Summary: Part of the Networking series, which explores Bernard's developing friendships with Roy and Jason.
In this episode, Tim and Roy go undercover in a gay bar and manage to not fall in love. Jason is confused but supportive. Bernard and Steph are enjoying this way too much. Bruce is just so done.
Warnings: Very brief mentions of violence, for plot set-up purposes.
Excerpt:
“We should have gotten Tim some fake tattoos,” lamented Steph as they did their final inspection of the pair.
“No, it’s a good contrast,” said Bernard, tapping his chin as he looked from Tim’s smooth, Taj-Mahal-pale skin to Roy’s freckled, tattooed, and track-mark-scarred arms. “Besides, the guy you’re after is into the young twinks, right? Matching tatts with his otter dom isn’t the vibe.”
“What’s an otter dom?” asked Cass, raising Bruce’s blood pressure by 10 BPM.
“An otter’s a gay dude who’s bulkier and hairier than a twink,” explained Bernard, absolutely ignoring Bruce’s blood pressure because god dammit, the man had created this life for all of them and it was his actions that had led to this moment, so he could damn well suffer.
“But not super bulky or hairy, like a bear,” added Roy, who was always up for making the vein on Bruce’s forehead dance.
“Okay, focus.” Jason didn’t know why everyone was talking about otters and twinks and dressing up. He just wanted to get in and stop the bad guy.
Summary: You awaken uneasy and wrestle with your own fears and frustrations. To make matters worse, Barnes wants to make amends. But you're not sure if you're ready to let him. (Chapter 2)
Word count: 3.6k
Warnings: References to injury and criminal behavior (drugs and human trafficking), angst and anger, but good things are stirring. Some swearing.
A/N: Okay, so here we go! The continuation of You Still Get Burned. I hope you all like it! Thank you to everyone who read the first and to those who wanted to see more. Thank you, as always, to my darling beta and wifey @jbarneswilson for reading and poking me to add more where it needed to be. Dividers by the always amazing @firefly-graphics
"Keep a little fire burning; however small, however hidden."
-Cormac McCarthy
You blink your eyes open in the pale early morning light that filters in around the curtains. As soon as your brain powers on, you turn your head to your left, a habit you’ve developed- you’re not sure when exactly- that you’re not entirely comfortable with. Still, when you find the space beside you empty, you stretch your hand out to feel the sheets.
It’s not that unusual for him to wake before you, there certainly isn’t anything to be worried about just yet, but still, you check the temperature of the bedding. He likely hasn’t been gone long you surmise, the sheets are cool but not cold.
Turning your head to better tune your ear to the noises of the house, you listen. After a moment, you catch muffled sounds from the kitchen- ordinary morning sounds- and you relax.
You hadn’t even let yourself acknowledge that you were tense.
You sit up with an annoyed sigh and rub your hands over your face. It’s that fucking dream again.
Barnes isn’t in any danger and if he was, he is perfectly capable of taking care of himself, you remind yourself.
Even you, who has every reason to dislike him, can recognize and appreciate his skill, even beyond those abilities enhanced by the serum. He’s smart, he has an uncanny ability to sense when a situation is turning bad, and he doesn’t put himself in harm’s way unless he has to. Plus, he believes in the sanctity of the mission and wouldn’t willfully do anything to mess it up.
Even if he never wanted to be a part of the whole thing to begin with, you think bitterly.
And still, if none of those things were true, holed up here in this suburbanite’s paradise, danger is at a minimum- save for that inflicted by spouses on one another- unless you actively go out looking for it. A truth that remains despite the fact that your neighbor is a ruthless kingpin. She keeps the dangerous part of her job far away from her home and her kids.
But in your dreams... well, in your dreams it’s not like that. In your dreams, he always ends up dead.
And you are always helpless to do anything about it.
Memory stirs uncomfortably in your middle- mixing with the remnants of your dream- and you quickly climb out of bed before it can turn to nausea.
Because he had been in trouble and you had been helpless that night. And the only thing you could do was stay the course, to maintain the ploy so that your cover wouldn’t be blown and you could continue with the mission, if he made it back alive.
The dream usually starts with the truth, even if it twists the ending.
Oh! You started, cut off in the middle of a rant about the disappointing selection of limp kale at last week’s farmer’s market by the melodious ringing of your cell phone. Oh, it’s Adam. You smiled brightly at your guests. I bet he’s on his way home now. Here, I’ll take those- you reached for their salad plates- and grab another bottle and our main dish.
You brought the phone to your ear as you loaded up your arms and pushed backwards through the swinging door to the kitchen.
Hey babe! You on your way home? You asked with all of Lena’s brightness.
His harsh breathing in reply told you that he was not.
You stiffened and glanced sharply back to make sure the door was closed behind you. Still, you moved across the room to the pantry before asking, What happened?
Things aren’t- he cut off, pain evident in his hoarse and breathy voice- things aren’t going so well. The intel the team sent us about their security rounds, apparently it’s useless because they’ve changed their routine. I got caught in the warehouse.
