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[ she steals a glance (or several, let's be real) at bucky's person, giving him a once over. the last time she'd seen him was in passing, at nat's funeral. yelena couldn't really see his arm then, hidden by the suit, but she can't take her eyes off it now. so. cool, she thinks.

then he says that he's sorry and that he would've given her time— perhaps all it takes for yelena's walls to come down is a little bit of sympathy. her pokerface is gone; her brows come up for a second — she's taken aback. but the surprise settles in, and her features soften. she gives him a smile— a sad one, but a smile nevertheless. ]

But there is no room to be grieving in the middle of a war, I know.

[ everyone knows it. but it's different coming from bucky. maybe it's because she knows him on a more personal level and because he was actually natasha's friend. she is at ease here, even with the silence that hangs between them. it's comfortable, and she welcomes it.

and even if he's ten, twelve feet away from her — he still feels closer than the other candidates she wrestled into the mats and on their backs over the last couple of days. ]

You should've texted me sooner. I would have come running, you know. [ it's yelena's turn to be sheepish and she does it in the form of a grin. she rolls her neck and lifts her stick to tuck it under her arm, pointing it at his metal one. ] Will you be able to get a score on me with that thing? It looks pretty heavy.

It is.

[ a frank, easy admission; he's still getting accustomed to the weight of this thing shackled to his shoulder, the way it throws off his center of gravity and balance and gait, skewing everything ever so slightly to the left. he's been doing dexterity exercises, stacking coins, assembling a jigsaw puzzle borrowed from someone else's quarters. he's taken to carrying around a small therapy ball, absentmindedly flexing his metal fingers around it, rolling it across his palm, tossing it from hand to hand. notsomuch rebuilding the muscles, but trying to get accustomed to controlling them, the delicate fine-motor movement so he can actually aim a missile in the conn-pod, or pour a cup of coffee, without accidentally glitching everywhere and shattering the mug in one overly-strong metal fist.

it's a work in progress. ]

'That thing' is one of the best components Stark and Banner could build, though. They're, like, mad scientists over in J-Tech. If they can build plasma cannons and neural bridges, they can get me a working arm.

[ bucky says it lightly, as teasingly as he can, although there's still— something. some strain at the corner of his eyes, the smile just a little too forced. this, too, is a raw wound. ]

I'll keep up. Heard you've been wrecking the cadets this week, though.

[ his admittance is surprising when it shouldn't be, because what is james barnes if not brutally honest?

yelena mulls over it for a couple of moments, thinking to herself: he is showing his cards to trick me, as he praises to the heavens the gods (read: the comedic duo that runs the lab, stark and banner) that graced him with the metal arm he's had to lug. but, she's gotta give it to him — he makes it look effortless. just like with everything he does. she's seen him and steve go at it in the kwoon room, late in the evening coincidentally enough, while she and nat were waiting for their turn to use it. yelena didn't mean to study their exchanges then, but she's glad now that she did. ]

Is that what they're saying now? [ she snorts, and keeps her lips from curling into a smile although it's incredibly clear that she's horribly smug about it. ] The Marshal kept tossing them my way, saying that they need practice. And it is true.

[ yelena steps forward some, until the tip of her stick resting against his metal shoulder. ]

Let's hope you don't need as much, Barnes.

[ he feels the weight of the stick pressing against his shoulder, but only by extension: she rests it against the metal which weighs against his muscles and tendons in turn, and it all feels distant, muted. but it's an opening — an invitation — and so bucky's expression splinters open into a knowing grin. he can't resist mouthing off just one last time, dropping in these last few words before he breaks into movement: ]

We'll see, Belova.

[ and then it's like the starter pistol's gone off, and they both spring into battle. he cuts into fluid motion, his stick snapping upward and knocking hers away from him, no longer pressing against metal or flesh alike (either one would count as a point scored after they begin, a mark in her favour). there's the sharp crack of wood against wood as she meets each of his strikes with one of her own, always fending him off even as he presses forward across the mat; a step with each jab of the stick, each pivot trying to get in past yelena's guard.

he notices immediately: it's not the same as fighting with steve. she's so much shorter than the other man, her center of gravity different. less brute strength, more lithe ballerina grace. bucky has to adjust, account for it. in fact, it's so much like fighting nat (there's a distant twinge, a dull ache under his breastbone upon remembering it). the two women were trained so similarly, they're practically mirrors of each other.

and yet. different.

each time she meets him in the middle and then pushes back, bucky starts to feel that flicker of hope — maybe this will work. it's the question which rangers ask every day in the kwoon room with their bodies, trying to find the answer in that delicate balance and choreography across the mats: will they be compatible? can they speak each others' language?

a few steps in, the more that he doesn't score a point on her and she doesn't manage to hit one on him, he's already starting to think: hell, maybe they could. ]

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SURPRISE!!! SHOWS UP LATE 2 THE PARTY W STARBUCKS

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