#voicestold

the elite had gathered in the triskelion's grand ballroom to reshape global politics over champagne, and, at the center of the crowd was steve rogers-- wearing his navy-and-emerald s.h.i.e.l.d. dress uniform, he looked every bit the authoritative director. he listened to a european minister talk endlessly about trade embargoes, masking his deep boredom behind a flawless facade of polite nods.

but then a senator's wife, emboldened by the third glass of champagne and the sheer, potent proximity of the most powerful man in the free world, stepped into his immediate orbit with a melodic chime of a laugh that grated against his mind. her fingers, adorned with diamonds that flashed like ice, fluttered upward to rest with a light touch against the stiff fabric of his chest, just above his heart, tracing the edge of a medal with a desperate sort of flirtation. steve did not flinch, nor did he offer the warm, boyish smile of the bygone era everyone so foolishly romanticized; instead, his gaze dropped to her hand with a glacial detachment, blue eyes unbearably chilling even as his lips curved into a razor-thin, superficial semblance of amusement. he allowed her the moment for a mere three seconds, enjoying the way her breath caught in her throat when she realized just how utterly unbothered he was by her proximity, before he smoothly stepped backward, his voice a smooth baritone that split through her nervous chatter as he excused himself to attend to a different matter.

his boots clicked with a slow pace as he turned away from the bright, oppressive warmth of the main floor, moving about the periphery of the gala toward the alcove where the shadows lengthened. there, stationed just on the edge of the light like a magnificent, dangerous statue, was the winter soldier, outfitted in sleek, form-fitting tactical leather that offered a striking contrast to the civilian finery surrounding them. around his throat sat a thick, matte-black collar, from which a sturdy, silver-linked chain descended directly into the leather-gloved palm of his master. bucky stood completely still, his jaw set in a hard, rigid line, but his eyes-- those fierce, turbulent eyes-- were pinned entirely on the spot where steve had just been standing, burning with an undisguised heat.

steve approached with a stride of easy-going confidence, the chain in his hand tightening just a bit as he rolled the silver links over his knuckles, feeling the familiar, thrilling resistance of the soldier's posture. he didn't offer a word of greeting, nor did he acknowledge the tension radiating off the assassin in waves; he simply stood before him, towering over his personal pet, his gaze tracing the tight line of bucky's mouth and the furious, rapid rise and fall of his chest. the utter absurdity of the assassin's possessiveness in a room filled with global dignitaries was nothing short of delicious, a brilliant distraction from the tedious politics steve had been enduring all evening. a handsomely genuine smirk began to tug at the corner of steve's lips-- a cruel, beautiful expression that was entirely reserved for the man at the end of his leash.

did you two have a nice chat?

the sheer audacity of the question made steve let out a gently amused chuckle that crawled deep within his chest, and, instead of responding with the harsh reprimand the asset likely expected, steve let the silver leash slacken just a bit, his posture softening into an ease that was thoroughly wicked.

reaching down, steve caught bucky's leather-clad hand, his broad fingers wrapping around the soldier's wrist to lift it upward between them. with total care, he brought the back of bucky's hand up to his own lips, pressing a slow, firm kiss against the sleek leather, his gaze never once leaving the assassin's face.

it's not the first time they've done the whole double-date thing.

it is, however, a whole lot more fucking irritating than it used to be, and steve can't even pretend otherwise anymore.

he's still not entirely sure how he'd ended up dragged into it in the first place. a couple of girls had wandered over while he and buck had been minding their own business, and although steve had every intention of giving them a polite excuse before making a quick exit, bucky had gone and smiled at them with that stupid, impossible-to-say-no-to face of his, all manners and easy charm and old-fashioned courtesy, and by the time steve realized what was happening, the four of them had somehow made plans to see a movie together. he'd agreed to go for one reason and one reason only, which was apparently because somewhere deep in his own malfunctioning brain he'd decided bucky couldn't possibly survive a date without adult supervision. natasha had laughed herself stupid when he'd admitted as much while standing in front of his closet trying to decide whether one button-up somehow looked less like he was trying than another. she'd informed him, very kindly, that he was an idiot. steve had informed her to mind her own business. she'd laughed harder.

the really pathetic part was that she wasn't wrong.

maybe he was just a glutton for punishment, maybe there was something fundamentally broken about the part of him that kept volunteering for front-row seats every single time bucky inevitably charmed somebody else. maybe he just hated the thought of bucky walking somebody home while steve sat in his apartment pretending it didn't bother him. whatever the reason, here he was.

to his credit, he'd been perfectly pleasant with his own date, because none of this was her fault and she'd been nice enough to spend her evening with him. he'd bought the tickets, the drinks, the oversized bucket of popcorn neither of them could possibly finish, laughed when he was supposed to laugh, made conversation during the previews, and done a halfway decent impression of a man who wasn't slowly driving himself insane.

it was just his rotten luck that the seats had put bucky directly beside him...

