#answering mails

Bucky stares at you, champagne flute untouched in his hand.

"This is not a mission and you're not James Bond."

"Partner is going rogue. I repeat, partner is going rogue."

Bucky gives a short wave to some random celeb who walks by. "If Pepper sees you doing this, we're both getting kicked out."

"I fuckin' wish she would." You sigh, leaning back against the bar counter. "Hey, how much do you wanna bet that I can knock over that ice sculpture with one bottle cap?"

"None." He knows you can and he does not want to see you try.

"Ugh." You eye the crowd who were too sophisticated to start a game of King's Cup. "Bucky, no offence, but this is so fucking boring."

"Why d'you think I hate them so much?" he murmurs, raising the flute to his lips. "Nearly strangled myself with the curtain chord last ti-"

"Hey guys," Steve has a smile on his face but you can see the pain of a few hundred 'good evening, it's a pleasure to meet you' run deep in his eyes.

"Steven, you fiend." You don't bother looking at him. "Where is the love of my life?"

Steve glances at Bucky.

He raises the glass to his lips. "She's talkin' about T."

Steve, in return, doesn't bother looking at you. "Made the logical choice of not showing up tonight."

"Fuck." You knew that. Just thought she’d be a great pal and not leave you stranded at this godforsaken parties. "Steve, how much do you wanna bet that I can knock over that ice sculpture with one bottle cap?

"None," Bucky cuts in before his best friend can answer. “The answer’s none.”

"Don't tell me y'all drank this place dry already,” another voice cuts in.

Bucky silently slides him a whiskey in silent camaraderie.

"Sam, how much do you wanna bet-" You turn to the newest member with shining eyes.

"Stop it,” Bucky interrupts. “No one’s betting on anything.”

"Well, would ya look at that? I collected the whole bunch." You grin at them, dismissing Bucky’s grumpiness. "Hello, boys."

"Tony's gonna notice," Steve says, but he doesn't look too bothered.

“Maybe we’ll finally get kicked out,” Sam raises.

“That’s what I said.” You nurse your temples. “Why am I even here? I’m evil.”

“Only on the weekends,” Bucky reminds.

“It’s Friday night, I turn evil in-” you glance at the clock in the corner of the room -”thirty three minutes.”

“Like an insufferable Cinderella.”

“I like that take on it,” you agree, staring out at the crowd.

It doesn’t seem to be thinning any time soon, but it’s awfully addicting to look at. Glittery and shimmery, full of laughs and false benevolence. Waiters darting about gracefully with trays of champagne and hors d'oeuvres which Bucky had obnoxiously pronounced as ‘horse divorce’ every single time he saw them.

Like now.

“Horse divorce,” he says.

“Shut the fuck up,” you reply.

Tony does a double take at the sight of four of you, gazing out to the sea of people like you’ve been hypnotized. He backtracks almost immediately and sharply, not exactly thrilled when your eyes slowly trail back to him.

"God didn't give you pretty faces to just be wasting it like this,” he deadpans. “Why the fuck are all of you standing here?"

Steve sighs. “Well, it was good while it lasted.” 

“That’s right, go mingle,” Tony chirps as Steve pushes himself away from the counter. “You too, Wilson. People oughta meet their new Captain ‘Murica.”

Which left you and Bucky, both of whom Tony tried to get out there but Bucky’s resting bitch face vehemently disagreed with.

“Don’t ever invite me to a party again, Buck,” you pipe up.

“Only if I get a chance to back out too,” he says, voice low.

“Come over to the sewer drain on 17th Street and I’ll show you what a real good time is,” you propose instead. “There are weekly fights where you battle a guy turned into a crocodile. They got snacks too.”

Sounds interesting. He might just consider it.

Bucky looks up the clock even though he has a perfectly good worn-out watch on his wrist.

"Twenty six minutes till you’re evil again." He glances at you. “Wanna go for a walk?“

"Fuck yeah." You lace your fingers in his and tug him along.

He can’t tell if people have started leaving, or if they’ve just moved away from the floor to better places. Either way, it’s not crowded enough to bump into someone, but just enough attendees to hide the both of you.

"Also hey-" he pulls his hand away for a second to fish something out of his pocket. "I bet ten dollars that you can, so don't fuck it up."

He hands you a bottle cap.

Steve doesn’t look too impressed.

“We got one shot,” he continues. “Don’t fuck it up.”

“Applies to you all too,” Sam repeats to his group. Clint glares at him as if he’s stolen strategies hidden deep in his archive. Having Sam’s nonchalance balanced out Clint’s annoying competitiveness, but only to a certain degree.

“You heard him Bucky,” you pipe up. “Don’t fuck it up for us.”

Bucky’s nose twitches but he doesn’t give you attention, knowing fully well it’d fuel you further.

“We’re not on the same team,” he replies instinctively, voice robotic.

“We literally are.” Not that he could help it. It’s not his fault that the team didn’t have any other friends to balance out the number of members needed. Losers.

“Not my choice,” Bucky grumbles.

