#mob au

If you weren’t such a coward, you’d ask where you’re going. Questions don’t get you answers, just a lecture… often more than. You flip open your clutch and pull out your phone. It’s close to noon already.

“What’s going on?” Steve glances at you in the mirror.

“Just… checking the time.” You say.

“Oh? You got somewhere else to be?” He challenges.

You cough and shove your phone away. “No, I was just… curious.” You feel around the silk lining and panic. You squirm and search, finding nothing but your lip gloss and folding mirror. “Oh no…”

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He runs his hand up your thigh.

“I think maybe I dropped my wallet back at the hotel.” You gulp.

“Nah,” he hums softly. “You’re good, doll. I got you.”

“You…”

“I had to look into a few things. That’s all.” He flicks his finger along your skirt. “I got you all tucked up in my pocket.”

You peek at him. You don’t know if he means your wallet or if it's a metaphor. You feel like you are in his pocket.

“Oh, okay.” You utter softly.

“Figured I’d need your car brought around mine. And I got my guys headed down to your place on Miranda…”

“You know where I live?”

“Lived.” He taps your leg with his palm. “I told you, didn’t I? I’m gonna take care of you. I’m home now, sweetheart.”

Your throat is so tight it hurts. You brush your fingers up and down and chew your lip. You don’t know how to get out of this. He’s just some guy, right? He can’t make you do all this.

“Steve,” You say cautiously. “We just met last night.”

“Love at first sight.” He grins, squeezing your leg. “Isn’t it a dream?”

“Steve,” you repeat, softer. “Please, I don’t think I’m ready–”

“You’re scared.” He interrupts. “You don’t gotta be. You’re thinking too much. I got you, doll. You just need to relax.” His fingers crawl down your skirt. “Alright?”

He edges under the hem and pushes it up little by little. You clamp your legs together as your whole body goes stiff. You catch his wrist with both hands.

“Now, sweetheart, I’m driving.” He pinches you.

“Steve, stop. I can’t. I… we barely know each other. You’re– you’re scaring me.”

He huffs. “You’re scaring yourself. I told ya, don’t overthink it. I mean, we work so good together.” He growls. “I know you felt what I felt last night. I felt it. Around me.” His voice trembles and he sucks in a gritty breath. “The way I didn’t wanna get out of you, the way you didn’t want me to neither.”

“Steve…”

He bends his fingers and digs his nails into your skin. You whimper and twitch. He growls and rips his hand away, leaving scratches across your thigh.

“I know you feel it,” He grips the wheel with both hands and turns suddenly without signalling. “I know, baby. Thing is, you’re too good. You can’t let yourself just feel how you feel. I saw it last night. You were so shy…” He clucks and turns again, steering behind an old industrial building. “You can’t hide from me. No, you stuck right out. The only one I could look at.”

He veers into the lot and twists the wheel, stopping sharply by the back wall of the abandoned warehouse. He inhales so his chest puffs out and cracks his neck. He clicks free his seat belt then leans forward and pulls the lever under his seat, sliding it back to its limit.

“I just gotta remind you,” he unbuckles his belt as his jaw clenches around his words. “You gotta remember.” He reaches into his pants and pulls himself out through his fly. He pumps himself a few times before he’s hard.

“What are you–” You reach blindly for the door but the handle does nothing.

“Get on.” He snarls.

“What?” You squeak.

“Get on me now, sweetheart.” He grits. “Cause you’re getting me all worked up and it’s your job to calm me down.”

“I… I don’t want to, Steve.” You twist around and pull at the door handle, fumbling to find the lock. “I want to go–”

He grabs your arm and wrenches you back. Your elbow hits the shifter and you yipe. You writhe around and clutch at his fingers as you try to get free. “Please, I’m scared of you–”

“You’re scared of yourself. Of how good it feels cause baby I know no one else makes you cum the way I do,” he sneers as he pushes himself out of his seat. He reaches under you and slides your seat back too. 

“Steve!” You exclaim and he clings to your wrist. “Please.”

“Shhhh,” he hushes you as he climbs across, so big that his movement is awkward and stunted. 

He kicks the glove box as he angles over you. You push your knees up against him, fighting to keep him over you. He let go of your wrist and stretches his hand around your jaw. He rests his forehead against yours, his nose aligned to yours.

“Let me in, baby.” He growls. “I don’t wanna hurt you. I haven’t, have I?”

“You are… now—”

“Open up, doll.” He slithers and tilts his head to kiss you. His tongue glides across your lips and you turn your head. He smears a line of saliva across your cheek.

“Steve, please.” you beg and push on his chest.

He stabbed you in the gut, then fled leaving the knife in your stomach. Unfortunately for you, when you pulled the knife from your stomach, the police were barging into your house. From their perspective it looked like you killed your mother.