the movie may as well not have existed.

instead, steve spent the better part of two hours becoming irrationally invested in the location of bucky's elbow, which had somehow claimed ownership over the shared armrest until steve finally knocked it aside with his own and refused to surrender the territory again like they were still nineteen years old arguing over bunks at camp. every time buck shifted in his seat their knees came within an inch of touching, and somehow that managed to be even more distracting than the armrest. somewhere off to his other side, emma laughed at something happening on the screen, and steve had absolutely no idea what she'd found funny because he'd missed nearly every scene.

he couldn't remember these stupid outings being this aggravating. ...maybe he'd gotten too old for this, or maybe he could find his own date without bucky's help. and everyone with functioning eyesight already knew bucky sure as hell didn't need his. thank christ the girls decided to call it a night after the credits instead of suggesting dinner.

the moment they climbed into a taxi, steve finally felt like he could unclench every muscle in his body, although the relief lasted all of five seconds before he caught himself looking sideways at buck again.

"what kinda wingman stunt was that supposed to be, anyway?" he muttered, shoving both hands into his pockets as they started down the sidewalk. "next time you wanna spend two hours makin' googly eyes at somebody, do us both a favor and get a room instead of draggin' me along."

the words were out before he'd really thought about them, harsher than he'd meant, and almost immediately he regretted it. he blew out a breath through his nose, kicked absentmindedly at a crack in the pavement, and picked up his pace as if walking away fast enough might somehow erase the last thirty seconds.

then bucky had to open his damn mouth.

wait a minute... are you jealous?

steve stopped so abruptly he nearly tripped over his own feet. his head snapped around, blond brows climbing so high they practically disappeared under the brim of his cap as he stared at bucky like the man had just suggested the moon was made of mashed potatoes.

"what?" he barked, and the answer came out about three pitches higher than he'd intended. he cleared his throat immediately. "what?" he repeated, lower this time, "jealous? of you?" a rather terrible laugh escaped him.

"buck, c'mon," he looked away, rubbed the back of his neck, then shrugged with entirely too much enthusiasm. "i got nothin' to be jealous about."

It's not Jack's fault, is it ? It's not her fucking fault she's so pissed off. People keep thinking they can just — just what, hurt anyone they want to and get away with it ? Almost everyone Jack's ever met has decided to hurt her, to take advantage of her. And the one person who was actually decent, the universe decided things should go wrong in a way that ended with him dead.

Every memory of every way she's been hurt and that people hurt the one person Jack cared about is playing on loop in her head. She's not fully confronting the fact that it means she cares about Mandy, but there's SOMETHING happening in Jack's mind that's shifting Mandy from the category of someone who doesn't like her to someone who literally just took a hit for her.

So like. Of course she overreacts. Of fucking course she does. Jack's world narrows down to the anger, because it's just easier. Focusing on that and beating the shit out of this guy who dared to touch someone who's actually a good person is easier.

Getting carried away for herself and her own want for revenge comes naturally anyway. For someone else she thinks deserves that revenge ? Oh, that's just like fucking breathing.

She wants to do it. And maybe that's the scary part. Jack wants to keep overreacting, like a bomb constantly being triggered, and wreck this guy's shit. It would serve him right, just like it would serve right all the assholes who ever hurt her.

Then she registers the fact that Mandy's arms are around her. The contact makes its way past all the RED Jack is seeing, and ... so do the other woman's words. Her powers continue to crackle, more like static cling than an omen of lightning strikes. Jack's muscles go rigid, tense.

( You're better than this. You're better than this. You're better than this. )

It keeps echoing in her mind, bouncing around the walls of her brain. When was the last time anyone said something like that to her ? Never ? Nobody looks at Jack Nought and sees anything other than the all-powerful, fucked-up bitch Cerberus made her. Nobody touches her like this or talks softly to her, and especially not when she's so ... unstable.

Nancy  was  nursing  what  appeared  to  be  a  freshly  injured,  bloodied  hand. “Nancy,  you’re  hurt,”  Joyce  moved  in  an  instant,  hurrying  towards  her  with  evident  concern. “Here,  sit down,”  taking  no  arguments,  Joyce  carefully  guided  her  towards  the  nearest  chair. “There’s  first-aid  in  storage,  don’t  move,  I’ll  be  right  back.”  Rushing  off  towards  the  room  at  the  back  of  the  radio  station  where  they  kept  certain  essentials,  Joyce  fumbled  her  way  through  dusty  boxes  of  supplies.  She  was  gone  for  several  minutes  before  returning  to  Nancy’s  side  with  a  red  and  white  first-aid  box,  some  paper  towels  and  a  determined frown.  Joyce  reached  to  roll  up  her sleeves,  crouching  next  to  the  chair. “Let  me  see it.” The  request  was  delivered  in  a  firm  but  caring  tone  as  she  reached  for  Nancy’s  hand.