author's note: this is a possible teaser for a series i kinda want to write after over a year or so long hiatus😭 anyway, would anybody even read this??
“Huh,” his voice is like nails on a chalkboard on the gloomy Tuesday morning after your non-boyfriend boyfriend dumped you with an ‘I’m bored, sorry’ text the night prior. “It’s actually happening. The world is healing again.”
You shove yet another journal that is as unnecessary as it is cute into the cardboard box perched atop your desk and glare at the looming man. James is wearing his usual middle-of-the-week sallow grey shirt, which somehow manages to dull his sharp features more than Thursday’s yellow, and Prada trousers. Always with the Prada trousers. He loves Prada more than Rebecca Bloomwood and that is saying something.
He’s a… fashionista like that.
“I’m not quitting.” Why James has yet to successfully fire you is a miracle. The pair of you are like Tom and Jerry. Dracula and Van Helsing. Pandora and her box. Surely he must have tried to sweet talk his daddy into terminating you for good. “This,“ you motion to the empty (besides the wine opener, stress balls, and an emergency tube of red lipstick—obvious essentials) drawer, "is called organising. Learn it, live it, love it. It’s after organise and before o-fuck you in the dictionary.”
“Real big talk for someone who keeps a diary.”
“That was…” you take in a deep breath in hopes to maintain at least an ounce of sanity. It doesn’t work. Why would it work? It never works. James and peaceful work hours is only a concept in a hypothetical world full of other ridiculous things such as your neighbour quitting drums and affordable Manolo Blahniks. “That was not… this is not a diary. It’s a journal. A journal I use for very important business meetings. And calls. And conferences.”
“Right,” he quips with a hint of a smirk and sits down on the edge of your desk, the wood creaking underneath his weight. Journal my ass, he ponders but stays surprisingly quiet about it.
“Not a diary. A journal is different from a diary. Maybe there’s no shame in keeping a diary, but I do not have a burning desire to write down every reason why the Wicked Witch of the West would make a better boss than you.” The words keep spilling out of your mouth before you can realise his painfully infuriating sneer is only growing. You hate that stupid smile of his. James knows you hate that stupid smile of his. That makes it all the more alluring for him to torture you with it. “I talk about it with my therapist like an adult.”
“Not a diary. Got it.” James nods as his eyes flicker to the open (and totally unfinished) Word document on your work laptop before slowly raking across the wrinkled cotton of your shirt until they find yours again. “I was wrong to assume this box of trash on your desk,” he vaguely gestures to the cardboard and smirks just a fraction more, “is for diaries. Though you definitely have the look of a girl who keeps one. But anyway. Why are you organising when the entire PR department is having a meeting?”
A… silence settles between you. It’s neither awkward nor peaceful, like it often is with James—he asks a somewhat reasonable question and you can only stare at him like he’s the biggest idiot on planet earth. Because sure, there is an important meeting happening on the forty fifth floor of Dioro right this moment. After all, you are a goodie two shoes of an employee with a busy Google calendar and a functional corporate email. You would know. But it is so like James to assume you would organise over attending, as the freaking head of public relations nonetheless, that you can only stare at him with those blank, are-you-serious eyes.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Yes?” James cocks his head to the side as if expecting you to say something, anything, else in addition, and when you don’t, his eyebrows furrow, too.
Yes. Yes. Yes is not remotely an answer to my question, you infuriating woman, he thinks, and though he knows he should not expect anything less than for you to be as annoying as his shoelaces coming undone on a bright and early morning run, “yes” still takes him off guard a little.
“Yes,” you shrug, promptly closing the laptop because James has no place to see the opened Word document that is half a plan for next year’s PR strategy and half a series of good lunch places around the office, and straighten up. He’s not the only person that’s confident in their words around here.
“I sincerely hope you know the company does not pay you to look cute and gossip in the break room. If that was the case, you would’ve been let go a long time back.” It’s his turn to flash you the blank, dead, are-you-serious eyes.
Exasperated stares are one of the many love languages between you.
“I don’t just look cute and gossip. I also take precious time to share all of those memes in the company’s group chat. Good for morale.” You quip and James pinches the bridge of his nose.
He should have managed to fire you a long time back. But to his credit—he has tried. Once. Twice. Thrice, if somebody was to count the time he got drunk at the annual Christmas party and pettily tried to end your employment over a disagreement about Creedence Clearwater Revival. Surprisingly, it stuck. For a whopping total of twelve hours. Before you stepped through the elevator doors once more, his father exasperated, and right beside you. To this day, James finds it a mystery you’ve managed to charm the man because you’re as charming as a wet towel. But his father is also a fan of Raisin Bran, so there must be something wrong with his judgment. At least when it comes to choice of breakfast cereal and the annoyingly annoying girl’s personality. You are great at PR, much to James’ frustration, and Dioro is habitual with scandals. The very last name Barnes is habitual with scandals that you make go poof! So don’t get it twisted—James is gra… gra… grateful for your talents in PR. At least until the glorious day when he takes over the company completely and can finally make you go poof! A flute of Dom Pérignon in hand as he stares at your empty desk out of his glass office is a nice dream, one to keep him from full blown insanity.
James just might need a hobby.
“Team-building activities are good for morale. Recognition programs are good for morale. Social events are good for—“ he starts listing on his hand, his features dark with disappointment, aggravation, and a hint of resignation. Good. Maybe you could break him before autumn.
“Stop. Nobody cares about a lecture on morale from Dolores Umbridge.” You wave a dismissive hand and place last year’s Dean Winchester themed calendar atop the abyss of journals and trinkets. He’s fine and all, but Sam’s much more tempting to go back to. There’s just something about a strong man with longer hair and a kind heart. “I know about the meeting, Sophie’s leading it because I’m taking the rest of the week off. Plus maybe Monday. Probably Monday. Actually, now that I’m thinking about it, do NOT expect me back on Monday.”
“I expect you to find another job, but y’know. Tuesday’s fine.” He deadpans, not that you pay much attention to his tone. You’re much more interested in the fact his ass leaves the anguished, abused edge of your desk. “Why are you taking time off? It’s like the middle of July. And who the hell approved it?”
“So there’s this Linda us lowly employees visit when we need time away from work,” you drawl out and cover Dean’s smouldering face with an old February issue of Vogue. “And it’s July second, which is not even remotely the middle. I hope you know that. It’s important to me that you know that.”
His eyes drop to the magazine and the calendar that peaks out from beneath it, but he’s suspiciously silent about it. Instead when he speaks, his voice is a deep, almost frustrated rumble on—surprise, surprise—the HR department. “I’m aware of what a Linda is.”
“Good, boss. Glad to know you’re following, boss. And before you say anything, Linda approved my request for time off months ago, so there is nothing you can do about it, boss.” A lazy smile curls your lips as you stack more publications of Vogue until Lady Gaga’s staring back at you from the top of the pile.
“Linda loves you, employee. She would give you a raise without hesitation if she could, employee. I specifically instructed you to come to me for these things.” James pinches the bridge of his nose before his arms fold over his chest. “Employee.”
Pet names are another one of your love languages.
“We have been at each other’s necks for the past three miserable years.” You shove the flaps of the box closed and when they pop back up, you wrestle with the cardboard as elegantly as a girl on merely three hours of sleep can manage. “And it’s like you don’t even know me.”
James rolls his eyes, but not because you always find loopholes and roundabouts when it comes to his demands—you just… bring out his unprofessional side. You are a lunatic in business casual clothes.
“My apologies.” He leans forward, abusing your poor desk again as his hands grip the edges. “I should have recognised you would go on a vacation when your department is in the midst of a crisis.”
“Thank you,” you flash him a smile as sweet as sugar, a mighty contender to his infuriating smirk, and lean over the acrylic divider to steal a tape dispenser from some underpaid intern’s desk that’s been abandoned all morning, not that you blame him. You consistently avoid President Business, too. “You had me scared for our marriage there.”
“It may be for the best you start looking into divorce lawyers,” James comments dryly, watching as you tape the box shut. Mostly. Lady Gaga’s still peaking through the crack a little.
“Whoa. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t fight for us.” The reply is almost absentminded as you cover Gaga with a bright pink Post-it—she’s remarkably eerie in the blue, whatever-it’s-made-of coat on past September’s issue of Vogue. “Besides. It’s possible my heart will yearn for you after the long, long six days Linda oh-so-graciously approved, despite July shaping out to be busy.”
His baby blues flicker from your face to the bright Post-it, fingers curling around the oak of your desk as he ponders different ways to snap you out of whatever realm of professional defiance you seem to exist in without forcibly shaking you by the shoulders. Though the latter is an appetising thought.
“Earth to James. Somebody’s spacing out again.”
James pushes the wooden ruler you use to nudge him out of his face before his stare slowly returns to your features, hard and narrowed, and most likely unimposing given that he’s talking to a whack-a-doodle. “Sorry, honey. Got lost in curating the perfect celebratory afternoon for your inevitable demise.”
“Oh.” A slight raise of your eyebrows accompanies the soft reply. The perfect celebratory afternoon for my inevitable demise? In his world, it could mean a gazillion possibilities. After a healthy beat, you settle on the most likely based on nothing, but vibes and the fact the man’s an asshole. “Bourbon, cigars, and a flock of hookers?”
A sardonic smile curls his lips as James straightens up and shoves his hands into the pockets of those damn Prada trousers. “Golf, caviar, and setting your desk on fire.”
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ WORDS WE NEVER SAID જ⁀➴₊⊹ Bucharest reminds James of many things — freedom, his little apartment, of the pretty witch who stole his heart. she saved him, he’s long decided. in every way a person can be saved. and though it’s been years since the events Sokovia Accords prompted, and she’s long gone, once in a while, his soul aches from the words he never said. i love you.
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ SWEET SUMMER NIGHTS જ⁀➴₊⊹ a trio of feel-good stories to celebrate the summer. every story can be read as a stand-alone, but each connects to the other.
ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ WHERE DREAMS GO TO DIE જ⁀➴₊⊹ Steve’s silly joke happened to inspire the best, or possibly the worst, idea Wanda had ever come up with — send James Buchanan Barnes and y/n on an all-expenses-paid honeymoon in Hawaii. the problem? they cannot stand to be around each other.
summary: Steve’s silly joke happened to inspire the best, or possibly the worst, idea Wanda had ever come up with — send James Buchanan Barnes and y/n on an all-expenses-paid honeymoon in Hawaii. the problem? they cannot stand to be around each other.
warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, explicit language, heavy alcohol consumption, sarcastic!bucky, smut in later chapters
word count: 34k
author’s note: the series is based on The Unhoneymooners by Christina Lauren!
summary: cinnamon buns and wickedly strong coffee must be the only reasons James Buchanan Barnes visits your bakery daily, despite the inconvenience of driving to a small town on the outskirts of Upstate New York. right?
warnings: first dates and crushes (absolutely classified as warnings), mead consumption, a curse word or two, soft!bucky
word count: 4,565
author's note: i've been watching Gilmore Girls a little too much lately (hence the little easter egg). on another note, autumn is my favourite season, so prepared to be sick of James attending harvest festivals and drinking apple cider 🍂🥧🎃
all the stories i've written
September 21st marks the official arrival of Autumn. Though the weather has been rather cheerful lately, today’s air is much crisper and heavier with the promise of looming rain. The streets of Eldermont remain far too green to your dismay, but Spice & Honey—the bakery you’ve owned for the past five years—is rich in shades of marigold and copper. A wide assortment of mugs, mostly in various shapes of pumpkins, and spiced teas, line the shelves, while the fresh jars of apple butter are neatly stacked alongside the register. Besides the usual treats, the glass display teems with seasonal favourite pumpkin tarts and apple cider donuts.
The everlasting chatter of customers and soft sounds of a vintage record you scored at a neighbour’s garage sale just last month saturate the space as you place the second batch of cinnamon rolls on the counter. The clock reads 10:57 AM, and though you’ve been attempting to conceal your excitement, Vivienne could sense it the second you stepped through the door, teasing you about the very special visitor who’s always in need of sugary buns and black coffee at exactly five past eleven.
James Buchanan Barnes is a regular customer, you often argue. The nervous babble, flustered movements, and beaming smiles convey otherwise. And so yes, you might have a little bit of a schoolgirl crush on the freakishly tall, muscular brunette who brings in the latest editions of The Culinary Canvas magazine each Monday and notices the smallest of changes in your recipes. Just maybe, you reluctantly ponder when your thoughts inadvertently wander to that charming grin and baby blue eyes every time you knead the dough for his adored treat — a dessert once reserved for Autumn suddenly available year around.
“Staring at the entrance won’t make time pass quicker,” Vivienne whispers, arranging butterscotch cupcakes by the pumpkin tarts.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you whisper back, covering the pans with aluminum foil.
Perhaps hiding the pastries, a favourite amongst Spice & Honey shoppers, is not the best business decision, but Eldermont is merely a small town in Upstate New York. If it wasn’t located a thirty minute drive south of the Avengers compound, most people wouldn’t be aware of its presence in the first place. And besides, everybody in Eldermont is connected to everybody — the town holds no secrets, including the pastries you keep warm and frost fresh.
“The tall, dark, and handsome man,” she points out, “still has a few minutes. Perchance the preparations of Eldermont’s Annual Harvest Festival made it trickier to find parking.” Vivienne turns to you with a mirthful grin, the cupcakes resting perfectly positioned in the glass case. “You should invite him. Heard Brad brewed an incredible batch of apple cider mead this year.”
You sigh, snatching the golden tray out of her grasp. “I’m not asking Bucky out.”
“Ah! Bucky!” The woman’s grin widens. “Forgot his name for a second.” Shades of mischief dance in her tone as she marks Elijah’s, the eccentric owner of Marigold Meadows flower shop across the street, special order of fifty maple bacon BLTs as completed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Only that you mention Bucky at least seven times a day.”
“Seven’s oddly specific,” you note and swiftly, “also I do not,” disagree.
“Bucky smelled great today,” Vivienne mocks your voice, the grin you’ve come to love—and hate—remaining on her features. “Should I add apple to the cinnamon rolls? I wonder if Bucky would enjoy apple cinnamon rolls with brown butter and maple icing unless he’s a creature of habit. Maybe I should suggest a sprinkle of nutmeg in his coffee to test the waters first—“
“Vivienne,” you groan, yet she persists.
“What’s the worst that could happen? Bucky could say no. Bucky could also choose The Sugared Whisk. Bucky wouldn’t. I adore their croissants, but the coffee is terribly weak, and even their tea selection is mediocre. Indigo should include spiced teas. And sure, Luke's doesn't offer spiced teas, but Luke’s sells great coffee and danishes, except the danishes are only available on Wednesdays.” She recites a recent monologue of yours, and if you weren’t mortified, you’d actually be quite surprised at Vivienne’s ability to remember conversations as if they happened minutes ago.
The doorbell chimes before she has the chance to finish, and you’re highly unsure of whether it’s a saved by the bell kind of situation or if you’d rather the floor magically swallow you whole.
“Good morning.” James smiles, and it’s then that you decide you’d rather the floor split open because you’re awfully flustered by his entrance despite secretly anticipating the moment since the sun arose.
“Hiya, Bucky,” she returns the favour, secretly nudging your side. “Have you ever been to the annual Eldermont’s Harvest Festival?”
“Cannot say I have,” he chuckles, breaking eye contact between the two for just a second to glance at her.
Though you’d never admit it aloud, those eyes, baby blue on sunny days and resembling the ocean on the ones of rain, cross your mind more than a pair of eyes should. This infatuation borders on obsessive, you often contemplate. James Buchanan Barnes is an Avenger for heaven’s sake, and you’re almost sure a man of his maturity and composure wouldn’t agree to a date with a baker, a clutz one at that. It’s not that you’d want to, nevertheless. The two of you have a great thing together — you serve coffee, he survives on coffee, and if time allows, the lighthearted conversations you have bring colours to otherwise monotone days.
“The decorations, the food, the people are phenomenal.” You might have to assign the redhead to kneading duty if she’s heading to that territory. “This beauty right here could take you on a real good tour. Eldermont is gorgeous this time of year.” Enjoy kneading bread, Vivi.
“Is it?” James grins, his stare flicking between you and Vivienne.
“Drop dead,” she reiterates, “much like the women.”
“Vivienne,” you suddenly cut in, “the coffee station is out of paper cups. Could you bring some from the back?”
She gives you another grin, less mischievous and more understanding, nodding at Bucky before she disappears into the kitchen. The heavy wooden doors create a boisterous sound once they close, and you couldn’t be happier for a distraction because you cannot look at the brunette just yet. The bakery is sweltering, and your hands are sweaty, and, if it wasn’t evident you’ve been nurturing a crush on James, Vivienne practically plastered a HEAD BAKER IN LOVE WITH SERGEANT BARNES sign out front.
“The station’s out of cups?”
“Yes!” You glimpse behind the shoulder, deciding to keep the lie alive. “Spice & Honey gets busy during the afternoons, and we run out quickly.” The words leave your mouth rushed and a bit muttered, but the effort is there. “Black coffee and a cinnamon bun?”
“It’s a habit,” his smile is as charming as always. James hesitates for a beat, observing you locate the plastic to-go containers. “The festival Vivienne touched on, have you ever been?”
The atmosphere stills for an awkward second as you gawk at him. “Oh, sure,” you answer at last, praying her babbling wasn’t too obvious because you couldn’t fathom Bucky choosing The Sugared Whisk. “Every year since I was four. The festival’s great. Brad brews the best mead, and Johnny, the mayor, is comically strict about the decorations, so it’s all pumpkins, and string lights, and festive garlands,” you mumble, scrambling for the pan and cream cheese frosting. “I’ve even heard whispers of fireworks this year. It’s next Saturday if you want to drop by. Cassie bakes the best apple pies.”
“Better than yours?”
“I don’t serve apple pies,” averting your eyes to study the grinder seems like the best decision to avoid his piercing gaze.