You maintained your innocence, but your story sounded farfetched. You had an alibi for the morning, but they argued that you had time to kill her when you got home. During the trial, they decided to charge you as an adult even though you were only 16. The court appointed lawyer wasn’t on your side, telling you to take a plea deal. You refused, and were found guilty of the murder of your mother. You were sentenced to 45 years in prison.

The case was famous. A lot of people thought your story was ridiculous. Some saying you had made a mockery of the trail, by saying some random man came in. Others, who knew you personally, refused to believe that you would do anything like that.

None of that mattered. Only two things were relevant. The first being that you were innocent and the second being that you were going to prison anyway.

While you’re in prison, you do a lot of thinking. There’s not much else to do. Your mother, your friends, your education, and your future; gone forever.

The years before you turned 18 were the worst of it. When you’re that young amongst the inmates you become a target. You had to learn to be strong, seem imposing, so that no one would fuck with you.

You were spending your formative years, trying not to die. At first you didn’t understand why. What was the point of living if this was your life? That was until you had your first visitation.

Kate had come to see you and she brought Peter with her. They had been with you that day your mother was murdered. The pair was certain that you were innocent. They always visited, always wrote, and swore that one day they would get you out. You appreciated the sentiment, but part of you had just accepted your fate.

A decade passes you in prison. You got your GED through a program. You spent most of your time reading or working out. There wasn't anyone you had gotten close to or mingled with. Everyone knew not to bother you at this point.

“Y/n, visitation time,” a guard calls into your cell.

You sigh, but get up and follow the officer out of your cell. When you get to the room you spot Peter and Kate instantly. However, they have someone else with them.

A beautiful woman. Her red hair was tied back in a pony tail, a few pieces stuck out to frame her face. Her green eyes were only soft in color, otherwise the stare they had felt meticulous.

You sit down with your friends and the stranger, “You brought a lawyer.”

“Y/n, this is Natasha,” Kate introduces.

The woman sticks her hand out and you shake it respectfully. The name sounds familiar to you, but you don’t place it immediately.

“Your girlfriend’s sister?” You recall that Kate’s mentioned her name in letters before.

“Natasha’s also one of the best lawyers of our time,” Peter says cautiously.

It’s been 10 years, they know how you feel about this. You hate that you made yourself a part of their life in this way. Something they refuse to let go of that only holds them back. You’re never getting out of here.

“I’ve looked over all the public details of your case and I’m certain that I can get you out,” Natasha speaks flatly.

“But…” You wait for the punchline.

“Did you kill your mother?”

Peter and Kate’s jaws drop. The audacity of Natasha to ask you this question. It almost sends them both into a frenzy. You can see the argument building on their lips.

You give them a look, and the theatrics stop. You shift your gaze over to Natasha. Your eyes bore into hers. For a small moment, you let the prisoner persona drip off of you. Once again, you’re that 16-year-old standing in the courtroom.

“No,” it’s a whisper from your lips. “I didn’t kill my mom.”

Natasha nods curtly, “Do you agree to have me as your lawyer?”

“Yes.”

Natasha stands, “Good, you sit tight and you’ll be out in no time.”

“Natasha,” you say her name before she walks off, “Thank you.”

She sends you a very small smile before exiting the visitation area.

“You’re going to be a free woman soon Y/n,” Kate says with certainty.

You shake your head, “I told you guys-”

Peter cuts you off, “We know, but Y/n we won't let you rot in here any longer. 10 years of your life wasted. You had dreams and aspirations.”

“You still draw on all the letters you send. Remember you were supposed to be an artist? Your paintings in galleries all over the world,” Kate reaches across the table to grab your hand.

“Even if I did get out of here, I don't know what I would do. You guys, I have nothing to my name, except a murder charge,” you keep your gaze on the table.

“You have us,” Peter says with conviction in his voice.

Kate squeezes your hand, “Y/n, we’ve been waiting for you to come home for a long time. Everything is going to be handled, you just have to trust us.”

“Time’s up.”

Before the guard drags you out, Peter and Kate give you a brief group hug. The guard allows it and you break the hug.

“I trust you,” you tell them before walking back to your jail cell.

The rest of the day passes by normally. The following morning when your cell opens, your bunk mate is pulled out.

You don't think anything of it as it's not your business.

However they never make it back. Instead a blonde woman you haven’t seen before comes in. Her hair is wavy and parted to the side. She has brown eyes, too kind looking to be in a prison.

The cell door slams behind her.

“I’m Carol,” she has no hesitation approaching you.

“Y/n,” you state definitively.

She pulls a paper out of the front of her jumpsuit and extends it to you. You stare at her blankly. She shakes the paper out, “This is from the boss.”

You shake your head, “Listen I've been in here 10 years, I’m not joining some gang. I can take care of myself.”

Carol lets out an amused huff of air, “You met her wife yesterday.”

