#hitman!reader

Isack rests his hands on the cue stick as he takes another drink from his beer bottle. You’ve thought it since you first laid eyes on him—he’s hot. The right combination between handsome and cute, with a bright smile and big brown eyes that are progressively becoming your weakness.

You miss your shot and you let out a small huff. Isack chuckles, putting down his bottle at the edge of the pool table. He quirks a brow. “Need some help?”

You bite down a laugh. He might be attractive, but he’s not exactly subtle. You consider letting him make a move without calling him out on it. But, then again… where’s the fun in that? You turn to him, blinking at him innocently. “Are you gonna put your hands around my waist to help me out?”

That gets a laugh out of him. “I happen to be a very good shot,” he justifies, tilting his head at you with a small smile. He shrugs his shoulders. “I could teach you.”

Even when you’re lifetimes away from your life in college, it seems things don’t really change. If anything, things stay predictable. You suppose there’s a silver lining, though. Especially when he happens to be your type.

“Yeah, I bet.” You nod your head, and he takes it as a sign to give you a hand. One of his palms carefully settles around your waist, body pressing against your back as the two of you lean over the pool table. His fingers curl over yours, the heat of his palm almost startling as he fixes your grip around the cue stick. You can feel Isack’s breath against your cheek, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your spine.

You meet his brown gaze over your shoulder, only to find that he’s already looking at you. The corner of your lip curves upward. “What did you say your major was?”

“Physics,” he murmurs, looking at you with a glint you can’t quite decipher.

“Is it useful for playing pool?”

“Very.”

You turn back to the table, following Isack’s directions as he lines up the cue stick under your free hand. He pulls it back, guiding your hand along with his. He smells like cologne, with undertones of coal and whiskey. The billiard balls clatter against one another. The red one and the yellow one go straight into the pockets at the corners. Isack pulls away as you turn around, though his hand still lingers by your waist. A steadying weight. You grin, only to find he’s already smiling.

“See?” he asks, his voice warm and encouraging. His lopsided smile pushes you to be bolder. “I told you.”

“You did,” you hum, leaning against the pool table and bringing him closer to you by the sleeve of his shirt. “Look at me—already improving in just one game with your help.” You raise a brow, lips curving up teasingly. “Maybe I should keep you around more often.”

He leans closer to you, tilting his head. “Maybe you should.” His eyes flick down to your lips. He’s quick about it, as if you’re not going to catch him doing it—but you do.

You turn to look at the rest of the bar. Crowded—probably at its peak capacity for the night. You press yourself closer to Isack, glossy lips nearly brushing against the shell of his ear. “There’s a guy by the bar that’s been glaring at you.”

His thumb caresses exposed skin by your waist casually. “Is there?” he asks, but you can feel him turning his gaze in that direction. True enough, there’s a guy with blue eyes and a buzzcut by the bar. Next to him, a girl with long brown hair sits impatiently, pushing the ice around her drink with her straw.

You pull back, Isack’s brown gaze flicking back to you near instantly. “He probably wants to use the pool table.”

Isack scoffs. “Well, he can. No one is stopping him.”

“We did kind of monopolize it.” You tug at his free hand, interlacing your fingers with his. “Maybe we should leave it to him,” you suggest.

Isack raises a brow, though his expression is knowing. “And what would we do then?”

You shrug casually. “I have a few ideas.”

The alleyway next to the bar is cold and damp and dark—not that either of you two are complaining.

Isack presses you against the brick wall of the bar, your hands reaching up to tug at his hair. He kisses your mouth with more intensity than you expected, tugging at your lips and combining spit. You pull his bottom lip with your teeth, earning a groan from him that only makes you more eager.

Isack’s hands are once again around the back of your waist, but you can feel him growing more confident. Soon enough, he’s trailing lower, kneading your flesh and smiling against your lips when you let out a sound.

It’s tongue against tongue, teeth on teeth. He’s a filthy kisser—with the innocent face he has, you would’ve never expected him to be this messy. Maybe you’re enjoying it more than you should.

Isack brings you closer to him, and you feel something hard press against your leg. You pull away from him for just a fraction of a moment. “Excited already?” you ask, voice breathy.

He hums something you don’t catch, his mouth moving to your jaw and then down to your neck. “You have no idea,” he says.

One of his hands leaves you for just a second. It’s easier to focus now that you’re not actively kissing him. Easier to keep your goals in sight.

It’s a blink. A blink in an already dim-lit alley. A split-second, and cold metal is pressed against your skin. The scent of gunpowder is evident now.

Isack presses his gun against your stomach the same exact second you tilt his head up with the barrel of your glock.

The night pauses, freezing in time. You hear no cars in the distance, no stray dogs howling, no empty bottles rattling against the pavement.

