After
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader: Mafia AU
Summary: "Dear Woman, get up and rise from ashes" -Alexandra Vasiliu
Word count: ~5.6K
Warnings: (Drumroll...) Angst. Dark themes, minors DNI. References to death, violence, and murder. References to and depictions of trauma and trauma-related behavior. Hints at past non-con. FLUFF and smut.
A/N: I had two minds about what happened with the reader and Bucky later that night after the wedding, one soft and one not so soft. The not so soft one won out because I felt like it made more sense for everything the reader and Bucky have experienced. But have no fear, it's not all angst, there's some fluff and hope too. For anyone looking for a little more fluff (which this story has been severely lacking overall), I have one more one-shot that gives us a little peek at these two in the future. I'll try to post that one soon. Not beta read.
Thank you again to everyone who has supported this story, I appreciate you seeing it through to the end with me ❤️
Tags and thanks to: @justagirlinafandomworld @galactigoos @watarmelon212 @sebastianstansqueen @emmabarnes @physically-im-fine @cjand10 @leaaa008 @casa-boiardi @thelittlesundancekid
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
“That was easier than I expected,” Steve muses, as he and Bucky descend from the stoop to join Sam and Misty on the sidewalk. Hutchins and his small crew wait some ten feet down the pavement, careful to keep a respectful distance.
Bucky rolls out his shoulders and hums thoughtfully. He knows that Steve is referring to more than the business they've just concluded- their last “house call” of the night- but to the whole of the evening since they left the reception hall.
If someone had asked Bucky this morning how this evening would go, he would have likened their task to a mountain the scale of Everest. But, by the time they set out, in the aftermath of his brother’s ill-fated wedding, Bucky knew that the night's errands would be no more daunting than a stroll up a low-lying hill.
“Thankfully even someone as muleheaded as Cian Foley can read the wind. I had a feeling his bluster would collapse as soon as he didn’t have an audience to save face for,” Sam replies.
The others nod in agreement.
“Still,” Misty adds, stretching her arms over her head, “it’s been a long night. I’m tired and ready for my bed.” She nudges Sam with her boot. “And you’re ready for my bed too.”
Sam smiles affectionately in answer and Bucky’s heart aches with longing. He’s ready to go home too, not to his apartment, but to you.
Before stepping away with Misty to his car, Sam turns to Bucky.
“You good getting into my folks’ place?”
“Yeah,” Bucky answers, “I got it. Private garage three blocks over, underground walkway to the alley, hidden door fifty feet down.”
“Good,” Sam nods, “I’ll come ‘round for a visit tomorrow evening. Tell my sister I love her.”
“Will do.”
As Sam and Misty wave their good-byes, Steve turns to Bucky.
“What else can I do for you tonight?”
Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing, you ca-”
“My apologies, sir,” Hutchins interrupts before Bucky can finish, “but there’s been an alert.”
“What kind of alert?” Bucky asks with a scowl.
Hutchins has been useful tonight, as Bucky expected, but his efficiency has done nothing to endear him to Bucky’s good graces.
“One of the men I had monitoring George’s penthouse picked up something on the front door security cameras.” He pauses before adding, “It was Mrs. Barnes.”
Bucky frowns and glances at his watch. Ma went home with Becca nearly five hours ago. She should be in bed. What is she even doing up, let alone going to George’s apartment?
“Any idea what she’s doing there?”
“No, unfortunately,” Hutchins frowns apologetically. “The inside cameras are off. I can go there now, if you’d like, to make sure she’s alright.”
“No.” Bucky’s reply is flat. He can’t even imagine a world where he’d let George’s hired goon check in on their mother. “I’ll take care of it myself.”
Hutchins ducks his head in understanding, then steps away, out of earshot once more.
“Want me to come with you?” Steve asks, despite the darkening circles under his eyes.
