#spy!reader

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is it useful for playing pool?”

“Very.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re insane.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He tilts his head. “Next time?”

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

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

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

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

1943

You, Bucky, and Steve are childhood best friends. You three are inseparable. You guys do everything together. You and Bucky fell in love while you guys were in high school. He proposed to you the day you, Bucky, and Steve graduated from high school and you two got married that Summer.

Right now, you’re in an alley with Steve. You’re cleaning him up cause he got into a fight with a guy bigger than him.

“Stevie, I told you not to fight that guy.” You say while wiping blood off his nose.

“He wouldn’t shut up.” Steve says.

“So you resorted to violence?” You asked.

“Maybe…” He says.

You playfully rolled your eyes at your best friend and continued to clean him up.

“What happened this time?” Bucky asks as he walks in the alley.

“Stevie fought a guy bigger than him.” You tell your husband.

“I swear you like getting punched, man.” He says, looking at Steve.

“In his defense, the guy wouldn’t be quiet during the Army film.” You say.

You threw away the tissue in the trash can next to you before properly greeting your husband. You gave him a kiss on his lips.

“You look incredibly handsome in uniform.” You complimented in a flirtatiously.

“Thank you, doll.” Bucky smiles.

“Did you get your orders?” Steve asks, chiming in.

“The 107th, Sergeant James Barnes.” Bucky says.

Steve looks down and sighs sadly. He’s been trying to enlist in the 107th.

“It’s ok, Stevie.” You hugged him. “You’ll get in eventually.” You say positively.

“Thanks, Y/N.” Steve says.

“You’re welcome.” You say.

“Now, stop being sad and let’s go.” Bucky says.

“Go where?” Steve asks.

Bucky hands Steve a newspaper that says something about the Stark Expo. You looked at it too.

“Stark Expo.” Steve read aloud.

“Sounds interesting.” You say.

“That’s why we’re going, doll face.” Bucky says.

You giggled and Bucky wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you closer to him. When the three of you got to the Stark Expo, you guys decided to walk around for a little bit.

“So when do you leave?” Steve asks.

“Tomorrow.” Bucky answers.

“No. That’s too soon.” You say.

Tears filled your eyes when you realized you only have tonight to spend time with your husband before he leaves for the Army tomorrow.

“I know, doll.” Bucky pulls you into a hug. “Look at the bright side, I’ll be home before you know it.” Bucky says.

“You promise?” You asked and sniffled.

“I promise.” He promises, kissing your wedding ring.

Every time Bucky promises you something, he kisses your wedding ring, which always makes you smile.

“I love you, sweetie.” You say softly and kissed him.

“I love you too, babydoll.” Bucky says softly, kissing you back.

———

1945

Bucky has came home a few times since he’s joined the Army. You two always send each other letters, telling each other how much you two love and miss each other. You two try not let the long distance bother you guys.

You were cleaning yours and Bucky’s house to keep yourself busy when you heard a knock on the door. You stopped what you were doing to see who it is. Two Army -HYDRA- officers were on your doorstep.

“Are you Y/N Barnes?” One of them asks.

“Yes.” You answered.

“We work with your husband, Sergeant James Barnes, and we’re sorry to tell you this, but he’s been injured in battle.” The other soldier tells you.

Your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach. Your mind made you think the worst.

“How- How injured is he?” You asked.

“Enough to get him in the med bay.” The fake Army officer said.

“He asked us to pick you up and take you to him.” The other fake Army officer said.

“Yes please. Take me to my husband.” You say.

Little did you know that this was part of HYDRA’s plan after Bucky fell off the train. They’re going to take you to their base, brainwash you, inject you with the Super Soldier serum, take you in and out of the cryo chamber, and turn you into their own personal spy.

“Which one of these rooms is my husband in?” You asked as you walked through the hallway with the two HYDRA agents.

“He’s not in any of these rooms, Mrs. Barnes.” One of the HYDRA agents says.

Then where is he?” You asked.

You didn’t miss the way they exchanged looks with each other before looking at you with grins on their faces.

“Where is my husband?” You asked again.

Before you knew it, they grabbed your arms and led you to a lab. They forcefully pushed you down in a chair and strapped your arms and legs down. Then they left the lab. You tried to free yourself from the restraints, but they were too tight. That’s when a man in a suit and a man in a white lab coat walked in the lab.

“Hello, Mrs. Barnes. I’m Arnim Zola.” Zola greets you.

“Where the hell is my husband?” You asked for a third time, completely bypassing his introduction.

“He’s going to become something for our upcoming project. As for you, you’re going to become something for another one of our projects.” He explains.

Zola looks at the man in the lab coat and gave him a nod. The man in the lab coat walked over to you with an IV needle. Your eyes went wide and your heart began to pound. You wish you could break free of the restraints, but you couldn’t. The IV needle got inserted into your arm. You yelped when the needle pricked your skin. That’s when all of the pain and torture started…

———

DECEMBER 1991

HYDRA has been taking you in and out of the cryo chamber since 1945. They already brainwashed you, injected you with the Super Soldier serum, and trained you to know what a spy needs to know. Now, it’s December 1, 1991 and they took you out of the cryo and erased your memories once again.

“Ready to comply?” Your handler asks.

“Ready to comply.” You confirmed.

“We have a mission for you.” He says.

You nodded, waiting for him to tell you what the mission is.

“This is Howard and Maria Stark.” He shows you a picture of them. “We want you to follow them around for the next couple of weeks and see what information you can find out.” He explains.

“Yes, sir.” You complied.

You suited up for the mission. Your handler packed you binoculars, notebooks, and pens in a bag. They want you to take notes on what Howard and Maria are doing in those two weeks. Then you went to work.

After those two weeks, you got all of the information you needed to give to HYDRA written in the notebooks. You reported back to them and gave them the information.

“Great job, Agent Barnes. Your work here is done. Go get cleaned up.” Your handler says.

You nodded and left the room. As you were walking down the hall, you seen the Winter Soldier being dragged into one of the labs. You’ve never worked with him, but he looks familiar to you. Like you know him.

Could he be- no. Your husband died by falling off a train in 1945. At least that’s what HYDRA told you.

You were running down the street as Bucky chased you. Bucky caught up to you and grabbed you by your waist. He picked you up and spun you around, making you laugh uncontrollably. He gently put you back on your feet and pinned you against the nearest wall. He put his hands on the wall on both sides of your head.

“Why do you insist on running away from me, doll face?” Bucky asks.

“I think it’s fun when you chase me.” You answered with a playful grin.

“You’re right. It is.” He agrees and kisses you.

When the flashback ended, you felt yourself get lightheaded. You put your hand on the wall to keep yourself from falling. You weren’t sure what just happened, but you felt better after a few seconds.

———

2014

HYDRA sent you on an undercover mission to pose as an SHIELD Agent. They didn’t bother giving you a made up name for the undercover mission. They just sent to you SHIELD to spy for a little bit before they infiltrate them. Like you’re always told when you get sent on missions, you were told to keep your distance, in which you did. As you were doing your job, you seen Captain America- Steve Rogers from a distance. You furrowed your eyebrows as you looked at him. He’s the second familiar person who you came across since 1991.

“You need to stop getting into fights, Stevie.” You say as you helped clean him up.

“That guy had it coming.” Steve says.

You sighed as you continued to clean him up. Bucky walked in the bathroom a moment later.

“Did you get your ass beat again?” Bucky asks, leaning against the edge of the bathroom sink counter.

“He had it coming.” Steve says again.

“I swear you like getting punched.” Bucky says.

“No I don’t.” Steve says.

“Then why do you insist on getting into fights with people who are bigger than you?” You asked.

“I don’t know.” Steve mumbles.

You playfully rolled your eyes at your best friend.

“Alright. You’re good as new now.” You say.

“Thanks, Y/N. You’re the best.” Steve smiles.

You felt yourself get lightheaded after the flashback. You sat down in a chair before you passed out. You took a few deep breaths and took a sip of water before going back to work.

Meanwhile, Steve was doing research on you. He was curious to know what happened to you after Bucky died- fell off the train in 1945. Since he doesn’t know much about technology, he asked Natasha for help.

“Is there any particular reason why you’re researching a woman from the same time period as you?” Natasha asks curiously.

“She’s my childhood best friend. She married my best friend Bucky the Summer after we graduated from high school.” Steve tells her.

“Your childhood best friends are high school sweethearts? That’s so sweet.” She smiles.

“It is.” He smiles at the thought of it.

As Steve was researching you, he couldn’t find anything after 1945. He double and tripled check just to make sure he didn’t miss anything.

“There’s nothing on her after 1945. It’s like she disappeared.” Steve says.

“Do you think she might’ve died?” Natasha asks.

“No. Someone would told me.” He says.

———

Shortly after the fight on the helicarrier between Steve and the Winter Soldier, Bucky joined the Avengers. Bucky has been trying everything he could think of to figure out what happened to you. Steve told him that he did research on you, but couldn’t find anything on you after 1945.

“Think, Bucky. Are you sure you haven’t came across Y/N over the years?” Steve asks.

“If I came across my wife, I would’ve-” That’s when Bucky remembered something.

Two HYDRA agents were dragging the Winter Soldier to the lab to wipe his memories once again. You were walking past him at the same time he lifted his head. You two made eye contact with each other. His eyes never left yours as he was drugged past you.

“Bucky?” Steve gently shook his best friend to snap him out of his trance. “Are you ok?” He asks.

“HYDRA.” Bucky finally said. “They have my wife. I remember being dragged past her in a hallway of the HYDRA base I was kept at. Her and I didn’t recognize each other though.” He says.

Bucky’s eyes filled with tears and anger filled his veins.

“I’m going to kill them, Steve.” Bucky says, tears rolling down his cheeks.

“You have every right to kill them, Buck, but first, you need to save your wife.” Steve says softly, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Will you help me?” Bucky asks and sniffles.

“You know I will. We’ll get Sam to help us too.” Steve says.

Bucky nods and wipes his tears away. He pulled it together long enough to save you. When Bucky, Steve, and Sam got to the HYDRA base you are currently being held at, Bucky wanted to shoot the first HYDRA agent he saw, but he restrained himself.

“Do you remember what hallway you were in when you first seen her?” Steve asks.

Bucky looked around for a moment, trying to remember where the hallway is. Something sparked his memory when he looked at the hallway to the right.

“I heard her footsteps go this way.” Bucky says.

He walked down the hallway to the right with Steve following behind him. Then he came to a stop when he saw a few doors. He looked in the sliding slot of each door to see if you’re in any of the cells.

“She’s in this cell.” Bucky says, looking threw the last door slot.

He already knew that that cell door was locked so he broke off the door knob with his metal hand. You were sleeping on the wall opposite of the door. Him and Steve cautiously walked towards you. You woke up when you heard unfamiliar footsteps. Bucky and Steve froze when you sat up and turned over to face them. Bucky’s breath hitched when he saw you for the first time in years. You cautiously stood up, not taking your eyes off the two Super Soldiers.

“Y/N?” Bucky asks.

“Who the hell is Y/N?” You asked.

“Y/N, I’m your husband. Steve is right here. He’s our best friend, remember?” He says.

“No.” You shook your head. “I don’t know you guys.” You say.

“Doll, we’re high school sweethearts.” He says.

You were starting to feel overwhelmed. You managed to run past them, bumping into them as you did so. You ran through the hallways, trying to escape them. They caught up to you and Bucky tackled you to the floor. You tried to squirm free, but couldn’t.

“I’m your husband, doll.” Bucky says again.

“I’m not married.” You say.

You managed to kick Bucky off of you. You grabbed the gun out of the holster on his hip and aimed it at him. Bucky stayed on the floor, putting his hands up in surrender.

“Y/N, I want you to think about what you’re doing before you do it.” Bucky says in a calm voice.

Steve came up behind you and grabbed the gun out of your hand. You run before one of them could restrain you. You finally exited the base. You looked behind you to see if you out ran Bucky and Steve. You did. Then Sam flew down and grabbed you, catching you off guard.

“I got her.” Sam informs Bucky and Steve.

You did everything to squirm out of Sam’s hold on you, but he only held you tighter. Bucky and Steve exited the base and walked over to Sam. Sam moved you over to Bucky so now you’re in Bucky’s hold. He managed to get you on the quinjet and gently sat you down on one of the seats. You stared up at him, narrowing your eyes at him.

When you guys got to the Avengers compound, Bucky got you set up in his bedroom like the amazing husband he is. You looked around his bedroom. You’ll admit that it’s a lot nicer than the cell HYDRA put you in. You felt like you were going to go stir crazy in there so you left his bedroom and roamed around the compound. Meanwhile, Bucky was in the lounge room with Steve and Sam.

“What am I going to do if Y/N never remembers me as her husband?” Bucky asks, running his fingers through his long hair.

“She will, Buck. Just give her time.” Steve says softly.

You walked in the lounge room at the midst of their conversation. They stopped talking and turned their attention to you. Bucky stood up from his seat and walked over to you.

“Are you ok, doll? Do you need anything?” Bucky asks softly.

“I’m fine.” You mumbled. “Do any of you have a computer?” You asked.

“I have a laptop.” Sam says.

“Can I use it?” You asked.

“Sure.” Sam replies.

Sam hands you his laptop. You sat down on the couch and researched Bucky who claims is your husband and Steve who says is your childhood best friend. You researched Steve first.

“You’re Captain America.” You say, looking at Steve.

“Yes I am.” Steve confirms.

You then researched Bucky. Your eyebrows shot up at the results you got on him.

“You’re the Winter Soldier?” You asked Bucky, showing him a picture of when he was the Winter Soldier.

“Yes, but I don’t do that anymore. The man I have always been is your husband.” Bucky says.

You closed the laptop and gave it back to Sam. You walked over to Bucky, looking up at him.

“If you really are my husband, then why don’t I remember you?” You asked.

“HYDRA brainwashed you.” Bucky simply says.

Images of HYDRA brainwashing you flashes in your mind. Your breathing becomes uneven. You left the lounge and went straight to Bucky’s bedroom. You closed the door and leaned against it. You closed your eyes and tried to get your breathing under control. You’re starting to think that Bucky might be right about HYDRA brainwashing you.