Neither of you pulls the trigger. Neither of you moves.

“You know, I almost didn’t catch it,” you start, slowly. You search his face, something akin to amusement sparking in yours. “Those pretty eyes of yours must work wonders for you in this line of work.”

Isack narrows his gaze, his chest rising with measured breaths. “You’re one of Wolff’s.”

“And you’re new. Very new. Which means you’re one of Horner’s.” You press the barrel of your gun deeper into his chin, tilting up his head. He responds by digging his weapon deeper into your stomach. It does nothing to unsettle you. If anything, it makes that golden adrenaline drip into your system. “Tell me,” you continue, “how many hitmen has Horner had to replace this year? Four? Five?” You tilt your head knowingly, smugly. “What does that make you? Lucky number six?”

“Watch it.” His eyes are half-lidded as he meets your gaze. His jaw tenses for just a moment. “What was the plan?”

“I imagine the same as yours.” You shrug. “Lure you out, shoot you, leave you for the rats or the cops to find.” A smile curls onto your lips. “Sends a good message, doesn’t it?”

“As good as any,” Isack says. Then, looking at you in the dark, that glint in his eye shifts. He surprises you when a chuckle bubbles out of his lips. “I thought you looked familiar—when they gave me your photo. Should’ve known.”

“Your boss has a thing for sending his people in blind,” you say simply, casually, as if that sentence doesn’t have a bodycount. “It’s too bad. If we weren’t in the same line of work, I would’ve probably taken you home.”

Isack arches a brow, leaning closer to you despite the gun in his face. “Is that a threat or a compliment?”

“You still have my lip gloss on your mouth, so why don’t you tell me?” Isack scoffs a chuckle. His lips look bruised, and a part of you wants to finish what you started. You click your tongue. “Wolff is paying good money for your head as a message to your boss. Pretty eyes or otherwise, a girl’s gotta eat.”

Isack doesn’t seem intimidated, his gaze calculating. “You shoot and I shoot. No one wins then.”

“Maybe,” you say, letting him press you back against the wall, waiting. “It’s still fun, though,” you grin.

“You’re insane.”

Your grin widens—a cheshire smile. “Don’t act like it doesn’t turn you on.”

Isack blinks, and you use the brick walk behind you to push you forward, redirecting the line of Isack’s gun and twisting it in his grip. Your weapon clatters to the floor the second you manage to disarm Isack, before he sweeps your leg and throws you down onto the pavement. Cement scratches your exposed arms, back against the ground as you aim Isack’s gun up at him and kick yours in the opposite direction, far out of his reach.

Isack raises his hands in surrender. You arch a brow, smiling. “Don’t take this personally.” You pull the trigger, only for the gun to lock. You furrow your brows, and Isack opens his palm, revealing the magazine he somehow managed to pull out during the scuffle. “Huh.”

“Not bad for a rookie?” Isack asks. Fuck, is it bad that you find him more attractive now?

You’re trying to draw a different course of action inside your head when you hear it. Footsteps that sound too measured, too cautious to belong to a drunk person.

“Which way?” you hear a man with an Australian accent ask.

“We shouldn’t have waited. Briatore’s not going to be happy,” a female voice says. Fuck. This night was supposed to be clean—when did it get so complicated?

You turn to Isack, you seems to have the same realization. Even if he is as green to the scene as you think, he has to know the name of Flavio Briatore. Unlike either of your employers, Briatore’s not one for hiring hitmen for quick and clean jobs.

You glance back at the darker, damper half of the alley. Isack meets your gaze at the same time. Even without saying it out loud, you’ve both taken note of the rusted old stairs that are just a few feet away. Fire escape.

You jump onto your feet as Isack rushes towards the stairs, an unspoken competition of who can get away first. He runs up while you reach for the metal, hoist yourself up and climb on the outside until you can swing yourself inside. The two of you meet at the second floor, survival instinct kicking in over the unclaimed bounty that stands in front of you. Money, after all, is better spent when you’re alive.

You barely have time to spare a glance down. You didn’t recognize them earlier—but now, with guns in their hands, their faces click into place. Doohan and Pulling. Maybe you’ve wronged Briatore far too many times—in this line of work, you take it as a compliment.

Doohan climbs up the fire escape, while Pulling stays on the ground floor. The sky is cloudy, the moon is gone, the rusted metal stands in a twisted manner that gives no openings—making the shot would be impossible for anyone else.

You hear the gunshot a moment too late. The bullet ricochets against the metal with a loud clanging sound just as you’re pulled to the side by a hand around your wrist. The bullet bites the wall where your head had just been a split second ago. Isack blinks back at you, his hand still wrapped around yours—before the sound of Doohan’s footsteps sends both of you hurrying up. You hop on the handrail, jumping up onto the roof. Isack climbs up, following just a second behind.

