#agent!reader

At first, your relationship was purely professional. You recognized each other as dangerous and highly capable, but there was always a quiet pull between you. Over time, through shared missions, late-night debriefs, and the rare moments of quiet in a world full of chaos, that pull became something more. It wasn’t dramatic or rushed—it was a slow burn, a natural evolution of two people who understood each other better than most and yearned to show one another a genuine love.

Now, after almost 3 years together, your bond is unshakable. While the Avengers see you around the compound, they don’t truly know the depth of what you and Natasha have. They assume your relationship is casual, just a convenience in a life full of uncertainty. But in reality, Natasha loves you fiercely, and you love her just as much. You’re her safe place, the person she trusts with the parts of herself she doesn’t show anyone else. When the world feels too heavy, she turns to you—not for protection, because she doesn’t need it, but for the rare comfort of knowing she’s not alone.

You don’t need grand gestures or constant declarations. Your love is in the quiet moments—the way she always finds her way to you after a mission, the way you instinctively reach for her hand under the table, the way she relaxes against you when no one is watching. To the outside world, you might just be another agent who occasionally lingers at the compound. But to Natasha, you’re home.

—————————-———

Wanda was the first to recognize the depth of your relationship.

It was early—early enough that most of the team was still asleep or barely functioning. The compound was quiet, save for the soft hum of the coffee machine in the kitchen. You stood by the counter, leaning against it, eyes still heavy with sleep as you waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

Natasha, still in her sleep shorts and one of your old SHIELD t-shirts, wandered in with a yawn, her hair slightly tousled from sleep. She didn’t say anything as she approached—you felt her presence before you saw her. Without hesitation, she walked straight into your space, wrapping her arms around your waist and burying her face into your chest.

"Mm. Too early," she mumbled against you.

You huffed a quiet laugh, your hand instinctively coming up to rub slow, soothing circles on her back. "You say that every morning, but you’re always up before me."

She hummed but didn’t respond, just tightening her grip around you as if she could steal some of your warmth. You didn’t mind. In fact, moments like this were your favorite—the ones where she let her guard down, where she wasn’t the Black Widow or an Avenger, just Natasha, just yours.

Neither of you noticed Wanda standing by the doorway, frozen mid-step. She had come in for coffee but stopped in her tracks at the sight of Natasha—fierce, guarded Natasha—melted completely against you.

Wanda had always assumed your relationship was casual. Everyone had. You weren’t around often, and Natasha never entertained deep conversations about her personal life. But standing there, watching the way she clung to you, the way your hand moved over her back with the kind of practiced ease that spoke of years of familiarity, Wanda realized they had all been wrong.

This wasn’t casual. This was love—deep, unwavering, and so achingly real.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, but eventually, Natasha stirred, tilting her head up to look at you. "Coffee ready?"

"Almost," you murmured, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. The gesture was so gentle, so natural, that Wanda almost felt like she was intruding.

Before Natasha could move away, you leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead. "Go sit. I’ll bring you a cup."

Natasha didn’t argue, just gave you a sleepy, content smile before releasing you and making her way to the kitchen table.

Wanda finally decided to make her presence known, clearing her throat as she stepped fully into the kitchen. "Morning," she greeted, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips as she grabbed a mug and you unpromptedly filled it for her greeting her with a kind smile and filling Nat’s next, starting another pot for anyone else who might want it.

Natasha, already seated, just raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Wanda glanced between the two of you, then just shook her head, her smirk widening. "Nothing. Just... you two are cute," she blew on her coffee.

Natasha rolled her eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. Meanwhile, you simply handed Natasha her coffee before grabbing your own along with d the morning crossword, completely unfazed.

Wanda took a sip of her drink, still smiling to herself. Maybe the rest of the team had been blind to it, but now she knew the truth—Natasha Romanoff was hopelessly, completely in love.

—————————-———

The next person was Steve. You had gone on another lengthy mission; it had kept you away for weeks longer than either of you liked. You had kept in touch when you could, brief calls and cryptic messages, but it wasn’t the same. And now, finally, you were back.

Steve wasn’t looking for either of you when he entered the common room. He had just been passing through, planning to grab something from the kitchen before heading to the gym. But as soon as he stepped in, he stopped in his tracks.

The lights were dim, the soft crackle of the old record player filling the space. An oldie—something slow, something familiar. And in the center of the room, barely swaying to the rhythm, was you and Natasha.

She was pressed against you, arms loosely wrapped around your shoulders, her fingers idly playing with the hairs at the back of your neck. Your hands rested on her waist, holding her close as if you needed to feel her warmth to believe this moment had finally come after weeks of waiting.

Neither of you spoke. There was no need. The way Natasha clung to you, the way you held her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered, it said everything.

Steve had never seen her like this. Sure, he had seen her care about people, had seen her protect and fight for those she loved. But this? This was different. This was Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, completely at peace. Safe. Home.

He felt like he was intruding on something sacred, so he took a quiet step back, turning to leave—only to nearly bump into Bucky.

“what’s with the face?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow at the look on Steve’s face.

Steve exhaled, shaking his head with a slight chuckle. “Nothing, just—” He glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at Bucky. “You and Sam better stop checking Nat out so much.”

Bucky scoffed. “What? We don’t—”

Steve gave him a knowing look.

Bucky shifted. “Alright, maybe Sam does. I just—y’know, appreciate a good—”

Steve cut him off. “Don’t.”

Bucky smirked. “Okay, but why the sudden warning?”

Steve shook his head again, that small smile still lingering. “Because they’re in love. Like, really in love.”

Bucky frowned. “I mean, yeah, I figured they were serious, but—”

“No,” Steve interrupted. “Not just serious. Not just together. In love.”

Bucky studied him for a second, something unreadable passing over his expression before he nodded. “Alright,” he said simply.

Steve gave him a final glance before clapping him on the shoulder and walking off, leaving Bucky standing there, a little quieter than usual.

Because if what Steve was saying was true, then it wasn’t just Natasha they had underestimated. It was you.

—————————-———

The true statement was made in the compound gym.

The gym was alive with movement—punching bags swinging, the clatter of weights, and the rhythmic sound of fists meeting training dummies. You had just finished some shooting drills when you decided to swing by, knowing exactly where Natasha would be.

Sure enough, there she was, moving like a force of nature. Every strike was precise, every kick sharp. She was a sight to behold—dangerous, powerful, and effortlessly graceful.

Apparently, you weren’t the only one who thought so.

You noticed Sam and Bucky standing off to the side, arms crossed, observing her with a little too much focus. Eyes tracked her every movement, and while you weren’t necessarily the jealous type, and were well aware how gorgeous Natasha is; people couldn't help but be enamoured by her, however weren’t about to let this slide.

You strolled up beside them, tilting your head. "Enjoying the view?"

Bucky, to his credit, immediately raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, don’t look at me. I was admiring the technique, alright?" He nodded toward Natasha. "She’s one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen."

You eyed him for a second before nodding, accepting the explanation. Bucky was a lot of things, but he wasn’t dumb enough to cross that line.

Sam, however—

"Look, I’m just saying," Sam started, his eyes still trailing Natasha as she wiped sweat off her forehead. "It’s not my fault she moves like that. That’s a distraction."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Sam glanced at you, then seemed to realize way too late that he had just said that to the one person who could make him regret it. "Uh—"

"You know what?" You rolled your shoulders, tossing your towel aside. "I feel like I haven’t sparred in a while. What do you say, Wilson? A little one-on-one?"

Sam hesitated, looking between you and Bucky, who just took a step back, clearly enjoying the fact that he wasn’t involved.

"You sure you wanna do this?" Sam asked, crossing his arms. "I mean, no offense, but I’ve got wings, I’ve fought aliens—"

"You’re standing here watching my girlfriend train. I just want to see how you train too." you cut in, smirking.

The room went silent for half a beat before Bucky let out a low chuckle. "Oh, this is gonna be good."

Clint grinned, nudging Wanda. "Five bucks says Sam regrets this immediately."

Natasha, who had been too focused on training to notice the exchange earlier, finally turned toward the group, eyebrow raised. "What’s going on?"

Wanda smirked. "Your sniper just challenged Sam to a sparring match because he got caught staring at you."

Natasha let out a small laugh, tossing a towel over her shoulder as she walked closer. "Oh, I have to see this."

Sam exhaled, shaking his head. "Y’all are ridiculous. But fine. Let’s do this."

You stepped onto the mat, rolling your shoulders as Sam joined you. He gave a cocky smirk. "You sure you wanna do this? I am pretty fast, you know."

You just smirked back. "We’ll see."

Steve, ever the responsible one, clapped his hands. "Alright, keep it clean."

The second Steve gave the go-ahead, you moved—fast.

Sam barely had time to react before you were already in his space, effortlessly dodging his first strike. You didn’t just block—you controlled. Every punch he threw was sidestepped. Every kick, redirected. You weren’t just fighting Sam. You were toying with him.

The smirk on his face started fading as frustration crept in. "Damn," he muttered, throwing another punch. You caught his wrist, twisting him off-balance before sweeping his legs out from under him.

Sam hit the mat with a grunt.

From the sidelines, Bucky let out a whistle. "That looked like it hurt."

Clint was grinning beside Nat.

Wanda shook her head in amusement. "He walked right into that one."

Sam groaned but pushed himself back up. "Alright, alright—lucky shot."

You didn’t respond. You just motioned for him to try again.

This time, he put more effort into his attacks, but it didn’t make a difference. Every move he made, you were already three steps ahead. You parried, countered, redirected—all with ease.

After a few more humiliating takedowns, Sam finally dropped to the mat, breathing hard, lying flat on his back. "Damn. Alright. Message received."

You crouched down beside him, grinning. "Good. Maybe next time, you’ll keep your eyes to yourself playboy"

Sam exhaled, closing his eyes. "Noted."

You stood up, offering him a hand. He took it, groaning as he got to his feet. "You really don’t like people looking at her, huh?"

You shrugged, "I know she can handle herself, I just felt like making a statement today," you smiled stepping off the mat and walking to Nat

"Possessive looks good on you," Natasha said with her signature smirk

Without a second thought, you grabbed her by the waist and kissed her—really kissed her—right in front of everyone. It was slow, deep, and left no room for doubt. Natasha, normally composed, melted into you, gripping your bicep to steady herself.

When you pulled back, she was a little breathless, a rare blush dusting her cheeks.

You smirked. "See you at dinner, love."

And with that, you walked off, leaving Natasha still catching her breath.

Clint let out a low whistle. "Damn."

Wanda smirked. "That was a statement,” Natasha throwing a towel at her, mumbling out a whatever and heading to the lockers

Bucky clapped Sam on the shoulder. "So, you still gonna stare?"

He kisses your temple while the baby gurgles in the high chair, legs kicking, cheeks shining with applesauce. The house hums with quiet things—radio static slipping into a Motown chorus, the low click of the ceiling fan, the whisper of a morning that has no sharp edges. It’s ridiculous, how right it feels. The shirt on your back smells like dryer sheets. The tile is cool beneath your feet. Bucky’s laugh fizzles bright in your chest like soda, fizz up your throat, bubble at your lips.

“I could get used to this,” he says, and the way he says it—even, sure, soft—makes something warm expand behind your ribs like a sun rising just for you. He taps the ring with a knuckle. “Hope you’re not regretting it, Mrs. Barnes.”

You give him a look that means never and always and thank you and mine, all at once. “Regretting you?” You drag a finger through the flour on his jaw, an easy little ritual of affection. “Not possible.”

He grins like you’ve swallowed him whole. Later he’ll mow the lawn in sloppy loops and the neighbor will wave over the picket fence and you’ll catch yourself aching at the sight of the lines in his cheeks when he smiles at the baby, like he’s memorizing something he doesn’t ever want to forget. Later you’ll walk to the farmer’s market and buy peaches that drip down your wrist. Later you’ll curl into the couch and doze while the baby naps and he reads a paperback with the spine cracked down the middle.

Right now he pours you another cup. It tastes like caramel. It tastes like a small, safe life you didn’t know it was allowed to want.

You bring it to your mouth and, for half a second, the reflection on the surface isn’t your face.

A ripple, a misalignment—another woman staring up at you from the coffee: gaunt, wide-eyed, a smear of blood at her hairline. Your hand jerks. The cup wobbles. Bucky’s hand is already there, steadying, his palm warm, his brows pinched. “Hey,” he says, tone light but not careless. “Hey, careful. I’m trying to impress you with my barista skills.”

“Just hot,” you lie, and swallow fast, and the second you blink it’s your reflection again in the brown sheen—the off-center part in your hair, the soft line of your mouth, the curve of the ring when you lift your hand. Your heart thumps irregular, then smooths, like a record skipping and still finding its groove.

Weird, you think. Nothing else.

The rest of the day keeps its promises. You hear a lawnmower two houses over. You help the baby stack plastic rings and clap when she shrieks and knocks them over. The mail is addressed to you and him, as if it always has been. There’s an invitation to a block party. There’s a coupon for mulch. You study the return address like it matters, like your name has roots that go all the way back to a seed.

When you go to rinse a knife at the sink, you look up and the window’s glass shows you the yard: Bucky unspooling the hose, the baby’s sun hat pitched crooked where he’s pinned it on. There’s a sheen on the glass, a little film, as if the day is something you can peel and fold.

He looks up toward the window, right where you are, and mouths I love you, and then—just for a blink—the words stutter out of sync, his lips forming something like wake up instead.

You flinch. The knife clatters. Water splashes your shirt.

When he comes in with the baby and finds you staring at the sink, he tilts his head, all concern under its blanket of ease. “What’s wrong?”

You want to say it: nothing, everything, I’m hearing ghosts in the day you built for me. You scratch your nail against the curve of your ring and tell yourself you’re tired. You slept weird. You had a dream you can’t snag by the tail. You need a nap like the baby.

“Nothing,” you say. “I’m… I’m being weird.”

He kisses your forehead and makes you sit and drink water and brings the baby’s chubby foot to your lips to make you laugh. He smells like cut grass. He moves through the kitchen like he was born to reach for the sugar with his left hand and nudge the drawer shut with his hip. He calls you sweetheart like he’s been doing it for years. When you catch his profile in the microwave door, for a breath you see a metal glint where his temple should be. For a breath, you smell antiseptic and smoke.

This is heavenly, you think, out of nowhere, which is a ridiculous word for a room with applesauce fingerprints on the highchair tray. Maybe that’s how it works. Maybe heaven doesn’t look like a choir of light; maybe it looks like relief.

The whisper comes back while you’re folding laundry—wake up—and you freeze with one of Bucky’s shirts open on your knees. The voice isn’t angry. It isn’t even loud. It’s the sound you make when you’re coaxing a sleeping baby into letting go: gentle, rhythmic, come on, sweetheart, eyes on me.

You look up and the mirror across from the bed shows a small, bright bedroom, a pair of shoes kicked under the dresser, your own body perched on the edge of the mattress, your head tilted as if you’re listening to something no one else can hear. The mirror also shows, for a slice of a second, that same gaunt woman behind you, hand raised with a steadying urgency as if she could reach through. Her mouth shapes the words. Wake up.

The next moments slide wrong. You stand. The floor feels… padded. Like a stage dressed up as a floor. Like the sound of your feet is being softened by someone running the board.

You go to the mirror and touch it and your finger comes away smudged with powder you don’t remember wearing. There’s a hairline crack at the bottom left corner. You crouch to see it and hear Bucky in the hallway humming to the baby. It’s the tune of something you can’t place and then can: not a lullaby, not a radio hit. A rhythm you know by heart like your own pulse. A rhythm that makes your throat go dry.

You’ve heard it in basements. You’ve heard it stitched into the hum of generators. You’ve heard it on missions where Hydra made the air taste like electricity. You watch your face go white in the glass.

The next morning, everything tries harder.

He serves the pancakes in a neat stack, every circle perfect. The baby claps. The neighbors knock with a welcome basket. There’s a breeze that sneaks a curl loose at your neck and Bucky hooks it behind your ear with a thumb as if he’s memorizing touch the way other men memorize lock combinations. “You okay?” he asks, without asking. You don’t realize you’ve been scanning corners, peering at seams, waiting for the set to show its scaffolding until he makes you meet his eyes. “You keep looking at the ceiling like it owes you money.”

You want to say: It’s too perfect. Don’t you feel it? The corners are rounded off. The light’s in the same place every time I turn my head. The baby never cries for more than thirteen seconds. The radio never mentions the news. Your left shoulder never twinges. You never wake up gasping. No one calls us. No one needs us. No one bleeds.

Instead you say, because it breaks out of you before you can leash it, “When did we get married?”

It’s not a challenge. It’s a test. You’re ready for June in a backyard and vows at sunset and Natasha’s laugh in the back row.

Bucky sets the spatula down and smiles like he’s letting you win at something on purpose. “Last spring. You wore white; I wore a tie. Steve cried.”

“Where?”

His eyes flick, just once, like a system accessing shelves. “At the courthouse.”

“And after?”

“After,” he says, a little slower, and his fingers drum once on the counter, “we danced in the kitchen. I burned the lasagna; you said it was charming.”

There’s a snap of static at the base of your skull. You can feel the answer bending to meet your question, like metal under heat. You glance at the baby and she studies you with a solemn gravity that makes your chest ache. It isn’t fair, the way the world will use the things you want most against you.