———

Weeks turn into months and you still don’t remember Bucky as your husband. Bucky has tried everything he could think of to get you to remember him, but nothing works. He accidentally overwhelmed you once, but then apologized. It’s breaking Bucky’s heart that you don’t remember him. The more you say it, the more it feels like someone ripped his heart out of his chest and crushed it in their bare hands.

The only thing that’s keeping Bucky from breaking down is looking at old pictures of you two, especially the pictures from yours and his wedding day. Tears filled his eyes as he looked at the pictures. You guys were so happy. Thanks to HYDRA, all of that happiness got ripped from you two.

“Are you ok?” You asked.

“I’m fine.” Bucky says and sniffles.

You walked over to him and sat down next to him on his bed. You took a look at the pictures in the photo album he’s currently looking at.

“Who are those people?” You asked, pointing at one of yours and his wedding pictures.

“Me and you on our wedding day.” He tells you. “You looked so gorgeous in your wedding dress.” He says softly with a smile.

The more you look at the pictures, you don’t remember any of it. It makes you feel bad that you can’t remember the man you married.

“I’m sorry I can’t remember any of this.” You apologized sadly.

“Doll, you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. It’ll come to you eventually.” He says softly.

You gaze deep in Bucky’s eyes, getting lost in them. You leaned in and kissed him passionately, catching Bucky by surprise. He kissed you back. He never forgot about how soft your lips feel against his. You pulled away after a few seconds, still gazing in his eyes.

“I’m falling in love with you, Bucky.” You admitted softly.

“I’m falling in love with you too, doll.” Bucky says softly.

In that moment, you and Bucky started to rekindle the love that got ripped from you guys years ago.

———

Yours and Bucky’s love has become stronger than ever lately. It’s just as strong as it was when you two fell in love when you guys were in high school. Also, yours and his happiness has came back.

“It looks like you and Y/N are falling in love again.” Steve says.

“How can you tell?” Bucky asks.

“You have that same smile on your face like the day you asked her to be your girlfriend in high school.” Steve says.

Bucky smiles at the memory. He remembers that day perfectly.

“You want to know what will make Y/N love you even more?” Wanda says.

“Yes.” Bucky replies.

“You should buy her favorite flowers and put her wedding ring back on her finger.” She suggests.

“Y/N does love flowers, but I don’t have her wedding ring to put on her finger.” He says sadly.

“Do you think she’ll accept a ring that’s different from her original ring?” She asks.

“I don’t know. There’s only one way to find out.” He says.

Bucky thanks Wanda for the suggestion and thought about it for a while. Later that same day, Bucky did what Wanda said. He bought a bouquet of your favorite flowers and he went to a jewelry store to buy a ring. He bought one that closely resembles your original ring.

“Have you guys seen Bucky?” You asked as you walked in the lounge room.

“He had to run a couple of errands. He said he’ll be back soon.” Wanda tells you.

“Are you ok?” Steve asks softly.

“I’m fine. Thanks for asking, Stevie.” You smiled.

Steve smiles when you called him Stevie. You haven’t called him that nickname since 1943.

You decided to go outside to get some fresh air. You sat on the bench next to the door to the main entrance of the compound. Bucky came back from running his errands a moment later. You smiled when you seen him walking towards you.

“I was wondering where you were, James.” You say with a smile.

“I wanted to get you your favorite flowers.” Bucky smiles as he hands you the bouquet.

“These are pretty.” You smiled as you admired the flowers.

“I have something else for you.” He says nervously.

“What is it?” You asked curiously.

Bucky took a small velvet box out of his jacket pocket and got down on one knee. You gasped.

“I know it’s not exactly the ring I put on your finger in 1935, but I hope you like it.” He says.

Bucky opened the small box, revealing a beautiful diamond ring.

“Do you like it?” He asks.

“I love it!” You exclaimed softly.

Bucky smiles and slides the ring on your finger. He sat down next to you on the bench and kissed you passionately.

“I love you, Bucky.” You say softly.

“I love you too, doll.” Bucky almost whispers. “I’m sure your memories of us will come back soon. Till then, you have our love and happiness to help you out with it.” He says softly, pecking your lips softly.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

Upstairs, you’d have to dive back into your agency’s database, using the footage from the island to try to match faces with names. Scouring through missing kid files has become your new pastime. Rewatching the footage of that night was necessary but you could feel the familiar bile in your throat rising, threatening to escape your mouth and splash across your laptop screen with every frame. A whole wall in the office had been transformed into a collage of blurry photos, as many leads as you could print out, tied together with bits of multi-colored yarn Harry had picked up from Michael's. He said that red string was too cliche.

Harry had become especially attentive ever since you got back, and you found yourself allowing it. You didn’t shake off his hand when he rested it on your shoulder, checking in on how you were doing and you listened when he asked you to take a break. Before, you would’ve fought back against his kindness, would’ve been suspicious of his attempts to get closer, but now you were inviting him into the greenhouse, not wanting to be alone with your thoughts. As if overnight, the presence that once irritated every nerve had become comforting, a source of peace.

Not that it made opening up to him any easier. It wasn’t through lack of trying, you allowed little tidbits about your life to trickle out of you, sharing the most basic parts of you, but it wasn’t easy. Instinctually, you wanted to repair your crumbling walls, not keep breaking them down.

Trudging up the basement steps, you skip the shower, the slick of sweat masking the underlying filth you couldn’t wash off. Besides, your stomach is growling louder and the leftover Chinese food from last night sounds like the perfect breakfast.

Instead of eating sweet and sour pork and chow mein, though, when you reach the main floor, resting on the kitchen island is a pink cardboard box, brimming with donuts and pastries, next to a pot of yellow orchids, and a small booklet with a handmade cover, each page decorated with a small drawing and text like “Spend this coupon to receive one (1) full uninterrupted hour of gardening time” or “Spend this coupon to receive breakfast in bed (please use the night before)”. The coffee pot was still steaming with warmth, a mug sat nearby with a note underneath.

“Happy Anniversary, love,” read the note, Harry’s messy handwriting looping across the page, “Thank you for putting up with me for a whole year! Take the day off from work, and text me what you want for dinner. Have a fantastic day, honey!” In the corner, he had drawn a rudimentary flower and a tiny smiley face, another little doodle covered by big, thick inky marks. Holding the note up against the light, you can just barely make out its shape.

A heart.

Your face distorts itself, trying to make sense of the spread of gifts. Anniversary? What anniversary? Not that he was here to offer you any answers, he was away at his fake job, pretending to be Sam Thompson. Pulling your phone out, you snap a photo of the assortment of presents and send it to Harry, inputting a series of question marks in the text box. You go to set your phone down, but the vibration stops you, his response coming in quickly.

You: ?????

Husband: Happy Anniversary!! x

You: Yeah, I read the card. What anniversary?

Husband: Ours x

You: Our anniversary of what?

Husband: Of being together

Thinking back on the past year, you count up the days, tracing back through the past 365 days before your thumbs tap against the screen, typing in a response.

You: No, we didn’t get our assignment until the next day, the anniversary would be tomorrow

Husband: Sure, but I wasn’t celebrating our mission’s anniversary. I was celebrating ours x

Involuntarily, your head shakes with confusion, trying to make sense of what Harry is talking about.

You: Do you mean it’s been a year since we first met?

Husband: It’s kinda like an anniversary

You: No it’s not

Husband: An annual celebration?

You: NO

Husband: A yearly tradition?

A groan rumbles in your throat before you input a response.

You: Fine.

You: What do I need to get you?

You: To make this even.

Husband: I'd like to spend the night getting to know my wife x

Slamming the phone face down onto the counter, you take several steps away, needing to put physical distance between yourself and that message. You can feel your defenses hardening, your fortifications bolstered by the threat. A night, an entire night, dedicated to sharing personal information, opening about past traumas, exposing your family history, revealing your past… Flashing through your mind is every single moment of embarrassment and shame you’ve ever felt. Did he expect you to reveal that time you cried at the talent show in fifth grade, or the time you spilled fish food into your dad’s aquarium and accidentally killed everything? Would he expect you to reenact the playground insults kids used to hurl at you? What about the time, early in your career, when you’d caught the wrong criminal and the Governor of California was nearly assassinated? Just how much of yourself did you have to give away? Would you be left with any privacy, any dignity?

Before you can let your anxious thoughts overwhelm you, dragging you into a cyclone of despair, you walk away, leaving your phone with the rest of his gifts. You needed a clear head before you could fathom an appropriate response, and your skin was starting to stick together with your drying sweat, becoming overly aware of how gross your body felt.

Underneath the pelting water, each drop pounding against your skull, you let it wash away the past hour, the past day, the past week. Maybe if you kept turning the dial up, until the water turned to steam, you could burn away your imperfections, flushing them down the drain along with the dirty water.

The tile is cool against you back as you sink down to the shower floor, too tired to hold yourself up anymore. You understand what Harry was asking of you, you just didn't believe you could give it to him. Nobody had asked this of you before, no one had wanted to know you the way Harry wanted to. That information had only belonged to you, and it felt like you were conceding a part of yourself, losing pieces of you by uncovering them. You knew of the KGB tactic where spies were less likely to turn on a partner they were intimately close with, it made sense, but that was for spies working within the same agency. At the end of the day, you were loyal to your company more so than to a rival.

But your agency wasn't here. They weren't helping you with the mission, they didn't care about your safety, they didn't care to know you.

Sitting in the shower, water pouring over your head, you find yourself coming around to his invasive request. Harry wasn't unreasonable, he wouldn't pry needlessly, and there were plenty of questions you wanted to know about your husband.

Resolved to see this bullshit through, you take your time in the shower, thoroughly cleaning every inch of yourself. For the first time in a while, you felt actually clean. With your hair tied up in your towel and a robe tied around your body, you head back into the kitchen. Arming yourself with a full cup of still steaming coffee and taking a bite from one of the maple donuts, you flip over your phone screen.

Husband: It doesn't have to be a big deal darling, I just wanna spend the night with you and hang out x

You: I'll agree so long as you buy one of those extra large cookie pies from Romeo's

Husband: It takes half a cookie pie to get you to open up?

You: Bold of you to assume I was going to share

Husband: You're right, my bad x

Husband: Margarita pizza too? x

You: And the cheesy garlic bread?

Husband: Of course x

Husband: Thank you for agreeing to do this x

Your mouth quirks up at his gratitude. Who knows, maybe you’d enjoy yourself tonight.

“How’d you get your agent name?”

Blinking back your surprise, you hold up your wine glass for Harry to fill as you deliberate on how to answer. “We’re starting with the spy stuff?”

Pouring his own glass, Harry offers you a shrug. “Figured it’d be easier than the family stuff.”

The takeout boxes sit on the coffee table between you both, filling the room with the delicious smell of garlic, roasted tomato, and cheese. You’re already a few bites in on your first slice, preparing the food while Harry went to find the perfect wine to compliment your dinner. Before tonight, you’d avoided any alcohol, purging your system of everything you consumed on the island, but you were looking forward to a night of debauchery.

You grimace but nod along with his assumption, taking your time to sip on the wine. “It was given to me after I passed the initiation.” Shifting in your spot on the floor, you untuck your legs from underneath yourself, bending your knee so you could rest your elbow upon it. “Usually, you have a year to meet the job requirements or they let you go, but…” you trail off, unsure of how much you really need to share. “I had a lot of free time and I did everything they asked in half a year. Then, in the interview, they said- God, it was so stupid, I stormed through the challenges? So, Agent Storm was born,” you cheer dryly, lifting your glass marginally.

Harry nods, picking up on your tone. “You don’t like it?”

“Fuck no, it sounds like a twelve year old’s Xbox account.” Harry snorts, the sound echoing into the wine glass, creating ripples in the drink. His ease is infectious, or the wine is already taking effect, because you can feel yourself slipping easily into the comfort he oozed. “What about you, Agent Gold? Do you like your designation?”

He contemplates your question before shrugging. “I guess. I mean, it could’ve been a lot worse, so I’m grateful it wasn’t like… Agent Aquamarine or something.”

“Does your agency only use colors?”

“Yeah, they um,” he clears his throat, and scrunches his eyebrows, waving his hand around as he tries to find the right words. It’s the first time he seems uncertain about opening up. “They have us visit this… psychic and she reads our aura, and that becomes our alias.”

The wine glass in your hand wavers near your lips as you absorb his words before bursting into laughter. Even Harry, with pink creeping up his cheeks, lets out a half-hearted chuckle as he shakes his head.

“Jesus Christ, a golden aura. Are you also immaculately conceived?” you tease him, taking another sip of wine.

“Technically,” he interjects, “I had a yellow aura, but Agent Yellow was already taken.”

Coughing out the remains of your laughter, you ask before taking another bite of pizza, “How long ago was that?”

“You mean how long have I been a spy?” Shrugging, you just keep chewing your pizza at his question. Harry sighs as he does the math in his head. “About seven years now, including the six months of training I had to do. And you?”

“Five years,” you speak around your food. Swallowing down your bite, you hold up a finger, correcting yourself. “No, actually six, a few months ago it became six years. My company sent an e-mail.”

Raising a brow, Harry repeats, “An e-mail?” The nodding of your head makes him scoff. “I’d hate to see how they treat their shitty spies.”

“Oh, so you think I’m a good spy?” you tease, folding your hands beneath your chin and batting your eyelashes at him.

“Course, I do,” he answers easily. “And your agency must think so too if they assigned you on this case.”

Deep in your chest, a warm feeling expands, fluttering between your ribs. You never doubted your own abilities, you knew how hard you had to work to get here, the nights you sacrificed sleep in order to study, the injuries your body sustained during training, you had done so without complaint. In return, your agency offered scarce praise for your work, and you had long grown to never expect it. But the flattery that buzzed around in your belly whenever Harry complimented you was something you were becoming familiar with, savoring it even.

“So,” you transition, reaching into the pizza box for another slice, keeping your hands busy, “are we allowed to ask about missions?”