“I’m sure they’d be the best if you did.” Bucky beams, leaning against the counter as he observes you make coffee.
“Thank you,” the expression of gratitude melts into somewhat of a question despite your best attempts at keeping your voice level, “but the pies I bake often turn out horribly wrong. The apples were overcooked, and the dough raw last time I tried.”
“How undercooked?”
“The trash can enjoyed most of it.”
James laughs at that, the sound of it hearty and endearing. “I’m sure it found the pie delicious.” If he’s flirting with you, you can’t tell, and you don’t exactly want to, for expectations are the fool’s hope. “If you’re not terribly busy during the festival,” he speaks after a protracted moment of doubt, “I’d love to take you up on that tour Vivienne mentioned.”
“Tour?” The man in front of you must almost all but hear your heart pounding rapidly inside your chest.
“The tour of mead, pies, and decorations.”
“Oh?” You tinker with a couple napkins, peering at him. “I’m not sure I could give you a real good tour, I’m barely a guide, believe me. I got lost in that new Target on Cedar Lane, and I cannot understand maps, and—“
“I’m asking you out on a date.” Bucky chuckles at your flustered visage, baby blues never once breaking the eye contact.
“Shit,” the curse word leaves your mouth before you can stop it, and you silently reprimand yourself for the rash impulse of colourful words. “Alright.”
The sergeant titters at your sudden reaction, a shy smile dancing on his lips. “We don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable. I just thought we might have something between us, chemistry of sorts, and that it might’ve been fun,” he briefly pauses, eyes wild and roaming around your face. “It’s just that Vivienne mentioned Eldermont being gorgeous in the fall, and it got me thinking that I’ve never truly experienced it, because the only thing I visit in this town is your bakery, not that it’s the only place worth visiting—“
“Bucky—“
“There are many stores I should probably check out, and Samuel’s birthday is in a couple of days, which is convenient. I wouldn’t describe Sam and I as the best of pals, but Steve likes him, so I should probably get him a gift.”
“Who’s Samuel?” You ask puzzled, but the flustered soldier standing before you continues to ramble.
“Something small to indicate I remembered but not necessarily care. Something that screams I’m not a total jerk, but you are for reminding the whole compound that your birthday’s on the twenty third. A wooden statue of a bird. Sam likes birds, particularly Redwing, though Redwing’s not technically a bird. A wooden bird statue would certainly insult him, so it’s settled — the plan is to visit Artists & Wood on Land.”
“The shop’s name is Woodland Artistry,” you correct with a gentle smile.
“Right!” James clicks his tongue, studying your softly amused features. “We should probably forget this conversation happened. It was a stupid idea too—“
“Yes,” you interject. “I mean no.” Surely, this scenario is a strange dream that wicked mind of yours created to punish you for the sins you assumably committed in every single one of your previous lives. It’s the only possible explanation for the sergeant’s flustered behaviour. “I would absolutely love to go on a date,” you say and pinch the flesh of your thigh for reassurance, but the scene remains as it was, “with you.”
Gently placing a twenty on the counter, James gleams at you. “I’ve never actually given you my number, have I?”
"No," you shake your head to indicate disagreement, pinching the flesh of your thighs once more. “Only the pleasure of our little chats,” the response makes you wince. The pleasure of our little chats? Something’s definitely wrong with me.
Chuckling, James grasps one of the pens you keep by the cash register and scribbles down a series of numbers on his receipt. "If I don't reply, Steve must be holding me hostage.”
"Duly noted," you grin, folding the piece of paper to tuck it into the back pocket of your denim shorts.
He stands there for a second as if absorbing the situation. “Good. It’s a date, then.” he smiles in the end, taking the coffee and the plastic box, and peeks at you behind his shoulder. “And keep the change, please. These treats of yours are more than worth it.”
A timid smile spreads across your lips at the compliment before you sink your teeth into the soft of your bottom lip, observing the soldier scramble out of the bakery, the phone in his flannel jacket ringing for attention.
“Next time,” the redhead appears beside you once James disappears out of sight with a final wave goodbye, “you should give the man coffee and buns on the house," Vivienne nudges you, "both of them."
A surge of warmth rushes to your cheeks at her innuendo. “It’s great you suddenly possessed the ability to teleport and all, but the dough back there won’t knead itself.”
“No,” she gasps, and you only laugh at her realisation, turning to help the next customer.
It’s a date.
The evening of Eldermont’s harvest festival is pleasant, neither too blazing nor cold, but despite the temperature and the appropriate sundress you’ve chosen for it, you’re on the verge of fainting. I cannot faint on our first date, you think and decide it’s the man next to you’s fault, really. The smell of his cologne is too addicting, the hints of pine and cinnamon in his aftershave too intoxicating. James is a gentleman, which you expected and appreciate, but it’s overwhelming, the way he holds your hand to lead you through crowds and attentively listens to your overdrawn stories about the origins of pumpkin carving. Heavens help me.
“Have you checked out the corn maze yet?” Brad asks cheerfully. He’s surrounded by large beverage urns and stacks of disposable drinkware. “Mary mentioned Elijah’s still in there,” he chuckles, pouring two paper cups full of steaming apple cider mead. “The fool must’ve gotten lost or something.”
“Must’ve,” you glance at him, the corner of your mouth quirking up into a half smile. “Happens every year.”
“The two of you should go,” Brad speaks once again before smiling at Bucky. “It’s a great first date activity.”
James chuckles, and you wonder if he regrets asking you on a date. The small town you call home is ludicrously close, and if Vivienne didn’t spill the beans to Mary as she promised, Mary must’ve spread the ‘rumours’ around herself. The town’s beloved bookshop owner is an incredible woman, but she loves to gossip, and you should’ve expected the second person after Vivienne to consistently insert themselves into your dating life to jump to conclusions. Though the situation isn’t precisely comfortable for you, it must be worse for James. Whilst he has never outright mentioned, the soldier has important reasons to stay under the radar. Bucky has witnessed a lot, horrors you’ve even heard about on the TV, and currently, every resident of Eldermont is aware that James Buchanan Barnes is on a date. With a local baker, nonetheless. Participating in acorn tossing and harvest bingo and conversing with Brad Monty about all kinds of sneaky activities couples get up to in the corn maze. You're certain that James is bound to vanish without a trace due to the town's antics if your diffident and often rather awkward behavior hasn't already scared him away. The anxious parts of your brain have even compiled a mental list of today's disasters:
Johnny wiped his sweaty hands on Bucky’s jacket, realising the blunder only to mumble “I love this jacket, Sergeant Barnes”, and pretending he wanted to initiate a hug before he disappeared.
Cassie offered you a sample of pecan pie, which you eagerly tasted due to Bucky’s “If I had to choose the second best pie after apple, it would be pecan” comment, and completely choked on.
Vivienne located you in the farmer’s market to say “hello”, and persuaded James to purchase a pair of beaded bracelets, the two of you had ridiculed moments earlier, for “every first date needs a souvenir to remember it by”.
James guided you to Mary’s bookstore because you conferred a series of rare hardbacks Mary hides in the back for special customers, and the older woman steered you towards a selection of intimacy guides.
Indigo, The Sugared Whisk owner, pleaded with James for Captain America’s number in the middle of a busy intersection and discussed his “timeless looks” for the next couple of minutes until a car almost struck the three of you.
Elijah phoned you in distress, panicking about “having to live out his best years in a smelly corn maze”, which disturbed the sergeant and resulted in an “Elijah will find the exit eventually” monologue on your side.
You accepted to take a photo of a tourist couple, accidentally dropping the wife’s phone and shattering the screen because James stood so close, your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
“Thanks, Brad,” you fumble with your wallet, hastily placing a ten on the stand. “See you around.”
“Doll,” Bucky doesn’t move once you attempt to remove him from the nightmare that is the situation the two of you found yourselves in. It gives you a second to evaluate his expression, and much to your surprise, his features are as soft as ever. James is blushing, too. “I wanted to pay for that.”
“You paid for the apple pie,” the words slip past your lips mumbled because the only thing you can truly concentrate on is the fact James is blushing. Blushing as a result of Brad’s stories about couples so in love they simply cannot be bothered to locate the labyrinth’s exit before proving their emotions to the world. Couples that could be the two of you. Possibly. A sane person shouldn’t rush to assumptions unless they earned the sweetest nickname from a dream of a man. You’ve never paid much thought to whether you would enjoy being called a ‘doll’—you do, but you would probably adore every label he’d choose. The notion steers your head toward unexpected and dirty waters, and you couldn’t be happier for Brad’s decision to chime in.
“Cassie outdid herself this year,” he nods. “I’m most definitely going to dream about that blackberry pie tonight.”
“Yes,” James agrees never once breaking the eye contact with you. “The pies were delicious, and it was my pleasure to pay. It was me who demanded a tour.”
“You may pay for the maze then,” you smile at him, “but leave the ten — I’m not that great of a tour guide, and I’m afraid of the dark.”
“Dates should be fun,” James suddenly speaks. “We could’ve skipped the labyrinth.”
The corn maze is high and intimidating, but Bucky’s presence and the soft glow of an orange sunset manage to silence your fears a bit. The passages are almost entirely empty except for the two of you, and each corner you take makes your heart jump at the possibility of encountering spooky surprises.
“This is fun,” you reassure, taking a sip of mead. James shoots you a look you cannot truly decipher, but you decide the meaning is somewhere between worried and teasing. “It is,” you hesitate for a beat. “I just keep remembering the haunted corn maze in Greenwood. They have scare actors there, who jump out of the bushes when you least expect it and completely startle you. Vivienne took me there last year, and I cannot shake the memories.”
The expression on his face melts into sympathy. “If it’s any consolation, I would protect you against all the zombies and monsters this maze might throw at us,” he speaks before, “not that it has any,” adding.
“If theme’s anything to go by, I think we’re OK,” you chuckle at his offer, referring to the cutesy signs and charmingly painted pumpkins scattered throughout the labyrinth, “unless Johnny decided to include a couple gory scenes at the end, though it’d end worse for him than it would for me.”
“Johnny The Mayor?”
“Johnny The Mayor,” you take yet another sip, nodding. The beverage is barely warm twenty minutes into the attraction, providing only the comfort of a soft alcohol tipsiness.
“He’s a charming little fella,” Bucky notes, and you don’t have it in yourself to deny the statement. “I’ve never experienced someone initiating a hug by wiping their hands on my jacket.”
“Sorry,” you offer sheepishly because what could you say after an occurrence so bizarre. Everyone in this town is strange? James must’ve caught on to the fact by this time.
“It’s alright, and besides, I now have a humorous story to recount at parties, which is a first,” he gleams at you. “It may come as a surprise, but I’m not usually the life of it.”
“Can I ask you a question?” You shift to gaze at him before emptying the cup of mead to steady your nerves.
“I don’t promise to answer,” James grins, fiddling with the beaded bracelet, “but yes.”
“Who’s Samuel?”
“That’s your question?” He laughs as his flesh arm slithers to rest upon your waist. At least you think it’s his flesh arm. The man wears gloves whether the sun shines or the rain pours. You’ve seen pictures, though, and read stories of The Winter Soldier in possession of a metal arm. Neither raise concern, not for the reason you’re smitten with Bucky. Rather, because James was manipulated and stripped of free will, and if heaven would descend, perhaps because that metal arm is sinfully attractive. It’s a thought forbidden to be mentioned aloud, for the gloves are a large indicator he’d enjoy staying silent about the matter. “Who’s Samuel?”
“Yes,” you sputter. The butterflies his simple action caused you don’t mention. “I want to hear about this Samuel. I’ve been informed he likes birds, especially Redwing, who’s not technically a bird?”
“The Samuel I was babbling about is Sam Wilson. The Falcon, if you’re a fan of CNN,” James teases, steering you into the left pathway of the maze. Despite your instinct to choose right, you stay silent. “Redwing’s a drone of sorts Sam uses on missions, and, this is a direct quote, for surveillance. I despise the thing.”
“If we get lost, forget the second date,” you playfully threaten. Though the coziness of his body pressed to yours is intoxicating, it does nothing to ease the goosebumps painted on your skin, and as the sky bleeds in shades of crimson and purple, the sun melts into the horizon, teasing you for forgetting a sweater. “I would’ve categorised holding a grudge against an object as below you.”
“If the shoe fits,” he chortles, leading you down a long passage before abruptly stopping. Hesitating for a beat, he drapes the flannel jacket you’ve come to love on the man around your body. The garment is red and weighty, and it smells of James. The gesture makes your heart swell with admiration, but you ignore it. Dates should be approached with a blank slate because expectations are easily shattered. “I shouldn’t deliver Steve that woman’s phone number, should I?” Bucky’s arm finds your waist again.
Sinking your teeth into your bottom lip, “on the bright side, Indigo is quite a pleasant woman,” you verbalise the thought. James observes your expression, baby blues studying the same features he cannot resist thinking about at nightfall. Blood rushes to his cheeks at the notice of your fingers on his lower back, the heat of your skin piercing through his charcoal henley. “She’d certainly treat Captain America right. On the downside,” you pause, “Indigo is the exact opposite of Steve as the media portrays him. Come to think about it, both of us are.”
“How so?”
“The media portrays supersoldiers as courageous, but Indigo and I once had to call Luke to get rid of a teeny spider. Steve’s active in politics, whilst we often skip the town’s meetings—“
“Eldermont holds town meetings?” James chuckles, subconsciously drawing you in closer.
“Once a month, always on the first Tuesday,” you gleam at him before drawing in a deep breath to calm your violently beating heart. “Last time, we discussed the very pressing issue of Halloween decorations. Johnny insists every business on the main street must participate in the festivities. Indigo and I escaped out the back before the mayor could finish his speech. At the least, Steve would’ve stayed in that meeting, and at the most, he would’ve managed it.”
“People do say opposites attract.”
“Heard that before,” you agree. The loose strand of Bucky’s auburn hair tempts you to tuck it behind his ear, but you halt the impulse of committing such a ludicrous decision. “It must be true because you drink coffee black, and I prefer lattes. You have cinnamon buns for breakfast, and I, if time would be gracious enough for breakfast, would choose danishes.”
“The jury’s decided, then.” The corners of his mouth quirk up into a lazy and wickedly attractive smile, and, you almost wonder if Bucky’s aware of the effect he has on your body because if he isn't, your buckling knees must’ve given it away. “Opposites do attract.” His wildly confident attitude is a new discovery, but you decide you like it. “It would be a shame to ignore matters of the universe.” Confidence is a good shade on him.
“Is this your way of asking me on a second date?” You tease the man, memorising the pink hues veiling his cheekbones.
James guides you around the corner, observing the corn maze’s exit, and halts his movements. “Only if the lady agrees,” he shifts to stand before you, catching your forearms in his gloved hands, “which I’m sincerely hoping she does.”
Resting your arms on his shoulders, you gift yourself a quick moment to explore his features — the stubble gently lining his sharp jaw, the little scar above his eyebrow, and the red lips you, despite hiding it, wanted to kiss since he first visited Spice & Honey. “The lady would love to go on a second date.”
“Good,” an emotion you cannot comprehend waltzes in his eyes, but, for the sake of your composure, you abstain from thinking it could possibly be lust. “The gentleman is looking forward to it.” There's an argument happening inside him, you can sense it by the way he keeps drawing you closer until the space between your bodies is virtually erased, but retains his posture straight and almost rigid. The weight of should he or should he not lingers in the air around you before James catches your stare and smiles timidly, shattering the flicker of hope you have for him to kiss you. You don’t exactly yearn for him to kiss you. In theory, kiss-less first dates are a great idea, paving the way for deeper conversations and a closer bond. They build anticipation. Anticipation is good, you ponder for a second, but all you can truly focus on is whether James would taste like apple cider mead or the sugary desserts you two savoured earlier. “The night is still young," he speaks, the tone of his voice light and reticent. "It would be a shame to end the date this early."
“Luke’s open if you want to grab a quick dinner,” you say with a grin, stepping away from him. “Though we should probably exit the maze first.”
“Yes,” Bucky laughs and extends his arm towards the light at the end of the passage. “Lead the way, pretty lady.”
summary: Steve’s silly joke happened to inspire the best, or possibly the worst, idea Wanda had ever come up with — send James Buchanan Barnes and y/n on an all-expenses-paid honeymoon in Hawaii. the problem? they cannot stand to be around each other.
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Wanda had never considered herself too lucky, but she had not been entirely unfortunate either.
She’d often get the last croissant at her favorite coffee shop or find money in every little corner of the compound — abandoned lockers at the gym, behind the coffee jar in the pantry, in the pocket of Tony’s pants that one and only time he had asked the girl to wash them for him.
Wanda could remember the day she had won her first contest vividly. The anxiety at the pit of her stomach, the crinkling of paper as she tore open a brown envelope, the pure joy when she had found out about receiving a pink toaster oven. That fateful day had forever been burned into her memories.
A couple of weeks later, she had entered a second competition after accidentally stumbling upon it in a random magazine and won again and again until Wanda, getting all sorts of things for free, became a running joke at the compound. It had been no different after a major travel company had announced a contest for a free vacation in Hawaii months ago, she could sense, before she had even opened the oversized box Maui Dreams had delivered to the Avengers’ headquarters.
Wanda had been right; she had not exhausted her luck yet.
“Bucky, I’m sorry!” She threw the soldier a sheepish glance before dragging y/n out of the training facility that afternoon. Wanda had paid little mind to James, and if looks could kill, she would’ve been six feet under.
It was only when the two girls had reached the compound’s kitchen did y/n notice that Wanda was still in her pajamas, holding a bright pink paper slip. The redhead’s expression was a mixture of anxiety and bewilderment, and y/n couldn’t decide which one she’d prefer to experience first if neither wasn’t an option.
“Training with Bucky is a nightmare, so thank you for the temporary rescue, but,” she gestured to the paper Wanda was holding before getting a water bottle from the fridge, “what’s this, and why is it making you upset?”