Steve, Bucky would trust with his mother. Growing up, he was one of the few neighborhood friends who didn’t sneer at her meek nature when they thought Bucky wasn’t looking. It's just one of the many reasons their friendship survived all of Bucky's years in boarding school. Still though-
“Thank you, but no. She’s my ma, I should be the one to do it.” He sighs. “Even with everything George was,” he shakes his head, bemused, “maybe she’s still grieving. Besides, you need to rest, and I bet Okoye and the baby are eager to have you home.”
Steve smiles, the fatigue slipping away at the thought of his wife and three month old.
“Yeah, especially since Okoye has already started packing. She is ready to move out of the safe house and get back home. Anathi never even got to sleep in her nursery.” Steve’s grin widens and he elbows Bucky affectionately. “I can’t wait for you to finally meet her in person.”
“Me too, there’s no way video chats compare to the real thing. Fair warning, l’m absolutely going to spoil my goddaughter rotten as soon as I get the chance.”
Steve barks a laugh.
“I’m not the one you have to convince, it’s her mama! Baby girl’s already got me wrapped around her perfect little finger.”
Bucky pulls Steve into a rare hug.
“Get yourself home then man, give that baby a cuddle for me.” Bucky tightens his embrace momentarily and Steve does the same. His throat suddenly feels tight as he adds in a whisper, “Thank you. For tonight and every day and night before it. You’re a good friend and I’m grateful.”
Steve pulls back but keeps hold of Bucky’s shoulders.
“You would do the same and more for me.” He gives his friend’s arms a squeeze. “I know you need to see to your mom, but try not to stay out too late. You need to get ‘home’ too. She needs you and you need her. And you both deserve some peace.”
Bucky blinks the sudden sting from his eyes. He wishes Steve a good night, then turns back to Hutchins. Once he has the codes for the doors and security system, he dismisses Hutchins, telling him to wait for word from him about next steps. For now the man is still useful, but Bucky looks forward to the time when he can dismiss him for good. One way or another.
Thankfully, the drive to George’s penthouse is quick, unsurprising given that even New York streets are quiet at three in the morning. He parks in George’s guest spot and heads up. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirrored surface of the elevator doors, Bucky’s cheeks look pale with fatigue.
He reaches the penthouse and taps the code into the panel. He pushes the door open, but half way, it catches. Confused, he pushes again. This time it gives just a little before springing an inch back against his hand. Looking down, Bucky sees the edge of something rubbery. He reaches around to the back side of the door to pull the offending blockage free and finds an unfamiliar slip-on sneaker.
Frowning, he opens the door, which now swings easily, and steps inside.
“Ma?”
The apartment is dark and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. Once they do, he stills. Surprise flashes through him but only for a moment before realization takes over.
Right.
Mrs. Barnes.
His mother isn’t the only one anymore.
You hear him, but it takes two long heartbeats before the sound processes into words.
“Sweetheart? Are you okay?”
You turn to look back over your shoulder, unable to answer him. Your mind was too far away, too diffuse, and you haven’t yet gathered enough of your scattered thoughts to turn them into words.
You can sense his trepidation as he approaches you slowly. Still, wary or not, his nearness alone brings a subtle warmth to your chilled skin, like the early sparks of a kindling fire. You weren’t expecting him, but you’re not surprised that he came. Like a homing beacon, you call him to you even when you don’t know it.
He comes to a stop beside you.
“What are you doing here, love?”
Slowly, you manage a response, in a voice raspy and low, “I couldn’t sleep. I thought that I would. After everything, I-”
Earlier, when you finally got to your parents’ house- your mother's house now- you were exhausted. The day had taken a heavier toll on you than even you realized. Still, the first thing you did once you got to your childhood bedroom was head straight to the shower. You threw your clothes- the last that George would ever choose for you- into the garbage and stood under the hot spray for so long that you lost track of time. You only came out when you felt your weary legs start to sway beneath you.
