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Sparks Fly

Pairing: Congressman!Bucky Barnes x Congresswoman!Reader

Summary: You and Congressman Barnes were known to always be at each other’s throats every hearing, creating a famous rivalry that the media seems to eat up every time. But with quiet moments, a little bit of self-reflection, and a possibility of Hydra coming back, both of you are forced to confront whether this was still a rivalry or something more.

Word Count: 14k

Warnings: Politics(ish), violence, blood, you’re kind of an asshole here, no Bob sorry! not proofread also

Masterlist

A/N: *rises from the dead* oh hi there *lies back down*

———

The congressional hearing chamber was buzzing long before the gavel hit the block. Staffers shuffled papers, assistants whispered hurried last-minute talking points into their representatives’ ears, and cameras blinked red lights in the back row as journalists prepared to record yet another day of political theater.

The subject on the docket was dry—allocation of emergency infrastructure funds for veteran housing. Dry, at least, until you and Bucky Barnes sat down in the same room.

Everyone in the chamber had already braced themselves. They knew what was coming.

At the center table, Bucky adjusted the knot of his tie for the third time, wishing desperately he could ditch it for a t-shirt and a leather jacket. His metal arm, wrapped in a sleek glove and hidden beneath his suit jacket, felt heavier than usual in a formal setting. He could take down a squadron of mercenaries in a firefight without breaking a sweat, but Congress? Congress made him itch.

Still, he cleared his throat and leaned toward the microphone, his deep voice steady but stiff. “...and if we reroute the funding through a consolidated infrastructure bill, we can ensure veteran housing projects get priority without–”

Your voice cut across his like a whip. “Without oversight?”

The interruption was sharp enough to slice the air in half. Heads turned.

You sat two seats down, posture immaculate, your suit in a crisp shade of charcoal with just enough flair to catch cameras without looking indulgent. You leaned forward, fingers laced together, and raised a brow with surgical precision. “Congressman Barnes, you’re suggesting we bypass committee review for a multimillion-dollar allocation. That’s not efficiency. That’s recklessness disguised as urgency.”

A ripple of murmurs spread across the room.

Bucky forced his jaw to unclench. He’d told himself he wouldn’t fall for your bait this time. Not today. Not on something so important to him. He adjusted his papers slowly, buying himself a breath.

“With respect, Congresswoman (L/N)...” he let your name draw out, deliberate, measured. “...oversight is important. I’m not suggesting we remove it. I’m suggesting we streamline it, so veterans don’t wait another five years for something as simple as a roof over their heads.”

You tilted your head, the picture of calm disapproval. “Streamlining, Congressman, is just the polite way of saying ‘let’s cut corners.’ And the last time this government cut corners, it created oversight loopholes big enough for Hydra to stroll through.”

The room hummed louder now, staffers shifting, reporters scribbling, a few representatives exchanging looks that ranged from smug to uncomfortable.

Bucky didn’t flinch. He was used to Hydra references being thrown at him these days–he had faced worse. But when you said it, it felt like a punch he hadn’t braced for.

He leaned closer to the mic, lowering his tone until it carried weight instead of volume. “I fought Hydra. More times than I can count. I’m not in the business of opening doors for them.”

Something flickered across your face, quick, gone as soon as it arrived. Then you smoothed it over with that cool, infuriating composure you’d mastered.

“No,” you replied evenly, “you’re just in the business of trying to cosplay as a politician when we both know you’d rather be in the field.”

That landed like a live wire dropped into water.

The chairperson cleared their throat loudly, slamming the gavel once. “Order. Thank you, Congressman Barnes. Thank you, Congresswoman (L/N). Let’s move on.”

But the damage was done.

Staffers scribbled feverishly, already drafting talking points. Reporters whispered into recorders. The interns manning social media feeds typed at lightning speed–everyone knew this clip would trend within the hour.

And you leaned back in your chair, a faint, satisfied smirk tugging at your lips.

Congress emptied out slowly after a long day of hearing, like a school where the bell had rung but the students lingered in the hallways, gossiping about today’s events. Bucky stayed in his seat until most of the room had cleared, pretending to go through his notes.

He wasn’t fooling anyone.

He needed a minute to breathe, to scrub your words out of his head.

Trying to cosplay as a politician.

It shouldn’t have gotten to him. He’d been called worse. By enemies, by allies, by himself. But the way you’d said it–sharp, dismissive, laced with the cool certainty that you were right–dug deeper than he wanted to admit.

Bucky stuffed his papers into his bag, ignoring the faint buzz of his phone. Another alert about trending hashtags, no doubt. Another thousand strangers online dissecting if he was unfit for office.

He slung the bag over his shoulder and left the side hall, hoping to escape before anyone else decided to offer commentary.

Of course, he wasn’t that lucky.

“Rough hearing?”

The voice, dripping with amusement, came from behind one of the towering columns.

Bucky turned. Yelena Belova leaned casually against the marble, arms crossed, her blonde hair tied back messily, her smirk sharp enough to belong in a different kind of battlefield.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Bucky said flatly.

“Relax. I’m blending in,” she gestured with both hands at the tailored suits passing by. “See? Everyone thinks I’m congressional intern. Maybe secretary. Very cute.”

Bucky sighed. “Why are you still here?”

“You and Congresswoman,” she continued conversationally, “you fight like married couple. Always so much passion. Very dramatic. People love it.”

“It’s infuriating,” Bucky muttered.

Yelena smirked. “You say infuriating. I say: chemistry.”

He shot her a look sharp enough to cut steel, but Yelena only raised her eyebrows in exaggerated innocence.

“Tell me,” she pressed, “when she looks at you like she wants to stab you, do you ever think maybe she wants to kiss you instead?”

Bucky stopped walking. “Yelena.”

“Yes?”

“Go home.”

“Fine, fine.” She held her hands up, backing away with that grin that always meant she’d gotten exactly what she wanted. “But I am just saying—if I were to make bet, I would put money on enemies-to-lovers. Very popular trope.”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

Yelena winked, spun on her heel, and disappeared into the evening crowd.

Meanwhile, you swept down the hall on the opposite side of the building, your aide scurrying to keep up with a tablet clutched in both hands.

“Your next committee meeting is in forty-five minutes, ma’am,” the aid rattled off. “And you’ve been invited to speak at the press briefing afterward. We should prepare statements–”

You waved a dismissive hand, heels clicking against polished marble. “Draft the usual lines. I’ll edit.”

Your mind wasn’t on press statements. It wasn’t even on the bill you’d just shredded in front of cameras.

It was on Bucky Barnes.

Infuriating, insufferable Bucky Barnes.

You should’ve been reveling in your victory–your words had landed, clean and sharp, and you knew the press would replay them a hundred times before the week was over. Another notch in your belt, another clip that proved you could spar with the so-called Avenger-turned-politician and come out on top.

And yet, instead of satisfaction, all you felt was restless irritation.

Because for all his fumbling, for all his lack of polish, Barnes hadn’t folded. He hadn’t wilted under your barbs like so many others. He’d stood there, calm, steady, his eyes locked on yours as though he wasn’t just defending his policy, but defending himself.

And for one fleeting moment, too quick for anyone else to see, you’d caught something in his voice. Not defensiveness, nor arrogance. Something close to conviction.

I fought Hydra.

The words echoed in your head longer than you’d care to admit.

You shook the thought away, forcing your spine straighter. No. Rivalry was cleaner. Rivalry was safer. Whatever the flicker of respect had been, it was an illusion, and you wouldn’t let it distract you.

Not from your work. And certainly not for him.

Later that night you sat on your couch with your laptop balanced on your knees, scrolling through clips of the hearing.

The internet was having a field day.

#BarnesVs(L/N) was trending, accompanied by endless memes. One showed you pointing a finger with the caption “when mom and dad fight at the dinner table”. Another had edited your exchange into a romantic comedy trailer, complete with swelling violins and freeze-frames of you and Barnes’ angriest expressions.

You scoffed, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you with the faintest twitch of amusement.

Scrolling further, you found yourself frowning.

Barnes wasn’t just being mocked. Some threads were sympathetic, pointing out his military service, his work as an Avenger, his reputation as a man of action rather than words. One commentator even argued: Barnes is raw, yes, but he’s authentic. Maybe Congress could use less polish and more conviction.

You clicked away quickly, annoyed that you’d read more than one post. Annoyed that some part of you agreed.

Your phone buzzed. A notification from her media team.

Trending window’s open. Opportunity: draft tweet response?

You tapped it, already typing. Your thumbs flew over the screen with ease, crafting the perfect balance of wit and subtlety:

“Efficiency matters. Recklessness doesn’t. Congress needs solutions, not superheroes.”

You hit post before you could overthink it. Within minutes, the likes poured in, the retweets multiplying.

You leaned back, satisfied. Another small victory. Another reminder that you could own the narrative.

And yet, when you set the phone aside, your eyes drifted back to the laptop screen, to the still frame of Bucky staring at you with that unflinching intensity.

You told yourself you hated it.

Bucky didn’t even bother checking his social media until the next day. He knew what he’d find, and he wasn’t wrong.

Your tweet had exploded. Everyone was quoting it, laughing at it, dissecting it.

Solutions, not superheroes.

Bucky tossed the phone onto the desk, muttering curses under his breath. He should’ve ignored it. He should’ve brushed it off the way he brushed off Hydra jokes and assassination memes. But somehow, when you said it, it stuck.