You furrow your brow, “Natasha?”

Carol nods.

You cautiously take the paper from her. It’s a hand written note.

Dear Y/n,

We haven’t met yet, but I know who you are. Peter and Kate speak fondly of you. They miss you. Beyond that they are convinced of your innocence. Their words are pure to me. I’ve known them a long time, they’re family. They’ve never asked me for anything, in all these years. Yet, they come to me asking if I could help free you. I plan on making good on this favor for them. I could’ve had you out today, if they let me throw my weight around a bit, but they wanted this to be clean. My wife is the best lawyer walking this planet. Don’t just expect your freedom, but expect some compensation for wrongful imprisonment. If you’re family to Kate and Peter, then you’re family to me. I look forward to breaking bread with you.

~ Don W. Maximoff

You read over the signature a few times. Don W. Maximoff. Your hands shake a little. In the 10 years that you spent in this prison hearing about the Don was inevitable. The name is feared by most. It’s the kind of name you only whisper and even then, it’s dangerous.

“Don’t shake so much kid, you’re under protection from now on. You don’t realize it yet, but life is much better with the Don on your side. Even in here,” Carol hand clasps onto your shoulder.

All you can do is nod. Her hand comes off of you and she retreats into the top bunk.

You lay down on your back, staring straight up at the bottom mattress of the top bunk bed. A million thoughts racing through your head, but one sticks out.

“Carol,” you call out to her.

“Yeah,” she hums in response.

“Do I write back?”

The entire evening had been a mistake.

One failure after the other. One wrong glance stacked on the next, following her like vultures throughout the night. Whispers behind her back that tracked her every move, always clinging to her, always taunting.

It had been a disaster, and the worst of it? Bucky didn’t seem to realize.

Not a single worry line appeared on his forehead, his brows never furrowed like they so often did, his eyes never turned into that dark and menacing stare he sometimes came home with after a particular rough day. Nothing. As if gossip didn’t touch or concern him. Well, it obviously did not, because he was James Buchanan Barnes, leader not only of New York City’s underworld but of the underworld of the entire East Coast. He didn’t concern himself with the gossip of the minor families. But she was fair game—and everyone made sure she knew.

Sometimes, YN asked herself how the hell she had ended up as the girlfriend of America’s most notorious mafia leader. She didn’t belong in this world—her family never had troubles with the law or ever even gained a speeding ticket—and yet, she couldn’t withstand the charm of one Bucky Barnes after quite literally running into him on her way home from work. He had insisted on buying her dinner because she had dropped her overly overpriced Whole Foods salad she had just gotten after working another night of grueling overtime at the law firm she had just transferred to. Usually, she wasn’t the type of woman who would agree to dinner with a literal stranger, but something of Bucky Barnes had compelled her to throw everything she knew out of the literal window. It turned out to be the most fun she had had in a while, she had to give him that after hours of flowing, easy conversation, quick banter, and lingering smiles and thrown glances.

The night had ended with his number in her phone—he hadn’t asked for hers because, in his opinion, the woman should have all the power over the matter of reaching out again or not, effectively ghosting the guy she didn’t feel comfortable with in the “worst” case—and from there, everything seemed to be history.

“You are so quiet and far away over there, love.” His smooth, soft words pulled YN right out of her thoughts, but she couldn’t bear to look over at him, sitting on the other side of the backseat of the expensive Mercedes Maybach. Usually, she would hold at least his hand, fingers laced, and his thumb would rub patterns onto her skin, only he knew the meaning of, but not tonight. Tonight, she felt like a peasant dressing up and playing masquerade in the glittering world of the filthy rich. When she didn’t answer, she heard the leather as Bucky slowly turned to her and felt his gaze watching her intently, as if she was a piece of one of the old masters he considered buying—and not to hang it in his brownstone, or townhouse on the Upper East Side, or the family home just outside the city. No, he would lock it away in some vault or another.

YN had never understood it and probably would never understand because she would never buy something this expensive in her lifetime, only to lock it underground.

Silence stretched between them, and not the companionable kind. Everything was different tonight, and it physically hurt her to think about what this could all mean. Not only for her, but for them. Perhaps he would wake one fine morning in the middle of the week and realize what a horrible match he had made with her and would just send her back into the world, fighting for herself again, finding someone of better rank and better breeding.

How she had learned to loathe that phrase ever since being his plus one for the first time.

“YNN,” he spoke again with soft urgency in his tone. Bucky knew her too well, she now realized. Blinking, her eyes watched the passing streetlights on their way home. “I’m just tired, Bucky. It was a long day.” A bullshit excuse because if she were so tired, she would have snuggled into his side the moment both of them had entered the car, falling asleep on his shoulder with his lips pressed to her hairline.

Bucky knew that, too, but didn’t press the matter. Not now, at least.