Wrapping yourself in one of your mom's luxuriously fluffy towels, you wandered back into your bedroom to look for pajamas, but your mom beat you to it. Folded up neatly at the foot of your bed, you found an old pair of sweats from high school and a long sleeve t-shirt that you had not seen in a long time. You carefully picked it up, staring at it for a long minute before crumbling it against your chest as an unexpected sob shook your body.
You let yourself cry for a long time before you carefully un-crushed the shirt and pulled it over your head. It was far too big for you. Of course it was, your father was always a big man, even when he was young.
Your mom must have known how much you needed your dad's closeness. And as his old college shirt settled over you, you could almost imagine his arms wrapping themselves around you.
Finally, bone-weary, you crawled into bed, ready to get some rest while you waited for Bucky to finish his work and come to you. But as you lay there, snuggled safely in your once familiar bed, you could not sleep.
“After everything, I thought I could rest. That my mind would be quiet. Even with you out working.” You tilt your head with a ghost of a smile. “I always worry when you’re making house calls, even when I don’t have to.” You shake your head. “But not tonight. Tonight, I knew they’d all bend the knee. I wasn’t worried.
“But still, I couldn’t sleep. I thought-” your words catch and Bucky instinctively steps closer. “I thought-” you push on- “that after he was dead, I wouldn’t hate him so much. I'd never feel… tender towards him… or even sympathy, but I thought that the hate would fade. I thought that he wouldn’t have the power to make me feel anything anymore. I thought that I would be free.”
Your face twists, somewhere between a sneer and a sob.
“I hate him. I hate him. I hate the fucking clothes that he wanted me to wear, the food that he made me eat, the places he made me go. I hate that he wanted to make a fucking doll of me.” Your eyes scrunch closed against the tears, as the thoughts and feelings you’ve been holding back for months come spilling uncontrollably out of your mouth. You feel Bucky move close and you want to stop, to slam closed the floodgates to protect him before it’s too late. You want to stop because you know that your pain will hurt him as much it hurts you. But when he reaches up and cups your face between his hands, you know he doesn’t want you to. “I hate that he told me what to do and like and think. To feel and say. I hate the way he looked at me. I hate that he touched me. I hate that he took me away from you.” You choke on a half sob but the words don’t stop coming. “I hate that he made me choose him. I hate the cage that he built for me and I hate that he made me be the one to lock the door behind me. And I hate that he made me kill him- I’m not sorry that I did it, I would do it again- but I hate that he made me make that choice.”
You draw in a shuddering breath. Saying nothing, Bucky presses his forehead to yours, You lift your head, tilting it to press your cheek to his.
“I came here to smash everything up,” you continue quietly, fingers tightening on the handle of the bat that hangs from your hand. “I thought that it would make me feel better.”
You snort a humorless laugh and shake your head.
“But then, I started thinking about the mess it would make. Even if I cleaned it up, it would be obvious that something happened here, and then how would I explain that to the police if they wanted to come here?” You shake your head again. “It was stupid.”
You sigh and lean into Bucky as he pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin.
He doesn't tell you that you're okay, he doesn't try to talk you out of your pain or tell you to forget. He holds you, for a long time, letting you grieve without commentary.
Eventually, he pulls back and slips one hand down your arm. You don’t resist when he gently takes the bat from your hand. He steps away to lean it against the wall, then grabs your shoes from the door.
When he returns, you haven’t moved an inch. Silently, you accept that he's right, you should go home, but you can't seem to do it on your own. Holding your shoes in one hand, he comes to a stop before you, then crouches at your feet. Carefully, letting you get your balance with a hand on his shoulder, he lifts your feet one at a time and slides them into your shoes.
When he stands, he moves sideways and you take a half step to follow, certain that he intends to take you home. But he stops you with a gentle hand. He stretches out an arm and grabs a heavy crystal vase from the nearest shelf. The thing probably costs fifty grand.
“Here.”
