summary: an undercover mission with bucky barnes at a high profile auction means stolen tech, fistfights, and falling in love all over again.
tags/warnings: avenger!gf, chaotic relationship, lots of banter and flirting, use of firearms and weapons, steve third wheeling, down bad bucky barnes
A/N: just saw mission impossible in theaters and came up with this idea. ive always wanted to write about a scenario like this and having both characters act like undercover spies just scratched something in my brain. and also bucky in a suit, speaking a different language is just chef's kiss. i hope you guys enjoyy <3
It was a routine mission—at least, that’s what they called it. Steve was already in the target area, scoping out the market. Bucky sat strapped into the corner seat of the Quinjet, the low hum of the engines buzzing in his ears, the sharp scent of metal and oil filling the space.
The objective of the mission is to intercept a black-market exchange happening in Istanbul, Turkey. According to Steve, Hydra remnants are involved. During the briefing, y/n was able to hack surveillance and navigate a high stakes weapon auction. Undoubtedly as an intel specialist, with her knack for tech systems, Steve wanted her on the job.
Steve knew the risk of taking Bucky with them but he is the only one who knows HYDRA the most. With his combat prowess, he’s the backup they’ll want for a mission like this. Steve knows they work well together, even if Bucky’s still in denial about how much he enjoys it.
He kept his head down, focused on the briefing in his hands.
Or at least, he tried to.
But she was sitting just across from him.
She had her hair in a low bun, a few stray strands framing her face. A rare sight for Bucky, seeing her all sophisticated and feminine. She always sported a good messy ponytail during missions and makeup just tends to get replaced by grease or blood in her line of work.
Her sleek backless black dress clinged on to her body like it was liquid gold and the makeup Natasha taught her accentuated her eyes.The dress has a high slit for easy movement, revealing holsters under the skirt loaded with compact pistols and a knife strapped to her thigh for good measure.
And when she glanced up at him—just a quick, fleeting look.
That smile? It hit him like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t perfect or practiced.
It was easy, like breathing.
“Barnes,” she said softly, noticing his stare. There was no edge to her voice, just quiet amusement, like she was used to catching him off guard.
Bucky cleared his throat, gaze flicking away for a second, then back to her. “Yeah?” He straightened his tailored black suit.
She tilted her head, a small grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You okay over there? You’ve been staring at me like you’ve never seen a human smile before.”
He blinked, caught off guard by how right she was. “Maybe I haven’t,” he admitted, voice low and almost too honest.
Her smile softened, something tender flickering in her eyes. “Well... you’re staring. What’s going on in that brain of yours?”
Bucky hesitated, then huffed a quiet, breathless laugh. His voice came out rough, quiet—like he hadn’t spoken in a while and wasn’t sure if he should. “Just... thinking you make it hard to focus sometimes.”
That surprised her, just for a second. Then she smiled wider, her cheeks warming, and she leaned forward just a little, as if the space between them wasn’t enough. “Hey,” she murmured, leaning in close.
His breath caught as her fingers brushed his temple, gently tucking a stray lock of his hair behind his ear. The touch was featherlight, but it burned all the same.
Bucky blinked, momentarily frozen. Her scent hit him, warm and soft, and for a second, all he could think about was her. The world seemed to narrow, the sounds of the jet fading, leaving only the warmth of her fingers on his skin.
His eyes flickered down to her lips, parted slightly as she concentrated and then it hit him.
She wasn’t just tucking his hair back.
With a small, focused frown, she adjusted the earpiece in his ear, the cool plastic pressing into place.
“There,” she whispered, voice low and professional but her lips were so close to his that it felt anything but. “Can you hear me okay?”
Bucky exhaled, blinking like he’d been underwater too long.
“Yeah,” he rasped, throat suddenly dry. “Loud and clear.”
She smiled, that soft little curve of her lips that hit him like a punch to the chest every time.
A whisper in the intercom disrupted his thoughts. “I’ll take it as a compliment by the way.”
Bucky let out a low chuckle, shaking his head.
Casting the city in a warm, golden glow. Bucky exhaled sharply as he unstrapped himself, every muscle in his body tight, coiled, ready for a fight. Hydra. Again. Just the name made his blood run colder, his pulse a steady drumbeat in his ears.
