Lost + Found [Bucky Barnes] ✓

Chapter 18

"I don't know why I let you talk me into this," I groan, wiping the sweat from my brow.

Bucky and I have been training for three days straight, and my entire body aches from the process. For the first day or two, Steve would watch us carefully. I don't know if he thought Bucky would hurt me or vice versa, but he didn't do a great job at holding in his snickers every time I ended up flat on my back.

"Hands up," Bucky instructs, circling the mat slowly.

He looks cool as a cucumber, obviously, while I'm a complete wreck. Sweat is dripping down my neck, and wisps of my hair have come loose from my braid to stick to my forehead. I've already discarded my jacket, opting for a black tank top and black leggings. Bucky's clad in all black as well, but his tank top and sweatpants are distinctly less 'moist'.

Asshole.

"Chloe, hands up," he repeats, and I roll my eyes before obliging.

I lift my hands in front of my chest, allowing one hand to rest on top of the other. It's not your typical movie fighting stance, by any means. Instead of curling my fists and bouncing like a boxer or some sort of ninja, I must look like an evil genius fiddling with his hands as his plot is set in motion. Bucky insists that it's correct, however, so I go ahead with it. After all, I'm not learning how to be a ninja. I'm learning how to defend myself without hurting someone else.

He throws a punch toward my right shoulder, and my hands fly up to protect my face. My right forearm deflects his fist easily, sending it to the air beside me, rather than connecting with my shoulder.

"Move forward," he barks, quickly resetting and sending another punch flying towards me.

This one flies toward my left, a wicked right hook, and it glances my bicep before I'm able to deflect the blow. Luckily, he's been holding back. My arms are already riddled with bruises from missed punches, and I'm thankful that this is only the second one I've missed today. Yesterday, his fist collided with my stomach and sent me to the floor in a heap, and I am not keen on repeating that experience.

If this is holding back, I don't ever want to encounter the real thing, I can't help but think.

Another punch toward my right shoulder, and I deflect whilst stepping forward this time. It goes against every instinct in my body, but apparently that's because my instincts are 'stupid.' Well, Bucky didn't exactly say that, but I got his meaning.

He gives me a small smile, "Good."

The purpose, he told me, is to retrain my mind into stepping toward any attackers. One of the basic techniques of aikido, irimi, encourages entering the attack. Instead of fleeing - as my instincts tell me to do every time Bucky throws a punch - he wants me to step toward him so I can move inside the 'danger radius' and redirect the flow of energy from any attack.

Three days. That's how long we've spent on this one concept. Three days of Bucky nearly punching me - and succeeding far more often than I am comfortable admitting - and three days of me throwing up my arms to protect my face and deflect the punch.

Even the pacifist in me is getting bored.

"Will you stop trying to hit me now?" I ask him. "I've mastered the great 'step forward.' I'm basically a pro."

He chuckles and sends another punch my way before I'm able to finish my sentence. My arms move up as I skirt to the side, stepping inward, and a huge grin spreads across my face at my own success. Finally, it's becoming instinct for me to step toward an attack, which means finally I've done something right.

A second later, I'm landing on my back with Bucky smirking above me.

"That hurt worse than a punch," I mumble, glaring up at him as he offers me a hand. "I'd rather have the punch."

He smirks, "You know how to deflect a punch, but now you need to figure out step two - how to reroute the energy of the attack so you can take down your attacker."

"Sounds fun," I reply sarcastically, batting away his hand and pushing myself to my feet. "When do we start?"

Bucky grabs one of the water bottles sitting on the bench and tosses it to me before twisting the cap off his own and lifting it to his lips. He's become much more adept at using one arm over the last week, and it's been strange to watch. I've worked with veterans before, especially during grad school, but I've never seen someone be so...happy to have a missing limb.

"We'll need Steve to help us," he says. "I can't show you all of the wrist locks, and I don't want you to get used to punches only coming from someone's right hand."

Grabbing my jacket, I follow him out of the training room and into the hallway. It's at least five degrees cooler, and the cold air hitting my sweat instantly causes me to shiver.

"I thought the doctors were working on an arm for you," I reply, nearly colliding with him as I side-step one of the Wakandan staff members. "T'Challa said it would be finished by now."

Bucky pauses, "It is."

His face is devoid of emotion, and his already reserved blue eyes are now staring blankly at the hallway in front of us. Even his posture seems to have gone rigid, like he's erecting a wall between us, and I know I've said something wrong.

"Isn't that a good thing?" I ask him, watching him closely. "I thought you would want--"

"I don't," he interrupts sharply.

My eyes widen, and I inhale deeply. The edge in his voice is enough to send a chill down my spine. He's only ever sounded like that once before, when T'Challa and I brought him out of cryostasis and he tried to kill me. The memory alone is enough to make me nervous, but I remind myself that it wasn't him. Not really.

"Chloe, I...I'm sorry," Bucky says, coming to a halt. He runs a hand through his long hair, pushing it out of his blue eyes before looking down at me. "I should go."

I reach out to him, but he's already disappearing around the corner by the time his name escapes my lips. Now, I'm standing alone in the hallway like an idiot - arm still outstretched - and I have no idea what the hell just happened.

Great.