"This is the new recruit?"
"Transfer." I correct him, "I transferred from Nikolav's labs in the research division."
"If you're telling me that because you expect me to go easy on you—"
"I don't." I interrupt, ripping the end of the boxing tape off before I pass the roll to the doctor.
Actually, I was really hoping he would. I only put on this confidence act to fool myself out of being nervous.
"Well, I'm impressed." He shrugs, placing his hands on his hips, and I can't help but notice how prominent his biceps are.
Focus. Focus.
"That being said, protocol requires me to go a little easy on you if you want to pass the test." He smirks.
"If I don't pass the test in real life, I die." I reply, stepping onto the safety mats.
Rumlow looks past me at the doctor, and I can see that he's amused.
This is my chance to get a better look at him. Looks just shy of six feet, well built, clad in a black t-shirt, combat pants, and boots. He's damn good looking, but more importantly, I don't think I have much of a chance given our obvious weight and muscle mass difference.
He shifts the shotgun from his left hand to his right and points it at me.
Disarming a suspect? That, I can do.
"First test, I'm a hostile." He watches me carefully, a small smile on his lips, "Hands up. Disarm me before I-"
I step forward and in one motion, pivot my body to his left and disarm him.
"Might want to keep a better grip on that." I reference his earlier comment, holding the shotgun out to him.
He raises an eyebrow, and there's a new smile on his face. Looks like I've hit a wrong nerve, because he has me in a headlock within two seconds, gun pressed to my head.
"Challenge 2, disarm me before you die." I feel those impressive biceps flex against my throat and for a moment I wonder if he really does plan to suffocate me.
I kick his leg out from under him. His grip loosens on my neck and I manage to slip out, reaching for the gun, which had fallen to the floor in the fray. He's fast though, and his hand is on it before I can reach it. I step on his hand and hesitate, wanting to kick his arm loose but worrying that I'd dislocate his elbow.
He takes advantage of my hesitation and knocks my free leg out from under me. I fall backwards, the safety mats cushioning my impact as my back hits the ground. I try to recover, but he's got the gun and it's pointed at me.
"You knew what to do, why didn't you do it?" He looks genuinely vexed.
"I hate sparring with people I can't hurt." I give my honest reply. He just smiles, extends a hand to me. I take it and stand.
I lost that one. Unfortunately for me though, there are still more rounds to go.
I lose a lot of them, but somehow manage to hold my own. I can't get over my hesitation to hurt him, though, so I end up bested, usually pinned to the floor, more times than I'd like to admit.
After the final sparring challenge, I wander over to a bench.
Wonder how badly I failed.
Well, look on the bright side, I guess. I know the techniques, I just can't use them on a friendly. I wouldn't hesitate against a real enemy.
A bottle of water enters my field of vision and I glance up to note Rumlow standing beside me. I take the bottle, avoiding his gaze as he watches me.
"Well, you're no spec ops..."
Ouch. Guess his verbal blows are as painful as his physical ones. I raise an eyebrow at him.
"Let me finish," He casts me a discouraged look, "but you've got the skills. You could be good. But you hesitate, and that could cost you."
"I'm in the research division. These skills…" I gesture to the sparring area, "If spec ops does their job, I wouldn't need to use them."
"There could be a time when you need to use them." He argues, his brows furrowing. Damn it, why does he have to sit so close to me? My attention is drawn to his jet black hair, to his rough stubble, to the sharp angles of his face and everything except his words.
"Maybe. But I wouldn't hesitate if it was an enemy." I tear my gaze away.
"Sometimes your allies turn against you. What then? Will you hesitate? If you don't pass the test in real life, you die, right?" He turns my own line against me.
I sigh. He takes my hand suddenly and it startles me.
God damn it. I've just wrestled with the man and this is what gets to me?
"Who taught you to wrap this way?"
"That's what the instructor recommended." I reply, wondering if he plans to free my hand from his grip any time soon. He's wearing knuckle gloves, but his exposed fingers are rough, covered in small scars.
"Your instructor doesn't understand how to fight in the field." He's unwrapping the tape now, a smirk on his face.
"I have to disagree…" I begin to argue, but then his eyes meet mine, his raised eyebrow challenging me to prove him wrong. I forgot that I'm talking to a STRIKE team member. Experience fighting in the field? Unmatched.
I want to say that I'm paying attention as he wraps my hand, but I'm not. I'm distracted by his scent, by his proximity, by the tactile sensation of his fingers pressing into my skin as he re-wraps the tape around my hand. Fortunately for me, he's too focussed on his task to notice my lack of concentration.
When he's done, he looks at me expectantly. I flex my hand, noting the noticeable difference his wrapping technique makes. It's a little easier to maneuver my fingers, but the knuckles are still adequately wrapped.
"Try it out." He nods towards a nearby punching bag suspended from the ceiling. I hesitate. It's been a long day, I'm tired.
'I don't really want to do this', I think as I get up and walk toward the punching bag.
But he's watching me, so I give it the rest of my remaining energy. After a minute or two, he strides over, folds his arms across his chest and stares at the punching bag.
"How about it?" he asks.
"Better." I reply.
"No," he pauses, placing a hand on the stationary bag, his brown eyes resting on me. His voice holds a different tone than before, and I can't... I can't identify it.
"How about I help you train?"