“Okay,” you say carefully, and pick up the spatula and press it to your palm. It’s warm. It’s heavy. Real is not the same as true.

The day turns itself like a body looking for the coolest part of the pillow. You take a walk. You pass identical roses in identical beds. You wave at the same women with the same ponytails pushing the same strollers. There’s a hum you can’t un-hear now: just below the birdsong and the squeak of stroller wheels and the chatter of your neighbors, a low, persistent current, like a transformer three doors down, like a machine trying not to trip a breaker.

When you get home, Bucky is at the table with a pile of mail. You pick up an envelope and peel it open and inside is a letter from your mother telling you how proud she is, how she couldn’t be happier to see you settled, safe, sweet, finally. The signature is hers and isn’t. There’s a wrong loop in the y. She always dots her i’s like nails. You turn the paper over. The back is blank, almost too blank, the kind of matte that refuses fingerprints.

That night you dream that the ceiling fan stops mid-rotation and the silence it leaves is a hole you can see through. You wake with your heart burning. Bucky rolls toward you and tucks you into his neck like he’s been practicing since the first day. “Nightmare?” he says, already a whisper, already a balm. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

But halfway through the words, the voice tilts. Not his. Not his exactly. Yours? No. A braid of familiar timbres: Sam’s urgency when the comms fail; Steve in a corridor yelling your name; Natasha cussing as she reloads; the buckling sound of your own breath when the world squeezes.

Wake up.

You sit up too fast. The room doubles. You clutch at your ring out of reflex and your fingers close around cool, smooth metal. For a flashing, awful half-second, you expect to feel a serrated edge. A cuff. A restraint disguised as sentiment.

“Sweetheart?” Bucky’s voice and the moonlight and the baby’s soft whuff through the monitor all in the same breath. His hand on your back. His weight shifting to support you. “What do you need?”

“Tell me about the market,” you blurt, because it’s the one thing you can’t shake, juice sticky on your wrist and heat breathing off the pavement. “What did we buy last week?”

“Peaches,” he says instantly, like he’s throwing you a rope. “Flowers. The guy with the accordion played—”

“What color were the flowers?”

Something in his face stiffens. He smooths it before it can make a sound. “Yellow,” he says. His mouth makes the shape like he’s written it on cue cards. “They were yellow.”

“We bought white.”

He blinks. “We—” The word glitches in his throat.

“There weren’t any yellow left,” you hear yourself say, and your voice is not your voice, it’s the voice of the woman in the mirror, it’s the voice of the comms, it’s the voice of a building when the foundation shifts. The space between the two of you fills with a pressure like weather. “We bought white because we said they’d look nice in that vase—” You point at the credenza automatically and there it is, a neat glass cylinder with stems fuzzed into abstract green by the water, blossoms luminous as moons. You don’t remember placing them there. You don’t remember changing the water. “We joked our whole house is an ad for toothpaste; we said the white would match the—”

“Okay,” he says, and there’s a fraction of a second where his eyes go large and old, and then he is the softness again, the balm, the safe. He cups your face. He’s very careful. “Hey. It was a different week, babe. I mixed it up.”

“Why are you calling me babe?” You’ve been sweetheart, honey, love, and it should be such a small thing, such a silly little snag, but something behind your ear screams.

His throat works. “Because I—because I always—”

“No,” you say, flat and shaking. “You never do.”

The baby whimpers, a soft, tentative sound. It feels staged. It feels merciful. It feels like someone dimming the lights so you don’t see what’s behind the set.

“What is this?” Your voice scrapes raw. “Bucky, what did you do?”

He flinches like you hit him. It’s not pretend. That wince belongs to a man who has spent years learning to keep his face open even when his heart is a locked room in a burning house. “I—I didn’t—”

“How did we get here?” you demand. “How did we get this house? Who signed the mortgage? Where are the papers? Where are our wedding photos? Where’s—”

The front door opens.

Neither of you moved.

You hear footsteps you know too well. Boots, heavy. You smell cold air, wet metal, a tang like ozone. The baby monitor squeals and then cuts out. You feel something in the walls groan with effort.

“I can’t do this,” you say, and you don’t know whether you’re talking to him or to the house or to the thing that is wearing the shape of your life. “I can’t—”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky pleads, but the word frays, the letters getting caught in an invisible grate. His hands are on your shoulders and you’re cold where he’s touching you, as if something in you is already stepping out of your skin.

You stand. The room tilts. The mirror on the dresser shows the bed and the ring and the white flowers and a smear of darkness in the doorway. You reach for the ring and yank. It doesn’t come off. Your breath shards. Panic flings sparks behind your eyes.

The door opens wider. A man you don’t know is framed there—a stranger and not. His face is… wrong. Not Hydra, not your past, not your nightmares. A composite, a thing made of things you fear, a mask that uses your own memory as glue. He smiles and your mouth fills with the taste of pennies.

“Time’s up,” he says, but the mouth that moves is not his. You hear it in your bones. You hear it under the floorboards. You hear it from the deep, stubborn place in you that never learned how to die. Wake up.

You force your ring over your knuckle. It cuts. The skin breaks. The sting is shocking. The first wild color in a black-and-white film. For a dizzy moment you expect nothing, because you expect nothing in a world that never bleeds.

Pain blooms.

The house inhales.

“Don’t—” Bucky says, strangled, and for a fractured heartbeat you think he’s warning you, begging you to stay, holding you here like a hand at your ankle. Then you see the tears in his eyes that the simulation can’t grind out of him fast enough, the naked panic the mask can’t facsimile in time. “Please,” he says, not the word the world wants him to say, not stay, not safe—please, to something else, to you somewhere else, to whoever is still listening. “Come back to me.”

“Who are you?” you ask him, and you mean it like a blade. “And what did you do to me?”

The sound that splits his face open isn’t anger. It’s heartbreak. He steps back like you shot him. “I’ve been trying,” he says, and it comes out like a confession, like a prayer. “I’ve been—god, baby—I’ve been talking to you for hours—days—just—just come back—”

The stranger in the doorway lunges. The house folds the edges of him to make him fit whatever you need him to be most—cop, priest, doctor, handler—and he is all of them and none. He grabs your wrist. His hand is iron. The ring cuts deeper. The blood isn’t real and it is. The world jitters like a bad movie file. “No,” he says. “No, no, no—”

Wake up, the voice says, and you know it now, you know the true voice, not the mask of it, the core: Bucky, in a different room in a different life, jaw locked, hands shaking, saying your name like he built a house out of it and the wind knocked the roof off.

You wrench free and run.

Halls telescoping. Stairs extruding. Doors appearing, blank, then named: laundry, pantry, office. Your bare feet slap and slip as if the floor is deciding whether to be tile or concrete. You choose the one door that’s never been there before—basement. Of course. Of course the set has a basement. You yank it open and there’s—what is that smell—wet copper, burned dust, the clotted tang of machines that have been doing something ugly for a very long time.

You go down. The stairs count themselves like a nursery rhyme. Twelve, eleven, ten—

At the bottom: a room that does not belong to your house. It’s harshly lit. It’s white, then not white, then raw, then blinking, then a flicker resolves and there it is, unvarnished: steel chair, restraints splayed like dead hands, a crown of needles haloing the headrest. The air vibrates with held current. There’s a hum that sits in your teeth and vibrates bone.

You look at the chair and all the oxygen in your body quits.

The stranger pounds down the stairs behind you and his boots find metal when they should find carpet; the world can’t keep up. He snarls. He’s losing definition. His face is glitching, a stack of transparencies slipping. The ring on your finger blazes like a brand. You know, you think suddenly, exactly how to break this.

You sit in the chair.

“No,” the stranger roars, and now it is Hydra’s voice, and your handler’s, and every man who ever made your body a map for knives. “No, you don’t get to—”

You slam your hand down on the armrest. The metal is cold enough to hurt. You feel the echo of restraints that are not there and are very much there somewhere else. You tighten your fingers. “Run it,” you say, and your voice is steady because you invented steady, you practiced it until your throat was feathered with it. “Run the program.”

The machine hears you the way a trained dog hears its handler. The world goes bright and then black and then your skull is full of bees and then someone is shouting your name, your name, your name. It could be your own mouth. It could be the man you love. It could be the sky.

What it is: the sound of the door opening in the room where your real body is.

What you feel: hands on your shoulders, real weight, something warm pressed to your palm that isn’t a mug, it’s flesh, it’s the heat of another person’s plea. All at once the fake basement and the fake chair and the fake ring and the fake baby explode outward like a soap bubble in a high wind, and the afterimage burns onto your retinas, the way a camera flash leaves you blind.

You open your eyes.

The world is too loud. The light is wrong. A ceiling you’ve never seen. The smell of alcohol. Monitors throwing numbers in frantic green. Your throat is cotton. Your skin is packed with glass.

You jerk, because your first instinct is always to fight. You rip something from your arm. An alarm screams. Hands catch you. A voice breaks itself trying to be gentle. “Hey—hey—hey—shh, shh, sweetheart, stop, you’re okay, you’re safe—”

Bucky’s face.

Too close and too far. Eyes red-rimmed. Stubble he didn’t bother shaving. Hair shoved back like he’s done it a hundred times tonight. He’s shaking. He’s mouthing something over and over, your name, baby, please, I’ve got you. His hand is locked around your wrist like you’re the last anchor he had left.

You heave for breath and every breath hurts, like re-entering the atmosphere. Your chest is a wrecking ball. Your head is full of fog and glass and pins. You try to sit up. You try to recoil. You try to check your left palm for a ring that doesn’t exist and hurts like it does. The machine that isn’t here anymore sings in phantom behind your ear.

“You—” your voice breaks on the edges of your own teeth—“you put me there.”

The way his face goes soft with devastation is obscene. He shakes his head hard. “No, no, no—sweetheart, no—don’t—look at me—look at me—”

“You put me there,” you rasp, because in the world you just left his mouth made “wake up” and it sounded like a threat. Because the ring cut and the baby cried and the door opened. Because the things you want most are the easiest knives to hold against you. “You said—” Your brain can’t find the thread. Your whole body feels like a badly tuned radio. “You said wake up.”

“I’ve been saying it for hours,” he chokes out, one hand on your cheek like he could hold your skull together. “Days. They—they had you in a pod. We found the lab—we tore it apart—baby, I swear, I swear to you—”

Something in the room shifts. You hear familiar voices at the edges, blurred, strained. “Clear the doorway—c’mon, give them space—” “Vitals stabilizing—” “She’s back with us—” “Buck, ease up, she’s—she needs air—”

He doesn’t ease up. He can’t. He keeps saying your name like he learned it wrong and he’s going to keep practicing until the sound fits his mouth again. You gulp him in, starving, certain, furious, drowning. Your mind is trying to reconcile two realities like two plates of the earth grinding. It’s brutal. It’s slow. It’s not neat.

“Where—” you manage, every word teeth—“where’s—”

He knows. His face breaks. You think, wildly, that he looks like a man who accomplished something and lost something in the same breath. “There wasn’t—” His voice is a thread that keeps catching on metal. He swallows. “It wasn’t real, honey.”

It’s worse than being cut. It’s worse than anything the machine did. The grief that hits you is oceanic and humiliating, because logic should cauterize it and it doesn’t. You ache for a baby who never existed and does, in the pound-for-pound way of longing. You ache for a white kitchen with a vase of white flowers. You ache for a neighbor’s wave, for a block party, for a world where your best worry is mulch.

You press your fist to your mouth and feel the phantom ring burn. Bucky flinches like you struck him. “I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, which is the stupidest thing he could say and the only thing, because he didn’t do it, and he’s sorry anyway, and he will be sorry for both of you until the end of everything. “I’m so—I’m so goddamn sorry.”

You should tell him it’s not his fault. You should tell him you know, deep in the place that the machine couldn’t mine out of you, that he would burn the world to its studs to pull you out—which he did. You should take the hand he’s holding out like a drowning man offers a life ring to the person who went under first.

Instead you say, low, ugly, “Don’t call me babe.”

His mouth twitches. Even this is relief. Even this is an anchor. “Yeah,” he whispers, a laugh cut to the bone. “Okay. Okay, sweetheart. I won’t.”

The room unmutes. Sam is a blur in the doorway, jaw set, eyes wet. Natasha is a line of steel and mercy. Steve stands with his hands half-lifted like he’s ready to catch anything, even the air. The monitors settle. Your breath finds you again. The adrenaline recedes like a tide and leaves you shivering and mean and human.

Bucky tucks a blanket around you with exquisite care. He moves like the floor could be booby-trapped. He moves like the chair could leap out of the corner. He moves like your body is a lit fuse. “You don’t have to forgive me,” he says, and his voice is steady now, the steadiness he saves for moments like this, the steadiness he learned the hard way, the steadiness he made for you like a house. “Not tonight. Not tomorrow. I just need you to know I didn’t do it, and I never would, and I will spend the rest of my life making sure nobody can again.”

You close your eyes because looking at him hurts. You see white daisies blurring through your lids. You see the baby’s sun hat. You see a door you opened because you could. Your throat thickens. “She had your eyes,” you whisper, and you hate yourself for saying it because it’s cruel and it’s true and it doesn’t matter and it matters.

He makes a sound that is not a word. He presses his forehead to the back of your hand like he’s at a church built out of what you’ve survived. “We can—” he starts, and stops, and resets like a man choosing his one true thing. “We will make our own life,” he says fiercely, a vow clipped of every frill. “It won’t be a machine’s idea of perfect. It’ll be messy and loud and real. If you want it with me. If you don’t—if you need time—if you need me across the room—I’ll go across the world. Just—don’t leave me in the place where I can’t help you.”

It’s not a plea. It’s the plainest thing he knows how to offer. He holds your gaze like a rope. He doesn’t flinch when you jerk your hand away; he doesn’t lunge when you let your fingers drift back and find his. He threads them with a careful pressure, like someone learning a new language.

The door to the room closes. The world gets smaller. It gets bearable by inches.

“Tell me something only you know,” you say, because you want a bridge and you can’t build it yourself yet. “Right now.”

He doesn’t reach for the easy ones. He doesn’t say the Brooklyn thing or the plums thing or the way you take your coffee. He licks his lips, and for a moment he is that boy with his hair slicked back, the one with a grin big enough to be its own city, and he says, soft and mortally sure, “You hate yellow flowers. You bought white and told me to lie and say they were yellow so you’d have a reason to be angry later, because being sad is too quiet for you.”

The breath you take shudders its way down. It sticks and then it doesn’t.

He squeezes your fingers. A tear slips clean from his jaw to the sheet. “Also,” he says, voice cracking, “if you ever want to call me a villain again, I’ll hold your hand while you do it.”

This is not heaven. It doesn’t pretend to be. The light is bad. Your head is ringing. You are stitched back into a world that hurts and heals haphazardly, not on a plot, not by a wire pulled from behind a wall. You’re not ready to let go of the life you just lost—might never be, not entirely. The ache will be something you live with, a ghost kid giggling in the hallway at the corner of your life.

You look at him. Your villain. Your rescue. Your liar, your truth. You’re going to need days. Weeks. You’re going to need to see a ring and not flinch, hold a mug and not search it for another woman’s eyes. You’re going to need to hear wake up and not think of a man in a doorway or a machine under your skin.

“Okay,” you say, voice wrecked. You don’t know whether you mean the flowers or the future. You don’t know whether you mean forgive or fight. You let him have your hand anyway. You let yourself have his.

He breathes like he hasn’t in hours, days. “Okay,” he echoes, and for the first time since you opened your eyes, the word doesn’t scrape.

The house in your head will keep standing for a while. Sometimes you’ll think you hear sprinklers. Sometimes you’ll taste peaches. Sometimes you’ll wake in the night and swear there’s a baby crying down the hall. Maybe someday there will be. Maybe someday you’ll buy white flowers because you like how they look in the vase and yellow ones because he does. Maybe you’ll plant something and it’ll take.

For now, Bucky folds his big, shaking hand over yours like it’s shelter. For now, you lie there and let the machines be machines, not gods. For now, you stay, and breathe, and bleed a little, and choose the mess.

He leans close—not a kiss, not yet, just his breath at your cheek, a quiet you can live inside—and he whispers, the right way this time, the way only your bones can hear:

“Stay with me. You’re here.”

----

“Nothing happened,” you forced, practically through gritted teeth. “Nothing could have happened, nothing should have happened.”

“But something almost did.”

You sighed. “It was nothing more than a moment. A fluke of a moment.”

“A fluke of a…” He seemed out of breath, but you refused to look at him. 

However, as you kept your eyes trained on the doors in front of you, feeling Hotchner’s stare burn a hole in your profile, the elevator suddenly shook to a stop. 

“What the hell?” Then you spotted Hotchner’s hand. 

He stopped the elevator. 

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Making you talk to me. We have to talk.”

Finally, you turned to face him. “About what, Aaron?! There is nothing to say or to talk about. What happened earlier wasn’t anything even worthy of a footnote in the paper of our lives.”

“Do you really believe that?”

You nodded despite the truth. “Yes.”

“No, you don’t.” 

Something you’d known about SSA Aaron Hotchner since you first met him, two years before you left your job as a Defense Attorney and started at the BAU under his authority. You knew he had a tendency to still find confidence in moments where he was wrong. 