“I just complimented your spy work, you don’t need to keep fishing,” Harry chides playfully.

You don’t bother to hold back your snickering. “And what if I’m not convinced about your abilities?”

Harry’s jaw drops in a mockery of offense, placing his hand over his chest. “Ow, my pride! It’s been wounded!” He exaggerates the pain, gasping and scrunching up his face while you roll your eyes at his dramatis.

“Okay, well once your pride stops being a baby, you can tell me about your first mission.” Taking another bite of pizza, the sauce oozes out of the slice, gathering in the corners of your mouth. Your tongue darts out quickly, capturing the spilled tomato sauce before it drips lower. It's when your tongue slips out the second time, collecting the remainder that you feel the weight of Harry's gaze pinpointed on your mouth.

“My first mission wasn't anything exciting,” he dismisses, shaking his head. “Just hacking into the Duke of Gloucester's e-mail. The hardest part was guessing if his password was ‘admin' or ‘login’.” Swirling the remainder of his wine, he swallows it down before refilling his glass. “Okay, your turn, honey, what was your easiest mission?”

“Easiest, huh?” It doesn’t take long for something to come up. “A couple summers back, there was this German guy who had this whole manifesto about the perilous balance of peace and how it’s unachievable in the long run, blah blah blah. Anyway, he moved to Amsterdam, 3D printed his own sniper rifle and was planning on shooting up Dam Square.”

“Hold on,” Harry interjects, his pizza slice hovering near his mouth, “was his name Benedikt Schwarz?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you serious?! That was you?” The incredulous tone instinctually raises your defenses, assuming he didn’t believe you, but the crooked smile he wears quickly assuages those concerns. “One of my agents was assigned that case, and he was so pissed off that someone else got it first! God, I can’t believe my wife is the same person who beat Agent Indigo!”

There it is again, those butterflies of flattery, the beating of their wings is thunderous like applause.

“Wow, you’re right, Agent Gold isn’t that bad,” you deadpan, refusing to acknowledge his praise.

“How’d you decipher the message? Indigo still hasn’t worked that one out.”

Lifting your shoulder in a demure shrug, you say, “You can’t expect me to reveal all my secrets, can you?”

He shook his head with a laugh, taking a bite of his slice. “You’ll have to tell me before the mission is over,” he declares, mouth full of pizza. “I have to rub this in Indigo’s face when I go back, he’ll never live this down.” The shine of pizza grease on his lips makes it hard to look away.

“We’ll see. Now, I believe it’s my turn to ask.”

As the day darkens to night, the conversation passes easily between the two of you, the alcohol leeching into your bloodstream and loosening you up. Swapping stories, laughing casually, and sharing drinks together, it’s intimately domestic between the two of you. The pizza grew colder, the cheese stopped stretching between slices, Harry’s plate filled with the crust ends he didn’t eat. Your feet knock against his underneath the coffee table, making him yelp, complaining about how cold your toes feel. His leg hairs scratch against your bare shin, tickling the skin there. You can’t recall the last time you shared a genuine moment like this with someone else, sharing your life with another person. Even opening up about your failures was less daunting than you feared, your mistakes turning into a game of one upping each other.

I sprained three of my toes while on the run and now they don’t bend normally.

My thumb was never properly reset so I can make it do this!

Ew, put that away! That’s disgusting!

Leaning back against the couch, the stem of the wine glass precariously balanced between your fingers, you’re totally absorbed into the story Harry is telling of his time in Venice, drunkenly focused on how smoothly his lips move, the way his eyes sparkle in the lamplight.

“It was a fairly simple case, took only a couple weeks. But there was a lot of downtime between the stakeouts and everything, and it gave me the chance to just… explore the city.” As he reminisces, his eyes glaze over with fond nostalgia, and the barest smile tugs on the corner of his mouth. “There's this… tranquility there, like there's no rush, there's no demand, everything happens at its own pace. I was living with this old couple who were very set in their routines and every night, after dinner, Enrico would insist I play a round of Scopa with him. No excuse was ever good enough to get out of playing with him and he usually cheated, but I think that's the part I miss the most, the pattern of doing the same thing every night with someone.”

Humming contentedly, you can see the image clearly in your mind: Harry sitting across an elderly, tan man, arguing over cards, the air pinched with salt from the canal, voices carried across the water’s surface. “Your favorite mission is the one where you got to slack off the most?” you tease.

He huffs out a laugh, “Yeah, it was kinda like a vacation. It was nice to have a break. I haven’t had that much freedom on a mission since… not until this one.”

“I’m sure this is nothing compared to Italy,” you say wryly, shifting your gaze away, hiding behind your glass as you drink down the rest of it, finishing off your third of the night.

“No… the pizza isn’t half as good.”

Catching you off guard, you nearly choke on the wine, coughing a few times before clearing your throat. When you look back over at him, meeting his green-eyed stare, there's a playful glint in them, enjoying the way he can throw you off balance. Even drunk, he could always read you, he knew exactly how to get you flustered.

“Can I ask you something?” you question him.

“That's kind of the whole point of the night.”

You don't acknowledge his joke, something nagging on you since before you took on this mission. “What level are you?”

His eyebrows cinch, mouth pursing in confusion before answering with a loose shrug, “We’re about the same level, I think.”

The scoff was involuntary, sneaking out before you could prevent its escape. “That's not what my agency said.”

Harry's face scrunches up further into confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, my agency told you guys that I'm a level below you but I'm actually a level above you.”

Still, his confusion remains, deepening even. “But my agency told yours I was a level below what I actually am. So we're at the same level.”

That doesn’t make sense.

“What do you need to do to reach your level?” you clarify, hopeful you’ll find a single discrepancy.

Counting on his fingers, his words are twinged with a slur as he lists off, “At least 50 successful missions, complete a shooting challenge in under a minute and a half, stay undercover from another agent for 48 hours, smuggle £10,000 out of the country, and pass 3 foreign language exams. It’s a lot more busy work than you’d think.” He tries to dismiss the accomplishments, brushing them off like they’re nothing.

To you, they sound familiar, though, eerily so. They sound like the exact challenges you had to endure to reach your current level. Was it possible that you were equals, that you had been on the same level all along?

Why did they lie? What was the point in pretending you were more experienced than him, stronger than him, smarter than him? Was this just another ploy from your agency, a test of your skills, an exercise to see how you’d adapt?

“But… but you- I thought…” you stammer through, trying to figure out how to say what you were thinking.

I thought I was better than you.

“Y’know,” Harry interrupts your spiraling thoughts, gathering up your dirty plates, “whenever my sister and I don’t agree on something, there’s only one way we can settle who’s right.”

“You misspelled ‘flavor’.”

“It’s the correct way to spell it,” Harry defends, sliding his U and R block beside your O.

“No, we’re in America, therefore we play by American rules!” you argue, reaching for the extra wooden tile, removing it from the game board.

The Scrabble box had been hidden inside the guest bedroom closet, the final resting spot for all the miscellaneous objects left behind by the previous tenants. Dust had gathered on picture frames and old toys, tracking your excavation until you found exactly what Harry was looking for. Now, perched up on the large guest bed, you’ve balanced your game atop the box lid, the board tipping precariously whenever one of you shifted on the bed.

“With a double letter on the F… that makes sixteen points.”

“Should be seventeen,” Harry grumbles, glaring down at the board, as if it were to blame for his low points. His accent is more apparent now, the British emphasis thickening with each sip.

You track the score on a spare piece of paper, combining Harry’s total points. Then you set your own tiles down, placing your S at the end of Harry’s recently added word. “I can’t believe you left the triple word score completely open. YES, worth eighteen points plus thirteen from FLAVORS equals 31 points,” you tally up smugly, recording your new points.

Harry uncorks the wine bottle, refilling his glass with the dark liquid. “Well, go ahead and ask your stupid question.”

Each round, you agreed to trade questions, whoever scored the highest would get to ask whatever they wanted, no holds barred, incentivizing you to play more aggressively than your competitive spirit already demanded.

“Do you think Dante is-”

“I’m not answering that, pick something else.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask!” you whine, beating your fist against your thigh, too drunk to care about the childish tantrum you were throwing. Harry had brought up another bottle from the cellar and when you had both gone through that, a lot faster than the first, you had borrowed from your private stash you kept under your bed. Tomorrow, you would struggle to understand the scribbling marks that made up your points, but that wasn’t where your ire was directed right now. “You can’t shut down my question before I even ask.”

“Well, asking about my mom’s relationship with her bodyguard is off-limits,” he insists, grabbing a new set of letters from the black pouch. “Ask something else.”

Rolling your eyes, you scour your brain for something else you could ask, some other query you wanted an answer to. “Fine,” you concede, your next question becoming clear in your mind. “Why do you care so much when Peter flirts with me?”

Something passes over Harry’s features before he’s covering it up, clearing his throat. “Because you’re my wife, honey, I’m just playing the part.”

“No,” you disagree, your head shaking relentlessly, “Jessica is married to Sam, but you’re the one who gets annoyed by his flirting, not Sam. So why does it bother you?” In your sloshing brain, it’s important to make the distinction clear between himself and the character he plays, to acknowledge the difference between the two.

He heaves a sigh, his breath rushing through the curls on his forehead. “It’s the principle of the thing,” he maintains.

“But why does it bother you?” you press.

Eventually, Harry forces his breath out through his nose, rearranging the wooden letters on his game rack, avoiding your inquisitive gaze. “I know this marriage is a sham, I know you’re not my wife, but… I don’t want to be a bad husband. I don’t want to be like my dad.”

It makes you perk up, the first time he’s ever mentioned his father. You don’t say anything, hoping he’ll offer up more if you stay quiet.

“I was seven when he left. And as soon as he was gone, it was like… we could all breathe freely. He’s not a bad person, not really, he just wasn’t compatible with my mom. Everyday was an exercise in trying to not piss him off, he was constantly pissed, everything set him off back then. But once he was gone, my mom smiled a lot more, she played her music more, she danced. It was like she became a whole new person without my dad’s shitty attitude dragging everything down.” Harry shakes his head, his lips pull back into a grimace. “Like I said, he's not a bad guy, he also became a completely different person after the divorce finalized. But he made my mom miserable, for years, for no other reason than he was too selfish to put someone else's feelings over his.”

Harry finally brings his gaze up to yours, his resolve hardening his stare. “I hate it when Peter flirts with you because I can tell it bothers you. It's like the prick gets off on making you uncomfortable. And I hate that someone can come around and bother my wife and I can't do anything about it. Real or not, I don't want my wife to be miserable.” He averts his gaze once more, whispering more to himself, “I don't want to be like my dad.”

Pity twists in your belly, the false image of perfection you thought Harry had been raised in crumbling in your mind. You knew about his dad leaving, it had been listed in his personnel file when you first arrived, but the extra details were redacted, thick black bars obscuring the information. To hear Harry's version, though, the situation was a lot more complicated than someone choosing to walk away from their family, choosing to neglect their responsibilities. But that didn't stop Harry from carrying the hurt his dad created anyway.

“You don't make me miserable, Harry,” you attempt to soothe, your drunken mind adding in a caveat you can't stop yourself from sharing. “I mean… yeah, I've been pretty miserable, but that's not your fault. Well… not specifically your fault, I would've been miserable with anyone, that's not-" The only way you can get your mouth to stop moving is by smushing your face into your palms, releasing a long drawn out groan at your excessive blabbering.

“No, keep going, sweetheart,” Harry encourages sarcastically. “I was just starting to feel better.”

“Stahpit!” you grumble into your hands, peeking at his cocky smile between your fingertips. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I get it, you've been miserable and I've been a shite partner.”

“No!”

“I'm just a constant disappointment.”

Some of the tiles jostle in their space when you reach across the board, grabbing onto his hand. “Hey, no, seriously, I’ve been miserable because of my own personal bullshit. You’ve actually been the least worst part of this whole thing.”

Harry chuckles heartily. “You know what, I’ll accept that, only because this is going to hurt and I’m not sorry about it,” he mocks, laying down all seven of his letters, creating the word ABJECTLY off of the letter Y you placed, earning 125 points all at once.

Your jaw drops open at the deceitful play. The longer it takes you to add it all up, the wider Harry’s smirk curls, growing more and more smug in his seat.

“Should I go ahead and ask my question or do you think you can beat that?”

The collection of vowels you’re currently hoarding on your rack could never match his points, or even get close. Even still, you hate to give in so easily, laying down your letters with a grumble, earning a paltry seventeen points for UVEA. “Ask away.”

His stare is devious, sparkling with mischief while he rubs his hands together. “Hmm… let's see…” he says, pretending like he hasn't had his question prepared for the past few rounds. “Out of all the rooms in this house, love, why the bloody hell did you choose the teen bedroom for yourself?”

“That’s your big question?”

“Answer it, darling!”

“It’s a stupid question!”

“Answer it!” Harry’s shoulders begin to shake as he sings his response, dancing to some beat he’s created in his head. “Answer it!”

Groaning, you roll your eyes, focusing on fixing the tiles that had been knocked askew instead of Harry’s inquisitive stare. “Don’t you want to use your question to ask something more embarrassing or personal?”

“I think the fact you don’t want to answer this one means it’s embarrassing and personal, darling,” Harry retorts, still shimming his shoulders to the imaginary beat.

With a heavy sigh, you reveal, “It reminded me of Suzy Johnson’s room.”

After a beat, Harry stops his dancing, gently pressing, “Who’s Suzy Johnson?”

Technically, you don’t have to give in to his prying, but seven glasses in and the rules seem less rigid than when you set them. “Suzy’s the girl who invited me to her thirteenth birthday party. It was the first time my parents let me go to a sleepover, the last time too,” you admit wistfully, reflecting on the party fondly. “She said she was an eco-goth, she had crystals and tarot cards and she read her birth chart to predict what the next year would look like. Her room was purple and had all these golden astrological symbols painted on the ceiling. I thought she was so cool and the fact that her parents supported her was… I was jealous. Then my parents said they didn’t like Suzy and they were worried she’d turn me into a freak like her so I wasn’t allowed to hang out with her again. But that room stuck with me. So when I got here, and I saw the purple wallpaper… I had to take it.” When you finish your explanation, you lift your eyes off the board, all the tiles returned to their rightful place.