“This,” Wanda held up the CONGRATULATIONS: HAWAII AWAITS! letter, “is a note granting me a free vacation in Hawaii.” She chewed on her lip, staring at y/n. “Hawaii!”
“Yes, Hawaii.” She nodded, unsure as if one wrong word would cause Wanda to lose her temper.
“This,” she waved the paper in y/n’s face, “is a free pass for a week in paradise, and I cannot go! I read their terms and conditions and, shit, I even emailed them, but,” heavy accent laced itself around her words, “they’ve decided that for the reason that Vision is a robot, and I’m a foreign weapon of mass destruction we cannot go.” She spoke mockingly, rolling her eyes. “They worded it differently, but it seems ridiculous nonetheless.”
“Modern problems require modern solutions.” She offered Wanda a half smile, trying to make a joke out of the situation. “Besides, they might’ve been right about the destruction part of the email.” She added in a much quieter voice, referring to the complex of buildings her teammate had recently destroyed.
It had been purely an accident, a blunder of magic most would've had a difficult time controlling if one was to ask y/n. However, it had been a pure catastrophe if one was to ask the American government.
“It was an accident, and the houses were empty.” The redhead cocked her head to the side, face painted in faux shock at y/n’s accusations.
“Offer the trip to Steve. Heaven knows Captain Rogers needs a break.” She finished the water bottle, throwing it into the trash. “We can talk later, but I must get going.”
James Buchanan Barnes was undoubtedly still waiting in the training facility, and, though y/n had little desire to finish training, she couldn’t bail again. Besides, James had been beating her ass at hand-to-hand combat the past few weeks, and she’d be everything she had always despised if she gave him the satisfaction of giving up that easily.
“I did.” The guilty undertones in Wanda’s tone stopped y/n in her tracks, and she glanced at the redhead from over her shoulder. “I signed up the two of you for the vacation.”
Bewilderment burned in y/n’s eyes. “What?!”
“Pack your bags.” The younger girl chuckled, leaning against the bar. Her smile was everything but innocent. “The plane leaves tomorrow evening.”
The woman tried arguing, she did.
As soon as James had dismissed her from training, she had been running around in meek attempts to locate Steve, and even when she had finally succeeded, Wanda’s story proved to be true. The schedules had been cleared, Steve’s bags had been packed. It was suspicious, way too suspicious — the Steve she had known for almost ten years already, wouldn’t have willingly signed up for a vacation. It was an all-expenses-paid vacation in Hawaii, yes, but everything had appeared too perfect for it to be true.
She found herself on the plane the next evening nonetheless because if The Captain Rogers agreed to it, she could see herself tanning topless, a Moscow Mule in hand, as well. The universe must’ve heard y/n’s prayers and decided to bless her with a miracle. Thank you, universe, she thought, sipping on a vodka soda the flight attendant had given her as soon as she sat down in the business-class seat. Though the airplane could never compare to the luxury of Tony’s private jets, which dripped with excessive luxury, it was far better than flights with the team, for this flight had no bickering or shouting. I need more of these, y/n decided when a nearby passenger kept slamming their backpack into the overhead bin, I need more vodka.
“This compartment must be full. Perhaps you should try the compartment next to it?” She softly suggested, flipping through the airline’s in-flight shopping catalog.
She loved boarding first for the copious amounts of space in the overhead bins because the loss of storage was the sorrow passengers who boarded last suffered.
“What the fuck?” Bucky gawked at her before giving the backpack a final push and deciding to shove it underneath the seat when it didn’t fit. “Where the fuck is Steve?” His loud voice earned judging glances from the people with kids in the row ahead of them, but he paid the family no mind.
“James?!”
Devil himself sat beside y/n, his perplexed expression matching hers. No, no, no, Steve wouldn’t.
The woman had been overly excited to meet Bucky in all his glory after the court had declared him innocent. And, sure, he had stabbed her the first time they met, but y/n had been willing to put the past behind the pair and start fresh. Everyone deserved a second chance, or everyone except Bucky, she had determined, when he had been nothing but an asshole for the last five years. It had never been a ‘James hates everyone’ issue, no, it was a ‘Bucky hates y/n’ issue. If he was determined to make her life a living hell, she was more than happy to return the favor, declaring war.
“Did you put him up to this?”
“What?”
“Did you switch places with Steve?” He repeated in a far bolder and louder voice.
She could not comprehend the words that rolled off of his tongue. Why would she, the woman who had recently replaced his almond milk with whole milk, knowing he’d suffer immensely, but doing it anyway just for the fun of it, ask Steve to go on a vacation with James?
“Yes, sergeant, I begged Steve for a week in paradise with the great James Buchanan Barnes.”
The soldier raised a brow, digging into his back pocket to retrieve something y/n deemed as a brick — an old, barely usable cellphone Bucky used for his personal endeavors. She peeked at the contact list of three whole people and snickered to herself. Steve, Sam, and his therapist were the only numbers he had saved. Though it did not come as a surprise, it was amusing to witness.
“Sir, please put the phone away, we are preparing for takeoff.”
His head shot up at the sound of the flight attendant’s voice. James glanced between the insufferable woman in the seat on his left and the woman with a pleasant smile standing nearby, carefully choosing his next battle.
“There’s been a misunderstanding.” He grinned apologetically, but closed the flip phone. “I just need to make a quick call.”
“The plane door’s open,” y/n shrugged, pretending to look unbothered as if Bucky’s appearance on the plane wasn’t the most horrifying of problems, “you could let me go on the trip alone,” she paused, pretending to be in deep thought, “I’d be distraught, of course, but it’d be nothing a little Hawaiian sun and a martini couldn’t fix.”
Bucky scoffed at her. Was she really that stuck up to believe she was the only one in need of a holiday?
James wouldn’t outright admit it, but he desperately craved a break from the stress of high-stakes missions, frequently occurring chaos in the compound, from y/n, who had ruined his last Wednesday by switching his almond milk to whole milk. He had stayed up in the bathroom until midnight, missing out on a potentially incredible date. It would've been his third after James had gotten his mind back and y/n had wrecked it, prompting a stream of angry messages from Jennifer, a bartender at a local bar.
“The door is actually closed, ma’am. Please fasten your seatbelts and turn all devices on airplane mode.” The flight attendant’s smile faltered for a second. “Would you like me to bring you another vodka soda when we’re in the air?” She questioned, gesturing to y/n’s empty plastic cup as an offer for consolation.
“Make it double, please.” She nodded eagerly, the appalling realization of James and her being stuck on an airplane to Hawaii slowly creeping in.
The soldier threw an unamused glare in the girl’s direction, "if you throw up-“
“Oh my,” the annoyance in her tone was evident when she spoke, “that was one time, James,” she pushed a finger into his chest, “It was Halloween, and I wanted to outdrink Steve, and-“
“And I don’t care.” He shuffled in his seat for a more comfortable position. The plane was suddenly too hot and too cramped for James to stomach. “Just don’t throw up and, this one you might find difficult executing, stop talking to me. It’s bad enough I got tricked into getting on a plane with the most aggravating woman alive.” The words dripped with poison, firm and calculated. The former sentence was harsh, but it was his truth.
“When we land, you could stay at the airport,” she turned to face him, her knees bumping against his half on purpose, half because of the tight space between them, “and get on the next flight to upstate New York.”
James sneered, “sounds like a plan. I sincerely hope you’ll exceed at completing it.” If anyone was to catch the next flight to NYC it would be y/n, he’d make sure of it.
She studied him, hoping her deadly stare would frighten the soldier, yet he didn’t move, make a sound, or change facial expressions. He remained entirely cool on the outside, and it infuriated her.
The next time her knees bumped into his, it was deliberate. “I need a vacation.” If James wanted to, and he did, he would’ve purposely mistaken the comment for a plea. A plea for sympathy from none other than y/n, the woman who never begged people for anything.
“As do I.”
“This is only the beginning then, princess,” she snatched the phone from his hands, aggressively flipping it shut from when he had turned it on after the flight attendant had left his sight, “this monstrosity is old enough to be a safety hazard, and it definitely does not have airplane mode.”
“Good. Perhaps it’ll kill us both and put me out of this misery.” He hissed, capturing y/n’s wrist.
She almost hoped it would.
“Honeymoon?!”
“I might have twisted the truth slightly,” Wanda’s voice sounded distracted over the phone.
“Slightly? I’m on a fucking honeymoon with Bucky Barnes, Wanda.” She could see Bucky through the glass windows from where she was standing in the smoking area outside of the hotel.
“Mmmh.”
“They’re putting us in the Lovers’ Suite as we speak. There’s probably going to be rose petals everywhere.”
“First, calm down.” Wanda switched the iPhone to her left side, holding it in place with her shoulder and cheek as she painted her nails.
Though she wouldn’t admit it, hearing the betrayal in y/n’s voice was the highlight of her week. She loved the girl, and if it came down to it, she’d die for her, but the situation was amusing at the least.
Steve had been the first person to find out about Hawaii, and when he made a seemingly silly joke that she should send Bucky and y/n on a honeymoon, a plan had been born.
“Second, you love roses.” A foolproof plan of Steve and Wanda to help the idiots notice what they had been blind to. “Besides it’s just for one week.”
“One week with Bucky Barnes is one week too long.”
“Please send me photos of you two at the beach.” The redhead chuckled.
“There will be no photos of us at the beach,” she replied, her tone dripping with poison, “I hope you know that I will forever hate you.”
“Don’t blame me. I didn’t know Bucky would show up instead of Steve.” Wanda lied through her teeth.
She had known about the ordeal that would unfold. In fact, she had masterfully orchestrated it all. It was y/n’s fault for believing Captain America would choose a vacation over missions and meetings he had been scheduled to attend.
“Steve better sleep with his eyes open when I get back.”
“I love you!” Wanda hung up the phone before y/n could get another word in.
“Shit.” She cursed under her breath when the phone suddenly became silent.
The soldier’s sickeningly charming smile was the last thing y/n expected when she strutted up to the reception desk.
“Darling, would you mind showing your ID? It’s the final thing we need to check in.”
She raised a brow at James, confused. “What?”
He threw her a brief, unimpressed glance before softening his eyes and gesturing to the woman. “Aaliyah has the room ready early, but she needs both of our IDs to check us in. It’s mentioned in the rules of the contest.”
The contest Wanda had used to trick her. May she burn in Sokovian hell.
“Yes, both parties must present their IDs. It’s simply a formality.” Aaliyah chimed in. “Our staff always get informed of the winners’ names. It’s the only way to redeem activities, meals at the à la carte restaurants, and special discounts.”
“Would a driver’s license work?” She asked, rummaging through her purse before sliding a random ID over the counter.
“Of course!” The receptionist’s smile was too bright and too happy for nine in the morning, y/n decided, but then again, it was Hawaii, so perhaps people functioned differently here. “Is this your first honeymoon?”
“It is!” She answered too quickly and without giving James a chance to speak. “We’ve just been too busy to notice as time flew by. Today’s our fourth wedding anniversary.” The words fell out of her mouth quicker than y/n could stop them, and she winced at the lie.
“Congratulations! I’ll have a romantic dinner arranged for tonight. Would seven work, or should I schedule it at eight?”
She had been entirely wrong. The universe cursed her — the tipsiness from the vodka was wearing off, the week in paradise turned out to be a faux honeymoon, and the random ID, she had provided hurriedly so as to not arouse suspicions on why a regular traveler carried that many driver’s licenses, was issued under the name of none other than Amelie Barnes. The ID had never been a problem until today when it incriminated y/n as Bucky’s wife and became the ultimate punishment for all the sins she had committed against the soldier.
Perhaps I should clean out my wallet sometimes.
“We wouldn’t want to cause any trouble, Aaliyah.” He awkwardly patted y/n on the shoulder. “You must deal with hundreds of honeymooners every day.”
“Nonsense. It’d be my pleasure.”
“The flight was exhausting,” James tried again, “we’ll probably enjoy a drink or two and call it a night.”
"It's fine, really." She chimed in, stepping further away from James and his awkward touches. "We want to order room service anyways."
"Yes!" He agreed, glancing at y/n. "A burger sounds divine." The timber of Bucky's voice was utterly unconvincing.
"Scheduling a dinner? It sounds too tiring and too long of a process." The woman offered Aaliyah a foolish grin, resting her elbows on the reception desk and propping her head in her hands.
She had attempted to sound unbothered, but her delivery of words had been quite ridiculous. She appeared eccentric, stupidly staring at the employee through panicked eyes. I am not his wife, he is not my husband. Please, woman, do not arrange a romantic dinner for the two of us tonight.
Unfortunately, the receptionist did not turn out to be a mind reader.
“It's not," she narrowed her eyes before her tightly pursed lips switched into a smile, "seven it is then! Toro Toro is our finest restaurant and will be perfect for a passionate anniversary celebration.”
“Great.” Bucky muttered under his breath.
She slid two pamphlets over the desk, “One of the pamphlets is a map of the hotel, and the other is a list of honeymoon activities. Couples massage seems to be the fan favorite.” She typed something on the computer before pushing the IDs and two sets of room keys in their direction, “Brody will lead you to the suite. Welcome to Hawaii Mr. and Mrs. Barnes.”
“I’m not going to the dinner.” James slumped into the couch.
The room was spacious and elegant, and, her intuition had been right, covered in rose petals. A bottle of champagne stood in a bucket of ice on the coffee table, a generous fruit basket and a note next to it. She landed on the opposite side of the sofa, picking up the postcard to read it.
Welcome to Hawaii — paradise awaits. We wish you a passionate and blissful honeymoon. The mea inu (drinks) are on us!
“Fine by me.” She let out a strangled chuckle at the irony of it all. “Do you think the receptionist was in on it?”
“Aaliyah?” James reached down to pop the champagne open. “She might be on something, that much I can say, but,” he took a sip from the bottle before pouring himself a glass and then, after a second of hesitation, begrudgingly poured y/n a glass too, “to think Steve would set her up is a reach.”
“Wanda would. She knew about the flights and the honeymoon package, and,” y/n got silent and took a big gulp of champagne when a sudden realization set in, “what were the rules of the contest?”
“I’m not Google on legs, y/n.” An aggravated sigh slipped past his lips.
She craved to spit a sarcastic comment at James but refrained against it.
“What if we have to pretend to be a couple? What if the contest is designed in a way that a pair of friends or strangers cannot redeem the prize, and we’ll have to pay for everything? Tony would skin us.”
“The receptionist mentioned something along the lines of people scamming the contest’s company, but this is utter nonsense. There were five winners in total, they couldn’t possibly monitor each pair.”
“They could take away the activities.” She raised a brow, finishing her drink. “Bye, bye scuba diving.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, we are,” the word got lost in his throat as James made a disgusted face, “a couple as of thirty minutes ago. In fact, we’re celebrating our fourth wedding anniversary.”
“The ID was issued a little over four years ago, Barnes.”
“And? You just had to run your big mouth and get us a reservation for a romantic dinner, didn’t you?”
“I panicked!” She raised her voice, finding a way into the bedroom. It was a monstrosity compared to the living room, decorated with not only rose petals but Hershey's chocolate kisses and candles everywhere. “The driver’s license I pulled happened to be under the name of Amelie Barnes, she saw it was issued a little over four years ago and most likely assumed I had changed my name soon after our wedding.”
“The wedding we never had.”
She had been wiping roses off the bed and onto the floor, emptying a pair of heavy suitcases on the satin sheets as soon as it was clean.
“It’s not like I could’ve snatched the ID and presented another. Perhaps she recognized you, the infamous Winter Soldier, but I, if you need a refresher,” the woman disappeared into the balcony when James came into the bedroom, “work under disguises.” Her voice was almost a whisper in the morning’s wind. “I’m the Avenger without a name.”
Nick Fury had imposed a great deal of strength and a great deal of sorrow upon y/n when she had finished S.H.I.E.L.D. training. She had excelled in many areas, but lying was her forte. The woman had once loved to be a ghost story, to embody a superhero without an identity, especially when fellow Avengers couldn't show faces in public without getting recognized. All good things come to an end, she had learned when the lies had become a burden, bleeding into her personal life, and y/n had found herself largely alone. James, a man she despised, had more genuine memories of y/n than her past lovers ever would. Over the years, it had evolved into as generous of a problem as it had been an opportunity.
“This is bad.” Bucky followed after her. “We cannot be seen together.”
“As if we usually are.”
“I’m being serious, y/n. Forget about the money. What if someone recognizes me and connects the quite obvious dots that you might be working for the Avengers as well?” James leaned on the balcony railing, too close to y/n for her enjoyment.
The woman stayed silent, enjoying the view. The sky was stained with various hues of blue, lighter than the endless ocean ahead of them. It was nothing short of breathtaking, glorious even. Hawaii was truly a paradise on Earth with its sandy air and pleasantly warm sun, whose rays gently caressed her skin.
“Officially you are retired. The public isn’t aware of your affiliation with Avengers.” She reminded. "Amelie Barnes is the wife of a retired officer, nothing less, nothing more."
There was a chance they could run into a former HYDRA agent or a politician the Avengers had tried and failed to lock up, but the chance was too slim to become a burden. Perhaps we could make this work, she thought and stole a glance at Bucky. She would stay on her side of the hotel while he would stay on his, and if need be, they’d pretend to be a couple without getting noticed by these vacationing villains James referred to. It had happened before, once, when Sam had a genius idea of catching an arms dealer at an upscale club in New York City. James had kissed her then, and much to y/n’s surprise, she hadn’t stopped breathing or dropped dead. They had caught the trafficker and went on their merry ways — Bucky continued to exhaust her ass at training, and y/n had switched his conditioner to body wash amongst other, less innocent, endeavors. Much to her dismay, his hair continued to stay shiny and, in Wanda’s words, quite fabulous.