Steve met them on the tarmac, casual but sharp-eyed, dressed in neutral clothes that wouldn’t draw attention. He approached with a clipped nod, glancing between Bucky and the woman standing beside him, who was smoothing her sleek, black dress like she’d been born to play this part.
“Alright,” Steve said lowly, handing her a small comm and a folded dossier. “You both know the drill—high-profile buyers, flashy but not too flashy. The auction’s in two hours, hidden in a club under the Grand Bazaar. Victor Renshaw’s our guy. He’s well-known in the black market selling weapons tech disguised as antiques, so eyes sharp.”
He turned to Bucky, his gaze tightening. “You okay with this?”
Bucky nodded stiffly, jaw clenched. “Fine.”
Steve’s eyes narrowed, clearly not buying it, but he didn’t push. He turned back to her. “Y/N, you’ll do most of the talking. We’ve got eyes on you from outside, but once you’re in... you’re on your own.”
She took a steady breath, nodding. “We’ve got this.” Her voice was calm, sure, a soft contrast to the storm raging just under Bucky’s skin.
Steve gave her a firm nod, then squeezed Bucky’s shoulder in silent support before disappearing back into the shadows.
Bucky stood there, staring out at the city lights, fists clenched at his sides. His chest felt tight, breath coming too shallow, too fast. He could feel the memories clawing at the edges of his mind—cold metal tables, the sharp smell of antiseptic, voices barking orders in Russian. The old ghosts, rising again.
She watched him carefully, her expression softening.
Without a word, she reached out and laid her hand lightly on his forearm, barely a touch, really, but it grounded him like a bolt of electricity straight through his chest.
Bucky looked down at her hand, at the way her fingers curved over the scars on his arm without hesitation, without fear.
When he met her gaze, she smiled gently, a quiet, steady warmth in her eyes that spoke more than words ever could.
“We’re here together, remember?” she whispered, low and sure, like she was anchoring him to the present. Bucky swallowed hard, his shoulders dropping just a fraction, the tension bleeding out of him bit by bit.
“Yeah,” he muttered, voice rough but steadier. “Together.”
He let out a slow, shaky breath, and when she turned toward the city, ready to walk into the lion’s den, he followed—because for once, he wasn’t just the soldier. He was hers.
The club under the Grand Bazaar pulsed with low, thrumming bass, shadows and colored lights casting long, shifting patterns across the walls. It smelled like expensive cologne, smoke, and something darker, something sharp, like adrenaline laced into the air itself. Men and women in sleek, tailored suits and glittering gowns moved through the space with practiced ease, champagne flutes in hand, laughter curling like smoke between red lips and sharp grins.
Bucky stood tall beside her, looking every bit the brooding, dangerous man with a sharp suit that strained across his shoulders. His hair was slicked back, his expression a perfect mask of stoic indifference. But his eyes? They never stopped scanning, tracking every movement, every face. Hydra. They were here—he could feel it.
She, on the other hand, slipped into character with terrifying ease.
Her dress shimmered under the lights, she smiled at him once—small, sharp, and utterly confident—before turning her gaze to the crowd, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm as they walked in.
Bucky was trying—trying—to focus on the mission, but his gaze kept pulling back to her.
She was... something else. The way she moved, the way she smiled, the effortless way she slipped between languages as she charmed information from men who didn’t even realize they were giving it away. Her laugh, a soft, polished thing, practiced for the crowd sent a cold shiver down his spine. But it wasn’t fake. Not really. There was a warmth to it, something real she couldn’t quite hide.
And when she leaned in closer to a smirking buyer, Bucky’s jaw clenched so tight he thought his teeth might crack.
She was magnetic. Every eye in the room was drawn to her, and Bucky couldn’t blame them. The men wanted her. The women envied her. And Bucky? He... he just wanted to keep her safe. To get her out of here. To hold her close and tell her she didn’t have to do any of this.
But she was so damn good at it.
Every time she spoke, it was like the world shifted around her. She was fluent in four different languages tonight—French, Turkish, Russian, Arabic—slipping between them like water. When she leaned in close to the auctioneer, murmuring something in Turkish with a sly, conspiratorial smile, Bucky could practically see the man melting under her gaze.
But when her eyes darted back to him just for a second, just a flicker and her smile softened, just for him... Bucky knew. She might have been wearing a mask tonight, but underneath it, she was his.
And that was the only thing keeping him from punching a hole through the nearest wall.
