#mob!mcu

Word Count: 1,355

Four: The Girl

It’s been two weeks since he’s went to the Gentlemen’s Club. Paranoia’s a bitch, but so is anyone who tries to put the White Wolf in a cage. Bucky sits at his desk in his office, staring at thousands of scattered papers on his desk. Files and files and nothing. Nothing about who you were. Nothing about a new employee. Nothing about a girl with pink hair. Of course not, though. The pink hair was a fucking wig.

A knock on the door doesn’t make Bucky flinch at all, he just sits there. His eyes glued to useless pieces of paper. “Um, Sir. Wilson and Rogers-,”

“Send ‘em in,” Bucky cuts off Peter. Peter rushes out and returns with two men. Bucky sighs and finally looks away from his desk. He watches Steve and Sam shake their heads, eyes darting to the floor.

“Nothin’. Daisy says she hasn’t returned since that night,” Sam says.

“None of the other girls really talked to her, either. Just said she was sweet. Almost like she really didn’t fit in cause she was too damn nice. You sure we should even be looking for her,” Steve adds. Bucky shakes his head and looks out of the window, his palms pressed to his desk. He was annoyed. He was more paranoid than ever right now. There’s a loose end. You. You’re the loose end. He hates loose ends. Steve steps closer to the desk, sliding over an envelope.

The White Wolf hesitantly glances down in front of him, scared of what he’ll see. Last time he received an envelope, it was another doodle. This time, it was his goons, not him, in the drawing. Bucky clenches his jaw and takes the large yellow envelope into his hands. He opens it and slowly slides out a photo.

“But we did get this in a pile of junk mail on Sam’s desk,” Steve says proudly. Bucky furrows his brows and flips over the photo. His angry eyes relaxed. His tense shoulders fell in a soothing way. Bucky nods, his eyes studying the colored picture in his grasp.

The picture was clear as day. Different than anything he’s ever gotten. “Who was this taken by,” he mumbles. The guys shrug.

“There was no return address. No letter. Just the picture,” Sam says. Bucky stays quiet. Continues to examine the face in the picture. Steve and Sam stay quiet, quietly retreating out of the room and leaving Bucky with this. The two noticed that whenever Bucky was awfully quiet, he was thinking. And when he thinks, he’s thinking of a plan. And when he makes plans, he wants to be alone before he gets input from his men.

But they were wrong this time. Bucky wasn’t thinking. He was quiet because he didn’t know what to think. All he can think about is how beautifully photogenic you are. How different you look without the pink wig. And he swears, he fucking swears that this is the face of an angel. And if it wasn’t his guys who took the picture then you were being watched too. But why? Who the hell are you?

His fingers run over your lips in the photo. Your eyes were glued on something out of the frame. You looked.. happy. There was light in your eyes. You looked completely different, yet the same. Bucky shakes his head in confusion. Who could’ve sent this to him? Bucky’s mind was going through every possibility. Every sloppy corner he’s turned. Every person he’s passed. Every phone call he’s received, made. His eyes flicker to every corner of the photo. Every aspect, every little detail. His eyes scan your face again. That damn smile on your lips.

Bucky gets up, the picture still between his fingers as he walks over to the window. Your eyes reminded him of the sun. Bright, full of life. It’s hard for him to keep believing that you’re the dreadful artist who uses him as their main focal point. He sighs and paces back to his desk, taking a piece of tape and sticking it to the top of the photo. He walks back over to his window and sticks the picture of you onto the glass. He sighs and steps back, his thumb pressing down on the tape to secure it in place. He drops his hands, stuffing them in his pockets as his eyes try to imagine the moment this candid photo captures you in. You had to have known your photo was being taken. This is too clear to be taken from afar. Bucky groans angrily, walking over to his scotch shelf. He angrily grabs a drink, pours it in a glass full of ice and rips off his tie as he drinks the cold alcohol.

Bucky’s eyes flicker to the photo again, and he furrows his brows. He sets down his glass and walks back to the window. He lifts up his hand, leaning closer to the picture. There were silhouettes of words in the photo. As if this picture was placed over something. His eyes scan every inch of the glossy paper. His fingertips stops at the corner. He begins to pick away something. It was intentional, this little slither of paper peeling back. He groans, ripping the stupid helping flab. He switches his techniques and began scratching away pixels of the image and notices more words. “What the fuck,” he mutters as he continues to scratch away the picture of you.

He stumbles back and bumps into his desk. “How the fuck,” he whispers as his eyes squint at the dissolved photo of your pretty face. He shakes his head and grabs his phone, frantically calling Steve and Sam- whom are probably in his living room talking to Peter. Bucky’s eyes scan the glossy paper taped to his window. The words staring right back at him.  

⚂ ⚂ ⚂

Brock watches you stick your tongue out, showing him the three yellow pills. He watches you swallow them, grabbing your jaw tightly as he opens your mouth, examining every little corner. “Good girl.”

You roll your eyes and push away his hand. He sighs and watches you stand up and brush past him. “Can I go,” you ask. He shakes his head as he turns to you.

“Now, why on earth would I let you outta my sight again, baby,” he rhetorically asks. He chuckles and walks over to you. He wraps his hands around your waist, turning you to face him. “You’re so pretty. But you know that, right?”

You stay quiet. You avoid eye contact with him which only makes him angry. And you know that. But you don’t care. It’s tiring. Pretending to care. Pretending to love him. Your “fiancé”.

Brock looks behind you, tilting his chin up. He sends a look over to Rollins. Rollins nods and turns on his heels, walking into another room. “My love. I have something for you,” Brock says as his hands caress your face. Your eyes meet his. And you couldn’t believe that this man was once good. He was such a sweetheart. But maybe that was just because you were vulnerable and heartbroken.

His pal returns with an envelope in his hands. Your fiancé slash boss releases your face from his grasp and grabs the envelope from his partners hand and hands it to you.

“What’s this,” you ask, your brows furrowed. Brock shrugs, a sweet smile on his face.

“Call it an early wedding gift.” He watches you twist the metal clasp. You stick your fingers in, pulling out a blank, glossy paper. You turn it around and see more blankness. You look back up to Brock.

“There’s nothin-,”

“Oh, shit. Right. Cause it’s a video that I wanna show you. Come here, darling,” he says as he grabs your hand and leads you to his computer. He pulls you in front of him, his hands resting on your waist as your back is flushed against his chest. “Press. Play,” he whispers. You inhale a deep breath and press play. The sound of a laugh- the sound of your laugh booms through the speakers.

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‣ the taglist IS open. so sorrrrry for being late smh ihms