The two of you crouch down, evening your breaths as quietly as possible. You reach down for your leg. Footsteps stop just a floor or two below. You didn’t miss the open window on your way up—you imagine he thought you’d gone inside that apartment as soon as he lost sight of you. It’s not like there’s any light to help him, either.

Once Doohan and Pulling are no longer an immediate threat, the two of you stand up, backing away from the fire escape. You’re not quite in the clear yet, though.

“That was close,” Isack says, quietly, cautiously.

“Yeah,” you say, his back facing you. Rookie mistake. The click of a gun being loaded is near deafening. Isack stiffens. “Too close.”

He turns around, slowly, only to see you standing with a smaller pistol in your hand. He raises a brow. “You have a second gun?”

“Now I definitely know you’re new,” you say, voice light and casual for someone holding a gun. There’s a certain sharpness curling around your smile. “Next time, make sure you carry a backup.”

He tilts his head. “Next time?”

“You saved me from a bullet to the head,” you say, placing your gun back in the holster strapped around your ankle. “Consider this a thank you.” Isack doesn’t move as you backtrack, heading towards the rooftop exit. You can feel his eyes keenly following your every movement. You’re not worried—if anything, you almost manage to look relaxed when you side glance at him. “And word of advice? Find a different employer. The last five didn’t get as lucky as you.”

Isack scoffs, though it has an amused ring to it. He doesn’t give it away in any sense, but you know. He’s not gonna heed your advice. You wouldn’t.

The beckoning innocence is in his eyes once again. It’s a front, a lie, but it draws you in nonetheless. Maybe you’ve grown soft. “So, is this the end of our date?” Isack asks.

“Seems like it.” You grin—sharp, dangerous. “But looking forward to the next one.”

You didn’t care about the bodies you dropped. You had a job, and you followed through. It was nothing personal, it hardly ever was. You never killed for yourself, it’d draw attention. You weren’t stupid enough for that.

After four years on the job, you’d made quite a name for yourself. However, in those four years, you never hit the same city twice. It was somewhat stifling—turning down good jobs with good money just because of where they were located, but you valued your freedom more than a cool million dollar hit.

Once you hit the one year mark, where, apparently, you made your presence a bit known, you earned the moniker ‘The Reaper’.

Somehow, you managed to never be suspected. You supposed a few years in theater and drama school paid off quite well.

Currently, you were leaving the scene of the crime; some quaint city in Boston. You were walking down the street when your head turned to a store, an array of TVs playing the news. The red band stretched across the screen read: GERMAN POLITICIAN, MANFRED FEST ASSASSINATED THIS MORNING.

“This sniper managed to shoot 3,815 meters, that’s 12,516 feet or 2.37 miles for those who are not familiar with the metric system. Authorities are calling this shooter The Jackal.” The news reporter stated, her hands folded over one another as she spoke. “Unfortunately, no one had gotten a good look at the shooter, authorities are doing their best as we speak.” Her co-anchor added in.

You stared in disbelief—3,815 meters was almost impossible. Not literally impossible, but damn near impressive. You’d heard of The Jackal during your time as a… mercenary… but you weren’t all that interested in what he did. There were probably thousands just like him. But 3,815 meters was something to gawk at.

“This damn world…” croaked an old man beside you. You quirked a brow, “I’m sorry?” You asked, letting out an awkward laugh. The man turned to you and spoke with a straight face; “these people, killing the ones who actually give a damn about us. Don’t they care about the youth of our nation?” He sighed and shook his head.

You deadpanned, blinking. “Right…” you, begrudgingly, agreed. “This damn world.” You smiled weakly at him and walked away. “This damn world for letting selfish, ignorant asses like you do anything you fucking want as long as you’re white and a man.” You muttered under your breath, not even audible to the man that was most likely hard of hearing. He looked older than your oldest grandparent, and that was saying something.

Though, the Jackal was probably both white and a man. But that wasn’t important.

What was, was that no one was talking about you dropping another fascist in Boston. The whole reason you were even in town. You bit into your cheek with a grimace. You weren’t usually all that competitive, but now you were. A guy who goes by Jackal is suddenly taking all the credit? Who even goes by that ridiculous moniker as an assassin? It’s fucking shameful. If you’re gonna be a killer, at least have class.

Jackal. The goddamn Jackal out-bested you. Some jackass (pun intended) named after something that couldn’t decide whether or not it wanted to be a coyote or a wolf.

God. Now you pissed yourself off.

You decided to do some research when you got back to your hotel, looking up some of the best snipers who could have made that shot (maybe if you were lucky, you’d gun him down and be on top). But, of course, as a hitman, he was excruciatingly hard to come across.

