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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.

Despite Steve's command Bucky can't help but look back. The woman now has moved on to finding herself a drink—choosing cranberry juice cocktail of all things. Someone who drinks juice can't be too scary, can they? Bucky drinks juice. He thinks himself to be a pretty decent, approachable guy these days. He would've never drunk juice as the Winter Soldier: that would've been laughable.

"You're staring again!"

Bucky shoves his metal hand into Steve's shoulder until the blond almost tumbles off of the couch. "SHUT UP!" he hisses like they're two bickering 14 year old boys.

When Bucky moves his eyes back to the kitchen, The Butcher is gone. It's like she was never there: except for the dirtied carving knife glistening with apple sweat sitting perched in the dirty side of the empty sink.

"Asshole," Bucky grunts in Steve's direction. He picks up his sandwich again to take another bite—intending to finish it this time.

"Asshole?! Why?"

"I was gonna say somethin' to her," Bucky explains around a mouthful of turkey and rye.

Steve, tall and brawny, scoffs. "Oh really? Like what? You're not exactly the best conversationalist."

Bucky buys himself some more time to think by stuffing his face with more sandwich. Then he says, "I dunno—welcome her to the team or somethin'. Do something more than gawk and point at her like you assholes have been doing all week."

"Have not!"

"Oh please, Rogers. You're scared of her—admit it." Bucky finishes his lunch and wipes his slightly greasy hands on his pants. He stands up from the fluffy couch and starts heading for the kitchen where The Butcher once stood.

"I'm not scared of her. I just don't know if she's exactly the right fit for the team."

"Well, a lot of people thought the same thing about me." Bucky tosses his trash and then goes to clean his dishes—taking the apple knife too. The sink makes soft sputtering noises as it starts to run warm water over Bucky's flesh and metal ligaments. "It was only after they got the nerve to talk to me and let me prove myself that they realized, "Hey—maybe this dickhead isn't so bad after all"."

Steve leans against the counter, looking slightly submerged in thought. "Maybe you're right." He shakes his head softly as if to contradict himself though.

"If you wanna be a jerk that's fine, but I'm gonna say something to her." Bucky finishes up his chore and steps away from the sink with slightly drippy shirt sleeves.

"Well, let me know how that goes." Steve chuckles lightly and starts to leave.

Bucky rolls his eyes and follows behind—hands in his pockets and ways to approach The Butcher riding on his mind.

Its three days later when Bucky sees her again. It's downstairs in the Big Gym while he's set up to lift weights. The door swings open and there she comes: The Butcher in all her terrifying glory. Her hair is pulled up in tight, long braids that fall down either side of her busty chest pushed up by a tight black training bra. The spandex shorts she wears do nothing to hide the toned body she has, nor the scars and bruises her skin is riddled with. The most daunting of the marks is a fleshy pink gash improperly heeled down the length of her torso—clearly from a dragged knife. There are at least three bullet wounds on her thighs and a huge bruise in the shape of New Jersey along her dimpled lower back.

Bucky sets down his the weight. The noise draws the attention of The Butcher. She already knew he was there—watching her—but she didn't know he'd have the courage to come over. But that's what he's doing now as he stands and wipes his sweaty hand on his pants.

The Butcher stays rooted at the center of the gym. She waits patiently for the Winter Soldier to approach her. And when he finally does, he cracks a small smile and holds out his flesh hand. "Don't think we've met before."

"We haven't. But I've heard of you." The Butcher skeptically eyes Bucky's extended hand. When Bucky realizes she has no intention of taking it he lets it fall uselessly back to his side.

"Do you want someone to train with?" Bucky asks.

The Butcher raises an eyebrow. "Why? Do you want someone to kick your ass?"

Bucky chuckles. "I thought you'd heard of me."