Even if he wasn’t wrong in this moment, he didn’t need to know the truth. 

“Yes, I do,” you pressed. 

“You really can’t admit it?”

You grumbled. “What do you want me to say, Aaron? That I wanted you to kiss me? That…despite all the fighting and the yelling, I still wanted you to step closer to me? That I wanted to know–”

You stopped yourself before you revealed anything more. Hotchner lowered his voice as he took a gentle step towards you. 

“Wanted to know what?”

You stayed quiet. 

“Wanted to know what, Y/n?”

You tried to keep yourself calm. “I’m not going to say. You know I’m not going to say.”

He did. He’d known you long enough to know at least that. So he didn’t press you on it further. But he did say what he’d been dying to say for the last month. If you weren’t going to, somebody had to. 

“I wanted to kiss you,” he said. “I’ve barely been able to think about anything else other than how badly I wanted to kiss you at that moment. And it has been driving me insane. You drive me insane.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

Hotch chuckled. “Aren’t you tired of this cat and dog game? We’ve been at this for what? Seven years?”

“Feels like more.”

But he was right. If you were being technical, it was almost eight. You had started out as a Defence Attorney and, despite only being opposite Aaron Hotchner a couple of times, it had been enough to establish a relationship between both of you. 

A relationship that let people know you drove each other completely insane and were not to be left alone in a room together, if that room was to remain intact. 

Hotch nodded. “You can keep lying to yourself, but you and I both know something changed that night in my office.”

You were quiet for a long time and he could see it in your eyes; you were judging whether or not to lower your protective shield. 

The last week alone was enough to tell you not to lower it… 

Compared to your constant fighting and bickering with Hotch, the last three weeks had been silent. It had been unnerving. You were both so used to fighting each other, the idea of what could have almost happened in his office, along with suddenly being nice to each other was making your stomach churn. 

So, you had tried to get it back on track. 

It started with the silent bickering; you had placed the creamer right beside his black coffee when you were all in the meeting room, you’d move his jacket from the seat he’d assigned himself. 

He must have caught on because your pen pot started moving around the office and any coffee he brought you was sweet, but never just sweet enough. You’d catch his smirk he tried to hide when you, trying to hide your annoyance, shook a couple of sugar packets and poured them in. 

Everything was getting back to normal. 

Until an officer that hadn’t stopped flirting with you loudly apologised when you kindly rejected his number at the end of the case. 

“You and the Boss, huh?” The officer had asked with a smile. “No worries, I’m cool. Sorry, Agent Hotchner.”

The others who stood around you both, looking between yourself and Hotch for reactions. 

“Excuse me?”

“You two are…dating…right? I mean, you could practically cut the tension with a knife. And the staring…”

Everyone on the team went silent, trying to subtly catch yours and Hotch’s reaction. But you just chuckled. 

You had chuckled. “No, no. We’re not– he’s my boss.”

Never in your life had you openly admitted Hotch was your boss. You’d once told Derek when he asked, “If I ever admit he is my boss, get me checked for a head injury.”

The ride back on the plane was tense — between you and Hotchner at least. You couldn’t sit near one another. Every once in a while you could feel his eyes on you, but when you’d look, he was staring out of the window. 

In the elevator, you took a breath. “Nothing can happen.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“You didn’t ask anything.”

“You still know the question, though.”

You kept your gaze locked on Hotch’s. “Like I said, it was fluke. We were both tired and stressed. We both wanted a release and–”

“Both thought of the same thing?”

Your eyes flicked from his eyes to his lips. Only briefly, but Hotch caught the look anyway. It was the same look you’d given him when there had been barely two inches of room between yourself, him and his office door. 

That was definitely when something changed. 

Dropping your bag by your feet, you reached up and pulled Aaron closer to you, finally kissing him. 

He kissed you back instantaneously. 

If he was being true to himself, he would admit that he’d thought about kissing you a lot earlier than just a month ago inside of his office when both of you had managed to pluck an argument out of nowhere. 

Just as you felt the cold metal of the elevator wall against the small of your back, a buzzer rang. “Is everything okay in there?”

Someone from security. There weren’t any cameras inside, thankfully. Or else yourself and Hotch would be called in by HR. 

Stopping the kiss, Hotch took in your profile. Slightly dishevelled hair from where his fingers had run through it during the kiss, plump lips and hungry eyes. He probably looked similar, if not worse. 

“Yeah!” Your voice shook for a moment. “Yes.” You sounded more clear. “Just…pressed the wrong button.”

“Alrighty!”

Reaching over, but keeping his eyes on you, Hotch pressed the emergency stop button back in. Within seconds, the elevator lit up and started moving again. 

But he took his time setting you back down on your feet and stepping away from you. 

You fixed your hair and touched your lips for a moment, meanwhile, he fixed his tie and ran a hand through his hair. 

By the time the doors opened up, you cleared your throat and simply said; “Goodnight.”

Considering the case had lasted a full week, the team was due a few days off. Which, including you, meant they were excited to lie in. 

So, when Hotch woke up to the constant knocking on his apartment door, it was safe to say he was surprised. 

“Are you alone?” You asked him as he opened the door. 

“Yes.”

Without a second thought, you stepped closer to him and kissed him again. He pulled one arm around your waist and lifted you inside as he closed the door with his other. 

You felt the cool wood of the door behind your back as Hotch positioned you in front of him. 

“You’re an asshole,” you told him in between the kisses. 

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, feeling his lips leave yours and tail across your jaw. “You tell me you want to talk and then you kiss me like that? And then you don’t say anything?”

“Technically,” Hotch stopped kissing you and looked at you. “You kissed me.”

“You still didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t want to spook you,” he admitted. “I had to stop an elevator just to get you to talk to me.”

“Some good that did you.”

Hotch nodded, “It did.”

You look at him, mostly confused but still a little curious.

“It got you to talk to me, didn’t it?” He asked. “And got you to kiss me.”

“As if you weren’t already vying for that.”

Hotch shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m not the one knocking on the door at 6:28 in the morning.”

You rolled your eyes, pulling him back in to kiss you. “Oh, shut up.”

Kissing him, almost desperately, you let him lift you against the door. You’d been awake most of the night, wondering what to do. 

The only thing you knew for certain was that you couldn’t wait until you got back to work to see him. 

A few hours later, in a mess of tangled sheets and strewn pillows, you walked from Aaron’s bedroom to his bathroom and started running a hot shower. But, just as you stepped under the hot water and let it wash away the sweat and piece of heat still left inside of you, you felt an arm wrap around your middle from behind. 

His tall frame slotted against yours from behind as one of his hands trailed up your stomach, over the curve of your breast and gently up your throat to turn your chin towards him; his kiss practically devoured you. 

Eventually, he set you against the cold tile of his bathroom wall, letting your legs rest on his shoulders whilst the spray of the shower ran down his back. 

Never in your life had you thought you would have seen Aaron Hotchner on his knees for you. Let alone that setting being in a shower whilst he made you cum with his tongue. 

But, despite the break in tension, complications would still follow. You both knew that. Despite being professionally trained in similar backgrounds, Hotch had been at the BAU longer and he was older. Had a few more years experience than you did. He was your boss; the one you reported to. 

Which didn’t help when yourself and Hotch continued your secret relationship past more than just the random hook up after work, or a quick make-out session in Hotch’s office. 

Like other things in life between yourself and Hotch, it took a fight to get you both to admit what you were feeling. 

Though this fight wasn’t in anger. 

It was in…fear and worry. 

A case had landed yourself and Emily in a risky situation which meant being checked over by medics. But, where you would usually sit with someone on the flight back, you sat on your own. 

It wasn’t until Hotch knocked on your apartment door a few hours after landing that he found out why. 

“You were quiet on the way home,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“Now, I know that’s a lie.”

Hotch watched you for a moment as you moved around your kitchen, pulling out different bowls and ingredients. 

Lemon bars. 

You only ever made them when you needed to relax and reset your nervous system. Someone had told you once that citrus foods helped do that, along with a sweet treat. So, lemon bars it was. 

“Y/n, what-”

“I wanted you!” You didn’t mean to yell it. Leaning against your kitchen counter with your back to him, you tried to breathe. 

You’d been on the edge of tears since you got onto the plane. 

“I wanted you.” You repeated. “I always sit with someone after a case has…been too much. It helps me feel safe. Less alone. But after these last couple months, I realised I just…wanted you. But I can’t. Because you’re my boss. Because we work together.”

You heard him walk over to you, calmly. But you still couldn’t face him. 

“I told you nothing could happen,” you said. “Because I couldn’t get…attached. This was just meant to be casual, Aaron. We weren’t- I wasn’t meant to develop feelings for you.”

For a moment, you could have swore you heard a smile in his voice. “You have feelings for me?”

You were on the verge of tears again, overwhelmed with the knowledge that the feelings you had for Aaron Hotchner – your once sworn enemy – shouldn’t exist. 

But they did.

“I shouldn’t. But I do.”

“Honey…”

The nickname had slipped a few times in the last couple of weeks when you and Aaron were alone. It wasn’t helping you trying to stop your feelings. 

“Don’t. Don’t call me that. It doesn’t…”

“Y/n,” he said your name before reaching out for you and turning you to face him. “Honey, please look at me.”

Looking up, Aaron gently wiped the overwhelming-tears away from your cheeks.

Then he admitted, “I have feelings for you, too.”

“W…what?”

“I have feelings for you, too.” Aaron repeated. “I have done for…well, a long time. And next time you need someone, and if that someone is me, please come and find me.”

“I can’t, Aaron.”

“Yes, you can. Maybe not on the plane, but if you want me to sit next to you, just say so. If you want some space, just tell me.” Hotch told you. “Just…don’t go quiet.”

You nodded before being pulled into a tight hug. And, as you cried, Aaron simply held you, pressing kisses into the top of your head. 

As things settled down, he sat in the kitchen with you as you still went through the process of making Lemon Bars. And you both talked. 

About the case. About the aftermath. About how it would work between both of you. 

It wasn’t long before the rest of the complications started to iron themselves out, even after you both submitted your forms to HR. 

Then there was just one ‘complication’ left. 

Tell the team. 

It’s no secret that Bucky has feelings for you. He has had feelings on you for a while. Most of the time you two get partnered up for missions, but sometimes it calls for individual work. Like this one.

Bucky was stopping a truck from hitting someone with his vibranium arm. You were chasing and shooting at the targets you were assigned to do. The rest of the team was doing their parts as well.

You were chasing one of the targets you were assigned to take down. You jumped on him to knock him to the ground, in which he did. He made a groaning noise as he fell to the ground. He grabbed his knife to try to stab you, but you smacked it out of his hand before you could.

“You need some back up, Y/N?” Bucky asks you through his ear piece.

“No, I’m good, Bucky.” You replied.

As soon as you said that, the guy you were trying to take down pulled out a gun. Before you could smack it out of his hand, he shot you in the side. You cried out in pain as he pushed you off of him and ran away. You managed to Army crawl your way off to the side and lean against a wall. You held your hand over where you were shot, feeling blood trickling down your side.

Bucky looked over at where you were supposed to be, but didn’t see you. He walked around to look for you. He found you leaning against a wall with your eyes closed. His eyes widened and his heart dropped to the pit of his stomach. He ran over to you to check on you.

“Please be alive.” Bucky whispers to himself.

He put his fingers against your neck to feel for your pulse. He felt relieved when he felt it.

“What are you doing?” You asked, opening your eyes to see Bucky crouched down in front of you.

“I was just checking on you. You look injured.” Bucky says. “Are you ok?” He asks.

You knew he’d figure out one way or another to see if you’re injured or not. You lifted your shirt, showing him where you got shot. Bucky’s eyes went wide when he seen it. He put his hand over it and applied pressure. You yelped in pain.

“I know it hurts, but you’re going to be ok.” He says softly.

All you could do is nod. You tried to stand up, but the pain got the best of you.

“Let me help you.” Bucky says.

Bucky lifted you to your feet and then went to pick you up, but you stopped him by putting your hand on his chest to stop him.

“I can walk.” You say.

“I thought you were dead. I need to fucking hold you.” He says.

You were in too much pain to argue with him so you just nodded. Bucky picked you up bridal style and went to get you help. Luckily for you, there was an ambulance not too far from where you two were.

“What happened?” Yelena asks when she seen Bucky walk past her with you in his arms.

“Some asshole shot her.” Bucky tells her.

The paramedics saw Bucky carrying you and got a stretcher out of the aid car, rolling it over to you. Bucky gently laid you on it and explained what happened to you to the paramedics. You grabbed Bucky’s arm and looked up at him.

“Please stay with me.” You said in almost a whisper.

“I’m not going anywhere, doll.” Bucky says softly, gently caressing your cheek.

The paramedics took you to the hospital and Bucky stayed with you the whole time, except when he was told to go to the waiting room. Bucky sat in the waiting room with his nerves through the roof. He was bouncing one of his legs, trying to keep his nerves in control. All he wants to do is be with you.

“Bucky.” He hears Yelena’s voice.

Bucky looks up to see Yelena, Alexi, John, and Ava walking towards him.

“How is she?” Ava asks.

“They said the bullet didn’t hit anything major and they took her to surgery just to make sure.” Bucky tells them.

“She’ll be out before you know it.” Alexi says, trying to stay positive.

Bucky smiles softly and nods. That’s when the doctor walked in the waiting room. He practically jumped up from his seat.

“Y/N is out of surgery and she’ll be fine. She needs to take it easy for a while. You can see her now if you want.” The doctor says.

Bucky let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He’s even more relieved to know that you’re fine.

“We’ll be out here if either of you need anything.” Yelena says.

Bucky smiles and went to your hospital room. You were just waking up when he walked in the room. You turned your head towards the door, smiling when you saw him.

“You stayed.” You say.

“I told you I wasn’t going anywhere.” Bucky says with a smile.

Bucky sat down in the chair next to the hospital bed. He gently picked up your hand and kissed it, making you blush.

“You really know how to make a girl blush, James.” You say with a soft giggle.

“That’s part of my charm, doll face.” He says with a smile.

You giggled again, but then winced in pain.

“Be careful, doll. Don’t want you to hurt yourself.” He says.

You smiled at him.

“Did you really think I was dead?” You asked.

“Yes and it scared me. One of my worst fears is losing you.” He says.

“One of your worst fears is losing me?” You asked, making sure you heard him right.

“Yes and it’s only because I’m in love with you.” He admits.

Your eyebrows rose in surprise. You have always knew that Bucky had a crush on you from the way he acts around you, but at the same time, you weren’t sure. His love confession confirmed it for you.

“You’re in love with me?” You asked in almost a whisper.

“I have been since I met you.” Bucky says.

You smiled at him and lifted your hand to caress his cheek, rubbing your thumb against his beard.

“Wanna know something?” You asked.

Bucky nods.

“I’m in love with you too.” You confessed. “That’s why I always played hard to get every time you flirt with me.” You say.

Bucky smiles widely. He leaned over and kissed you passionately. Your hand continued to caress his cheek. He then pulled away and leaned his forehead against yours, looking deep in your eyes.

“Was that kiss your way of asking me to be your doll?” You asked in a whisper.

“Only if you want to be. I don’t want to pressure you in any way.” He says.

“I would love to be your doll.” You say softly.

Bucky smiles and kisses you again. The kiss was short lived when the team walked in the room.

“I didn’t know hospitals provided this kind of treatment.” Yelena jokes, making you and Bucky laugh.

You and Bucky pulled away from each other. You looked at the team and smiled at them.

“How are you feeling?” Ava asks.

“Other than the little bit of pain, I’m fine.” You say.

As the team was visiting you, they noticed how touchy Bucky was being with you. They couldn’t tell if it was from almost losing you or having a crush on you. Maybe it’s a mix of both.

“Are you two a thing now?” John asks.

“Yes.” Bucky answers immediately.

Everyone smiled and congratulated you two on finally making it official. They visited a little bit longer before leaving so you and Bucky can be alone together.

“You’re so beautiful.” Bucky almost whispers.

“Even in a hospital gown?” You asked with a small giggle.

“It adds more to your beauty.” He says with a smile.

You smiled at him and gazed deeply in his eyes.

“I’m never letting you go.” He whispers.

You scooted over in the hospital bed, wanting Bucky to lay down next to you and cuddle you. You winced in pain when you moved.

“Cuddle me.” You murmured.

Bucky smiles and lays down next to you, wrapping his arms around you, being careful to not accidentally bump your wound.

“You’re coming home with me when you get released from here.” Bucky says.

“I would love that.” You whispered, smiling at him.

Bucky pecks your lips softly a few times and looks deep in your eyes.

“I don’t want to experience almost losing you again.” He says softly, his voice cracking.

“You won’t. I promise I’ll be more careful and ask for back up next time.” You promised.

“I love you so much, babydoll.” He whispers, kissing you sweetly and softly.

“I love you too, baby.” You say, smiling up at him.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

“What’s this?” Chris asked, eyes scanning over biomarkers on a page. Leon’s blood draw was normal as usual, and the lab assistants noted as such, but he guessed that in the chaos of their work, something was missed. “What is this noting about flagged profile biomarkers?”

Hunnigan scanned the document closer, her voice steady but concerned. “Hold on a second, I didn’t see this one in the reports. Leon usually has normal blood draws to make sure of no infection, but that’s…new.”