He watched the way she shifted her weight, the way her fingers trailed over the stem of her champagne glass, the way she leaned in, feigning interest while subtly slipping a listening device under the tablecloth.
The auctioneer was a tall, sharp-jawed man with graying temples and cold eyes that seemed to cut through the noise and glitter of the room. His suit was crisp, but the way his gaze lingered too long, the subtle twitch in his fingers as they tapped the catalog, told her he wasn’t just here for business. He was watching—calculating.
She leaned in slightly, her voice low and smooth, her Turkish fluent and almost musical. “Bu parça ne kadar nadir? Ailem yıllardır böyle bir şey arıyor. Biliyorsunuz, babam koleksiyonları için ölebilir.” (How rare is this piece? My family’s been looking for something like this for years. You know, my father would die for a piece like this.)
The auctioneer’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of something darker passing over his face. His gaze sharpened, flicking from her face to her dress, her jewelry, and back to her eyes lingering a beat too long. His posture shifted, subtly more closed off, and in that moment, she knew: He doesn’t believe me.
His next words were slow, deliberate. Still in Turkish, but now with a sharper edge.
“Babanız mı? Hangi işte çalışıyordu, dediniz?” (Your father? What did you say he did again?)
Her heart skipped. She covered it with a soft smile, tilting her head, but her fingers tensed slightly against the stem of her glass. “Oh, he’s in textiles,” she said smoothly, still in Turkish, her voice warm but her brain racing.
But the auctioneer didn’t smile. His eyes darkened, suspicious.
Before she could pivot, before she could steer the conversation back to safer waters, a shadow moved beside her. A presence, solid and grounding.
He stepped in, his body language effortless but imposing, a casual hand resting at the small of her back, his other hand reaching out to the auctioneer’s shoulder like they were old friends.
“Afedersiniz,” Bucky cut in, his Turkish thick with an accent but passable. (Excuse me.) His tone was low, almost lazy, but there was steel underneath. “Kusura bakmayın, hanımefendi için biraz fazla soruyorsunuz.” (You’re asking the lady a few too many questions, don’t you think?)
The auctioneer stiffened, eyes darting between Bucky’s size, the gleam of metal at his wrist, the subtle threat in his posture.
“I think we’re done here,” Bucky added in English, voice quiet but firm. He didn’t glare—not quite—but his stare was steady, unblinking, until the man backed off with a forced, brittle smile.
As the auctioneer walked away, still glancing over his shoulder, Bucky’s hand lingered just a second longer at her back, his voice a low murmur near her ear.
Her heart was racing, but she exhaled softly, letting the tension bleed out through her fingertips where they brushed his sleeve.
“Yeah. Thanks,” she whispered, her voice barely audible under the noise.
“Hey.” He leaned in slightly, his breath brushing her ear, his words for her alone.
“You’ve got this. Just breathe.”
They’d placed the tiny trackers hidden in cufflinks, earrings, even the subtle engraving on a brooch on key pieces set to be smuggled out after the auction. Each one a breadcrumb leading straight to the Hydra network they were here to dismantle.
But there was a problem: Victor Renshaw wasn’t in the auction room.
She caught Bucky’s eye across the room, a subtle flick of her hand brushing her earring, their silent signal. He nodded, staying in position by the bar, while she gracefully excused herself and slipped down the hall.
Inside the dim, marble-lined bathroom, she tapped her comm and whispered, voice low and urgent, “Steve, I’m in. Patching into the surveillance feed now.” Her fingers flew over the tablet she’d smuggled in under the cover of her clutch, eyes scanning the grainy footage.
“Got it. Third floor, west wing. Looks like he’s holed up in a private suite—guard detail’s heavy.” She relayed the information quickly, heart pounding in her chest.
Her hands moved fast, pulling out the slim tablet from her clutch and connecting it to a hidden jack in the wall. Lines of code spilled across the screen in a blur.
She muttered to herself, tapping through surveillance feeds and blueprints, eyes narrowing as she scanned the auction inventory. Then she paused, brows furrowing when a schematic flashed on the screen.
“What the hell…?” she whispered.
A few of the weapons hidden beneath the antique cases… the wiring diagrams, the encryption patterns… They matched Stark tech. Not just inspired by—it was Stark tech. Old designs, repurposed and twisted into something lethal.