It wasn’t just your words. It was the way you believed them. Like you genuinely thought he didn’t belong here.

The thing was… sometimes, he wasn’t sure you were wrong.

Bucky stared at the city outside his office window, the faint hum of busy Washington filtering in. Congress had never been his plan. Hell, plans had never been his strong suit. His therapist had told him running for office might give him grounding, a new sense of purpose. And maybe it had.

But then there were days like yesterday, when you dismantled him in front of the nation, and all he could think was: Maybe I don’t belong here after all.

The next hearing was supposed to be quieter. At least, that’s what the chairperson had prayed for.

The chamber was packed again regardless, the buzz thicker than last time. Staffers carried in binders heavy with policy drafts, secretaries whispered into phones, and reporters leaned forward like gamblers waiting for another round of poker.

You sat with your notes neatly stacked, suit sharper than ever, confidence wrapped around you like armor. This time, you were ready to win without even breaking a sweat.

The chairperson cleared their throat. “Today, we continue discussion on the veteran infrastructure allocation bill. Congresswoman (L/N), you have the floor.”

You straightened your microphone and began, voice calm, measured, every syllable sharpened to precision.

“Housing for veterans is vital,” you said, scanning the committee as though you owned the room. “But the data tells us it isn’t enough. Forty-one percent of homeless veterans suffer from untreated PTSD. One in three struggle with substance abuse. Suicide remains the second-leading cause of death for post-9/11 veterans. We cannot talk about roofs without talking about minds. Prioritizing expanded mental health services—clinics, telehealth accessibility, crisis hotlines—is not optional. It is fundamental.”

You flipped a page without looking down, rattling off another volley of statistics, your cadence crisp, clinical. Each number was a blow meant to be definitive, unanswerable.

Behind the cameras, a few reporters exchanged impressed glances. You had data, you had structure, you had polish.

But what you didn’t have was heart.

Bucky felt it before he even touched his mic. The hollowness in your tone, the way your voice carried facts but no weight. You made veterans sound like a math problem to solve.

And something inside him couldn’t let that stand.

He leaned in slowly, jaw clenched, voice deep and raw when it finally cut through the chamber.

“The numbers don’t lie,” he said, echoing your own words back at you. “But they don’t tell the whole story either.”

The chamber stilled, like the air itself was holding its breath.

Bucky didn’t look at anyone but you. His gaze was steady, unblinking, sharp with conviction.

“You can’t treat trauma with statistics. You can’t tell a guy who’s sleeping under an overpass in January that you’ll get to him once the telehealth portal is up and running. You can’t hand him a pamphlet for counseling when he doesn’t even know where his next meal is coming from.”

He shifted in his chair, metal hand tightening against the tabletop. “I’ve seen what happens when you think treating the mind is separate from treating the body. Housing and mental health aren’t two separate issues. They’re the same war. And if you pick one and leave the other, you lose.”

The murmurs started immediately—reporters scribbling, cameras zooming in, staffers whispering behind their hands. The clip was already alive in a thousand headlines before you’d even replied.

You kept your face still, perfectly composed, though your knuckles whitened where they pressed into your notes. His words weren’t policy—God, they weren’t even structured—but they had a gravity you couldn’t replicate with data points.

“Congressman Barnes,” you said coolly, raising your chin. “You mistake clarity for callousness. I am not ignoring housing. I am saying that without addressing trauma, housing won’t keep them alive. Do you want veterans sheltered, or do you want them whole?”

Bucky didn’t blink. His voice dropped lower, steadier. “I want them both. Because anything less is failure.”

You felt your mouth twitch in annoyance but you didn’t let it falter your stance. “Barnes,” you said through gritted teeth, “there are systems in place–”

A flicker of something crossed his face. He shifted forward. “And maybe systems shouldn’t be built by people who’ve never had to rely on them.”

The chairperson slammed the gavel, sharp enough to make a few assistants flinch. “Order. Order. Both points are noted. Let us proceed with the markup.”

But the damage was already done.

Staffers scribbled furiously, already drafting talking points for evening broadcasts. Reporters exchanged knowing looks—this would be the headline, the soundbite, the meme. A few interns live-tweeting the hearing typed so quickly their keyboards rattled.

You leaned back, posture immaculate, expression unreadable. Inside, though, your chest hummed with a dissonance you couldn’t name. His words shouldn’t have gotten under your skin, not when you had demolished him with cold precision. But still—you heard conviction in them, unvarnished, clumsy but real.

Bucky, for his part, sat rigid, forcing himself to look down at his notes instead of at you. His heart was still thudding in his chest, heavier than it should’ve been. He knew his interjection hadn’t been polished, hadn’t been elegant. But it had been true. And for the first time in this chamber, he felt like that truth mattered.

The chairperson droned on, but no one was really listening. Not the staffers, not the reporters, not even the other congressmen. All eyes—and all ears—were still caught in the echo of your clash.

And as you left the chamber later, heels clicking against polished marble, you already knew what you’d see when you opened your phone.

#BarnesVs(L/N), Round Two.

And this time, you weren’t sure whose side the public would take.

You didn’t head straight for your office.

You spotted him first. Barnes, leaning against the marble wall just outside the chamber, his tie askew, shoulders taut, breathing slow like he was fighting off the tail end of a storm. He hadn’t noticed you yet.

For a moment, you considered walking past, ignoring him. But the words from the hearing still burned hot on your tongue, stinging in ways you didn’t want to admit. Before you could stop yourself, your heels clicked against the stone, each step sharp and deliberate.

His head lifted, eyes narrowing slightly as you stopped in front of him.

“You think I don’t care about vets?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.

His brows drew together, and for a beat he didn’t answer. Then he pushed off the wall, looming over you, his presence heavier than the marble around him.

“Care?” His voice was rough, edged with something darker than annoyance. “You throw numbers at a room and call it caring. You sit there with your perfect suit and your polished speeches, but you’ve never had to watch someone bleed out next to you. You’ve never had to pull a friend out of a battlefield only to bury him a week later. You’ve never woken up choking on nightmares that don’t let go.”

The words hit harder than he intended, but he didn’t stop. His jaw flexed, his voice low, cutting.

“You’ve never lived it. You’ll never know what it’s like. And until you do, don’t stand there and act like your reports and statistics mean more than the people behind them.”

You held your ground, but his words slid under your skin like glass splinters. Your throat tightened, though you forced your expression to stay composed. He doesn’t get it, you told yourself. He thinks experience is the only currency that matters. He thinks I can’t care because I wasn’t there.

But some quiet part of you—small, unwelcome—knew he was right about one thing: you didn’t know. Not the way he did.

Still, you lifted your chin, steadying your voice. “Maybe I didn’t live it. But someone has to turn those scars into policy. Someone has to write the laws that keep the next soldier from ending up like you.”

His eyes flickered—hurt, anger, something else—before he turned sharply, boots striking hard against marble as he strode down the hall, leaving you in the echo of your own words.

You exhaled slowly, only then realizing how fast your heart was racing.

Damn him.

Damn him for making you feel like you were standing on trial, even outside the chamber.

By the time you got back to your office, the trending page was already a circus.

Clips of the exchange replayed endlessly—your clinical, data-driven delivery cut against his raw, unscripted conviction. Commentators framed it as “logic vs. heart,” “policy vs. passion.” The memes wrote themselves.

You dropped your folder onto the desk and perched on its edge, phone in hand. Normally by now, you’d be dictating a statement to your aide, drafting a razor-sharp tweet that would own the narrative before it spun out of your control. You’d done it dozens of times. That was your rhythm, your armor.

But tonight… your thumb only hovered. You couldn’t bring yourself to type.

That’s when you saw it.

Bucky Barnes tweeted.

Not his staff. Not some pre-cleared talking point with patriotic emojis. Him.

“I respect the numbers. I respect the work. But I’ve seen too many vets fall through cracks we pretend aren’t there. A roof isn’t enough without help. Help isn’t enough without a roof. They need both. We owe them both.”

The words were plain. Uneven. The syntax clumsy in places. But they were his.

Retweets skyrocketed. Hashtags bloomed across your screen: #BothNotEither, #BarnesSpeaks, #VetsMatter.

You set the phone down for a moment, staring at your reflection in the dark window of your office.

Why did it bother you so much? You’d landed harder blows in that chamber. You’d buried opponents under data and never once lost sleep. But this? This one unpolished, heartfelt tweet was winning hearts faster than your entire arsenal of logic.

You picked your phone back up, scrolling again. Every like, every retweet felt like a tide pulling farther and farther from you.

Your secretary poked their head in quietly. “Ma’am, do you want me to draft a response? We can keep it sharp, undercut him before the news cycle runs too far—”

“No.” Your voice came out sharper than intended. The aide blinked, nodded, and slipped out, leaving you with the silence you had demanded.

You leaned back in your chair, phone resting heavy in your palm. For the first time in years, you stayed quiet. No tweet, no quip, no spin. Just scrolling. Watching.

Watching his words do what yours never could.

And the thought you didn’t dare voice lingered anyway: Maybe this round… he actually won.

The same afternoon, the Thunderbolts briefing room smelled of coffee and sarcasm.

Bucky walked in, hair damp from the shower, jacket slung over his arm. The rest of the team was already gathered—Yelena lounging with her feet on the table, Alexei sipping coffee like it was vodka, Ava silently reading through the mission brief, and John scrolling through his phone.

“Ah,” Alexei boomed when he saw Bucky. “The Congressman arrives! We were just talking about your big television showdown.”