“Yes, sergeant, villains just happen to vacation at The Maui Resort.” She poked fun at his obnoxious concerns, disappearing back into the bedroom.
As of now, there was only a single problem y/n needed to resolve.
Should she suggest James sleeps on the floor or in the marble bathtub?
summary: Steve’s silly joke happened to inspire the best, or possibly the worst, idea Wanda had ever come up with — send James Buchanan Barnes and y/n on an all-expenses-paid honeymoon in Hawaii. the problem? they cannot stand to be around each other.
taglist is down below (please let me know if you want to be added or removed from the list!)
WHERE DREAMS GO TO DIE masterlist
series’ SPOTIFY playlist
A brooding figure loomed over the table, and, judging by the sharp scent of woody cologne, it was not the waiter.
The sun had disappeared from the broad horizon, leaving the restaurant basking in the soft glow of lanterns and candlelight. Dreamy jazz sounds saturated the space, which was simultaneously open and closed. Despite the lousy name, Toro Toro was a spectacular overwater establishment — a long wooden dock led to an intimate setting with limited tables and a narrow but elegant bar. It was situated only a short walk away from the common areas of the hotel, possessing the pleasure of undisturbed peace as the restaurant imposed a strict adults-only policy.
“The menu’s full of oysters, caviar, shrimp with garlic butter?” Her sentence warped into a question as she read through the entrees before glancing at James through the top of the menu. “Delicious, but might be dangerous for a man pushing a hundred and ten.”
“A hundred and seven.” James scanned y/n’s exposed chest, eyes raking over the silk dress and Louboutin heels.
The man wouldn’t describe the attire as a pleasant change, that he’d die before admitting, but it was a change. The black satin shirt Steve had convinced him to pack matched the color of her clothing, and they, to anyone who knew any better, horrifically resembled a couple. A massive diamond ring rested on y/n’s fourth finger from when Tony had gifted it to her for Christmas, solidifying her as Bucky’s pretend wife.
The table bore two bottles of Cabernet Sauvignon, one empty and the other on its way there. She must’ve been sitting at the table alone for the last half hour, nibbling at bread and cheese without ordering. If James knew y/n, and in some of the worst ways he did, he’d guess she had established a sob story of a fourth wedding anniversary and a missing husband.
He’d be right.
“I’ve heard oysters are an aphrodisiac, so that’s a no,” she placed the menu down, staring at James as he sat down, “why are you here?”
It was the burning question of the hour. Why did James Buchanan Barnes decide upon a dinner with her?
“I was in desperate need of an evening with you, and it is our wedding anniversary,” he nodded at the waiter, who approached the table to bring more bread, “also, I was hungry, and nothing at the buffet seemed appetizing.”
To say that nothing at the buffet seemed remotely delicious would be an understatement. The Shack was holding a Mexican night, and as much as James had fallen in love with nachos over the years sharp salsas he couldn’t yet stomach. Mexican dishes had consistently been more of a punishment than a pleasure for the soldier. A rendezvous with y/n could never compare to his intolerance for spicy foods. Besides, James had no desire for mediocre pizza at the 24/7 lounge.
She cocked her head to the side, amused. “Jordan!” The woman called after the boy. “Could you bring us champagne? Oh, and more butter, please.” She flashed him an innocent smile, gazing at him through hooded eyes.
Besides the hostess, Jordan the waiter was the first to greet y/n at Toro Toro. He had been as flirtatious as he had been awkward, but he was also great at conversation, even sitting down with y/n when she had, less than honestly, admitted that her husband would not be joining her. He had brought her an off-menu appetizer, inviting y/n to a staff party later that week as condolence.
“I see you made a friend.” James spread a generous amount of butter on a piece of bread.
“I did! He’s a Maui local and works at the resort for good tips, hot chicks, and free booze.” The explanation earned a baffled look from James. “Jordan’s words, not mine.” She graced his empty glass with the leftover cabernet and shook her head in disbelief. “I cannot believe I had to sit through exhausting monologues of villains on vacations and catch me if you can, but please don’t for nothing.” James couldn’t figure out the latter reference.
“Did it excite you?”
“Yes.” She poured herself a glass of champagne when Jordan placed an opened bottle and hurriedly disappeared. “All that foreplay, and you still showed up.”
James grinned crookedly, staring into her eyes — for a split second, his walls crumbled, allowing her to witness an honest man who was truly amused by her joke. Except it was over before she could say anything, and James averted his gaze, picking up the menu. She is not funny.
“Oysters are the last thing I’d imagine to an aphrodisiac,” he commented, eyes locked on the piece of paper resting in his hands.
“Giacomo Casanova reportedly ate heaps of them for breakfast,” she drained half her glass, “learned it at Pepper’s fun fact Friday,” she explained, referring to Pepper’s infatuation with acquiring seemingly the most peculiar of information.
Her own remembrance of bizarre knowledge had never come in handy until the conversation, yet, she had been grateful to have learned about seahorses, the purpose of eyebrows, and, in Pepper’s words, “dangerous wax coating on supermarket apples”.
The left corner of his mouth curled up into a meager smile, “he must’ve been real horny then.”
“He must’ve been,” she agreed.
An unusually amicable silence settled between the pair as she bit her tongue on a cobra’s blood would be a much more unsettling aphrodisiac addition, keeping it to herself rather than continuing a conversation of sexual matters with him. James had presumably picked out an entree, messing with the silverware until a certain man caught his eye. He shuffled in the seat, refilling both of their glasses, and leaned in closer than she would ever want him to, especially during dinner, for she had not yet lost her appetite.
“Remember Elijah Williamson,” he stared at someone behind the woman, “a corrupted politician the FBI asked us to help incarcerate?”
“Yes,” she narrowed her eyes, attempting to read Bucky’s expression, “he was accused of working with HYDRA on a similar project as they did in 2014.”
“And we both knew that HYDRA continued to work in silence and that he was guilty, even though the court deemed Elijah innocent?”
“Yes.” The tone of her voice was beginning to bear hints of annoyance again, the relatively lighthearted atmosphere shattering.
The FBI and Avengers often bumped heads, given their lines of work, so it had come as a surprise when the government’s agents had reached a dead end and showed up at the compound for help. She could remember the day as if it had happened yesterday — the smug grin she had on throughout the first meeting and the sour taste when Steve had paired the two.
“We need someone with extensive knowledge of HYDRA and someone who could go undercover,” he had said then, “please put your differences aside. This is important.”
Steve had been wrong about the woman. She had not been needed for undercover work.
Nonetheless, by the time Natasha had offered to step in and take over, James and y/n were in too deep. Too deep into Elijah Williamson’s personal and professional lives. The case had consumed them, and at times, they’d almost stumble on the missing piece of the puzzle before the court had deemed him innocent, and they had been forced to step away empty-handed. Somedays, she strangely missed the countless cups of coffee, the sleepless nights, and the eerily peaceful conversations the two had shared for eight solid months.
“Do you still think he’s guilty?”
“The government asked us to not intervene any further after the trial was over.”
“Yes, but that is not the answer to the question I asked.” James returned his stare to her face. It was firm and heavy, and as he searched for something in her eyes, a glimmer of trust perhaps, she hunched in the chair. “Do you?”
She was in thought for a second. “We had very few leads, James.” None were of significance either. “Elijah donates to charities all the time, he helps kids in the foster system, hell, he does too much good to believe he’d want to wipe out half the population.”
“That’s what he wants everyone to assume.”
“I would love to entertain the idea of Elijah Williamson being guilty, but the man, as it stands, is innocent in the eyes of prosecutors.”
James leaned back in his seat. “Do you trust me?” His sudden change of tone took her by surprise.
“I could envision trusting you on the field if my life depended on it, but I’d be reluctant to ask for a coffee.” Reluctant was a restrained statement.
“Good girl.”
“What?” She asked, face drained of emotions before she burst out laughing. Heaven help me, James has a praise kink, she giggled once more, he’s so getting blackmailed when we get back.
“It slipped out on accident.” Pink hues crept onto his cheeks before his expression hardened. “Don’t turn around, but Elijah’s here, and he’s been staring at me ever since Jared brought the champagne.”
The woman must’ve developed an instinct to do the opposite of what James would instruct her because she peeked over her shoulder, locking eyes with the politician.
“The waiter’s name is Jordan.” She spoke, ignoring Bucky’s disappointed expression when their eyes met. “I suppose this action did not earn me a second good girl?”
“It did not.” He smoothed the invisible wrinkles on his satin shirt. “Please behave. Elijah is making his way towards us.” His words were less than a whisper.
She had seen Elijah at the trial, sneaking glances from the very far back to avoid getting noticed, but she did not remember him being … attractive? The man who loomed over their table had a full head of luscious, gray locks, and though he had just turned 68, he did not look a day over 50, with sun-kissed features and round eyes.
“Sergeant Barnes, it’s a surprise to see you in Maui.”
James rose to shake his outstretched hand. “I have to agree. I’d never peg you as The Maui Resort kind of man.”
“My wife and I met here, what,” he paused, “thirty years ago? We return each August for our anniversary.” He chuckled, turning his focus towards y/n. “Who’s this beautiful lady?”
“Thank you.” She offered him a smile, leaping up from the chair. “I’m Amelie, James’s wife.” She outstretched her hand, which he shook without hesitancy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
It pained James physically to abstain from an eye roll.
“Elijah.” He introduced himself and glanced behind the pair, studying the table. “Champagne is always a sign of celebration.” Though it was not formulated as a question, his tone had notes of curiosity in it.
“Yes!” James confirmed as if breaking free from a trance. “Honeymooners,” he gestured between himself and y/n, “we’re honeymooning.”
Elijah took a second to speak, staring at the soldier in amusement, and y/n stepped in before James had a chance to deliver additional, and most likely ludicrous, lines. “Would you mind joining us for dinner?”
The politician was great at masking, but she was a spy, trained by the Natasha Romanoff to pick up every, and any, clue. “Everyone has a tell,” the redhead had observed, “learn to notice the smallest of reactions.”
It was a slight raise of his left eyebrow that had revealed his interest in the personal life of James Buchanan Barnes. His interest in James’s wife, in her.
“We’d hate to interrupt.” He spoke, and there it was again, the subconscious raise of his eyebrow.
“Please,” she smiled, softly placing a hand on Bucky’s bicep, “I’d love to hear about your program for troubled teens in foster systems.”
The soldier beside her realized y/n’s play, “we haven’t even ordered, yet,” he encouraged.
They had been asked to abandon the case, but a dinner with Elijah Williamson was the closest lead they’d ever get. The eight months they had spent working on the case had strangely been the most peaceful months he had ever spent at the compound. A snarky remark would slip past his or y/n’s lips in a while, but they had managed to act cordial. He burned with a desire to demolish HYDRA and anything that was left of it, and she had taken the hint, letting James lead the way. It had been the first time he had seen y/n for who she truly was — a great spy and agent, but she’d never know for he’d never tell her. The pair had built a balance between respect and hatred, and compliments had no place in their complex relationship.
She had always known James was a deadly assassin and an excellent spy, but she had never accounted James as a persuasive liar. By the time dessert came, Bucky had fabricated intricate stories of their wedding, life after retirement, and a random fake cat named Alpine. According to him, it had magnificent white fur and was adopted. He had lazily draped the metal arm across her chair’s backrest a while ago, and she could almost forget the motive behind the dinner. Bucky’s stories had painted him as a cool, loving husband, who had been eager for a honeymoon ever since the two got falsely married. That he hadn’t mentioned.
The tone of his voice remained charming throughout the night, and y/n silently reminded herself this dinner wasn’t a pleasure for Bucky or for herself, but simply a means to an end.
“James, do not take this the wrong way, but Amelie is wonderful.” Nancy, Elijah’s wife, spoke. “Very few people would be willing to forgive, and pardon me for the harsh phrasing, the Winter Soldier’s bloody past.”
James tensed at the words, maintaining his faux grin. “She is.”
Perhaps under different circumstances, she could see herself appreciating Nancy. The woman operated multiple charities, was a human rights lawyer, and a socialite. She oozed elegance, her graying blonde locks, pulled into a tight bun, perfectly complemented her auburn orange gown. She appeared to be out of touch with reality at times, but she was somewhat friendly and welcoming. Definitely, a great listener, and though being a great listener did not exclude someone from committing crimes, y/n had a hard time comprehending that this graceful woman could do as much as lift a finger to a small animal. Nancy couldn’t want half the population wiped out, could she?
“It was harsh,” she came to Bucky’s defense, “but I understand how it could appear from the outside looking in,” her tone had an edge sharper than she intended it to.
“Amelie’s a very forgiving person,” James shifted in his seat, removing his arm to refill everyone's wine glasses, “and she’s all mine.” The glimmer in his eyes when he turned to peek at her was a relieved thank you.
“Sergeant Barnes,” she broke their brief eye contact to look at Nancy, “has blood on his hands, but it is not a burden James should bare, for it was HYDRA’s fault.” She noticed as his hand slowly crept underneath the table, harshly squeezing her thigh; a warning that it’s too soon to bring it up. “If HYDRA existed to this day, I would destroy it myself for everything they’ve done to him.” Bucky's firm grasp had painted goosebumps on her exposed skin, yet she refrained from smacking his palm away, opting to furtively push it aside.
“She asks me to get rid of spiders.” He forced a chuckle, studying y/n, and removed his hand. “My wife is too terrified to kill them.”
“Oh, I believe Amelie. A woman would do anything for the man she loves.” Nancy nodded, causing the two to share a pithy look.
“Nancy’s right, James, your wife is a wonderful young woman,” he peered at him through the top of his glass, “and Amelie, thank you for having common sense.”
She analyzed Elijah's body language, noticing a second tell.
The politician would gently tap on his glass, middle and index fingers barely making contact with the object before he'd push it away to knit his hands together. It had only begun after bottles of champagne they had shared as a group. He was intoxicated and most likely wouldn’t shy away from speaking voluntarily.
“What do you mean?”
“Last year I was on a trial instigated by some FBI fools.” The politician leaned back in his seat. “They accused me of leading HYDRA, except HYDRA doesn’t manifestly exist."
She caught the word manifestly, holding onto it. If he had ended the sentence with "HYDRA doesn't exist, manifestly," she might've let it slip, but, and perhaps she was reading too much into it given his underhanded past, "HYDRA doesn't manifestly exist"?
“The FBI does more damage than good.” She spoke with faux reassurance. “I wouldn’t find it hard to believe those knuckleheads put a lovely man through unimaginable horrors.”
“Careful, Sergeant, I might have to steal her.” Elijah’s comment earned him a playful smack on the shoulder from Nancy. “Darling, it was a joke. Nancy Williamson is the only woman I’d ever need.” He placed a tender kiss on her temples before turning his attention to James.
“What is the secret?” He questioned, pretending to be amazed by their affection. “We might need it a couple years down the road.” A sly smile stretched across his features.
“Don’t say that!” Nancy hiccuped as she drained her glass. “You’re both so young and so in love.”
We are young, y/n thought, but hell would freeze over before we fell in love.
The woman placed a gentle hand on Nancy’s before she could refill her glass. “It’s probably best if we called it a night.” She spoke, pretending to care whether Nancy was drunk or sober.
“I was skeptical of a dinner with the former Winter Soldier at first,” Elijah wrapped a hand around Nancy’s shoulders, pulling her into his embrace, “but it was great. I cannot believe you cook eggs with pesto, I must try that.”
“I do,” James nodded, unsure of what pesto was, only ever hearing about it from Tony, but supporting his lie nonetheless, “it’s a breakfast from heaven.”
Elijah laughed at his words, loud and carefree. “What are your plans for tomorrow?” He asked, glancing between them.
Her plan was to tan in an adults-only beach and drink her body weight in mediocre margaritas, as far away from James as she could possibly get, but an honest answer might not have gone down well.
“Surprisingly, we have not decided yet.”
“Great! Nancy and I are organizing a yacht party tomorrow, so put it on the list.”
James wasn’t a fan of yachts, parties, or spending time around y/n, but he was willing to sacrifice comfort if it meant a solid lead toward the demolition of HYDRA, “I cannot wait.”
summary: Steve’s silly joke happened to inspire the best, or possibly the worst, idea Wanda had ever come up with — send James Buchanan Barnes and y/n on an all-expenses-paid honeymoon in Hawaii. the problem? they cannot stand to be around each other.
author's note: i cannot believe we reached the end — thank you for all of the comments and the love you've showed this series, it truly means the world! also, i don't know how the nsfw section stretched to be over 2k words and now i'm rethinking every smutty fic i've ever written
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“The dress is a bit much,” the sergeant’s eyes raked over her gown.
The intricately beaded dress was black, and sensual, and outrageous, with a deep slit, which exposed most of y/n’s upper thigh. She might’ve seemed like an angel in devil’s clothing to those of unsuspecting eyes, but James understood better. The woman was a fallen saint, and as he committed the image to memory, he had decided that she was placed on this earth solely to tempt him in every way she could. Their story was never destined to be comforting, and easy, no, the story of James and y/n would always be difficult, complex, and shamefully sinful.
“It seems Maui had been harsh on you, James,” she spoke, “otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
The cool touch of his metal arm brushed against y/n’s skin when he took a step forward, coming to stand beside her. It was bothersome, the closeness of his body as they observed the gala’s guests unsuspectingly dancing, drinking, or conversing about matters they had deemed important.
There was only a single matter on her mind y/n considered meaningful, and she had not seen him for the entirety of the night. Steve had been a nimble shadow, shaking hands with the leaders and first ladies of the world.
“Perhaps, I was wrong,” the word felt foreign on his tongue, “and HYDRA ceased to exist.”
She angled her face to read his expression, but it was aggravatingly blank, “how’d you figure that out, Sherlock?”
James noticed the sarcasm in her tone and nearly chose to ignore it, “reviewed some files, checked a couple databases,” possibly hacked into Sam’s iCloud to read the texts between you two. "Have any more theories you’d like to share?”