When you wrinkle your brow in confusion, he gestures for you to take it. You do as he wants without thinking and he moves behind you.
Bucky presses in close, solid against your back as he curves his arms around you, and you lean into him instinctively. He cups his hands around yours and lifts, until your arms are straight out in front of you, the heavy vase stretched out even with your chest.
He brushes his lips against your cheek, then brings them to your ear.
“Go ahead, love, smash it all up. Let it all out.” A light tremor runs through you and he presses himself closer. “Let me worry about the clean up. Let me worry about what we’ll say.”
He squeezes his hands over yours briefly before sliding them slowly along the length of your arms and bringing them to rest at your waist.
Tension vibrates all along your spine and your breathing is heavy and strained. A glimmer of a tear slips down your cheek, but you hold the vase under your own power.
“It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s okay.”
Your chest heaves with a sob and your hands part. The vase falls to the floor and shatters, a crystalline ring echoes through the room.
You stare at the pieces, glittering across the floor in chunks and powder. A jolt races through you. It’s probably adrenaline but it feels like magic.
“Another?” he asks and you nod.
Without letting go of you, he grabs the closest thing he can find, a hideous blown glass sculpture the size of a small dog. He places it in your hands and barely has time to pull his hands back before you’re letting it drop. It crashes to the floor and he grabs another, then another and another, until the shelves nearest him are empty and the floor is covered with debris.
Your shoulders still tremble and your breath is quick, but each time you watch another of George’s precious things shatter, a sound- half-sobbing relief, half laughter- escapes you.
Spurred on by the change in you, Bucky hurries across the room and grabs an armful of extravagantly priced decor from the mantel and brings it back. He doesn’t ask if any of it is yours, he doesn’t need to, you weren’t supposed to move in here until after the honeymoon- a shudder-inducing thought on its own. Even if you had lived here, none of your supposed “personal items” would have really been yours anyway. George would never have allowed it.
Bucky hands you a hideous porcelain box shaped like a mutant crocodile, and steps back to watch. This time, you lift it above your head, set to smash it on the hardwood rather than simply letting it fall.
“Wait, wait!” He shouts, reaching out a hand to stop you.
You pause in your downward swing and blink at Bucky in surprise.
“Just-” he holds up a finger and rushes to the front door. He opens the small cabinet George had installed just for his sunglasses and pulls out two pairs.
Coming back to you, he unfolds one and slides it onto your face with a smile, then puts on his own pair.
“Somewhere, a one-eyed shop teacher with an eye patch is shouting about the importance of protective gear.”
You snort, then burst into hard laughter, your face alight with a wide, unburdened smile.
He reaches out and cups his hand under your chin, then steps back. He gives you a nod, and you nod back. Your arms swing down hard and the mutant crocodile comes apart into dozens of pieces that skitter several feet in all directions.
As soon as your eyes meet his, he reaches for another breakable and holds it out to you. You clasp it between your hands but you don't take it from him. When he tilts his head in question, you push it towards him.
“Your turn.”
Bucky's face goes blanks with surprise and he looks down at the jewelry casket he holds, supposedly owned by a member of Louis XIV's Court.
“Your turn,” you repeat emphatically.
His face transforms in subtle shifts as you watch and you can tell when he feels it, the first inkling of that magic that's been coursing through your veins since that first vase crashed to the floor. An exorcist's elixir, made to chase your demons away.
You know that the box suddenly feels heavy in his hands and an eager thrum runs up his arms. You know that he very much wants to see this precious antique in pieces on the floor. With a quick glance to you, he slams it down hard and whoops out loud when the lid breaks off with a satisfying crack and the box fractures in four lines down the middle.
“Shit,” he breathes in stunned elation. “That was-
“Great?” You supply.
“Yeah. Amazing.”
You bite your lip on a smile.
“Do it again.”
Eager to comply, he turns to grab something else priceless to destroy. He chooses something for himself, then takes another and gives it to you.
“Together?”