By this point, you were headed to Europe for yet another job. Given your research, a lot of the Jackal’s work originated from Europe, so you might as well head into his playground, ruffle his feathers (or, fur?), and maybe have a good rival to compete with. That’d be fun. Or maybe you were just a wee bit unhinged and eager to one-up this guy.

But then. That was when it happened. Tallinn, Estonia.

An attempted hit was made on Ulle Dag Charles, but was compromised the moment one of Charles’ own men ruined it. Since it wasn’t a done job, The Jackal was definitely in town somewhere.

Ironically, your target was a woman named Bianca Pullman. Apparently, your guy, stupid fucking Jackal, had this British agent on his ass since Munich. Some place in New York hired you to kill her so his job would be easier.

She, of course, followed him to Estonia, and you followed her. A game of cat and mouse. If the mouse was a highly dangerous being capable of killing anyone and everyone with a single bullet from miles away. This only made the game more exhilarating to you, if you were honest.

Yet, as the days pass, Pullman gained more and more security until she just.. stopped following the Jackal altogether.

That is what you’d say if you were a gullible idiot.

You called in a few favors (few… hundred… favors) and did detective work; allowing you to find out the Jackal’s real name. Maybe if this whole hitman thing doesn’t work out, you’d have another option.

Alexander Duggan, a member of the British army. He was believed to have died on the field, but come on. You weren’t stupid. You had an uncle who faked his death to evade his taxes—this guy probably did something similar to brush his identity off the earth. Because who in their right mind would accuse a dead man of terrorism? What would they do? Lock up his gravestone? Coffin, maybe? Hell, Duggan was believed to have been blown up. Army guys are normally smart, and he probably planned ahead and staged it if he was smart enough to be in the game as long as he’d been.

Duggan was a man of many names—many lives. It would be difficult to track him down from here. From this point on, you weren’t even sure why you were so enamored by his skillset. Like, sure, two miles to shoot some dick in the head is impressive, but seriously? Tracking him across all of Europe? It wasn’t like you were trying to put him to justice like Pullman. Maybe it was just the mystery behind it all? You did love a good mystery novel…

Irrelevant. He was just an amazing sniper and you felt… threatened. That’s exactly it. He was too good, and it threatened your own abilities, so, like one does, you needed to hunt him down, kill him, and take the mantle of Most Badass Hitman.

Then, curveball, you got your hands on the facial composite drawing of the Jackal.

And… for fuck’s sake.

You fucking knew him.

You’ve seen him around before.

Sure, it also kind of resembled a 1980s gremlin… oddly enough… but no doubt, you’ve seen someone who looked like this before.

A man eating, woman devouring and stealthy killer that anyone could hire for the right price. Anything went in the darker world under their feet, from the lower bowels of the underground, to the deepest parts of a family built into a towering pyramid. They had the police in their pockets, senators and politicians in their blood and even the government had a used for them. Assassins sent to do their dirty work and keep their hands clean. 

That’s something Gaz hated the most, people in high seats playing the martyr when they’d done nothing to help. He could at least respect The Chimera for being honest of their employment, self-aware of the dried blood caking their hands after every kill. 

“The Chimera as a reputation for being… honest,” Laswell had muttered with reluctance, as if she couldn’t find the right word to describe the killer they were hiring.

All they were given was a few papers with their skills and accomplishments —at least the few that were publicly recorded and known by anyone outside the world-wide organisation. Price had given them the night to memorise it and prepare for the meet-up somewhere in Paris. 

He would be lying if he said that he wasn’t a bit nervous, meeting someone as dangerous as an omen of death, lingering at the top of the food chain with this Baba Yaga who’d retired and another dubbed Zero. They all sat around ridiculously small table and in even smaller chairs at a café, the morning sun in Paris giving the place an air of elegance and artistry, a strange but subtle difference to the reason the five of them sat here, leaving a seat vacant for their mysterious hire. 

Gaz stared down at the french espresso, something he was somewhat excited to try, the small, round cup accompanied by a croissant, was much smaller than the cup he’d usually pay for in UK, but he wasn’t going to complain. It was a rich and creamy, slightly bitter on his tongue, but sweet at the end. Lifting the cup for a second sip, he caught a figure strutting through the patio of the café, slimmed down by a dark blazer, slacks and dress shoes. She looked like she just left a business meeting, a decked in fancy and expensive clothing that made almost made him shy away from his lack of style. 

He brought his sight away from her, blinking once before he nearly jumped at her sudden appearance beside him, hand placed over the back of the seat. 

“Bonjour, messieurs,” she smiled at them and turned to greet Laswell, “et madam. J’espère que vous aimiez ce café, j’aime bien ce petit coin de Paris.”