It changed when the Maybach stopped in front of the townhouse she had grown to love so dearly; it would hurt her to leave it behind. The view across Central Park on the uppermost floor and patio was breathtaking every moment of every day.

Opening the door without waiting for Bucky to round the car and open it for her, YN climbed onto the sidewalk, the noise of Manhattan surrounding her, and her heels carried her across the stone toward the entrance, passerby instinctively waiting to let the woman in the evening gown pass. “YNN. Love, wait.” He tried to be calm in public, she knew, because he wasn’t one of those people who fought openly on the streets unless absolutely necessary. But she didn’t wait; instead, she opened the door to the townhouse with the fingerprint scanner to her right, pushing the masterfully crafted iron door open and vanishing behind it, hearing Bucky huff in frustration as he closed it behind himself.

“Would you mind telling me what has gotten into you? Something clearly happened, and don’t try to sell me some sorry excuse, love.” He was angry—finally something they had in common tonight—and she huffed softly while kicking off those torturous heels she already had to wear every day when she headed to work. Even quiet nights at home on her rare nights without work had been taken from her. “Go and ask your dear friends to hear what exactly has gotten into me,” YN mumbled, pulling her phone out of the clutch she had probably strangled at some point during this evening. Notifications of work-related emails and some newsletter or another scrolled across the glass, and she wiped them all away, only to face her lock screen without obstacles.

A picture of Bucky and her at Santa Monica Pier, her sitting on the railing with Bucky’s sunglasses propped on her nose she had stolen from his only moments before Steve had taken the picture, grinning brightly and raising a hand to wave at Steve, Bucky’s arm protectively wrapped around her waist as he stood right next to her, looking at her with a smile so filled with love, it almost shocked her every time she saw it. It had been such a perfect day that not even the sunburn on her nose could ruin it.

One of his hands took hold of her arm and gently turned her to face him, a finger under YN’s chin made her powerless to look anywhere but into his eyes. They were so incredibly blue, she sometimes lost herself in them when she wasn’t careful enough. And now, they stared at her in confusion and something else. “What would they tell me, love? Hm? I would prefer to hear it from you.”

It was almost laughable how clueless he seemed to be if it wasn’t so sad. With a flip of her chin, she released herself from his hold and took a step back, away from him and his distracting closeness, because she wasn’t as headstrong if he was too close. “You know exactly what they would tell you, Bucky. It’s the same tune they have sung since the first time I showed up at one of their precious gatherings, intruding into their sacred halls, dripping and sparkling with gold no normal person would ever be able to afford. And that’s what I am: normal. Ordinary. Not of the respectable and acceptable breed to mingle with everyone.” YN took a steadying breath before she continued. “I am scrutinized whenever I dare to show my face right next to yours. Does anyone care that I was the best of my class at Yale? Or that I am one of the youngest partners the law firm has ever appointed, and that I do a hell of a job? No, of course not. Because that’s nothing they care for. All they care about is money, family, and connections. Things I cannot provide. Everything else is secondary at best.”

Bucky watched her ranting, eyes focused on her face, never letting it out of sight. And when she finished, he slowly cocked a dark brow ever so slightly. “I think you give too much on gossip, YNN,” he started to smile, making her irritated. A frustrated sound escaped her, and she slammed the phone on the sideboard lining the hallway opposite the grand staircase.

“You don’t get it. People like you don’t end up with people like me!”

And that was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? She was no one in everyone’s eyes. Just a tiny light easily diminished if they just so much as pleased it. Just a lawyer with a fancy corner office and nothing else to her name. They never even heard of it before Bucky had tucked her into his side and turned her into something else, something seemingly important but not important or special at all, as soon as they had gathered firsthand evidence. Just a fluke. Nothing more. The older ladies with unmarried daughters or granddaughters of the right age whispered behind her back how Bucky would easily tire of her, and then their time would come, because everyone wanted a piece of the most powerful man they knew.

And that jewel had been stolen by a peasant thief.

Bucky’s soft and melodic chuckle forced YN to stare him into the ground, but his delight and love were too strong for her to budge under her gaze. He didn’t even flinch and instead pushed both his hands into the pockets of his perfectly tailored black slacks.

“The ring in my pocket begs to differ, my dear.”

She wanted to scream. “You still don’t get it, you moron! You—… The what?” Only after her little outburst did her mind process his words, forcing her to pause and blink. Had he actually said what her mind struggled to accept?