The Butcher's face is emotionless. "I have." She takes a long step away from Bucky with her arms down at her sides. "You wanna do this or what?" Her knuckles crack as she flicks her wrists. "I've seen you eyeing me up. You wanna know why everyone's so scared of me, huh? Well: come on, Winter Soldier. Let's see which one of Hydra's science experiments gets the better grade." At the end of her challenge Bucky can see the tiniest whisper of a smirk tugging at one end of her red painted lip. The sight of an emotion, even so miniscule, sparks a whole new level of curiosity within him

"I accept the challenge." Bucky steps far enough back so that there's fair starting distance between them on the matted floor. "But I can't promise I'll go easy on you."

"Don't do that. I'd hate to kill you." The Butcher's eyes sparkle under the bright lights. "Accidentally, of course."

Bucky smirks. "Of course." He gets into a rigid stance and waits for her to do the same. "Ready when you are."

"I'm always ready."

Bucky takes this as the cue to begin. So he lunges first, arm reared up then pulling down to strike. She expects the movement from his metal arm and quickly ducks out of the way. Bucky doesn't lag in his second attack: swiping around with his leg to kick hers out from under her. Somehow she expects this, too, or maybe her mind works faster than his. Whatever leverage she has, she really works it. Bucky grunts and huffs with every failed hit he fails to land. Never, EVER, has he gone so long without striking a target. Not even Steve is fast enough to miss every damn shot. But this woman, damn, two whole minutes go by without him ever even touching her. And the longer it goes the harder he tries. It's pissing him off too that she hasn't even retaliated yet. He expects it's coming soon and when it does, oh, it's gonna knock him on his ass. If she's this good at defense, he's not even sure he wants to see how dirty she plays offense.

Then it comes: The Butcher's struck. Bucky's landed an elbow to her gut hard enough for her to stagger back. As soon as Bucky's realized he's done it he's being knocked onto his ass—literally. She's buckled one leg with her outrageously powerful boot and then thrown him off balance with a kick to the chest that would've broken three ribs in any normal man. Then she's nearly on top of him with her attacks: punching and striking with skill and ease. He doesn't even have time to come back up to his feet as she keeps him down with her blows.

This woman is not an average woman. Hell, she's hardly even human.

Eventually she secedes—appearing bored with this game she's so used to playing. Splayed on the mat Bucky groans. He props up on his elbows with the most gob-smacked expression he's ever worn on his face. "Who the hell are you?" he pants in absolute confusion.

The woman casually pushes her hair down her back with her eyes trained down at Bucky and his heaving chest. "The Butcher." She stalks to stand over Bucky with her boots planted on either side of his waist and her body bent over so that she can talk over his face. "Don't forget it, Soldier."

When Bucky sinks into the couch that night with a slight grunt of pain Steve gawks at him in confusion.

"You okay, man?"

Bucky sighs, "Yeah."

Steve carefully regards his best friend's face before breaking out into a grin. "You fought with her; didn't you?"

Bucky hesitates. "Yeah."

"She kicked your ass, right?"

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yep."

"Damn. I wish I would've been there to see that," Steve laughs. He clutches onto his chest with one hand as he does so—blond haired head reared back towards the vaulted ceiling.

"Yeah, I'm sure it was a sight to see." Bucky shakes his head and chuckles. "But damn, you weren't kidding about her."

"Stark said she was somethin' else. I haven't seen it in person yet though."

"I hope for your sake that you don't have to see it as up close and personal as I did."

The next day Bucky's back in the gym again when he sees her. She comes strolling in with the same outfit as the day before but hair done different. He doesn't really notice anything else about her though besides the peculiar way she eyeballs him as he drops his weights and comes to join her on the sparring mat.

"Again?" she nearly squawks. "I thought getting your ass kicked once would've been enough. That was a pretty mortifying loss yesterday for someone so famous."

"What can I say—I'm more famous for my looks," Bucky jokes.

The Butcher scoffs. "I guess the homeless old guy vibe is really trendy right now."

"Ouch," Bucky laughs. "Your insults hurt almost as much as the bruises you gave me yesterday."