“It wasn’t a showdown,” Bucky muttered, setting his jacket down.

“Oh, but it was,” Yelena corrected. She tilted her phone toward him, showing a paused clip of yesterday’s hearing. “Look. You and Congresswoman. Staring. So much tension. People are writing fanfiction already.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why do you even know that?”

“Because I read it,” Yelena said without shame. “One story was very… creative.”

John leaned over, curious. “Oh yeah? Do they fight or make out–I mean, make up?”

“All of the above,” Yelena replied with a wicked grin.

Bucky groaned. “Can we talk about the actual mission, please?”

The door to the briefing room swung open without a knock, heels clicking across the concrete floor.

“Alright, kiddos,” Valentina announced, dropping a folder on the table hard enough to scatter Yelena’s boots off it. “Fun’s over. We have work.”

“But it was only getting good,” Alexei protested.

Mel followed right behind Valentina, arms full of slim briefing folders. She handed them out, one to each team member.

Bucky sat forward, jaw tight, grateful for the interruption from his teammates’ relentless teasing. "What's the target?”

Valentina perched casually on the edge of the table, crossing her legs. “A congressman. Congressman Rollins, to be specific. Midwest darling, flag-waving, family values, all-American blah blah blah.” She rolled her hand in a dismissive swirl. “Only Rollins might be a little less apple pie and a little more… AIM.”

The word dropped like a stone in the room.

Ava’s eyes flickered. Yelena looked like she was finally paying attention.

And Bucky froze in his place as if he was back in the chair that dealt him so much pain, so much anguish, that it still plagued him with nightmares to this day.

“AIM?” John drawled, finally lowering his phone. “As in Hydra’s nerdy little weapons lab with the bad beekeeping suits?”

“The very same,” Valentina confirmed. “Only now they’ve rebranded. ‘New management,’ as their propaganda says. But intel suggests they’re courting Rollins, and if he’s in bed with them, that means contracts, money, access. Which means we’ve got ourselves a problem.”

Mel tapped a tablet, a holographic layout of the Capital Rotunda popping up on the central screen. “Rollins will be at the Congressional Gala this Friday. Every major player will be there. If AIM’s making a move, it’ll be under those chandeliers.”

“Gala?” Yelena scoffed. “So what–you want us to play dress up and mingle with politicians?”

Valentina frowned. “Oh, please. I’m pretty sure a group of misfits like you in a fancy gala would definitely raise some alarms.”

Bucky piped up. “You mean me. Rollins knows me, I can get close.”

“Right,” Ava muttered. “Because nothing says ‘blend in’ like the ex-Winter Soldier glaring at senators over the shrimp cocktail.

Bucky shot her a look sharp enough to cut. “I can handle myself.”

“Not the point,” Mel said evenly. “We need more eyes inside. Rollins won’t say anything directly to you, Bucky. He’ll be cautious. But with the right kind of… leverage… someone else might get him talking.

Yelena’s grin returned, wicked and unhelpful. “Oh, I know who.”

Bucky’s stomach dropped even before she said it.

“Congresswoman (L/N).”

The table erupted with overlapping voices–John chuckling, Ava raising a brow, Alexei booming out a laugh about some Russian love story. Yelena clapped her hands together like she’d just delivered the punchline of the century.

Bucky slammed his folder shut. “Absolutely not.”

Valentina groaned. “I knew you would say that.”

“She’s not part of this team,” Bucky snapped. “She’s not a field agent, she’s not trained–”

“She’s a sitting Congresswoman,” Valentina cut in smoothly. “Which makes her the perfect cover. No one will question her being there. And Rollins already sees her as an ally. If AIM is whispering in his ear, she might be the one they approach.”

Yelena kicked her feet up again, smirking. “And you two have such chemistry. Very convincing undercover couple, no?”

Bucky nearly growled. “We’re not–”

Valentina clapped her hands once, cutting him off. “Decision made. Barnes, you’ll make sure our dear Congresswoman doesn’t get herself killed. She’ll get Rollins talking. Meanwhile, the rest of you will work the perimeter. Discreetly.” Her eyes slid towards Alexei. “As discreet as possible.”

Alexei only grinned.

Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face, muttering under his breath. “This is a bad idea.”

But Valentina only smiled wider, “Oh, Congressman. The best ideas usually are.”

———

Your office smelled faintly of coffee and printer ink when the knock came. Sharp, deliberate. Not your secretary’s timid little tap.

“Come in,” you called, not looking up from the pile of policy memos spread across your desk.

The door opened, and your secretary’s nervous head poked through first. “Um–ma’am? They… insisted.”

They?

Then she stepped in. Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Tailored suit in a shade too sharp, a smirk like she already owned the room. Behind her came Mel, calm, efficient, carrying a slim folder tucked under her arm.

“Congresswoman,” Valentina purred, sweeping past your secretary like she was invisible. “What a pleasure. I’d say you’ve been busy, but that would be an understatement, wouldn’t it?”

You sat back slowly, narrowing your eyes. “This is a secure office. Visitors need clearance.”

Valentina only smirked wider. “Oh, sweetheart. I don’t need clearance. I am clearance.”

Mel set the folder down in front of you, her tone far more professional. “We won’t waste much of your time, Congresswoman. One of your colleagues, Congressman Rollins, is suspected of entertaining ties with the Advanced Idea Mechanics.”

You blinked, momentarily thrown. “AIM? Hydra’s old weapon mill?”

“Rebranded, but yes,” Mel confirmed. “And if Rollins is involved, it’s not just a weapons deal. It’s influence. Contracts. Policy pipelines.”

Your fingers tapped once against the desk. “So why are you in my office?”

Valentina leaned forward, elbows on your desk like she owned it. “Because we need you at the gala, Congresswoman. Not as a guest. As an operative.”

The laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “An operative? I don’t play spy games. I write laws.”

“Which is exactly why you’re perfect,” Valentina counted. “No one questions your presence at a political gala. No one suspects you’re listening when Rollins loosens his tie and says something he shouldn’t.” She titled her head. “You want to protect this country, don’t you? Well, AIM–and in extension, Hydra– crawling back into Congress is one hell of a threat.”

Mel slid the folder closer. Inside, you glimpse the Capitol Rotunda, profiles of Rollins’ donors, encrypted communications flagged with AIM’s insignia. Proof.

Your mouth went dry.

“And you’re asking me,” you said carefully, “because Rollins trusts me. He won’t stonewall me the way he would Barnes.”

Valentina’s smirk sharpened. “Exactly. You’ve already sparred with him in public. People believe you’re on opposite sides of the table. Perfect cover for working together.”

That pulled you up short. “Wait. Working together?”

Mel’s eyes flickered, just once, toward the door. “You wouldn’t be alone, ma’am. Congressman Barnes will be your partner inside.”

Your stomach dropped. “Barnes?”

Valentina sat back, utterly delighted by your reaction. “Yes, Barnes. Don’t look so horrified. You two already put on quite the show in hearings. Sparks flying, cameras eating it up. Tell me, what’s more believable than rivals forced to mingle at a gala?”

You hated how your pulse skipped at the thought. Hated it more that Valentina noticed.

“Absolutely not,” you said crisply, closing the folder. “I’m not going undercover with him. I don’t even like him.”

Valentina stood. “Oh, sweetheart. That’s exactly why it’ll work.” She tapped her nail against your desk, sharp as a gavel strike. “Be at the Rotunda Friday night. Wear something dazzling. And don’t worry, Barnes will be thrilled to see you.”

The door clicked shut behind them, leaving you with the folder, the silence, and a heart beating far too fast for your own liking.

A few minutes later, your office looked like a storm had swept through it. Papers scattered across your desk, staffers gathered in tense clusters, the hum of voices ricocheting off the high ceilings.

Your chief of staff was the first to break the silence. “This is… unconventional,” he said, adjusting his glasses nervously. “But it’s not without merit. You’ll be in a room with high-value officials, in a position to observe. It would give you insights no one else on the Hill will have.”

“Insights,” you repeated flatly, folding your arms. “Or a career-ending headline when someone leaks that I spent an evening playing dress-up with the Thunderbolts.”

Your communications director leaned forward, tablet in hand, already scrolling through scenarios. “Not if we control the narrative. Congresswoman attending gala for national security purposes—strong optics. You’ll look proactive, decisive. The public eats that up.”

An intern piped up. “Besides, imagine what happens if something actually goes down and you’re the one who spots it. That’s not just good press, that’s historic.”

You exhaled slowly, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You’re all very enthusiastic about volunteering me for spy games.”

“Because you’re good at them,” your chief of staff said without hesitation. “You know how to read a room, how to hold your ground. And…” he hesitated, glancing at the others, “frankly, you’ll balance him.”

You didn’t have to ask who him was. The name dropped like a weight between you.

“Barnes.”

The comms director nodded. “He’s raw. Conviction, yes, but… unpolished. You bring strategy. Poise. Together, you might actually make this thing work.”

You scoffed, pacing behind your desk. “Or we’ll just spend the evening trying to kill each other with eye contact.”

There were a few stifled laughs, but no denials.

One of your younger interns—brave, or reckless—spoke up carefully. “With respect, ma’am… people already think there’s something between you two.”

You froze, narrowing your eyes. “Something?”

She flushed. “Not like that. Just… the hearings. The way you clash. It’s electric. The media runs with it. If you’re both seen at the gala, working together, it flips the narrative. From rivals to reluctant allies. That’s powerful.”

