You made me hate you
Part 8
Bucky x reader
Warnings: physical fights, swearing, fighting, general angst
Summary: Y/N’s past is catching on
A/N: I had a lot of fun writing this part so let me know what you think. If you want to be on my taglist to this story, write me a message or just leave a comment🧚🏻♀️
Masterlist
The first night passed in tense silence. Bucky lay on the floor, arms crossed behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The polished marble was unforgiving, but he refused to share the bed (as did I) —pride was colder than the floor beneath him. Across the room, I shifted restlessly under the pristine white sheets - both too stubborn to speak, too haunted to sleep.
Occasionally, the rustle of fabric broke the quiet as me or him turned, chasing sleep that never came. We were trapped in memories, anger simmering beneath exhaustion. The weight of unspoken truths pressed down on us like the too-thick hotel air.
"You still awake?" I muttered into the darkness, voice strained. I don’t know where that question came from.
"What do you think?" Bucky shot back without moving.
Silence stretched once more, taut and unforgiving. Neither of us dared acknowledge the real reason for our insomnia—shared grief, tangled with resentment. The clock ticked on.
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Morning came too quickly, the soft glow of dawn spilling through the curtains. We were already up when the alarm blared, shadows under our eyes and tension stiffening every movement.
The mission briefing replayed in their heads as they dressed in uncomfortable silence. Undercover. Married couple. Business deal. NEXUS contacts - simple in theory, a minefield in practice.
By the time we reached the bustling market district—a known hub for NEXUS affiliates—they looked the part. I wore an elegant yet simple dress, something sleek enough to scream wealth without drawing unnecessary attention. Bucky, reluctantly, had swapped his usual tactical gear for tailored slacks and a crisp shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbows, his metal arm concealed beneath a synthetic skin cover.
“Hold my hand,” I muttered as we exited the car, dread pooling in my stomach.
Bucky hesitated, then clasped my hand—warm, solid, unfamiliar. “Let’s just get this done.”
We moved through the market like shadows, smiles plastered on our faces, every touch calculated. To the outside world, we were the Thompsons—new money, ambitious, and eager to strike a deal with some rich assholes.
It didn’t take long for NEXUS eyes to find us. A man in a charcoal suit, sharp-eyed and lean, approached as we pretended to browse handcrafted jewelry.
“Mr. and Mrs. Thompson,” he said smoothly. “I hear you’re looking for exclusive merchandise.” So they have been watching us after all. Nicely done, I thought to myself.
Bucky smiled—a rare, cold expression. “We don’t waste time chasing rumors. Show us you’ve got something worth buying.”
The man’s gaze flicked between us both, calculating. I leaned into Bucky’s side, feigning affection while my heart hammered. Let this thing be over as soon as possible.
“Follow me,” the man finally said, turning on his heel.
Hand in hand, me and Barnes followed him into the labyrinthine heart of the market—the mission is truly beginning, with trust stretched thinner than ever.
The man in the charcoal suit led them through the bustling market, weaving between stalls laden with silk scarves, intricate glasswork, and the fragrant smoke of sizzling street food. Every step deeper into the labyrinth heightened my awareness—eyes watching from shaded corners, whispered conversations halting as they passed.
Bucky squeezed my hand briefly - the only sign he was just as on edge. Our fake smiles never faltered.
Finally, the man stopped outside a narrow, unmarked door tucked between a spice vendor and a shop selling antique rugs. He rapped twice, waited, then rapped three more times. The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit room. A single table sat in the center, flanked by two guards whose bulk barely fit in the space.
“Sit,” the man instructed, gesturing to the table.
Bucky pulled out a chair for me, the perfect picture of a doting husband. I sat gracefully, though every muscle was coiled tight. He followed, posture relaxed but eyes sharp.
“Talk fast,” Bucky said coolly. “We’re busy people.”
The man chuckled, pulling a sleek tablet from his jacket. With a few swipes, an image flickered to life on the screen—a cylindrical device, unassuming save for the faint red glow along its seams.
“The Whisper,” the man said, voice laced with pride. “Looks like nothing. Acts like the end of the world. One device, one city gone. Silent. Clean. No radiation, no trace.”
My blood ran cold.
“Demonstrations?” Bucky asked, his tone flat, but I knew him well enough (unfortunately) to catch the tightness in his jaw.
The man smiled, teeth flashing like a shark’s. “Not here of course. But our employer will be at the Ball tomorrow night. Impress him, and maybe you’ll get a private viewing.”
I leaned forward, playing the part. “We’re not here to dance. We’re here to buy.”
“Then you’ll want to put on your best shoes,” the man shot back, standing. “We don’t sell to just anyone.”
We finally got some sleep this time. After the market we haven’t spoken to each other. Not one word. I guess it was for the best. Both of us focused more than ever.