Her heart hammered, adrenaline spiking, but before she could dig deeper—
Bucky shifted his weight, eyes sweeping the room like a wolf in a ballroom. His nerves buzzed. He hated this part. The waiting. The pretending. The mask.
That’s when she approached.
Tall, statuesque, wearing a red dress that shimmered like a serpent’s scales. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, locked onto Bucky with a knowing smirk. Her voice was low, her accent thick as she purred in Russian-accented English, “You look tense, handsome. Enjoying the show?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. His gut twisted. Hydra. He knew it before she even reached for his wrist.
She moved fast. Too fast. Her hand darting for the button on his cufflink, the tracker. Bucky grabbed her wrist, twisting it sharply, but she retaliated, slashing at him with a blade hidden in her ring.
The room blurred. The music swelled. They twisted through the crowd in a silent fight, Bucky ducking low to avoid a swing, grabbing a champagne bottle off a table to block the next strike. Glass shattered—someone screamed, but the music kept going, the auctioneer’s voice droning over it all like nothing had happened.
Bucky caught her arm, yanked her close. She sneered, breath hot against his cheek.
“You’re too late, Soldier. Hydra always wins.”
Bucky’s eyes darkened. His grip tightened. He twisted, flipping her over his shoulder, sending her crashing to the floor with a sharp thud. The breath whooshed out of her lungs.
Bucky leaned down, voice a quiet rasp against the chaos. His words were a dagger wrapped in velvet. “Sorry, but my wife’s waiting for me.”
With a final shove, he knocked her out cold.
“Doll, you there?” Bucky’s voice crackled through her earpiece, low and tight with tension. “Hydra’s moving in. Four, maybe five coming my way. We gotta move. Now.”
Her breath caught. She turned off all connections for the surveillance cameras for less visibility. She yanked the tablet’s cord free, stuffed it back in her bag, and flipped the bathroom lock.
“Copy that, I’m on my way.”
She smoothed her hair in the mirror, schooling her features into something calm, unbothered before slipping back into the auction room like she hadn’t just uncovered something that could change everything.
With a deep breath, her heels clicked softly against the marble floor. She paused for half a second to adjust the clasp on her necklace, another subtle signal to Bucky.
Bucky leaned casually against the bar, straightening his cufflinks like nothing had happened. A single lock of hair fell across his forehead, but there was a sharp glint in his eye when he caught her gaze, an unspoken I handled it.
She returned the look with a small, knowing smile, slipping seamlessly into character as she rejoined him. Their cover was intact. No one would suspect a thing.
“Did you really just call me your wife?” she teased, eyes sparkling with a mix of amusement and challenge. Bucky blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before he schooled his expression into something casual. “What? I was just in character.”
Her smirk deepened, leaning in close as she whispered in his ear, “Uh huh. Sure, Barnes.”
Steve’s voice crackled in their earpieces, quiet and clipped. “Alright, you two. Third floor, west wing. That’s where they’re holding Renshaw. Be careful, there’s heavy security, and they’re jumpy.”
“Copy,” Bucky whispered, shifting beside her, his posture tense, his breath shallow. She could feel the storm brewing inside him. Y/N’s eyes flicking around the room, noting the exits, the guards, the cameras. Her hand slipped into his, fingers intertwining beneath the table, a subtle anchor. She didn’t have to say anything. He felt the warmth of her touch, steady and grounding.
Bucky exhaled slowly, nodding once. His voice, barely a whisper:
They moved, smooth and practiced. She did the talking, posing as the wealthy buyer, all charm and soft smiles, her Turkish flawless as she asked a guard about a private viewing upstairs. Bucky stayed close, the quiet, watchful protector, his hand always ready, always near his concealed weapon.
They were almost there. They were just a few steps away from the stairs when another guard blocked their path, suspicious.
Her voice didn’t waver. “Is there a problem?” she asked, tilting her head with a polite smile. The guard frowned, eyeing Bucky’s rigid posture, something clearly off. His hand moved toward his earpiece.
Bucky’s eyes darkened, a subtle shift and she could tell: it was about to escalate.
She squeezed Bucky’s hand, quick and firm, her voice soft and laced with quiet command. “Stay with me. Eyes on me.”
Bucky’s jaw tensed, but he locked his gaze onto her, letting her lead.
She turned back to the guard, her smile unwavering, her voice smooth as silk.
“I believe there’s been a misunderstanding.”
