#ocean's 11

The air in the VIP lounge was thick with the scent of expensive cigars, old money, and new desperation. It was a Tuesday that felt like a Saturday, the kind of night where the lines between reality and the carefully constructed fantasy of Las Vegas blurred into a shimmering, meaningless haze. For you, it was just another stage. The dress tonight was fire-engine red, so tight it felt like a second skin, the fabric straining over every curve and leaving exactly nothing to the imagination. It was your armor and your weapon, and you wielded it with lethal precision.

You’d been watching him for hours.

Rusty Ryan, usually the picture of laconic, snack-fueled control, was coming apart at the seams. He’d been coaching Leo Torrence, the latest flavor-of-the-month heartthrob from Hollywood, a kid with more money than sense and a desperate need to look cool at the high-stakes tables. Leo’s method of showing gratitude was to keep ordering rounds of a 50-year-old single malt Scotch that cost more per glass than your first car. And Rusty, being Rusty, found it physically impossible to refuse free top-shelf liquor.

Now, it was 3:17 AM. The crowd had thinned to the hardcore degenerates and the blissfully oblivious. Leo had finally been dragged away by his worried publicist, leaving a trail of empty glasses and a very, very wobbly Rusty in his wake.

You finished your last set, the final notes of some moody trip-hop fading as you collected the bills tucked into your garter with a professional smile. You slipped off the main stage and made your way through the shadowy corridors towards the private bar where you knew he’d be stranded.

You found him exactly where you expected: slumped in a plush, velvet-upholstered booth in the corner, looking like a shipwrecked golden god. His blazer was long gone, his tie was loosened to a state of utter defeat, and the top three buttons of his shirt were open, revealing a flush that spread down his chest. His head was lolled back against the seat, his eyes closed, a half-empty glass of amber liquid still held precariously in his loose grip.

“Well, well, well,” you murmured, sliding into the booth beside him. The velvet sighed under your weight. “Look what the cat dragged in. Or in this case, what the Hollywood pretty boy tried to drown.”

At the sound of your voice, his eyes fluttered open. They were hazy, the usual sharp, calculating blue softened into a warm, unfocused sea. A slow, loopy grin spread across his face. “Heyyyy… there you are.”

His voice was a low, syrupy drawl, each word taking its sweet time to form. He immediately leaned into you, his head finding its familiar spot in the crook of your neck. He inhaled deeply, nuzzling against your skin. “You smell like… winning. And… vanilla. Winning vanilla.”

You chuckled, running a hand through his disheveled blond hair. It was soft, and he leaned into your touch like a cat. “That’s my lotion, you big idiot. And you smell like a distillery. How much of Leo’s inheritance did you help him drink?”

“Enough to feel… floaty,” he mumbled into your neck, his breath warm against your skin. He wrapped an arm around your waist, his hand splaying possessively on your hip, pulling you flush against his side. “Don’t go. ‘M floaty. You’re my anchor.”

“I’m not going anywhere, baby,” you cooed, your heart swelling with a mixture of amusement and pure affection. Sober Rusty was a master of cool detachment. Drunk Rusty was a cuddly, needy koala bear. “But we can’t stay here all night. The sun’s thinking about coming up.”

“Let it think,” he grumbled, burrowing deeper. His free hand came up to clumsily pat your arm. “You’re so warm. And soft. This dress is… it’s a crime, is what it is. A beautiful, red crime.”

He tried to sit up a little to look at you, but the movement made the room tilt. He groaned, his head lolling onto your shoulder instead. “Whoa. Spinning. The room is spinnin’, darlin’.”

“I know it is, sweetheart,” you soothed, stroking his hair and down the back of his neck. His skin was fever-hot. “We just need to get you some water and into a bed.”

“Our bed?” he asked, his voice hopeful and slurred. He tilted his head back to look at you, his eyes wide and pleading. “With the… the black sheets? And the pillow you stole from the Bellagio?”

“Yes, Rusty, our bed with the black sheets,” you confirmed, smiling. “But first, you have to help me get you there. Can you stand up for me?”