“New?”

The document clearly explained that they tested for every known pathogen, yet they didn’t note anything of any organic infection or otherwise.

"Why wasn't this addressed?" Chris's tone sharpened.

Hunnigan shrugged, uncharacteristically, "Cut them some slack, there's more than a dozen agents in this office."

"Let's get Leon in for a blood draw," Chris said, eyes still glued to the test results. "Let's see what this biomarker is."

Leon had rutted his hips with reckless abandon, the dream woven into him like a second skin.

The tension in his muscles, sweat that slicked his skin as he moved with you, the pleasure that built was unbearable and consuming until…

Leon let out a sharp breath, shaking his head as if he could physically cast out the memory. Last night had left something in his mind that hadn't been there before—an awareness, almost.

He launched himself from his bed, different than every other time when he'd rather have run back to bed. His routine, while still monotonous, was a welcome change. But still he stood at the mirror, staring at the reflection of himself…still hearing your voice. Still seeing you. He closed his eyes, hoping the darkness behind his eyes in the daylight would remove you from his vision.

Leon opened his eyes and stared at himself again. His reflection didn’t look like a man who had just woken from a dream. It looked like a man who had lost something real.

He exhaled sharply and pushed away from the sink. His hand brushed the gun at his waist—a tangible weight in a world he could trust no longer. His skin still burned where phantom hands had roamed.

The office still looked the same, and somehow that gave him some relief. Even seeing Chris…Chris at his office door? Again?

Well, he could count that as a relief too.

"Here to lecture me again, Doc?" Leon asked, sarcasm dripping in his tone. This time, Chris didn't respond with his usual remark back.

His eyes held a determination—the same as if he were on a mission. Leon knows the look well.

"We need to talk. Now."

Leon sighed, moving further into his office and hanging up his jacket. "Then talk."

Chris was hot on his heels—an urgency, maybe even a slight rage to him that wasn't present before. He slammed the door shut, making the blinds rattle a bit at the force.

"Spoke to Hunnigan," Chris announced, "she mentioned you've been acting like…this for a week. Are you gonna really tell me what's going on now or what?"

He couldn't keep pushing people away. Chris was certainly right on that front. So then, why did he feel so embarrassed to reveal the dreams to him? That's all they were. Dreams. Unfortunate but true.

Last night, while intoxicating, rattled Leon more than he'd have liked.

A human mind cannot replicate those sensations that seared across his skin, at least not like that.

"Fine." Leon shook his head as he placed his head in his palms, "I've been…having dreams."

"Dreams? Of what?"

He wanted to brace himself for what he had to tell Chris.

Leon sipped his coffee. Strong, dark—just how he liked it. The scent hit his nose, warm and sharp. At least that hadn't changed.

He stated your name.

"Her?" Chris asked, incredulous.

"I'm not repeating myself, Chris." Leon ran a hand down his face, the urge to curl under his desk and disappear more appealing by the second.

Chris looked like the idea of what he'd said was still processing—still computing in that big dumb brain of his.

"Well? Anything insightful to say, Chris?" Leon tried to hide the impatient tone in his voice, was Chris trying to leave him in suspense now?

"You've been having dreams….about her?" Chris asked as if still trying to understand. Quite frankly, the more he verbalized it, the more Leon wanted to punch him square in the face. What was so hard to grasp about that?

Chris had always been the dependable one, the man with the answers, with the courage to speak his mind. Leon had always admired him for it—envied it, even. But now, even Chris seemed to not have any and he wasn't sure if that made him more concerned for his mental state or not.

Leon responded, a little frustration in his tone, "I know it sounds crazy, but they feel so real," his words tumbled out before he could stop them. "I dream of…of us. Of a life together after everything—after Raccoon City. A life where we were happy. I still can see it all. The rings. The wedding. Her laugh. She called me her husband. And the worst part? It felt like reality. But then I'd wake up…and she was never there. And it hurts, Chris. It hurts like nothing I've ever felt."

Chris took in his words quietly, his gaze set squarely on Leon, the weight of what he'd said out loud sinking in.

Leon ran a hand through his hair, "I'm just so damn tired of it," he muttered. "There's so much of it that I know isn't real, but I just don't know how to get out of my head."

"And when did this all start, exactly?" Chris questioned, no judgment in his tone.

He went back in his mind. Mission after mission—all routine, none too different from one another. Except one. It came back to him in detail. Umbrella lab, he thought was abandoned, only to find out…surprise, it's not. A shootout ensued within their lab, but he didn't remember getting any substances on him, not even a speck of blood. Sure, bullets flew, and there was some ricochet. Just another day in the office, right?

"A few weeks ago? Honestly, my brain has been so fucking scrambled, even that guess could be wrong," he explained. A weight lifted the more he told Chris, one he hadn't felt in weeks, once the ache of this need, this longing had taken root.

"I'll cut right to the chase," Chris said. "Hunnigan showed me some of your blood draws, especially the one after that mission."

Chris tossed papers onto his desk. Upon further inspection, Leon noted the lab results. He never really bothered to look at them before; he was always cautious—always careful for infection, he could thank Raccoon and Spain for that.

His eyes scanned over the analysis rather than the blood markers, which weren't exactly within his expertise to decipher.

Almost all of them said the same thing: All labs CLEAR. No infection, nothing to worry about. Except, of course, this one.

Flagged biomarkers of unknown origin. The text was so minuscule, clinical in nature, but the lab assistants didn't seem to make anything of it.

His eyes skirted across the page over and over. Why wasn't this brought to his attention? The hairs on his skin raised just knowing that he had been even potentially infected with…something.

"The lab assistants are already getting a thorough questioning as we speak," Chris answered a question that Leon didn't verbalize.

His head shook as his mind took in the information, "What do you need from me?"

"Well, for starters, another blood draw. And for another, the location of the lab."

Would he get you involved, too? Leon tried not to let a shudder run through him at the utter embarrassment of even broaching this with the real you. How would Chris even mention that?

Seems that Leon is losing what's left of his mind; he's having pathetic dreams about you. Yeah, you'd probably laugh him off the face of the earth.

The crushed blue velvet carpets dug into your heels with each step. You'd learned just about every threading, stitch, and fabric of these hallowed halls.

The White House. Somehow, you never expected your career trajectory would end up with you here.

Though only from the perspective of following behind a college student. Security detail, if you wanted to be specific.

So, not too thrilling. She was too focused on cute boys on campus, studies, and therapy…lots of therapy.

In fact, you were only here when Ashley was. And even that had become scarce. Spain had fundamentally changed her routine. Somewhat. She was still a college kid, above all else.

This gig beat the alternative.

You'd been through literal death-defying missions, getting by through the skin of your teeth with your body parts intact. Now all you had to do was make sure Baby Eagle got to midterms on time and damn campus parking.

So, yeah, you'd take shit for brains rent a cops on campus rather than the usual ibuprofen and ice packs on your knuckles. Something was missing, though. Throwing yourself into work made it easy to not figure out what exactly that was, but as time went on, every night spent holed up in your cushy apartment, watching trashy reality TV to numb your brain, it started to get pretty obvious.

You hadn't thought of him for years, not that you had time to think of anything really. Eat, sleep, work, repeat had been the name of the game. Keeping your head down was probably for the best anyway.

But that wasn't to say you hadn't heard of him in a while. It turned out he was the one who saved Ashley, after all. At first, you had no idea that Condor One was the one and only Leon Scott Kennedy. Despite how much Ashley spoke so highly of the one who saved her. You never did catch his name, considering you were more focused on keeping Baby Eagle…well, alive.

It was the one time you actually listened to the girl that the details started to line up in your head.

He had blonde hair.

He had blue eyes.

An unending sense of duty and compassion.

Movie star handsome.

Enough to make any girl swoon, especially Ashley.

All pretty much spot on for the man you once knew. Upon learning that fact of your relationship in passing from one of the other Secret Service agents, Ashl—Baby Eagle kept you close—god, you really needed to get that formality correct in your head.

She wanted to know more about her savior, and you wanted to know more about Leon's adventures in your absence in his life post-Raccoon City. Fair trade-off, you'd reckon.

From that point, Baby Eagle asked you about Leon before Spain. You could really only speak to the day you both met—surely one of the worst days of both your lives. An unbreakable bond had been forged after all you'd been through, despite your current circumstances. Ashley told you how Leon—all by himself—saved her from a cult in Spain. Dredging up the memories alongside the new stories she told you…you started to remember why you liked him so much. Still liked him, actually.

Which led back to now as you sat in the darkness of your apartment, television flickering as you watched girls fight on television for entertainment. Really riveting stuff.

The something missing had a name.

The something missing had a feeling.

You could name them both now. Being amongst the world, amongst people, it was glaringly obvious.

You missed Leon.

And you were…lonely.

And no, not in the sad, pathetic way. Okay, that was a lie. It was sad and pathetic. You had a semblance of control in your life, at least that's what those agents who recruited you had you believing, but that was not the case.

You remembered the times you tried to reach out in the year after Raccoon, how easily they'd intercepted your channels of communication. Even with all the stubbornness in the world, they knew every trick in the book. You didn't stand a chance, but now those motherfuc—stupid pricks were gone, so what really was holding you back?

Maybe it was the crushing fear that Leon no longer felt the same way you did. Or maybe he'd moved on to someone else. Your heart probably couldn't take on new heartbreak now; you'd already lost so much. Your old life, your friends, and memories that still resided within the remnants of a place you once called home.

So, you held back and hoped one day the burst of courage would hit you. That or Leon would magically appear on your doorstep.

That hope would stay buried under rock and rubble made from your anxieties, much like the city you'd left behind in 1998. Rather than continuing to dwell on the past, you did what you did best…shut your brain off for the night.

As you were about to shut off the TV and start your nightly routine of trying to start your skincare routine, only to fail miserably, a hard knock pounded against your door.

You checked the digital clock hung up on the wall next to the door. 9:50 pm. Who could be visiting you this late? Friends in this line of work knew better. Your neighbors never got this bold in the evening.

You shuffled around for more appropriate attire, yanking on an old RPD hoodie—technically a replica—and fixed up your hair, patting it down from where you'd run your hand through it more than a dozen times.

The knocks came again.

"Alright, I'm coming!" You shouted, undoing the locks on the door.

You readied yourself to shoo whoever it was away, but all the words died in your throat at the person who stood before you.

How long had it been? Were you dreaming?

"Chris?"

He wore a meek smile, shoulders hunched in as if he could ever actually make himself less imposing. Guess your memories surrounding RC and choice in attire were more of an omen than pure happenstance.

"I'll cut right to the chase, I need your help."

"If it's anything other than the President's daughter, can't say I'm much of an expert." A beat. "That is, unless you're trying to get the hottest celebrity gossip straight from Ashley Graham's mouth to my ear."

Chris laughed then, "Not exactly what I was in the neighborhood for. It's a matter of government affairs."

You stepped back, allowing Chris to step inside your apartment without a word.

Cutting off the television, you follow Chris's lead as he sits down on your couch.

"Oh, how impolite of me, did you want something to drink or eat?" You gestured back toward the kitchen, all the high-end appliances and digital displays had a healthy coating of dust on them. Not that you didn't cook, but your job doesn't exactly allow you to be Ina Garten.

Chris waved a hand dismissively. "No, thank you, though. How have you been?"

This was awkward. In a way it had never been like that for you before, at least when it came to Chris. You had worked together. At one point, you lived in the same neighborhood, yet now, you two were like strangers.

With a small, sheepish smile, you respond with a simple, "Pretty good. Can't complain."

Chris nodded at your response.

"So, uh, you mentioned needing my help?"

"Oh, yeah, right. As I mentioned earlier, this is a government matter. But I may be overstating the situation. It's more self-contained rather than agency-wide," he explained, eyes set squarely on you. "I wouldn't have come to you if I didn't think you were important to this."

The way in which he spoke was starting to scare you a bit; your heart was beating harder against your chest than it was a moment ago.

"Chris, out with it. Is it something serious?"

His head hung low for a moment. "It's Leon."

Now, that had sent a chill down your spine. Was he okay? What was going on with Leon? Chris could tend to lean into the dramatics, probably why he used to be such a good storyteller on the STARS team. It also royally pissed you off. Sometimes you preferred direct, straight-to-the-point communication.

You let out an exasperated sigh. "Chris, make the damn point, please. Is he dead? Injured? What?"

"He's fine, he's just been going through something regarding his last mission, and I'm not quite sure how to broach it with you. I think it needs to come directly from him. I need you to meet with him, not just from a personal standpoint, but from a professional standpoint."

You tried to take in just what exactly Chris had asked of you. You tried not to sound like you were teasing, but the tone slipped through your words anyway. "Like a pep talk? Doesn't he have you for that?"

"No, not that. Look, I'm still trying to grasp it myself, but he needs a reality check, alright?"

"What does this have to do with his last mission?"

"Still working on that, but it's….something mental? How soon can you come up to the DSO office?"

Honestly, you were left more confused and had more questions than answers. Of all the people you could think of to have a mental breakdown, Leon wasn't exactly at the top of your list. He'd always been pretty sharp, not much phasing him, especially giant reptiles, the walking dead, and only recently added a Spanish cult. So what could have shaken him this badly that your one-time colleague was reaching out to you for help? There was no question in your mind on that front, at least. Helping him was a no-brainer.

You ran a hand down your face. Reshuffling your busy schedule mentally and letting out a puff of air from your mouth, you replied, "Does tomorrow afternoon work?"

Chris went over the details of how to get to Leon's office. You just hoped he was going to be okay with seeing you face-to-face after god knows how many years you'd been apart.

━━━━━━━━ 𖦏 ━━━━━━━━

You stormed into the office, making your way up to Chris. Your hands met his chest, giving him a shove backwards, “What the fuck, Chris!? That was my fucking shot. Not yours.”

Chris stumbles back but steadies himself with a smirk, his eyes filling with amusement at your anger, “Relax, y/n. You act like I stole your fucking lunch money.” He laughs at his own joke, “It was a good shot, and you know it.”

He sits down, leaning back in his chair, “But if you weren’t too busy running your mouth, you would’ve seen it coming.”

You scoff, and before you speak, he cuts you off, “You should thank me. I just saved you from embarrassing yourself.”

“I’m going to kill you.” As you step forward, the chief calling for you and Chris cuts it short. Chris stands up from his chair, his brows flicking up, “Try me.” He smirks, motioning to the door, “After you, princess.”

You shove past him, stepping into the chief’s office.

Chris follows you in and you roll your eyes. The chief motions to the chairs, “Sit down. We’ve got bigger problems than your childish bickering.”

You clench your jaw, sitting down in the seat next to Chris, but you don’t pay any attention to him. You let out a sigh, “What do we have?”

The chief looks between the two of you, his tone stern as he speaks, “Look, I know.” He scoffs, “Everyone, knows you two have your issues, but I need you to understand this isn’t some kind of joke.”

You nod, “I know it’s not, chief. What’s the case?”

The chief leans back, sliding a file across the desk and Chris and you both reach for it. You snatch it before he can grab it, flipping it open.

“You’re going undercover.” The chief sighs, “You’ll be after a high-profile arms dealer. We’ve been tracking him for months, but we need someone to get in close, someone he’ll trust. His operation is on the verge of blowing wide open, and we need to know who’s pulling the strings behind him.”

You watch as he glances between you and Chris, silently tell you what you already know before leaning in, “The target’s name is Vincent Marlowe. He’s been moving weapons through legitimate businesses, using them as fronts to not get caught. We need you two to play the part of a couple getting close to him and his associates. It’s a delicate operation. Any slip-up could blow this whole thing.”

You glance over at Chris as he taps his fingers against the edge of the desk, his smirk faulting into something more, focused.

He glances over at you, “Looks like we’re stuck with each other for this one. Try not to screw it up, alright?”

He glances down at the file in your hand, pulling it from your grasp and, clearly pretends, to study it while he waits for you to go back after him.

You sigh, looking up at the chief instead, “How do you want us to do that? We play a rich couple?”

The chief nods, holding up a picture of Marlowe, showing it to both of you before continuing.

“Exactly that, y/n. Marlowe’s into high society stuff. Luxury events, private parties, the whole lifestyle. It’s the perfect opportunity to get close to him and his network. You’ll need to play the part of a rich, influential engaged couple with a lot to offer. Think.. private jets, expensive tastes, that kind of thing.”

He looks directly at you, then Chris, making sure you both understand the importance.

You give him a nod, “High end shopping, something I’d have to sell my house for.” You sigh, leaning back into your seat, “Got it.”

“We’ve got some intel on his events, it’s in the file, but nothing solid enough yet. You both know the routine, blend in, gain his trust, dig up what you can.” He pauses, giving you both a look, “Keep it subtle. No arguing, bickering, or any of that shit. Don’t be too obvious and most importantly, do not break your cover.”

Chris chuckles, glancing over as his eyebrow arches up, “Rich couple, huh? Guess I can fake it.” He smirks, clearly enjoying the thought of playing the role with someone who claims to hate him.

“It’s a job, and I for one, am good at my job, so.” You nod at the chief, “Got it. I’ll text you when we land.” You stand up from your chair, and Chris follows you, “I guess I’ll see you at the airport, princess.”

“Stop. Calling me that.” You snap, “Jesus Christ.”