Bucky sighed softly and stepped up to her, closing the distance physically and emotionally. “You heard me right, dearest.” With that, his hands pulled from his pockets, and a wine-red velvet box appeared between his fingers. He didn’t open it, just let her take it in before her eyes jumped back up to his, staring without daring to breathe. “I couldn’t care less what everyone is talking behind our backs because I have learned something ever since meeting you and guilt-tripping you into a dinner date with a stranger.” That made YN laugh under her breath. “Everyone has their expectations of life and how they want to live it—my parents certainly had them for me, but above all, they wanted me to find real love. The kind of love you crave coming home to every day. The kind that ignites you and makes you want to become a better man. I have found that with you, YNN. And I do not doubt the fact that I want to spend the rest of my life with you. It’s as easy as that. And if you want that too, then I suggest you stop ruining my attempts of proposing properly to the most incredible woman I had ever the pleasure of running into, okay?”

Nodding with tears in her eyes, YN cupped his face with both her hands, coaxing him down to kiss his soft lips, and Bucky happily obliged after putting the ring box back into the pocket of his slacks. “I’m sorry if I overreacted,” she whispered against his skin and felt his strong arms wrapping around her lower back, being pulled into his strong body honed by hours of training. “Don’t apologize, my love. We just have to get you a better armor against the evil vipers in the pits of hell.” His smirk was almost wolfish, devilish even, kissing her again. “Perhaps wearing my name will help you, my dear,” followed in a whisper YN felt more than she heard before a laugh was ripped out of her when Bucky hoisted her into his arms, carrying her upstairs with laughable ease, and making sure she understood who she belonged to since the day they met.

“Oh.” Dennis said meekly. The two men in front of him only laughed. Of course they did. They probably dealt with stuff like this all the time. Some random person messing up their trade. And now Dennis would have to pay for it.

“You cost us a pretty penny for…” the one on the left started. He had the gray hair, though the one on the right had flecks of white in his beard. “Shit, a couple of textbooks? Nothing that interesting… a few clothes, too.” Dennis failed to hold back the tears that were blurring his view of the bricks in the bag. It wouldn’t do anything.

“Yeah,” Dennis croaked. He didn’t know why he said anything, but he’d be dead soon anyway. It didn’t matter. “I don’t have anywhere to go so… it’s all in there.”

“Hm.” the man continued. “Aw. How cute, a sketchbook too. Basic anatomy book right next to the ratty thing. What, you an artist?”

“No.” Dennis said, voice flat even as more tears fell. He reached his hand in the bag and poked at the bricks. It was probably worth more than Dennis ever had. Enough to pay off his parent’s debt, maybe. “I wanted to be a doctor. I was gonna save lives or something.”

The sound of more of his belongings being pulled made Dennis glance up. Most of the stuff he really cared about had been left behind. Everything in that bag wasn't important. Well, they were, but Dennis didn't think trying to fight for any of the items to hold onto was worth it. He wiped his palm across his cheek.

The textbooks hit the desk first, then the laptop. They were all placed on the desk that stood between him and the men. Being dragged through the place had scared Dennis. In another life, he would have been in awe. He had been in awe. There had still been too much fear to properly appreciate the architecture. All he really processed was how much it must have cost.

When his clothes got thrown on the desk, Dennis choked. It sucked to see his whole life just laid out like that. Everything he owned fit in one bag with nothing to show for it but a steaming pile of debt. There would be no one to bury his body. He didn't have an emergency contact and it wasn't like his family would go looking for him.

"Only two pairs of scrubs?" the man on the right asked. Dennis nodded. If he spoke now, it would only turn into sobs. Might as well try to keep some of his dignity. "You don't even have night clothes in here."

"They--" Dennis sucked in a breath as more tears ran down his face and the sob broke free. It took a few more seconds to compose himself properly. If Dennis was delusional, he would have thought both the men seemed to pity him. "--They took up too much space. I sold them so I could have dinner."

Silence.

Nothing from either men was worse than them saying anything. Dennis curled around the backpack in his lap, sobbing into the thing. Of course it wasn't his. This backpack actually held up to being used as a stuffed animal. Dennis' would've ripped or made the already existing hole bigger as his nails dug into it. He didn't care about the nice cushion on the chair as he curled his legs up, too. If he could have at least one thing before he died, he would let himself have the comfort of finally crying.

Something scraped across the table and Dennis gasped as he looked up with wide eyes. He blinked fast and hard to see what the men had set down and--

Water. A glass of water. Dennis stared at it and heaved a deep breath.

"Small sips," Right said, "Came from this." He held up a fancy looking bottle of water. Dennis sniffed and looked between the glass the man held and the one in front of him. He reached forward with a shaking hand and listened. "Where are you doing your rotations?" Dennis took a few sips as he tried to get his breathing under control.

"The PTMC," he said. He set the water back on the desk. He had better control of his breathing now, if not the tears that were still pouring down his face. It probably looked pathetic to the two men, eyes red and puffy with his whole life in one bag. Dennis wished he had anything he could even beg for. "It's my emergency rotation. I don't... Sorry, I don't know why I'm telling you that." Left hummed. Dennis sniffed and wiped under his nose with the back of his hand. He kept his gaze firmly away from their faces. If he looked this pathetic, he didn't want to see the disgust they held.