Harry wears a soft grin, affable and affectionate. “And I thought you just wanted to make sure you didn’t have to share a bed.”

“That’s a good excuse,” you say with a laugh, adding on, “And there’s… another reason.”

“Oh yeah?”

Biting your lip, you get up from the bed, the game tiles scattering across the board again as it rattles at your movement. You’re practically skipping out of the guest room and into your room across the way, hunting for the orange Nike shoe box that had been stuffed in the back of your closet, forgotten by the previous owner. Harry legs extend across the bedding, his foot knocking into the other incessantly as he waits for your return.

“I was saving this for after the mission was over.” Lifting up the cover, you expose the box’s contents: an old Bic lighter, rolling papers, and a thick, airtight jar half-filled with buds of marijuana.

“You’ve been holding out on me!” Harry accuses you, picking up the jar, inspecting the drugs inside. “Is it any good?”

“No idea,” you admit with a shrug. “I figure if it’s green, it can’t be bad, right?”

Harry twists the lid off, giving the cannabis a cautionary whiff before lifting his shoulders in a similarly apathetic shrug. “I’m willing to risk it if you are.”

The burn of the weed winds around your lungs, seeping into your system before you exhale, pushing the smoke out of your body before it floats up towards the ceiling, dissipating into the air. With a hand behind your head, your other one taps the blunt, knocking the excess into an ashtray on the nightstand. The Scrabble board is abandoned, tiles scattered across the bedroom, a mess to deal with another time. “I’m just saying, if there’s no prize money, then what’s the point of taking several weeks off of work to do a baking competition?”

“It’s not about the money, love, it’s about possibility of getting to shake Paul Hollywood’s hand,” Harry argues, pinching his fingers together to indicate he wants the joint. Currently, he’s sitting cross legged on the floor, leaning back against the bed.

Passing it to him, you cough twice before continuing. “Yeah but so what? Can I exchange the handshake for baking lessons? Can I submit my Paul Hollywood handshake to a baking school and get accepted?”

Harry inhales the marijuana, holding it in as he says “I think you’re too concerned about the monetary value,” he pauses to exhale, his voice raspy from the smoke, “and not the experience as a whole, love.”

“The whole experience is a farce,” you decry, covering your face with your forearms, having uncovered the conspiracy behind the BBC. You’re becoming stuck in the connections between baking competition shows and time travelers in police boxes when you suddenly burst out into laughter. “Doctor Hollywho.”

Joining in with your snickering, Harry sneaks another puff, choking a little on the inhale. “Okay Sherlock, we might wanna dial back your usage.”

“No, good husbands share their weed with their wives. It's in our vows.”

“Sweetheart, we don't have vows.”

“It's in our contract,” you amend, waving your hand dismissively before taking the dwindling joint back for yourself. “Thou shalt share-eth thy drugs.”

Harry rolls his lips into his mouth as he tries to contain his giggles. “When's the last time you've done this, darling?”

“Before I graduated high school. My sister would bring home a stash from college and then forget about it, and then, one day, she just never came back and I didn't know how to get my own so I just stopped.” Silence takes over as you regain your breath, expending it all as you explained your drug history, without fully comprehending what other parts of yourself you were revealing. Harry mumbles something you can’t quite make out, so you turn your head, facing him as you hum. “What was that?”

“On the island,” Harry starts, “you said ‘everybody leaves’. Was that about your sister?”

Stalling with a deep inhale, you let the smoke linger in your chest, swirling with the oxygen before you release it with a heavy sigh. “Partly… yeah.”

“She just left?”

“I can’t blame her for leaving, our parents weren’t the kind of people who should’ve had kids. I just… didn’t expect her to leave me behind.”

“I’m sorry, love,” Harry apologizes in a whisper, leaning his head back, the both of you watching as the fan spins, making the ceiling behind it spiral as well.

The whirlpool of popcorn ceiling mirrors your winding mind. Your missing sister, like the unnamed girls on Nox’s island, people who disappeared from their families without a trace, and the people who took advantage of the runaways. It all starts to make you feel nauseous, clenching your eyes closed, letting your head droop to the side. When you blink them open, your eyes are immediately attracted to the blush pink of Harry’s lips, lightly pursed, his nostrils gently flaring through each exhale. He appears peaceful in the moment before his eyes slide over to you, curiosity altering his features.

“Why did you kiss me?”

Harry’s head snaps upright as he directs all his attention onto you, taken aback by your unexpected question. “Huh?”

“In Peter’s library, why’d you kiss me?” you reiterate, tracking the subtle changes in his face. The pinch of fright when you ask, the burning blush that highlights his cheeks, the mask of indifference he hides behind as he smirks.

“Oh, now you wanna talk about that?” Harry questions you. “If I remember correctly, we had gotten into the car and I said ‘Do you wanna talk about what just happened?’ and you said, again, correct me if I’m wrong, ‘It was a good distraction’.”

“It was **a good distraction,” you agree, “but why’d you do it?”

“It just…” Harry trails off, scrunching up his face and groaning as he tries again. “I thought that… I don’t know… I guess you called my bluff, darling.” Shaking his head, Harry looks back at you, releasing a long sigh. “Peter wants you, you’re the reason we’re making any progress on this mission, and all I’m good for is watching you succeed while I’m left behind. So when you said you could offer Peter something… something in me snapped. I wanted to prove I was more useful than just distracting some bored socialite with too much time on her hands. And for some reason,” he averts his gaze sheepishly, his cheeks deepening in color, “I thought the best way to do that would be to kiss you.”

Hearing him list his insecurities, opening up about feeling inadequate, it's something you would've never expected to hear from him. This past year, you’ve felt like you had to prove yourself all while he felt like he was scrambling to catch up to you. Both of you had been battling the same fight, silently warring against your internal monologues, desperate to justify your role, your skills, your place in this mission.

If only one of you had spoken up sooner. If only you hadn’t been so judgmental and defensive when you met. But you can't admit to that, not to him.

“For some reason?” you ask instead.

“For some reason,” Harry nods along.

Your fingers pull at a loose thread on the bedding, loosening the seams of the comforter. “Would you, for some reason, ever do it again?”

When he lifts his gaze to you, he holds his breath for a beat, before saying, “Ever do what?” You can tell through his bloodshot eyes that he knows exactly what you’re talking about, but he’s needling you to clarify, making you elaborate.

“Kiss me.” Saying it quickly, getting it all out at once makes it simpler, like it's not a big deal. Like you haven't tried to manufacture reasons to justify sneaking a kiss here or there. Like you haven't fantasized about what would've happened that night if Peter hadn't walked in.

Harry blinks rapidly, his chest rising and falling shallowly before he takes the blunt from you. “Wow, okay, you are crossfaded as hell, honey,” he dismisses you, inhaling a final puff, then discarding the roach into the ashtray. “I’m going to head downstairs and grab a glass of water for you.”

While Harry struggles to stand up, an annoyed bug starts buzzing in your head. He didn’t answer your question. That was the point of this whole night, this whole thing was about sharing and opening up but here he was, walking away from your inquiry, avoiding giving you an answer. He stumbles towards the door, his steps faltering through his inebriation.

Fueled by the fury of being ignored, and a growing unnamable burn in your belly, you stalk after Harry, catching up with him before he’s reached the door. The pounding of your determined steps cause him to turn around, surprised to see you following after him. Your hands push against his chest, shoving him back into the wall. Harry emits a short, startled grunt, his hands coming up by his head as he looks down at you, his pupils blown out wide in his red rimmed eyes. For a second, you stand there, your body pressed up against his, his shirt crumpled between your clenched fists.

Then you’re leaning up on your toes, your hands sliding around his neck and tugging him down, your lips rushing to meet Harry’s. Smushed together, your lips collide, teeth clattering against each other. His mouth tastes the same as yours, the bitter burn of the marijuana unable to mask the bite of garlic, the robust wine lingering underneath it all. Harry takes in a startled breath before he sighs with a groan, the sound swallowed by your mouth. Lowering his hands, they rest on your hips, pulling you in closer, making you lean into him further.

His lips mash into yours in a familiar cadence. The soft press of his lips, the careful way he touches you, all these restrictions he's placing on himself, hiding behind his alias, kissing you as Sam instead of kissing you as himself. Frustrated, you nip at his lips, twist your fingers in his hair, rolling your body into his, trying to find the button, the right combination of moves to activate Harry mode. But he remains stubbornly within his role, trapped behind the facade of Sam Thompson.

Pulling back, Harry tries to chase after you, lips still puckered, but you hold up a hand, barring his kiss, stopping him in his place. “I don't want Sam,” you tell him, eyes blazing. “I want you, Harry.”

You watch the shift across his face, his green eyes darkening, his lids dropping until they're hooded, his moan vibrating against your palm. Slapping your hand aside, Harry surges forward, dragging you back into him. One hand curves around your thigh, hooking it around his hip, the other slides into your hair, using his grip on your head to give himself control over your movement. Slotting your lips together, this kiss is unrestrained emotion and heated passion, absent of the previous trepidation. You’re nearly knocked off your feet as he pulls you in, stumbling forward with a squeak and holding onto his shoulders for support, making his smirk grow against your lips.

Using your hair to tug your head back, Harry dives into your exposed neck, his teeth sinking into your pulse point. He sucks on the spot, his tongue lathing over it, encouraged by your breathy whines to keep going. Huffing and panting and groaning, he’s attacking your skin with an animalistic fervor. His grip on your thigh climbs up to your ass, clenching at you through your clothes.

“No marks,” you complain, patting your hand against him, but he doesn’t let up. “Hey!”

“Just cover ‘em,” he mumbles before latching back onto your neck.

Reaching into his curls, you yank his head back, using his own trick on him. The sticky suction of his mouth is loud in your ear when you disconnect his mouth from you. A string of saliva dangles from his lip when you glare at him, his eyes hazy as you twist your hand in his hair, his hands trembling by your side. “No. You listen to me,” you order, slowly to make sure he understood each word.

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry whimpers, succumbing to your command instantly.

“Now, do what I say and kiss me!”

Harry lunges forward, forcing you backward as he reconnects your lips, running his tongue over your bottom lip. Forcing you back, you nearly trip over your feet until you feel the mattress hit the back of your thighs. The Scrabble board falls over, knocked onto the floor, the sound startling you but Harry doesn't let you escape this time, keeping you securely latched onto him. Instead, he maneuvers his knee in between your legs, the nearness of his thigh to your crotch making your body twitch in anticipation, becoming tightly wound, on the brink of being unraveled. But he doesn't rub you along him, doesn't press his thigh close. Leaning his knee on the bed, his hands slide underneath your legs, lifting them up at the same time he falls forward, catching himself before he falls completely on top of you. You feel that momentary free-fall, the wind rushing past your skin until you land on the bed, Harry's hands on either side of your face. Taking a pause, both of your chests brushing against each other with your heavy pants, Harry looks down at you, tracing a finger around your jaw. Then he's slowly leaning down, tracking each minute change in you, from your breaths becoming the slightest bit more shallow, your eyes widening just a fraction more, the gradual opening of your legs, accepting more and more of him, wanting him even closer. You'd deny it all if he brought it up later, would say he's exaggerating how eagerly you presented yourself, which is why he's taking his time, needing to memorize each second, filing that information away.

Both of you sigh when Harry finally kisses you, all the building anxiety disappearing once your lips collide. He's still gentle with you, but in a way distinctly different from his alter ego. Sam was scared of breaking his wife, politely holding himself back, but Harry wasn't as concerned about your frailty, knowing you can handle him. Even still, he only used a single finger, brushing it on the underside of your chin in order to direct your head exactly where he wanted it. His nails dug through your clothing as he wrapped your legs around his waist, softening his touch to then rub gentle circles where his nails pierced into you. And he was mouthy as hell. Through grunts, groans, and growls, Harry responds to all your movements with a melody of approving sounds, making it easier to catalogue what he likes. Tugging on his curls makes him bite your lip, rutting your hips up to his makes him moan into your mouth, and, most importantly, when you wrap a hand around his throat, the light pressure causes his arms to give out. The weight of him collapsing on top of you makes you smile through the kiss.

Making out with someone you barely know, in a room that isn't yours, a bed you've never slept in, feels like the teenage experience you never had. Your hormones feel just as wild, your neurons sensitive to these horny sensations. Usually, when you were seducing someone, your brain was preoccupied with mission details, planning an escape route, wondering how long you need to keep up the charade. Without those distractions, you're thinking about what other sounds Harry could make and how to cause them, which one of you could kiss the longest without coming up for air, your thoughts growing more nasty when you feel Harry's bulging member thrusting into the space between your thighs. He's so close to pressing into exactly where you're craving, where your heat pulsates. All it takes is the briefest nudge, adjusting yourself as he thrusts forward, his thick member running up through your center, the pressure against your clit making you shiver beneath him.

“Mmm, oh Harry,” you groan, your breath catching on a gasp.

That causes Harry to freeze above you, pulling back with rapidly blinking eyes, clearing his throat awkwardly before he focuses his gaze on you. His hair sticks up in random sections from your explorative hands, his eyes are red and glazed over from the weed, and his jaw hangs loosely, his puffy lips forming words that he doesn't give voice to. With a sigh, he rests his forehead on yours, shutting his eyes close, nuzzling his nose into yours as he collects himself.

“Harry?” you whisper. Your voice sounds normal now, less pitchy and whiney than earlier.

“I'm fine,” he reassures you quickly, too quickly. “I just… I'm going to get you that water now.” Without opening his eyes, without offering you a glance, Harry pushes off the bed, putting distance between the two of you, turning back towards the door. “Do you want anything else?” he tosses over his shoulder, his steps never stopping, not waiting for an answer as he exits out of the room.

There was an obvious answer you wanted to yell after him. I want you back here now!

You played that game earlier, chasing after him when he tried to leave. Now, you couldn't make the same move, you couldn't come off that pathetically desperate, couldn't seem like you wanted him when he was currently walking away.