She chuckled, then chuckled again from the bewilderment before breaking into a boisterous laugh; it couldn’t have been more disingenuous if she tried. “Why should I if the Winter Soldier will only trample on my ideas?”
Though the dimly lit ballroom overflowed with chatter and soft sounds of jazz, a tense stillness settled between them. The looming threat of Steve’s assassination was not a time for games and stubbornness, and James was frustrated at the spy’s thorny attitude.
“The Winter Soldier was blinded by bloodlust, but he’s ready to hear out his partner,” Bucky replied with a deep sigh, hoping she’d crack.
“Oh, we’re partners now?” The clench of his jaw didn’t go unnoticed, and she begrudgingly dropped the act. “Back when we attended Elijah’s yacht party, Mark was wary of you hence the fish tend to be vigilant around James comment. I might forget a name, but I always remember a face.” This time, she angled her entire body to face him. “Mark attended a gala in Germany a couple years prior, Steve had me monitoring the security cameras for hours then, and nothing was particularly interesting except for Mark and Wilfred Nagel’s unlikely friendship.”
“Shit,” his flesh arm clasped around her forearm, “ Nagel’s the doctor CIA had recruited before he seemingly disappeared into thin air.”
“Bingo,” she replied with a popping sound. “The accusations against Elijah, Mark’s presence on the boat, and the conversation between him and Wilfred months before Wilfred’s disappearance had me conceptualizing a theory of Mark and Elijah working alongside Nagel to produce super-soldiers.” A server boy approached the couple, and she promptly replaced her empty champagne flute with a fresh glass. “I’d assume Captain America would ruin those plans."
“The theory’s still blurry,” James released the grip on her arm, smoothing out the invisible wrinkles of his black suit. “If they’re plotting to execute Steve, why wouldn’t they assassinate me as well?”
She drank him in — the sergeant’s black suit was made of satin, alike the dress shirt, matching her onyx gown. Perhaps he had willingly chosen to abstain from a tie, or perhaps, he had been too headstrong to admit she had been correct about HYDRA, subjecting James to a lack of time for elaborate preparations. She decided it must’ve been the latter, for Bucky had worn the outfit to a party Natasha had organized after the court had pardoned his crimes.
“They could,” she agreed, “but they wouldn’t because you’ve been forgiven and have since retired, remember? The Winter Soldier enjoys a peaceful life away from criminals, Avengers, and fights.”
“The sucker has a wife too,” James gawked into y/n’s eyes, and she tittered at his attempt at a joke. “She looks good tonight.”
The glimmer in his expression she couldn’t understand.
She took a swig of champagne, peering at James over the flute for a single awkward moment too long, “was that a compliment?”
“It should’ve been,” he pursed his lips together.
James was allowed to feel frustrated, angry, and disappointed about y/n’s actions, he had decided after she had packed up and hastily abandoned the honeymoon. The woman had betrayed him by hiding significant information and biting her tongue on theories of HYDRA and its remains. Worse, she had fled Maui without as much as a goodbye, leaving James to sleep in the bed, angrily alone. Though his appetite had been ruined, he had chosen to order room service and watch terrible TV shows she had recommended to Wanda in the prior months. The sheets had been tainted with the scent of y/n’s perfume and lotion, a delicious blend of strawberry and vanilla. The Lovers’ Suite had been scattered with traces of her, and when he had ditched the room at last, deep into the night, even the beach had seemed to remind James of the bizarre yet pleasant memories they had shared. He wouldn’t have admitted it out loud, but he had begun missing y/n’s presence, prickly remarks, and the pointless arguments over the smallest of things.
“Steve’s backstage," Sam’s voice was a muffled sound through the earpiece.
She took a step forward, using Bucky’s body to shield herself from possibly prying eyes. “What about Mark Basso?”
James paled at the closeness of their bodies, but remained professional, examining the ballroom of feasible threats.
“I can’t find him, the dude’s been a ghost for the entire night, but,” there was a pause in his speech, “Elijah Williamson is backstage,” she could hear Sam drum his fingers on a metal surface, “they’ve been conversing for a good while.” A second passed before his words reached y/n’s ears once more. “Are you certain Mark’s appearance at the party is enough to incarcerate him?”
The woman recognized she should inform Sam of the situation without excluding certain details, and yet she couldn’t. If Sam understood the gravity of Elijah’s gala plans, he’d abandon monitoring the security cameras and would certainly place himself in danger to save the Captain. She needed the footage of the events that were to occur backstage, for she had already deceived James, allowing the soldier to believe HYDRA continued to exist.
The eight months they had spent together, unraveling Elijah’s life, had been honest, on y/n’s part, but the last five days had not. James had pursued false leads and theories, and she had let him. Sam might punish her with a harsh lecture, move to live on Natasha’s floor or stop coming to Friday’s Tequila Nights at Barry’s if he discovered y/n’s incomplete truths, but it’d be worth it, for he’d be in the security room in case Mark had planned to delete the footage. James deserved peace, and she craved to ease his mind two criminals at a time. A former HYDRA officer and a corrupt politician behind bars was a good start to rid of the nasty organization and its remains.
“The man’s a HYDRA operative,” she reminded, clutching James’ hand to lead him through the crowd of guests, “who just happens to be identified as deceased,” y/n maneuvered around people, dodging staff members and unsuspecting bystanders, “imagine the headlines and the public’s fear when it’ll get revealed the US government missed a dead man walking after the program to incarcerate security threats was implemented.” A corrupt program for a corrupt country. “President Ross would imprison Mark just to save face.”
The pair soon found themselves backstage. The stage was narrow much like the hallways, and though the space had plenty of overhead LED lights, it was painted a pitch-black color, and the confusing maze of corridors, entrances, and clothing racks seemed rather murky. She hauled James into the women’s bathroom and hurriedly locked the door. The soldier had seen women dragging men into bathrooms at clubs and parties. He was old, but he wasn’t dead — James understood what a couple would do in a bathroom together hence his confusion and reddened cheeks.
She raked her eyes over his face, “we’re not having sex, Barnes.”
“Is it because Steve needs saving or,” the smallest of smirks danced on his lips as James observed y/n step on the toilet to open a vent, “is it because you want our first time to be special?” Amusement colored his tone.
She threw a miffed glare toward him before continuing to rummage in the outlet, “do you actually believe I burn with lust for you?”
“Yes,” Bucky caught a pale yellow gym bag after she tossed it at him, “surely did during the honeymoon.”
“We’ll always have Maui,” she smiled with faux sweetness, stepping off the toilet and on the sparkling white tiles.
The smirk dropped from his lips at the comment because he had been open, honest then, and she just teased him about it. If time allowed for it, she might’ve apologized, guilt beginning to claw at her heart, but she ignored the strange emotion.
“Sam,” she pressed a finger on the earpiece before squatting down to search in the sack, “James is with me,” y/n found an additional earpiece, standing up and taking a step forward to gently attach the gadget onto the soldier, “do you have eyes on Steve?”
“Yes,” the Falcon murmured, audibly upset by Bucky’s presence. “James, hi,” he spoke through the intercom, “y/n, didn’t you say you'd leave the tin-man in Hawaii?”
“Obviously, I failed,” she replied, earning a soft smack from James on the shoulder, “when does the charity auction start?”
“It should begin in fifteen minutes,” Sam spoke, inspecting the view on the monitors, “an incredible date with Amelie Barnes, a gorgeous New York City socialite, is fifth on the list to be auctioned, seven offers before the old-fashioned date with the handsome Captain America.”
She glanced up at James, studying his bewildered expression. “There might be a few things you’ve missed,” y/n grinned in faux innocence before promptly clarifying, "we needed access to the backstage areas. Do you have a gun?”
“No,” James begrudgingly admitted, ashamed to have missed a crucial detail in his attire.
The pair stood in front of each other without a sliver of space in between. She didn’t give herself a minute to think the action through, resting her hands on his chest as she hastily lowered into a squatting position to reach the bag. James sucked in a breath as y/n’s hands slid across the length of his body. She rested a single palm on his upper thigh for balance while she retrieved a set of pistols, but just before his mind had enough time to register the sudden stimulation, she arose, clutching his flesh bicep to steady herself.
“Tuck it into the waistba—“
“Alright,” James interrupted her, “I’ve done this before.”
She let go of his shoulder, taking a step backward. “There’s no need to be rude,” y/n shrugged.
“I’m not being rude,” he rebuffed the comment, “just worried about where you’re planning to hide the gun.”
A slight smile waltzed on her lips as she pushed the bottom of her gown aside, faintly exposing lacy onyx panties and a holster. James choked, once, at the obscenity of her response.
“I’ve done this before,” she teased him, “sergeant.”
The charity auction had been a distant thought until she was standing on the stage with dozens of eyes upon her. She could hear the voice of the auction's host, describing the date she’d be forced to attend and the chatter of middle-aged men, hoping to secure the evening with Amelie Barnes, but y/n could only focus on searching for Mark in the crowd.
Nancy wouldn’t have lied to someone about Elijah and Mark’s wicked plans because the lawyer had zero motives to deceive a person she trusted. At least the woman hoped Nancy trusted whoever it had been on the other side of the phone because her whole plan revolved around Mark’s appearance at the gala. She’d never wish for Steve’s untimely death, but she did wish for the HYDRA operative and the politician to be caught on camera as they attempted to eliminate him.
“Let’s start the bidding at a thousand dollars,” the host announced, and she swallowed the lump of nerves in her throat.
A man on the left side of the ballroom raised his bid paddle. He seemed utterly too old to take y/n out on a date, and she shivered at the possibility.
The host beside y/n smiled, peeking at her. “We have a thousand, can we get more?”
“Two thousand!”
“Three thousand!”
“Five thousand dollars!”
She could barely register the number of voices, each interrupting the next to outbid the other.
A woman, close enough to the stage that she could see her face, raised the paddle. “Ten thousand dollars!”
“Ten thousand dollars for the woman in a green gown,” the presenter spoke cheerfully. “Amelie loves art galleries and tennis at The River Club of New York!” He encouraged the guests to aim higher. “The woman’s a real good company."
What the fuck did Sam tell them?
If she had ever thought that time spent in James Buchanan Barnes’ proximity must have been the worst thing the world could possibly offer, which she often would, she had been wrong. She was a spy, she had undoubtedly used her appearance to obtain certain information or opportunities on missions before, but the auction caused goosebumps to waltz on her skin — to be suppressed into an object, the perfect accessory for a date night, was one of the worst emotions she had ever experienced.
James stood in the back, observing her panic-riddled expression. She had forgotten Tony’s credit card in Maui on accident, and though Tony would skin him alive if he spent as much as a dime on it, Tony and James had never been close buddies, so what further damage could his impending action legitimately cause if the damage of the two’s past had already been irreversible.
“Fifteen thousand dollars,” James raised the bidding paddle, grinning at y/n.
She stood on the stage perplexed at the sound of Bucky’s voice, frantically searching for his face in the sea of people.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we just got our highest bid of the night! Fifteen thousand dollars for the man in the back going in one, two, th-“
“Thirty grand for the man in blue.” A deep voice reverberated through the room.
She abandoned her search for James, locking her gaze on Mark. The spy had inspected the crowd once, then had inspected it for a second time, and the agent had not been comfortably sitting at a nearby table, peering at her through the top of his champagne flute. Mark must have sneaked in, which signified that either Steve was already dead or Elijah was waiting for Mark backstage, conversing with Captain America before commencing the plan of a brutal murder.
“Forty,” James challenged, studying in which direction y/n’s disgusted glance pointed.
“Fifty thousand,” Mark announced before the host had a chance to say anything, continuing to scrutinize her. The agent’s smile was cocky, overconfident, almost as if she was the victim and he was the hunter; as if he had discovered y/n’s deepest and darkest of secrets.
“Fifty thousand going in one, two—“
“A hundred thousand dollars,” James yelled, interrupting the ghost, and maneuvered to stand by the stage.
Silence settled upon the room at the sheer absurdity of his proposed bid. The truth was, the sergeant had spoken before he could think because the world, at that moment, had not existed outside the gala. She was standing on the platform, the glitter in her special lotion, as she’d describe it, glimmering underneath the fiery spotlight. She was clad in an opulent gown, dripping in pearlescent onyx beads and intricate patterns. She was reduced to nothing but an object in the auction, a good company auction's participants could purchase.
She, the woman who’d never become a friend, for he’d always crave to be her lover.
The spy averted her piercing gaze away from Mark and glanced at James. Concern was visibly displayed in his eyes, yet his grin, sweet and playful to steady her nerves, remained. A corner of her mouth quirked up, and she mouthed a silent thank you. James was attempting to outbid every person in the room to save y/n from a terrible date, and he was willing to do it in understanding that Tony would lecture, if not evict, him.
The moment shattered as she returned her eyes to Mark, and her expression turned deadly. The spy might have played the role of an obedient, pleasant wife and woman on Elijah’s boat, but it was apparent he had acquired some kind of insight into who she verily was. It was useless to pretend she desired to be friends with Mark, a positively unsuspicious Elijah’s friend, who just happened to surprisingly specialize in foreign weaponry.
“This is shockingly incredible,” the host trumpeted in amazement, pausing for a second, “a hundred thousand dollars for the man in the satin suit going in one, two, three.” Mark basked in the daggers she sent toward him, sipping on his second glass of champagne as James glided onto the stage, clasping y/n’s fingers in his gloved hand, and placed a chaste kiss on her knuckles. “The date with Amelie Barnes has just been sold to the guy in a lovely suit,” James and y/n exchanged amused looks at the host’s comment, “but don’t abandon your seats just yet ladies and gentlemen, because up next we have a cooking lesson at Daniel with the beautiful chef Olivia Stroud.”
“Thank you,” she softly acknowledged his sacrifice at the auction, "for what you did back there."
The pair hid behind heavy velvet curtains, a hairsbreadth away from each other, occasionally peaking through the crack to inspect the limited backstage area for Mark or Elijah. It slightly resembled a room suited for rehearsals, mimicking the layout of the ballroom and the stage on a lesser scale. The space was cluttered and messy, with tangles of cords littering the floor and racks of clothing lining the walls.
A date with Steve was the last to be auctioned before the break, establishing the perfect opportunity to catch him off-guard and without innocent eyes around to witness the gory sight of Captain America’s murder.
James smiled, shyly almost. “I couldn’t allow myself to watch and do nothing while creepy old men fought over a chance to spend time with Amelie,” he teased, adjusting a fallen strap of y/n’s gown, “my hatred for you doesn’t stretch that deep.”
Heat crawled up her neck and onto her cheeks. “Bucky, you are an old man,” the woman teased, “perhaps not creepy, but weird? Absolutely.”
“I’m not weird,” he argued, suppressing a smile, “you eat ice cream with pickles for toppings.”
False shock stained the edges of y/n’s expression, “it was one time, and I only tried it because Pepper affirmed it was the most delicious thing she had ever eaten.”
“Pepper was pregnant,” he reminded playfully, earning a light smack on the shoulder.
The two Avengers swiftly switched into vigilant agents at the sudden squeak of the door. It was Mark, who entered the room first, scanning over the area for unwanted people. Steve appeared in the room seconds later, an arm resting on Elijah’s shoulders as he vehemently laughed at something the politician had mentioned.
It would’ve taken a fool to miss the obvious problem at hand.
Steve was seldom intoxicated. She’d know, for she had spent too many gatherings attempting to outdrink the man without real success. Thor’s Asgardian mead was deadly to mortals but pleasantly kind to gods and super-soldiers alike. Earthly alcohol, contrariwise, was harsh on him; the taste delectable, the effects on Steve’s modified human body meager.
It abruptly struck y/n — guns signified blood, plenty of it, and an operative smart enough to fabricate files of his supposed status as deceased wouldn’t be reckless and leave a plash of evidence in the backstage area of a charity gala’s ballroom.
“Good news,” Sam’s voice echoed in the pair’s ears, “I have eyes on Steve,” he paused briefly, “bad news, Mark Basso and Elijah Williamson are plaguing the Captain.”
James opened his mouth to speak, but she silenced him by placing a tender finger on his lips. “Sam, how closely were you monitoring the security cameras?”
It was a simple question she hoped the Falcon wouldn’t take offense to.
He did.
“I was observing the monitors like a hawk, y/n.”
She refrained against an unnecessary comment and focused on the task, “and the video has audio?”
“Yes.”
She took a step forward, closing the barely existent gap between them, “Elijah and Mark must’ve spiked his drink,” y/n hushedly whispered, circling a hand around James’ waist to touch the handgun she had provided.
The pistol was securely tucked into the waistband of his trousers, and the sergeant cocked his head to the side. I’ve been on missions before, the glimmer in his eyes stated, and she could sense the early stages of his frustration, I didn’t accidentally drop it or nothin’.
“At any point, did you notice Steve drinking a whiskey he had not ordered himself?”
“Alright,” Sam clicked his tongue, “so I might not have an answer to that particular question, but I can say that Steve went into the bathroom twenty minutes ago, and his face seemed quite pale.”
James placed a finger on the gadget, “did anyone accompany him?”
“Yes, a line of beautiful ladies,” the Falcon responded, and James could nearly visualize Sam rolling his eyes in annoyance.
The two men bickered some more, but she had tuned out the conversation, studying the scene onward. Everyone has a tell, y/n recalled. Though Steve’s words regarded lies and treacheries, the advice had not yet lost its meaning. It had been New Year’s Eve when she had gotten a nasty infection and had forgone Thor’s mead due to antibiotics. The compound’s residents had partaken in a friendly drinking competition then, and Steve had sworn the alcohol couldn’t exhilarate him, except his eyes had been droopy, and he had clutched James’ biceps for balance.
Steve leaned on Mark, his laugh far less joyous than it had been before, so perhaps Nancy had been wrong, and they had not planned to eliminate him at the gala, but rather drug the Captain, sneakily transporting his unconscious body to a place, devoid of prying glances and curious endeavors. She wondered whether Elijah would linger in the room until the poison took its course. It’d be easier to carry dead weight, for Steve might fight against the operation.
