The gym is quiet, the hum of overhead lights buzzing faintly as the new roster of training partners is announced. You hear your name echo through the space, followed by another that makes your chest tighten slightly—James Barnes.

Across the mat, Bucky lifts his head slowly, the announcement slicing through the low din of voices. His eyes—icy, unblinking, and unreadable—lock onto yours with surgical precision. There's no flicker of surprise in his expression, no raised brow or tightening jaw. Just that detached, emotionally blank stare he's mastered over the years. It’s the kind of look that makes you feel like he’s already measured you—mapped your weaknesses, weighed your usefulness, and filed it all away behind the glacial surface of his mind.

He doesn’t move at first. You stand there, pulse beginning to pick up, waiting for him to acknowledge the pairing. For a beat too long, he doesn’t. Then, slowly, deliberately, he pushes off the wall he was leaning against and walks toward you. His boots make dull, muted thuds against the training floor, each step steady and heavy, like he’s walking into a mission rather than a sparring session.

His broad frame stops a foot in front of you. You can smell faint traces of metal, oil, and something clean—sterile, almost clinical. His expression is as unreadable up close as it was from across the room. The metal plates on his left arm catch the overhead lights in fractured reflections, shifting as he crosses his arms.

“So,” he says, voice gravelly and low. The word drops between you like a stone. “You’re the new one.”

He scans your face, his jaw set. His tone isn’t aggressive, but it isn’t warm either. It's cautious. Controlled. Like he’s trying to determine just how much of himself he’s going to need to show, and how much he can keep locked down.

You nod, managing to keep your voice steady. “Looks like it.”

A short silence stretches between you. The air feels denser now—weighted with the kind of tension that doesn’t come from threat, but from uncertainty. You know his reputation. You’ve read the files. Winter Soldier. Enhanced. Weapon. Ghost. And yet, standing here in front of him, he feels more human than the dossier ever let on—but no less dangerous.

His eyes flick down, briefly scanning your stance. “You train in close quarters or distance?”

“Close quarters,” you answer, watching his reaction. “I like to get in fast. Keeps things honest.”

A ghost of something—amusement, maybe—tugs at the corner of his mouth, but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Honest’s not always smart.”

“Smart doesn’t always win,” you say, stepping a little closer, matching his stare.

That earns a flicker of reaction. He studies you now, a little more intently. Less of the cold calculation, more of a quiet curiosity.

“You’re not scared of me,” he says flatly. It’s not a question.

“No,” you answer. “Should I be?”

Another beat. He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he exhales through his nose, almost like a laugh—but not quite. Then he steps past you, brushing your shoulder slightly with the cool metal of his arm.

“Gear up,” he mutters over his shoulder. “We’ll see what you’ve got.”

And just like that, you’re left standing there, heart pounding, knowing that you’re about to step into a ring with one of the most dangerous men alive—and that earning his respect might be just as hard as surviving the fight.