He made a noise that was half-whine, half-sigh. “In a minute. Just… just wanna stay here with you for a second.” His gaze dropped to the neckline of your dress, which was already straining. Drunk as he was, his appreciation for your anatomy was, as always, fully operational. He was trying, and failing, to be subtle about peeking down your dress.

You clicked your tongue playfully, tapping his nose with your finger. “Eyes up here, cowboy. You’re gonna get us thrown out.”

“S’not my fault,” he protested, his words slurring together. “You’re… you’re built like a… a Renaissance painting. A very distracting Renaissance painting. Can’t a man appreciate art?”

“You can appreciate it later, when you’re not one strong breeze away from face-planting on the carpet,” you laughed, shifting to try and coax him to his feet. “Come on, up you get.”

He was dead weight, but you were stronger than you looked. With a grunt of effort from both of you, you managed to get him standing, though he immediately slumped against you, his arm thrown heavily over your shoulders. He buried his face in your hair.

“You’re so strong,” he mumbled, his voice full of drunken admiration. “And pretty. So, so pretty. Did I tell you you’re pretty tonight?”

“Only about a dozen times, but I’ll never get tired of hearing it,” you said, steering him slowly towards the back exit, avoiding the main floor. He was stumbling, his steps clumsy and uncertain.

“Good. ‘Cause you are. The prettiest. Prettier than… than all the shrimp cocktails in the world.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing out loud. “That’s the highest compliment I think you’ve ever given me.”

The cool night air of the alley behind the club hit him like a physical slap. He shivered, pressing closer to you. “Cold.”

“I know, baby, almost there.” You maneuvered him towards your car, a nondescript sedan that was perfect for not drawing attention. Getting him into the passenger seat was a two-minute ordeal of gentle pushing, clumsy limb arrangement, and Rusty’s persistent attempts to kiss your cheek, your shoulder, any part of you he could reach.

Finally, you got him buckled in. You closed the door and walked around to the driver’s side. When you slid in, you found him already looking at you, his head leaning against the window, a look of pure, unadulterated devotion on his face.

“You’re my favorite person,” he announced, his voice soft and sincere.

“Yeah?” you said, starting the car. “And who’s your second favorite? Danny?”

He made a face, like he’d tasted something sour. “Danny’s… Danny’s Danny. He makes my head hurt. You… you make my head feel… fuzzy. But in a good way.” He reached out, his hand fumbling for yours on the gearshift. He laced his fingers through yours, his grip surprisingly strong. “Don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” you promised, squeezing his hand.

The short drive to your shared apartment was a quiet one, punctuated by Rusty’s sleepy, nonsensical observations about the passing streetlights (“They’re like little yellow lollipops”) and his continued, slurred compliments. By the time you pulled into the parking garage, his eyes were closed again, his breathing evened out into a soft, boozy rhythm.

Somehow, you managed to get him out of the car, into the elevator, and down the hall to your apartment. The second the door closed behind you, he seemed to regain a spark of energy, fueled by the familiar, safe surroundings.

“Home,” he sighed, leaning back against the door and pulling you into him. His hands found your waist, holding you there. He looked down at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and full of a sleepy, intense warmth. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself, handsome,” you smiled, reaching up to cup his stubbled cheek. “You with me?”

“Mmmhmm. Mostly. You’re… very in focus all of a sudden.” He dipped his head, nuzzling your nose with his. “Kiss?”

You pretended to think about it, tapping your chin. “I don’t know… you’re pretty drunk. You think you can manage it?”

He nodded, a little too vigorously, making himself wince. “Yes. ‘M a professional.”

“Okay then,” you teased, your voice dropping to a whisper. “Pucker up.”

Without a moment’s hesitation, his eyes fluttered closed and he pursed his lips into an exaggerated, comical ‘O’. It was so ridiculously earnest and un-self-conscious that your heart melted into a puddle on the floor. You closed the small distance, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his waiting lips. They were warm and slack, tasting of expensive whiskey and the faint, familiar mint of his gum from hours ago.