The plan was meticulously calculated except for a single nuance. Why would the two men bring Steve into the backstage area in the first place if they could’ve used the narrow hallways and hidden exits to sneak out?
“We should slaughter Wilfred.” Mark spoke as if answering y/n’s concerns. “I specifically told Nagel he cannot be late.”
“It’s a slight blunder,” Elijah replied, oblivious to the surroundings, and the woman behind the velvet material, around him. Steve was barely awake. “We have Rogers and a bit of time before he’s supposed to appear on stage.”
It was impossible to ignore James’ piercing eyes, and she hastily peeped at him. “Do we wait?”
And she craved to have the correct response to his question, but, despite her usual confidence during missions, she didn’t have an answer. James had allowed her to lead, and she felt as if she was disappointing him, lingering behind a curtain as the Captain, a friend, clutched the very enemies they wished to incarcerate. The only thing y/n understood in great certainty was that Steve’s body couldn’t leave the premises of the establishment.
“Did you see Mark or Elijah on the phone at any point in the night?”
“Mark was a ghost,” Sam’s voice crawled through her earpiece, “but I distinctly remember Elijah in a heated conversation. The man arrived at the gala with his wife, presumably, and scuttled away into a lonely corner soon after, which I found interesting.”
The former HYDRA operative’s phone dinged, and she lowered her hands to reach for the gun strapped to her thigh. Steve’s dormant body nearly hit the ground as he lost consciousness, and Elijah slithered his hands under Steve’s armpits to support the Captain’s weight. The woman’s heart clenched at the sight, of her confidante resting against Elijah’s chest like a heavy sack of potatoes, entirely unresponsive to the situation.
“Let’s move,” Mark clasped his ankles, and the unlikely allies hoisted Steve’s figure, “Wilfred messaged he’s awaiting outside.”
She could only comprehend Elijah's high-pitched shriek that rang in her ears, silencing the laughs, chatter, and footsteps sneaking into the space from the ballroom. James was the first to abandon the secure hiding spot behind the curtain, pointing his gun at the man, a stern expression on his face. A couple seconds passed before she trailed after him, shoving a pistol into Mark’s back as a threat. Steve’s body caused a harsh crash sound when it hit the ground, but she could only concentrate on Sam and the amount of time it’d take him to reach the ballroom backstage from the van parked outside.
“On your knees,” y/n instructed, firmly thrusting the gun against his skin.
The operative lazily raised his arms, making no effort to do as she had requested. “Amelie Barnes,” he chuckled, “what a stupid alias,” the situation didn’t afford contemplations on how he could’ve realized she was more than a homemaker, “though I must admit, I almost fell for the lovebirds' act by the way you two basked in each other on the boat.” Mark’s tone was tainted with smugness.
Elijah landed a painful punch on James’ jawline, and he staggered back at the surprise of the action before he straightened up and kneed him in the stomach.
She drew in a breath, “you’re wrong.”
The operative ignored the politician and the fight he seemed to be losing, “am I?”
She jabbed the pistol into his muscled back once more, hands quivering at the unspoken confession; it swallowed the room, knocking the air out of her lungs. “Get down on your knees,” she spat the warning.
“A dozen names,” he snickered, “and not a single true. Mindy Phillips, Tara Marvin, Katherine Bailey just to identify a few.”
“This is the last time I’ll repeat myself, get down on your fucking knees.”
“C’mon, y/n,” he spoke, lowering his arms a bit, “we can come to an agreement that’d satisfy both of us.”
She froze at the mention. The curiosity almost lured her into the biggest mistake she could make — playing along. “Elijah and HYDRA’s golden agent behind bars is the only agreement I’d be delighted about.”
Mark suddenly turned around, grasping one of y/n’s wrists, and she clobbered him across the head with the hand that was clutching the gun. He wobbled, momentarily, before he tackled her to the ground, thighs resting on either side of her own, and gripped y/n’s wrist once more. The gun landed by her, and she writhed in his hold to reach it, but it was useless. Mark harshly pinned her arms above her hand, leaning in so close she could feel his disgustingly hot breath upon the skin of her neck.
He snickered, grazing the top of her ear with his lips, “we could’ve worked together,” Mark lightly nipped at the sensitive spot, “could’ve been a real good team.”
She found his eyes, amused and eerily hungry, and spat in his face, “fuck you.”
Mark laughed, but before he could sputter another comment, James was pouncing on the agent, resting his entire weight on him just as Mark had done to y/n, mercilessly pummeling the flesh of his upper body.
She averted her gaze from the bloody sight, searching for Elijah. The politician was sprawled out on the cement floor, by Steve’s feet, unconscious. A huge gash tainted his bottom lip, and purple had begun tinting his cheekbones. She glimpsed at James and the small cuts that adorned his handsome face; Elijah must’ve stricken a few great hits before the sergeant had stunned him cold.
Sam barged through the door. Besides the Falcon, she was the only person in the room without visible injuries, though her joints ached from the pressure Mark had used to clutch them.
“I called reinforcement,” he spoke, kicking her gun to a corner Mark couldn’t reach.
“Care to help?” Bucky’s teasing comment amidst a fight was almost comforting.
Sam rolled his eyes, joining James in the scuffle with the agent. She focused on Steve, crawling to his dormant body. Though it was dreadfully faint, his heartbeat remained. It was difficult to raise the top half of his weight, yet y/n succeeded, supporting his neck and shoulders as she inspected the back of his head for damage. She gasped silently, noticing that the blonde of his hair had been stained red. The split in his skin wasn’t deep enough to be profoundly alarming, but it'd require stitches. Speedily, she checked the time on his watch, creating a mental note, and lowered his figure to rummage in his pockets for a cell phone. The Captain’s head she placed upon her folded legs.
The woman’s fingers trembled as she typed in the emergency number. In the years they had worked together, never had Steve fallen unconscious, nor had he obtained a gaping gash in the back of his scalp. Elijah and Mark must've given him an alarmingly high dose of tranquilizer to knock the super-soldier out entirely, and she was scared.
The two Avengers had handcuffed Mark when the call between y/n and the local emergency service had ended. The operator’s voice has been soothing and calm, and she had turned the iPhone off feeling far more composed than she had been when she made it.
“An ambulance should be here in a few minutes.”
“That was quite dramatic,” Mark noted, a weak chuckle slipping past his lips, “Steve ingested sedatives, not poison.”
James placed a gun to his temple, and Sam planted a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder, “don’t engage him,” the Falcon advised, turning to y/n, “did you know?”
She recognized Sam’s true question was did you know they planned to kill Steve?
“Yes,” she averted her gaze to observe Steve, “I’m sorry.” The spy was genuinely apologetic for hiding certain information.
Sam drew in a deep breath, pursing his lips together, “why wouldn’t you tell me?”
“I needed you to monitor the security cameras,” she answered truthfully, “I needed someone to transfer the footage into our database,” the explanation was honest once more, “I was afraid Mark or Elijah would attempt to tamper with it.”
“She was right, we had a whole plan 'n' everything,” Mark chimed in, and James pushed him down to his knees.
He sighed in frustration, the pistol lingering in its position against Mark’s skin, “stay fucking quiet, asshole.”
The Falcon ignored the commotion in the background, his expression strained as he continued to stare at her, “you should’ve told us.”
The statement disintegrated into thin air, the weight of it still heavy on her shoulders. She stayed silent, brushing away the sweaty pieces of hair that had stuck to Steve’s forehead. His face was eerily peaceful as he rested, unconscious, on the cement floor, head propped on y/n’s thighs. The gown Sam had chosen for the evening was sprinkled with blood in various spots, albeit the dark color disguised it. It was gorgeous and elegant, she’d admit, but it was destined to burn after the events that had unfolded during the gala.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated, her voice drained of emotion.
“The two of you should return to the hotel,” Sam suggested when a group of FBI officers spilled into the room, “shower, eat, rest. I have zero doubts it’s been an exhausting week,” he half-heartedly joked, referring to the faux honeymoon, “I’ll stay with Steve.”
“Sam,” she spoke, “we want t—“
“Go,” the Falcon interrupted her, “please,” one of the officers firmly hoisted Mark, and James swiftly reached y/n’s kneeling figure, “I got this.” The tone of his voice had whispers of irritation at its edges.
“Alright,” she agreed, helping a paramedic transfer Steve’s body onto a stretcher, “I trust you.”
Sam glanced at James, shoving his hands into his pockets, and returned his eyes to y/n. “Good.” The look they exchanged was strangely comforting, the kind of look that conveyed Sam wasn’t angry, per se, but rather vanquished, and disappointment she could deal with.
She offered him a weak smile, “I should shower.”
The Falcon chuckled, mouthing a silent go, and turned his focus to James, both of you.
James stood in the hotel room’s doorway.
She was fidgeting with lavish jewels, her patience stretching thin as the necklace’s clasp remained closed despite y/n’s nimble fingers attempting to work it open. She glanced at him, once, before regaining focus. “Why are you here?”
The sergeant shrugged, though she couldn’t see it. “I forgot to book a hotel room.”
She ceased her movements, observing his awkwardness-laden body language. James’ long-forgotten suit jacket dangled over his bent arm, the other hand shoved into the pocket of his satin trousers.
“May I suggest driving back to the compound?”
The corner of his mouth quirked up into a small grin at y/n’s thorny response, “we’re in the middle of Manhattan, and the compound is a three-hour drive away.” James closed the heavy wooden door, locking it behind him. “Can I stay with you?”
“It seems you’ve answered the question before I had the chance,” she referenced the action, staring at him in forged disbelief.
The atmosphere stilled in a pregnant pause. It wouldn’t be harmless for the couple to sleep in the same bed. They had done it in Maui, and neither her skin had broken out in a rash nor had she perished. On the contrary, it was peaceful to relish in the warmth of his skin.
James dumped the jacket on an empty chair, slowly coming to stand in front of the woman. She could almost hear the thumping of his heart, his body a hairbreadth away. Sirens echoed outside the sealed window, saturating the silence in crimson sounds. New York City contrasted with the lush green of upstate New York. The living quarters at the compound were usually deprived of clamor, protected against harsh winds and white noise by thick cement walls.
“Let me help you,” James cooed, sliding his hands across the skin of her arms upward. The soft pads of his fingers caressed her collarbone before he grasped the necklace’s clasp and easily worked it open. “We could be great together,” he spoke, turning to gently place the diamond choker on a glass desk, “great partners,” her fingers ghosted over the spots James had touched, “great lovers,” he toyed with the idea.
The sergeant returned to his previous place and, “great lovers,” she teased, “you think we could fit together?”
“Mmmh,” he concurred, “but we always extinguish the flame before it truly burns.”
She brushed her hands across the smooth fabric of his dress shirt, savoring the firmness of his muscled chest beneath the textile. We always extinguish the flame before it truly burns. Perhaps James was correct — she had been opposing a traitorous fire within the deepest pits of her heart, and body, long before Wanda had a terrible idea to send the two on a faux honeymoon.
“Kiss me,” she spoke in an honest confession of lust.
“What?” James’ voice was breathless as he gawked at the woman in foreign excitement and disbelief.
Oh, the way he hoped she’d realize that the line between love and hatred stood thin, and they had surely blurred it in Maui, but never did James think she genuinely would. The fault was his, partially. It had been easy to fabricate false narratives for the compound’s residents, convince himself he loathed the woman despite the countless nights of wandering hands and shameful memories of her body. James had designed a malicious persona, but oh, the way he hoped she’d see through it.
“Kiss me,” she repeated, “because just once, I need to get you out of my system,” her hands slithered to his biceps, “kiss me, so the next time I’ll touch myself at night, it won’t be your face I’ll be seeing.”
James cupped the back of y/n’s neck, crashing their lips together. The world in the background ceased to exist at the moment. He swiped his tongue against her bottom lip, asking for permission, and she surrendered to the request, tangling her fingers in his copper locks. She gingerly pulled at the root, earning a muffled whimper from James, and he slid his metal arm down to y/n’s waist to bring the woman closer, to erase the barely existent gap between their bodies. She burned with arousal, and Bucky was equally as famished. It was only the lack of oxygen that pulled the couple apart, and James drew in a deep breath, capturing y/n’s lips once more seconds later.
It was a dangerous promise, the kiss. A wildfire that spread through the entirety of her body, stimulating every nerve ending until she was moaning into his mouth as a plead for more, tongues fighting for dominance. It knocked the air out of her lungs, and when she retreated, James didn’t meld their lips, opting to focus on y/n’s neck. He kissed, licked, and sucked the sensitive skin like a man deprived of the only thing he’s ever desired. She was a drug, and god, was James addicted to her scent and her silky skin, and her hands, sloppily untucking his dress shirt, to slide under the fabric and explore his taut muscles. Everywhere she touched scorched, and he messily searched for the zipper of her gown, discarding the dress to the ground as soon as the piece of metal relented.
She was the most beautiful sight James had ever seen as she stood in front of him in just a pair of lacy panties. Art, created by the world’s most talented of artists, an angel bestowed to him by the gods themselves.
The sergeant brushed his flesh thumb across her lower lip, blending their lips together. His metal hand, the one she had always disgracefully thought was outrageously attractive, slithered between her plush thighs, and James moaned into her mouth upon discovering that she was soaked and aching for him. He shifted the undergarment to the side for access, dragging his fingers through her silken folds.
Cool metal thumb pressed into her clit, and she broke the kiss, “inside,” she spoke, the tone of her voice laced with desperation, “I want you inside of me.”
“Sweet girl,” James chuckled, inserting a single digit into her slick heat, “you need to be stretched first.”
He thrusted his finger a few times before adding a second digit. She clenched around him, messily unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it on the carpeted floors. The pace of his thrusts remained steady and agonizingly slow as James basked in her pleasure-riddled expression.
The woman clutched the waistband of his trousers, messing with the belt, her fingers trembling as James continued to stroke the sensitive spot inside her with two of his fingers. “Please,” she muttered, “faster.”
A sly smirk waltzed on his lips at the request, but, instead of obeying y/n’s wishes, he halted the activity, removing his hand, and placed the metal in his mouth, sucking it clean, “such a sweet thing you are.”
Warmth crept up her neck and onto her cheekbones. He hastily removed the trousers, placing his hands on the back of y/n’s upper thighs, hoisting the woman, and gently tossed her onto the spongy bed. She stared at him through curious eyes, lowering her gaze to observe the bulge in his boxers, and swallowed the lump in her throat. Judging by the outline in his underwear, James was huge, far bigger than the men she had fooled around with in the past.
“I want to taste you,” she confessed, propping herself up on her elbows.
James shook his head no, hooking his fingers under the waistband of her onyx panties to tear them off, “next time, doll.”
She wasn’t certain whether there would be a next time, for James had discovered a side to her, she had long buried. An alter ego, who was submissive, and pliable, and starved for the touch of a man she described as her enemy.
James nestled between her legs, arms on either side of her waist, and placed chaste kisses on y/n’s mouth and jawline. His head dipped lower as he assailed her neck and chest, popping a nipple in his mouth. The sergeant sucked the sensitive bud before nipping on it, massaging her other breast with his hand and rolling the right nipple between his fingers.
She writhed under him, eyes shut from the waves of pleasure racing through her. James didn’t linger over the area, choosing to concentrate on kissing the length of y/n’s body as he crawled to situate himself betwixt her thighs. Goosebumps painted the path of his eager kisses, and she grasped a handful of his hair when James gave her clit a kitten lick to test the response.
“James,” she purred as he repeated the action and slithered two digits back into her dripping heat.
“Use your words,” he grazed his tongue over the bud again, applying a little bit more pressure, “tell daddy what you want.”
The woman’s eyes shot open at the term but then he was thrusting his fingers into her wetness, repeatedly hitting the delicious spot that made her toes curl, the insult toward James forgotten.
“Mouth,” she mumbled, too lost in the delectation to form a coherent sentence.
James snickered at her vague response, wrapping a pair of soft lips around y/n’s clit. The thrusting of his fingers persisted as he stimulated the area. James was spelling out his full name on her sex, she realized by the time he had started tracing a b for Buchanan, yet she abstained from further reflections, coming undone by his mouth and fingers seconds before James could complete tracing the s in Barnes.
“Good girl,” he praised, helping y/n ride out her orgasm.
James withdrew his fingers, sucking them clean of y/n’s stickiness before he removed the metal with a pop, and peeled off his boxers, flinging the garment across the space.
The room was modern and opulent, with floor-to-ceiling windows exposing the ever-awake skyline of New York City, its sky-high buildings, impressive bridges, and countless lights. It was situated on the fortieth floor of the hotel, creating a perfect opportunity to indulge in a bit of a rush and leave the curtains wide open without a true risk of innocent bystanders witnessing the scene.
James kneeled on the bed. The usual glimmer of annoyance toward her in his eyes had been replaced by a feral kind of hunger, and, as she stared at him like a pray would observe its hunter, y/n decided that, just maybe, this wouldn’t be the first or the last time she’d let James treasure her body.
She loosely draped her forearms over his neck when he slanted to capture her nipple in his mouth, “I know you consistently ignore my wishes,” she whimpered, “but for the love of god, sergeant, I need you.”
He chuckled, showing attention to the other bud by pinching it, “my sweet girl wants to get filled, huh?”
James’ throbbing weight rested heavily against the skin of her thighs, and she reached down to palm it. “Yes.”
The woman’s nimble fingers caressed the reddened tip, spreading his precum on the surface before she dipped her hand a tad lower to gently fondle his balls. A moan escaped past his lips at her eager endeavor.
“I like it when you’re needy,” James pulled back and she groaned at the loss of him in her hands, “and dripping,” his fingers ghosted over the velvety folds before he was manhandling the spy to rest on her knees and forearms, “willing to let daddy take care of you.”