So he left the room without objection, leaving you breathless and confused, laying the wrong way on the bed, with the lingering thought of Did that just fucking happen? And had he really just walked away from it all, leaving you pliant and panting in an empty bed, your crotch aching with a desire that hasn't been unleashed in over a year?

An exasperated laugh escapes you through short breaths, silent and dumbfounded as you run your fingers through your hair, sure it was just as messy as Harry’s. When you rub your eyes with the palms of your hands, the pressure blooms behind your lids, reminding you of how late it’s gotten. The sun had dipped below the horizon hours ago, now your body was catching up with the exhaustion you’d been subconsciously ignoring.

In the morning, you'd argue away your curiosity as a symptom of your intoxication, a side effect of the night’s debauchery. As your eyes drift shut, your lips still tingling with the memory of Harry, you let yourself be carried away to sleep contentedly.

For the first time since your trip, the island doesn’t follow you into your dreams.

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Her role was simple: be invisible. Blend seamlessly into the background of the Red Keep’s chaos. No sudden movements, no lingering glances. Just another face in the endless stream of servants carrying out daily tasks without drawing notice.

The scent of damp earth and blooming herbs from the nearby gardens mingled with the faint smoke rising from the kitchens. Voices began to drift through the cool air; servants exchanging greetings or commands, guards muttering about the latest news from the city, the distant laughter of nobles unaware of the quiet wars unfolding beneath their feet.

She wiped a stray strand of hair from her face and moved along the corridors to the many different chambers of the Keep, opening the heavy wooden doors and windows of several rooms along the hallways, letting in fresh air and sunlight.

The woman wiped away the thin layer of dust from sills and surfaces. Her hands smoothed the edges of a curtain in one of the chambers, and adjusted a chair slightly out of place in the next. Small motions, unnoticed but enough to keep the rooms alive, ready for whatever purpose they might serve.

She paused often, hearing the rhythms of the keep all around her; the soft clink of metal, the rustle of fabric, voices rising and falling in quiet conversation. Nothing out of place, but each sound a thread woven into the tapestry of daily life she moved through, careful not to unravel anything or to be noticed herself.

As she moved through the Keep, she kept to her schedule, down to the Kitchens to collect the freshly prepared food for one of the many Nobles whom lived or stayed within the castle walls. The warmth and bustle there were a stark contrast to the quiet halls above.

The air was thick with the scent of fresh bread, roasting meat, and herbs steeping in boiling water. The chattering of cooks and scullery maids filled the space, punctuated by the clatter of pots and the occasional sharp call to fetch this or that.

She approached the counter where the morning meal had been set out; a simple yet elegant spread, warm bread still steaming, fresh butter, honeycomb, meats of three different kinds, fruit, roasted vegetables and a small pot of strong tea. She lifted the covered tray carefully, mindful of its weight and balance.

With measured steps, the maid retraced her path through the corridors, the sounds of the Keep returning, a soft scrape of broom against stone, voices muted behind closed doors, the faint echo of distant footsteps.

Passing a group of servants clustered near a doorway, she caught fragments of quiet conversation, a whispered name, a hint of worry. Her eyes flicked away, expression calm, as if she were no more than a passing shadow.

She paused briefly at another doorway where two servants exchanged quiet words, their heads bent close but voices barely above a whisper. She stepped just far enough to catch the tail end of a name, a place, a promise made already fragile. 

All promises were.

At the end of the hall, she reached the heavy oak door of the noble’s chambers. She paused as she waited for the guard stationed outside to open the door for her. She slipped inside, softly placing the tray gently on a polished table near the window, fresh flowers from the garden had been placed on the table the day before, and she noted that they should be replaced again today, despite them not drooping. Light spilled through the windows as she pulled open the curtains, casting a glow on the stone floor. The noble lay resting on the bed, eyes closed but breathing steady, still asleep despite her fussing.

As the maid moved around the room preparing it for him to wake, his body stirring behind her as he woke slowly to the smell of food and light streaming in, she looked about the chambers for anything of interest. A book, a scroll, anything that her trained eye could catch before stepping back into the corridor. 

The delicate dance of daily life resumed, but her mind was already elsewhere, quietly gathering, quietly watching, always aware of the threads woven through the walls around her.

--

The corridors had begun to hum with the rhythm of the day. Servants hurried to and fro with linens and platters, guards traded shifts at the stairwells, and the faint sound of bells from the sept rolled through the air. She moved through it all unnoticed, the tray long since delivered, her hands now empty save for the habit of keeping them busy.

Passing through one of the inner courtyards, she slowed to adjust a tapestry of The Crone, disturbed by the wind of the night before. Below, two guards lingered near the archway, a change in shift, their voices low but not low enough.

“I’ll tell you plain,” One of them muttered, voice hushed, “The King is reckless. Drinks more than he thinks. Say what you will of Daemon, but he knew how to lead men.”

“Quiet!” The other hissed, though without much conviction, “You’ll lose your post for talk like that.”

“More likely my head.“

His words grew distant as she moved further down the corridor, looking over the edge and down as the two guards were slowly revealed to her. 

The tallest of the men had short black hair and a thick beard, she could tell he had been the first man she heard as the other, shorter with a shaved head, was looking nervously around the courtyard and paths. He was worried they would be caught, unaware that they already had. 

She kept moving, making sure that she looked at both them, and continued the work she was set out to do, adjusting another tapestry, shifting a chair that sat along a balcony overlooking the courtyard, all whilst she remembered the slopes of their noses and the shift of their jaws. 

The maid moved without urgency, descending the stairs down to the courtyard so that she could pass by them and get a better look. She passed them without a word, the both of them stiffening as they saw her come nearer, their conversation halting abruptly and the two separating as she continued on her way. 

Information like that wasn’t urgent. Many people hated Aegon, but Lord Larys Strong liked to know when and where loyalties shifted. Small cracks in the stone could widen if pressed at the right time.

--

It was she who had suggested the signal. Direct words were dangerous; even silence could be overheard in the wrong moment.

“If I have something of value,” She had said, “You’ll know.”

Larys Strong considered her for a long time, eyes half-lidded, weighing her as he might a blade before deciding whether it would cut cleanly, “And what form will this teller take?”

Her gaze had fallen to the table between them. A simple clay jar sat there, half-filled with wilted herbs, “A flower.” She said after a pause, “From the garden. Red. I’ll place it on the table. If you see it, you’ll know.”

He smiled again then, but it had been a quiet, knowing sort of smile, “Clever. I’ll summon you for tea before bed.”

She moved to leave his chambers but paused and turned back, “The colour will have to change. Someone may notice me bringing you a lone flower on every other day.”

Larys Strong gave her an appraising look, “Bring flowers each day, but one will be the only of its colour amongst the rest.”

She gave him a nod and left his chambers.

From that night on, the system had held. No words exchanged, no notes passed. Just a single bloom amongst the rest—a whisper between two conspirators hiding in plain sight.

At the edge of the gardens, she paused by a row of herbs and flowers. The scent of mint and rosemary filled the air. She used the blade within her aprons to cut a bunch of flowers, purples and yellows, their smell strong in her nose. She kept walking before finding one of her choosing. Her fingers brushed over the plants before plucking one of the small crimson blossoms that had opened with the dawn, and made her way back towards the Keep. 

It was easy getting back inside to collect a vase and place her bouquet of flowers inside with some water from a well. Was easier still to make her way up the stairs to Lord Larys Strongs chambers, known by the guards stationed outside his door as she made her way inside, head down to place the vase upon his table, the man himself seated as he slowly broke his fast. His dark eyes flicked over the flowers and to her, but she barely spared him a glance, bowing before exiting the chambers. 

He would receive his tea that evening.

--

The corridors of the Red Keep had long since quieted by the time she reached Lord Larys Strong’s chambers. The torches burned low, their light trembling across the stone walls. In her hands she carried a small tray: a teapot, one cup, and a bowl of honey.

The air inside his chambers always felt heavier than elsewhere, still, perfumed faintly with sandalwood and smoke. He was seated by the hearth when she entered, his cane resting against the arm of the chair. The fire cast his shadow across the floor, bending it into strange shapes.

He had been waiting.

“Set it there.” He murmured, gesturing to the low table beside him as his guards held the door open for you, “You may go.” His voice was soft to the men stationed at his door, and they closed it without a second thought. 

The air in the chambers thickened, and she moved to pour him his tea. 

One spoonful of honey, stirred thrice. 

She knew him better than anyone else.

Larys watched her a moment before speaking again, “I wondered whether you would have something for me this week.”

She picked up the tea and saucer and made her way towards him, placing the tea in front of him as she stood beside the chaise he sat on. The firelight flickered over his features, which neither betrayed his intrigue nor amusement. 

Her hands folded before her, expression polite, unremarkable, “There was talk among the guards near the west courtyard. Nothing new, though I’ve noticed a pattern of growing dissent amongst them.” She said lightly, as if recounting nothing more important than the weather, “A few feel their loyalty may have been misplaced.”

He smiled, slow and thoughtful, “Men are so quick to question the hand that feeds them.” Larys leant forward to pick up his teacup and saucer, carefully blowing away steam and taking a sip. 

Trust.

“You have a talent for noticing small things like these, the others often think it inconsequential.” He said, tone bored, “It is a dangerous gift, in a place like this.”

“People forget who listens when they don’t think they’re being heard.”

His smile deepened, almost approving, “And do you forget, when you listen?”

“Never.”

For a heartbeat, the room felt still. Two shadows measuring the other in silence. Then he took another deep sip from his cup.

“You’ve done well.” He said at last, “I’ll see to it that certain ears hear what they need to. Did you recognise these men?”

“The first of the men,” She thought for a moment, only a beat, “Erock Swynt I believe. Often in the courtyards before the suns rise and dawn. His companion was younger, I’ve not seen him before.”

Larys turned his cup slowly in his hands, the movement deliberate, “Swynt.” He murmured, “Once a Gold Cloak. He’s either ambitious or stupid. I’ve never trusted either quality.”

She said nothing, waiting. Over the years she had learnt that silence drew more from him than speech.

He leaned back in his chair, the firelight catching the slight tilt of his mouth, “And what did they say?”

“They spoke of Prince Daemon.” She replied, voice low, even, “One of them said he was a man who knew how to lead. The other didn’t disagree.”

“Ah,” Larys breathed, taking another sip, “Nostalgia. A trait far more treacherous than ambition.” He moved to place to teacup down on the small table before him, “You’ve been here for a long time now, haven’t you? Years.”

“Since before the King’s health began to worsen.” She said, “Before the whispers grew teeth.”

“Then you know how easily the world forgets those who serve it.” His gaze lingered on her, “And how quickly those same hands can shape a new one.”

She met his eyes, just for a heartbeat, “My Lord.”

“You will mark Swynt’s name. Watch him. If his tongue wags again, I’d like to know to whom.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment, then moved to collect the empty tray, collecting his teacup as she placed it with the rest.

“You speak well for a maid.” Larys watched her with curious eyes. 

It wasn’t the first time he had noted it. Despite his prodding and own searching, he had found nothing.

She gave a faint smile that did not reach her eyes, “G’night, m’lord.”

“Goodnight, my little moth.”

Moth.

The title, his invention, was spoken without warmth or cruelty, merely observation. A creature overlooked, in the shadows, drawn to flame.

She left quietly, closing the door behind her. By the time she reached the hallway, her face had returned to that calm, forgettable mask. The look of a maid with no thoughts worth noticing. Yet beneath it, her pulse thrummed.

Another message delivered. Another thread woven. 

Another yet to be strung.

Bucky chuckled, slipping his hands into his pockets. “No. This is a gift from my dad—to make up for forgetting my 17th birthday.”

Your eyes widened. “You jerk! You made me pay for all the drinks that time!” You playfully shoved his shoulder.

“You were my supervisor back then,” he said, grinning. “It would’ve been disrespectful to say no.”

Then, his expression softened. He reached for your hand and held it gently. “But now, no more lies. Not with you.”

There was a pause. The wind from the beach brushed through your hair as you looked at him, really looked at him. The sunlight caught the side of his face, and in that moment, he wasn’t a spy or a survivor—just someone who wanted a fresh start, same as you.

Inside the house, Lori watched through the large window, a soft smile on her lips.

“My work here is done,” she whispered dramatically.

Henry, sprawled on the sofa with one arm draped over his eyes, groaned. “Are you done spying on them?”

“This isn’t spying,” Lori said, arms flailing in protest. “It’s observation. As Cupid, I did a fantastic job. Romance is in the air!” She clapped her hands. “I can’t wait to be my aunt’s flower girl.”

Henry scoffed, shifting to sit upright. “I wish life was really that easy—for people like me, your aunt, and Bucky.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, frowning.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We live in shadows, Lori. Danger, secrets... The kind of life you’re picturing? It’s not real for people like us. Most of us live with fear, not freedom.”

Lori’s shoulders sagged. “That’s not fair. But you’ve all quit. You deserve another chance. A new start.”

Henry stared at the floor for a moment. “If it were that simple, I’d have reconciled with my ex, and I’d be living in a house with a white picket fence.” He chuckled bitterly. “Instead, I’m here—still alone.”

After a beat, he turned to her. “By the way, why didn’t you go to school?”

Lori glanced away, suddenly interested in the ceiling. “I’m doing online classes.”

“Uh-huh…” Henry raised an eyebrow.

He tilted his head. “What about your mom? Don’t you miss her?”

“She’s busy. Doing a book tour,” she mumbled, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I prefer being here.”

🌸🌸🌸🌸

You and Lori were walking down the grocery store aisle, your cart half-filled as the wheels squeaked beneath it. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, and the cold air from the freezer section drifted across your arms.

Lori reached for a bag of chips and glanced around. “Aunty, remember the last time we came to the store? Someone tried to shoot us—and that’s how we met Bucky.”

You shot her a sharp look and whispered, “Don’t say it out loud.” You scanned the other shoppers, your instincts still on edge.

Lori shrugged, unfazed. “Do you think something exciting will happen again?”

