shut. Up.” He growls. Your hands can feel the vibrations of his chest.
You’re not scared of Bucky Barnes. You're not. It’s not your fault your voice is an octave higher when you stammer out a meek “sorry.”
So maybe you’re a little scared of Bucky Barnes, but you’re starting to figure him out. His intimidation tactics are straight from the book: glares, low tone of voice, and the whole invasion of personal space thing he’s got going on.
Like right now. You’re wedged between the railing of the training room’s mezzanine and Bucky’s chest. It’s not necessarily uncomfortable, but you’re hyperaware of everything around you, and every time he speaks, you can feel your own body reverberate. At best, it’s distracting.
“Hold it like this.” Bucky’s breath fans the side of your neck when you speak, and it takes all your willpower to not squirm. His hands grab the gun with yours, but really, he’s doing most of the work. You can barely concentrate, and the gun feels so heavy in your hands you feel like you may drop it if he lets go.
“Aim carefully, and then shoot.” He pulls the trigger. You’re not ready for the kickback, and the force of the gun firing presses you further back into his chest. Bucky doesn’t move an inch. Instead, he opts to kick your left foot forward. You almost topple over, and this time, you swear you can feel him rolling his eyes.
“Hit that target.” He points to the outline of a body near the back of the room, then lets go of the gun, placing his hands on the railing on either side of you so that your back is still against his chest, though now, you barely notice. Your palms feel sweaty and gun feels so wrong in your hands. There’s a little voice at the back of your head telling you that you can’t do it, and you almost turn to look at Bucky for reassurance. Almost.
You aim, or at least, you hope you’re aiming, and this time you prepare yourself for the kickback. Your finger moves slowly across the trigger, and you screw your eyes shut as the gun fires.
This time the sound makes you flinch, and you don’t even have to open your eyes to know that you missed. Bucky sighs, pushing off of the railing and stepping back.
“Great job, rookie. You only missed by twenty fucking feet.”
Sure enough, there’s a hole in the target at the far left of the room.
“What’s the deal with him?”
It’s been five days since you missed every single target in the training room, and Bucky and you have come no closer to being acquainted than you were when you first showed up at the compound. The only thing he seems to do is be too close too often, effectively shutting you up. Part of you is resentful towards yourself for being so intimidated.
Bucky’s on a mission, and for once you’ve gotten time off. You savour it by curling yourself up in blankets, with a hot water bottle pressed against your sore muscles, and complaining to Sam about how Bucky is unreasonably training (you prefer the word ‘torturing’) you everyday.
Sam laughs, giving you a warm smile, and you wonder why Bucky can’t also just, y'know, smile or something? Show some form of emotion that isn’t cold and menacing?
“He’s a tough one,” Sam says.
“How do you even put up with him?” You throw your hands up in exasperation to prove your point, but regret it immediately as pain flares up your sore arms. Sam laughs again.
“Steve trusts him. I trust Steve.”
Steve must be some kind of altruistic hero if everyone seems to like him so much, and if he can handle someone like Bucky. You’ve seen him around a few times here and there, and he always passes you a small smile, but he never seems to have time to stop and talk, and his face is constantly riddled with stress. Not the life you want to live.
“Anyway,” Sam continues. “When Wanda gets back, she’ll probably take over for him. She’s enhanced too, so she’ll make a better trainer in your case.”
There’s that word again. Enhanced. You’ve tried every possible thing you can think of: snapping your fingers, all the possible hand movements you’ve seen in the movies and that the gaps in your memory let you recall, but nothing. (The memory thing is a whole other issue that should keep you up at night, but by the time you go to bed, Bucky’s exhausted you to the point where you can barely keep your eyes open, let alone think). The whole situation is so muddled, and it ignites this panic in your stomach that you’re trying to diminish by not thinking about it. Your thoughts flash back to the words Bucky had said when he was first assigned to train with you.
“He said I can’t be trusted,” you say, turning to face Sam. You wince at the soreness of your muscles, then look at Sam expectantly. “Is it– are there enhanced people–,” the word sounds weird in your mouth. “Am I dangerous?”
Sam frowns. “I don’t think,” he pauses, collecting his thoughts. “He was probably talking about himself, not you.”
It’s your turn to be confused, but before you have a chance to ask him what he means, Steve rushes into the room, a pained look on his face.
Sam stands up. “Hey man, what’s wrong?”
Steve’s entire body is tense as he looks between the two of you, then he sighs, putting his head in his hands.
“It’s Bucky. He’s been shot.”
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