He hummed in contentment, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The kiss was slow, deep, and sloppy—all lazy tongue and no finesse, but it was filled with so much feeling it made your head spin more than the Scotch ever could.

When you finally broke apart, he was breathless, his forehead resting against yours. “Wow,” he breathed. “See? Professional.”

“The best,” you agreed, stroking his hair. “Now, let’s get you to bed. You need to sleep this off.”

Rusty and you have never once struggled during a mission—it's something that comes naturally to you both, like riding a bike after not doing so for months. You never forget how to do it; you don’t become clumsy or clueless, you simply have to fall back into a rhythm. 

That’s hard to do when a deep-rooted anger is simmering under your skin, when the man you have to pretend to be married to is also the man your hatred is directed towards. 

Music drifts around you, that soft and melodic symphony that most rich-people weddings have where the guests simply float between each other, exchanging terse and irrelevant words and drink champagne in pricy costumes. The room is stuffy and reeks of strong floral perfume, hairspray and cologne so pungent it makes your heartbeat thunder behind your eyes. 

You tug at the collar of your dress, the fabric hugging in a way that’s just short of frustrating, the seam itching in a way that has your nerves on edge, your patience clinging on by a half-worn thread. Rusty isn’t helping—he’s gripping your hand tight enough that you can feel just how clammy his skin is, the cool press of his wedding ring cutting into your own fingers to the point that, if he squeezed any harder, he’d cut off the circulation entirely. 

“You know,” you begin, the words hissed through clenched teeth, with a poor attempt at a smile. “You haven’t got to grip me so tight.” 

“Thought you liked it.” His gaze doesn’t meet yours, instead staying focused on the bustling room itself, on every face that comes and goes, like he’s half-expecting one of them to recognise either of you and for the plan to fall through. 

You simply hum in response, so terse that it makes a passing woman glance back, concern etched into her features. Rusty flashes her a charming smile, raising his hand in apology, before dragging you both onwards. 

“Smile.” He whispers low in your ear, his voice a deep rumble in his chest. Usually, it would send you into a frenzy, would cause heat to flood through your whole body and your heart rate to pick up. However, now, it just makes you want to knock the fake facade he’s putting on for everyone off his face. 

“You smile.” You counter, dropping his hand abruptly in favour of the drinks table. You pour yourself a glass of red wine, the first sip making you wince as the dry liquid scathes your throat, forcing you to swallow a cough. “A wedding like this and they couldn’t even bother to buy the fancy stuff.” 

Rusty comes up behind you, chest pressed to your back, his hand dropping to your waist; it’s a familiar action, almost instinctive in the way you gravitate towards each other, yet there’s a tension behind it. He plucks the glass from your hand, eyes fixed on your own as he takes a pull from it, expression unchanging. 

“We’re not here to drink, sweetheart.” 

“Then stop being insufferable.” You snap, reaching to take it back. His free hand shoots out, catching your wrist so hard that a gasp slips free. His thumb smoothes over your pulse point. 

“People are staring.” 

You don’t look away. Something shifts between you. “Then let them. See if I care.” 

His grip tightens further and you tug against him, the wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass. “You could at least look like you love me.” 

Your scoff is boorish, the kind that says far more than words ever could. “You’re not making it easy.” 

Something in his expression seems to change then, the briefest flicker in his eyes, his jaw ticking and brow tightening. His eyes harden as he drops his tone, low enough for only the two of you, too quiet for anyone else. “It shouldn’t be hard.”

You fall silent, lips pursed as you exhale sharply through your nose. As much as it pains you to admit, he’s right… it shouldn’t be. Three years in a relationship means love comes unconditionally, and while that hasn’t exactly changed, going three weeks off the radar without so much as a word to you puts a certain strain on things. 

Nobody had told you where he was or if he was ever going to come back. He didn’t think to call or text. He just left in the middle of the night, leaving you to wake to an empty bed, his side of the mattress cold where his body had once warmed it. 