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I stood in front of the hotel room mirror, adjusting the emerald green gown that hugged my form like it had been stitched onto my skin. The satin pooled at my feet, the high slit revealing toned legs honed by years of training. The deep neckline was daring but tasteful, every inch of the dress screaming money, confidence, control. But inside, my stomach twisted into knots.
I hated this. Hated the pretense, the lies, the way the mission forced me to slip into an old skin I thought I'd shed years ago. The girl who could smile while planning a kill, who could flirt while counting exits. The girl I swore I'd never be again. I resigned from these kinds of missions for a reason. I just wanted something simple. Something calm. I hated this. I hated Nick for doing this to me.
Behind me, Bucky adjusted his tie, watching me through the mirror. Though I pretended like I hadn't noticed that. The black suit was sharp, perfectly tailored, but it wasn’t the clothes that caught me off guard. It was the way he looked at me—like he was seeing something he didn’t want to acknowledge?
"You clean up nice," he muttered, voice gruff.
I met his gaze in the glass, forcing an awkward smile that didn’t even reach my eyes. "Don’t get used to it."
The words were sharp, but the air between them crackled with something else—resentment, history, and the aching weight of things left unsaid. He looked away first, grabbing his jacket with a frustrated sigh - “Let’s get this over with.”
The ride to the venue was silent, the hum of the car engine - the only sound between us. I stared out the window, watching the glittering city blur past. It felt surreal—like I was floating outside myself, watching someone else step into the role of a woman who had everything except peace.
“Last chance to back out,” Bucky muttered, eyes fixed on the road.
She snorted, shaking her head. “Not my style. Besides, I’d hate to leave you alone with all these charming criminals.”
Bucky didn’t smile. He never did when the stakes were this high.
The ballroom was a glittering sea of gowns and tuxedos, laughter and champagne masking the undercurrent of power plays and whispered threats. Couples twirled across the marble dance floor, their movements practiced and polished. Live strings played a sultry melody, the kind designed to lull people into false comfort. Crystal chandeliers cast fractured light across marble floors and the air hummed with whispered deals. They knew how to cloak business in elegance, and tonight, power moved in silk gloves and diamond necklaces.3
My heels clicked softly as they crossed the threshold, Bucky’s hand firm on my back. To the world, we were power and beauty incarnate—ambitious, rich, untouchable. But I could feel the tension radiating off Bucky, I could see the slight tick in his jaw every time someone glanced our way.
“We’re being watched, again…” I murmured, tilting my head as if I was admiring the chandelier.
Bucky’s lips barely moved. “Good. Let’s give them something to see.”
He didn’t wait for my consent, for my anything—just took my hand and led me to the dance floor as the band shifted into a slower waltz. The moment his arm slid around my waist, I stiffened.
“You’re tense,” Bucky muttered, guiding her into the first turn.
“Maybe it’s because I’d rather dance with literally anyone else.”
“Funny. You’re still holding on tight.”
Our eyes met—blue clashing with mine. For a moment, the hate softened, replaced by something rawer, older, harder to define. There was history there, tangled and bruised, too complicated to unravel in a single dance. Then the music swelled, and the moment shattered.
"Eyes on the prize," I reminded, forcing a smile as I leaned into him, the picture of devotion. "Our buyer's watching." - “Mr. and Mrs. Thompson,” - a smooth voice, with a hard russian accent interrupted as the song ended. A tall,slightly older man with silver hair and eyes like cut glass stood at the edge of the floor. “My name is Peter Sokolov.” - I stiffened, I knew this name from somewhere, could it be…- “Please join me in my private quarter. I heard that you were here about something very specific. Something close to my heart. Let’s talk business.” He pointed out the path leading to the massive steel doors. The whole time, Bucky held me firmly by the waist, guiding me just a few centimeters ahead of him. Behind us, we could both hear the deep, heavy breathing of Sokolov. That name. In that moment, it hit me. One of the last names on my list. One of the last people I swore to get revenge on—for everything they did to me. To us. I couldn’t let it show that I recognized this man. The mission was still ongoing, and I had to give it my absolute best.
After a moment, we finally reached a large room, covered entirely in expensive wood and marble. The alcohol scattered on the table was probably worth more than the entire ballroom. Fucking criminals.
“Please, have a seat.”
It was just the three of us in the room. Probably even his crew didn’t know exactly what was being traded here or what they were guarding. Everything was top secret—each person knew less than the next. But this time, we were speaking to the boss. The fucking king of this whole shit-show.
The plan was simple. Make the deal, gain access to the destructive machine, secure it, and blow this entire joyride to hell—including the “President’s” head.
“I assume I’ll finally be discussing the details with you?” Bucky asked firmly, sitting down.
I decided to play the role of the uninterested wife, strolling around the room and admiring the old books arranged on the wooden shelves.
Sokolov sat down across from Barnes, occasionally glancing in my direction. I could feel his disgusting gaze on me. I wanted to kill him right there and then. My rage was growing stronger, but I knew I couldn’t compromise the mission. Not now. Not when we were so close.