You sighed, pushing the cart forward. “Dear God, I hope not.” You handed her the shopping list. “Can you grab half of the things from the list? Start with aisle three.”

“Okay,” she replied cheerfully, skipping off toward the cereal aisle.

Lori reached for a cereal box on the top shelf, tiptoeing to grab it. As she pulled it down, her grip slipped—almost sending the box tumbling in slow motion. But before it could hit the floor, a hand caught it swiftly.

“Thank you,” she said, blinking in surprise.

The man, dressed in a dark coat, gave her a brief nod. “Pozhaluysta,” (*You're welcome) before turning and walking away without another word.

Lori tilted her head, watching his retreating back. Something about him felt... off. She clutched the box tighter and hurried to find you.

You were by the produce section, picking out apples, when Lori came running up.

“Aunty, I just met someone. He helped me with the cereal box. I think he’s a foreigner—maybe Russian?”

Your smile faded. “Russian?” Your stomach turned. A chill ran down your spine.

You grabbed her wrist gently. “We’re done here. Let’s go.”

Back home, the tension clung to you like damp air. You unpacked the groceries in silence, glancing over each item as if expecting something to jump out. Then your hands froze.

Taped under the cereal box was a small note. Folded once. Slipped so subtly it could’ve been missed.

You unfolded it with trembling fingers.

“Not fair.” - Written in Russian.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Bucky entered the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. “What’s wrong?” he asked, noticing your expression.

Wordlessly, you handed him the note.

His eyes scanned the message. His jaw clenched. “Is that…?”

“I’m not sure,” you whispered. “But I have a bad feeling. That man—he spoke to Lori.”

Bucky exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “That’s not a good sign.”

You stared out the window, heart pounding. “We have to protect her.”

“She won’t like it,” he warned gently, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You looked back at him, voice firm. “She doesn’t have to like it. She just has to be safe.”

You and Bucky sat Lori down in the living room. The air was heavy with unspoken tension. She tilted her head, curious but cautious.

You took a deep breath. “Lori… I called your mom. She agreed—it’s time for you to go back.”

Lori blinked, her expression frozen for a second. Then her eyes welled with tears. “No,” she whispered. “I don’t want to go. I like it here.”

Your heart cracked at the sight of her trembling lips and glassy eyes. “Sweetheart,” you knelt in front of her, holding her hands gently, “I know it’s hard to understand, but you’re not safe here anymore.”

Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Why? Didn’t you say we were done with the agency? That they wouldn't bother you guys again?”

“We did,” Bucky said quietly, standing nearby with his arms crossed, his jaw tight. “But this isn’t about the agency.”

“Then who?” Lori asked, her voice shaking.

You looked her in the eyes. “Grigory. The weapons dealer. The one from the book you read.”

Lori blinked. “Wait... wasn’t he dead?”

“In the book, yes,” you said softly. “But in real life, there was no body. No confirmation. Just silence.”

Henry, lounging in the corner, added, “His daughter is dead. And that only means one thing—revenge.”

The room fell silent.

Bucky looked down at the floor, jaw clenched. His knuckles were white as he gripped the back of the chair. It was his bullet that ended her life. No one said it, but everyone knew.

You reached out, gently squeezing Bucky’s hand. “It was an order,” you whispered, reminding him—reminding yourself.

That mission had haunted both of you. Sleepless nights. Regret. Silence. The kind of guilt that never left.

Lori wiped her tears and looked at both of you. Her voice was soft but strong. “Then don’t stay stuck in the past. You’ve both punished yourselves long enough.”

Her words pierced straight through you. Bucky looked up in surprise. Even Henry paused, visibly impressed.

“How did you come up with that?” Bucky asked.

“I read a lot of books,” Lori said with a sniff. “Most of the main characters carry trauma. But they learn to live. To move forward.”

She smiled gently. “And destiny always brings people together. If it’s meant for you—it’ll always find a way back to you.”

You choked back a laugh, pulling her into a hug. “Oh, Lori.”

Henry folded his arms with a smirk. “If I’d hired someone like you back in the day, maybe my agents would’ve stuck around longer.”

Bucky leaned over and whispered, “You’re ruining the moment.”

You cupped Lori’s face and looked her in the eyes. “It’s still not safe… but I promise, once this is over—once we’re sure no one is coming after us—we’ll be together again. No more running. No more danger.”

Lori wiped her eyes and nodded slowly. “Fine. But you have to promise we’ll see each other again. Soon.”

The next day, the car was packed and waiting. You walked Lori to the passenger side, holding her hand the whole way.

Bucky stood by the driveway, hands in his jacket pockets.

Before getting in, Lori turned to him. “Will you meet me again?”

He gave her a half-smile. “Of course. We’re besties.”

She giggled, wiping her eyes again. “You better not forget.”

“I won’t,” he said, giving her a small salute.

She climbed into the car, rolled the window down, and waved at Bucky and Henry.

“Bye, guys!”

“Take care, kid,” Henry called, raising his hand.

Bucky gave a short nod and watched the car drive away, silent.

You didn’t say a word as you drove. But your grip on the steering wheel tightened, and your heart quietly promised Lori: This won’t be the end.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

The sun dipped low as you drove along the winding highway, mountains casting long shadows over the road. Lori sat quietly beside you, clutching her backpack and watching the trees blur past the window. For the first time since this morning, things seemed calm.

Then you noticed it.

A black SUV, maybe two cars behind. You glanced at the rearview mirror again. Same distance. No change in speed. No attempt to pass.

Your eyes narrowed. You tapped the steering wheel twice—a silent habit whenever your instincts kicked in.

“Aunty?” Lori turned to you.

“Lori, buckle up,” you said calmly.

She frowned but obeyed. “Why?”

You glanced in the mirror once more. The SUV changed lanes as you did. Then another car appeared—one you hadn’t seen before. And then another.

Three. Maybe four.

“They’re following us,” you muttered, your tone low.

“What?” Lori’s voice jumped.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you gripped the wheel tighter and pressed down on the gas.

The engine roared as your car surged forward. Tires screeched behind you.

The first bullet hit your rear windshield. Glass shattered.

Lori screamed and ducked instinctively. You kept driving.

Two black sedans flanked you, forcing you into the center lane. Your heart pounded. The world slowed around you—your training taking over.

You swerved right, clipping one of the cars. It spun out, slamming into the guardrail.

“Hold on!” you shouted, pulling a hard left. Lori screamed again, gripping the handle on the ceiling.

You barreled down a side road, the remaining cars close behind. Another shot whizzed past, barely missing your side mirror.

Lori clutched your arm. “They’re still behind us!”

“I see them.”

A third car pulled alongside. A man leaned out with a rifle.

You jerked the wheel, slamming your car into his before he could fire. He flew off-balance. The car spun and crashed into a ditch.

Two left.

You made it to an overpass, but one of the cars rammed into your bumper hard. You lost control for a second, the car skidding toward the concrete barrier.

Lori screamed as you fought the steering. The tires squealed.

Another shot—this one grazed your shoulder. You hissed, pain shooting down your arm.

Then, from the side—a blur of motion.

Boom!

An explosion rocked the road behind you. One of the chasing cars was suddenly engulfed in fire.

Bucky’s motorcycle tore into view like a beast out of hell, his face hidden behind a dark visor, rifle slung across his back.

He shot the last car’s front tire. It flipped in mid-air and crashed in a storm of metal and sparks.

You tried to slow down, adrenaline crashing hard. But the blood loss…

You blinked. The world tilted.

“Aunty!” Lori grabbed your arm. “You’re bleeding!”

You smiled faintly, your voice thin. “You’re safe…”

Then everything went black.

🏥🏥🏥🏥

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly. You lay in a hospital bed, pale but stable, IV lines in your arm. Sedatives had knocked you out. You needed rest, the doctors said. No major internal injuries, but you’d lost too much blood.

Lori sat beside your bed, her arm wrapped in a light bandage. Just a scratch. Her eyes were red from crying, but she stayed strong.

“She protected me,” she whispered. “She didn’t stop driving.”

Bucky stood by the window, fists clenched, jaw tight. His eyes hadn’t left your still form.

He turned to Henry.

“This was a message,” Bucky said, voice low and seething.

Henry nodded grimly. “It was Grigory’s people.”

“That bastard sent mercs after a kid,” Bucky muttered. His tone was ice-cold. “I'm done waiting.”

“Bucky…” Henry tried to reason.

But Bucky was already walking out the door.

💥💥💥💥💥

A cold wind howled through the isolated forest surrounding the crumbling, once-grand mansion. The estate sat like a rotting carcass on the edge of the wilderness—tall iron gates, stone statues overgrown with ivy, and floodlights illuminating the perimeter.

Dozens of guards patrolled the grounds—heavily armed and alert.

But they started dropping.

One by one.

A suppressed sniper round tore through the silence.

A guard on the rooftop collapsed without a sound.

Another crumpled near the front steps, his rifle clattering to the ground.

Panic began to spread. Shouts in Russian echoed through the comms.

“Sniper! Find the bastard!”

But it was too late. Bucky Barnes was already inside.

He moved like a shadow. Black tactical gear, rifle in hand, knife strapped to his thigh. The Winter Soldier persona—cold, controlled, unstoppable—had returned.

Two guards turned the corner.

Two clean shots. Both down before they could raise their weapons.

He stormed down the hallway, the marble floor stained with footprints and blood. He knew exactly where Grigory would be.

Grigory sat behind an antique desk, a cigar smoldering in a crystal ashtray. His once-refined face now worn, eyes bloodshot, grief having chewed through the edges of his sanity.

When the door slammed open, Grigory didn’t even flinch.

Bucky walked in, gun raised, expression stone-cold.

“Been a long time,” Grigory said with a bitter smirk.

“You look worse than your last Interpol photo,” Bucky said, stepping closer.

Grigory stood slowly, eyes never leaving Bucky’s.

“Why do you get to keep going?” he growled. “Why do you get to live while I’m still haunted by my daughter every goddamn day?”

“If it were anyone else asking me that,” Bucky replied coldly, “I’d say I was sorry.”

He took another step forward.

“But not you.”

Grigory’s eyes darkened. His fists clenched. “You murdered my daughter.”

“No,” Bucky said, voice low. “Your weapons murdered millions. Your daughter was just unlucky enough to have a monster for a father.”

Grigory snapped.

“Suka blyad’!” he cursed in Russian, slamming his fist against the desk. Rage boiled over in his face.

“And you hurt my girlfriend and her niece,” Bucky continued, his finger tightening slightly on the trigger. “That’s my line. You crossed it.”

“I lost everything!” Grigory roared. “You took her from me! You—!”

“You killed her the moment you turned your back on humanity,” Bucky cut him off, voice like ice. “You don’t get to play the victim.”

Grigory’s hand twitched toward the drawer.

Too late.

Bang!

The shot echoed through the study. A perfect center-mass hit.

Grigory staggered back, coughing blood, collapsing into his leather chair—eyes wide, frozen in disbelief.

Bucky stepped closer, looming over him.

“For someone like you, hell follows you wherever you go,” he whispered.

Grigory’s body went limp.

Bucky stood there in the silence, breathing steady, smoke rising from the muzzle of his pistol.

After 7 years, the mission is finally complete.

🏥🏥🏥🏥

Soft sunlight seeped through the blinds, casting golden streaks across the white bedsheets. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor filled the quiet room, steady and calm.

You had just opened your eyes, groggy from the medication but alive — and that was enough.

Lori sat by your side, her small hand wrapped around yours. Her eyes lit up the moment she saw you awake.

“Auntie,” she whispered, teary-eyed. “You scared me.”

You gave her a tired smile, gently brushing your fingers across her cheek. “I’m sorry, kiddo. I didn’t mean to.”

Just then, the door opened.

Bucky stepped inside, blood wiped clean, his clothes changed, but the weight of the night still clung to him. When he saw your eyes open, something in him shifted — relief, deep and real.

Behind him, Henry stood near the hallway, quietly speaking to your sister. His usually cold tone softened. Your sister immediately came here when she heard you got admitted to the hospital. 

“Don't let cancer decide how you live your life,” she told him, arms crossed but voice steady. “Just... enjoy the time you’ve got. That’s more than most people get.”

Inside the room, Lori noticed Bucky and grinned.

“Bucky!” she whispered loudly, running over to hug him. He knelt and caught her easily, holding her close.

“Hey, troublemaker,” he said softly. “You did good.”

After a few more minutes, everyone began to leave the room, giving you space to rest. Lori gave you one last hug and whispered, “I’ll be just outside.”

Now, it was just the two of you.

Silence lingered for a moment, comfortable but heavy with things unspoken.

Bucky pulled a chair beside your bed and sat down, resting his arms on his knees. He looked at you — not the way a soldier looks at a survivor, but the way a man looks at something he almost lost.

“I thought I’d lose you,” he said quietly, his voice raw.

You reached for his hand, your fingers brushing his knuckles. “But you didn’t lose me.”

He looked down at your hand in his, holding it a little tighter. “No. But for a moment, I thought I had.”

You exhaled softly, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. “You’ve been through worse, haven’t you?”

Bucky nodded. “Yeah. But this felt different. Watching that car chase, hearing your voice on the radio — it wasn’t just a mission. It was you.”

You let the silence hang between you for a moment, then said quietly, “Maybe it’s time we stop living like we’re waiting for the next disaster.”

He met your eyes, tired but clear. “Maybe it’s time to figure out what comes next.”

You studied his face — the faint bruises along his jaw, the fatigue in his eyes, but also the calm. It was new. And it felt real.

“You think we’ve got a shot at this?” you asked, your voice low.

He gave a slight smile. “We’ve been through enough. I don’t know what the future looks like, but I’d rather face it with you than without you.”

You laughed gently, your ribs aching with the motion. “That’s the most un-Bucky romantic line I’ve ever heard.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the edge of your bed. “Don’t get used to it.”

You grinned. “No promises.”

There was a pause. The room felt still, peaceful — like the world had slowed down just enough to let you breathe again.

“So... what now?” you asked.

Bucky gave your hand a light squeeze. “Now we take it slow. One step at a time. No rushing. No running.”