"Oh, um," Dennis sniffled again as he started unwrapping from the backpack. It took more effort than he'd like to admit to heft the thing onto the desk and shove it in the men's direction. "Sorry."

Another bout of silence before the two men started conversing. Dennis couldn't understand them. It took him a few seconds to recognize the language, not that it helped any. Hebrew. He had a theology professor who insisted they learn at least one prayer: The Shema. It was important to know someone's faith in order to best help them with their journey, his professor said.

"Not everyone you come across needing help will be of your faith. You must respect that." Dennis smiled at the memory. He muttered the prayer under his breath, brows furrowed together as he focused on the pronunciation. He didn't even hear the two men falter than stop as he spoke. When he finished, his tears were slower.

"You're Jewish?" Right asked. Dennis jumped, not expecting the question. He shook his head and pulled his legs back onto the chair. He still shivered despite his attempt to stop.

"I grew up Christian," he said, "I don't know what I am anymore."

"Huh." Left said. Then, there was the sound of the chairs scraping. Dennis squeezed his eyes shut and pulled himself into a tighter ball. "We'll be right back. We need to discuss something. Just stay right there, pup." A hand land in his curls and Dennis didn't know whether to pull away from the dangerous hand or press into the last soft touch he might ever receive. The sound of the door closing and locking came soon after.

Being left in the room meant Dennis could walk around. He thought he probably should. Give in to the short lived freedom he earned but he was just... so tired. How bad was this, really? Just because he didn't have anything to show for in life didn't mean finally resting would be all that bad. Dennis had hoped he would die of old age. That must not have been how he was meant to live.

Dennis stayed curled up on the chair, although he loosened a little. Let himself drift and sleep before the eternal slumber. He could do whatever he wanted and there would be no real consequence, so why not waste his last few hours napping?

The door opened again with a loud click and whoosh. Dennis didn't even bother opening his eyes. They could just deal with him here. Dennis didn't care anymore.

"Alright, here's the plan," Left said, "You're going into emergency medicine." Dennis' head whipped up at that. It hurt his neck a little, how fast he moved. The crust in his eyes from crying so much made it hard to see, but when he wiped it away, standing just behind the two men was Jesse van Horn. Dennis knew Jesse. Jesse worked at the hospital as a nurse.

"What..." Dennis rubbed one eye just to be sure. Still Jesse.

"Jesse will be your bodyguard," Right said, "And you won't say a word about any of this to anyone."

"Aren't you going to kill me?" Dennis blurted out. Not the best thing to say but it was all Dennis could think. He was supposed to be dead or on his way to being dead. Not... being assigned a nurse he talked to almost every day as his bodyguard.

"That was the plan," Left said, "New plan. You're our partner."

"I don't want to sell drugs." Dennis said. Dumb. Idiotic.

"No, not in that way."

But still, you told yourself it was a fluke. A weird week. Hormones, maybe. You didn’t want to worry Bucky. Not when things had been so peaceful lately with quiet mornings curled together in bed, more meals together, and late-night walks with his hand brushing yours. You didn’t want to ruin it with paranoia.

Still, Bucky noticed. Of course he did.

You’d catch him watching you, brow furrowed slightly like he was running numbers in his head. When you started getting lightheaded every time you stood up too fast, he stopped letting you carry anything heavier than a throw pillow. You tried to wave him off, but he didn’t say much, just kept that steady gaze on you like he was trying to crack a code you hadn’t realized you were writing.

You weren’t hiding what was going on for some grand plan or secret rebellion. It was fear. And maybe… maybe a little bit of disbelief. If you didn’t say it out loud, if you didn’t name it, then maybe you could keep everything as it was. Simple, safe, and normal.

So you smiled through the nausea, blamed the headaches on allergies, and quietly swapped your morning coffee for tea when Bucky wasn’t looking. You were careful. You hid your vitamins behind the cereal boxes and kept the pregnancy test buried under old wash clothes and unused toiletries in the very back of the bathroom drawer.

You were good at pretending, but Bucky was better at watching.

He saw the way you flinched from certain smells, the way your body gravitated toward the couch faster than usual after a long day, or the way your hand went protectively to your stomach whenever you thought no one was looking.

And then came the mood swings.

You were usually patient, especially with him, but one night you snapped at Bucky for leaving a dish in the sink. He didn’t even argue, just tilted his head, studying you quietly as you stormed out of the room like your heart was on fire.

He found you in the bedroom twenty minutes later curled into a ball, blanket pulled over your face like you could hide from the world.

“Wanna talk?” He asked, voice soft.

You didn’t answer, just shook your head.

He didn’t press. He just sat beside the bed quietly until you fell asleep.

And still… you didn’t tell him.