He raises his hands in mock defense, “Alright, alright, I’ll lay off. I was just going to offer you a ride to the airport.”

You roll your eyes, “No, thanks. I’m good.” You walk to your office, but Chris continues to follow, “Come on, I’ll keep you from being late.”

You grab your stapler, tempted to throw it at him, but you use it on the paper in your hand, “I said, I’m good.”

“Suit yourself. Don’t cry to me when you’re late.” He turns and walks away. You roll your eyes, taking a deep breath as you take in what these next few days mean.

━━━━━━━━ 𖦏 ━━━━━━━━

You arrive to the airport, before Chris, shocking.

“Well, well, look who decided to show up early,” Chris teases with a smirk, his eyes moving over you as he tosses his bag onto a nearby seat. He looks unfazed by the time crunch, and that pissed you off even more.

“Didn’t think you had it in you.” He smirks, earning an eye roll from you, but you ignore him, mumbling low, “wasting my breath.”

Chris laughs, sitting down across from you, “Yeah, I get it. You’re so done with me, but come on. Can’t you just admit for the sake of the mission that you actually love this? You’re not fooling anyone with the whole, don’t care attitude.”

You glance up at him, “Do you ever shut up?”

He lets out a playful sigh, “Only when I’m asleep, y/n.” He leans back, grabbing his phone, “But if you want some peace and quiet, you can always just admit that I’m right.” He smirks, “I know it’s hard for you, but that can just be our little thing.”

He shoots you a wink, shaking his head as he looks down at his phone. You roll your eyes, looking away.

On the jet, you force yourself to speak, “What are our cover names?”

He leans back in the seat and stares at you, “Right.” He starts, his tone now more focused, “We’ll be using fake shit for this.” He laughs, “You’ll be Charlotte Carter, a socialite and philanthropist. Real high-class stuff.” He raises his brows, his tone sarcastic, “Got connections in all the right places.”

He glances up at you, his eyes scanning you for a moment. You scoff, “Charlotte Carter? Please, that sounds like something straight out of a comic book.” You shake your head, “But, fine. Who are you?”

“I’m Ryan Bennett. Corporate guy with a bit of a reputation.” He smirks, “Think.. rich businessman, keeps a low profile.” He shrugs, “The kind of guy who blends into the background but still gets invited to all the best parties.”

He leans back in his seat, staring at you, “Do you need me to go over it again, or do you have it?”

You roll your eyes, “I got it.” You scoff, “Now.. our engagement story.. how did-“ you motion to Chris, “Ryan, propose to-“ you motion to yourself, “Charlotte?”

Chris seemed caught off guard by the question, but he quickly covered it up, “Ryan proposed to Charlotte at a private gala.” He leans back in his seat, “A big, extravagant affair. Candlelit dinner, a string quartet in the background, the whole shebang. He got down on one knee in front of all their friends and family, because, you know, he’s classy like that.” He smirks, “And, Charlotte, being the sophisticated woman she is, said yes, but only after a little dramatic pause, of course.” His smirk grows, “How’s that sound? Think Charlotte would go for a proposal like that?”

You sit there taking in his answer for a moment, “Yeah, sure.”

“Well, you’re stuck with it, so..” he leans back, “We need to make sure our stories are straight, y/n. How we met, how long we’ve been together, you know.”

“You act like I don’t know that, Chris.” You stare at him and he laughs, “Hey, I’m just making sure.” He raises his hands, “Wouldn’t wanna leave anything to chance, right?”

You pull the file over, “Yeah, right.” You look down over it, and you can feel his eyes on you, “What?”

You flick your eyes up at him.

He leans forward, letting out a sigh, “We’ll stick to the basics for our story, alright.” He leans back giving you a shrug, “Met at an art gallery, had a whirlwind romance. Nothing too complicated. Just enough to make it sound legit.” He pauses, “You good with that?”

“Art gallery?” You think about it for a few seconds before letting out a sigh, “Yeah, that’s fine.” You turn your attention back to the file, silently cursing when Chris opens his mouth again, “Right. An art gallery. Real classy, just like you, Charlotte.”

Your eyes move to look up at him, watching as he leans back in the seat. There was a shift in the energy between the two of you, but you weren’t saying anything about it.

Chris actually stays silent for a while, letting the weight of the mission settle as you both took it in.

As the plane lands, you sit up a little to stretch. A yawn slips your lips and Chris nods, “Yeah, that flight was killer. Figured you would have slept for more than half of it.”

You roll your eyes, “I couldn’t, even if I wanted to.” You watch him stand up to gather his things, eyes leaving him as soon as he turns around.

He notices, the smirk on his face tells you, but he doesn’t say anything, “You ready to make this whole rich couple thing work? Or are you planning on taking a nap the second we hit the ground?”

You give him a shrug, “Might crash for an hour if we have time. I don’t know.” You stand up, letting out a sigh as you move to gather your bags, “My back is killing me.”

He nods, making his way towards the exit, “I’m sure those seats are awful for someone who doesn’t sit still.”

You shoot him a glare, “I sat still, what are you talking about?”

He laughs, “Come on, we can get you a coffee. You know, so you’re not falling asleep on me during the mission.” He raises an eyebrow, his tone mixed with challenge and concern, “Unless you just want to sleep through the whole damn thing.”

You roll your eyes, “Shut up.”

He laughs, “Alright, okay. I’m just saying, maybe wouldn’t be the worst thing if you did. I actually might get a break from hearing your brilliant commentary.”

I shove past him, making my way down the jet’s steps before him, “You’re insufferable, Sturniolo.”

You hear him jog to catch up to you, “Insufferable? Nah.. I’m just more entertaining than you can handle.” He laughs, “You know, you could be a little nicer about it, though. It might make this whole, couple, thing more believable.”

He winks as you glance at him and a scoff leaves your lips, “I’ll start pretending when you buy me that coffee.”

You pull the car door open and get in, closing it with a slam.

Chris walks around to the drivers side after putting his bags in the car, as soon as he gets in, he laughs, “Buy you a coffee?” He shrug, “You know what? You’ve got yourself a deal, y/n. But, only because I’m in a generous mood.”

You raise your brows, “A generous mood? That’s rare.”

He chuckles, “But don’t think that just because I’m buying you coffee, you’ve won anything.” He smirks over at you, “We both know who’s really running the show here.”

You roll your eyes, “Yeah, whatever.”

Chris sighs, “Keep tellin’ yourself that.” Before you had a chance to say anything else, he speaks up, “You know, for someone who acts like they can’t stand me, you’re pretty fun to mess with.”

“You’re just an idiot.” You reply dryly, which earns a laugh from Chris, “Hey, idiots make the best company, don’t they?”

You don’t answer him, you just stare out the window, and that eggs him on more, “You know, if we didn’t have so much tension, we might actually get along.”

You look over at him, “What do you mean by tension? I hate you. Plain and simple.”

He clenches his jaw, quickly pulling that cocky smirk out to play, “Yeah, well. I hate you, too. But, hate really is a strong word, though, isn’t it? We can use.. complicated. How’s that?”

You go to argue, but you know that’s exactly shat he wants, well, actually. There’s no way out of this, so you just sigh, “Yeah, complicated. Whatever.”

Chris laughs, “See, that wasn’t so hard was it?” As you pull up to the coffee place, he looks over at you, “What do you want?”

You shrug, “I don’t know. Just-“ A sigh leaves your lips, “Get me a latte, vanilla with two sugars and an extra shot of espresso.”

“Vanilla latte, two sugars, extra shot of espresso.” He repeats the order back to you with a smirk, “I’d say you’re high-maintenance, but I already knew that.” He reaches for the door, “Stay here, I’ll be back.”

You stay quiet as he gets out, taking a deep breath as you let everything settle. It wasn’t often you got a second without Chris flapping his gums, it honestly felt kind of weird without it, but you wouldn’t ever admit that to him, though.

As you wait, your mind wanders, maybe it was you just being tired, but you kept thinking about Chris, and all of this other missions you’ve been on with him.

You guys were a good team, there was no doubt about that, but he got on your nerves, you just didn’t know if it was the good thing, or bad thing.

The longer you sit in silence, the more you questioned your, hate, for him.

Either way, you felt like it wouldn’t work, your agents. You know the game. Work and relationships don’t mix most of the time.

Chris pulling the door open snapped you from your thoughts, “Here you go, one complicated drink for the most complicated person I know.”

You scoff, “Yeah, thanks.” You take it and take a sip, letting out a sigh, “Let’s just go to the hotel. Get settled in. The party we need to attend is tomorrow night, so we can just study up the case, prepare tonight.”

“Alright, sounds like a plan.” He starts the car and starts heading toward the hotel, “Classic undercover move.”

You just shake your head, not giving into the banter.

“Just don’t expect me to be all business all night.” He smirks at you, giving you a shrug, “I’m still gonna keep you on your toes.”

“Just don’t do anything that’ll piss me off.” You sigh, but he’s shooting right back, “I can promise to try.” He says with a sigh, “But let’s be honest, it’s probably going to happen anyway.”

“Of course it is. It’s what you’re good at.” You mumble, looking out at the hotel as he parks, “Let’s just.. make it through the lobby, fiancé.”

“Wouldn’t be the best fiancé if I wasn’t make sure you weren’t bored, right?” He teases and you sigh, “If it helps you sleep at night, sure. Now come around and open my door. You need to act like you actually love me.”

There was no hesitation. Chris got out and walked around quickly to pull your door open, “Anything for you, darling.” He holds his hand out and you sigh as you take it, stepping out of the car.

Chris slides his hand around your waist, “Shall we, my love?”

You slip into the role easily, a little too easy, “Let’s do it, baby.” Your eye twitches at the pet name, but you play it off, following Chris’ lead into the hotel. His hand on your waist tightens as he walks you both up to the desk, “Hello, Ryan Bennett and Charlotte Carter checking in.”

The attendant gives a warm smile, “Yes, hello. Congratulations on your engagement.”

Chris smiles big, “Yeah, I’m a lucky guy with this one here.” He glances down at you and you keep the act up, “I don’t let anyone in easy, but this guy weaseled his way in.” You laugh, catching Chris’ smirk, “Can we get two keys please?”

The attendant nods with a slight laugh, “Of course, Ms Carter.” She glances at Chris, “You know, it’s the ones you least expect that make you the happiest.” She slides the keys over, “Enjoy your stay.”

“Oh we sure will.” Chris smiles, snatching the keys from the counter, “Here, sweetheart.” He hands you the key and you take it, “Thank you, baby.” I give the attendant a smile as we turn and I let out a scoff.

“Guess she has a point, don’t she?” Chris chuckles as he presses the elevator button, “Just don’t get any ideas, alright?”

“Trust me. My mind is on anything but you.” You step onto the elevator, pressing the correct floor button as Chris walks in to stand behind you, “Sure, sure. Just don’t get comfortable pretending like I’m not the most interesting thing on your mind.”

His voice is low, almost like he’s daring you to argue with him.

You sigh, sipping your coffee, “mhm, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

As the doors open, Chris walks out first and you furrow my brows, “What? Did I piss you off for a change?”

Chris stops in his tracks, turning slightly as he repeats your words, “Piss me off?” He’s got this look on his face, like he’s deciding on whether to be irritated or entertained, “Nah, just wasn’t expecting you to be so.. calm, about everything. Thought you’d be more, I don’t know, fired up?”

You laugh, giving him a shrug, “I’ve had my coffee, so I’m good for a while.”

As you walk down the hall, Chris follow you, “You’re not exactly good at hiding what’s on your mind, you know.” He stops as you press the key to the door, “You and I both know that if I pissed you off, I’d know it by now.”

His hand slides over the door, pushing it open, “After you, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes, walking in. You instantly take notice to there being only one bed and you let out a sigh that feels like you’ve been holding in for hours, “Of. Course.”

Chris steps up next to you, a smirk plastered on his face, his tone teasing, “Looks like someone didn’t do their homework.” He walks over, tossing his bag down on the floor by the dresser, “I mean, it is our bed, right?”

You set your bag down on the chair, ignoring him completely as you try not to let him bother you.

“Relax, y/n.” He chuckles, “You can always sleep on the floor if you’re that upset about it.” He shakes his head as he pulls the files from his bag.

“I’m not sleeping on the floor.” You snap, “Screw that.”

“Fine, fine. Your choice, but hey, if you really can’t handle sharing a bed with me, I’m sure we can figure out something else, alright.” He shrugs, “I’m just.. offering ideas.”

“We can share the damn bed, Chris. We’re both adults, well. One of us, at least.” You flick a brow up, “Just.. keep your hands to yourself.” You motion, “There’s a sign downstairs about a cocktail hour, figured we could go, blend in.”

“Relax, sweetheart,” he says, his tone saturated in amusement, “You’re not my type anyway.” He sends you a wink before bending down to pull out a new dress shirt, “That’s a good idea, blending in is the way to go.”

Something twisted inside of you, almost like his words hurt you, but you didn’t want to accept it, so you masked it with a laugh, “Good.” You pull your dress out of your bag and start walking towards the bathroom.

You stop as Chris speaks, “Try not to take too long getting ready, alright? I’d hate to have to drink alone while you spend an hour fixing your hair.”

He was teasing you, but you were pissed. About what? You weren’t sure, but your words let him know exactly how you were feeling, that’s for damn sure, “Go. Have a drink by yourself, like I fucking care.”

You could feel his eyes on you. As you glance back, he sighs quietly, his tone lower than usual, “Yeah, alright.” He pause like he’s thinking about saying more, but he doesn’t. He just turns to throw his shirt on the bed, eyes not even on you anymore, “Just don’t keep me waiting, too long.”

You hesitate, but inevitably walk into the bathroom, and that’s the first time any room you and Chris have ever been in, felt like that.

You didn’t even know what to call that. Chris always got under your skin, but that.. that was different.

As you slip on your dress, you ear the quiet shuffle of Chris in the room. You walk back out and within the time it took you both to change, Chris’ smirk was back on his face, “Damn.”

You watch as his eyes scan up and down your figure. He forces himself to look away, rolling the sleeves on his shirt up, “Guess we’ll have no problem getting people to believe we’re together.” He glances up, “Are you about ready or do you need another five minutes to stare at yourself?”

You roll your eyes, “Yeah we both look rich, I get it, and no. I can put my lipstick on in the elevator.” You sit down on the bed to put your heels on, and you can feel Chris’ stare burning into you, “No need to get all defensive, just don’t want you to keep me waiting like you always do.”

“Oh my god, I’m ready.” You sigh, standing up to grab your small bag, “You know.. for someone who said I wasn’t their type, you sure are having trouble keeping your eyes off of me.”

You glance over at him and he opens the door. As you walk out, he chuckles, “You noticed that, huh?” He follows you out, “Guess that means you were lookin’ at me too.”

You roll your eyes, shaking your head as you watch him push the elevator button. You dig in your purse pulling out your mirror and your lipstick, flicking both open to paint your lips.

Chris turns to face you as he leans against the wall, “And just for the record, I didn’t say you weren’t attractive, I just said you weren’t my type.”

You laugh slightly, continuing to try and cover up your real feelings towards it, “Is that supposed to bother me? Me not being your type?”

You step onto the elevator after him and he chuckles, “I don’t know, sweetheart.” He smirks, tilting his head ever so slightly, “But you’re sure working hard to act like it doesn’t.”

You clench your jaw, closing your eyes before looking down to toss your mirror and lipstick back into your small bag.

Before you can even say a word, he steps up behind you, his voice lower as he cuts you off, “It’s okay, though..” he pauses, “I get under your skin. You get under mine. That’s kinda our thing, isn’t it?”

You tilt your head, “I’m not-“ you pause, “Let’s just get through this hour so I can go back to the room and sleep on the damn floor.”

As soon as the doors open, you walk off, Chris following you with an amused huff, “Suit yourself, but if you wake up sore as hell in the morning, don’t expect me to listen to you complain about it.”

He pulls the door open and rests his hand on your lower back, leaning in to whisper low for only you to hear, “Showtime, sweetheart. Try not to look like you wanna kill me in front of all these people, yeah?”

With being reminded about the mission, you snap into action, playing the role of Charlotte Carter, Ryan Bennett’s fiancé.

With a smile, you walk with Chris to the bar. As Chris notices your smile, he leans in, almost sounding like he was admiring you, “There she is.”

He looks at the bartender and orders two drinks.

It didn’t take long for them to come out and Chris hands you yours and holds his glass up slightly, “To a long and happy engagement.” He toasts before clinking his glass with yours.

“To a long and happy engagement.” You repeat, bringing your glass up to your lips to take a sip.

His eyes stay on you over the rim of his glass, searching for anything real under the facade you’re trying to hard to hold up.

You don’t crack, you just scan the room, the smile still holding strong on your lips.

Chris leans in, “See anyone interesting?” He asks, gaming another sip of his drink, his hand staying on your waist. His thumb deliberately brushes over the fabric on your hip as he leans in to whispers just so you can hear, “Or are you too busy trying not to stab me with that tiny cocktail straw?”

“What are you doing?” You mumble, bringing your glass to your lips, “Your eyes should be on the room, not me, Ryan.”

“I’m just trying to make sure you’re not going to stab someone with that straw, Charlotte.” He chuckles, “But I’ll take note, next time I’ll keep my eyes on the room, since you’d rather be left alone.”