You nodded, the weight on your chest a little lighter. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

And there was no urgency for the first time in a long while. Just the quiet possibility of something new.

🌸🌸🌸🌸

4 Years Later

Lori sat cross-legged on the soft rug in the living room, her little finger trailing under the words of a worn fairytale book. Her voice was animated, each sentence full of wonder.

“And then the princess said, ‘I don’t need a prince to save me — I’ve got dragons to tame!’”

Two twin toddler boys sat across from her, each holding a stuffed toy — one a plush lion, the other a squished airplane with a bent wing. They weren’t talking much yet, just babbling nonsense and giggling at the sound of her voice. But they were listening, eyes wide, fully locked in on the story.

Lori looked up and smiled at them. “You two don’t even know what a dragon is, do you?”

One of the twins drooled onto his lion, the other clapped like she’d just finished a Broadway performance.

She rolled her eyes, but her smile widened. “Guess I’ll have to teach you everything.”

Just then, the front door opened with a soft click, and a familiar voice called out, “We’re home.”

Lori’s eyes lit up as she looked over her shoulder.

You stepped in, shrugging off your coat, Bucky right behind you, holding a paper bag of leftover popcorn and drinks from the cinema. His hair was slightly windblown from the ride home, and he looked as tired as he was amused.

“How’s the movie?” Lori asked, hopping up with more energy than grace.

Bucky scoffed, tossing the bag onto the table. “Tsk. Five out of ten. Who the hell played my character?”

You grinned as you started pulling off your shoes. “He said that after I mentioned the actor was handsome.”

Lori gasped. “You said that in front of Uncle Bucky?”

You winked. “I like to keep him humble.”

The twins toddled toward Bucky, one holding out the bent-wing airplane. Bucky scooped them up easily, one in each arm, like it was second nature. They squealed, delighted, calling him “Buck-buck” in their half-formed baby language.

Lori’s attention shifted to the entryway table, where you had placed a single white rose in a thin glass vase. She stepped closer, her eyes softening.

“That’s…”

You nodded, voice quiet. “Yeah… visited him.”

Before the movie, you and Bucky had stopped by the cemetery — Henry’s grave. The moment had been quiet, no need for words. Just the two of you, standing there with a white rose and a shared memory.

After finding out that Henry had cancer, it brought the three of you closer. You traveled, shared laughter, arguments, stories, and pain. And six months later, Henry passed, surrounded by the only people who had truly seen him for who he was.

On his deathbed, he said, “No regrets. Not anymore. Not when you’re here.”

At the funeral, Lori cried harder than anyone. Losing Henry brought back every memory of her own father. The grief hit her like a storm. But you never left her side.

And when you asked her to be your flower girl for the wedding, something shifted. The sparkle returned. The stories returned. So did her laughter.

And now, four years later, you and Bucky had built something real. It hadn’t been easy — nothing worth keeping ever is. But you weren’t stuck in the past anymore. You’d fought for this life, and somehow, against all odds, you’d made it yours.

You sat down beside Lori, brushing her hair behind her ear as the twins giggled in the background.

“You were right,” you said softly.

She blinked. “About what?”

You smiled. “Romance is alive.”

She grinned, her nose scrunching in that familiar way. “Told you.”

Bucky stepped behind you, resting a hand gently on your shoulder. The sunlight pouring through the window made the room feel like a moment suspended in time — warm, safe, and finally, yours.

My book Arrogant Ex-Husband and Dad, I Can't Let You Go by Alina C. Bing are on Kindle. Check it out!

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“I said this was a terrible idea...” Y/N said as she adjusted the tight leather dress she’d been forced to wear.

“We just need to get the benefactor’s name; it shouldn’t take much longer.” Q explained as he checked his surveillance gear; he usually didn’t leave London, but Y/N had specifically requested Q join her as she trusted him the most.

“It’s been two weeks, Q...”

“Apparently someone’s booked the VIP booth tonight, so this might be the last night you have to do.”

MI6 had been trailing a possible drug ring that operated in Las Vegas; rumours had spread a drug that completely erases a person's ability to lie, making them more controllable. As one of the youngest female agents, Y/N was assigned to go undercover at one of the target strip clubs and figure out who was funding the operation. They’d found a job at a club called ‘Bunny Girls’ and inserted Y/N in as Cherry, the club’s newest waitress.

“Anyway, you’re running late for your shift, so go go go.” As he spoke, Q pushed her out of the small building he’d been operating from. Once Y/N was outside, she huffed before walking around the corner and entering the club she was undercover at.

"Cherry, just the girl I want to see.” The club owner greeted her as she entered the dressing room, “The VIP booth is booked tonight, so I want all your attention on our big spenders.”

Y/N bat her eyes, taking on the role of Cherry once again. “Sure thing, boss,” she said, earning an appreciative look from the owner. Once he left, she sat down in her chair and started getting ready.

When the club opened an hour later, Y/N had her hair curled and her makeup completed, the glitter on her eyes making them sparkle under the club. Standing, she readjusted her dress one more time before making her way on to the main club floor.

“Hey Cherry!” John, the barman, greeted her as she stepped behind the bar. “You dressed up pretty tonight.”

She repressed the urge to roll her eyes; ever since she’d gone undercover, John had taken every opportunity to shamelessly flirt with her. According to the other girls, he took it as tradition to sleep with all the new starters.

“I’m dressed the same as I usually do, John,” Y/N stated, and she started getting the VIP buckets prepped, filling them with ice. 

He simply smiled at her. “I know..." John titled his down as she crouched to pull out the bottles for the ice buckets. “But I think you get hotter every night.”

“Does that line usually work?” She stood back up and started placing the bottle in the buckets.

“Don’t pretend it isn’t working on you.” He leans into her space as he speaks; Y/N backs up slightly.

“I’ve got a job to do so…” As she speaks, she gestures to the two buckets she needed to take to the VIP booth.

"Well, before you go, at least taste test my newest drink.” She sees a shot glass slide across the counter in front of her. “It’s cherry-flavoured.”

Y/N is about to say no; tell him to fuck off with his desperate attempts to seduce her, but instead she just sighs and drinks the shot quickly so she can continue this night without any more problems. He’s right, it does taste like cherries; it’s sweet and a little tart, but Y/N still finds herself enjoying it. Placing the glass down, she turns to John, “Happy now?”

“Very, now go on; we can talk later.” He had a strange look on his face, but Y/N decided to just leave it until later. She walks back out of the bar while carrying the two buckets, heading to the VIP booth.

In the booth are what seems to be two different groups of men, clearly some ‘business’ discussing some type of criminal partnership. One group Y/N recognises as an infamous casino owner and drug dealer in Las Vegas, but the other is an enigma. Her eyes scan the second group; they seem more professional than the first group. The first group greets her with cheers and whistles while they keep their expressions guarded.

Sitting in the middle of the booth are the two leaders of the groups. The first group’s leader is an older man, dressed in what you’d expect a mob boss to dress in. The second is younger but still mature-looking; his face is covered in scarring that reminds Y/N of lighting; it’s eerily beautiful. His blue eyes are calculating as he looks at her; he seems almost amused.

Shaking off his gaze, Y/N retakes her ‘Cherry’ persona: “Hello Gentlemen, welcome to Bunny Girls; I’m Cherry, and I’ll be your waitress this evening; anything you need, just give me a call.” She finishes her introduction with a flirty wink.

The scarred man doesn’t speak to her instead choosing to whisper to his companion, who looks at her. Instead, the other leader turns to her with a leer. “This is why I like this place; they always give us the pretty ones.”

He gestures to the space between him and the scarred man, “Come sit with us, darling.”

Y/N hesitates for a moment and glances at the scarred man subconsciously, who simply gives her a subtle nod. As she moves towards the empty space beside him, her heart beats faster. She feels the man’s gaze on her, causing shivers to spread through her body.

The other man put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her to him, leaning in close. “What’s a pretty thing like you working in a place like this?”

Her body feels hot suddenly, and thinking it’s just from the men's body heat, she ignores it. “Just making sure you lovely gentlemen enjoy your night.” She answers, but a part of her feels compelled to keep speaking; she bites her lip to stop herself.

“Not what I mean, darling,” the man responds, “I mean, how’d a girl like you end up here and not under the arm of some billionaire?”

Without thinking, she blurts out an answer: "Well, I didn’t want to work here, but my boss made me.”

‘Why are you saying this?’ Y/N thinks confused with herself; her mind feels cloudy, and her body starts to loosen. She keeps thinking back to that cherry-flavoured shot she’d drank. ‘Shit… I’ve been drugged.

The scarred man leans back to look at her; his eyes suggest he’s thinking of something. “Interesting…” His voice is deep and hoarse with a thick Russian accent. “And why did he make you work here?”

“We need information on a potential drug ring; the drug currently circulating could compromise The Crown’s security.” She needed to get out of here before she’d kept talking, but she couldn’t move.

He leaned in closer, assessing her carefully. Close enough to smell, she inhaled sharply—florals and something else. Y/N felt out of control; her body wasn’t computing with her mind anymore. He spoke in a low whisper, “And why would a girl like you care about the safety of the crown?”

This was bad; it was clear this man knew Y/N had been drugged. “She’s a goddam spy!” The other man yelled alarm as he pulled his hand away and stood, his men following suit. He pulled out his pistol and aimed it towards her.

The scarred man's smirk widened as he watched the scene play out, the revelation of her identity causing a shift in the room. The other man is now pointing a weapon at her. He remained calm, unmoving. He was amused by the development, intrigued by the young women.

"A spy? How intriguing." He leaned forward, his eyes locking with hers, his voice dripping with a hint of mockery.

"You have quite the nerve, Miss..." He let the question hang in the air, waiting for her response.

“Y/L/N, Y/N Y/L/N.” She said through gritted teeth, still trying to resist the effects of the drugs, forcing her body to stand.

Safin chuckled softly, appreciating her determination. "Miss Y/L/N..." He savoured the way her name rolled off his tongue. "How interesting, a spy from MI6.”

He watched her struggle to stand, her attempts to resist the effects of the drugs in vain. His eyes scanned her figure and the way her body moved uncontrollably. There was something so enticing about the way she was fighting, the way she was losing her composure.

He stood slowly, walking towards her. His voice was low, almost seductive. Y/N was overwhelmed with how this man was able to effect her, but trying to regain her dignity, she held her head high and responded, “You never introduced yourself, sir.”

"Ah, forgive me, where are my manners?” He spoke, standing to move in front of her, his eyes predatory. “I am Doctor Lyutsifer Safin.”

She stepped back from him in fear but froze when she felt the end of the gun. The other man was still aiming towards her. The man she now knew as Safin watched her carefully, “Leave us; we will discuss our business later.” He spoke to the other group, not taking his eyes off the young agent.

The other men left without hesitation, their gazes lingering on Safin and the young agent before they exited the VIP booth. As soon as they were alone, the atmosphere changed drastically. The club around them was still alive—the music, the laughter, the dancing. She could hear the announcer introduce another girl as the crowd cheered. But in their isolated vicinity, it was almost quiet, almost intimate.

He took another step towards her. “You... don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Should I?" She couldn’t move, allowing him to take a mother step forward, their chests almost touching. 

He smiled slightly amused by her response, reaching a hand to trace his finger along her jawline, his touch as light as a feather. “You’re the one undercover, spying on my people.”

“I was given a very... limited mission assignment.” She explained, giving up on stopping herself when it was clear nothing could, “We didn’t know who we were looking for.”

His touch became more purposeful, fingertips gliding down her arm, feeling her body shiver under his touch. His eyes roamed over her face, observing her closely. "Who sent you here, Miss Y/L/N?"

“I think you already know," she spoke, trying to hold onto the last piece of information her drugged mind hadn’t given up.

His eyes narrowed slightly, and his hand moved to her waist, pulling her closer. His voice was a whisper; she could feel his breath on her neck. “I want you to say it out loud.”

Y/N clenched her eyes shut, unable to hold back any longer, “I work for MI6.”

She heard Safin hum seemingly pleased with her response. His grip on her waist tightened, his fingers digging into her flesh just a little harder.

He leaned in even closer, his lips almost touching her neck, his breath hot and heavy against her skin.

"Good girl..." he murmured. "Now tell me, are you alone in this operation?”

"I...” she could feel herself speak, about to expose the entire operation, when another dancer, Honey, stepped into the booth. “Cherry, you’re needed at the bar.”

Safin's eyes met those of the dancer. His gaze hardened at the unexpected intrusion, but he let go of Y/N. He took a step back, looking between the two women. "Miss Y/L/N and I are still having our conversation."

Sensing an opportunity to escape, Y/N moved to the entrance of the booth before speaking, “I should go see what they need; it was a pleasure meeting you, Doctor Safin.”

She left before he could react, but instead of going to the bar, she went to the dressing room. Grabbing her bag, she escaped through the backdoors, hoping to reconvene with Q. As she moved through the parking lot, texting Q that she’d been compromised, a voice behind her made her freeze. “Going somewhere?”

As she turned, she came face to face with John, but his face was different from his usual personality. His eyes were dark and narrow as he stared at her. Her hand reached into her grab to grip her gun, and she spoke, “You drugged me.”

John chuckled at her accusation, clearly amused by her realisation. "Drugged you? I was simply making you comfortable.”

“What did you give me?” She asked, thankful the night air was helping to clear her head. “Where did you get it from?”

“A friend of mine hooked me up; it's... experimental, but most of the girls have enjoyed it.” John admitted no longer seeing the need to hide, taking a step forward.

As he began to approach, Y/N pulled her gun from her pocket, aiming at him. “Stay right there!”

John smirked at her, nearly laughing, “Give me a break; you’re just a stripper... what damage could you do?”

“You have no idea." She tried to steady her hand, but it still trembled slightly. She was coming down from the drug, but it’d still be a while.

Josh ignored the gun and began to run towards her, planning to ambush her and knock her down. He nearly reached her when suddenly his body fell and blood sprayed on her face. Y/N looked at her in confusion; she hadn’t fired.

