#20'sau

They’d heard rumors. That he kept his best girl for himself. You were his prize. Jealously guarded. 

He’d killed men for looking at you too long. Soft curls in a short bob, big doe eyes, and skin so flawless you looked carved. A doll of a girl. More half grown kid than a woman. But heartstoppingly beautiful. 

Tommy kept a hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the car. You looked a little anxious. Your smile was trembling as you looked at him. Bucky wasn’t sure but on the inside of your arm, as you reached up to adjust his bow tie, he thought he saw bruises. He glanced at Steve and took a deep breath, “We need to get to the Girl,” he said.

Steve nodded, “That’s our in... But how? He never lets her out alone.” Bucky sighed, “How else? We need a man on the inside to get in close.” Steve smirked, “You volunteering, Buck?” The brunette gave Steve a level look, “You’re too clean cut and anyone else on the force I wouldn’t trust within 100 yards of a little dame like that.” Steve sobered, “You saw it too, huh?” Bucky nodded, “She’s caught between a rock and the muzzle of a gun.”

During the war, he and Steve had seen a lot of shit spying for their country. Atrocities that governments on both sides had decided should never see the light of day.  So many girls with big scared eyes, trapped without options just trying to survive. Desperate people doing desperate things. Steve shook his head as the car peeled away from the curb. You were the Sparrow. 

A rumor. A myth becoming a legend. 

Steve nodded, turning the car towards headquarters. They didn’t have much choice. Bucky was right. Steve was bad at undercover work. He was terrible at lying and worse at being someone else. That was Bucky’s specialty. Steve was his handler during the war. His Follow car. Their official face. The good boy. Bucky did the dirty work. This was another mission. One more dirtbag. One more nasty son of a bitch. One more time.

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bucky stood guard, hands behind his back at Parade rest. You were in your dressing room. He could hear the soft rustle of fabric and the clink of makeup brushes being rearranged. Tommy only let you out to sing and when he did you drew a crowd. Bucky’s job was to keep people away. A job that the smell of whiskey, 5 o’clock shadow, and his scowl did admirably well. 

He tapped on your door, “Miss Y/N? Curtain’s up in 5.” he said. He heard a sigh and he expected petulant complaining. Not quiet resignation and a thank you. It only confirmed to him his first assessment of you. When the door opened, you were dressed in white. A vision of sultry innocence. Red lips and an angel’s face in a white dress dripping with fringe. You turn and smile at him, “You’re not Alexei...” you say your smile faltering. You recover quickly but that smile was different from the one you’re wearing now.  The one you gave someone you were fond of. Bucky made a mental note to keep aloof around Tommy. Alexei clearly had not and was probably wearing some lead shoes in the Hudson.

“No Ma’am,” he says offering a curt nod, “Name’s James. James Cole.” You nod and offer him your hand which he doesn’t take, “Pleased to meet you, James.” Your voice is quiet. Your accent is hard to place. A little Irish. Properly Irish. Like you’d come over as a tiny kid. Well, he thought reassessing, A tinier kid. You were somehow smaller up close. Elfin features and dainty frame. Probably spent a nice chunk of time underfed as a tyke. You withdraw your hand and turn away. You know the backstage like the back of your hand and Bucky loses you for a moment in the hubbub. 

But only a moment. The crowd parts for you like Moses parting the red sea. No one will look you in the eye. Let alone touch you. You’re an island unto yourself. Adrift and alone. Tommy played a good game. Kept you under guard. Kept you isolated. Bucky was willing to bet that if you had a mother, she thought you were dead. From the wings, he watched as you took the stage. The audience held it’s breath.

The air changed in the room as the first notes flowed from your throat. It charged. And everyone, Bucky included was eating from the palm of your pretty little hand. 

The Sparrow.

A nickname that was well deserved. And honestly. Upon hearing you; an understatement. 

You sang, you entertained Tommy’s friends. You flirted with Tommy and sat daintily on the piano. You were a natural. At least to a casual observer. There were tells. Tiny tells that Bucky saw. Trembling in your hands when you were too casual with your accompanist. The fact that despite you taking three small sips from your glass of champagne, the level of liquid in the glass never changed. The way you watched Tommy for cues. Careful to appease the man who was footing your bills. 

Good to know. You weren’t oblivious. You knew what happened to men who got too close. You knew and you weren’t callous enough to toy with them. A good girl in a bad situation. No one really knew Where Tommy had found you but Bucky was willing to bet that it looked harder to you than this. 

After your show, Tommy escorted you off the stage and waved Bucky over. “James,” he hollered, “Isn’t my girl amazing?” He said pulling you close possessively. “Her voice is beautiful,” he said politely. The gangster’s eyes were challenging. This was a test to see if he was going to follow orders. To see if he was going to fall for you. His passive tone and neutral compliment did the trick.

“What do a schmuck like you know about good art, huh?” he said laughing, smacking you on the ass as he roared. And then roared harder at your blushing and stammering. Bucky let it pass, chuckling at the bosses joke. He was a bodyguard. A lunkhead. Hired muscle in a cheap suit. It didn’t matter how bad he wanted to haul you out of that place and burn it to the ground. 

It didn’t matter that when you turned away, he saw you blink away tears and turn on a blinding smile through obvious pain. You were an asset. 

An Asset.

An informant. 

A whore with a pretty voice.