She ignored the name yet again but stored it within her memories to use for blackmail in the future. “Is he?” She questioned when Bucky clutched her hips and pushed his hand down on her back for a deeper arch. “Is daddy gonna fuck me, or is he just going to talk all night?”
James understood she only used the term to mock him, but shit, did it stir his already aching cock. He palmed himself twice before dragging his length along her slick folds, the metal hand abandoning her hips to circle her waist and gently rub y/n’s clit from behind. She clenched around emptiness, pressing into his pelvis for friction, and Bucky ceased his movements, removing the fingers from her bud to harshly grip the flesh of y/n’s hips once more. James continued the torture, lazily teasing her entrance, and she painfully sunk her teeth into her bottom lip.
“What do we say when we want something?” He taunted the woman, utterly enjoying her anguish.
“James,” she mumbled into the crisp sheets.
The soldier found amusement in the warning but showed mercy, sinking into her sodden heat. He’d fuck the brat out of her on a different day.
A strained whimper escaped past her lips at the delicious stretch of his cock, matching Bucky’s hiss at the way the spy’s walls drunk him in. James thrusted into her a few times, experimenting with speed and rhythm. A particularly rough roll of his hips seemed to rip a piercing moan from y/n’s throat, and he grinned, abandoning the hold on her hips to massage her clit again.
The room was saturated in vulgar noises of skin slapping against skin, moans, and desperate whines as James mercilessly pounded into her. She sobbed into a pillow as he led her to the edge for the second time, refusing to burst the bubble and let the flame consume her, thick fingers retreating just before the orgasm could ignite her body, over and over again.
James consumed every shallow breath and every wail, deciding that it would not be the last time he’d listen to the melody — she was a sin he’d gratefully burn in hell for, and an angel he’d break down heaven’s gates to attain. The soldier suddenly removed himself from her, already missing y/n’s silken walls squeezing around him, and shifted the woman, so that she rested on her back. He captured her ankles, draping them over his shoulders before he roughly thrusted back in. She wept at the overstimulation when he bottomed out, balls slapping against the skin of her ass. The new angle allowed James to reach far deeper.
He groaned, “you’re so tight,” thumb brushing against her plush lips, “my sweet, sweet girl,” he cooed, “wanna worship this pussy all night.”
And in his head, the statement stood true, but it was his body that opposed it, his arousal steadily creeping over the edge of an orgasm.
She shut her eyes, expression drenched with pleasure, “I’ma cum,” she moaned.
“I know, doll.” James wiped off the tear threatening to roll down her cheek and captured y/n’s lips in a messy kiss.
“It feels good—,” she hiccuped when he pulled away, “—so good.”
The world stilled. It was only James’ ragged breath and the heavenly orgasm she could focus on, washing over her body in syrupy waves and causing her toes to curl into the mattress below. She raked her nails over the skin of his back, leaving scorching marks in her wake.
“Shit,” James cursed as his own peak approached, his strokes sloppy.
It was a few thrusts later when he climaxed, painting her velvety walls white with a loud moan. He licked a sensitive spot on y/n’s neck, propping himself up on his forearms when the thunderous arousal began to quiet.
She brushed the hair that had gotten stuck to his sweaty forehead aside, “we don’t have evidence to convict Nancy,” she spoke when her heartbeat steadied.
James sighed amusedly, pulling out his softened length and maneuvering to lay beside her. “This is what you say after we just had sex for the first time?”
“Yes,” she deflected, refusing to admit she had fallen for the soldier and that it would not be the only time they’d get tangled in the sheets.
“Alright,” he abandoned the bed with a laugh and gathered y/n’s exhausted body in his arms to locate the bathroom, “but let’s shower before we talk shop.”
James observed the skyline of New York City. It was the place they had first encountered one another, back when he had brutally stabbed the woman. She rested on his bare chest now, peacefully asleep, soft snores falling from her lips. Times have changed, James realized with a heavy heart because change was uncertain and scary. It was worth it, though, if it meant the sergeant could love her up close and without barriers between them. It’d surely take a while to erase the tainted memories of the past, but they had been at war for five years, and he’d happily spend another five falling in love.
An iPhone James had recently purchased dinged with a text.
CAPTAIN AMERICA: guess Wanda and I won’t have to sleep with our eyes open after all:)
His mouth curved into a smile, elated Steve had not only woken up but was cracking jokes over the situation he had forced Bucky into.
WHITE WOLF: debatable.
It was not debatable — Steve and Wanda sending the couple on a honeymoon in Maui was the best decision they could’ve made, for the moon found his sun at last.
ego’s one hell of a drug (6) | bucky x avenger!reader
summary: Steve’s silly joke happened to inspire the best, or possibly the worst, idea Wanda had ever come up with — send James Buchanan Barnes and y/n on an all-expenses-paid honeymoon in Hawaii. the problem? they cannot stand to be around each other.
warnings: enemies to lovers, forced proximity, explicit language, alcohol consumption, sarcastic!bucky, but also a bit of asshole!bucky and sweet!bucky strangely
word count: 6,205
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series’ SPOTIFY playlist
author's note: before writing WHERE DREAMS GO TO DIE i always thought that chapter six would be my favorite and … it is haha
The royal blue hue of the vintage Chevy Corvette glimmered underneath the bright sunlight. James was clad in a short sleeve linen shirt with the top buttons undone, exposing the smooth muscle of his upper chest. She could peep the collage of flesh and metal from where she stood outside the hotel’s glass entrance doors, observing the carefree strokes in his expression and the Ray-Ban sunglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. It was an unusual sight; the first time she had ever seen James wearing sunglasses.
She smiled at him, bewildered by the soldier’s newfound attitude, “is this the surprise?”
“No,” the corner of his mouth quirked up as he gripped the steering wheel with the metal hand, “it’s an apology.”
“An apology,” it was a statement hidden underneath a hint of curiosity — she let it die on the tip of her tongue, suspending the silent wonder in the humid air of Hawaii.
James leaned over to open the passenger’s door without abandoning the vehicle and nodded his head, “an apology for the last however many years I’ve been more than an asshole.”
“It’s bordering on six.”
“It’s bordering on six,” he repeated when y/n plopped into the seat, throwing an Iron Man tote bag Tony had given her as a joke last Easter on the floor and kicked it to the side, “but yes, it’s also the surprise.”
“How’d you know I love Chevys?”
“Steve,” Bucky shrugged nonchalantly, as if it was the most casual of responses, “and perhaps Natasha, too.” The sergeant admitted, pushing the Ray-Bans higher.
She sat in the vehicle dumbfounded. James Buchanan Barnes was the woman’s finest enemy, the man she had despised for five consecutive years without questioning whether the war between her and Bucky ever had a true reason, and he had just admitted to knowing that her favorite cars were vintage Chevy Corvettes.
“Steve tell you anything else?”
“He might’ve,” the smallest of smirks danced on his lips, “Natasha surely did.”
“What’d she say?” She questioned, leaning to increase the volume of the refurbished radio.
“Mentioned you love peaceful rides and hidden coffee shops,” he twisted the ignition key to start the car, the smirk on his mouth refusing to falter, “beaches and happy hours.”
“Oh, how I love happy hours,” y/n agreed, detaching her own pair of sunglasses from her tank top and planting them on the bridge of her nose to shield herself from the blazing light.
Maui’s sun was unforgiving in early summer mornings.
“Good, because we’re going on a real nice drive to search for the best sandwiches and iced lattes Maui has to offer before ending the day with a drink or two.”
The Maui Resort soon disappeared out of y/n’s view as James stepped on the gas, pursuing a narrow road, and she perched her feet on the leather seat, the sandals long forgotten.
“Should I open Apple Maps,” she teased, “Google Maps,” her voice faltered for a moment, “Waze?”
Though the woman had listed plenty of options for navigation, James could only chuckle at her instinctive response, “you genuinely do not trust me, do you?”
“I say this with all of the love and respect my heart holds for you,” she teased him yet again, “I absolutely do not.”
“Outstanding,” he shook his head, eyes focused on the road, “makes the journey that more fun.”
The soldier had been awfully quiet after they had abandoned the SPA for a speedy lunch, and she had chosen to bite her tongue about Nancy, Elijah, and Mark. To James, that was. She had texted Sam as soon as she had reclaimed her iPhone from the locker, crafting a message capable of turning The Falcon into a vigilant agent but harmless enough to keep his fears at bay.
The gala and the plan had been the lone thing she could focus on. Concern must’ve been visibly engraved into her features because, by the time dinner came, James had forged an awkward yet friendly persona, attempting to devise jokes and distract y/n from her inner turmoil. The man had not been successful, but she was appreciative of his struggles.
“You wouldn’t drop dead if I slept in the bed tonight, would you?” James had asked once the sun had fallen and the moon had appeared.
The woman had been too exhausted to argue, and though she hadn’t admitted it out loud, his presence in the bedroom had brought eerie comfort. She had been almost elated he had abandoned the couch for the soft cushions of the suite’s bed.
Last night, they had not discussed the couple’s massage, which was strange but not stranger than sleeping in a bed together. And sure — the piece of furniture in the lovers’ suite was massive, more than comfortable for two people, and both James and she had plenty of space to move around without making contact, except they had woken up in a tangle of limbs, y/n’s face nestled into James’ chest.
She had decided to avoid thinking about it too much during breakfast. Instead, her mind had returned to the only legitimate conversation the two had in the prior hours before the night had the chance to border morning. James had suppressed his pride and admitted his faults. To say it had come as a surprise—and a delight— would be an understatement.
She had nearly sworn the soldier’s words had been a bizarre hallucination because the James she had conceptualized, the mural of a man she had been painting in the past five years, would’ve never willingly confessed to mistakes and defeats.
Except, if Barnes had been able to acknowledge his crimes, she could’ve imagined herself declaring that she had been harsh, too. He had promised y/n a surprise, and she had silently pledged to act visibly grateful about it. Perhaps, sweet even.
James hadn't mentioned much more of the surprise, but he had succeeded to distract her from it, ripping out a laugh from the woman after presenting the stream of angry messages from his last date, Jennifer, and permitting y/n to read through the furious words.
She had forgotten about Nancy and the gala then, cackling at James’ exaggerations of the milk switch-up, “I was chained to the godforsaken bathroom for the entirety of the night, y/n.” The disappointed tone in his voice had roughly disguised the honest amusement. “Lonely and drained, and defeated.”
“Oh James,” she had subconsciously leaned her head on his shoulder, “the texts almost make me want to switch out the almond beverage for whole milk again.”
“The promise,” he had reminded, “I nurtured you after Jordan’s party, and you swore to cease mischievous milk activities.”
The woman had laughed, the booming sound of it saturating the lovers’ suite, “mischievous milk activities, huh?” James had remained silent, and she had teased him for the ludicrous comment, “you deserve to be punished for using such lines.”
“Innocent until proven guilty,” he had shrugged.
“As a woman of great authority,” y/n had angled her face to stare into his eyes, “I pronounce you guilty and decide upon a decade-long sentence.”
James’ pupils had been blown-wide as he gazed at y/n through hooded eyes, “your honor, there is too little evidence to convict me.”
The woman had cocked her head to the side as a faux expression of distaste painted her features, “you used a phrase mischievous milk activities, and call me insane, but if that alone wouldn’t get you a ten-year punishment, I have zero clue what would.”
“Oh, please,” James had leaned against the headboard, “allow me to tell you a story of a ghost they call the Winter Soldier.”
She had shifted positions, sliding close enough to the man that their thighs had touched, “you’re such a bastard,” the outrage had only been slightly fictitious, “why would you bring that up?”
“What?” He had rested a single arm on the woman’s shoulders. “Does it raise negative connotations?”
“Yes,” she had nodded, surprising him, “for one, the Winter Soldier has stabbed me, which took months to heal and recover from, and two,” silence had fallen upon the room for several, drawn-out moments, “the ghost has been replaced with James and I’d hate for you to associate yourself with the assassin.”
“Doll,” he had sighed, “I was the assassin. There is no way I could ever forget, it has been engraved into my existence. The title of the Winter Soldier will forever haunt me, no matter how much I run.”
“You’re quite big,” she had assessed, seemingly off-topic, “not that great of a runner.”
“Alright,” he had chuckled, maneuvering under the covers and turning off the night light, “goodnight.”
James’ tone had not held resentment or annoyance and she had allowed sleep to steal her away from the world of the conscious and into the world of the dormant without saying anything else.
SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: the gala is this Sunday.
The woman raked her eyes over Sam’s words. At the beginning of the week, she would’ve been more than happy to abandon the honeymoon in exchange for a mission, but as she stared at the phone screen, the Falcon confirming y/n’s uncertainty, she couldn’t help the eerie sadness from slithering its way into her heart. The two were set to leave on Monday, and Friday had sneakily crept in, drawing the end of the vacation closer than she would’ve enjoyed. A coin has two sides, she reminded herself. It was not the time to wallow in self-pity over the loss of two blissful days.
The unexpected encounter with Nancy had created space for an opportunity to save Steve and bust Elijah, bringing the remains of HYDRA, Mark, and perhaps other operatives, with him. She could enjoy today and leave as early as tomorrow morning.
SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: I managed to get us on the guest list.
BEST AVENGER: thank you.
She hoped Sam wouldn’t think of asking further questions.
SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: are we going there to bust HYDRA officers, or is there another reason you won’t say?
The spy’s prayers were not heard.
BEST AVENGER: no other reason:)
“Please don’t tell me you’re going to be on that stupid phone the whole day?” James’ voice was a lost sound in the unruly wind. “I didn’t drive an hour for nothin’, doll.” He shouted.
SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: you’re aware the smiley face makes the text seem highly suspicious?
Somewhere amidst the fabricated stories and his genuine feelings, the soldier had gotten comfortable using the nickname for the girl, as if it had always belonged to her and as if the couple’s history had not been riddled with petty fights and strange hatred.
BEST AVENGER: whaaaaaat:)
“It’s Sam!” She yelled, shutting the passenger’s door and sprinting to meet James where he stood on the shore. The sand clawed at her feet, attempting to swallow y/n’s every step, and she was out of breath by the time she reached the soldier. The look on Bucky’s face begged for an explanation. “Sam wants us to attend the charity gala.”
“It’s this Sunday, right?” James questioned.
“Mmmh,” she hummed in agreement, paying very little attention.
Eyes glued on the screen, y/n awaited the Falcon’s response.
SAM THE MIGHTY AVENGER: Steve wants to train in 5.
SAM THE MIGHTY AVENGER: should I inform the Captain of our plans?:)
He might’ve been teasing y/n, but she wasn’t willing to take risky chances.
“No,” James shook his head in annoyance, “tell Sam we’re not attending the gala because our flight leaves on Monday,” his hand encased her wrist, stopping y/n from typing, “and for the love of god, put this away.” There was no doubt his tone implied that her phone would soon end up in the ocean if she didn’t hide it.
“Bucky,” she snatched her wrists away from his hold, “all I need is a second,” only the word desperate could’ve been used to describe her voice.
The man towered over the girl dumbfounded. Did y/n just call me Bucky?
She stood with her face buried in the glass screen, accidentally shielding herself from James’ flustered expression. The woman very rarely, if ever, called the soldier Bucky. It had always been limited to James or Barnes, or asshole if he had done something particularly malicious to anger her, but never Bucky, and especially never Bucky willingly. On a scarce occasion, y/n would address him as Sergeant, respecting the title he had earned in the forties, but Bucky was reserved for Steve, and Sam disappointingly, who oftentimes used the name to mock the soldier, jealous of the Captain’s favoritism. Even Tony had used the nickname several times, or Natasha, but y/n was weary of it, afraid it bounded on the territory of friendship.
BEST AVENGER: DON’T YOU DARE.
BEST AVENGER: Sam, I’m BEGGING.
BEST AVENGER: those smiley faces do look suspicious, though.
Pink had crept onto his cheeks, yet James remained nonchalant on the outside, counting second after second, “six, seven, eight—“
SAM THE MIGHTY AVENGER: I trust you, but I’m not an idiot, y/n.
Sam was right. It was outlandish to believe he wouldn’t see through her dishonesty, except she couldn’t bring herself to put Elijah’s plans into visible words, and so the message was left blank. The moving dots on Sam’s screen vanished as she removed her fingers from the glass, turning the iPhone off, and shoved it into the back pocket of her denim shorts.
“The counting was unnecessary,” she forced a laugh, “besides, I’m all yours now.”
“Good,” he nodded, forcing the words I’m all yours to vacate his head, “because the coffee shop is a fifteen-minute walk away, and I was hoping to enjoy the scenic view together.”
She took a step back, glancing around. If her nose had not been buried in the gadget, she would’ve noticed the golden sand and crystal waters. “It is beautiful.”
“Yes,” he shrugged, the smallest of smirks dancing on his lips, “it’s Maui.”
“New York City can be spectacular,” she argued, half lightheartedly, “but one wouldn’t say it’s scenic because it’s New York.”
“Is it possible,” James was ready to call out her bluff, “you’re picking an unnecessary fight because you’re uncomfortable with my friendliness?”
She stared at him in disbelief before her gaze dropped to his lips and the smirk upon them, “no,” she narrowed her eyes, “maybe,” y/n’s gaze returned to his amused face, and she suddenly admitted defeat, “yes.”
“Should I insult you?” James cocked his head to the side. “Leave you on the beach in the middle of nowhere?” His hand had slithered its way to her waist as an invitation to start walking. She didn’t make an effort to remove his touch. “Make you pay for our sandwiches?”
The last question took her by surprise, “that doesn’t sound terrible. Tony forgot to reclaim his credit card after he let me use it, so technically our lunch would be on him.”
“We’re in Hawaii,” he reminded, “the food’s expensive here.”
“Are you threatening me with …. the cost of living, Barnes?” She threw a puzzled look his way, traces of merriment clawing at its edges. “Officially color me confused.”