You hated that she wasn’t wrong. You hated more that a small, treacherous part of you wondered what it would be like, to stand beside him instead of across from him.

But you snapped the thought shut, smoothing the irritation from your expression. “Fine,” you said at last. “I’ll play along. But don’t mistake this for enthusiasm. The second this blows back, I’m dragging all of you down with me.”

Your team exchanged quick glances of relief, already moving into action—drafting talking points, planning contingencies, polishing optics.

You stayed still for a moment longer, staring at the darkened window.

Working with Barnes. God help you all.

———

The briefing room was cold steel and humming lights, tucked away from the Capitol’s marble halls. You walked in with your chin high, heels sharp against the floor, the weight of every pair of eyes turning toward you. They weren’t lobbyists or donors here—they were something else entirely. Predators in civilian clothes.

Yelena lounged like the room belonged to her, a smirk already twitching as if she knew how this would go. John didn’t even look up from his phone, but you caught the curl of amusement on his lips. Ava watched in silence, eyes flicking, calculating. Alexei slouched with the casual indifference of someone who’d survived too much to be impressed by titles.

And then there was Bucky Barnes.

He sat at the far end of the table, tie loose, suit jacket off, his metal hand tapping an irregular beat against the tabletop. He looked up at you as if your very presence was a challenge.

You read it instantly—annoyance, skepticism, something heavier under his stare. He didn’t want you here. He didn’t think you belonged. And yet, you walked straighter, sharper, as if to remind him and everyone else that belonging wasn’t given—it was taken.

Valentina clapped her hands together, sweeping in behind you with a smirk. “Good, everyone’s here. Let’s get started before anyone stabs each other, shall we?”

Mel spread out a digital schematic of the gala hall across the table, her tone brisk. “The target is Congressman Rollins. Intelligence suggests AIM has made contact. We don’t know how deep he’s in, but we’ll know more by the end of the night. Here’s the layout—main floor, balcony access, service entrances. Standard surveillance choke points.”

She tapped the screen, zooming in. “Bucky and Congresswoman (L/N) will be inside. You’ll blend with the crowd, get close to Rollins, and keep eyes open for any suspicious exchanges. The rest of you will hold perimeter—communications, exits, backup.”

Bucky leaned forward, voice low and clipped. “We keep it simple. Don’t draw attention. Stay close to Rollins, watch him, blend.”

You couldn’t help the soft scoff that escaped. He thought blending meant sulking in the shadows, glaring until people turned away. “You don’t blend, Barnes,” you said smoothly, “you brood. And brooding gets noticed.”

Laughter rippled through the table—quick, stifled. Yelena’s grin spread wider.

John leaned back, smirking. “Y’know, you two could just kiss and save us the trouble.”

“Shut up, Walker,” Bucky snapped.

Mel continued. “Rules of engagement: this is a gala, not a war zone. If you see something, signal first. We’ll handle escalation. Understand?”

You leaned forward, scanning the schematic. “What’s the extraction plan if things go sideways?”

Bucky snorted. “Of course that’s what you ask.”

You arched a brow. “And of course you’d just wing it, right? Because charging headfirst into chaos always works out so well.”

He turned, jaw tightening. “I don’t charge headfirst. I adapt. Which is something you’d know if you spent less time polishing speeches and more time actually doing.”

The words landed harder than either of you intended, but you refused to let him see the sting. “And maybe if you thought past the next five minutes, you’d realize doing without planning gets people killed.”

The room went quiet for a beat—everyone watching, amused, like kids at recess circling a fight.

“Children,” Alexei boomed suddenly, cutting through the taut silence. “You fight like old married couple. Very convincing.”

This time, laughter wasn’t stifled. It rolled across the table. Yelena clapped once, delighted. Walker finally looked up, smirking like a man watching a bar fight. Even Ava’s mouth twitched.

You felt heat creep up your neck, and from the flicker in Bucky’s eyes, you knew he felt it too.

You exhaled slowly, forcing composure back into your spine. But inside, the words still echoed. He thought you hid behind polish. You thought he hid behind action. And somewhere in between, maybe you both knew you weren’t entirely wrong.

Valentina’s voice echoed across the room, cutting through the tension. “Barnes. Congresswoman (L/N). Whatever your issues are, set them aside. Tonight isn’t about out-arguing each other. It’s about exposing AIM before they dig in deeper.”

You gave a clipped nod, but your chest hummed with dissonance. You couldn’t quite tell if the heat rising between you and Barnes was rivalry—or something far riskier.

And by the way he avoided your eyes just then, maybe he couldn’t tell either.

The hologram dimmed, the briefing wound down, but the room never shook loose of the tension. Everyone else looked entertained. For them, it was theater. But for you and Bucky, this wasn’t a performance. It was a warning.

Because if tonight went wrong, you weren’t just stuck in a room with each other. You were stuck on the same side. And neither of you trusted the other enough to believe that would keep you safe.

The briefing broke apart in a shuffle of chairs and half-muttered jokes, but the edge between you and Barnes stayed sharp enough to draw blood. Valentina gave a satisfied little smile as she swept out, clearly enjoying the friction.

“Play nice,” Yelena called after you, sing-song, earning herself a withering look from Bucky.

You ignored them all, letting your secretary usher you toward the prep suite two floors down. The gala was an hour away, and whatever you felt about being dragged into Thunderbolt theatrics, you weren’t about to let anyone see you crack. Not in front of them. Certainly not in front of him.

The prep suite was too small for two people who barely tolerated each other. Bright vanity bulbs glared against the mirror, catching every tense shift of your shoulders, every flicker of his jaw as he tightened his tie like he wanted to strangle it.

You concentrated on fastening your necklace, refusing to meet his eyes. But silence had never sat well with Barnes.

“You really don’t get it, do you?” His tone was flat but dangerous, like a fuse waiting for flame.

Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“The hearing. The way you spun it.” He turned toward you, steel-blue eyes cutting sharp. “You made it sound like I don’t give a damn about trauma, like I think a bed and four walls erase it all.”

You set the clasp down harder than necessary. “Because that’s how you made it sound. Like housing is a magic cure.”

He scoffed, bitter. “No. I said it’s the foundation. You can’t rebuild a life when you’re freezing under a bridge. You can’t even think about therapy when you don’t know where you’ll sleep that night.”

“And what happens,” you shot back, heat creeping into your voice, “when you finally get the bed, the roof, the keys, and the nightmares don’t stop? When you still wake up choking on ghosts? Housing doesn’t stop the spiral.”

“Don’t you dare think that I don’t know what it’s like to have nightmares.”

The air between you went taut, vibrating with unspoken things. You folded your arms tight against your chest, nails digging half-moons into your palms.

Bucky leaned forward, bracing his palms on the vanity’s edge. His voice had lost its sharp edge, settling into something steadier, more deliberate. “You know what your problem is?”

You arched a brow, though your chest tightened at the way he said it—quiet, like it mattered. “Enlighten me.”

Then his voice cut through, quieter but sharper. “You can’t stand the idea of me being right. Why is it every time I open my mouth, you’ve gotta prove me wrong?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“You don’t debate me. You dismantle me.” His words came out like a confession dragged through broken glass. “Like you can’t stand the idea I might know something you don’t. Like it’s not enough for you to be right—you need me to be wrong.”

That landed heavier than you expected. You swallowed, throat dry.

“You act like I don’t care. Like I don’t see the people behind the numbers. I do. But maybe someone has to be cold enough to make the math work—because if it doesn’t, they get nothing.”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe you just like proving me wrong. No matter what the cost.”

“Maybe,” you said slowly, “because if I don’t fight like hell, I lose. One mistake, one moment of hesitation and I’m written off. Too young. Too much of a woman. Too… not enough. I don’t get second chances, Barnes. So yeah. I come at you with everything. Because I have to.”

He looked at you then, not as the congresswoman who grilled him across hearings, not as the politician he sparred with in headlines. Just… you.

And you weren’t done.

“Maybe I go hardest at you,” you admitted, voice softer now, “because you’re the only one who pushes back. Everyone else panders, or underestimates me. But you–you don’t. You make me sharper. And I hate it. And I–” You hesitated, breath catching. “I need it.”

His jaw slackened, the fight bleeding out of him. He turned fully now, closing the space inch by inch until you could feel the charge of him in the air.

“Funny,” he murmured, something unreadable in his eyes. “That’s what I hate about you too. You don’t let me get away with anything. You see through it. And it pisses me off.”

Neither of you moved, not really, but the room shrank around you. Your pulse pounded in your throat, your chest, your fingertips.

For the first time, you let yourself notice him, really notice. The scar along his jaw, the impossible blue of his eyes, the weight of his presence that wasn’t just intimidating but… magnetic. Too magnetic.

And he was looking at you the same way. Not with disdain. Not with rivalry. But with something that unsettled you far more.

Your voice came out barely above a whisper. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you enjoy fighting with me.”

His gaze dropped, just for a beat, to your lips before snapping back up. “Maybe I do.”

The silence that followed wasn’t silence at all. It was charged, humming, filled with everything neither of you dared to name.

And then, knock knock. “Two minutes til we move out!” a voice rang from outside.

The spell shattered like glass.

You stumbled back a step, heart hammering, and adjusted your gown with brisk, practiced precision. The walls came back up.

“Don’t screw this up,” you said coolly, as if your pulse wasn’t still racing.