And then, three weeks later, after returning unannounced, after walking through the front door like he’d been gone no longer than an hour, he was expecting a celebration. You refused to give him the satisfaction, yet your plan of ignoring him until an apology comes seems to be uneventful.  

“I don’t mean to interrupt.” Danny’s voice crackles through your earpiece, vastly unammused. “But if we’re going to get anywhere tonight, we need you to blend in more.” 

“Right.” You mutter dryly. 

Around you, guests laugh, glasses clink together, and the music finally shifts into something with more of a rhythm. Bodies begin gravitating towards the centre of the floor in a formation that somewhat flows, couples following a routine that is purely their own, swaying and getting lost in one another’s eyes. 

Rusty seems to hesitate for a moment before his hand finds your lower back, guiding you towards the dance floor. 

“What are you doing?” You hiss as he spins you round to face him, taking your hands and placing them on his shoulders before his own drift to your hips. Your muscles are taut, and you look almost rigid as you try to match his movements. 

“Blending.” His smirk is infuriating as he twirls you around, and you find yourself purposely driving your heel into the toe of his shoes, relishing in his barely concealed wince. 

“Problem?” You ask sweetly, head tilting. Rusty gives you a tight smile, dropping a kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“You know what you’re doing.” He whispers, his breath hot against your skin. Despite yourself, butterflies stir awake in your chest, your cheeks flushing. 

“Maybe.” You counter, gravitating closer towards him. The blue of his eyes looks brighter under the aureate glow of the chandelier, and for a moment you find yourself forgetting your grudge at all. He scans your features, expression unreadable.

“You’re mad.” 

You make a vague sound low in your throat, trying to focus on the cadence of the music, but any sort of fluidity has long since been lost. “Good observation.” 

“Stop it.” He grunts, spinning you again. He drags you in closer until your faces are a mere few inches apart. “You’re being difficult—” 

You cut him off with a sardonic laugh, trying to ignore the sillage of his cologne, the one you got for him a year ago, the one he wears because he knows you adore it. “I’m being difficult? You left, Rusty.” 

The couple next to you glance over, giving awkward smiles that you return with a heavy glare. Rusty clears his throat. “Thought you’d be over that by now.” 

"Well, I’m not," You snap, purposefully stepping on his foot again. “You could’ve called.” 

He nods once, and for the briefest moment, something akin to guilt flashes across his features. It’s gone before you can point it out, however, replaced with that usual stoicism. “Yeah. But I was doin’ a job.” 

“How was I meant to know that?” The music changes, as does your rhythm together. Easy, natural. Nobody around bats an eye; to them, you both look like the perfect couple. “You disappeared, Rusty. Nobody would tell me where you were; you didn’t return my calls. For all I knew, you’d found another woman and left me for good.” 

“I didn’t leave you.” He mutters, the reticence holding his facade together cracking just enough for you to see the exhaustion beneath. He scans the room once more. “I went dark. There’s a difference, sweetheart.” 

“Sure there is.” You roll your eyes. Now, the rest of the room feels unimportant. Suddenly, everyone around you has disappeared, the clinking of glasses and the sickly sweet scent of champagne that had been clogging your senses dispersing into nothing but a background buzz. “You know, I think you forget I’m in this business with you.” 

Rusty exhales steadily through his nose, chest rising and falling beneath your hand—you're not sure when it slipped there; the action was so unconscious neither of you realised it had happened at all. You don’t move it, nor do you comment when he slides to cup the back of your neck, pulling you close enough to smell the mint on his breath. 

“I don’t forget. I know exactly who you are and that’s why I came back.” his voice drops into a low, gravelly whisper. “But, if we’re going to do this, then I need you to smile, look like you love me, and tell me if the target is still at the head table.” 

He guides you into a slow turn, dress sweeping the ground, your gaze scanning the room as you go. “He’s still there.” You confirm, through a faux, serpahic laugh, that is purely for the benefit of those around you. “He’s on his third whisky and hasn’t stopped looking at his new wife for the last half hour.” 

