He pulls on latex gloves, selects a small scalpel. Opening the newspaper, he skims the headlines, searching for what he needs. He hums under his breath as he works, carefully slicing out letters, words, small phrases. Each piece he cuts is delicately collected with a shiny pair of tweezers, before it's placed gently on a small silver tray.
He loves her. He loves her so much. He would do anything for her, be anything for her. He would kill for her, he would die for her. My god, he was so alone before, but then he found her and she is everything.
He found her first.
But then they found him.
They said they would help, if he just followed their instructions, did exactly what they said. So he did what they asked and it was working, he knows it was working. She was starting to love him back.
But now HE is there. He's everywhere all the time, and it's wrong, wrong, wrong. Everything is wrong.
He can't lose her.
He won't lose her.
Not to the Soldier.
He hisses a shuddering breath, and the scalpel slips and nicks his finger. Piercing the latex glove, he watches curiously as a drop of blood wells up, rising through his skin. It hangs precariously before it spills over, dripping to the paper and soaking in, like red ink spidering into tiny lines across the page.
*****
When the office goes quiet, you hit your stride. The words flow fast and furious, pouring from your fingers as the article takes shape. Headphones are nestled snugly in your ears, blocking out the world as the office powers down for the night, and the hours tick by as you lose yourself in the story.
It's late when you put the finishing touches on the final paragraph, and if your last two texts are anything to go by, Bucky will be pacing anxiously downstairs. They reduce building security after 23:00 and you know he's uncomfortable with you alone on the floor.
Over the past week and a half, you've finally started to figure him out.
The morning after your meltdown, he appeared in front of your apartment with a quiet 'good morning,' clearly relieved when you managed a hesitant smile in return. He didn't mention the night before, but when he fell in step at your side, he spoke lightly of random topics, making a conscious effort to put you at ease.
With that effort, an unspoken truce was established. Tentative at first, as you cautiously circled each other, but the glue appears to be holding.
That truce hasn't precluded you from still bitching at each other when the opportunity arises. Somehow, the man can get under your skin in just the right way, leaving you spoiling for a fight. But the more you learn about him, the more time you spend peeling away that stoic mask, the more you find yourself annoyingly intrigued.
He does crossword puzzles to keep his brain sharp. There are at least four knives strapped to his body at all times. He likes his coffee harshly, bitterly black. He speaks at least eight different languages and he knows the lyrics to every single Beatles song.
Bucky Barnes is refreshingly, unnervingly, unexpected.
Hitting save, you submit the final version to your proofreader, and slouch in your chair with relief. Rubbing blurry eyes and stretching your arms with a soft groan, you can feel the stress evaporate as you stand. Keeping your headphones in place, you pause to let the song finish, allowing your mind to wander into a blissfully relaxing dead space.
The floor is empty.
But then the pressure of a warm hand suddenly presses down on your shoulder, freezing you in place. Panic washes over you, sliding icy cold down your back.
No one else should be here.
Without missing a beat, you spin on your heel, pulling your arm back and throwing your fist forward with every ounce of strength you possess.
Bucky easily catches the punch, the sound of your knuckles a dull smack against the skin of his palm. He briefly contemplates your pitiful attempt at violence, before nodding decisively.
"We're starting self-defense training tomorrow."
*****
The tower wasn't quite as intimidating this visit. Following Bucky into the elevator, you steel your stomach for the jet fuelled ride up to the gym level.
Training for superheroes and super assassins and all kinds of super people was obviously something they prioritised, but you're still astounded when you see the facility. The entire floor is beautifully constructed, floor to ceiling windows letting sunlight flood into the space, illuminating the high-tech equipment scattered throughout the room. It's nothing like the dank, cramped little gym you currently pay far too much in monthly fees to never attend.
Winding through rows of machines and free weights, Bucky leads you toward a dedicated sparring area, when you suddenly hear your name.
"Look who it is!" There's a clank of weights smashing together, and you turn to find Steve grinning at you. Sweat rolls down his face, his broad chest stretching the seams of his size SMedium shirt.