Then she turned her gaze to him, her eyes brushing over his face and landing on the cup in his hand:

“Oh, merveilleux choix! That’s my favourite as well.”

He cursed in his mind, now feeling even more reluctant to work with The Chimera someone who was both a ruthless killer and a dangerous beauty, threatening to warm the tips of his ears with a small amount of bashfulness. 

“A pleasure to meet you,” she shook Laswell and Price’s hand, muttering out her name, “This should be interesting, I haven’t worked for the British yet. Americans though, that’s another thing.”

Gaz was almost fearful of you, if not amazed by your efficiency. You moved like a shadow, sliding from wall to wall while they worked to catch up to you. Perhaps it was your smaller and slimmer build that made you so agile, where you lacked in strength, you made up in agility.

He felt this imbalance, where he would admire and fear you. You had shown you hand many times when you sneaked up to them, suddenly appearing beside or behind them, surprising even Ghost whose first instinct was to attack, and much to his dismay, found himself locked under you.

There were many occasions where, if you weren’t on their side, you could have disposed of them, shot, stabbed and killed either one or all of them. It felt like helll, living on the edge of life and death on both sides, the exhaustion it led with you hovering over and around them like an omen of death. 

But for all the hardship and frustration they all shared, you had made this mission easier to finish: with less set backs and surprises. You worked behind the enemy line, letting them know where each person was and the weaker points in their surveillance. Your size had come in handy a second time, squeezing through the smallest gap you could find, and he’d watched and listened you work in near awe. 

It didn’t help either, that you had a pretty face, appealing to stare at but not overly beautiful. You were a subtle and quiet beauty, waiting and observing, stalking and learning, you were like a panther, a majestic animal waiting for the right time to strike. If you weren’t so pretty and amazing, he wouldn’t have the issue of being left in amazement while his fingers twitched for his gun, an instinctual act for survival against a bigger predator.

Left shoulder. Scapula. Not enough to kill him, but if the shot would’ve hit its target, not even his superhuman powers would’ve saved him. 

They’d just rounded up the mission, another HYDRA base, as it seemed they only popped up somewhere else as soon they thought they were done. His shield was at his feet and he began crouching down to pick it up, although halted mid-movement. The new tech Stark equipped him with was unusual and foreign, so it would take some time getting used to. Instead of his worked in movements, he now just lifted his hand slightly to retrieve it. He waited for the magnetic force in his suit’s gauntlet to make the shield come back into its place, though it never had a chance to appear. It hit him like a slap to the side, although the immense pain suggested it was more than that. He didn’t know for sure if it was a critical hit, his mind blanking out a bit as he lifted his hand to the wound. The time slowed down as he felt the hole in his suit and the fluid coming from it.

”Rogers, what are you doing, your heart-rate raised point seconds ago?” Tony’s voice came through the com, Steve concluding he must be in the jet already to notice his charts. ”Hit”, his voice came out low, not by choice but it felt like something held him back from speaking louder. His eyes searched the area, the clipped forest the signals from the Hydra base lead them to. He didn’t understand, they’d cleared the area, no more of their agents should be left. 

He was zoned out enough to not hear the words of his teammates trough the com, although the mull of their voices still reached him. Suddenly he caught something, something shimmering a distance away. He fixed his concentration on it and if he hadn’t lost enough blood for it to be deadly, he swore he saw something move, rather someone. It only looked like a shadow at first, then he saw it morphing -almost questioning his sanity- until he saw the person standing up. He recognised the form as a woman and the thing she skilfully slung over her shoulder he only identified cause he’d seen Bucky make the same move in the ’40s. It was a rifle.

”Steve, answer your damn com, could you?” Instead of hearing it in his ear, he heard it from behind him. Nat’s voice made him turn his head, his body following it. Her eyes widen seeing his hand, tightly pressed against his wound, something which couldn’t have been created more than a minute ago, or else he wouldn’t be as steady as he was on his feet. The shock on her face disappeared when she jumped to action. 

”Steve’s hit, shoulder, injury severe by the looks of… everything, affects going to show sooner rather than later, he needs med guys”, she said while pressing even harder on his shoulder and the pressure made him grunt, as the stabbing pain made him wobble. He blinked, trying to get the dizziness out of his head enough to clearly see when throwing a look over this shoulder once more. ”Nat”, he gripped her fussing hands, stilling them enough for her to look up at her. ”Sniper”, the words trailed away when he, trough the corner of his eyes, saw Nat looking the same way he did.