You smile and nod. Instead of the floor, this time as you get ready to throw, you take aim at the far wall and Bucky follows suit. Your projectile, a golden filigree orb, crashes into the built-in shelves at the far side of the room.
Though you hid it well at the time, you couldn't hold back the waves of horror that rolled through you when George told you that he'd had the walls of the apartment soundproofed in anticipation of your move-in. Don’t want to disturb the neighbors, George had said with a cruel wink. Byvsome miracle, you’d managed to make it home before throwing your lunch back up into the toilet.
But now, you’re glad for the added layers. The collision sets off a chain reaction that sends each individual shelf, one after another, crashing thunderously downward until they all land in an unsteady heap on the floor.
The devastation spurs you both on and soon you're sweeping your arms across table tops and upending chairs. When you're done with the living room, you rush together to the kitchen, then the guest room, and study. You move from room to room, demolishing anything you can get your hands on- save for George's personal filing cabinets which hold enough valuable dirt on the city's major players to be worth keeping intact- until you're satisfied.
Finally, you stand together at the threshold of George’s bedroom. En route, you grabbed a knife from the block in the kitchen. You turn the handle in your hand as you survey the room. Without a word, you and Bucky start to move as one, making your way to the closet. As you go, you scrap the tip of your knife along the face of the heavy mahogany dresser and across the painting on the wall. Bucky kicks over a lamp and smashes a mirror without even breaking stride.
You pull open the double doors of the closet together, sharing a nod before heading to opposite ends of the walk-in. Bucky stops before the row of George’s suits, you before the long rack of clothes meant for you.
Someone else would envy this closet. Filled floor to ceiling with hundreds of thousands of dollars of haute couture, some of it bespoke just for you. In someone else's eyes, it would be beautiful, but to you, it's the ugliest thing you've ever seen. Because it's all been touched, tainted, poisoned by association with the man who chose it for you.
For a moment, you think you're being wasteful, that you should donate these things to someone who actually needs them. But then, illogical as it is, you swear your nose fills with a bitter almond scent like cyanide and you're convinced that if you don't destroy every last item, whoever might inherit them- even a stranger- would be cursed by the revenant of George.
The time for thinking behind you, you pull the sleeve of the nearest dress towards you and hold it taut as you delicately press the tip of your blade into a miniscule gap in the weave. A subtle vibration quivers through your arm as you keep pressing and the fabric tears. The sound it makes is crisp and gratifying and you want to hear it again. You pull the dress closer and watch in fascination as the blade slices easily through the bodice and skirt.
Dropping the shredded garment to the floor, you reach for more. As each item falls apart in your hands, an electric current runs through you, intensifying with each lap of the closed circuit. You’re high on it and you want more, more, more. The scraps fall like confetti around you as you frantically work your way down the rack.
An especially loud rip breaks through your hyperfocus, drawing your attention to Bucky.
You look his way and freeze.
Instead of a knife, Bucky chose to attack George’s wardrobe with his bare hands. He’s knee deep in silk, cashmere, and vicuna. In his hands is George’s favorite blue Brioni. The sleeves of Bucky’s own tailored oxford are rolled up, leaving his forearms bare. As he starts to pull on the fabric- set on tearing it, not along the seams, but straight down the middle- his muscles contract. His veins stand out under his inked skin, and you are transfixed.
Bucky, by his nature, is a builder. A man who uses his strength to create more strength, to leave something better than the way he found it, and you love him for it.
But destruction looks good on him.
The knife falls from your hand, forgotten. You’re up and moving before you even know you’re doing it. You grab him by the shirt front and drag him from the closet. If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it when you roughly pin him to the wall. He wraps his hand around the back of your neck and crushes his mouth to yours as you press your whole body against him.
This morning you were careful, but not now. You claw his clothes off and you don’t stop there. You dig long scratches into his back and bite into every inch of skin you can reach.