"Hey Steve, how are you?" His grin is infectiously sunny, and you find yourself smiling in return.
"I'm good! How are you, everything going well? You guys getting along okay?" He tosses a mischievous glance at Bucky, who responds with an impressive scowl.
"We called a truce." Bucky warns. "Don't give her any ideas to fuck it up for me."
Steve barks out a laugh when he catches the little smirk you can't hide.
"Now why would I do that? You know I hate making your life difficult Buck," he says, an evil twinkle in his sky-blue eyes.
"Yes, we'd hate for Bucky to have a difficult time, that would be tragic," you agree drily.
Steve points to the tall man resting on the bench next to him. "You meet Sam yet?"
Sam Wilson, with his dreamy brown eyes and that little gap between his front teeth and those biceps, hops up to greet you with a sweaty handshake and an adorable grin, and you feel your cheeks getting warm.
"It's nice to meet you," you answer shyly. "I saw you a few months ago, when you were on that mission in Tanzania. It was amazing, seeing your wings."
"Always good to meet a fan," Sam responds with a flirty wink. He digs a playful elbow into Bucky's side. "Barnes, you listening? She thinks I'm amazing."
"Seriously?" You hear Bucky mutter under his breath. He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, clearly impatient as he watches the two of you. "Yeah okay, that's enough, we need to go."
Sam gives you a cheeky little wave as Bucky drags you away. Still grumbling at your side, he gives you a pointed look. "You're here to learn, please be serious."
You zip your lips, and switch on your serious face. "Don't worry Bucky, I'm totally in the zone."
He grunts an annoyed huff.
Weaving your way through the rest of the machines, you finally reach the black mats. Sprawled in the centre, her fiery red hair pulled into a sleek ponytail, is your instructor.
Bucky asked Natasha to give you lessons, assuring you she was the best person for the job. When you questioned why he couldn't just teach you, his rationale was simple. "Natasha's spent most of her life having people underestimate her. She can teach you how to use that to your advantage."
Hearing your approach, she jumps to her feet, strolling over with a friendly smile. Bucky introduces you, giving an encouraging nod when he notices you fidgeting nervously.
"There's no pressure, all you need to do is listen, ask questions, and give it a try. Nat's giving you the basics, enough so you can put up a fight if something happens and I'm not there. Don't rush, practice as long as you like, I'm heading down to – "
In the moment right before it happens, you see realisation and resignation flash in Bucky's eyes. There's a blur of moving limbs and Natasha is suddenly riding on his shoulders, her thighs locked around his throat, choking off his air supply. His hand scrabbles briefly at her leg, before she throws her body back and flips him onto the map. He lands with a hard thump, and his breath leaves his lungs with a whoosh.
Natasha is perfectly calm about the entire incident, unlocking her legs and rolling to her feet. She grins at you.
"Lesson number one, even super soldiers go down if you find an opening."
Fact. Natasha Romanoff is your new hero.
Bucky is rubbing his neck, glaring at her. You think you hear him mumble something about 'why the hell I'm friends with you people,' but you're not sure.
"Anyway. I'm headed to the shooting range, come down when you're finished." Throwing Natasha a dirty look, Bucky stomps back to the entrance.
Staring in awe you can only find one thing to say. "I need to learn how to do that."
*****
Sweat drips down your temples, and you drag your forearm across your face, trying to keep the salty beads of water from stinging your eyes. Natasha has been pushing you for hours, and your muscles are screeching in protest.
After assessing your experience, she decided to focus on three moves. For each, she talks you through the mechanics, gives examples of when to use it, and demonstrates the move in slow motion. She is infinitely patient, immediately dismissing your apologies when you fumble a move or stumble with a step.
"The only thing I'm pissed about," she replies to your initial apology, "is the fact that you have to do this. We'll keep going until you're comfortable, it's no problem at all."
Listening intently as she speaks, you try hard to commit everything to memory, praying you never need to use any of the knowledge, but knowing you sure as shit want to be perfect if the day comes.