The women were still there, not far away from where she stood up at first, looking over her shoulder. Her hair waved slightly in the silent wind before she made a gesture to them, which made Steve grit his teeth. She saluted him. ”Tony, it was a sniper. Affiliation…”, Nat glanced up at Steve, who only shook his head. ”Unclear. If you’re able, search the area, she can’t humanly possibly have come far” ”Tony is already in the movement and I’ve already contacted Cho, the only thing which should make it impossible for us to take him to her is if you don’t get him into this jet”, Bruce voice sounded over the com.

It was a struggle, but Nat had been able to, with the help of Clint meeting her up halfway, take Steve to the jet. The ride home to the tower was nerve-wracking but not a second too short as Dr Cho met them as soon as the jet landed in the hangar. She couldn’t say for sure, but when Steve had trouble lying down on the stretcher, grunting and flinching away, which just created more pain, she suggested a broken bone in the shoulder. 

The x-ray went fast and with a quick look, Dr Cho could say with certainty that the shot had gone through the scapula, a critical hit for anyone really, although for the circumstances the breakage had been clean. No splitter with the bullet, neither had bone been wrongly fixated, so the only operation necessary would be retrieving the bullet and fixate the broken bone for it to heal correctly. After the surgery and Steve’s awakening, he was informed he would be ok. The tissue would heal quickly, although the bone would take some time. He would be out of the game and even if he was a super soldier, rehabilitation would be necessary to build up the muscles and other soft tissue.

They found her. Maybe a month or so after the incident, but they found her. Steve didn’t believe they did at first, seeing as a ghost never reappear. 

”Hey Rogers, I think I found your shooter”, he remembered Tony informing and Steve have possibly never reacted as quickly as he did. Flying up from his bed, feeling the discomforting pain shooting trough the still not fully healed shoulder. He’d come into Tony’s lab, which served as his office more than the actual one, a big picture of the women on display. Both Tony and Bruce watched it, live footage which had been stopped in action. 

”That’s her”, he couldn’t say he recognised her eyes, as he hadn’t seen it from the distance, neither her hair colour as it seemed to have been in an up-do then. ”Are you sure, don’t wanna get the wrong person. Shooting Captain America ain’t a light crime”, Tony cocked an eyebrow his way, but Steve only nodded. Her movement reminded of the shooters, even if those he’d seen had been few. Something with her seemed to fit the picture and though Tony hadn’t been able to get any footage that time, he didn’t need the comparison. ”Well then we take her in, probably without as much fuss as possible”

The moment you heard a knock on your door and lowered voices outside, you immediately knew what would greet you when you opened. With a smile, you met a small part of the Avengers who stood outside your apartment door, the rest most likely station at other places for back up. 

"You are suspected of shooting a member in our team", it was Tony Stark who spoke and you couldn't but shrug at was he said. "Sure", no denying, neither confessing, something you had learned to do. After that, you followed with them without any hustle, knowing it damn well would worsen a situation that already was under control.

Steve hadn’t been with the ones who took you in, Nat had. She gave him the information about how it went. So the only thing the man found reasonable, even though his injury, was meeting you. He didn’t think he would be able to do it, because Nat almost had pushed him down in bed when he said where he was going, but in the end, he walked down the corridor, the redhead trailing behind him. Even though he didn’t need to limp, the subdued pain emitting from the wound made him do it. He didn’t know if this was a bad idea or not, because you had tried to kill him, although still you hadn’t shown any hostility since you'd come.

Steve stopped outside the interrogation room you quite repeatedly left and came back to, he heard. Looking through the window, he saw you sitting there, a smile on your face as Clint sat opposite you. Your eyes gleamed in the light, while you laughed at something the man said. 

Why did you laugh? The question surfaced in Steve’s mind when he saw you, sitting in cuffs, smiling as if you sat opposite a friend. As he pushed the door open all the eyes turned to him, the conversation dying with his entrance. Your gaze flickered over him, staying a bit longer on his shoulder. In the end, they settled to meet his gaze, your face much more stoic then before.

”How are you doing?” Your question made him frown, sceptical to your casualty. ”Could be better”, his voice was bitter. ”Better could be dead”, the smart comment made him cock a brow towards you, yet he felt like if you weren't a foe, both Clint and Nat would’ve laughed. ”Better could also be not shot”, he answered and you only shrugged. ”Yeah, sorry ’bout that”, you apologised. Steve didn’t answer, he felt that most people would’ve mumbled out the apology but you hadn't. You said it while holding his gaze, something which could be seen as a real apology, although he felt like you just said it because you hadn’t anything to fear. ”Can I talk to her?” He asked Clint, who only glanced at Nat behind him before standing up. ”Steve, can I have a word with you before that?” Nat’s voice made him take a step back instead of forward towards the chair. ”You can’t talk alone with her. She’s the most hospitable person we’ve ever have the pleasure to take in, but we cant trust her just because of that…”, she pointed out in a hushed voiced, enough for only him to hear. He looked over his shoulder, not finding you looking at him expectantly, instead having an easy conversation with Clint. ”She could snap, I know that very well. You can stay if you want, I’ll be fine with either-or”, he said, only wanting to talk with you, not in the moment caring if all of Shields agents stood behind him.

