Chapter Text
“50 on the kid,” the blond man at the next table said to the man sitting with him.
The other man laughed. “I’ll take that bet. Torsten is twice his size. The kid is fucked.”
Bucky took a sip of his beer and looked over at the ring, guessing that the man who looked like a shaved polar bear was the aforementioned Torsten. The supersoldier figured he might go in for the next round when this fight was over. He’d be able to make some serious cash betting on himself against a fighter that big. Bucky narrowed his eyes at the big man, interested to see how fast he could move in the ring.
The crowd near the ring shifted, and Bucky spied the other fighter’s back. He was on the taller side of average and well-muscled (Bucky could see his back muscles rippling as he taped his hands), but he definitely didn’t seem to be a match for Torsten, who probably had 30 kilos on the kid. He’d almost certainly be faster, but would he have the reach, let alone the power?
Bucky watched in fascination as the kid slipped gracefully through the ropes and turned to face Torsten without a hint of hesitation. Stupid and cocky, the American muttered to himself. This won’t end well for him. Nevertheless, he rose from his seat and took his beer closer to the ring for a better view. From this vantage point, he could see that Torsten did actually have hair, but it was very fair and close-cropped. The kid was at least a head shorter than him as they faced off. He looked too pretty to be a boxer.
When the referee called, “Fight!”, Bucky winced unconsciously, sure that Torsten would smash one of his ham fists into the kid immediately. But the kid was fast. He was weaving and making angles. He was also a southpaw, which seemed to throw Torsten off. He kept his hands in tight to his face, head tucked, looking up through his thick, dark brows at the larger man, who was more of a brawler than a boxer.
Bucky stepped closer for a better view. He could see the sweat trickling from the dark hair on the kid’s temples, the mole under his right ear, and the frustration in his eyes. Torsten tagged him in the gut, and he stumbled back against the ropes. The noise from the crowd grew louder.
“Come on, kid,” Bucky hissed, then groaned when he could see the young man start to panic. He was throwing haymakers, powerful but wild, leaving himself defenseless. Fortunately, Torsten was slow and untrained - a better boxer would already have the advantage. But the kid would tire out soon, and the bigger man would be able to take his chance.
That’s when the kid caught Torsten in the nose. Blood sprayed everywhere, and the crowd went nuts. Bucky could hear an edge in the shouting as some of the bettors realized they might have chosen the wrong fighter after all.
The referee of a real match would have stopped the fight to see if the bleeding could be stopped, but these underground fights operated with no such rules. Both fighters were struggling not to slip in the blood on the ring floor. Torsten was gasping open-mouthed, unable to draw air through his nose. The kid was coming farther and farther out of the pocket to try to capitalize on the larger man’s busted nose. It was only a matter of time before Torsten got a solid hit past his defenses.
Bucky saw the blow coming, but the big man didn’t: the kid drove an upper cut directly from his left hip up into Torsten’s slack jaw, and the power of it knocked the huge blond onto his ass. He toppled backward, and his head thunked back onto the floor.
The crowd was losing its mind as the referee counted out ten. Torsten was still conscious, but he didn’t look like he was all there. The kid was standing back with both hands on his head, muscular chest rising and falling with his rapid breaths. He bared his teeth with a beautiful ferocity when the ref grabbed his wrist to declare him the winner.
Bucky shoved forward to the organizer’s table, not taking the time to process his motivations. “I’ve got next,” Bucky shouted over the racket, indicating the kid with his head. He was already pulling his hair into an elastic to keep it out of his face.
The organizer eyed him incredulously. “You want Helmut?” He looked Bucky over and pursed his lips. “He’s all yours. Badr, we got a taker here!”
A heavyset man, presumably Badr, waved Bucky over. The supersoldier took off his jacket and dog tags but left his long-sleeved shirt on. Badr shot him a look but kept his mouth shut. Bucky grabbed the tape from him to wrap his own hands.
“Next fighter!” the referee called, and Bucky was tucking his broad shoulders between the ropes. He didn’t glance at the kid (Helmut his name is Helmut) until he had his back in his own corner. Then he looked up.
Brown eyes like caramel met his, and it felt like time stopped.
“Fight!” called the referee, and Bucky’s hands came up instinctually, but he still felt disoriented. It was like when he was a child playing Blind Man’s Bluff and the other kids had spun him around blindfolded and then sent him off to catch one of them, but instead of being lost in the dark, he was lost in the soft liquid brown of Helmut’s eyes. The rest of the universe was just a blur around those two central points that bored into him and pinned him in place.
He was already falling when he felt the impact of the kid’s left cross on his temple. Bucky Barnes hit the floor and stayed down, eyes wide with confusion.