You wanted to be sure. You wanted time to think. You wanted to hold onto the tiny, flickering hope for just a little longer, uninterrupted.

So you waited and you planned.

One quiet morning, when Bucky left early for a training session, you slipped into the bathroom with shaking hands and another test clenched tight in your fist. The mirror showed a pale version of yourself, someone who was nervous, uncertain, and blinking too fast.

You followed the instructions with breathless precision and set the test on the counter like it might explode.

Then you waited. Two minutes. You could survive two minutes.

Except you didn’t feel like you were surviving. You felt like you were floating and sinking all at once, like the air had turned to static and your bones were filled with buzzing dread. Your gaze shifted to the drawer where the old tests were.

Maybe they were faulty or glitched, maybe even expired. Maybe this was just stress, or a weird shift in your cycle. Maybe your body was playing tricks.

You hoped so.

Because your hands were shaking, your mouth was dry, and your head kept looping the same thought like it was stuck on a scratched record:

You still haven’t told Bucky.

The subject of kids had never come up, not seriously. There were no “what-ifs,” no late-night talks about futures with cribs or lullabies. You didn’t know if he even wanted them. What if he didn’t? What if the idea of a baby scared him and pushed him back into memories too dark to name?

Your stomach twisted. Not from nausea, though that hadn’t exactly eased, but from the gut-deep fear that this one thing, this one tiny life-altering truth might shift everything between you. Bucky loved you. That wasn’t in question. He told you in every touch, every breath, and every stupid middle-of-the-night trip for snacks you hadn’t even realized you were craving.

But love didn’t always mean ready.

And the last thing you wanted was to see anger on his face. Or worse, disappointment. Cold, quiet regret. A sharp flinch that said I wasn’t expecting this. I didn’t want this. A withdrawal.

And when the lines appeared clear, certain, and real, your stomach dropped. You slid down onto the cool tile floor and stared because it was happening. You were pregnant, no doubts about it. And Bucky didn’t know.

You stayed in the bathroom longer than you meant to. Long enough that, when the front door creaked open, you jumped, heart lodging in your throat. Bucky’s voice echoed softly down the hall.

“Sweetheart? I forgot my gloves–”

Panic surged through you. You shoved the test back in its box and crammed it under the sink, slamming the cabinet door closed, standing back up just as Bucky rounded the corner into the hallway.

He paused when he saw you, your wet eyes, tense shoulders, and breath caught halfway to a sob.

You really weren’t as convincing as you thought.

“…You okay?” He asked gently, blue eyes narrowing with something deeper than concern. “You look… pale.”

You forced a smile that hurt. “Just tired.”

He studied you like he didn’t quite believe you, then stepped forward and raised a hand to your forehead. His touch was careful, the brush of his fingers cool against your skin.

“No fever,” He murmured. “But your heart’s racing.”

“I said I’m fine,” You said a little too fast.

That look came over him again. The one that meant he was filing something away, mentally circling something he couldn’t yet name.

“…Alright,” He sighed softly. “I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t go fainting on me.”

You nodded, lips pressed tight.

He kissed the top of your head before heading back out the door, but you could feel the weight of his concern even after it shut behind him.

He knew something was going on. He just didn’t know what. Not yet.

At least, that’s what you thought.

Bucky didn’t ask what was wrong, but he made it impossible for you not to notice that he knew.

It was in the subtle things. You reached for the car keys one morning and found one of his men already standing by the door, your coat in hand, saying, “Mr. Barnes has requested I drive you.”

When you went to brew coffee, there was suddenly a mug of herbal tea beside your usual spot, caffeine-free, floral, and warm.

“I just thought you might want something gentler,” He said with a shrug, eyes fixed on the kettle like he hadn’t spent ten minutes researching safe teas and had them delivered the day of.

You told yourself it was coincidence, that you weren’t being obvious, that he couldn’t possibly know.

But then you caught him watching you when you sat on the couch and curled your arms around your stomach, something you did more and more without thinking. He didn’t comment, just gave you that look. That look.

Gentle. Patient. Heartbreaking.

And you knew. He was waiting. He’d already figured it out.

You came home one evening quite late, exhausted and foggy with emotion. Bucky had left a blanket folded over the back of the couch, soft and warm. The fireplace was already lit. There was soup in the kitchen made by Nico. Something mild, simple, and exactly what your stomach could handle lately. He didn’t greet you at the door, didn’t hover. Just let you ease into the silence of the house as he was sat on the couch with a discarded book, staring patiently.

He was giving you a choice.

“Thought you were busy, didn’t think you’d be down here,” You murmured.

“Didn’t think you’d be home so late,” He answered, and you caught the quiet worry behind the words.

You sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, neither of you saying anything for a long time. The crackling of the fire filling the space.

Then he asked, so quietly it nearly broke you, “You gonna tell me?”