Rusty looks almost proud, giving you a smile that, for the first time all evening, looks genuine. He drops another kiss to your temple, a real one this time, and you let your head drop to his shoulder, face tucked into his collarbone. You allow yourself a second to revel in his presence, in the warmth you’ve craved so much despite yourself. 

“We’ve got twenty minutes until they cut the cake.” You lift your gaze just enough to meet his eyes; he truly does look handsome, something you weren't blind to even in your anger. However, now you let yourself appreciate it. 

“Twenty minutes is enough.” He says softly, mouth brushing your ear. He shoots a glance to a waiter in the corner—Linus, adorned in a poorly fitted vest, balancing a tray precariously in one hand—and gives him the limina of a nod. “That’s our cue to get out.” 

The heavy oak door of the hotel room slams shut behind you, the scent of fresh linen washing over you. The air in here is clean, and light filters in through the large windows and balcony doors; the silence is something you sink into. 

You gravitate towards the large bed in the centre of the room, clearly there for a couple in their pre-wedding bliss, all duck feathers and soft silk sheets. Your dress pulls uncomfortably and you shift with a low huff, envy crossing your features as you watch Rusty shed his suit jacket easily. 

The tie comes next, loosened just enough that he can unbutton the first few buttons, exposing tanned skin beneath. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, and that fluttering in your chest returns. 

“You okay?” 

You nod once, staying silent. Rusty huffs, sitting in the armchair opposite. “Alright, look.” He runs a hand over his hair. “I messed up. I should’ve said something or found a way to let you know what was going on. I’m sorry.” 

For a moment, the silence hangs suspended between you both. He rises from the chair, crossing towards you, and you shuffle to make enough room for him as he hovers over you. “Let me make it up to you.” 

That’s all you need—you pull him down into a kiss so fierce that it drags a surprised grunt from him. His hands cup your face, wandering over your body, resting at yourhips before gently manoeuvring you upwards. 

His fingers work the zipper of your dress deftly, pulling it down until the fabric loosens and air rushes back into your lungs. The garment pulls away easily, and he drapes it over the chair carefully, leaving you in nothing but your underwear and bra, exposed to the cool air surrounding you. 

“Look at you…” The words leave him in a breathy whisper, as though you’d knocked the air from his lungs completely. He eases you back against the pillows, lips finding yours in a gentle kiss. Your hands cup his jaw, fingers running up through his hair, his name spilling from your lips like a mantra. 

“Please… Rusty, please.” 

“I know, sweetheart. Hold on.” He shoves off his shirt easily, pants coming next, and he undoes your bra easily. It slips away, and he trails his lips down your chest, featherlight; his breath is warm enough to cause goosebumps to prickle across your skin, eliciting a small gasp. His teeth graze the curve of your breast before he soothes the sting with his tongue, and you find yourself arching into him. 

“Missed this.” He whispers against you, lifting his gaze. “Missed you.” 

You bite back a snarky response, because while you’re still mad, something about the way he’s looking at you—like you’re the only person in the world, kisses trailing tenderly down your thigh—is enough to make you forget everything. 

His tongue drags through your folds in one tortuously slow stroke, making your toes curl and your breath stutter. Your hips buck and he reaches out to hold them down again, tutting under his breath. His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing in tight circles.

A choked moan escapes you, muffled into the palm of your hand, fingers twisting into the sheets. 

“Still mad?” He whispers, the vibrations sending a shiver through you, the drag of his tongue maddening. You glare down at him, words silenced as his fingers join his mouth, a pace so blissful   that you can’t help but break off into a whimper. 

“Rusty, please. I can’t—” you gasp. He seems to catch the memo, fingers withdrawing as he sits up straight, the sudden loss of contact making your heart sink with disappointment. However, he quickly replaces the absence with the weight of his body, the blunt head of his cock pressing into you inch by inch. 

The stretch is unimaginable, something you could only have dreamt about these past few weeks, and when he finally bottoms out, he lets his head drop to your shoulder, face hidden in your neck. 