*****
"First one is called an 'open hand strike' and it does exactly what it says. Use the heel of your hand to go after vulnerable areas around your attacker's face, but I'd focus on the eyes and nose. It's a real punch, just without closing your fist."
Natasha re-positions you when needed and lets you practice the footwork, watching intently as you slide through the movements, slow and cautious as your brain pivots awkwardly around each individual step.
*****
"This is called a 'ground attack.' If you fall or get knocked down, take advantage of the position by kicking. From a pure strength standpoint, you'll get more bang for your buck from your feet, so it's a good strategy. If they're standing above you, kick with both heels, and rock your hips up to get more leverage."
You can feel when things begin to click into place, the moves coming faster, smoother, more naturally. Muscle memory emerges, stretching and expanding as it links everything together.
*****
"Your best option will always be a 'groin kick'. I heard you already threatened Tony with this one, so it won't need much explanation. If you're in a position where your brain freezes and you don't know what to do, always go for the groin. It takes very little technique, and most people find it an automatic reaction anyway. Make sure you understand how close your attacker is, so you know whether to use your foot or a knee instead."
Midway through the session, Sam and Steve wander over, and Steve willingly offers himself up for practice. He's sweetly helpful, advising blocking strategies and sharing tips from back in his younger, smaller days. Good-natured about the entire thing, he lets you swing and punch and kick at him until your hearts content, easily stopping everything you throw.
Until the end anyway, when you hit the ground at his feet, and automatically fling your arm up, swinging for his knee. Overestimating your reach, you slam a fist into his groin.
"OH MY GOD! Steve, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Steve drops like a rag doll, curling into himself while he gasps for breath. "Oh god, oh shit, I dick punched Captain America! Fuck! That has to be treason, right?"
"No, no, it was a great hit!" he wheezes. "I'm just – I'm gonna need a minute."
Sam is crouching on the mats with his phone extended, gleefully filming as Steve rolls on the floor moaning, his hands tucked between his legs. When he sees Sam, Steve manages to release one hand long enough to flip him off.
"Thank you. This is the best day of my life," Sam says seriously, looking up from his camera with a blissful smile.
Natasha hums approvingly and pats your arm. "Nice. Make sure you remember this, it's important. Anyone can go down, you just need to find your opening."
*****
There's a certain satisfaction following a good workout. The endorphins are pumping through your veins as you bound down the short staircase off the elevator and into the shooting range.
You feel strong. Powerful. Ready to start a fight just so you can prove you know what the fuck you're doing.
Skidding to a stop, the view takes your breath away. The shooting range is massive, an underground facility spanning multiple city blocks, offering practice options for every possible scenario. Row upon row of guns, knives, and bows in every shape and size imaginable, some with technology that probably shouldn't exist, line the wall in the common area.
Walking slowly along the bulletproof glass enclosing the shooting lanes, you find Bucky in the only occupied stall at the far end. He stands in front of a ledge facing a myriad of targets, breaking down a pile of guns, methodically wiping each piece before putting them in storage cases. Strands of dark hair have fallen loose from the knot at his neck, and there's a deep line cut into his forehead, where his brows come together as he concentrates.
Tapping lightly on the glass door, he glances up. The frown fades away, replaced with a soft smile. He waves his hand, motioning you to come into the stall.
"How was it?" he asks, his voice interested, posture unusually relaxed. You study him for a moment, startled to realise you have never, ever seen him this calm. Only within the confines of the tower, where he feels perfectly at ease, does he seem to loosen up.
"It was great, we practised Krav Maga. I need to find someone to fight, I think I'll be awesome at it."
Bucky grimaces. "Great. That sounds familiar. I'll forbid you from talking to Steve Rogers if I need to."
"Nah, don't worry. I kind of accidentally punched Steve in the balls," you admit sheepishly. "I don't think he wants to talk to me anyway."
He bursts into laughter at the confession, the sound of his warm voice echoing comfortably in the small space. "Good. He needs his ass handed to him now and then. Keeps him humble."