“Try to keep up,” he muttered, straightening his tie like a shield.

But when you walked out side by side, the echo of what just passed clung to you both. The kind of echo that made you wonder if this was still politics or something far more dangerous.

The motorcade stretched along the curb, black SUVs and town cars spilling guests onto the red carpet in carefully choreographed intervals. Reporters jostled behind velvet ropes, microphones raised, camera flashes popping like fireworks.

Your car pulled up first. The moment the door opened, the noise swelled—your name shouted, questions lobbed, lights flaring. You stepped out smoothly, every inch the polished congresswoman: chin lifted, posture impeccable, gown cut to command attention without courting scandal. You smiled just enough, the kind of smile that photographs well but gives nothing away.

As you climbed the short stretch of carpet toward the doors, the press surged.

“Congresswoman, do you expect to clash with Congressman Barnes again tonight?” “Will we see another viral showdown?” “Are you and Barnes working together on this bill, or is this just political theater?”

You gave your usual noncommittal answers, sharp and efficient, already in control of the narrative. This was your arena, after all.

Then another round of shouts broke out. Louder. Frenzied.

Barnes had arrived.

He emerged from a separate SUV at the far end of the carpet, taller than the men flanking him, broad shoulders filling out a black suit that looked just a little too snug on someone built for combat instead of politics. He didn’t smile. Didn’t pose. Just walked, unhurried but unflinching, as if the blinding camera lights were nothing compared to the gunfire he’d faced in another lifetime.

The reporters pounced.

“Congressman Barnes, do you think you belong here?” “Are you and Congresswoman (L/N) enemies—or something else?” “Barnes, are you planning to respond to her tweet?”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. That silence was an answer in itself.

And then it happened: you reached the top of the carpet just as he did.

Two separate arrivals. Two orbits colliding.

For a moment, the crowd went electric. Rivalry embodied in two figures standing side by side under the glittering lights. The flashbulbs doubled, capturing every glance, every shift of posture.

You didn’t look at him, not directly. But you felt him—the heat of his presence, the deliberate way he turned his body just enough to acknowledge you without inviting contact.

“Perfect,” you muttered under your breath, the practiced smile never leaving your face.

“Yeah,” he muttered back, low enough that only you could hear. “Picture-perfect enemies.”

Inside, the ballroom doors loomed. And though the arrivals had been staged separately, Valentina’s plan meant walking in together.

When his arm extended toward you, the cameras caught it instantly.

You hesitated. The crowd fed off it, buzzing, hungry. Then, with every eye on you, you slid your hand into the crook of his elbow.

His arm tensed beneath your touch. Yours did too.

And as the doors opened to swallow you both into the gala’s golden light, one truth rang clear: no matter how separate you arrived, the world wanted you together.

The ballroom glittered under chandeliers, a sea of sequins, tuxedos, and crystal flutes. A string quartet played something elegant enough to keep conversation buoyant without ever drowning it out. Servers weaved through the crowd with champagne trays, their movements smooth as clockwork.

Your hand still rested in the crook of Bucky’s arm as you stepped inside. The crowd noticed. They always did. Conversations dimmed by a decibel, glances exchanged, subtle smiles traded like gossip.

“Smile,” he murmured, tilting his head toward you as if sharing an inside joke. His breath brushed your ear. “They’re watching.”

“I am smiling,” you replied, laughing just loud enough for the donors. “You just hate that it’s not at you.”

“Feels like it is,” he shot back, the corner of his mouth curving in something dangerously close to a grin.

Before you could sharpen the edge, a cluster of donors intercepted you. Retired generals, media moguls, a senator with a practiced laugh. Their questions came dressed as pleasantries:

“Congresswoman, your committee remarks were powerful—do you foresee bipartisan traction?” “Congressman Barnes, you’ve been… colorful in your critiques. Care to elaborate?”

You traded answers like cards, always sharp, always measured, while Bucky threw in his brand of bluntness, which somehow landed well in this room of people who mistook honesty for novelty. To the onlookers, you weren’t opponents—you were foils, sparks flying in all the right ways.

In your ear, Yelena’s voice cut through, dry as ever.

“Barnes, you should try smiling for real. You look like someone stapled your mouth shut.”

“Funny,” he muttered under his breath. “Didn’t realize this was a comedy gig.”

Ava’s voice slid in next, crisp and clipped.

“North wing balcony, second floor. Rollins is heading up there. Looks like he’s avoiding the press.”

You sipped your champagne to mask the slight tilt of your head. “Copy that.”

Still, the dance continued. You laughed lightly at something Bucky said aloud—something about funding “actually reaching the people instead of vanishing into a black hole of bureaucracy.” The group around you chuckled, pleased at the interplay. You leaned closer, close enough for the pose of intimacy, your words meant only for him.

“You sound rehearsed.”

“You sound jealous,” he shot back, his blue eyes glinting in the chandelier light.

Your chest tightened, though you masked it with another laugh for your audience. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But the tension wasn’t just for show anymore. His hand rested lightly against yours at his arm, fingers brushing just enough to feel deliberate. The contact was electric, unwanted and undeniable all at once.

Alexei’s voice broke the spell, booming through the comms like a proud father. “Look at you two! So believable! Even I almost forget you hate each other.”

“Focus,” John hissed.

The crowd shifted, new figures drifting in—an ambassador here, a billionaire there. Every conversation layered with meaning, every toast laced with promises. You and Bucky navigated it like a battlefield, seamless in motion if not in spirit. You traded barbs in private, pleasantries in public, and through it all, the Thunderbolts’ whispers stitched the night together, every guest, every corridor, every anomaly fed into your ears.

And yet, between each coded update, each handshake and staged smile, you kept catching him. The brush of his shoulder against yours. The steady way he angled himself to keep you within his line of sight. The rare, fleeting curl of his mouth when you said something he didn’t expect.

The ballroom was alive, every chandelier scattering golden light over polished floors and polished people. Your smile was constant, honed sharp enough to conceal exhaustion, irritation, even the heat prickling at your skin from standing so close to him. His arm anchored you as you moved from circle to circle, trading pleasantries with power brokers who believed themselves untouchable.

Compliments dipped in poison, each more transparent than the last. You parried with poise, while Bucky skewered with bluntness. To the crowd, the two of you were a spectacle: rivals made to dance together, a performance so seamless they almost forgot the history.

Through it all, your comms whispered.

Ava: “Target moving again—heading for the far corridor. Looks like he’s trying to shake his security detail.”

Yelena: “Too obvious. Smells like bait. Keep parading, I’ll shadow.”

John: “You two look cozy. Can’t wait for the engagement announcement.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked. You stifled the urge to roll your eyes.

And then—movement. A bodyguard passed nearby, one you both knew to be Rollins’. Without hesitation, Bucky dipped his head toward you, pulling you in as if whispering something intimate. To anyone watching, it was a lover’s lean, secretive and sweet.

But his words were anything but.

“Two o’clock. Blue tie. He’s circling the ambassador.”

Your lips parted, a perfectly timed gasp for the crowd, but inside you were burning at the heat of his breath against your temple. You leaned closer, your own whisper threading the space between you.

“Don’t look so comfortable.”

“Who says I am?” he murmured, though his fingers brushed yours again at his arm, deliberate this time.

The bodyguard stopped. Turned. Smiled. He’d noticed you both.

So you played your role. Tilted your head toward Bucky’s shoulder, as though he’d just told you something worth blushing over. Your body angled into his. The cameras snapped, the donors cooed, and your heart stuttered at how easily the act slipped into something that felt too real.

Yelena’s voice broke through. “Nice. Keep holding hands. Maybe kiss next. Disgusting, but effective.”

You nearly choked on your champagne. Bucky covered it with a quiet chuckle that only made the moment worse.

For everyone else, it was perfect theater. For you, it was a line you weren’t sure you wanted to stop toeing.

The gala had begun to loosen. Glasses refilled, conversations grew more candid, and the currents of money and influence swirled thicker beneath the gilded surface. You and Bucky had been tethered together long enough to sell the performance—long enough for every gossip-hungry donor to wonder aloud if the infamous sparring partners were suddenly allies, or something more.

Ava’s voice rang. “Too much attention on you two. Split. Barnes, west wing. Congresswoman, stay east. Cover more ground.”

“Copy,” Bucky muttered. His arm flexed beneath your hand before you both withdrew, and you were left standing on your own as though the act had never been. The shift was immediate, eyes followed you, whispers prickled at your back.

One of them, a senator with decades of polished menace behind his grin, leaned in as if sharing a harmless joke. “Tell me, Congresswoman, is it true what they’re saying? You and Barnes—” He chuckled, eyes flicking to the cameras across the room. “It’d be a hell of a headline.”

You laughed lightly, brushing the question aside. “He’s a colleague. Nothing more. People see sparks and assume fire.”

The senator smirked, unconvinced.

You pivoted away, searching the crowd, when the comms caught another conversation, this one not meant for your ears.

A muffled voice, another politician you’d just shaken hands with, low and teasing. “So, Barnes…what’s the deal with her? She’s got bite. Don’t tell me you’re enjoying it.”

There was a beat of silence. You froze mid-step.

Then Bucky’s voice, steady but unguarded, slipped through. “She’s gorgeous. Sharp, too. Smarter than half this damn room. Keeps me honest.”

Your heart stuttered. Heat rushed to your cheeks so quickly you nearly cursed aloud. Gorgeous. The word echoed, reckless, intimate. Not meant for you to hear.

