what if... avenger!bucky and avenger!reader are tasked with training new shield agents as a consequence for *idk, you choose*. So why not have fun? And by fun i mean scare the absolute shit out of these soon-to-be agents. Like full on death glares, popping out of nowhere, unsettling silence. These kids are gonna have fucking nightmares now, man.
The official reason you and Bucky are stuck training the new S.H.I.E.L.D. recruits is “conduct unbecoming of senior Avengers.”
The unofficial reason?
You may or may not have replaced Sam’s protein powder with powdered sugar.
In your defense, he’d replaced your shampoo with blue hair dye the week before. Escalation was inevitable.
So now, instead of field missions in foreign countries, you and Bucky are standing in a pristine S.H.I.E.L.D. training facility at six in the morning, staring down thirty fresh-faced recruits who look like they’ve never seen a real fight in their lives.
Bucky folds his arms over his chest. His metal hand catches the fluorescent light in a cold flash. He says nothing.
You say nothing.
The silence stretches.
One of the recruits swallows audibly.
Another shifts on their feet.
Bucky tilts his head just slightly, blue eyes narrowing with the kind of detached curiosity that makes grown mercenaries rethink their life choices. He doesn’t blink.
You lean in toward him just enough to murmur, loud enough for the front row to hear, “How long do you think before one of them cries?”
A girl in the second row visibly stiffens.
Bucky’s lips twitch. “Three minutes,” he replies evenly. “Four, if they’re stubborn.”
It takes two.
The first exercise is simple: situational awareness. The recruits are told to stand in formation and identify potential threats in the room.
There are none.
That’s the point.
You pace slowly in front of them, boots echoing against the polished floor. “Threat assessment isn’t just about what you see,” you say mildly. “It’s about what you don’t.”
They scan the corners. The ceiling vents. The mirrored wall.
You stop.
Bucky disappears.
One second he’s beside you. The next—gone.
No door opens. No sound.
A recruit in the back blinks. “Uh—Sir?”
Too late.
The lights cut out.
Complete darkness.
Someone gasps.
A metallic thud echoes from somewhere near the ceiling.
Then, in the pitch black, Bucky’s voice drifts from directly behind them.
“You’re all dead.”
The lights snap back on.
Half the group has dropped into defensive stances. One kid has fallen flat on his ass. Another looks genuinely pale.
Bucky stands calmly behind them, arms crossed again, as if he’s been there the whole time.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling. “Congratulations,” you say sweetly. “You’ve all just failed.”
The next exercise involves blindfolds.
You tell them it’s to sharpen their other senses.
It is not.
They’re instructed to stand still and identify when someone enters their personal space.
You and Bucky move like ghosts.
Soft footfalls. Controlled breathing. Absolute silence.
You lean close to one recruit’s ear and whisper, “Your zipper’s down.”
He shrieks and rips off the blindfold. It isn’t.
Across the room, Bucky has one recruit by the collar, lifting him an inch off the ground without a sound. The recruit makes a strangled noise.
“Dead,” Bucky says calmly, setting him back down.
You circle the group like a shark. “You think villains are going to announce themselves? Send a calendar invite? You’re prey until you prove otherwise.”
By lunch, the recruits look haunted.
By mid-afternoon, you decide to escalate.
The obstacle course is standard—walls, ropes, low crawl under barbed wire. Nothing unusual.
Until they realize you’re not just supervising.
You’re hunting.
They start the course in pairs.
You give them a thirty-second head start.
Then Bucky glances at you, one brow lifting slightly.
“Ready?” he asks.
You grin. “Always.”
You vault over the first wall like it’s nothing.
The recruits don’t know where to look. One minute you’re behind them, the next you’re ahead, perched casually on top of a cargo container.
“Too slow,” you call lazily as they scramble.
Bucky doesn’t run.
He stalks.
He appears at the end of a tunnel just as two recruits crawl out, and they nearly collide with him.
“Tag,” he says flatly, tapping one on the shoulder.
Eliminated.
A girl makes it over the rope climb and lands hard, breathing fast. She looks relieved.
Until she turns around.
You’re standing directly behind her.
She screams.
You clap once, sharply. “Better. That’s the appropriate reaction.”
By the final round, only five recruits remain untagged.
They huddle together instinctively.
You exchange a look with Bucky.
He nods once.
The lights flicker.
A prerecorded gunshot echoes through the room.
Smoke floods the floor from hidden vents—courtesy of some help from Natasha earlier that morning.
The recruits scatter.
You move through the haze like you were born in it. Silent. Precise.
One by one, you pick them off.
Bucky drops from the ceiling—literally drops—from a catwalk they hadn’t even noticed. He lands without a sound, taps the last recruit on the shoulder, and says, almost conversationally, “You grouped up. Makes you an easier target.”
The kid nods shakily.
When the smoke clears, the room is quiet again.
The recruits stand in a line, sweaty and shaken and very, very awake.
You pace in front of them, hands clasped behind your back.
“You’re scared,” you say plainly. “Good.”
Bucky steps forward beside you. His voice is lower now. Not taunting. Not amused.
Serious.
“You should be,” he adds. “Because out there?” He gestures vaguely, meaning the world. “It’s worse.”
You study their faces. The fear is still there—but underneath it, something else.
Focus.
Determination.
No one’s crying anymore.
You nod once. “You survived today,” you tell them. “Most don’t get that luxury.”
A pause.
Then Bucky’s mouth curves just slightly. “You’ll sleep with the lights on for a week,” he says. “That’s fine. Means you learned something.”
One brave recruit raises a hand. “Was this… punishment for you guys?”
You and Bucky glance at each other.
“Yeah,” you say.
“Absolutely,” he agrees.
The recruit hesitates. “Did you have to go that hard?”
You tilt your head thoughtfully. “We went easy.”
A collective look of horror spreads across the group.
Bucky claps his metal hand once, the sharp sound echoing. “Dismissed.”
They disperse quickly—some walking stiffly, some casting nervous glances over their shoulders.
When the room is empty, you finally let yourself laugh.
Bucky exhales through his nose, something dangerously close to fondness softening his features. “They’ll be good,” he says quietly.
“Yeah,” you agree. “If they don’t quit first.”
He nudges your shoulder lightly with his flesh hand. “You enjoyed that.”
“Did not.”
He raises an eyebrow.
You grin. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Bucky smirks. “Nightmares build character.”
You loop your arm through his as you head for the exit. “Next time Sam pranks us,” you say thoughtfully, “we volunteer to train them again.”
Bucky hums. “We can add fake explosions.”
“Motion sensors in the dorms.”
“Whispering through the vents.”
You glance up at him. “You’re evil.”
His smile is slow and unapologetic.
“Yeah,” he says. “But they’ll never get snuck up on again.”