You shifted subtly at his words, a small sigh escaping your nose. It felt suffocating to be next to him. In the dress. In the room, surrounded by all of these people.

You didn’t know what was happening. You could feel the burn in your eyes and it confused you more than anything.

You pulled it together, taking another sip of your drink before shaking your head, “Whatever.”

Chris caught on, immediately catching the subtle shift in your energy, your posture. His hand tighten on your waist, pulling you closer to him with ease, “You know..” his tone is quiet, casual, “I didn’t mean to push you. I’m just trying to keep us in character.”

You tilt your head up, feeling that same burn returning and you decided to exit before it progressed. You left out a slight laugh, “yeah, character.” You set your glass down, avoiding eye contact with him, “I need to go to the bathroom.”

Without another word, you turn, making your way through the crowd and into the bathroom. You immediately went up to the counter, hands gripping it tight as you tried to control your breathing.

Were you having a panic attack?

Did Chris really get under your skin this bad?

Was it the mission?

Was it being somewhere you felt like you didn’t belong and you feel like people knew?

Maybe it was a mix of everything.

But one thing you did know, was that this, has never happened to you before, and you weren’t really sure on what to do but fake it until you made it.

Meanwhile, while you were pulling yourself together, Chris made his way over, leaning against the wall as he waited for you to come out.

As you pull yourself together, you took a deep breath, slipping back into the role of Charlotte and smiled at yourself in the mirror. You turned, making your way out of the bathroom with the same, happy go lucky smile.

You glanced over, seeing Chris push himself up from the wall with the look like he’s trying to dissect what just happened. He walks up to you, “There she is.” His eyes scan over your face, “You good now, or should I be worried about you coming after me with that straw?”

You hold your ground, trying not to let anything show through the cracks, but Chris can read you, it’s what he does for a living, you weren’t stupid.

You laugh, gently pushing his shoulder, “You’re so funny, Ryan.” You slide your hand around his arm, nudging him subtly, “Come on, let’s go mingle.”

He knew not to be dumb and say he doesn’t fully believe you, because he knew you both couldn’t afford to have you walk off again.

He laughs slightly, “Yeah, yeah, I’m hilarious.” He leads you into the crowd, keeping up the playful act, “Don’t get too comfortable with the other guests.”

You laugh, “Oh please, you know I like talking all my fancy talk with people.” You giggle, “I think I need another drink, also, Vincent Marlowe is right up there.”

Chris notices the shift in your tone when you say the targets name. He nods, laying his hand on your lower back, “Alright, alright, let’s get you that drink, sweetheart.” He leads you to the bar, leaning in to whisper, “We’ll get Marlowe in no time.”

You lean on the bar, happily telling the bartender what you wanted, “And then.” You look at Chris, “Whatever my fiancé wants, please.”

Chris orders his drink, keeping it simple before his eyes move back to study you. He doesn’t gaze long, knowing how short fused you are right now.

He just slowly grazes his thumb over your lower back as his eyes scan out over the crowd. He turns back as the bartender sets down your glasses and he picks his up.

He angles it towards yours, “To us.” He clinks his glass against yours and leans in to whisper, “And keeping up appearances.”

You smile, keeping up with the facade, “Perfect toast, honey.” You clink your glass to his and take a sip. You look around before leaning in closer to Chris, whisper into your glass, “He’s coming down here.”

Chris’ posture becomes more on alert with your words, his hand tightening around your waist as he plays the cool, collected role, “Good.” He mumbles into his glass, turning to step closer to you, “Stick to the script. We’re a happy couple. Don’t get too cozy with him. Can’t afford to throw everything off.”

You clench your jaw at his words, tilting your head slightly, but you keep the smile on your face, pretending like he didn’t just act like you don’t know what you’re doing here.

Vincent Marlowe finally approaches and there’s a shift in the air.

“Ah, the happy couple as I live and breathe.” He chuckles, eyes grazing between you and Chris as he offers his hand to Chris first.

Chris shakes it, watching as his hand moves to you. You reach out, shaking his hand and you force your smile as Vincent’s hand lingers on yours, almost like he’s taking in every detail.

“Vincent Marlowe.” He finally introduced himself, a slight bow of his head, “Charlotte and Ryan, correct?”

“That’s right.” Chris nods, and you smile, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Marlowe.” You slide your arm around Chris’ waist, “Lovely cocktail hour, is it not?”

Vincent notices your arm going around Chris and he watches, almost like he’s sizing the both of you up, “Oh, please. The pleasure is all mine, Charlotte.” He offers a smile, “It is lovely indeed.”

His attention stays on you, “You two make quite the couple.” He glances at Chris then back to you. Chris’ hand stiffens on your waist, a protective hold, “Thank you, Vincent.”

Vincent chuckles, “It’s always good to see people so well matched.“

Chris immediately steps in casually, “Thank you, we’ve been together for a while now.” He looks over, holding your gaze just enough to keep it believable before glancing back at Vincent.

Vincent nods, “quite the lovely story.” His tone tells you that’s he’s buying into your fake facade, but his demeanor screams that he isn’t a fool, “You two should join me for dinner later.”

You give him a nod with a small smile, “Dinner sounds lovely, Mr. Marlowe. Just tell us the time and the place.”

Vincent is someone who doesn’t take being turned down too lightly, your agreeance fueled the fire in his eyes, “Excellent. I’ll have my assistant send over the details.” He pauses, “It’ll be a private affair, of course, just the right atmosphere to get to know each other better.”

You and Chris can feel the game Vincent is playing, you’re both on edge, but remain calm.

“Looking forward to it.” Chris says with a nod, and Vincent nods, his gaze lingering on you and chris for a moment, “I’ll see you soon.”

He walks away, leaning you and Chris alone.

Chris doesn’t move, he just lets out a slow breath, “That went well.”

“Yeah.” I sigh, bringing my glass to my lips, “What do you think dinner is going to entail?”

Chris leans back against the bar, his eyes scanning out over the crowd as he brings his own glass to his lips for a slow drink, “It’s gonna be a game, probably. Marlowe doesn’t invite people to dinner unless he thinks there’s something to gain.” He shifts his weight slightly, his hand still pressing to your hip, “We’ve gotta play it cool. Keep up the act, make him feel like he’s in control, but he’s not someone we want to underestimate.”

His eyes flick over to you before moving back out to the crowd, “We need to be ready for anything. Stay sharp, keep him interested.”

You nod silently, your gaze meeting the floor before all of those unusual feeling rush forward at an even harder rate. You take a deep breath, pulling yourself together, “We got this.”

Chris notices your shift in your demeanor, but he doesn’t say anything. He just steps closer, his shoulder brushing against yours with a sincere tone, “Remember, we’re a team. Whatever happens in that dinner, we’ve got each other’s backs.”

He glances over at you, “let’s just make it through the night. We’re almost done.”

━━━━━━━━ 𖦏 ━━━━━━━━

As you walk up to the desk, the attendant smiles politely, “Hello. How can I help you?”

“Any messages for Ryan Bennett or Charlotte Carter?”

The attendant slides an envelope across the counter and Chris takes it, turning towards you as he opens it. Inside is a small paper, Marlowe Private Estate. Seven O’Clock. Arrive Promptly.

Chris scoffs, shaking his head. He turns back to the desk attendant, “Thank you.” He turns, walking a few steps away with you, “You ready for this?” He pauses, giving you time to answer.

You look up at him, “I don’t have a choice.” You straighten up, “I’m good.”

Chris’ eyes scan over your face before he nods, “Good. Come on. No time to waste.” He lays his hand on your back as he leads you out of the hotel and to the car.

The car ride itself was quiet.

No one said a word.

It made it feel a lot longer than it actually was.

As soon as the car stops, Chris is out and walking around to open your door. He holds his hand out and you promptly take it, allowing him to help as you step out. He leans in, whispering just for you to hear, “Let’s make this count.”

You give him a nod, a fake smile forming on your lips as you follow Chris up to the door.

“Ryan Bennet. Charlotte Carter.” The butler nods, “Good evening.” He pulls the door open, motioning for you both to walk in, “Right this way.” He walks past you and Chris, leading the way.

The interior of Marlowe’s house is rich, luxurious. Dark wood paneling, high ceilings, and perfectly arranged furniture. Every surface conveys power and wealth.

No sign of danger as of right now, but it was just the beginning of the night.

Chris hand brushed against your back as he leaned in to whisper, “Keep your guard up. He’s been known to test people, see how much he can push.”

You give him a nod, keeping your composure as you walk into a room with Marlowe and a few other guests sitting by a big fireplace.

“You look perfect.” Chris whispers, and you felt your chest tighten. It felt both genuine and for the act, which only made your feelings push harder at the dam you quickly built.

You stayed silent and Chris rubbed his thumb over your back, “Let’s just blend in and see what we can see.”

You nod, following the butler up to be reintroduced to Marlowe. He notices you immediately, “Ah, Ms Carter. Mr. Bennet.” He greets as he stands, “I’m glad you could make it tonight. It’s not every day I have such illustrious company.”

He motions to the men in the room, “Charlotte, Ryan, I’d like to you to meet a few of my good friends. This is Harry Devers. Logan Marren, and last but not least, Steven Driers.”

None of those names ring a bell for you for Chris. You both offer polite nods and nice to meet you’s.

“I trust the trip was comfortable?” Marlowe asks, and Chris responds smoothly, “Of course, Mr. Marlowe. Thank you for hosting us.”

After a while of conversation, you smile, “Everything has been perfect, thank you. We’re happy to be here.”

Vincent studies you for a moment, trying to figure out if your smile is as genuine as you’re making it out to be, “I heard quite a lot about you two.” He pauses, “A power couple, some would say.”

He picks up before either you or Chris could speak, “It’s not often I meet people who understand the weight of the game. But then again, I suspect you already do.”

Chris response, his tone and smirk full of charm, “We’re just here for the fun, Mr. Marlowe. We don’t need the spotlight.”

“A power couple, huh?” You laugh lightly, “I wouldn’t say we’re that just yet.”

“Ah, modesty. I appreciate that.” Vincent chuckles, “Well then, I do hope you both enjoy the evening. There’s plenty to see.. and plenty to learn.” He gives a nod before walking off to take you into the next part of the night.

You glance over at Chris, looking away before he notices, or maybe he already did. You didn’t care, you bring your drink up to your lips and finish what little bit of liquid you had left.

You feel the weight of the room pressing in on you, the conversations swirling around you like a dance that you feel you’re just barely keeping up with.

As you set your glass down on the nearest tray, you catch Vincent looking at you and Chris, offering him a small subtle smile in return.

As he looks away, your eyes move to Chris and he smirks, which confused you, but he’s probably just keeping up with the act, “You good?”

You keep up the act, “yeah, great.”

Chris studies you for a second, his eyes narrowing as he seems to be looking for anything that gives it away that you’re not being fully honest.

His tone tinted with sarcasm, “Good. Because if you’re going to keep playing the part, we need to make sure we’re both on the same page. Don’t want Marlowe catching on to anything, right?”

You nod, tilting your head at him, “I know, sweetheart.”

Chris keeps his eyes on you, “I know you’ve got this, but if you need me to step in, just say the word.”

You swallow, “I’m fine, I’ll be fine.”

Chris nods, “We should probably get some air.” He motions towards the balcony, “Marlowe’s not the only one with eyes on us. Let’s give them something to talk about.”

You nod, walking towards the balcony with you on his arm.

The cool air hits you as you step out, the conversation fading as you grow further away from it. You take a much needed deep breath, feeling like you can finally fill your lungs.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Chris’ words sting, but you play if off, “Can we not do this now?” You glance over at him, “I’m fine.”

“Alright, alright.” He lifts his hands from the banister, “Well talk later, I get it.”

You clench your jaw, now really wanting to say anything, you knew he was going to ask about what happened at the cocktail party prior to this.

Your eyes glance over at him as leans casually against the railing, his posture relaxed, but there’s still a watchful sense in his eyes.

You look out, taking in the city lights scattered below, and how, despite the weight of the mission, everything feels almost normal, like it’s just two people simply enjoying a moment together.

Chris breaks the silent, leaning into you, “You’re doing a hell of a job pretending, I’ll give you that. Marlowe’s eating it up.”

A small smile rests on your lips, “That’s the plan right?” You glance over at him as he continues, “We can keep playing the part until we get what we need. Then, we go from there. Deal?”

You nod, “Deal.”

“Alright then, let’s get back to the show.” Chris offers his arm and you take it, filling your lungs with the fresh air before walking back in to be swallowed by the weight of the mission.

“Get ready, this is the part where we seal the deal.” Chris whispers before you make your way up to Vincent. Chris speaks up, “Mr. Marlowe, hope you don’t mind us taking a brief breather. Just needed to catch up a bit. It’s not every day we get invited to something this exclusive.”

Vincent chuckles, pleased by the attention, “Of course, of course. It’s been a pleasure having you both here. I trust you’re finding everything to your liking?”

Chris leans in, making the moment between them private, “Absolutely. We were just talking about that dinner you said about, seems like the perfect opportunity to continue our chat, maybe discuss future plans, you know?”

Vincent seems intrigued by Chris’ words, but he’s not easily swayed.

That’s where you step in, “We were actually hoping to discuss more than just a partnership over dinner.” You begin, “I think we both see the potential in aligning ourselves with someone like you. We’ve got the connections, the influence, and I believe you’re the kind of person who takes an opportunity when it’s right in front of him.”

There’s a pause, the weight of your words settling into his mind before he nods, “I think dinner sounds like a fine idea.” Still, he’s no fool, he knows you’re offering more than just words, and yet, he’s eager to see where this leads, “Let’s make it happen, shall we?”

“Perfect, Mr. Marlowe.” You give him a smile, “Let us know when and where works for you and we will see you then.” You offer your hand to seal the deal.

He takes it, gripping it firmly, “I’ll have my assistant reach out with the details,” he says, giving a nod of approval. “Looking forward to it.”

With that, he walks away.

Chris leans in, “Nice work.” He brushes his hand against your back, “Let’s just make sure we’re ready when the dinner rolls around. This is where things get interesting.”

Chris walks forward and you follow him out to the car. As he opens your door for you, his eyes scan over your face, “So, we got his attention. What’s the next step?”

“Talk in the car.” You whisper as you get in. Chris closes the door and walks around to slip into the drivers seat.

You keep your gaze out the windshield, “So we have him on the hook.” You glance over at Chris, “How do we really sell it at dinner?”

“We play it like we’ve been playing it all along.” he says glancing at you, “We’re the picture-perfect couple. Rich, in love, completely head over heels for each other. We keep it light, keep it playful. Make Marlowe think he’s seeing the real deal.”

You nod, “Good plan.”

Chris nods, “It’s all about control. We need him to believe we’re just like every other couple chasing the next thing, playing the game, you know? The more we show him that we’ve got it all together, the more he’ll trust us.”

After a moment of silence, Chris speaks up, “You good with that? You’re in control too, you know.”

You glance over at him, “Yeah, I know. I’m fine with it, I trust you.” You look back out at the road, the weight of the day weighing heavy on you. Before Chris can say anything about it, you pull your phone out and call the Chief, filling him in on everything.

The rest of the ride to the hotel was silent after the call ended.

━━━━━━━━ 𖦏 ━━━━━━━━

Once you’re back in the room, the door clicks shut behind you, and you can finally let out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding.

Chris leans up against the wall, “We did good tonight, but tomorrow’s the real test.”

You glance back at him with a nod as you kick off your heels, “we did good.” You turn, rummaging through your bag, and you were just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

After a few moments of silence, and his stare burning into the back of you, he speaks, “You sure you’re alright?”

“I’m tired.” You lie, your words a mumble, “I’m going to go for a shower if you don’t need in there.” You lay your clothes over your arm and turn to look at him.

He stares at you, almost like he wants to ask more, but he doesn’t, “Nah, you go ahead.” He steps out of the way, “I’ll be here if you want to talk later.”

You nod, making your way into the bathroom. You turn it on, stripping off your clothes from the night and you step in. As soon as the water hits you, it’s like the key to getting all of those pent up feelings out.

Chris, being a big part of them, was also having his own feelings outside. Even though you tried to keep your sobs as silent as possible, he heard them. He just chose to let you have your moment.

Meanwhile, you were going through something that’s never happened before. You have never felt so out of place on a mission before. You have never been nervous, wanted to turn away, back out, nothing, like you do right now.

Things were blurring, that line between work and play was starting to merge together, at least on your end.

Chris gets under your skin, like, really gets under your skin, but you liked it. He didn’t make it easy for you, but when he said what he said, it was like gut punch, causing you to puke up all these feelings that were just under the surface and now you don’t know what to do.

You pull yourself together, allowing yourself to calm down before you got out and started to dry off.

You took your time and got dressed, making it look like you weren’t just crying under the stream of water before walking out.

Chris is sitting on the edge of the bed, his eyes flicking up to you as you walk out. You motion, “Shower’s free.”

He nods, “Thanks.”

You walk over to drop your clothes by your bag and Chris breaks the silence again, “You alright?”

Your heart drops into your stomach, but you play it cool, “Yeah, I think I just needed a shower.” You look at him, and he doesn’t look convinced but he doesn’t push. He nods, standing up to walk towards the bathroom.