Your breath caught.

“I mean… when you’re ready,” He added quickly. “I’m not going to force it out of you. I just…”

He paused, looking down at his hands, then up at you again.

“I just want you to know I already got you. No matter what it is.”

Your eyes stung. You didn’t say it yet. Not out loud.

But your hand found his, fingers weaving slow and certain. Holding on.

And Bucky didn’t push. He just laced your fingers together and waited with you.

The fateful day happened on a Tuesday.

Not a dramatic day. Not a falling-apart kind of day. Just… a Tuesday. The kind where your lunch didn’t settle right and everything felt a little too loud.

Bucky had been trailing the edges of your space again. Not smothering, just there. Like gravity that’s always near, always steady.

He hadn’t asked again, but he left things: crackers in your bag, your favorite fuzzy socks on the bed, or a bottle of ginger ale already opened with the fizz just right. You didn’t have to tell him. Somehow, Bucky knew the shape of your day before you could say it.

And maybe that’s what broke you.

Because when he found you that evening, curled in on yourself on the edge of the bed, blanket half-dragged over your lap and your hands clutched tight in your sleeves; you looked up, met his worried blue eyes, and said it.

“James,” You whispered, voice wrecked and tired.

His whole body went still, like he’d been holding his breath for weeks. “Yeah?”

“I’m pregnant.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Bucky exhaled, slow and trembling, like you’d cracked something open in his chest.

“I know,” He said gently, stepping forward and kneeling in front of you. “I figured.”

Tears burned behind your eyes. “Then why didn’t you say anything?”

His hands came up to rest on your knees, tentative and warm. “Because I didn’t want to take it from you.”

You blinked. “Take what?”

“The chance to say ii, to let it be yours first.” His voice cracked, quiet and tender. “You needed to hold it for a while before sharing it. I get that.”

You stared at him, lip trembling. “Aren’t you mad I didn’t tell you sooner?”

“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmured, brushing your hair behind your ear, “I was never gonna be mad.”

You broke then as your sobs spilled out and your hands trembled. Bucky gathered you close without a second thought. He rocked you gently, murmuring things you didn’t catch.

When your tears slowed, and your breathing steadied, he kissed the side of your head and said quietly, “We’re gonna be okay. All three of us.”

You nodded into his shoulder, still shaking. “I’m scared.”

“I know,” He whispered, pulling the blanket around both of you. “But I’m here and I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time in weeks, the fear didn’t feel so overwhelming.

But then it started the day after you told him.

At first, it was subtle. Bucky adjusted your car seat a little further back and mumbled something about “spinal alignment.” Then he replaced your shampoo with one that had “better prenatal safety ratings,” and you realized it was happening.

By the end of the week, your world had shifted.

You tried to carry a grocery bag inside one afternoon and he blinked like you’d committed a war crime.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Helping?”

“Not anymore, you’re not.”

From that moment on, you were banned. From lifting, from bending, from anything Bucky Barnes decided was “unnecessary effort” for a person growing a child.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m pregnant, not fragile.”

He didn’t argue. He just took the bag from your hands, scooped you up bridal-style, and carried you inside like you weighed less than a breath, ordering his staff to handle the rest of the groceries.

From then on, it only got more apparent how determined he was to provide nothing but the best for you.

If you so much as shifted in bed at 3 a.m., he was up. Padding to the kitchen in his sweats, eyes still half-shut, and grabbing pickle chips, orange slices, or whatever weird craving your body decided it had to have. You once whispered “s’mores” at 2:47 a.m. and woke up to him standing over you with a plate of them.

You weren’t allowed to open doors. You weren’t allowed to walk into any building first; he always went in first, eyes scanning, and body subtly angled in front of yours like a living shield.

You tried to argue once. “James, you can’t possibly keep doing this every single time we go somewhere–”

“I can and I will,” He said simply, “I know what this world’s like. I’ve seen too much. No one gets near you unless I say so.”

He meant it. No one raised their voice around you. No one touched you. People who even looked at you wrong got a tight-lipped stare that made them suddenly remember an urgent reason to be elsewhere.

Sam called him “feral.” Nat called him “a full-time bodyguard with a nesting complex.” You just called him yours.

And under all the sharp edges was softness.

Warm hands rubbing your lower back when it ached, whispered promises to your child, and bought an overly-excessive amount of books about parenting, swaddling, and sleep schedules. He helped you build baby furniture in the middle of the night when insomnia hit you and even hand-painted the tiny mural on the nursery wall, stars and constellations, soft and glowing.

He looked at you nowadays like he couldn’t believe he got this lucky. Like it terrified him, grounded him, and gave him purpose all at once.

And when he pressed a kiss to your knuckles, and then lower to the swell of your stomach, you knew what he meant without words.

You and the baby were his everything now and he’d do anything to protect you both.

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