Slightly used fabric found its way onto (Y/n's) wrist as she tightened the glove by wrapping its cuff around her, attaching the velcro securely and patting it for good measure. She wet her chapped bottom lip and looked across possibly the smallest room in the Tower she had been in, over to her newly found friend, James. He didn't look nearly as nervous as she felt, but that may have been due to the presence of Steve, who tended to expect nothing less than a confident womanizer out of his best friend. Said American hero seemed to be recalling an old memory and laughing, James respectively returning your gaze from his seat and offering a reassuring look.
You looked back down at your knuckles and smiled to yourself. With a deep breath, you stood and set your phone down on the upturned box you had settled on earlier, allowing the song you chose to ring about the room from a Bluetooth speaker on the hardwood floor. "Looks like tiny's ready. Hurry up, grandpa." Steve commented. James looked up at him through a tired gaze and sighed, "You're one to talk." You were content with staying out of their classic passes and observing. Lately, the closer you got to James, the more he expressed his vulnerable side, one that Hydra had forced out of him, something he couldn't show Steve, let alone the rest of the team.
With every conversation, you began to realize that the person he was before the war, the person Steve expected him to be, had died a long time ago. As you settled in front of your now opponent, Steve to your right, you placed a bright orange guard in your mouth and gave him a goofy grin. James broke his serious expression for a brief moment at your lighthearted mannerisms before shaking his head to settle back to his original state. "You're going to want to look at Bucky as your enemy. Not your boyfriend-" He was cut off by a desperate, defensive mumble through your orange guard and a falter in your prepared stance. Your arms were spread out in retaliation and all your weight was on your back leg.
With a knowing look, Steve blew his whistle and stepped back. Almost instantly, James took advantage of your beginner stance and wrapped his arms around your waist, flipping you in a 180 and slamming you, face-up, on the mat. He let go at the sound of a whistle, and you continued to lay in that position to process what just happened. "Is that allowed?!" You rolled to your side and sat up slowly, getting back on your feet with an almost offended expression. "Anything is technically allowed in the heat of battle, but even with rules, it is allowed. You need to not let distractions get the best of you."
You took a deep breath in through your nose, and slowly out through pursed lips, "Alright, noted." You took your stance once more and wiggled your exposed toes to better grip the mat. With another high-pitched whistle, you took at least nine paces back from a stagnant James, and gave him a look of expectation, but to no avail. He did not move, in fact, he put his awaiting fists down and straightened his stance. Another whistle. Great.
"You can't always play the mouse, you have to throw a couple punches in," Steve began when you were back in your designated spot, vocally impaired from the whistle in the corner of his mouth, "You have a gift, (Y/n). Use it." You nodded, and the match resumed. With some hesitation, you reeled back and felt your fist collide with James' jaw, knocking him a good few feet onto his back. Another sound of the whistle, and you felt the need to check on him vanish as he quickly recovered. The ghost of a surprised look resided on his now bruised face before he masked it with a vacant look of preparation.
"Was that okay?" You turned to look at Steve, and he seemed thoroughly impressed. Maybe this wasn't so bad.
Seven matches later, and with about five liters of sweat on the floor, Steve graciously decided to call it in early for the both of you and left after agreeing on another date. "Thanks, man. 'preciate it." The two men exchanged a few more words and Steve waved on his way out the door. James visibly softened at his departure next to you, and you smiled, "That was intense, huh?" Unwrapping the gloves from your sore, sweaty hands was a near orgasmic experience. You started taking your mouth guard out and became immediately disgusted by the sheer amount of saliva in the inner rim; so much so that you had to actively tried not to gag.
"He's just a lot sometimes." He allowed mouth to curl into a lazy smile at your goofy, amateur actions, meeting your eyes, and on his way back down to his own gloves, he found your bare right hand. Splits on your second and third knuckles were prominently featured, and deep colored bruises decorated the majority of impact points, while scars hid in the shadows of fresh wounds. You felt his lasting look on one of your biggest insecurities and turned it away from his range of vision, "Your hair's been getting longer. You gonna cut it anytime soon?" You quickly diverted his attention to dialogue.
It caught him off guard, his mouth hanging ajar slightly, jaw bobbing up and down for a moment, "Uhh... I mean, I um, yeah no. No, no I won't cut it until it gets, like, to my collarbone." He punctuated with a breathy chuckle at his stumbling, and continued, "What about you? Gonna do anything with yours?" You thought for a moment while slipping off your other glove and resting your hands palm-up in your lap. "I haven't really thought about it, but I suppose not. I like where it's at right now."
He nodded and grabbed his things from the floor, and as you followed suit, you both let out an audible groan at the action of standing after such an intense workout. You really got the chance to look at him when you shared a laugh; the way his eyes lit up when he locked into you, how he put his hair up into a messy bun and still looked good, how he moved. Everything he did felt right to you, and you found yourself in the same position as the first night you talked. He didn't say anything this time, though, and let you grab your things while he held open the door for you upon exiting.
Back on the main floor, you both settled in the stools next to the kitchen counter while drinking two large glasses of cold orange juice, just to regain some energy after those matches. You sat facing each other, heads resting on the palms of your hands as you tried to explain what some of the side effects of your powers were, only upon his insistent questions. You broke eye contact and held a small breath in, trying to think of a way to describe how it affected you, "I just... Sometimes I think of this 'gift' as a curse, since it ruins everything I put my hands on. I haven't had the strength-" You closed your eyes, smiling at the irony and letting out the breath through your nose softly, "The mental strength, at least, to touch an animal. I don't think I could live with myself if I somehow hurt something, or someone."
He became a little more tense, and he locked his jaw subtly as he found himself looking at your limp hand on your lap. You followed his eyes to his own fabricated appendage and took more interest in the way the light bounced off of the metal material. His voice brought you out of your head, "May I?" He reached out with his false arm, palm up. A few moments of hesitation were shared, but you sighed and gave him your battered hand, looking away as he studied the inconsistencies and flaws. "I don't like people touching my arm," He began, grabbing your attention, "After what happened, I felt like all it did was serve as a reminder."
His voice waved ever so slightly, and if the room hadn't been so deafeningly quiet, you wouldn't have caught it. "But, over time, I learned that just because I did, doesn't mean I will. Just as you could, but you won't. Choice is all you have, so you might as well start using it." You didn't notice that he had interlaced your fingers together through what he was telling you. You took a moment to let that sink in before continuing, "Thank you." A squeeze of your hand brought your eyes down, and you grinned cheekily in turn to share a laugh with him. You both let go at the same time, but only because of the oncoming footsteps down the north stairwell.
Stark: I need your opinion on this new suit prototype ASAP before I completely ignore your wishes. (file type: jpeg) /0120/
(Y/n): It looks alright, who's it for? /0125/
Stark: It's for you, dumbass. Wednesday Adams told me about your hands. No doubt you're the same everywhere else, too. /0157/
(Y/n): Jesus Christ, I don't need a fancy suit to do my job. /0703/
Stark: Too late. Come up to the fourth floor. /0735/