She said with a tilt of her head, eyes narrowing just slightly. A subtle shift in her stance, a crackle of danger in her voice that wasn’t there before.
The guard barely had time to blink.
With a fluid motion, she stepped in too fast, too sharp. A sharp elbow to the gut, a twist of the wrist that snapped the comms out of his ear, a precise kick that sent him crashing into a display of ancient vases. He slumped, unconscious before he hit the floor.
Bucky’s eyes widened slightly, a slow grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
She turned on her heel like it was nothing, smoothing her dress as if she hadn’t just dropped a trained Hydra agent like a rag doll. She met Bucky’s gaze, that familiar spark dancing in her eyes, and arched a brow.
They made their way up the grand staircase, the tension thick in the air like static before a storm. Through the ornate doors at the end of the hall was Victor Renshaw’s private suite, where the real deal was going down.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. She felt the weight of his gaze and reached over, brushing her fingers lightly over the back of his hand just for a second but it was enough. He relaxed, his breathing slowing, shoulders loosening as the mission-mode intensity found its anchor in her presence.
Steve’s voice crackled softly through the comms. “Alright, team, eyes up. Victor Renshaw is in the suite, flanked by four guards. You two keep him occupied. I'll take the flank.”
“Got it,” she whispered, her fingers dancing over the small device in her clutch, already queuing up her backdoor into the club’s security system.
The doors opened with a soft creak, and they stepped into a den of excess. Velvet couches, low lights, the air heavy with smoke and tension. Renshaw—an older man with slicked-back hair and a smug smile that made Bucky’s blood boil, looked up with mild disinterest.
“Ah, the lovely couple,” he purred, gesturing lazily. “Here for the auction, or for... something else?” She smiled, sweet and sharp, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Just browsing,” she replied in perfect Turkish, every syllable smooth and effortless.
But her fingers were already at work, slipping her phone from her clutch, tapping into the club’s power grid, readying to shut the whole operation down.
Renshaw leaned forward, clearly suspicious. His gaze flicked to Bucky, who met it with a cold stare that could have frozen fire. The tension snapped like a wire.
The boss flicked his hand. The guards moved in.
“Now!” Steve barked over the comms.
She jammed the command into her phone—power down initiated.
The lights snapped off, the room plunging into darkness. Shouts echoed, and before anyone could recover, she was moving. Slipping behind a pillar, fingers dancing on her tablet.
“Got eyes on the vehicle systems,” she muttered. Her code flickered across the screen, locking car doors, killing ignitions, blocking any chance of escape.
Bucky and Steve burst into action. Bucky launched into the guards like a human wrecking ball, metal fist swinging with brutal precision, while Steve moved with his shield, a blur of motion.
One of the guards lunged for her, but she didn’t miss a beat. With a sharp pivot, she grabbed a chair and slammed it into his midsection, sending him sprawling. Then she ducked low, delivering a swift kick that knocked the breath out of another.
“On your left!” Steve called.
“Thanks!” she replied, sweeping a leg out and catching another attacker by the ankles. They went down hard, and she moved to cover Bucky’s flank, adrenaline coursing through her veins.
Bucky glanced at her in the chaos, saw the spark in her eyes—the fury, the focus, the fire. A grin broke across his face, wild and unrestrained. “You’re incredible,” he muttered, breathless as he took down another.
She smirked, wiping sweat from her brow. “Flatter me later, Barnes. We’ve got a boss to catch.”
“Renshaw is making a break for it!” Steve’s voice rang out.
“I’m on it,” she said, already back on her device, locking down the exits and cutting the building’s external power grid, ensuring there was nowhere left to run.
Bucky and Steve surged forward, chasing down Renshaw, while she covered them, hands a blur on the keys and when one of the last guards lunged at her from the side, she swung her heel into his gut, sending him sprawling, and went right back to her work like nothing had happened.
Together, they were unstoppable.
Amid the chaos, one of the Hydra agents lunged toward her, grabbing the delicate hem of her dress just as she spun away from another attacker. The fabric caught, threatening to pull her off balance.
Before she could react, Bucky’s metal arm shot out, gripping the agent’s wrist with a sharp twist. With a quick, powerful tug, he tore the fabric free.
She glanced down at the torn edge of her dress, raising a perfectly arched brow. “Hey,” she said, voice equal parts amused and annoyed, “do you have any idea how much this cost?”