Her eyes looked from her gun down to John's body, breathing heavily from the adrenaline. She looked up from the body and was face-to-face once again with Safin. He was holding a small silenced pistol, the muzzle still smoking.

Y/N shuffles on her feet slightly under his intense stare. He seems allured by the crimson splatter now staining her face, stepping closer, causing her to take a step back. She’s still breathing heavily and tries to catch her breath.

“Most people would thank the person that saved their life.” He spoke as he calmly handed his gun to his second in command.

“I had it handled.”

"Oh, I’m sure you did.” Safin replied almost mockingly.

A car’s horn sounded, causing Y/N to finally turn away from him; just down the road, she recognised the lights of Q’s car. Without speaking again, she sprinted down the street and flung the door open. Throwing her bag in, she was about to jump inside too, but she paused. Turning back for a moment, her eyes once again met the piercing blue of Lyutsifer Safin, and you both knew this wouldn’t be the last encounter.

As Y/N hopped into the car, she ignored Q’s rapid questions and closed her eyes. She sighed as she ran through the last hour through her head; her face was still wet with John’s blood, but she didn’t have the energy to wipe it off. Resting her head on the window, she fell asleep as her friend quickly drove them away from Las Vegas and towards their extraction point.

Safin watched as the car you entered pulled away and quickly raced from the scene; it was only as the car turned the corner did he finally look away. He briefly looked at the body on the ground before he began giving orders to his men. “Get rid of the body,” he stated as he began to walk away, “and find me anything you can on Y/N Y/L/N”.

Everett tilted his head in confusion, “I’m sorry?” He watched as she closed the book, allowing her face to come into view before setting it face up on the surface of the bar. Everett nearly faltered. She was stunning, with lips painted the same color as her outfit—which no doubt looked designer to go with the shiny Rolex on her wrist and diamond choker to match her earrings.

“I asked if you’re on the clock?” She repeated with a smirk. When it appeared that he still didn’t get it the woman continued. “You come here, alone, and order just a glass of water—surely because you know it’s not appropriate to be under the influence given you are here for work and not pleasure.” He didn’t know how she knew that. Now the agent was suspicious of the beautiful woman.

“You’re wearing a 5-piece suit,” she gives him a look over before gesturing her head to the side, “And if you notice in the VIP section the men there are wearing the same, but like you they are here to do business, not enjoy the entertainment of the dancers or girls throwing themselves at them. Everyone here who wants to have a good time is wearing clothing fit for a night club.”

She leans closer a tad, Everett feeling a bit flustered by the proximity. “In the thirty seconds it took for the bartender to make your ice water you checked your phone three times and checked your surroundings twice that—as though you are in search of something….or someone.” He swore his heart skipped. She had to be the person he was to meet. The look on his face must’ve told her what he was thinking because she smirked and confirmed Everett’s suspicion, “Particularly a woman in red?”

Finding his voice, the agent took a step back to give them a few inches of space but enough for her to hear him over the music. “So you’re the one?”

“Am I?” She challenged, withdrawing a cigarette from a metal tin. Everett raised a brow, glancing at the ‘No Smoking’ sign that was literally behind the bar. The bartender didn’t even react as she lit the tobacco and leaned back in her chair. “What all have you heard, Silver Fox?”

Everett had to hold back a reaction at the nickname. “You sure you wanna discuss this right here. In the open?” She didn’t even seem fazed.

“I know when I have eyes on me, agent,” she smirked at the way he had to look over his shoulder at anyone who could’ve heard the title. She already had made it known there were men doing business not too far away. What kind of business? He had no idea, but the last thing he needed was his cover to be blown. “Like how I had your eyes on me as you approached this bar.” Now she got him, the man blushing at the fact he was caught.

“Well, you’re wearing red,” he pointed out the obvious. “And that was the only information I was given.”

“Keep telling yourself that, hot stuff,” she winked, bringing the cigarette to her mouth again.

Feeling warm, Everett adjusted the collar of his dress shirt, taking another glance around the club for prying eyes. It must’ve amused the spy, for she just gave a look that read, ‘Are you done?’

“Do you have it?”

“Have what?”

Now he was glaring, “I don’t have time for this, Miss….whoever you are.” That was the thing he read about in her file. Well if one could call it a file. It was literally blank. When asked what was the reason for her information/records erased, the answer he was given was, “She’s part of a retired operative program we used to fund. Those involved had their files wiped so they are completely under the grid. Ghosts, is the best word to describe them. They only make contact when necessary.”

So no name. No background. No identity.

She was a living ghost that walked the Earth.

Everett didn’t understand why now all of a sudden she was brought back into the light. But it must’ve been important because his boss was on the verge of a mental breakdown if they didn’t get whatever intel she had gathered. Whatever it was crucial to the agency and their allies. Quite possible could be the make or break of a possible World War.

“I don’t wanna be here longer than I have to. The deal was you give up whatever I need to have on me when I leave this place, and you get whatever was promised by Fontaine.”

“Aren’t you a peach, Agent Ross,” she laughed, not dismayed by his attitude. Obviously she’s had to deal with worse in her career—even her life. His blood ran cold at the fact she knew his name.

“You know about me?”

“Of course I do,” she tapped the cigarette against her compact astray. “You don’t think I do my research before I meet with potential enemies or allies. I know all about you, former Air Force pilot Everett K. Ross turned agent of the Central Intelligence Agency,” again Ross had to look around the club, “—including the fact you’re recently divorced from CIA Director, Contessa Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.” She watched his face fall at the mention of his ex-wife. “You’re also quite close to the royal family of Wakanda—but your peers at the CIA do not know, do they?” Thank God he wasn’t wearing a comm, it would’ve been too noticiable when going through security.

“What are you doing?” He questioned with a slight edge to his tone, willing himself to remain composed.

“My job,” she leaned forward, keeping the flirtatious smile on her lips. “You made the mistake of coming here in a suit. Now those guys I told you about probably think you’re here for matters other than trying to find a lady to warm your bed.” He blushed again, not liking the way his body was feeling when she brushed a finger against his tie. “And you ordered water, a tell tale sign you came here to remain sober,” she brought her half drank glance of whiskey to her lips, Ross noticing it for the first time.

“I’m trying to help you, Agent Ross,” her mouth moves closer to his ear, “you need to make it look like you’re here for another motive. Get them off your trail before they become too suspicious of you given this is your first time here and those guys are in that booth every weekend. They will figure it out if you don’t start putting on an Oscar worthy performance.” She places a hand on his chest, the other going to the back of his neck. “Put your hand on my lower back.” That had alarm bells go off in his head

“Why—?”

“Just do it now before the guy approaching the bar sees us.” Quickly his hand goes to her back, flinching when it makes contact with her skin. Now he remembered her dress had an open back, the material falling low just above her ass. God he must’ve looked ridiculous by his flustered state. Here he was with a beautiful woman in his arms having to make it look like they were about to make out right there.

“What I’m about to tell you cannot be repeated,” she keeps her mouth to his ear, feeling tighten his hold. “Promise me, Everett. I know you are hesitant to trust me—wouldn’t put it past Fontaine to warn you off about me and what I do, but there are things bigger than you and I happening around us so I need your word.”

Everett, feeling bold, starting lightly stroking his hand against her skin. “You have it.”

“I cannot say much for fear of it getting into the wrong hands, but you seem like a genuine man. And if what I read about you is true, then you would do anything to do the right thing even if it costs you.” She pulled away slightly to offer a light kiss to his cheek, mostly due to the fact the man in the suit was ordering a round and had eyed them.

“Fontaine’s got a little secret,” she felt him stiffen. “One I uncovered on my last assignment. One she wants to get rid of by offering me a very generous amount of money to hand over along with anything else I ask for. Did you ever notice a change in her behavior when she debriefed you?”

Everett thought for a moment, thinking back to hours before when he was in the meeting with Val and some other high ups in the agency. She seemed to be in distress, checking her phone and email every few minutes and questioning if they had heard anything new. “She seemed a bit more on edge than usually.”

“That’s because she’s scared of what I can do with this information. She knows if it gets out it’s all over for her,” she wrapped her arms around his neck, lightly swaying them to the music. “Ever since the Blip she’s has been scheming, plotting, gathering those she needs to get the work done.”

“What work?” Everette muttered, moving against her as she led them in a dance. “Who?”

“Everything you ought to know will be with you when we part ways tonight,” she assured. “You better come up though with an excuse as to why I didn’t give you it. Say I betrayed you—that I didn’t show up. Fontaine already gave me what I want so it would be believable. Don’t let her be suspicious of you when you do. Otherwise you could find yourself arrested for treason when the one who belongs behind bars is her.”

As though all the blood had drained from him, Everett tried to keep steady by what she was telling him. While part of him screamed to be suspicious, there was a deep feeling in his gut that she was being truthful. That Val was corrupt. It made the situation take a different turn with Everett’s mind racing on what to do. How the hell was he supposed to approach the subject when he was to meet with Val that night to hand over whatever it was the spy obtained.

“Don’t look to stiff, Ev,” she pulled him from his thoughts, pulling away once it was clear. The man in the suit had taken his drinks and returned to the VIP lounge. “Just stay with me a little longer and I’ll send you off. But I need to be reassured we have an understanding of each other. Yes?”

“I’ll throw them off your trail.”

“You mean your trail,” she corrects, doing nothing to ease his anxiety. “My road ends tonight once we depart. Remember, I am a ghost. You people only hear from me when I let myself be known. Once I go cold I’m only a rumor with no trace to lead you to me.” How fitting for her to use the word ‘cold’ as a spy, when the book she was reading when Ross arrived was ‘The Spy Who Came In From the Cold’.

Seeing his look of near disappointment, she smiles, “How about we give one last show to our little friends. I don’t think they’ve been convinced yet.” While he doesn’t glance to the booth, her expression is enough to indicate they were being looked at.

“How do you suppose we do that?”

She moves closer again, this time cupping his cheeks in her hands. “You trust me, Everett?” He could feel his heart pumping, warmth filling his veins, but nodded nonetheless. She wastes no time in connecting their lips.

The kiss is soft and tentative, the spy allowing him to take control if he wanted. Slowly he moves his mouth against hers, hands going to rest on her hips while she pushes against him. The music continues to blast, patrons moving around them to get to the bar and ignoring the fact they were making out. There was pretty much a couple on every corner of the club doing the same.

She pulls away after a few seconds, but offers another peck to his lips before taking a napkin to wipe at the lipstick residue. She gives a signal to the bar tender, telling him to close her tab before pulling out a lipstick tube from her small handbag.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you, Agent Ross,” she places the napkin on the counter beside his full water cup, not taking her eyes off of his. “I’m gonna go touch up my lipstick in the bathroom. Forgot my compact mirror when I was leaving—you know, in a rush. I hope to one day run into you again.”

“How will I hear from you?”

A smirk makes it’s way on her lips, face illuminated by the red strobe lights shining down from the ceiling. “You’ll know.”

He didn’t know what made him ask, knowing she wouldn’t tell him, but he did anyway. “Will you tell me your name?” Her eyes seemed to sparkle, a genuine smile appearing now on her expression.

“That’s classified,” She stepped forward, so their chests were pressed together. “Maybe one day I’ll tell you. Until then I shall leave you with his word of advice: sometimes objects are not what they seem, best to check them out before leaving them be. Good luck, Everett.” Stroking his cheek with her hand, she winks and moves past him in the direction of the bathroom.

He watched her go, disappearing in the crowd of patrons until she was no longer in his sights. The breath he’d been holding in finally escaped, the man bringing a hand to the bridge of his nose as his brain processed everything that had happened.

“You alright there, buddy?” The bartender asked, coming up to wipe the surface.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replied, looking over his shoulder again to see if he could find her. But he came up empty handed feeling another wave of disappointment. Then he became confused, and slightly angry when it crossed his mind that she didn’t give him the intel. She gave maybe a penny’s worth of information. All she did was accuse Val of something he had no proof of. “Dammit.”

She deceived him. Like the spy she was. No wonder she was so good at what she did.

“You sure, man? I mean you haven’t even touched that water I gave you a while ago.”

He really couldn’t care less about the water. Not when he was gonna have to deal with a shit show when he returned to the agency. Waving a hand, Everett started to turn so he could face the bartender. “Can I actually get a bourbon on the rocks—,” he cut himself off when his eyes landed on water cup.

More specifically the object next to water cup. A Mac lipstick tube. The one he saw her pull from her purse.

“You said bourbon? Any particular one?”

Unable to think straight, Everett rushed out, “A-anything on the top shelf.” When the guy walked off, Everett picked up the tube. Inspecting it upon first glance, it appeared to be a normal lipstick from Mac cosmetics with the shade sticker reading, ‘Ruby Woo’ which he assumed was the red color she was wearing that now stained his lips and the napkin.

She said she was going to touch up her lipstick….but left said product on the counter for him to find.

Everett now thought back to the riddle she told him, ‘Sometimes objects are not what they seem, best to check them out before leaving them be.’

“I wonder…” he said to himself, nodding when the bartender placed the glass of alcohol in front of him. Turning away so no one could see what his hands were doing under the bar countertop, Everett let his curiosity get the best of him and opened the tube. Then he twisted the bottom so the contents would appear.

It wasn’t the red color he would’ve expected from a makeup product. No, it wasn’t even a lipstick at all.

It was a hard-drive.

“Did you get it, Ross?” Val’s voice was calm, but he could tell she was worried. “Did she give it up like she promised?”

“We got a problem, Director Fontaine,” he spoke with mock frustration.

“And what would that be?”

Everett’s gaze focused on the computer screen, watching as files upon files appeared proving everything the woman in red told him. The drive sticking out of the random computer he bought solely for it as to not have his personal or work one hacked. This device would never be known to the agency and remain hidden until he could gather what was needed to expose the dirty laundry his ex-wife and current boss was trying to hide.

A chat box popped up in the corner of the screen. Red lettering glowed as more information surfaced behind the window. Everett felt himself smirk, speaking into the receiver, “It looks like your little friend decided to double-cross you. She never made her presence known.” As Val started to lose it on the other end of the phone, Everett read over the words staring back at him.