He strips you bare, sinking his teeth first into your lip and your throat, then the rise of your breast and the curve of your thigh. When he drags you down to the bed, you open yourself eagerly to him and beg him to hurry. Time is yours now, no one can steal it from you, but still, it feels like it will evaporate if you don’t grab hold of it fast enough. As he pushes inside of you, you know that he feels it too.
You gasp and grip him tighter. He holds you so closely that not even air can pass between you. He finds your mouth again and thrusts, hard and fast, each stroke deeper than the last. You dig your heels into the bed, pushing upward to meet him each time, begging him and commanding him to fill you completely.
On fire from within and still his touch burns you, every point of contact seering like a brand. Pressure builds inside of you rapidly, faster than ever before, and still, not quick enough. Greedy and hungry you want to consume and be consumed. You want to forget that you ever were two, obliterate every memory of separation, of ever being anything but his.
You spur him on as he drives you both closer and closer to the edge. When you finally reach it and crash over, when you tumble over together into oblivion, you cry out. Pleasure washes through you, so intense it borders on pain and breaks something free inside of you. Your head spins and you’re sobbing, static fills your ears and your cheeks are wet. You clutch his shoulders and he cradles your face. As he kisses the tears off of your cheeks, he doesn’t notice that his own face is wet or that his breath has gone ragged.
Rolling you to your sides, he tucks you in close. You bury your fingers in his hair and listen to his heart thunder in his chest. As his breath ratchets down from its wild rhythm, yours slows to match. The desperate fever fades and pleasure lingers, making your limbs comfortably heavy and leaving you empty, finally, of the last shadows of anger or fear.
Bucky’s fingers slide slowly across your skin, running long, slow lines along your back and down your thighs. The rhythm lulls you into a warm haze.
You lay in silence, content and no longer afraid of what thoughts may arise into your mind. You let them drift aimlessly, a luxury that you have not allowed yourself in a very long time, not when you were busy guarding yourself against the horrors that might come if you didn’t mind the gates. But no horrors come now. Your floating thoughts are soft, even the less pleasant ones have no sharp edges.
You don’t know how much time passes before a recent memory rises in your mind and you burst out into unexpected laughter.
Bucky draws back to get a better look at you with a quizzical smile.
“Sorry, I-” you shake your head and stifle a giggle- “when I was talking to the detectives, I told them that you were ‘nice’ and made it sound like an insult.”
Bucky snorts in amusement.
“And I not-so-directly implied that I only started dating you to get to your brother.”
“I bet they loved that,” he laughs.
“They tried to act like they didn’t, but you know they’re sluts for a scandal.”
“The worst.”
“I think I’ve managed to convince them that I’m an opportunistic whore who broke your heart as soon as I had an opportunity to ‘upgrade'.”
“Oh, well done you,” he replies before humming thoughtfully. After a heartbeat, you let out a surprised squeak when he rolls you abruptly onto your back and settles himself between your thighs.
“You know,” he teases, “if that’s the case, I’m going to have to play this very carefully.”
“Oh?”
“Mmhmm,” he ducks his head and presses a kiss to your collarbone. “Because with my ‘wounded pride’ and all, I might be tempted to rub this particular turn of events in your ‘adulterous’ face. But… it might not be all that wise at this juncture. You did just inherit a substantial portion of my family's accrued wealth. It might be a good idea for me to stay on your good side.”
Your eyes roll when he cants his hips, putting pressure in exactly the right place.
“Is that what you're doing? Staying on my good side?” you tease breathily, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and squeezing him with your thighs.
“Sweetheart,” he groans against your throat, “all of your sides are good.”
An unwelcome ripple of discomfort rolls down your spine and you stiffen minutely. Bucky senses your sudden unease and pulls back to look at you.
You can’t meet his eyes, your head suddenly full of all the things you’ve done, things that surprised even you, and all the ways that they’ve changed you.
“Even the scary ones?” you whisper.
