#ocean's 11

Rusty Ryan was half a drink past drunk, half a button past decent, and very comfortably tucked between your thighs—his face unapologetically buried in your cleavage, his hands lazily circling your waist, and yours tangled in his hair like you were trying to comfort a dying soldier.

To be fair, he was going through something emotionally significant: A particularly strong whiskey sour and the fact that you were wearing his favorite perfume and no bra.

He hummed something against your chest. Probably your name.

Rusty Ryan. Legendary poker whisperer. Coolest man in the room, usually. Currently half-seated on a plush velvet bench, face buried unapologetically in a your cleavage, hands wrapped possessively around your waist like he was afraid you’d evaporate if he let go.

And you?

Well. You looked like the dictionary definition of trouble.

All milky pale skin, impossibly lush blue eyes lined in kohl, and hair that looked like it had made men commit crimes just for a chance to touch it. You were in a glittery barely-there outfit designed to bring men to their knees. The thigh slit alone could’ve started wars.

Danny took exactly three seconds to commit the scene to memory, then tapped Rusty on the shoulder.

You lifted your head slowly, smirking when you saw the sharp-dressed stranger watching with mild amusement.

“Well, this looks... productive.”

Rusty jolted like he’d been caught stealing from the Vatican.

“Shit—Danny?!”

His voice came out too loud, too fast, and he practically threw himself upright, accidentally bumping your nose with his chin in the process.

You giggled.

Rusty looked like he wanted to die on the spot. Half of his shirt was untucked, your lip gloss was all over his cheek, and his hair looked like he’d just lost a fight with a tornado. Which, to be fair, he kind of had—you were the tornado.

He turned, stumbling slightly as he tried to pretend he hadn’t just been halfway to second base in public.

Danny just blinked at him, then slowly turned his gaze to you.

“Well,” he said, still smiling. “Aren’t you a surprise.”

“Danny. Uh. Hey. Hi.” Rusty cleared his throat, smoothing his shirt and sitting up straighter like that would somehow undo what had just happened.

“You forget what year it is, or are you just trying to climb back into the womb?”

You snorted—couldn’t help it. Rusty groaned under his breath. “I thought you were in Atlantic City this week.”

“I was. It's already Monday, 1:31 to be exactly.”

He gave you a once-over, not lecherous, but with the polite curiosity of a man who knows beauty when he sees it. His eyes flicked between you and Rusty, then back to you.

“And you must be the reason my guy here hasn’t answered his phone in three hours.”

“Three hours? That’s a record. I should get a bonus.” You giggled sweetly, bringing a hand to your chest as if honored.

“Please kill me.”

“You gonna introduce me, or should I guess her name?” Danny teased, raising an eyebrow.

He extended his hand before Rusty could fumble through whatever half-truth he was about to mutter.

“Danny Ocean. And you are?”

You took his hand, graceful, eyes shining. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Someone who needs to know who exactly has my work partner by the—well, chest. And whether or not he’s in good hands.”

You smiled slow and wide. “The best hands. Professionally and recreationally.”

Rusty let out a noise halfway between a choke and a wheeze.

Danny let out a surprised laugh, shaking your hand.

“Oh, I like her,” he said, shooting a pointed look at Rusty, who groaned and rubbed his face like he could disappear if he just believed hard enough.

“So, you his girlfriend?” Danny asked casually.

You and Rusty both spoke at once.

“No.”

“She’s not—”

You smirked. “But he is clingy. Especially drunk.”

“God,” Rusty muttered.

Danny, ever the composed gentleman, sipped his scotch with a sparkle in his eyes.

“And what do you do, exactly?”

“She dances,” Rusty mumbled into his hands.

You shot him a playful glare, then turned to Danny. “I strip, Mr. Ocean. Dances are just the entry fee.”

Danny gave a low whistle. “Hell of a resume.”

“And she finds people,” Rusty added suddenly—too suddenly, like he was trying to pivot before you said something worse.

Danny blinked. “Finds people?”

“She’s—uh—she’s the one that gets me contact lists you ask for.”

You gave Rusty a slow, sugary smile. “Aw. He finally admits I’m useful.”

Danny grinned wider. “So you’re the one behind all those mysterious ‘sources’ Rusty always brags about?”

Rusty shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t brag—”

“You do.” Danny cut him off with a pointed eyebrow. “Every time I ask you to find me someone—arms dealer, safecracker, dirty valet? It’s her? Well then, you've got a hell lot of connections, sweetheart”

You smiled, nodding at the man.

“You’re his supplier?”

“In more ways than one.”

“OH my god.” Rusty turned to you, expression pained. “Please. I have like two molecules of dignity left.”

“Not anymore,” you winked.

Danny leaned back, folding his arms as he looked you up and down—not like a creep, but like a man adding a puzzle piece to a bigger picture.

“You know,” he said slowly, “You might be the best thing that’s ever happened to my golden boy.”

Rusty made a noise that sounded like a dying whale.

Danny ignored him.

“Well, keep an eye on my golden boy, would you? He tends to fall into things he shouldn’t—like vaults. Or tits.”

“Okay, let’s not—can we—?”

“And Rusty?”

He sighed, already defeated.

“Don’t lose this one. You’ll never find another stripper with underworld connections, perfect boobs, and that much patience.”

“Thanks, boss,” Rusty muttered, red-faced and mumbling into his glass.

After Danny left (with a final amused look and a “Call me tomorrow, Romeo”), Rusty just sat there, still trying to will the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

You leaned closer, sliding into his lap again with ease.

“Well,” you murmured, tracing a finger down his collar. “That went well.”

He groaned. “You’re never gonna let me live this down, are you?”

You kissed his cheek. “Not a chance.”

“But you will still sleep with me tonight, right?”

“Such a gentleman”

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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