Getting Lucky

8. The Sparring Room

(Bucky)

My cheeks heat up as Loki smirks and turns around, disappearing into the elevator.

Shaking off my embarrassment, I quickly head into my bedroom and get ready for the long day ahead.

~'~'~'~

To say that the training room was impressive would be an understatement.

Located on the lower section of Avengers Tower, it was probably one of the largest rooms of the entire building. The entire floor is padded with mats for safety, and rows of large ropes and beams hang from the roof of the room, perfect for those working on flexibility and balance (or trapeze artist wannabes.) I notice punching bags and weights at one corner of the room too. But what catches my eyes is a partially open door on one wall, the interior looking to contain different kinds of firearms.

Loki stands multiple feet away from me, holding a knife in one hand and aiming at one of the large targets hanging on the wall. A stand holding multiple kinds of hand-to-hand weapons are near him (probably where he got the knife.)

I take a step towards him, causing the uncovered part of the floor to creak.

Loki's whips around to face me, the knife formerly in his hand flying towards my face.

Instincts kicking in, I catch the weapon in my metal hand. The feeling of the knife in my hand is familiar, almost comforting, as dark as it sounds.

"Nice throw," I comment, flipping the weapon casually in my hand.

"No comment on the fact that I nearly killed you?" Loki points out as I hand the knife back to him.

I shrug, "I have good reflexes, and you didn't actually kill me, so there's no reason to dwell on it." 

"Fair enough."

I brush past him and pick up a knife, testing its weight.

Loki watches me curiously, "You any good with knives?"

I balance the sharp end on my left pointer finger with practiced ease, "I'm alright."

Loki crosses his arms with a smirk, "Is that pride I detect in your voice, James?"

Backing a large distance away from one of the targets, I fling the knife with deadly accuracy, hitting the bullseye, "Maybe."

"Well, you may be good, but you're not as good as me," Loki brags.

"Why? Because you're old?" I say teasingly.

'That was a dangerous statement you just made Sergeant.' Winter comments, 'You don't want to get stabbed, do you?'

"I was going to say that experience made me good with knives, but yes, I am quite old. You are a mere infant compared to me."

"I still think that I can beat you unless you're too scared to accept my challenge."

Loki smirks, "We'll see about that."

~'~'~'~

The next hour or so passes, both of us competing in different areas of knife throwing: accuracy, force, speed, and so forth.  

In the end, I lose in a very surprising way.

I stand near the target as Loki moves to pick up another knife. My eyes widen as he turns to face me, holding a dagger as long as his forearm. Before I can say a word, Loki throws the weapon at the target.

It sails close enough that I can see my own gaping reflection as it plunges into the dead center of the target, going so deep that it goes into the wall behind.

Loki lets out a laugh as he sees my expression.

"Well, looks like I win," he says with a grin, walking over to me, "Good try Barnes, maybe next time?"

I narrow my eyes and cross my arms, "You totally did NOT win, you probably just used some sort of spell on that thing."

Loki holds up his wrists, his sleeves moving away to reveal a pair of slim metal cuffs with engravings on them, "These block my abilities, James," he states matter-of-factly. "I couldn't use my magic even if I wanted to. Also, I'm just good at it."

Before I can reply, I hear a loud gasp from across the room.

"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY TARGETS!?"

Loki and I spin around to see a wide-eyed Clint, hands on either side of his head, gaping theatrically at the ruined state that our contest had made of the targets.

 Already being exhausted, emotionally unstable, and stressed out, the mortified expression on Clint's face tips the scales, and I burst out laughing.

Loki begins to laugh too, putting a hand on my should to steady himself as he clutches at his stomach. Tears build up and I gasp for breath, "Y-Your face!" I wheeze out, pointing a shaking finger at Clint's enraged expression.

'Y-your mental state!' Winter's voice yells mockingly.

I ignore his comment, shoulders shaking. Part of my mind notices 

Clint stares at me and Loki in disbelief. He shakes his head in resignation, "I'll leave you two to your cardiac arrests, just..." he stares at the demolished targets sorrowfully, "don't touch my targets."

I wave a hand at him weakly, still shaking from laughter. Clint leaves the room with a small shake of his head, and our laughter dies down soon after.

I straighten myself up, wiping tears from my eyes as Loki drops his hand from my shoulder.

"Unless we want our eyes to be shot out, we should probably lave Barton's targets alone," Loki suggests, fixing his hair.

I nod in agreement, "Good idea."

We begin cleaning up, discarding the destroyed targets and putting away the weapons that had been used.

My stomach quietly makes an angry noise and it occurs to me that I hadn't eaten in... a while.

"Hey, Loki?"

"Yes?"

"Do you know if we have any plums?" I ask curiously. I was aware that they were good for memory problems, and had gotten them quite a lot when hiding in Bucharest.

"Maybe in the main dining room," Loki says with a shrug, "You would have seen them when you went into the fridge to eat..." he narrows his eyes at me accusingly. 

I cringe away from his look, "What?"

"James, when was the last time you ate?"

"It's been a bit."

'Understatement of the week.' Winter mutters.

"You have been here for over three days, and you're telling me that you haven't eaten anything since before you arrived?" Loki's voice is calm but holds an undercurrent of concerned anger.

I shrug, "I don't get hungry," if I do, I just ignore the pain until it leaves.

Walking up, Loki grabs me by my metal arm and begins pulling me towards the elevator.

"C'mon' Sergeant Barnes, you need to eat," Loki growls, "and don't argue. You'll regret it."

Sighing halfheartedly, I allow myself to be pulled into the elevator.

(A/N: Hello everyone! Merry Chrysler-I mean Christmas, to those of you who celebrate it! I hope you enjoyed this chapter (probably not) 

Daily question: What Hamilton character are you? (I'm Lafayette.)

Edit: Nope. wait. I'm James Madison. Smol, sad, tired, underappreciated, and a Pisces.

-Skye)