Your breath catches when he moves, hips rutting, cock dragging against your walls at a pace so tortuous you can only clutch his back in a weak attempt at grounding yourself. Your nails leave little moon-shaped indents, no doubt likely to reside until morning, red welts already marring his skin. 

“Fuck…” he rasps, pushing back in. “Missed you like this.” 

“Shouldn’ve been here.” You choke out, another moan slipping free. 

Rusty nods once, though it’s jerky and uncoordinated. “I know. ‘M sorry, sweetheart. Gonna make it up to you.” 

The headboard hits the wall behind you in a monotonous thump as his pace picks up, hips snapping, and you find yourself suddenly grateful that everyone is downstairs at the wedding. One hand slides to hold the back of your neck, the cool metal of his rings pressing against your skin, the other gripping your thigh to hitch your leg over his hip. The new angle steals your breath, and soon your moans are entirely unfiltered, reverberating around the space.

Your orgasm washes over you like a tsunami, dragging you under a current so strong it leaves you gasp, a scream ripping from deep within your chest. Your vision whites out, stars dancing across the ceiling, and you feel Rusty finish deep inside of you, cock twitching as he collapses against you.

For a moment, neither of you says a word.

The clock on the nightstand ticks onwards steadily, your breaths rising and falling rapidly, a soft groan leaving him and his lips peppering your sweat-soaked skin with kisses. Your fingers trace idle patterns across his spine, skating over the ridges of muscle and the sweat-damp skin. 

“Sorry I yelled at you.” You whisper into his hair. “And for the record, I do love you.” 

“I deserved it.” Rusty nods once. For once, you don’t disagree; simply let yourself revel in the feeling of his skin on yours, his lips against yours, and the way he watches you as though you are the only thing worth looking at. 

You frowned and glanced at your watch.

But then there was a warm hand on your shoulder.

“You’re three minutes late,” you said, smiling and turning your head up to look up at the man who’d just joined you. “I was about to send out a search—”

But the rest of the gentle quip died on your lips.

Because you were looking up into the face of a man you were absolutely not expecting to be here.

The last man you wanted to see.

And your name slipped off his lips so low and so sweet it made your insides tangle and your blood seethe because he was not supposed to still affect you like this after all these years.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you,” he said.

You took a deep breath, willing your heart to stop racing. “That’s not good enough, James.”

He seemed to wince at your use of his given name over Buck or Bucky. “I needed to see you,” he said with more sincerity.

“Always what you need. That’s why it didn’t work out in the end.”

Bucky tilted his head playfully, the hint of a smile already stuck at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, it’s not the end. I’m out.”

“You’re out?”

“Of prison. Remember? I went for cigarettes and didn’t come back. I know you figured it out.”

“I don’t smoke. Don’t sit,” you implored even as he lowered himself into the chair across from you.

You allowed yourself one short study of him. He was filled out as he ever was, dark hair slicked back, blue eyes sparkling with intelligence and a hint of mischief and something else. He looked good in his tux. He sported a full mustache and beard now, something he’d never much done before, and there was grey in it—a reflection of the years far behind you both since you were you and in love and blissfully gone for this man.

And even though you frowned and felt your armor harden around you, you couldn’t deny he still looked unbelievably good.

“You’re not wearing your ring,” he observed.

“No need to since we’re no longer married,” you reminded him. “I know you got the papers since you signed them.”

“Only to make you happy.”

A deep sigh dropped out of you. “No, we’re not doing this.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he replied.

“James, go now, before—”

“What? Ransom shows up?”

At that moment, a waiter appeared. “Can I get you anything, sir?”

“He’s not staying,” you quickly stated for Bucky as much as the waiter.

“Whiskey neat,” he said anyway.

The waiter vanished. You watched him weave away, and for a second you wanted to call him back just to have someone else, anyone else, between you and the man pervading every inch of your evening.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you said, hoping that naming it would make it true.

“You picked a good spot,” Bucky said. “I always liked your taste. Ransom can’t have picked this.” He glanced up at the plaster archways overhead, then the band, then down at the flowers, then back at you.

“James,” you started, but a waiter swooped by with whiskey.