“Shut up, the both of you,” Clint barks. Bucky can’t wait for the game to start because he’s about two seconds away from beating him over the head with the laser gun. “Alright, team. Let’s get their ass.”

“Please don’t break anything,” the guy from the reception says timidly. “Again.”

____

Bucky doesn’t bother flexing how good he is at the game because everyone knows. Decades worth of stealth training leaded up to this moment in his life.

He fires a quick shot off, getting Tony right in the chest. He whips around wildly, giving a string of curses in perfectly accented Italian before storming off.

Bucky relaxes, partly because he’s already hit each member on the opposite team at least once and his own group members were nowhere to be seen.

He stalks through the arena, dodging shots that come out of seemingly nowhere, just because someone breathes a little too loud or he sees the fraction of a reflection off the plastic.

He’s long given up on trying to find you. He hasn’t seen you since the game started and he’s convinced it because you’ve somehow left the arena to preserve your points.

“Rogers at ten o’clock,” Sam’s disembodied voice calls out from behind a giant foam wall and Bucky whips around, silent as the night as he fires a shot before Steve can even step out. 

The sly smile on his face has Bucky narrowing his eyes.

It’s too late to figure out it’s a set up when someone noisily jumps out from where Bucky was facing just a few seconds ago.

Bucky has his gun raised in defense but in a flash, the lights on Wanda’s suit goes off. She’s been hit. Her face twists into one of annoyance as she stalks past him.

It’s a great plan unfortunately foiled. But not by him.

He waits until everyone clears from the area and a flash of light from the other end of the arena lights up Vision’s face.

“Look how the turn tables.” It’s followed by the sound of you mimicking the cocking of a gun, laser gun falling to lean on your shoulder. “I just saved your life.”

“I had her covered,” he grumbles.

“Sure you did.” You grin at him. “Gold star for you, baby.”

“You hiding there instead of being out on the field?” Bucky does a quick sweep of his eyes around the area to make sure no one else was around. “Didn’t take you for a coward.”

“Cowardice is hardly the same as hardcore strategy, Barnes.” You tsk. “You know, If you’re nice to me, I’ll let you share my super secret vantage point. I’ve been offing people this whole time and no one’s got me even once.”

“Woah, no way,” he says before clearing his throat and calling out loudly. “Hey, guys. Look who I fou-"

You hiss at grab at him, muffling his voice and pulling him to the corner. If he wasn’t dressed in his usual vintage emo attire of all black, he’d probably be visible from half the block.

“If you wanted to be all pressed up against me, you just had to ask, Bucky,” you mock, and he recognizes it from an era that seemed too long ago.

“Y’know, this is a decent point to keep watch,” he mumbles instead.

It’s not to keep his voice down, as he comes to learn, when he realises how close you are to him. Hell, you were right. One arm‘s worth of distance away, he can hear everything in stunning clarity; right from your heart beat to the shifting of your balance to another foot.

“I know.” You beam at him, looking around. “Impressive, right?”

“Wouldn’t go that far.”

“That’s just the jealousy.” Your voice is nearly drowned out by the cacophony of pew pews as Steve curses loudly. 

He’s supposed to be covering someone. It escapes him now, he’s too transfixed on something else entirely.

"Well, would you look at us?" You wiggle your eyebrows. “Dark corner, total privacy.

He’s very aware of Clint screaming in the background but no one cares about that.

"Mhm." He's trying to save up on his words before he loses all of it.

"What if I was double-crossing you, huh?"

"Imagine that," he says, humouring you.

"Hm." You cast a glance over your shoulder. "This is real saintly of you, Barnes."

He snorts. "This was your idea."

"Maybe so." You take a tiny step closer to him, hand finding a place on his chest. "You're not supposed to be going along with it."

"Funny how things work out, ain't it?"

Someone shouts in the background again. He wants to kiss you, hard.

You press the gun into his chest. "I could pull the trigger."

"S'ppose you could." Bucky stares right into your eyes.

"And then what?"

"And then what?" he repeats.

"And then I make a lot of people mad."

"As always."

"Yeah, but these are your friends." You sound conflicted. "What if they hate me afterwards?"

"They like you better than me." He closes the rest of the distance between you, reducing it down to the size of the barrel. "Shitty judgement."

"It's called taste." You can't stop yourself from smiling. "D'you think it's worse to have Clint be mad at me or Sam?"

"I hate both of them."

"That's not what I asked."

Still, he thinks it's important for you to know.

"We gotta go," he whispers, face inches away from yours. "I'm their best marksman."

"That'd be me actually," you contest but shut up when you feel his lips ghost over yours.

You can tell why they consider him a good strategist, because you’re only about two seconds away from just saying fuck you to the game entirely and carding your hand through his hair.

Until there's a zap and the lights on your suit go off.

You look down at where his gun points to your stomach. Shot.

When you look back up he's smiling wide, already a step away.

"Did you-"

"Imagine that."

"I'm on your fuckin' team." Your jaw drops. Motherfucker.