James suddenly paused, beginning to walk just as quickly as he had halted. “I want the hostility between us gone, but you’re not exactly the easiest person to make amends with,” he admitted.
She had managed to restrain herself against a sarcastic remark. James desired an end to the interminable war between a soldier and a spy, and though she would decidedly miss the petty arguments, y/n was exhausted. Exhausted from the nasty fights, and the murderous comments, drained from the burden of clashing with James in parallel with actual missions, which mattered because they saved lives, and on unusual occasions, the world, too. She liked to tell herself that, anyway.
“Amends, it is.”
“This building does not resemble the photos whatsoever,” James snickered, peering at the woman.
The soldier had paid for the sandwiches and the coffee despite y/n’s finest attempts at convincing the man to use Tony’s card. The two had argued about it, as they often would, but she had been left without a bitter taste in her mouth afterward. It was strange, yet pleasant. Amicable James was far better than mean James.
“Mmmh,” she reluctantly agreed, staring at a dive bar at best and an abandoned hut at worst, “but Google says it has great desserts and round-the-clock happy hour.”
The wooden sign outside helped solidify the statement. Though the chalk had almost disappeared, she could read Aloha’s offer.
What’s better than $4 Margaritas? $6 Mai Tais!
“I trusted you,” James shook his head, following y/n inside, “and this is what you led us to?”
They had spent the morning at the beach, indulging in iced lattes and fluffy bread. James had packed their swimsuits, which had both shocked and terrified y/n, as he had managed to sneak into her underwear drawer without detection, but she had surrendered to his request of a swim after he had driven the two to a secret waterfall he had learned about from a random local.
The swim had been refreshing, and as she allowed the cool water to caress her skin, she had found herself forgetting about Mark and Elijah's plans. Maui’s nature had turned HYDRA into a distant memory she’d soon have to remember but could briefly ignore. There was consolation in understanding that she’d never be truly alone, for she would always have mother nature by her side.
“Stop whining,” she playfully hit Bucky in the shoulder and immediately regretted it as her flesh hit metal, ouch, “this is great.”
It was not great, judging by James' inflated expectations, for which she might've been at fault, as she had described the bar to be ritzy and delightful, but y/n found herself falling in love with the space. Granted, it was barely past two in the afternoon, and yet the establishment was peculiarly empty, creating an opportunity for unrestrained conversations.
Everything had been touched by age, too. The woman could’ve run her fingers across the heavy tables, observed the intricate light fixtures, or flipped through a stack of books in the corner — the bar had been well-loved through generations. Even the menu, stained and peeling at the corners, seemed eerily familiar as if Google had led them to a place of forgotten coziness by fate.
“Aloha!” The sound of a man’s voice rang through the space. Judging by his boyish features, she had decided the bartender couldn’t be older than twenty-one. “What can I get you?”
“A pitcher of Margaritas,” James cut straight to the chase before angling his body toward her, “what did Google say the best dessert here was?”
“Grilled pineapples and cheesecake,” the employee answered before y/n had the chance to speak, smiling at the couple.
“Right,” she threw him a friendly grin in return, “let us get that, too.”
The original pitcher had turned empty an hour ago and as y/n leisurely, but assuredly made her way through the second jug alone, she had found herself listening instead of talking.
James had noticed her peculiar silence and had tried to compensate the awkwardness with random stories, dancing around the particular topic they should’ve discussed. The memory hung in the atmosphere, so heavy it was almost suffocating.
The soldier’s next words were a breath of poisonous air, “we cannot ignore the couple’s massage, y/n.”
She paused mid-chew, raising her eyes to meet his, and loudly swallowed the bite of cheesecake, “I’d prefer if we did.”
“Look,” his speech halted as James rummaged through his brain, the visions of y/n, bare and vulnerable underneath his rough palms, igniting a traitorous fire within his heart, “I could’ve stopped,” Bucky stared at her, observing the nervous habit of pushing food around the plate rather than eating it, “you could’ve stopped me,” the sentence died on the tip of his tongue, remaining unfinished.
“I could’ve,” she agreed, licking the fork clean, “you could’ve, it’s pointless to wonder what could’ve been.” The fork hit the ceramic dish with a booming sound when it slipped from y/n’s fingers. “The massage happened, and we cannot change the fact it did.”
“Yes,” James nodded, neck sizzling hot with approaching frustration, “but that’s the thing — we never had to go through with it in the first place.” She pursed her lips together, and he continued speaking. “We chose to attend the activity, and we did it willingly.”
She shook her head, sighing. James could feel the annoyance clawing at the entirety of his body, rearing its ugly head as it often did if he spent time around the woman. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
It doesn’t mean anything, he scoffed at the foolishness of y/n’s words, does she think I’m that naive?
James settled into the chair, perching his clasped hands on the wooden surface. If she wanted to mistake him for an idiot, he’d give into the woman’s game. “Why’d you return the favor?”
“What?” She gawked at him in incredulity.
The corner of his mouth quirked upwards, “why’d you massage me?”
The spy had caught on, narrowing her eyes, “I wanted to learn.”
“Lani had left the room long before,” he snickered, “there was little learning for you to do, doll.”
James was correct. She couldn’t deny that the masseuse had abandoned the space, leaving the two entirely alone, way before James had kneaded her thighs and buttocks, and before she had offered to return the favor, sliding her gentle hands across his smooth skin. It had been therapeutic, almost, to melt away the knots in his shoulders and biceps, and when he had shifted to lay on his back, y/n had found herself concentrating on his defined Adonis belt far longer than she should’ve if she desired to retain her lust for the man a secret.
A low groan escaped from y/n’s throat, “it was educational,” she lied.
“Educational?”
“Mmmh,” she hummed, toying with the edge of the dessert plate they had shared, “I’ve never, umm, intimately touched the Winter Soldier, or, you know, anyone with a … metal arm?” y/n had not craved for her tone to convert into that of a question, and she silently cursed.
“You’ve never caressed the Winter Soldier, huh?” He chuckled, leaning back in the woven chair. “C’mon, you have always been an exceptional liar.”
“OK,” she averted her gaze, hoping to find comfort in the dirty menu.
The Rumors Are True — our $12 nachos are back!
James didn’t entirely desire to pester her. “Curiosity killed the cat,” he had remembered Steve’s words, and Steve was a righteous man with great judgment. Bucky trusted Steve, honestly and endlessly, and depended on the Captain’s help to navigate the future he had suddenly reclaimed.
Except, what could Steve, a person too shy to invite Natasha on a date, understand of James’ intricate emotions and desires towards y/n? Steve belonged to a world without gray. Details had always been either good or bad, black or white, and the space in the middle had never existed to the hero.
James was no hero, no, he resided in a world full of gray. The two might’ve been best of pals, but they were of different genetics. Once upon a time, James too had lived during simpler days, where the Red Skull was a villain, and he had been the savior without an opportunity for doubts, but that perfect world had slipped from his grasp, and whereas Steve had remained the same, Bucky had changed. He had taken lives just as he had saved them. He had been a devil just as he had been an angel, and if pestering y/n would scratch the bothersome itch of curiosity underneath his skin, so it’d be.
“We’ll always have Maui,” a smirk waltzed on his lips as he curved the conversation in a slightly different direction.
The reference puzzled her, “what?”
“We could have a lot more than memories though.” It was bold, and it was terrifying, and he had allowed the words to roll off his tongue without much consideration.
“James,” she closed her eyes, frustrated by his perseverance, “would it make you feel better if I admitted to enjoying the massage?” The woman questioned without an ounce of sarcasm in her voice. “What is it that you want from me, sergeant?”
SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: Steve was informed of our gala plans.
“Honesty,” James confessed, “because our lives are riddled with lies, so yes, for once, all I yearn for is honesty.” Traces of annoyance stained his tone, and y/n’s nose, buried in the iPhone, managed to fuel his irritation.
BEST AVENGER: plans as in Steve knows we will attend or plans as in Steve knows about Mark?
SAM THE FALCON: plans as in Steve knows we will attend.
BEST AVENGER: is he angry?
SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: no.
Though she was startled by Sam’s message, she had managed to detect the change in James’ body language and the gruffness in his voice. It only ignited her own irritation further.
Perhaps the soldier was correct — the faux honeymoon had destroyed the space of comfort they had once shared, and perhaps, yes, she had noticed an absence of useless arguments and death stares, but it couldn’t mean anything. She’d betray herself if it did. A woman doesn’t fall in love with a man who had belittled, discredited, and crushed her. James had been pleasant to be around lately, sure, bringing breakfast and ordering champagne before she even had the chance to ask during their late-night sessions of cracking Elijah’s case, but a couple good deeds cannot undo the five prior years of maliciousness. She had to convince herself his newfound attitude could never erase their past, and she had to do it quick, for she was terrified of letting go the last bit of control she had been holding on to.
“I enjoyed the massage,” she shrugged, pursing her lips. The sentence was short and sweet, and she had nothing else to say, diverting her eyes back to the phone screen.
BEST AVENGER: good.
SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: he’s excited we’re taking initiative to mingle with government officials, but he wanted to know what spurred our sudden change of heart.
BEST AVENGER: what’d you tell him?
James dragged the flesh palm across his face. Undoubtedly, he had not been the best at expressing his thoughts ever since the accident. HYDRA had contorted the man into an emotionless assassin who destroyed everything in his path with a simple command. Those days were behind him, and if he allowed himself to dream, even a little, he’d dream for y/n in the entirety of who she was. The woman’s mind, heart, and body. It hurt because it had always taken two to tango; he had never been solely responsible for the war between them. She was wicked smart, and she could see through his attempts of candor, eagerly ignoring James’ troubles to play the fool’s part.
SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: we heard rumors about the reimplementation of the Sokovia Accords and want to speak with Thaddeus Ross to ease our concerns.
BEST AVENGER: did he believe you?
SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: no.
SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: we’re going there for the Miley Cyrus performance.
She chuckled at his response. It was not until that moment that y/n realized how terribly she had missed Sam and his calming presence.
BEST AVENGERS: it’s a good thing we blasted her Plastic Hearts album on repeat for the last three months.
SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: about that, I might’ve promised Steve we’ll stop if he won’t alert Tony that we use his credit card without permission.
“What does Sam want again?” The sovereignty had returned to James’ tone as he abandoned the hardship of a sincere conversation with the woman. It was difficult enough to watch y/n switch into a friend for the Falcon.
BEST AVENGER: I’m willing to take that loss.
“James,” she sighed, turning the phone off and placing it screen down on the table, “there’s something I need to tell you.” The spy swallowed the lump in her throat, toying with an empty Margarita glass.
“I’m all ears.” He cocked his head to the side as the walls around him suddenly shattered.
James stared at her, eyes wide and curious, and stupidly hopeful she’d confess she had fallen for him, too. Stop dancing around the topic, woman.
She had almost dropped the act, guilt settling at the pit of her stomach. Respectable women couldn’t allow themselves to fall for men who had treated them as meanly as James had treated her, but respectable women wouldn’t engage in frivolous wars, and she had; both were to blame for the history between them.
It wouldn’t matter. The words threatening to escape would soon hold no weight because she had bitten her tongue after she had overheard Nancy, choosing to bust Elijah alone. She had stolen James’ goals of demolishing HYDRA’s remains, and she had lied the prior night when he had fervently boasted of serving the politician the justice he deserved. They’d soon return to their old ways, visiting the border of nemeses and co-workers, and the honeymoon would turn into a dreadful memory. We’ll always have Maui, y/n reflected on his sentiment.
“HYDRA is gone,” she blurted out.
James had very little time to ponder over his crushed hopes, “that’s not possible.”
“Yes, it is.” She leaned back in the chair as if to escape the intensity of his scowl. “Sam and I were texting because Elijah plans to eliminate Steve at the charity gala,” she paused, briefly closing her eyes, “with Mark Basso, a former HYDRA operative.”
James forced a laugh before drawing his lower lip between his teeth, “why would Elijah want Steve dead?” The tone of his voice stunk of mockery.
“HYDRA is gone,” she repeated, hoping the words would register in his thick skull, “except for a few independent members whom Elijah works with.”
“Yeah, you’ve said that,” his expression hardened, “but it’s a stupid theory.” It had taken a single moment for James to revert back to his old ways of discrediting y/n’s abilities.
“It’s not a theory, James,” she huffed out in annoyance, “I’m leaving this evening to attend the gala.”
“If you wanted to cut the vacation short, you could’ve just asked.”
The woman pursed her lips together, dropping her gaze to the menu.
Made fresh, always.
Bucky’s words stung more than they should’ve.
The pretend honeymoon had forever ruined y/n, for she had gotten a delicious bite of an authentic James Buchanan Barnes, and she desired another taste. The woman had realized she needed the man just as the moon needed the sun, but if betraying James was to save Steve's life, she'd betray him once more in a heartbeat.
Whispers of guilt and sorrow colored her tone, "I'm sorry."
The simple words obscured an unspoken secret, and James' illusion of a truce shattered. The spy had pursued the goal of revenge alongside James, it had not been a mistake, it had been ignorance to overlook the blazing fire to demolish HYDRA within him. Bucky had hoped she trusted him, but not only had she just ridiculed his opinion of the organization's existence, she had obtained a crucial piece of information and unabashedly hidden it.
The sergeant suppressed his anger, swallowing the lump in his throat, "how'd you find out Elijah plots to assassinate Steve?"
"It was after the massage," she slid to the edge of her seat, facing Bucky head-on despite the remorse prickling at her skin, "it was overwhelming, the gentle caresses of your hands and the scent of your cologne, I needed fresh air to clear my head," y/n admitted.
"Mmmh," James urged y/n to continue the story despite the wave of unrecognized emotions crashing over him, but hastily spoke before she had the chance to, "didn't Wanda request you give her a call?"
The woman's silence replaced the word no. She ran her tongue across her bottom lip, deciding whether a raw confession would do them any good after the heap of lies, "it was you whom I needed to escape because your touch had me utterly too hot and troubled, and hell," she drew in a shallow breath, "it was terrifying to accept that I might've started crushing on the Winter Soldier, and so I wandered around the SPA, and—"
James sighed, placing a hand on y/n's forearm, "inhale, please."
She took in a breath, much deeper than the last, "Lani guided me to a terrace, it was empty besides a random woman, she was in a formal conversation before it turned into gossip," his touch was simultaneously comforting and poignant, "the cocoon chair shielded her face, but it was evident the woman was Nancy."
"Nancy?"
"Yes," the clench of his jaw didn't go unobserved by y/n, "I haven't got the faintest idea of who she could've been chatting with, though. Nancy mentioned Elijah's gala plans to murder Steve, and I abandoned the area soon after."
A moment of tense stillness settled upon them.
"Why the fuck wouldn't you inform me of this last night, y/n?" James' words dripped with poison.
"James—"
The sergeant abruptly prevented y/n from speaking further, "you cannot hide shit like this, we had a promise to unravel fresh leads together."
"James!" She raised her voice to match his sound level. "In that stubborn mind of yours, do you truly believe HYDRA continues to exist?" She spoke again when his silence confirmed her concerns, "HYDRA is gone, and I understand it might be hard for you to concede, but it doesn't change the fact."
The spy and the soldier could never be friends, and they could never be lovers, for James would always disregard her abilities, and she would always turn to bitterness as a coping mechanism. Neither Bucky nor y/n craved change; it was uncertain. The bubble of mutual dislike was safe, and it was comforting. She shouldn’t have hidden her intentions, she understood, but she had to conceal the suspicions because James wasn’t the easiest of people to trust. The man had lived through countless wars and was too stubborn to admit his battle plans could ever have flaws.
"Elijah wouldn't kill Steve," he dryly chuckled, "he isn't bold enough for such a crime, which, assumingly, discredits the theories you've created."
"Mark would," she shrugged nonchalantly, "he's HYDRA's fallen agent." James averted his gaze away from y/n's prying eyes. "Mark Basso had been erased from history, discarded after the organization fell. Did you know the man's identified as deceased in every fucking one of our files, James? The same fucking man, whom we had just conversed with on the godforsaken boat, is identified as dead." James hated y/n's habit of emphasizing certain words during arguments.
Perhaps she was right, and HYDRA ceased to exist, but he wouldn't admit defeat. Doubtfulness had always been easier to express than trust.
"We're partners, doll," his remark surprised her, "we have worked on Elijah's case for the past four days, not to mention the eight months we had slaved unraveling his personal and professional endeavors, so why would you withhold the information about Mark Basso?"
"Alright," she drummed her fingers on the wooden table, "to be frank, I assumed you recognized him just as I did."
"Oh," he emulated the woman, "because I'm the Winter Soldier?"
"Yeaaaah," the sound was drawn-out and squeaky, "that is actually the exact reason," she grimaced in faux discomfort.
James raked his eyes over her face, briefly dropping his gaze to y/n's pursed lips, "I will not be attending the gala," he declared, standing up.
She remained seated, neatly placing a fifty-dollar note on the table, "wouldn't have guessed you would."
"Elijah Williamson is collaborating with HYDRA to reimplement Project Insight," he shrugged, gawking at her as if the intensity of his stare would miraculously compel y/n to accept his rusted, empty-of-solid-evidence, theory.
She didn't falter, and he turned to evacuate the bar.
The sergeant didn't check whether she trailed after him, and y/n swiftly leaped from the chair — James could slander her instincts for all she cared, but she'd suck on Tony's dirty toes before she would tolerate Bucky abandoning her in the middle of nowhere.
SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: Attachment: 1 Image
James had started the car when Sam's text lit up y/n's phone screen. She perched her bare feet on the dashboard, much to Bucky's dismay, yet he was too distracted by anger to form an audible complaint, and eagerly clicked on the notification.
BEST AVENGER: a simple gown would've sufficed.
SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: for an ordinary guest, yes.
SAM THE MIGHTY FALCON: a prize in the charity auction demands a spectacular dress, though:)