You still can’t look at him, but you feel him watching you. He gently cups your chin, turning your face up. Warily, you meet his gaze.
Bucky is a master of inscrutability. In this father’s house and under his thumb, letting someone see what you were feeling when you didn’t want them to was dangerous. Even a smirk or a flinch would be taken as a questioning of George Senior’s authority and would not be tolerated. Bucky learned very quickly how to conceal his true self behind whatever mask he needed. But not with you. It was sometime during your first date that you saw his guard slip away and you never saw him put it up with you again.
And he does not put it up now. In his eyes there is only the unvarnished truth, his deep and unwavering love for you.
“You don’t scare me,” he says, a playful lilt in his voice to ease you through your moment of doubt and a soft kiss to ground you.
Eyes closed, you nuzzle against his cheek and let his warmth and certainty soothe you. Soon enough, your discomfort fades and your own mischievousness rises again.
Before he can stop you, you abruptly push Bucky over. He rolls onto his back with a surprised huff as you straddle his lap.
“Your version of this story is good. But- what if it is me who is trying to get back in your good graces? I may have the money, but you have the connections. Maybe I know I’m up shit creek and I’m hedging my bets since my big gamble with your brother didn't pay off.”
Bucky crooks an arm back and tucks his hand under his head, humming thoughtfully, “Cops are cynics, they might like that version better.”
“They would,” you agree, then poke him lightly in the chest. “But you'll have to sell it. Show me your ‘I just fucked my recently widowed sister-in-law slash ex-fiancee out of spite’ smirk.”
Bucky laughs, and you scowl down at him as you give him another poke. He tries to wrestle his smile into something smug and smarmy, but he can’t. You admonish him playfully with a click of your tongue.
“You’re terrible at this. That look isn’t convincing anyone.”
“Maybe-” he grabs both of your thighs, squeezing and making you yelp, before he pulls you down to his chest by the arms. He stretches his neck up and nips at your bottom lip- “if I fuck you again, I’ll be able to get it right.”
“Mmm,” you smile, settling yourself more comfortably against him. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”
Cupping the nape of your neck, Bucky pulls you into a long slow kiss. He doesn’t rush this time, but the heat between you builds quickly anyway, making you squirm with rising fever.
You huff indignantly when he breaks the kiss, but don’t complain when he says “Let’s get out of here.”
You dress amongst the detritus of your earlier catharsis. You marvel at your own contentment as you look around and feel none of the heaviness that you brought with you. This penthouse is just a place now, these things are just things, nothing that can hurt you, only empty vessels of exorcised demons.
As you make your way to the door, stepping carefully through the wreckage, you muse aloud, “I thought about burning it.”
“You still could,” Bucky replies, his hand on your back, guiding you around the worst of the mess. “There are ways to keep it contained to this unit, and we know people in the fire department.”
You smile at his easy ride-or-die attitude.
“No, that’s okay. I think-”
You pause and look around, looking beyond the damage the two of you have done and beyond what this place means to you. You look and you think about what it really is. George's ivory tower, bought and paid for with blood and fear, with the lives of people he didn’t think mattered.
But it doesn’t have to be that anymore.
“I own it now, the whole building. Instead of being just one more monument to excess- I think it’s time to evict the trust fund elite and find a better use for it.”
“What are you thinking?” Bucky asks as takes your hand and threads his fingers with yours.
Thinking about those lives, the ones that were used up and ground into nothing under the boot of George’s ambition, you wonder if perhaps those people, their spirits, might find some final peace in seeing this place turned into something useful, something good. Maybe a no-rent office building for nonprofits, or a multi-use community center, or perhaps, even better, a shelter for the unhoused.
“I have a few ideas.”
Bucky nods and opens the front door. As you step over the threshold, you keep your eyes forward and your thoughts on the future.
When you pull the door closed behind you, you don’t look back.
Previous: Ten
Later (a follow up one-shot)