He stops, “You know..” he hesitates, eyes searching the wall like he’s trying to figure out what he wants to say, “You don’t have to fake it with me.”

With that, he walks into the bathroom, the door closing and the sound of the shower fills the quiet space.

You walk over, sitting on the edge of the bed with your eyes glued to the floor. Your head, that’s normally a calm, cool, and collected place, was being ransacked by everything all at once.

Chris’ words echoed in your mind, you don’t have to fake it with me.

But wasn’t that the whole point? To fake it? To play your part so well that even you believed it?

The sound of the shower turning off snaps you back to reality and you wipe your face. You grab the tv remote and lean back against the headboard, flipping through the channels on the tv like you’re not on the verge of packing up and pulling from this mission.

“There’s nothing good on.” I glanced over at him, watching as he walks over and sits on his side of the bed. He nods, “Yeah, hotel tv is always garbage.” He leans back on the bed, propping himself up on his elbows as he watches you flip through the channels, “You’re just flipping to flip now.”

You laugh slightly, tossing the remote down as you chew on your lip, thinking about what you want to say, how you want to say it.

“You don’t have to say anything, but if you do, I’m here.” Chris whispers, lying back against the headboard, his eyes are on the tv but his tone is genuine.

After a moment of silence, you finally give in, “I’m just, a mess.. I guess.”

“Yeah.” Chris acknowledges it, “You’ve been holding it together all day.” He turns his head towards you, “You don’t have to do that with me.”

His eyes stay on you, like he’s waiting for you to finally take off the mask, “Is it.. the mission? Or is it more?”

You shrug, “It’s.. everything. The mission, the luxury, the pressure, and-“ you stop before you say anything else. Your teeth gnaw at your cheek as you debate on whether or not you even want to say anything about him.

A part of you feels stupid.

Chris stays quiet, his eyes staying on you, “And?” His tone is gentle, “You don’t have to hold it all in, y/n.”

You take a deep breath, “You.” Your words are quiet, “It’s you.. and you..” I shake my head, “You telling me I wasn’t your type, was like a surprise gut punch that made me realize that I had actual feelings for you.”

You blink, “I thought we were just two people who got under each others skin for the hell of it, the fun of it, whatever, but apparently there’s more I didn’t even know was there.”

“And then the mission..” You continue, “I feel so.. out of place here. I don’t do the fancy dresses. I don’t do the luxury. I feel like I don’t belong here and every rich bitch down there was judging me and I feel like I was going to get us killed because they knew that. That dress I had on, one of the worst dresses I’ve ever put on.”

You keep going, “And then the pressure of this mission, I’m usually good with pressure, I’m good with this kind of stuff, and the fact that I’m losing my shit scares me because it’s not something that I do.”

You go quiet, your own words setting into you just like they are for Chris. He sits there silently as he processes before finally letting out a breath, “You don’t belong in that dress, y/n. You belong in your own element. You’re doing this mission better than anyone could, and I know it feels like a lot right now, but it doesn’t help that you’ve been handling it all on your own. As for the pressure, you’re not losing it. You’re just.. human.”

You glance over at him, your eyes staying on him as he pauses. His eyes moving to meet yours, “And about me..” His voice is quiet, “I’m not saying you’re not my type. What I meant was…”

He pauses, trying to find the right words, “I was trying to protect myself from what I feel for you, because this mission is dangerous enough without letting things get messy.” He shifts slightly, his words coming out with more honesty than you’ve heard from him before, “But I’m not doing a great job at it, am I?”

He chuckles slightly and you crack a smile, “We’re both not doing so hot right now.”

He shifts on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. “Look, if you need a moment to figure this all out, I get it. But don’t think for one second you’re in this alone.”

He looks over at you, “We’re in this together. All of it.”

You nod, shifting to face him more, “That’s why I’m losing it, too. I’m trying to stay professional and on top of this mission and with you in my head, it’s hard. If anything were to happen to you because I wasn’t on my A-game, I couldn’t ever live with myself.” You hold your gaze on him, “That’s why I wasn’t talking much, barely acting myself, I was holding myself together and I was scared that if I spoke, I’d break in the worst moment.”

“I get it. I do.” Chris nods, “I’m not asking you to put this mission before yourself or us. You’re not the only one struggling with this, y/n.” He leans forward slightly, his eyes never leaving yours, “I know the stakes are high, and I know how much you care about the mission, but you’re more than just a partner to me, y/n.”

You nod, “You’re more than just a partner to me, too, Chris.”

His eyes soften at your words, “And that’s what scares the hell out of me. Because I don’t want to be the reason you get distracted. I don’t want to be the one who makes you feel like you’re losing control of yourself.” He reaches over, his hand brushing against yours, “But I want you to know, no matter how much this gets to us, we’ve got each other. We’ll get through this, together. We always do.”

You glance down at his hand on yours, which lingers for a moment, as he waits for you to respond.

You turn your hand, giving his a gentle squeeze, “I think the only reason I was a mess was because I didn’t know how to tell you. I think with what you said, now knowing you were trying to protect yourself, I was scared you wouldn’t feel the same, and I’d lose you completely.”

He runs his thumb over your knuckles, giving you a nod, “You don’t ever have to worry about that.” He starts quietly, “I was just trying to keep us both safe, trying not to lose my focus and make this mission harder than it already is. But losing you? That’s not something I can even imagine. I’m not going anywhere, y/n. Not now, not ever. I feel the same way, even if I didn’t know how to say it.”

You nod, keeping your eyes on his as he squeezes your hand, “We’ll make it through this together. No more pretending, no more pushing things aside. We’ve got each other.” He pauses, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips, “And I promise, I’ll be here, every step of the way.”

You stare at him, letting the silence settle for a second.

You keep your eyes on his then move them to his lips, allowing them to linger for a second before looking back into his eyes, “How’s it feel to be the one that broke the y/n y/l/n, huh?”

You laugh slightly, making light of the situation, and he smirks as he leans in a little bit closer, “Feels pretty damn powerful, actually.” he teases before he pauses, his face softening as his eyes scan over your face, “In all seriousness, y/n. I never wanted to be the one to make you feel like this. I just.. I didn’t know how to handle it, how to say the right things when everything got so.. complicated?”

He reaches forward, slowly brushing a strand of hair from your face, his thumb lightly brushing your cheek, “But I’m glad it’s out there now, and you’re not broken.” He shakes his head, “Not by a long shot. But if I broke the y/n y/l/n, guess that means I’m the one who gets to fix her, right?”

He raises an eyebrow, his lips forming into a smile.

“Yeah I guess you’re right.” You smile, letting out a slight laugh, “You’re the only one who could piss me off and expect me to be right back there a minute later looking for another fight.”

“Guess I’m just lucky.” He smirks with a chuckle, leaning into closer, “I’ll take that as a compliment. I must be doing something right if I can keep you coming back for more.”

You nod, tilting your head, “Something’s right, that’s for sure.”

He smiles, eyes scanning over your features, “I wouldn’t want it to be anyone else.”

You shake your head, “Neither would I.” You lean in, closing the space with your lips on his in a gentle kiss at first, but something shifts and you move to your knees in front of him. Your lips still moving with his as your arm snakes around his neck.

Chris responds immediately, his hands moving to your waist to stable you as he moves closer to you. His hand comes up to gently caress your cheek as he mumbles against your lips, “Been waitin’ for this.”

You smirk against his lips, turning to straddle his waist, “So have I.” You whispered as you lean forward, pushing him back to lay down. Your lips trail back his jaw and he lets out a low groan, tilting his head to give you more access.

“Guess we’re both a little overdue, huh?” He slides his hand up your back, gently grabbing the back of your neck to pull you into a heated kiss, a deeper kiss.

You grind down on him, earning another groan and his grip on your hip tightens, pulling you closer.

You had his full attention.

His hands slide down, pulling at the hem of your shirt and you break the kiss just to pull it off. His eyes scan up and down your bare torso and chest as his hands slide up to your sides.

He sits up, pressing his lips to yours before leaning back slightly, “Are you sure about this?” His voice was low, asking permission before moving to do anything else.

You give him a nod, lips pressing to his, “Never been so sure about anything.”

He responds with an even deeper kiss, his hands pulling you closer before rolling you over onto your back, lips still working against yours.

“I need you.” You whisper out, tilting your head back as he trails kisses back your jaw, stopping at your ear to whisper, “I need you, too, y/n.”

He presses kisses to neck, his hand sliding down to slip into your sweats. A gasp escapes your lips as you feel his fingers press to your clit, rubbing small circles as he presses his lips to yours once more.

Your breath hitches as his pressure grows harder, “Chris, please.” Your back lifts from the bed to press your chest against his. A moan leaving your lips as his fingers slip down and curl into you, “Fuck.”

“You’re gonna be so worth the wait.” Chris mumbles against your lips, moving to kiss back your jaw.

You let out a louder moan as his fingers work in and out of you, “Shit, yes.” You breathe out, “Yes.”

He pulls his hand away, out from your sweats and he grips the sides, pulling them down. His hands move to push his own down, his eyes trailing up your body as he holds his lip between his teeth, “You’re fucking perfect.”

Your face softens at his words, reaching out for him as he leans down. His lips immediately finding yours as his arm hooks your leg over it to bend it upward.

You whimper, your breathing rapid with the anticipation of what comes next.

As he slides into you, his name leaves your lips in a pleasure filled moan, “Chris, Chris.” You gasp, pulling him closer and he groans into your neck, “Y/n.. fuck, you feel so good.”

He quickly gets into a pace, it’s slow, almost like he’s trying to feel every inch of what you’re offering to him.

Your nails dig into his back, your leg tightening around his arm, “Feels so good.” Your head tilts back, gasping out as his lips suck a mark into your skin.

His voice is low, “You have no idea how much you mean to me, y/n. You’re everything I never knew I needed.” His lips trail up your neck to your lips, moving with them in a heated motion.

His pace picks up and he groans, “Can’t get enough of you.”

“I’m-“ you gasp, back arching from the bed, “Fuck, I’m not going anywhere.”

“M’never letting you go.” He mumbles against your lips before deepening the kiss. His grip on your body tightening as his pace grows harder.

Your nails drag up his back, leaving red lines in its path, “Fuck, yes. Yes.”

You were already there, on the verge of becoming a mess under him. You weren’t sure if it was the tension building up over time, or if it was the fact that what you both wanted was finally happening, but you were there.

And Chris knew it.

With his full attention being on you, he could tell from every movement you made, every sound you made, “Come for me, baby.” He groans low, “Fuck, I can feel you’re right there, just let go for me.”

His words push you into the deep end, pleasure engulfing you as your body tenses and tightens around him, whines slipping from your lips with moans automatically following.

His eyes are glued to your face as he guides you through, watching how your eyes squeeze shut and your lips part as your breathing becomes more rapid.

“You’re so beautiful.” He whispers before crashing his lips onto yours, “so fucking beautiful.”

His thrusts grow sloppy and you tighten your leg around his waist, “Don’t stop.” You plead, “Fuck, don’t stop.”

“Not stopping.” He assures, his lips pressing to yours harder. He groans against them, moving to press open mouth kisses down your neck as he groans louder.

You can feel his cock twitching inside of you, giving you what you wanted most in this moment, “Fuck.” You gasp out, “Chris.”

You both stay still for a second, taking in what just happened. You hold him tighter, hand gently dragging up and down his back.

He shifts, lying next to you with his face still in your neck. His hand gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze, “You okay?”

You nod, smiling up at the ceiling as your hand moves to lay on his head, fingers gently scratching, “Better now.” You turn your head, “You?”

“Better now.” He whispers against your neck, a soft chuckle escaping his lips, “Didn’t know I had it in me to break the infamous y/n.”

You laugh, “Well, you did.” I look down at him, “So what’s next? You want to go over how we’ll get Marlowe to agree to partner with us, or do you have another idea?”

Chris smirks, his fingers gently grazing your skin, “As much as I’d love to run through our game plan, I think we’ve had enough mission talk for one night.” He raises a brows, “Unless you’re telling me you’d rather talk business than stay right here, of course.”

You smirk, “Yeah, I’ve had enough business talk for one night.” You move around, pulling the blankets up over both you and Chris.

He shifts around, pulling you to his chest and he lets out a sigh, “That’s what I like to hear.” He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your head, “Get some sleep. You need to shut your brain off for a bit. We’ll focus on handling Marlowe tomorrow.”

━━━━━━━━ 𖦏 ━━━━━━━━

Thank you so much for reading and thank you so much for being patient with me. I hope you liked this. Let me know. As always, I love you, catch you in the next one! 🖤

Without saying a word to him, you give the bartender your order. The tension is palpable - at least, on your end. When you and Bucky agreed that Russia never happened, you didn't think he'd actually stay true to his word. You assumed you'd spend a few days apart, acting normal, and then he'd find himself unable to keep his hands off you and drag you into a closet or keep you behind after a meeting.

But he didn't.

He watched on as you qualified for Agent, barely even giving you a congratulatory word, saw as you rose through the ranks, past your more senior colleagues, and hasn't so much as brushed past you.

You suppose it's a good thing he hasn't. You wouldn't have been able to focus so hard on your work and been the youngest person to ever earn the title Special Agent if Bucky had been distracting you, so you're grateful to him for leaving you alone.

"Well done, rookie," His voice chimes out from beside you and takes you by surprise.

Turning to look up at him, you raise a brow. Flashes of the night in Russia fly through your head and you do your best to ignore them. "Thanks," Is your stoic reply. He's given you next to nothing for the past four months, so why should you give him anything?

"I didn't think it would, but it looks good on you," He begins. "Special Agent. You know it took Sharon three years to get that?"

"I'm not Sharon," You remind him, before narrowing your eyes. "You didn't think excelling in my field would look good on me?"

Is that why he's been avoiding you? Do you no longer attract him because you're no longer a fresh-faced trainee, willing to do whatever he says? Was it truly just the power play that got him hard for you - was he just getting off on how in control he was?

"I didn't mean it like that," He says, seeing the cogs turn in your head. "Don't spin this into something dark - I'm happy for you."

"So, what did you mean by that?" You push, not willing to let him off so easily. "You didn't think a young trainee would still be attractive once she qualified? How am I supposed to take that?"

"You're supposed to take it in the way that most of the Special Agents here are some of the most boring, to-the-books people I've worked with," He explains. "Sticklers for rules."

"Who says I'm not a stickler for rules?" You ask with a raised brow. "You haven't been on a mission with me since- since I qualified."

There's a sparkle in his eye when he replies. "Rules aren't something you're exactly notorious for following, rookie."

You take your drink from the bartender and turn to leave while uttering, "I'm not your rookie anymore."

The words he said to you that night still echo in your mind. The utter filth he whispered into your ear, the dark promises he made, the post-orgasm secrets he spilled.

"There's nothing like some healthy competition," Maria says as she stands at your desk. "Fight for it."

"Are you kidding?" Jenn asks her with a raised brow. "You want us to fight for a mission?"

You're pulled from your thoughts - memories of Russia - and plunged into the present. Maria came out to the bullpen and offered you a mission. Well, offered you and Jenn a mission.

"You're both capable, but it only needs one agent," Maria states while the others begin to listen in. "And I can't decide which of you should have it. Jenn, this would be a good boost in your journey to Special Agent. And Y/N, it would be good for you to add this to your repertoire."

"I think me hitting Special is a little more important than Y/N's repertoire," Jenn challenges with a quirked brow. She's grown a lot more confident since making agent, and seems to think she's untouchable. Then again, becoming the youngest ever Special Agent definitely gave you a confidence boost, too.

If it was anyone else, you'd sit back and let them have it. But Jenn's had a stick up her ass and has hated you since the day you met, so you're feeling petty.

"Y/N, your response?" Maria asks, secretly loving the competition between you. "Why should I give you this mission?"

You stand up from your chair and reply bluntly, "Because I'm better than Agent Curson."

A few gasps and stifled laughs are heard around the bullpen, but you keep your face straight. Jenn lets out a scoff. "You're such a fucking narcissist," She utters bitterly.

"It's factually correct that I'd get this mission done more efficiently and to a better quality than you," You say plainly, sick of her shit. "That's not narcissistic; it's realistic."

"Come on, Y/N," Landon says from behind you with a wince. "You're just being mean, now."

"Am I?" You question, taken aback by his words.

"Agent Hill, you know I respect every decision you make," Jenn begins. "But the only reason Y/N made Special so quickly is because she's friends with the Avengers. The rest of us are just as skilled as her."

"What are you talking about?" You ask her with a frown. "The fuck do the Avengers have to do with anything?"

"Oh, please!" She cries. "You leech onto their missions whatever chance you get-"

"That's enough, agents," Maria says lowly.

"I get assigned onto their missions; that's out of my control," You remind Jenn coldly. "The only one I sometimes say fucking 'hi' to while passing by is Steve, so how I'm friends with the Avengers is beyond me!"

"Oh, you're only friends with Captain fucking America?" She shoots back. "Some of us haven't even met him yet!"

"How is that my fault?" You yell.

"That is enough!" Maria cuts in curtly, shutting you both up before she turns to Landon. "Agent Croft, I'm assigning you to the mission. The rest of you, get on with your work."

You and Jenn continue to glare at each other for a few short moments before you grab your phone and turn to leave.