"So you into pain or something?" The Butcher stretches her fingers.

Bucky shakes his head. "No. Just wanted to try again. Figured maybe you could teach me a thing or two." The Butcher raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow and he adds, "Or at least try."

The Butcher seems to think on this heavily for a moment. Then she finally agrees. "Fine. I guess there's nothing else I have to do." She gestures for Bucky to follow her to the center of the mat. "But I'm going to need you to take off your shirt first."

Bucky stops. "What?"

"Your shirt. Take it off." The Butcher gestures with a hand at him impatiently.

"Why?" Bucky's got a gnarl in his brow.

The Butcher—with her blood red lips and dark eyes—smirks for the first time Bucky's ever seen. "Because I can practically feel your eyes on my ass every time I walk into the room, so I figure may as well make it fair and let me get a good look at you." She doesn't hide the way her eyes wander over his fully clothed body down his tight calves to the big shoes on his feet. "I'm curious, I have to admit."

Bucky can hardly believe what he's hearing. He does as he's told though—excited but nervous at the same time, a lot like a boy with his first school crush. "Alright. I guess it's only fair." He reaches down to pluck up the ends of his shirt. He tugs it over his head and then tosses it somewhere behind—leaving him naked up to his neck from the boxer elastic peeking out of his pants. The scar along his metal arm that fuses with flesh shoulder is completely visible and dissectible under the bright gym light. But The Butcher's eyes don't linger there. No—Bucky can feel her dark pupils traipsing over every line and crevice in his abs with deliberate movements.

"Not bad." She straightens her face then shrugs. "Maybe you are famous for your looks after all." She gets into a stance then adds, "Because it's surely not your combat skills."

"I'll take the compliment and ignore the insult," Bucky comments.

Again the two fight. This time it lasts much longer as every time Bucky's taken down (which is an embarrassing amount of times, by the way) The Butcher stops to insult him with what he's just so stupidly done wrong. It takes three full hours of this before Bucky manages to pin her down: metal hand holding down both of her wrists and his flesh fingers gripped around her windpipe. While anyone else would panic in this instance, The Butcher only smiles.

"Better."

Bucky smiles, too. He sits his weight off of her and rolls to the floor. Once on his feet he offers her a hand, which of course she stares at skeptically, before taking it up with her own.

"Not great, but better." The Butcher goes for a spot of water from the bottle she left by the wall. Bucky does the same with his—watching as she continues to eye him from the other side of the room.

"I still don't understand how you're so good," Bucky says aloud. "Hydra did everything they possibly could to make me.... me. But you..."

"But I'm better." The Butcher smirks.

Bucky nods. "So much better."

"At least you can admit it, Soldier." The Butcher tosses aside the empty plastic bottle and then gathers her things to leave. She stops by Bucky on her way out. "I'm better because I'm a newer model. I'm fresh meat. I don't have any weaknesses." She pauses. "Well, except maybe for this sight right here." Bucky blinks in shock as he feels her dangerously pointed manicure tipped nail drag lightly down his navel. She smirks at his wide-eyed reaction. "I think I prefer you without a shirt."

"And I think I'd prefer to call you by an actual name," Bucky comments. He can feel his cheeks warming with blush but pretends to be confident as he smiles down at her.

The Butcher gives Bucky that same unsure, skeptical stare she does when she's offered his hand. And just like she did a minute ago when he helped her off of the floor she softens her features for a fraction of an instant—letting him in only long enough to say, "Y/N. My name is Y/N."

Bucky smiles. "Y/N. Now that's a lot better than The Butcher."

The woman turns on a heel—her long ponytail whipping Bucky in the face as she leaves. "Don't forget it, Soldier." She glances back at him over her shoulder. "I'd hate to have to remind you." When she winks Bucky thinks he's just fallen in love.

And when she's gone, the only thing he can do is mutter, "God damn."