You forced your expression neutral, raising a champagne flute to your lips before anyone saw the crack in your armor. But inside, your pulse drummed, a traitor to your composure.

Focus. The mission.

And then you saw him.

Congressman Rollins.

Moving like a shadow at the edge of the gala, ducking into a side corridor no one else seemed to notice.

Your instincts flared. This was it.

“I’ve got eyes on Rollins,” you murmured into comms, already slipping through the crowd.

Bucky’s reply was immediate, sharp. “Wait. Don’t move without backup.”

“We don’t have time.”

“You’re going to get yourself cornered–”

But you were already gliding through the curtains, heels muffled against the marble as you entered the dim hallway. The air was cooler, quieter, heavy with secrets.

Ahead, Rollins spoke in low tones to two men in dark suits. You pressed yourself against the wall, straining to catch the words.

“…the shipment leaves tonight. AIM doesn’t forgive mistakes. If the funds don’t clear, we’re all compromised.”

Your stomach knotted. So it’s true.

You leaned just enough to catch another detail, adrenaline thrumming through your veins–

And that’s when it happened.

A guard’s head turned. His eyes locked on yours.

“Hey–”

You spun, too late. Fingers like iron clamped around your arm. Another set grabbed your wrist, twisting hard enough to make you drop the champagne glass you’d been clutching like a prop. It shattered against the marble, echoing sharp as a gunshot.

“Get off me!” You slammed your elbow back into one man’s ribs, drawing a grunt. For a split second you broke free until another guard came from behind, arms snaking around you, pinning you in place.

Your comms erupted.

Bucky: “Where is she?! Somebody get eyes on her!”

Ava: “East corridor. She’s surrounded.”

Yelena: “Told you idiots not to let her off the leash.”

Rollins turned, his smile thin, reptilian, as he stepped into the low light. “Congresswoman. Always so eager to be the hero.” He stepped closer, eyes glinting. “Shame heroes are so easy to break.”

“Go to hell,” you spat, thrashing against the hold.

“Not tonight.” He gestured. “Get her out of sight.”

The guards wrenched you forward, dragging you deeper into the shadows. Your ear buzzed with comms, Bucky’s voice cutting through in jagged bursts—furious, panicked—but then a hand ripped the earpiece free. The line went dead.

Your last glimpse of the gala was the sliver of golden light spilling under the curtain. Then nothing but the dark corridor swallowing you whole.

The ballroom’s glow had turned brittle. Bucky pushed through the crowd, ignoring the confused looks from donors and politicians. He could still hear the echo of your voice in his head, sharp over comms— “We don't have time.” And then nothing.

Nothing.

“Come in. Say something,” Bucky muttered into the comm, pushing through a crowd of senators who blinked at him like he’d grown a second head. “Congresswoman, respond.”

Static.

“Talk to me,” he barked, weaving past trays of champagne, eyes scanning exits. “Where the hell is she?”

Ava’s voice cut through, quick and clipped. “Last ping from her comms was east corridor, behind the draped partition. Four hostiles minimum.”

Bucky’s chest tightened. He didn’t slow, weaving between tuxedos and sequins with military precision, ignoring the protests of donors nearly spilling their champagne. “Then why am I still standing here?”

“Barnes—” John started, but Bucky interrupted, eyes flashing.

“She’s unarmed at a goddamn gala. They took her comms. If we lose her—” His voice broke sharp, edged with panic he couldn’t quite mask.

For a moment, even Walker shut up.

Yelena’s voice slipped in over comms, sing-song but edged with focus. “Relax, Grandpa. Me and Alexei are already circling outside. No cars have left yet. If they want to move her, they’ll have to come past me and Alexei. And I shoot very straight.”

Alexei boomed faintly in the background, “Like arrow, but louder!”

Bucky ignored them, barreling down the hall, heading for the partition Ava had flagged. His pulse thundered in his ears. He’d been in ambushes, black-ops, Hydra hellholes—but this was worse. This was the echo of your laugh, your smirk, your barbs still fresh in his head… and now the yawning possibility of never hearing them again.

Ava’s voice rang through the comms. “Barnes, slow down. You rush in blind, you’ll spook them, and then we lose her for good.”

“I’m not sitting on my hands while she’s dragged off by AIM,” he growled.

There was a beat of quiet on the line before Yelena muttered, softer, almost amused despite the tension, “He’s really freaking out. Cute.”

Bucky ignored her, ripping the curtain aside. The corridor beyond was empty except for shards of broken glass glinting on the marble. He crouched, picking up the remains of your champagne flute with a gloved hand. The sight of it—the proof you’d been here, proof you’d fought—sent something dark and hot through his chest.

“They’ve got her,” he said, low and raw. “And I swear to God, if Rollins lays one hand—”

“Barnes.” Ava’s voice again, steadier now. “We’ll get her back. But you need to think. Not feel.”

He forced himself to breathe, shoving the glass aside, standing tall. But his fists were clenched, metal hand creaking audibly as he fought to rein himself in.

“No,” he said. “You think. I feel. Because if I don’t, she’s gone.”

A beat of silence on the comms. Then John, grudgingly, “Well, he’s not wrong.”

Then Yelena, “Told you two, it’s not just political foreplay.”

Bucky shut them all out, eyes fixed down the darkened hall where they’d dragged you. He didn’t care about optics. He didn’t care about the gala. The only thing that mattered was that they had you, and he wasn’t going to lose you.

Bucky spun toward the hall, stalking forward. “You think this is cute?” he snapped. “She’s out there with AIM, and you’re cracking jokes?”

“Da,” Alexei rumbled. “He is in love. Makes him soft.”

“Shut it, all of you,” Bucky barked, voice cracking with the weight under it. He wasn’t sure if it was rage or fear clawing at his throat—probably both. “We are not losing her. Not to AIM. Not to Rollins. Not to anyone.”

Silence. Just his breathing, heavy and raw.

Then Ava again, steady as always. “Okay, soldier. You lead. We’ll track your six. But breathe. Don’t think about what they could do. Think about how to stop them from doing it.”

Bucky inhaled hard through his nose. His chest felt like it was caving in. He’d lost too many people to shadows in hallways. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—lose you. Not after everything. Not when you were the one person who could meet him toe-to-toe and not blink.

“I’m not sitting back,” he said finally, voice steady but thick. “We move. Now.”

And without waiting for confirmation, he started down the corridor, every step a promise—that he would tear the walls of this gala apart brick by brick if it meant getting you back.

Your head throbbed where the blow had landed—swift, calculated, not enough to knock you out but enough to disorient. The world lurched sideways as rough hands dragged you down the narrow service corridor. Your heels skidded on marble, catching on the edge of a runner, until someone shoved you hard enough that you stumbled forward into darkness.

A door slammed. The music of the gala vanished, replaced by the low hum of fluorescent lights. The air was colder here, industrial, heavy with metal and dust.

You straightened quickly, smoothing your suit jacket as if you still had control, even as the ache in your ribs told you otherwise.

“Hands off,” you snapped, twisting out of one guard’s grip. Your glare locked onto the man waiting by the far wall—Congressman Rollins, his tuxedo immaculate, his smile as polished as it was poisonous.

“Well,” he drawled, stepping closer. “Congresswoman (L/N). You just couldn’t help yourself, could you? Always so curious. Always listening where you shouldn’t.”

You held your chin high. “Curiosity isn’t a crime. Treason, however—”

A sharp backhand from one of his men cut you off, snapping your head to the side. The sting spread across your cheek, hot and humiliating. You swallowed hard, refusing to let it show.

Rollins only clicked his tongue, amused. “Bold. I’ll give you that. But bold doesn’t keep you alive in this game. You politicians–you love your speeches, your moral high ground. You think AIM is some boogeyman we can scare away with hearings and oversight.”

You narrowed your eyes, blood roaring in your ears. “AIM’s a corpse. Hydra’s shadow. You’re throwing your lot in with ghosts.”

His smile widened, sharklike. “Ghosts don’t die, Congresswoman. They adapt. They evolve.”

Behind him, one of the guards unlocked a sleek black case and revealed vials of something glowing faintly green. The sight of it twisted your stomach. Weapons. Serum, maybe. Whatever it was, it wasn’t meant for public eyes.

Rollins stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You’re going to disappear tonight. Maybe the story will say you left the gala early. Maybe it’ll say you had a breakdown. Doesn’t matter. You’ll be gone. And with you gone, the noise fades. The bills fades. And AIM’s work continues.”

Your pulse spiked, panic threatening to claw its way up your throat–but you shoved it down. You’d been in political bloodsport long enough to know one truth: fear was leverage. And you’d be damned if you gave him that.

The plastic cut deeper into your wrists with every shift of your hands, the sharp bite reminding you how vulnerable you were. The guards pushed you into a metal chair, and before you could twist free, one of them yanked a strap tight across your chest. Restraints, clinical and deliberate. AIM’s touch was never sloppy.

Rollins circled you like a predator savoring the moment. “You know what I like most about politicians?” he mused, hands clasped behind his back. “You spend so much time fighting each other, clawing for scraps, that you never see the real threats creeping in from the shadows. You’re too busy arguing about budgets and hearings.”

You ground your teeth, forcing yourself to stay calm. “And what, you think AIM is the solution? Using science to wage war, destabilize nations? You’re not saving the future—you’re selling it to the highest bidder.”