"You can deny it all you want," Jenn suddenly mumbles, making you stop in your tracks. She looks down at you, a cold look in her eyes. "I know something happened between you and Sergeant Barnes in Russia."

Your heart lurches up into your throat. "What?" You sputter. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I'm a very perceptive person. He barely even looks at you anymore, and he rarely ever left you alone before Russia," She says with a dirty look. "Probably regrets cheating on his girlfriend with such a piece of trash-"

"You have no fucking idea what you're talking about," You tell her coldly.

"Sure, I don't," She cuts in with a smirk. "But you do, don't you? You fucked him, didn't you? Slut."

You push her backwards and she's quick to retaliate, grabbing your arm and twisting it. A few punches and kicks are thrown between you before you're pulled away from her, by none other than Nick Fury. Fuck.

"What in God's name are you two doing?" He asks you both with rage in his eyes.

"Sorry, Director Fury," You say through deep breaths. "We were just training."

"Yeah, fucking right," He mutters bitterly, releasing your arm as he glares at you both. "Any more of that shit and you'll both be on desk-duty for three months. Got it?"

"Yes, Director Fury," You and Jenn say in unison.

He leaves with a huff. You walk away from Jenn, not trusting yourself to keep your hands off her if she makes another comment.

How the fuck could she have noticed something went on in Russia? Is she truly that good of an agent that she noticed the difference in yours and Bucky's relationship? Sure, he's barely said a word to you when usually he's all over you, but you didn't think anyone else besides you would have realized.

Fucking Jenn.

Ever since you were made Special Agent, you can't deny you've felt a little different. As though you should take your job more seriously - which has meant turning down invitations to drinks, and nights out, and office parties. When Steve gave you a pout and said nobody should spend New Year's alone, though, you couldn't help but agree to attend the company-wide party being thrown at HQ. In fact, even some of the employees from Stark Industries are here, including a certain Sergeant's girlfriend.

As soon as the expensive whiskey hits your tongue, you internally thank Steve for dragging you along. Though you aren't a fan of the way a few of the trainees are looking at you as though they only just realized you have tits, it's nice to see everyone who you don't always get the chance to work with.

"And then Cap here walks in, all casual, and he's like, 'I can do this all day," Landon recounts, making everyone laugh.

"You're such a cheeseball," You mutter with a smile as you nudge Steve's ribs.

He holds his hands up in surrender. "I can't help it," He claims.

Suddenly, there's a squeak over the sound system. "Hey, people!" Tony yells over the microphone. "It's almost midnight, and there's nowhere near enough of you dancing right now - grab a partner and make your way to the dancefloor, or else you're fired!"

"Oh, Cap, you know what you've gotta do," Landon says, patting his shoulder. "Take Agent Y/L/N and go dance!"

"Excuse me?" You ask incredulously. It's one thing attending a work party, but it's a whole other thing dancing at it. You don't want to completely lose all the fear and respect you've spent all year building up. "I don't dance."

"C'mon, sweetheart," Steve says, taking your hand. "Let's go."

His tone makes you think you don't have a choice, so you begrudgingly allow him to take you to the dancefloor. A few other couples are already swaying along as the band sings their rendition of A Little Less Conversation.

"Was Elvis around in your time?" You ask him as you rest your arms on his shoulders, not exactly clued up on Elvis or the 40s.

"Nah, he was popular after the war," Steve tells you, placing his hands on your hips as the two of you sway to the beat.

"I still can't believe you were around back then," You say, shaking your head. "It blows my mind."

"How do you think I feel?" He asks with a chuckle.

"You know what?" You begin with a smirk as you look around at all the stares you're getting. "I'm with the most eligible bachelor here. Every woman here wishes she was me. That feels good."

"You know what feels better?" Steve counters with a glint in his eye before he leans in closer and lowers his voice. "Every man here wishes he was me."

Laughing at his claim, you shrug. "I guess that makes us the hottest couple here," You say before frowning. "Wasn't there... weren't you and Agent Carter...?"

His cheeks flush pink and he looks down. "Uh, we decided to just be friends," He says, stealing a glance at Sharon who's dancing with Carol. "We tried, but... it was a little too weird, with her being related to... it was weird."

You nod slowly. "That's understandable."

As another song begins, you look across the floor to see Bucky dancing with Emma. His eyes are already on you as he gazes at you over her shoulder. His look tells you what he's thinking without you needing to ask - he's thinking about Russia. You can see it in the way his eyes have darkened, the lack of smile on his lips. Emma lifts her head and his eyes rip away from yours, and after she mumbles something to him, he gives her a soft kiss.

Maybe Jenn was right. Even though you refuse to admit it to her face, she may be right about Bucky feeling guilty because of what went down in Russia. That would explain why he's been avoiding you - but it doesn't make you feel any better about it.

Sick of how you're feeling, you decide to have a little fun with the man who isn't avoiding you. You spin around so your back is against Steve's front, the two of you continuing to dance. His hands grasp your waist and he rests his chin on your shoulder.

"Now everyone is definitely staring at us," He whispers with a chuckle.

"Good," You say, turning your head to the side towards him. "Think they're jealous?" Think he's jealous? Tell me he's jealous.

"I'd bet on it," Steve mumbles, stroking your hips. "I'm sure you're the subject of most of the other agents' fantasies. And maybe a couple Avengers, too."

"You think so?" You ask, perking up at his words.

"I can guarantee it," He says, squeezing your hip as your ass brushes against his crotch.

Turning back around to face him, you place your hands on his shoulders. "I thought you heavily disapprove of workplace relationships?" You wonder, recalling the HR meeting earlier on in the year.

Steve shrugs with an innocent smile and brings his lips to your ear before saying, "How am I supposed to stop myself from getting hard over you?"

You gasp and hit his chest. "Captain Rogers-"

"I'm kidding," He claims, looking you up and down. "It's the dress. Not you."

"Ah, sure," You tease with a grin, happily taking on the ego boost.

"Listen up, beautiful people!" The singer suddenly announces. "It's almost time for the countdown - y'all ready to bring on the new year?"

Everyone bursts into cheers and the dancefloors fills up.

"I want y'all to grab a partner and give them a nice, big kiss to welcome this new beginning, alright?" The singer orders, causing everyone to break off into pairs.

"Alright if I smooch you, Agent?" Steve asks you lowly.

"I guess," You say casually. "Seeing as I don't have any other options."

"Come on, now," He says with a smirk as he wraps his arms around you. "I'm the most eligible bachelor here, aren't I?"

"Y'all ready?" The singer asks before the lighting in the room dims. "Ten!.. Nine!"

The crowd chants along with him, you and Steve included. You look around at all your colleagues, the trainees, the agents you started with, the seniors who taught you everything you know.

And him.

Your eyes lock with Bucky's again, like moths to a flame. Emma's moving closer to him, preparing to kiss him. You look away. Back to Steve.

"Don't do anything stupid like fall in love with me, okay?" He warns you teasingly as he pulls you flush against his body.

"Impossible," You retort lightly as you squeeze his shoulders. "I have no heart."

"Two!.. One! Happy New Year!"

Steve kisses you deeply, a much more intense kiss than you were expecting. But it's New Year's, and everyone around you is making out, so why the fuck not?

By the time you both pull away, everyone else is back to drinking and dancing. Confetti continues to float from the ceiling and you pull a few pieces out of your hair and cleavage.

"Good kiss," Steve says simply, patting your ass lightly. "Happy New Year, baby."

"Happy New Year, Cap," You reply, unable to deny the flutter you feel in your pussy at his casual use of the nickname.

Stop. One super soldier at a time.

"Drinks," You say, reaching up to remove the stray confetti from his hair. "C'mon, Rogers."

The two of you have a couple of shots at the bar before you feel the alcohol get to your head. Slightly tipsy, you decide to escape to the hallway for a reprieve from the loud music.

While you're fluffing up a fake rose bush by the elevator, you hear footsteps approaching behind you. You think nothing of it, assuming someone else is also pathetic enough to leave a New Year party at ten minutes past midnight, and continue mumbling to yourself while running your fingers through the plastic plant.

"Hey, rookie," His unmistakably gruff voice calls out seconds before his hands are on your hips.

"What do you want, Sergeant Barnes?" You ask, turning your head to the side.

He rests his chin on your shoulder. "Don't call me that," He whispers, slightly whining. "You know what it does."

Ignoring the way your stomach flips, you nudge him with your shoulders. "Get off me, you prick," You mumble, not really trying very hard to get him off you.

"What's wrong?" He asks lowly.

You roll your eyes. "Don't play all coy with me, Barnes," You spit. "You're the one who's been avoiding me. Feeling guilty about what you did?"

"Rookie-"

"Whatever," You utter bitterly. "I don't care what excuse you have. It felt really shitty when you stopped talking to me. We were friends at one point, you know? We had a mutual respect, or at least I thought- what are you doing?"

His hands have slipped under the hem of your dress and are trailing up your thighs. "What else?" He asks you with a mumble. "What else you mad at me for?"

You almost lose your train of thought as he pulls your panties to the side. "Bucky..."

"Tell me," He whispers into your ear.

"You didn't pretend like Russia never happened," You say, your breath hitching in your throat as he begins to rub your clit with his vibranium fingers. "It... things were supposed to go back to normal."

"What's normal?" He asks while plunging a cold, hard finger inside you.

A whimper leaves your mouth as you wrap your hand tightly around his wrist. "Flirting," You breathe out, trying to keep calm. "Talking to me. Touching me... inappropriately."

"Yeah, you miss that?" He utters smugly.

"You're a bastard and I hate you," You spit, your words mostly fueled by the alcohol in your bloodstream. "I hate that you just left me alone after Russia. Dropped me like I'm nothing."

He adds another finger, fucking them in and out of you, curling his digits inside you.

"Fuck, Bucky," You moan, swallowing thickly. "I hate that you're still with her. She's so... boring."

"We have fun," He claims casually.

"Bullshit," You sputter. "And I hate that she doesn't suspect you at all. You should have slipped up - she should have realized what you did."

"Isn't it a good thing that she didn't?" Bucky wonders as he speeds up.

"No," You whine. "It- it shouldn't be that easy for you to stop thinking about me. To stop fantasizing about me - I'm the best you ever had, and you know it. She should know it."

"Cum for me, rookie," He mutters in your ear.

"I hate that you still call me that," You let out between heavy breaths. "I am a Special Agent."

"Cum for me."

"I hate that you're only doing this because you saw me kiss Steve," You spill as the pitch of your voice heightens. "Jealous. Trying to mark your fuckin' territory, you prick."

"Cum."

With a strangled cry, you keel over, cumming hard over his fingers as they curl and scissor in your throbbing pussy.

"That's a good girl," He purrs while you let out weak moans, your heart racing. "Just like that."

You pull his hand out from between your legs and take a few steps forwards before turning to face him. "You're insane," You breathe out. "Someone could've walked out and seen us."

His lip curls up into a smirk and he grabs your hand, pulling you closer. "Well, they didn't."

When he kisses you, you taste Asgardian ale on his tongue. You've only ever had a sip of it before, and all you remember is waking up eighteen hours later with a raging headache.

"You're drunk," You mumble against his lips. "That's the only reason you're here with me right now."

"Not true," He mutters.

"I don't give a fuck, by the way," You state firmly. "I don't care that you've been ignoring me. I'm just annoyed."

He raises a brow. "Doesn't that mean-"

"I'm just bored," You reiterate pointedly. "We used to have fun, y'know? Used to... you'd be all flirty, and fucking..."

"I'm sorry," Bucky says, seemingly sincerely as he places his hands on your hips. His boner presses against your stomach. "I, uh, I guess I've been a pussy recently. I was... scared."

You can tell how difficult it is for him to admit it, so you appreciate his vulnerability. "Scared of me?" You ask him with a frown.

"I meant it when I said I'd never slept with other girls before," He tells you. "I mean, never cheated on Em before. I'm new to this whole sneaking around thing. I didn't know how you'd react."

"For what it's worth, I'm new to it too," You point out. "If you're uncomfortable, it doesn't ever have to happen again, I just want us to go back to how we were before."

"Who said I don't want it to happen again?" He asks, resting his forehead against yours.

Your stomach flips. "Bucky..."

"C'mon, rookie," He utters. "We're good at it. Making each other feel better, I mean. It's just sex; it's not a big deal."

"Not sure Em would feel that way," You say with a raised brow.

"What she doesn't know, won't kill her," He replies casually. "Sometimes, this job can be fucking tough. Sometimes, I need a reprieve, and she isn't always here."

Your heart skips a beat and you shake your head, suddenly aware of what you're doing. "We're bad people."

"We're real people," He returns.

A thump sounds out behind him, signifying that the door to the bar has opened. You take a step back from him and he lets go of your hips. Casually, you rest against the wall, waiting for the person to walk by.

Turning to see who it is, you grit your teeth. Of course.

"Having fun out here?" She asks with a raised brow.

Fucking Jenn.

"Hey, Agent Curson," Bucky calls out to her with a nod. "Just chatting. You know what Y/N's like; she might die if she doesn't get any special attention for too long."

Her eyebrow flicks up. She's surprised he's back to how he was - back to teasingly you relentlessly. Back to flirting with you unabashedly, back to overstepping boundaries.

"Uh-huh," She replies as she continues walking over.

"I like your dress," You say, lying through your teeth.

"Thanks," She says with a nod, looking you up and down before turning her attention to Bucky. "Sergeant Barnes, I believe Miss Green's looking for you."

"She is?" He returns before nodding. "Thanks for letting me know. I'm just in the middle of a conversation with Y/N right now."

Jenn almost looks slightly nervous - as though Emma sent her out to get Bucky and told her not to return unless he was with her. "But, Sergeant, she-"

"I'm busy right now, Agent," Bucky cuts her off curtly. "I'll get back to the party once we're done here. You can go, now."

Your heart races and you do everything you can not to smirk right in Jenn's face. She clenches her jaw before turning and leaving with a half-assed, mumbled apology. Once she's gone, you grab Bucky by the collars and pull him closer to you.

"That was so hot," You utter against his lips. "I can't stand that bitch."

Bucky chuckles, stroking your ass and squeezing it. "I figured that would cheer you up. Still hate me?" He asks with a cheeky grin.

You narrow your eyes before giving him a kiss. "Put Jenn in her place a couple more times and I'm putty in your hands, Sergeant," You admit, as terrible a person as that makes you.

He kisses you again, the two of you making out wildly against the wall. Any second, someone else could walk out from the bar - Emma herself, even - but that only adds fuel to the fire.

"So fucking hard for you," He grumbles as he grinds his boner against your belly. "When you gonna let me fuck your face again, huh?"

You pull back, letting out a soft laugh. "I guess you'll have to wait until our next mission together, Sergeant," You say slyly, raising a brow. "Seeing as I'm just a reprieve for when she's not around."

Bucky grabs a fistful of hair and pulls your head back, making you cry out. "Don't act smart," He grumbles, making your stomach flip. "What are you, huh? Tell me."

You let out a shaky breath before replying, "I'm your fucktoy, Sergeant Barnes."

"That's right," He says with a smirk, thrusting gently against your stomach. "Mine. My little cumdump for when I want you. You bend over when I say so. You suck my cock when I say so. You cum when I say so."

Your eyes burn into his. You don't think you've ever been so turned on in your life.

"That means no playing with yourself when you're alone, unless I say you can," He iterates lowly, before his eyes darken. "And no letting other men fuck you. This cunt," He grabs your mound, making you whimper. "Is mine to fill. This ass," He spanks you hard. "Is mine to play with. These perfect fucking tits," He pulls your dress down suddenly along with your bra, and slaps one of your boobs before pulling on your nipple. "Are mine to suck on. Open your mouth."

You do as he says, never once looking away from him.

He puts his four flesh fingers into your mouth, stretching it out. "This pretty face is mine to fuck," He whispers, sliding his fingers in and out, making you gag. "All mine. Do you understand me, rookie? Say it."

You let out a gargled version of the words I understand around his fingers, making him smirk cruelly. He's got you right where he wants you, and the power rush he gets from having such a strong person broken down like this is beyond anything else he's ever felt.

"That's my girl," He says before pulling out of your mouth and pulling your bra and dress back up. "Now, give me your panties."

Your eyes widen. You can feel how wet they are, not only from your orgasm but from the past five minutes of Bucky's torture - surely he's not being serious.

"Are you-"

"Don't make me ask twice," He cuts in curtly, looking down at you with a firm look.

He watches as you pull them down, struggling slightly to get them over your heels, before you timidly hand them to him. Bucky takes them from you and brings them to his face for a few seconds as he inhales.

"Fuck, you always smell so good," He groans, making your breath hitch in your throat. With a wink, he stuffs them into his trouser pocket, before tapping your hip. "Let's head back in."

Unbelievably horny and unable to snap out of your daze, you shake your head. "I can't."

He knows the effect he has on you, and he relishes in it. "C'mon, Special Agent Y/N. They're waiting for us."

"I probably look a mess," You mumble, still feeling shell-shocked.

Bucky rolls his eyes and grabs your arm. "You look as gorgeous as ever, dumbass, come on. Let's go," He says, beginning to drag you back to the bar before stopping to turn to you. "Oh - and if Steve asks you to dance with him again, do me a favor and kick him in the balls."

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PART THREE >