Bucky smirked, eyes flashing with a rare lightness. “Less than your life I’m guessing.”
Renshaw tore through the back corridors, cursing in Turkish under his breath. His guards had been taken out one by one, and now the only thing standing between him and capture was a steel door at the end of the hall. He bolted, only to find the door locked.
From behind him, footsteps thundered closer. Renshaw whirled, pulling a gun from inside his jacket, desperation flashing in his eyes.
She rounded the corner first, breath ragged, tablet still in hand. The boss aimed at her chest.
“No!” Bucky’s voice roared, raw and explosive.
Before he could squeeze the trigger, Bucky slammed into him like a freight train, his metal arm catching the man’s wrist and crushing the weapon beneath his grip. The gun crumpled like paper, the sound sharp and final.
Renshaw tried to fight back, clawing, swinging wildly. But Bucky’s metal fist caught him square in the jaw, sending him crashing into the wall with a thud. He slumped, unconscious, at Bucky’s feet.
She stood frozen for a heartbeat, chest heaving, staring at the scene. Bucky, towering over the boss like a dark, furious storm, his metal arm gleaming in the dim light, that protective fire in his eyes.
“You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse, eyes scanning her like she might break right in front of him.
“Yeah,” she breathed, still catching her breath. “I’m okay.”
Another guard stepped out of the shadows, raising a gun at her back. Bucky didn’t hesitate.
She hit the floor, just as Bucky lunged, his metal arm snapping up like a shield, the bullet ricocheting harmlessly off the vibranium with a sharp ping.
Bucky tackled the guard, disarming him in one swift, brutal motion, and then turned, hauling her up by the hand.
“You good?” he asked again, voice softer this time, but no less intense.
She nodded, her heart hammering, eyes wide.
His jaw flexed, and for a moment, they just stood there, hands clasped, breathing hard, the adrenaline still thick in their veins.
The club was chaotic—Hydra guards scrambled, civilians screaming and ducking under tables as the firefight broke out.
Bucky pressed his back to a column, shielding her as bullets pinged off the walls.
Y/N opened one of the backdoors, snapping into action. Her voice cut through the panic, sharp, commanding, urgent. “Get out of here! Move!”
She waved a hand toward the exit, covering them with her pistol. A few stragglers hesitated, wide-eyed, but the sheer force in her voice sent them running. “Go, now!” she barked, firing off a precise shot at a guard trying to flank them. He dropped like a stone.
Bucky felt a flicker of awe—not just at her skill, but at the way she owned the chaos, controlled it, even as the world exploded around them.
Then—movement behind him.
“Bucky, left!” she shouted.
He pivoted, blocking the incoming blow with his metal arm, the impact clanging like a bell.
She moved like lightning—knife drawn, spinning under Bucky’s guard as she plunged the blade into a guard’s thigh, dropping him with brutal efficiency. He barely had time to react before she was back at his side, reloading her pistol with a sharp, practiced click.
“You okay?” she panted, eyes scanning the room.
“Yeah,” Bucky grunted, “you?”
“Fine. Just a scratch.” She wiped a smear of blood from her cheek and cocked her head towards Renshaw retreating up the stairs.
Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “He’s mine.”
“Not without me, he’s not,” she shot back, fierce and determined.
Together, they moved like a unit.
As Bucky advanced toward him, she hung back just long enough to finish the job with her tech. A Hydra SUV outside roared to life, headlights cutting through the smoke—only to grind to a halt as she hacked into the vehicle system, killing the engine remotely.
“Not going anywhere,” she muttered, smirking as she stuffed the tablet away and slipped her knife back into its sheath.
Together, they surged forward. Her, knife gleaming and pistol barking in sharp bursts; him, fists flying, metal arm smashing through weapons and guards alike.
When they finally cornered Renshaw, he was breathing hard, panic all over his face.
“I believe there’s been a misunderstanding,” she said coolly, her gun raised.
The boss smirked, cocky, like maybe he still had the upper hand. “Misunderstanding?” he repeated, stepping closer.
But before he could speak again, she kicked him square in the chest hard. He hit the floor with a grunt, and she turned to Bucky with a smirk, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
And when Steve finally burst in from the side entrance, he took in the scene. Bodies down, tech hacked, boss subdued and just shook his head.
“Nice work, lovebirds,” he muttered, radioing the extraction team.