Rollins crouched low in front of you, so close you could smell the expensive scotch on his breath. “No. I’m building the future. And AIM is giving me the tools.”

He gestured, and one of the guards placed the glowing vials on a steel tray beside him. The green light pulsed faintly, almost alive.

Rollins plucked one between his fingers, holding it up to the light. “This isn’t a weapon. It’s evolution. Augmentation. Imagine a soldier who doesn’t need food, rest, or hesitation. Imagine armies that don’t flinch.” His grin widened. “Imagine voters who never question.”

A chill swept through you. Whatever this was, it was bigger than weapons. It was control.

You steadied your voice, making it sharp. “You’ll never get it past oversight. You think the country will let you mass-produce super-soldiers in secret?”

Rollins laughed, straightening. “Oversight is bought. Oversight eats out of my hand. And if they don’t, well…” He tapped the vial against the metal tray with a chilling clink. “Accidents happen.”

He leaned closer, his tone dropping to something conspiratorial, almost gentle. “But you, Congresswoman, you’re clever. You’re tough. You’re wasted in chambers full of cowards. AIM could use you.”

Your stomach turned. “I’d rather die.”

For the first time, the smile slipped entirely from his face. He sighed, as though you’d disappointed him, then nodded to the guards.

“Very well. We’ll keep you alive. For now. The gala’s still burning bright, and no one suspects a thing. When it’s over, we’ll move you off-site. By the time anyone realizes you’re missing, you’ll be just another cautionary tale.”

One of the guards leaned close to whisper something in his ear. Rollins’ expression tightened, a flash of irritation.

“What?”

“They know she’s gone. The soldier—he’s already looking.”

Your chest tightened. Bucky.

Rollins cursed under his breath before schooling his features into a calm smirk again. “Well then. Let him come. It’ll make breaking him all the sweeter.”

He turned back to you, his voice silk over steel. “And when he fails, Congresswoman, the whole country will watch you vanish. Maybe that’s how we win—by reminding people that even their brightest voices can be silenced.”

The guards moved to lift you again, rough hands digging into your arms. You fought to keep your expression cool, even as dread churned in your stomach.

Because Rollins was right about one thing—Bucky was coming.

And if AIM thought he’d fail, they had no idea what kind of storm they’d just unleashed.

The gala’s noise was a distant echo now, muted beneath the pounding in Bucky’s ears. He stalked through the east wing’s corridor, pistol drawn, every nerve in his body thrumming with tension. He hadn’t realized how loud silence could be until your voice disappeared from the comms.

Yelena’s voice crackled through the earpiece. “Security footage confirms it. Two AIM agents dragged her out of ballroom, down through service halls. Rollins was with them.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on his weapon. “Where?”

“East wing, sublevel access. They are moving her fast.”

He broke into a jog, ignoring the startled shouts of staff he blew past. John’s heavy footsteps followed close behind, Ava’s lighter, quieter ones shadowing the opposite flank.

“Barnes.” Ava’s voice was sharp, professional. “We can’t storm in without eyes. They’ll kill her first thing if they feel boxed in.”

“She doesn’t have time for careful,” Bucky snapped. His throat burned with the words, but he couldn’t stop. “She’s not trained for this, not like us. She’s—”

He caught himself, jaw locking. But Yelena, of course, jumped on it.

“She’s what, hm? Special? Fragile? Or maybe you are just soft for her.”

John snorted, even mid-stride. “Not the time, Yelena.”

“No,” Yelena said, her smirk audible even over comms. “This is perfect time. I’ve never heard Barnes panic like this. Not even when we were knee-deep in the Void.”

“Enough,” Bucky barked, but his voice cracked around the edges, betraying the storm beneath.

They rounded a corner. Ava reappeared from the opposite hall, her intangibility allowing her to scout ahead. She flickered solid, face tense. “Service elevator shaft. Fresh footprints. They took her down.”

Bucky shoved past, prying open the elevator doors with his metal arm. The shaft yawned dark and deep, cables humming faintly.

“They’re headed underground,” he said, breath rough. “Probably to a loading dock or tunnel system.”

Alexei’s voice rumbled over comms from outside. “Perimeter still clean. No vans, no cars. They must still be inside.”

“Then we find them,” Bucky said, already clipping his harness to the cable. He rappelled down without hesitation, the drop swallowing him in shadow.

Halfway down, Ava’s voice reached him again, steadier now. “Barnes… you know if we rush this, she could be leverage. They’ll use her to pin you.”

The thought sent a cold spike through his chest. He swallowed hard, forcing his voice into steel. “Then they’d better pray I get to her before they try.”

The words echoed in the empty shaft, more vow than threat.

At the bottom, he landed with a metallic thud, gun up, every sense on fire. He glanced back at the cable above, hearing John and Ava descending after him.

Yelena’s voice whispered in his ear, teasing but almost encouraging, “Go get her, lover boy.”

Bucky moved forward, heart hammering, the image of you strapped to a chair—hurt, alone—burning behind his eyes. He’d lost too many people already. He wasn’t about to lose you.

Not tonight.

The corridor spat Bucky out into a concrete sublevel humming with fluorescent light and the stink of oil. Crates were stacked high against the walls, half-covered with tarps marked with AIM’s yellow insignia. Voices carried down the hall–Rollins’, smooth and cruel, and yours, sharp even muffled.

Bucky didn’t wait.

“Contact ahead,” Ava whispered over comms, phasing through the wall to scout. “Two guards flanking the door. Rollins inside. She’s strapped down.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “We breach now.”

“Barnes–” John began, but Bucky was already moving.

He stormed the hall like a bullet, gun barking twice before the guards could raise theirs. Both dropped hard. The metal door loomed ahead, locked with a keypad. He didn’t hesitate–one swing of his vibranium arm shattered the frame, splinters of metal raining down as he barreled through.

The room exploded into chaos.

Rollins spun, startled but quick to mask it, while his guards lunged forward. Bucky’s gun spoke again, precise and merciless, while behind him Ava slipped through the wall to disarm another. John charged in next, slamming one brute into the floor with a bone-rattling crack.

And there you were.

Strapped to a metal chair under the sterile light, wrists raw from the zip ties, blood blooming faintly on your cheek where you’d been struck. Your eyes locked onto his the second the door crashed open–wide, fierce, alive. Relief and fury tangled in his chest, nearly knocking him breathless.

“Bucky!”

He cut down the last guard between you with a savage blow from his metal fist, then was at your side in two strides, crouching low. His hands moved fast, slicing the restraints with his combat knife.

“You okay?” His voice was rough, tight with adrenaline. His thumb brushed the welt on your cheek before he could stop himself. “Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” you rasped, though your voice trembled. You held his gaze, the truth shimmering there: you weren’t fine, not even close. But alive. You were alive.

“Move!” Ava shouted, phasing through to take out another guard slipping in. “We’ve got more inbound!”

Rollins’ voice cut through the din, smooth and venomous. “Do you really think you can stop this, Barnes? You can’t save her. You can’t stop us. AIM is inevitable.”

Bucky shoved you behind him, gun raised. His voice dropped to a growl. “Touch her again, and I’ll make sure you don’t leave this room standing.”

Rollins smirked, backing toward a rear exit even as his guards covered him. “She’s already touched, Barnes. Marked. You think this is over? She’s just the beginning.”

Shots cracked, smoke filled the air, and the Congressman slipped through the back before Bucky could fire.

“Fuck!” he roared, rage surging.

Gunfire rattled the sublevel, sharp bursts echoing off concrete as the team pushed the AIM reinforcements back. Smoke hung in the air, acrid and heavy, stinging your eyes.

Bucky pressed you behind a stack of crates, his body a shield, firing over your shoulder with relentless precision. Every time you flinched at a shot too close, his hand was there, steadying you, pulling you close.

“Barnes!” John barked over comms. “Rollins is on the move, heading for the sub-tunnels!”

“Then we chase him,” Bucky snapped, already rising. But his gaze flicked to you—and lingered.

You read it instantly, the war behind his eyes. Duty versus instinct. Mission versus you.

Alexei lumbered up beside you both, shotgun slung casually over his shoulder like this was just another Tuesday. “I’ll take her,” he said gruffly. “Get her topside, safe.”

“No.” Your voice cut sharp, raw from smoke but firm. “I’m not leaving. I heard him, I know what AIM’s planning, I can help—”

Bucky crouched in front of you, one hand gripping your shoulder, the other still steady on his pistol. His eyes locked to yours, intense enough to burn. “You’re done here. You hear me? You’ve done enough.”

“I’m not some liability you can shove into the corner, Bucky!” you shot back, shoving his hand away. “I’m not—”

“You’re hurt!” The words ripped out of him, harsher than he meant, echoing through the corridor. His throat worked, jaw tightening. “And if I take you with me, they’ll use you against us. Against me.”

Silence fell in the beat between you. The fight in his voice wasn’t anger–it was fear. Raw, unguarded fear.

He exhaled sharply, forcing the words out. “Alexei gets you out. That’s the only way I can go after Rollins without looking over my shoulder every damn second.”

“Bucky–” you started, softer now, but Alexei’s massive hand clamped down on your arm, hauling you up to your feet.

“Time to go, Congresswoman,” Alexei rumbled, dragging you back toward the service hall.

You dug your heels in, resisting. “Barnes! Don’t you dare–”

He didn’t look back. Couldn’t. His eyes were fixed on the smoke-choked tunnel where Rollins had vanished, his voice rough as gravel as he spoke into comms. “Avengers, on me. We end this.”