A curt nod from Nat made him turn and take the seat in the chair. Clint nodded goodbye before beginning to walk out of the room, stopping when passing Nat and exchanging a few words. He didn’t concentrate on them, only hearing Nat would be staying, nothing new.

He sat there, looking at you, his shooter. There wasn’t anything special about you, nothing that at least would make him stop and think killer. You were one of those one could see passing by on the busy streets of New York, fitting perfectly in because no one really didn’t in the big city. 

”Why?” ”Need to elaborate Captain”, you answered with a sweet smile. ”How many questions could I probably want to ask you personally?” He knew he sounded more bitter than he intended to, but it seemed you didn’t care about it. ”Oh, more than you probably think you could. Why did I shoot you the way I did? Why did I execute it on one of your missions? Why did I even shoot you?” You sported a sugar-sweet smile, one he actually didn’t think was fake, though you said such heavy things. He didn’t see you flinch, nor did your tone even waver when rhetorically asking any of the questions. ”You hit your head on the last one, why did you shoot me?” ”Because somebody wanted you to be shot” he narrowed his brows, no waver again. You weren't here to play, he noticed that. If he would ask, you probably would tell. ”You're an assassin”, your attention swayed from Steve to Nat when she said this. Browse furrowing much like his own. ”No”, you weren't an assassin, if you so had been you would give everything away to easy. He looked at Nat, her eyes swaying from you to meet his, the same question he had reflecting in her eyes. What were you? ”Your good with guns”, Steve caught himself saying it, too late to take back. ”Observant for only seeing me such a short bit”, you replied, pointing out he’d only seen you for what couldn’t be longer than seconds when he was shoot. ”Had a friend, capabilities similar to yours”, he thought of Bucky, though he didn’t believe his childhood friend had been this good with weapons, even if he wanted to think so. That concluded you were no ordinary war soldier and as you neither were an assassin, only one thing came to mind.

"Interesting friends you have Captain”, you hummed, even though you didn't expose yourself, he knew you compared Bucky to yourself. ”So how much?” This caught you a bit of guard. He saw the shock on you face before you answered, not verbally but with the motion to further explain, mentioning for him to once more elaborate. ”Don’t play dull, you know what I’m talking about. The number, how big was the number?” Steve felt his patience thin, not that he had a reason to feel like it as you, as Nat said, was the most non-hostile person they’ve ever taken in. ”Isn’t it selfish to ask for that?” You smirked when you saw that he would continue. ”No, not if I maybe want to turn myself in if the price is high enough”, his comeback made you chuckle. ”Are you sure the price ain’t gonna give you a heart attack?” You questioned him, as if you were worried about him after putting a bullet in his shoulder. Steve smiled while touching his injured shoulder. ”Didn’t die out of this, so I’m feeling the most alive ever after”, he joked, not knowing where it came from. You nodded as she lifted you finger. Steve saw Nat flinching at the side and he made a sign under the table for her to stay back. With your pointer, you drew a single number in the middle of the table. 

”One? One what?” Steve asked, his curiosity almost licking the table where your finger had drawn the mark. You leaned back, crossing your arms while watching Steve as the answer was as clear as day. ”It’s a nine-digit number”, your voice almost echoed around him and if he wasn’t the slowest on math, he would’ve said the number Nat did. ”One hundred million dollars”, she almost sounded astonished as she said the number out loud. ”Yup”, you popped the p before continuing. ”Pretty number for America’s golden boy”, the smile, almost giddy on your lips, made him conclude that he was more than right. ”You’re a hitman”, he voiced his thought and he heard Nat huffing out her displeasure. He saw how you snapped to look at her. ”You serious”, you snorted. ”At least I get money for my job, instead of just a pat on the head”, Nat squinted her eyes, while Steve was in shock to say anything at the remark. He was grateful for when the door swung open, although none less surprised. Fury walked in, a few agents staying behind outside the room. 

”Did you need to get into trouble?” He didn’t direct it at Steve, instead of at you. ”You knew you couldn’t keep me a secret forever”, you answered easily, but Steve saw how a minimal part of your jaw clenched, the smile much more forced than before. It wasn’t Fury who’d sent you, but he knew about the profession or else you wouldn’t incline to him with ”keeping you a secret”. ”Captain Rogers, Agent Romanoff, I suppose this interaction is necessary to clear her name, even though you are more than rightfully to be suspicious”, Fury said before taking a glance over his shoulder. ”It would be for the best Director”, Nat’s forced answer came and Steve saw the gears turning in her head. She noticed him looking, with the glance she gave him, they’d agreed on one thing. Something wasn’t right and they would keep it shut until, if ever, they needed to say something. 