They talked for what felt like an eternity—price, location, access key, and all the other bullshit details Barnes was undoubtedly better prepared for than I was. His composure amazed me. I’d never seen him this professional.
“Why don’t you join us?” I finally heard from behind me.
“Ah, yes, excuse me. This collection is truly fascinating,” I said, finally sitting down with them at the table.
“So, you like reading, darling, huh?” His slick smile disgusted me even more.
“Yes, definitely,” I replied. “I’ve got a similar collection at our house, don’t I, honey?” I turned my head to Barnes.
Suddenly, Sokolov’s smile faded. He sat up straight. Something was wrong. For a moment, I thought I’d said something out of line, but then he focused his attention on Bucky.
Fuck. My scar. Behind my ear. They did something to me while injecting that fucking serum. Back when I was a kid. I barely remembered that scar. Maybe he hadn’t noticed.
But then, he only looked at Bucky and smiled. And that’s when I heard it. Those words. Those fucking words. I knew them. I knew I knew them, but I didn’t know they had anything to do with me.
BUCKY’S POV
“I see…” Sokolov said. “You played your part well, but you forgot one tiny detail. NEXUS never forgets its projects.”
He stared straight into my eyes—so intensely I thought I was about to get punched in the face or that fifty guys would suddenly jump out of the closet.
But he just kept talking. The words poured out of his mouth like a twisted poem.
“Желание (longing).”
There is no fucking way, I thought. But he kept going:
“Ржавый (rusted).
Семнадцать (seventeen).
Рассвет (daybreak).
Печь (furnace).
Девять (nine).
Добросердечный (benign).
Возвращение на родину (homecoming).
Один (one).
Товарный вагон (freight car).”
I don’t know why I waited until he finished. I was—how do kids say it now?—too stunned to speak. No time for jokes. No fucking time for thinking. He knew who we were.
“You need to do your research more carefully, old man. Those fucking words don’t work on me anymore.” Like I said—no time for thinking. I punched him immediately.
I shed my second skin, and my vibranium arm was already exposed. I hit him with such force that I was sure he’d die right there, but I couldn’t compromise the mission. I had to stay focused. The mission was everything. Until it wasn’t.
I grabbed Sokolov by the collar, but he just smiled. His laughter grew louder and more maniacal, ringing in my ears like a ticking bomb.
“You need to do your research more carefully, old man,” he hissed back, mocking my words.
“These weren’t meant for you,” he added, glancing quickly over my shoulder.
“Kill him, soldier.”
“What the fuck are you eve—” I didn’t even finish. I felt a powerful blow straight to my cheekbone. I was sure fifty men had magically appeared. But what I saw was far worse.
Y/N. Her eyes—lifeless. Her face—expressionless. No emotion.
“Y/N… what are you…”
Another punch. Fuck. She was strong. She was fucking trying to kill me. I tried to scream at her, but I knew exactly what state she was in. I didn’t know what to do. I was terrified. I couldn’t hurt her. For fuck’s sake, we were on this mission together. But how was this possible? The same words. The exact same words that had once controlled me. Were they working together? So many questions, so few answers. Fuck. Again. No time for thinking.
I had to pull her out of this state somehow.
“Agent Y/L/N! Listen to me—you’re not yourself! Try to remember who you are!”
Pointless.
Y/N lunged first, quick and precise, aiming a punch at my ribcage. I deflected it with my vibranium arm, the impact echoing like a gunshot. Without missing a beat, I countered with a hook, forcing Y/N to duck and sweep my legs. I stumbled but didn’t fall, twisting mid-motion to grab her collar and slam her against the wall.
“Please, don’t make me hurt you.”
With a sharp knee to my stomach, Y/N broke free, spinning into a roundhouse kick that caught my jaw. I staggered back, wiping blood from the corner of my mouth. The glint in my eye shifted from warning to determination. We clashed again—a blur of fists, kicks, and raw strength. Sure, my training made me precise and powerful. But Y/N’s agility and unpredictability kept her one step ahead. The room bore the brunt of our battle—chairs overturned, glass shattered, walls dented by missed strikes. Finally, I caught her wrist mid-punch, twisting her arm behind her back and pinning her to the floor.
We were both breathing hard, sweat and bruises blooming like battle scars.
I knew I had to put her out. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. But she started slipping from my grip. With one harder blow to her head, Y/N collapsed, unconscious. Fuck.
What the hell just happened?
Sokolov.
I turned around, but he was already gone. I looked down at Y/N. I felt powerless. I checked her pulse. She’d survive. I picked her up gently, cradling her in my arms. This mission couldn’t have gone more wrong. I hadn’t even imagined this outcome. I slipped out through the back exit, still hearing the faint music from the ongoing ball. Somehow, I managed to carry her to our hotel room and lay her down in bed without drawing unnecessary attention.