Bucky’s fingers brushed over yours as he took the glass with his other hand, and you snatched your hand off the white tablecloth as if burned.

He sipped. Set the glass down. “You look good,” he said.

“I’m not doing this.”

“Have it your way then.” He straightened, and though he’d already been looking at you, his gaze intensified, and you felt it in your bones. “I came here for you. I want to start living the rest of my life, and I want you with me.”

“Doing what?” you asked.

He shrugged and smiled.

You sighed again, leaning back in your chair. “You’re a thief and a liar.” You didn’t shout, though that’s how you felt on the inside, but you didn’t need to. You could see the weight of your words as they landed.

“One of the things I always loved about you, your honesty.”

“At least one of us was.”

“I never lied to you, I just never told you I was a thief.”

“Ransom doesn’t have to make that distinction, he’s an upstanding–“

“Oh, doll, he’s Casino Empire blood. I promise you he’s doing things that should keep you up at night.” He leaned forward and placed his hand on top yours. He didn’t break eye contact with you as his fingers glided over the back of your hand and softly traced a circle over the tender flesh of your inner wrist with his thumb. “I used to keep you up at night doing much better things.”

You knew he could feel your pulse race under his ministrations, but, to his credit, he didn’t smirk.

You should move your hand away from his again, but you didn’t want him to have a victory, and, to your credit, you didn’t waver in keeping his gaze.

“Only when you came home.”

And those words did it.

Bucky withdrew his hand and sat back from the table.

“I’m with Ransom now.”

“A man like Ransom doesn’t settle down,” Bucky said softly. “He collects. And you’re just a very fine piece in his set.”

You sipped your drink, eager to let the glass cool your lips and your head.

“He’s not like you,” you said, part of you proud at the way those words came out.

He chuckled, “I certainly hope not. But he’s not for you.”

“Don’t pretend you get to decide who’s for me,” you said, voice catching the attention of the couple at the next table, but you don’t truly care. “You lost that privilege. You threw it away with everything else.”

Bucky’s mouth tightened, but he nodded, folding his big hands together in front of him. “You’re right.”

You hadn’t expected such easy capitulation. Not from James Buchanan Barnes. Not when he’d always been so damn sure of every word that tumbled from his lips. But maybe prison had sanded him down.

He dragged a thumb along one knuckle, voice pitched low. “I’m sorry I was never perfect.”

“I never wanted perfect. I just wanted you to be my husband.”

He arched an eyebrow.

“And for you not to be a thief,” you added. “You’re so brilliant, you could do anything. Something less daring and dangerous.”

“But I’m so good at it. And I like it.”

“Another one of our problems.”

“But I love you, and I always will.”

He pushed back from the table and stood, taking his glass of whiskey with him. “You’ll know where to find me in a few days,” he dropped the last words as he walked away.

You stared after him for a beat, then at your hands—empty, your nails pressed hard into your palms. The band had switched to something slower, sweet and a little mournful.

You sat perfectly straight, willing the tremor out of your hand. Ransom would be here soon, and he’d know from your face if anything was wrong. So you put the mask back on, the one you’d perfected in the years since Bucky, since cigarettes and cold bedsheets and the gentle lies that smelled like aftershave and bourbon.

Ransom arrived not five minutes later, apologizing for needing to tend to a VIP. He asked about your day and then told you about his—there was a deal, a glitch, a rival, a litany of grown-up battles that meant nothing to you except as proof that he was winning.

Later, in the shiny glass elevator, Ransom tucked your arm under his without asking and told you how radiant you looked, how proud he was that everyone in the restaurant watched you llike a thing of beauty. It was in the shape of a compliment, something he’d even said before, but now felt more like an inventory.

He was exactly the man you’d expected and built a future on, but the residual tingle of Bucky’s thumb on your wrist still pulsed there for hours later, only forgotten once you finally dropped off to sleep.

This AU is very pithy! It was a trip to get back into this groove! 🤭 But I hope you enjoyed... and welcome to this AU if you've never been here before!

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