”Is the equipment off?” Fury’s voice brought back Nat’s eyes to him. ”Not for the moment, seeing as it was needed before. I’ll be back in a minute” ”Romanoff, you can stay and watch that nobody enters. I’m certain Captain Rogers can further tell the information later”, he said before Nat even was able to leave her spot. She cast a glance at Steve, not worried but wondering, before exiting with a curt nod. ”So Captain…”, Fury began once again ”This is one of Shield secret weapons, close to none know she exists inside the organisation. Meet Y/N Y/L/N, S.H.I.E.L.D’s very own hitman” ”Pleasure to finally meet”, the women said and then it went up to Steve why you knew Fury and possibly other people as well. You played a double game.

You didn’t know how far you would’ve been able to walk by the amount of pacing you’d done back and forth in your room. Probably a mile. You were equally surprised that you hadn’t gone down a floor yet.

”If you wanted an invitation to my room, you could just come down and knock, instead of coming through the roof”, you knew the voice, had heard it shout at you countless times in the gym, laughed with you till you cried, but at the moment it didn’t register fast enough. Faster was your movements, your learned habit, your instinct. Your hand had gripped the cold metal under the pillow on your bed before you could stop yourself.

Nat raised one of her eyebrows, which you only noticed by halting your movements and looking over your shoulder. It wasn’t the only shock in the room, yours was probably higher than hers. Although the action, you didn’t try playing it off, instead you just sighed and laid your hand on top of your pillow.

”If that’s how you’re going to meet Barnes, then I suggest you rethink it”, you slumped down on the bed, hands almost irritably rubbing your face. ”I know… I know”, you muttered as you kept looking at the pillow, almost sensing the cold metalled weapon laying underneath. ”How are you doing?” You heard Nat’s footsteps slowly coming closer. ”Honestly?” Even though it was a question, you knew the answer before she nodded. ”Not good, Steve reminded me a few days ago that Bucky would come here and begin getting settled. So I’ve been cooped up in here ever since”, you responded. You remembered the first time Steve mentioned the preparations for Bucky’s arrival. You hadn’t understood it then, but when Steve went out with the information that most of the team would be staying in the tower and missions would only be assigned if it was necessary, it was clear afterwards. You also remembered the second time, four days ago. Steve had caught you in the hall heading down to train when he reminded you, he’s going to arrive tonight. You couldn’t remember much from that training session, besides that you came from it with a split knuckle. It had been a month, maybe even two, since Steve and you went to the cafe and he told you everything. One, maybe two months since the stress of Bucky’s arrival made you go into meltdown and Steve comforted you. You felt that another wasn’t far away, but you knew Steve wouldn’t be close this time.

”I noticed”, she stopped before continuing, and the short while you glanced at her. She almost looked troubled by the faraway look in her eyes. ”I’ve seen Barnes here and there, but Steve said he would wait with the interactions a bit.” ”Understandable”, he had talked with you about it. How he should proceed with Bucky coming here and you’d advised him to take it easy. Make Bucky choose when he would go somewhere. Show him the places he will feel secure in first, the rest later. Secure places were important if he would start feeling safe. ”You know you ease Steve’s mind a lot helping him out with how he should think”, now you turned to the redhead sitting beside you. She had a gentle expression, although her red hair framing her face made it look a bit more intense. ”It’s only my pleasure”, you shrugged before continuing. ”It would feel useless if I took my degree without even using it”, she almost snorted out a laugh when you said this. ”You remember that you worked as a psychotherapist, right? Because I do. So you shouldn’t feel your exam is useless. Although what you can feel a bit futile about is not helping Barnes with anything”, a chuckle escaped you, the closest you’d been to a laugh the past days. ”Thanks, Nat, made me feel good then turning it around against me, really nice”, she only smirked, while standing up. ”You know you should help him, your the only one in the actual team having the right knowledge about how to”, you stood up after what she said it, your thoughts immediately going back to the conversation you had with Steve those months ago. You couldn’t do it. ”You know I can’t, I’ll just ruin it”, she cocked an eyebrow towards you all the while she crossed her arms. ”Why are you helping Steve when he asks?” ”Because he needs help”, you didn’t hesitate on helping Steve, he was one of your closest friends, almost bordering to family for you. ”And Bucky doesn’t?” You were shocked, your mouth opening and closing without so much as a sound coming from it. In the end, you let your head fall, shaking it, in disappointment or ignorance, you couldn’t tell the difference. ”I thought so”, was Nat’s final words before opening the door and exiting.

Series taglist: @buckysforeverprincess