Still running on adrenaline, you gesture to the empty gun range. "Can you show me how to shoot?"
Clearly surprised, he's caught off guard by the request, but you can tell he's pleased by your interest. Looking down at the array of guns in front of him, he hesitates only slightly before answering.
"Sure, if you want to try, I can show you. Let me get a smaller gun though, you can't shoot these."
Pointing to the gun still in his hand, you bristle at his implication that you can't do something. "Why? I can shoot that one, what's the big deal?"
Clipping the pieces back together, Bucky shakes his head. "The big deal is that this is the highest calibre handgun I own and the recoil will knock you on your ass. I don't want you to get hurt."
"That's very sweet and probably a little sexist, but completely unnecessary. I'll be fine, let's just use this one."
The look he gives is swimming in scepticism, but he now has enough experience to know when trying to talk you out of something is a colossal waste of time. He can see this is one of those times.
"Alright, up to you. Don't say I didn't warn you."
When you reach for the gun, Bucky moves it away. Rather than simply hand it over, he insists on a brief tutorial, explaining the mechanics of the weapon, describing how each component works, walking through proper shooting technique, and pointing out over and over where the safety mechanism is located.
His expertise is obvious and compelling. For once, you appreciate his excessive attention to detail, and make a point to listen closely. Fleetingly, an internal voice taps on your brain to wonder how nice it might be to sit and listen to him explain other things, before you swiftly crush that thought.
When he finally finishes his demonstration, he picks up a pair of noise cancelling headphones and settles them carefully over your ears, flicking a switch on the side so you can still hear him speak. Picking a pair of transparent safety glasses from a hook on the wall, he slips them on your face, shielding your eyes.
Satisfied all the protocols are in place, he loads a single bullet into the magazine, snaps it shut and cocks the hammer, before placing the gun in your hand.
"The safety's off, so it's live. Be careful," he warns, moving to stand behind you.
Finding the closest target in the lane, you raise your arm, twisting your wrist to turn the gun sideways as you aim.
"Wait, what the hell are you doing?" Bucky interrupts, reaching around you to turn your wrist straight.
"This is how they do it on TV," you insist.
"Are you in a fucking street gang? No. Turn it the right way and use both hands or you'll break your goddamn wrist."
Growling at him, you grip the gun with both hands and he steps back again.
"Remember, squeeze, don't jerk the trigger."
"I know, Bucky."
"And keep both eyes open."
"For fuck's sake, I know."
"And be ready for the recoil."
"Bucky, you're being a real fucking twatwaffle. I know."
"Okay, okay, I'm just helping. Go on."
He flips the switch on your headphones, effectively silencing everything around you. Lining up your shot, you take a deep breath before squeezing the trigger gently.
Did he say the gun had a kick? That was a bald-faced lie. The recoil is akin to punching a brick wall and it sends you flying backward with a yelp, but you don't get far. Fully anticipating the result, Bucky stands immediately at your back, and his arms fold around you, catching your body before you topple over.
"Jesus H Christ, you could've warned me," you say, as he sets you back on your feet. Unable to hear his response, you pull off the headphones and spin around to face him, before realizing you're shouting in his face. "Oh. Sorry. Did I at least hit the target?"
Bucky rubs a hand over his jaw, trying very unsuccessfully to scrub the smile from his face. "Yeah, um you did. Just not yours." Pointing to the next lane over, you see a target waving slightly.
"Well fuck a nut."
He snorts at the response, eyes shining with suppressed laughter.
"I expect you think you're better."
Raising an eyebrow, he stares at you with amusement. "Just so I'm clear, you're asking a military trained sniper if he can hit the target he's aiming for?"
"Okay, when you put it that way, it sounds stupid," you answer irritably. Suddenly, inspiration strikes. "Actually, you know what? Yes, I am asking if you can hit a target, but since I know how much you like making deals, I have a proposition. The gun holds seven bullets, right?"
"If you were paying attention to me earlier, you wouldn't need to ask that question."
