Captain America and Bucky Barnes Imagines

57. BUCKY: The Butcher

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"What's the story on the new girl?" Bucky asks as he dully picks at his lunch. The chips are stale and the sandwich dry but with his super soldier sized appetite he has no choice but to eat. He's too hungry to wait for something better to come along.

Steve swallows a mouthful of soda before replying, "They call her The Butcher." Bucky's blue eyes widen and he momentarily forgets about his food. Steve wipes his mouth on a dirtied napkin. "SHIELD's had her for a few months now. They passed her off when Stark asked for her. He thinks she'll be a good addition to the team."

Bucky's face is a tight scowl. "But you don't agree."

Steve shrugs. "I think she's a wildcard. We'll see."

"She can't be that bad," Bucky figures.

Steve chuckles. "You're used to being the most dangerous thing in the room," he pauses with a knowing grin. "You better get used to the idea of that changing."

Little to the soldiers' knowledge, the woman in question is heading their way. When she walks she commands attention. The ground quakes beneath her feet and the walls cower away. Her head is always held high and her eyes permanently directed dead-ahead. Her hands are constantly brought down at her sides where she keeps her gloved hands in tight fists. Every day she's dressed in the same thing: black jeans, heeled lace boots, and a blood red leather jacket.

The open archway to the compound living room is suddenly filled by the presence of the one all the interns have come to fear. She swaggers into the space without even sparing a glance to the two men who are lounging on couches—Bucky pausing mid-bite of his sandwich to gawk up at her. A piece of lettuce tumbles into his lap. Not only is this the most bad-ass woman he's ever laid eyes open, she's the most stunning one too. Those two traits mingle together in Bucky's eyes; one hardly distinguishable from the other, until he's seeing stars. He notices the way the room changes in temperature when she comes in. He sees her tilted up chin and the wispy hairs that flutter around with the nonexistent breeze. Parts of her face look like the pretty bits of a porcelain doll while the rest of her is terrifyingly fit with sturdy, tight muscles made to crack bones and bruised fists.

Steve shoots Bucky a knowing glance after she's walked past. The Butcher didn't bother to say anything to either of them, nor did she offer them any sort of acknowledgement. Her lack of friendliness seems to be a telltale sign to Steve that this woman isn't fit to be here, but to Bucky it's intriguing. He's surely been the scary and isolated one before: he knows how it must feel to be gawked at and feared as she walks through the halls.

In the kitchen The Butcher opens up the fridge. Bucky can't help himself as he turns back to regard her. As she gets out an apple and package of sliced Provolone cheese she really doesn't look very intimidating. But the straight lipped expression she wears on her face is surely aggressive. Her makeup is done dark with intense, shaped eyebrows and dark red lips. She's an average height with a fit build and he wonders what she'd be like to train with. Surely she wouldn't hold back—ready to claw out his throat—but could she kick his ass? That's what Bucky really wants to know.

Bucky's torn out of his thoughts with a sharp jab to his elbow. Glaring, he turns to snap at Steve who hisses, "Stop staring!"

"What?" Bucky whispers back. "I wasn't."

"Yes you were!" Steve replies between gritted teeth and hurried glances back at the kitchen. There The Butcher keeps making herself lunch—cutting up an apple with precision and ease to toss onto a paper plate with sliced white cheese.