And just like that, Alexei’s grip pulled you into the shadows, your protests swallowed by the gunfire.

The last thing you saw before the hall turned and the smoke cut off your view was Bucky’s silhouette–rigid, braced, weapon ready, charging deeper into danger without you.

And the last thing he heard was your voice, sharp with fury and something far deeper beneath it, fading as Alexei dragged you away.

“Don’t you dare get yourself killed, Barnes!”

Alexei’s grip was iron, his big hand swallowing your arm as he bulldozed through the smoke-filled service tunnels. You yanked against him, heels scraping the floor, fury and panic twisting tight in your chest.

“Let me go back!” you demanded, half-shoved, half-dragged toward the exit.

Alexei only grunted. “No. Barnes is right. You’re safer outside.”

“I don’t care about safer!”

“You will.” His words were final, heavy. He shoved open a steel door, the night air rushing over your face like a slap. The alley was dark, lit only by the spill of streetlamps and the glare of a waiting van.

He all but shoved you inside. “Stay here.”

“No, I’m not—”

But before you could finish, he pressed a comm into your palm—his own, spare earpiece. “Then at least listen.”

You jammed it into your ear, heart hammering. Immediately, chaos flooded in: gunfire, boots on concrete, the clipped voices of the team in the thick of it.

John: “Two down, pushing east!” Ava: “Rollins has a guard wall, moving to flank—” Yelena: “Barnes, watch your six!”

And then the words that froze your blood.

John, shouting: “Barnes is hit!”

Your stomach plummeted, everything inside you lurching into cold panic. You slammed your hand against the van wall, shaking your head like you could rattle the words out. No. Not him. Not now.

Alexei stiffened, looking back toward the building. You could see it in his face–he wanted to run in. But his jaw tightened. He had orders.

“Stay,” he told you again, then ripped the comm from your ear and charged back toward the chaos, shotgun cocked and ready.

And just like that, you were alone.

The silence pressed in, suffocating despite the noise crackling through the comm. You hugged your arms tight around yourself, nails biting your palms.

You tried to convince yourself this was just another mission. That he’d handled worse. That the Winter Soldier doesn’t go down easy.

But underneath the practiced armor of your thoughts was something rawer, unrelenting.

You couldn’t lose him. Not after all the fire and fury between you. Not after the moments of quiet you weren’t supposed to share. Not after you’d finally started to wonder if it was rivalry or something more.

The distant wail of sirens cut through the night. Red and blue lights washed across the alley walls as police cars screeched into formation, surrounding the building. Officers spilled out, guns drawn, shouting commands.

And then–movement.

The sublevel door burst open. First came John, hauling Rollins in handcuffs, the Congressman’s smugness broken, his face pale with sweat. Ava and Yelena followed, battered but alive. And behind them–

Your breath hitched.

Alexei emerged, massive frame supporting Bucky’s weight slung against his side. Bucky’s face was bloodied, his shirt torn and damp with crimson at the shoulder, but he was standing–or at least trying to.

The sight knocked the air from your lungs. Relief, fear, anger, all tangled into something too big to name.

You didn’t think. You just ran.

“Bucky!”

He lifted his head at your voice, blue eyes locking on you instantly. For a second, the world shrank to just that look–the quiet fire in it, the unspoken I’m alive and I came back.

You skidded to a stop in front of him, hands flying to his face before you could stop yourself, cupping his jaw, brushing your thumb over the blood at his temple. “You idiot,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You reckless, stubborn idiot. I thought–” Your throat caught. “I thought I lost you.”

Despite the pain twisting his features, he smirked faintly. “Not that easy to get rid of me.”

“You were hit.”

“Just a scratch.” His voice was rough but teasing. “You should see the other guy.”

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, though you fought to blink them back. The heat of his skin under your hands, the tremor in his breath–it all hit at once, the truth you couldn’t hold back anymore.

“I can’t keep doing this,” you said, softer now, almost to yourself. “Pretending I don’t care. Pretending it’s just politics. Or rivalry. Or… or anything but what it is.”

His eyes searched yours, tired but steady. “And what is it?”

You swallowed hard, the words tearing free. “It’s you. I care about you. More than I should.”

The smirk faded. His expression shifted, raw, stripped bare. He leaned into your touch, just for a heartbeat, his voice quiet enough only you could hear.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’ve been falling for you this whole damn time.”

Your hands were still on his face, his skin hot under your palms, your heart ricocheting against your ribs. The sirens wailed, police shouted, Rollins spat curses, but none of it mattered—not when Bucky was looking at you like that.

Like you weren’t an opponent. Like you weren’t just another congresswoman with sharp words and sharper ambition.

Like you were someone he wanted.

And then you moved at the same time.

Your mouth crashed against his, desperate and messy and unpracticed, a kiss born out of relief and exhaustion and every argument that had ever ended with something unsaid. His arm, the flesh one, wrapped hard around your waist, pulling you close despite the pain in his shoulder. You tasted blood and salt and adrenaline, and you didn’t care.

For a moment, the world really did fall away. Just him. Just you. Just the kiss you’d both been circling around for weeks.

A loud whistle shattered it.

“Finally!” Yelena’s voice rang across the alley, smug and merciless. “Enemies-to-lovers arc complete. You owe me fifty bucks, John!”

You jerked back, breathless, cheeks burning hot. Bucky’s forehead rested against yours, both of you still panting. You half-expected him to step away, to smooth it over with sarcasm, but when you looked up, he was smiling faintly—soft, real, completely unguarded.

“Oh, come on,” John groaned loudly, hauling Rollins past you with a roll of his eyes. “Can’t you two save the make-out session until after the debrief?”

“Leave them,” Alexei boomed, still propping Bucky’s good side with one arm. “Barnes deserves kiss after surviving bullet. Very motivational!”

Ava’s voice came through comms, dry as ever. “Romantic. Bleeding out in an alley while civilians film on their phones. Truly one for the history books.”

You realized then that half the police had their cameras trained on the scene—and no doubt the internet would have the footage spliced into a meme within the hour.

Bucky finally pulled back, his lips ghosting against yours for one last second before he chuckled low, rough in his throat. “Guess we’re trending again.”

You gave a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “#BarnesVs(L/N), round three. Except this time… we kissed.”

Yelena clapped her hands together, grinning wide as she called out, “And the crowd goes wild!”

You groaned, burying your face briefly against Bucky’s shoulder as his laughter rumbled through you both.

But even through the noise, through the teasing, through the swarm of cops and press and flashing lights, the only thing you could focus on was the undeniable truth:

You’d kissed Bucky Barnes. And you wanted to do it again.

———

The chamber was thick with tension, every exchange clipped and charged, the kind of atmosphere where even the smallest sound seemed to echo. Today’s hearing had one subject that could draw blood on both sides: tariffs.

“Congresswoman,” Bucky’s voice was even but edged with steel, “raising tariffs in this climate risks alienating allies and pushing small businesses into the ground. It’s reckless.”

You leaned forward, fingers steepled, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “What’s reckless, Mr. Barnes, is pretending free trade doesn’t come at a cost to American workers. Tariffs level the field, protect our industries, and keep communities alive.”

A low murmur rippled through the crowd of staffers and reporters. Neither of you broke eye contact. Neither of you blinked. This was the duel they came for—the sparks, the heat, the stubborn refusal to cede an inch.

By the time the gavel struck, dismissing the session, the air in the room still crackled. Reporters swarmed like moths, shouting questions, cameras flashing. You gave them your polished smile, dropped just enough soundbites to keep headlines spinning, and slipped through the side exit.

He was already there. Waiting.

“Nice speech in there,” Bucky said, arms folded across his chest, leaning against the wall like he owned the hallway. “Almost had me convinced tariffs don’t bankrupt people.”

You smirked, tossing your notes into your bag. “And you almost had me convinced that abandoning American workers is patriotic.”

His laugh was low, tired, but not without admiration. He pushed off the wall, stepping closer. “Guess that’s why they keep putting us on opposite sides. Sparks fly.”

“You’re not supposed to enjoy it,” you muttered, though your chest tightened as he closed the space between you.

“Maybe I enjoy watching you work too much,” he said softly, his gaze lingering a moment too long. “You were—” He paused, the corner of his mouth twitching. “—gorgeous up there.”

Your breath caught, though you rolled your eyes to cover it. “Compliments sound a lot like surrender, Barnes.”

“Guess I only surrender behind closed doors.” His voice dipped low, brushing past your defenses.

You hated how much you wanted him in that moment. And yet your hand was already on his shirt, pulling him closer. “You’re impossible,” you whispered, you muttered, though your hand was already finding his shirt, pulling him closer.

“And yet…” His lips brushed yours, teasing, waiting.

“…And yet,” you whispered, finishing for him as your mouth finally found his.

The kiss was brief—stolen, secret, just enough to take the edge off the battlefield you’d just waged in public. When you broke apart, his forehead lingered against yours, and for once neither of you had anything sharp left to say.

“Well,” you said, straightening your blazer, “that makes us enemies again tomorrow.”

“Enemies in the chamber,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your hand. Then, softer, “But not here.”

You let yourself smile, just for him, before walking away, the echo of your heels filling the hall.

The rivalry was still alive. The fire still burned.

But so did the secret—the dangerous, undeniable thing you and Bucky shared when the doors closed.

———

A/N: i missed writing tbh and i just rewatched Thunderbolts again so here we are. hope you enjoyed~