The fight was over, but the tension lingered.
The three of them moved quickly through the wreckage, stepping over unconscious guards and shattered glass. Her pulse was still racing, but her focus was sharp—get out clean, get back to the quinjet.
Bucky, though... he wasn’t moving like the fight was over. His breath was ragged, shoulders tense, eyes darting around like he was still in it. His hands, one flesh, one metal, were flexing at his sides, twitching like they were waiting for another strike.
She noticed it immediately. “Bucky?” she called gently, her voice soft but steady as she slipped up beside him.
He didn’t answer at first, too locked in. “Bucky,” she repeated, lightly touching his wrist. “Hey. It’s over.”
His head snapped to her like a cornered animal, and for a second, it wasn’t Bucky’s warm gaze. It was him, the Winter Soldier.
Her stomach twisted, but she didn’t back down. Steve caught the moment too. “Buck,” Steve said carefully, moving closer, hands raised in a quiet show of support. “You good?”
Bucky’s chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. His jaw clenched. “I’m fine,” he bit out, but it sounded anything but fine.
His eyes dropped to her hand on his wrist, and something shifted—like the world realigned in an instant. His features softened, just barely, but she could see it: the moment he realized he was safe. That they were safe.
“You sure?” she asked, gentler now. “Because if you need a second—”
“I’m sure,” he said gruffly, voice rough like sandpaper. He exhaled hard, shaking out his hands. Still, she watched him closely, worried knitting her brow.
“I just want these damn heels off,” she finally muttered, breaking the tension with a breathless, almost sheepish laugh. That startled a soft huff from him, almost a laugh if she dared to call it that.
She reached down, wincing as she tugged one shoe off, then the other, standing barefoot on the cracked marble floor. Bucky’s gaze swept over her quickly, his hand brushing her side in an instinctive check for injuries.
“You’re not hurt?” he asked quietly, voice still tight. “No,” she promised, resting a hand on his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath. “I’m okay, Bucky. We’re okay.”
For a moment, they just stood there. Her bare feet against the cold floor, him still vibrating with adrenaline.
Steve watched them quietly, then spoke up. “Let’s get out of here. We’ll finish debriefing on the jet.” Bucky nodded once, jaw still tight, but his hand stayed firmly on her back as they moved toward the exit.
The hum of the quinjet filled the cabin, but the air was still charged from the mission.
Steve sat across from them, arms crossed but a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Bucky sat beside her, his metal arm resting on the back of the seat, his other hand tapping lightly against his knee. She leaned forward, hair slightly mussed, bare feet tucked beneath her, still clutching a tablet she’d pulled from the Hydra base.
“I’m telling you, they’re using modified Stark tech—old prototypes, maybe from the archives,” she said, flipping through the schematics she’d hacked. “Someone’s been reverse-engineering the designs, adding… stuff that shouldn’t exist anymore.” Her voice was steady, but Bucky could feel the fire simmering just beneath the surface.
Steve’s brows furrowed as he looked over the data. “Shield’s already sweeping through the site. They’ll clean it up, confiscate the weapons, and track down whoever’s left behind.” He sounded confident, like a leader who’d seen the worst and knew how to handle it.
But she still looked tense, biting her lip as her fingers hovered over the tablet’s screen. Bucky nudged her lightly with his knee. “Hey,” he said quietly, and when she glanced up, he gave her that small, soft look he didn’t give to many. “You did good. We got it done.”
She relaxed just a little, leaning back into the seat with a small sigh. That’s when Steve grinned, leaning forward, eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Told you guys you work well together,” he teased, a glint of amusement in his voice.
She groaned, rolling her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. She muttered something sharp in Turkish under her breath. Quiet, fast, and laced with a lot of spice.
Bucky’s lips twitched into a grin as he glanced at Steve. “She just told you to fuck off,” Bucky translated smoothly.
“Oh, I know,” Steve shot back with a mock glare, arms still crossed but a grin tugging at his mouth.
Bucky smirked, and they spoke in near-perfect unison—his voice gravelly, hers biting:
“Shut the hell up, Steve.”
That cracked the tension, the cabin filling with quiet, relieved laughter. As the quinjet soared through the clouds, Bucky caught her gaze, his fingers brushing hers. They didn’t say much after that, words weren’t necessary.
For now, they had each other. And that was enough.