"The gun holds SEVEN BULLETS, so here's the deal. I pick the target, and if you put all seven through the bullseye, I'll stop complaining about the crap coffee shops and trash lunch spots you keep choosing. I'll be perfectly pleasant and agreeable. But – if you put less than all seven bullets through the bullseye, I get to pick all our coffee and food places from now on, and you let me go in peace. No bitching."
Pursing his lips, Bucky considers the offer. "First of all, I don't bitch, I share my opinions because they're valid. There's a difference. Second, you have never in your life been pleasant and agreeable about anything, so that sounds fake. Third, I have a counter proposal. If I miss any of the shots, I'll let you go wherever the hell you want and I won't say a word. But – if I put all seven bullets through that bullseye without looking, you have to start saying something nice to me. One thing, every single day."
"What, like a compliment?" you ask in alarm.
"Like a compliment."
You pause, thinking through the details. "Clarifying point. Even if you make the shot, can I still bitch at you about your shitty food choices?"
"You can still complain about my food choices. I actually get an irrational joy out of your bitching."
Peering down the length of the lane, you can see the furthest target a good 400m away, the black circles making up the rings completely invisible at this distance. Sizing him up, you think.
He's an excellent shot, you're well aware of that fact. He was the best sniper the US Army ever had, and decades of training only made him more spectacular. But hitting it seven times in a row, with a handgun, at that distance, without looking? Not even he could make that shot. It's impossible.
Giving him a shrug, you agree. "Why not. All seven bullets in the bullseye of that target at the very end, without looking, and I'll find something nice to say about your dumb ass every day."
"Don't try to distract me with sweet talk, it won't work." He shakes out seven bullets from a small case clipped to his belt, and loads them into the magazine. "Put your headphones back on, this is gonna be loud."
Rolling your eyes, you clamp the ear protection back in place. Still facing you, his back to the target, he rolls his shoulders and lets both arms hang loose at his side. Closing his eyes, he takes three deep breaths, inhaling through the nose, exhaling slowly through the mouth. On the third breath, he inhales and waits.
His eyes pop open, bright blue locking you in place.
Raising an arm behind him, Bucky aims the gun and fires seven shots in quick succession, never once breaking eye contact. The acrid bite of gunsmoke hangs in the air, when he drops the weapon on the ledge and smacks a button to reel in the target.
He never looks away, lips twitching with an effort to hold back the smug grin.
When the target arrives, you step forward to find one single bullet hole, dead centre. Upon closer inspection – you still see only one bullet hole, but notice six small half-moons ringing the hole, evidence of all seven bullets. All through the black bullseye. All through the same god damn bullet hole in that black bullseye.
"Did you want to start with the compliments tonight, or is tomorrow better for you?" Bucky asks, quickly disassembling the gun and tucking each piece into a black case. Snapping the lid shut, he looks up at you expectantly.
Well that backfired.
"Tomorrow would be better. I need to practice saying shit without gagging," you sigh resignedly.
"Tomorrow works for me. Don't know how I'm gonna sleep, I'm so excited." His hand is firm on your elbow as he directs you out of the cubicle, chuckling to himself. "Come on, I'll take you home."
As you walk together, he automatically shortens his stride to match yours, rather than forcing you to keep up his faster pace.
That's new behaviour.
Hazarding a glance at him, he catches you looking and gives you a lopsided grin.
There are little lines around his eyes that crinkle when he smiles.
Are you supposed to notice that?
Fuck. Too late.
*****
Shaky hands flip open a little blue bottle and he pulls out a small yellow pill. Setting it on the tip of his tongue, he closes his eyes as it dissolves. His body reacts quickly to the drug, a feeling of melting wax dripped across his skin, splotches of burning heat followed by velvety ice. The 'oblivion' is a tangible object as it pours over him, rushing from the tips of his fingers to his ends of his toes.
Ready, ready, ready. Ready to comply.
He opens his eyes and picks up the paper, folding it into a perfect rectangle.
He has a letter to deliver.
*****