Alarm coursed through you.
Are you still there?
No, but one of them slammed into me with the boardside of their car and- he swallows thickly- I took a couple of bullets.
Icy dread slipped down the back of your neck.
You swore then stopped yourself. You needed to control your voice. Even taking precautions, there was always the risk of being overheard.
Where are you now? You asked with false lightness.
I’m pinned down in the neighborhood. They’re fucking everywhere.
Did you call for an Uber? You asked, using your code word for back-up.
No. And you shouldn’t either. I think- right now I think they believe that I’m just a thief who stumbled into the wrong warehouse. If we call back-up, they’ll know this is something bigger and the mission will be blown.
You pinched your fingers to the bridge of your nose, knowing that he was right but frustrated nonetheless.
Fine, I’ll send these two home and come get you myself. I can tell them your car broke down and you don’t want to leave it at the office for the night.
No.
You had to clench your teeth to stop yourself from shouting.
What, you ground out, justifying the annoyance in your tone as that of an angry wife, do you suggest that I do instead?
Just keep doing what you’re doing. If I’m right, they’ve got no reason to suspect us and we don’t want to give them a reason to. I’ve got a plan to get myself out of here. I’ll call you if I can, but I’m not sure when that’ll be.
You bit your lip, dread and your own helplessness warred in your insides. You knew he was right, the best thing you could do for now was to keep your cover intact. But you didn’t like it. Whatever animosity the two of you shared, he was still your partner, and it went against every fiber in your being to not do something- anything- to help him.
You breathed out heavily through your nose, knowing that it would do no good to argue.
Fine, just- you cut off, unsure of what you wanted to say- just be fucking careful, okay?
It wasn’t like you to express concern for him and you both knew it. After a long minute, he responded on a raspy breath, I will, then hung up the phone.
That’s how the dream always starts, with the truth. How it ends… well, your brain apparently has taken considerable zeal in creatively contriving a myriad of ways for James Buchanan Barnes to die while you watch on, powerless to do anything about it. It’s disturbing and you wonder if this is some kind of sick karma for all those times when you yourself had actually wanted to kill him.
You force yourself to shake it off, just like you do every morning.
You have a job to do, not least of which is pretending like you’re in love with a man who has not once in your entire experience together engaged in any meaningful conversation with you that was not directly related to your work. Not that you’ve done anything to encourage him, not after he iced you out in the early weeks of your acquaintance.
Once upon a time, you’d been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, especially given how highly Sam thought of him. But after a while, even Sam’s good opinion of Barnes wasn’t enough to convince you to set aside your own pride and keep trying with someone who had clearly made up his mind to dislike you. Especially since it hurt far less to just be done with him than it did to hope that he might eventually come around.
You head to the bathroom, then slip into your usual workout gear. “Lena” likes to take runs in the wooded trails just beyond the subdivision and it’s good for your head as well.
As you make your way down to the kitchen, warm cooking smells hit your nose and your eyes flutter. Barnes certainly does know how to cook, you’ll give the man that.
You hop down the last few steps and round the corner into the kitchen, your thoughts set on grabbing something caffeinated before you head out. But you stop short as you cross the threshold. Various breakfast dishes are laid out on the island. A lot of breakfast dishes.
When Barnes catches sight of you, he straightens and calls brightly, “Hey! Good morning.”
His unexpectedly cheerful tone, coupled with the food, puts you on high alert. You quickly look around. It’s early but it wouldn’t be completely out of the ordinary for one of your neighbors to drop in uninvited. You see no one but favor caution nonetheless.
Shifting into Lena mode, you cross over to Barnes.
“Good morning, honey,” you say sweetly, as you kiss him lightly on the cheek. Dropping your voice to a whisper, you ask, “What’s going on? Is someone here?”
“Oh, uh, no,” he shakes his head with a grimace. “Nothing’s going on and it’s just us.”
Stepping away from him, brow furrowed in confusion, you survey him then look at the massive spread of food.
“Then why does it look like you’ve invited over the Golden Girls for brunch?”
He cocks a half-smile at the reference, one you know he understands. Bringing him up to speed with pop culture was part of your mission training.
He laughs uncomfortably before clearing his throat.
“I guess I got a little carried away.” He scratches the back of his neck before looking at you sideways. “This is actually for you.”
Your attention snaps back to him.
“What? Why?”
Your tone is blunt and you can hear the rudeness of it. But this is too weird. You may be pursuing a suspect who wears the amiable facade of an ordinary wife and mother, while secretly importing both drugs and humans into the country as part of a much bigger global network of dangerous and prolific traffickers. But this? This is the weirdest thing that’s happened to you on this mission and you don’t like it.
He drops his head, nodding slowly.
“Right, fair question.” he catches your eye again and gestures towards the barstool. “Would you- would you mind sitting?”
You eye him sideways, but do as he asks. Reaching behind him, he grabs a mug of something hot and passes it to you. You take it, but don’t drink.
“Why do I feel like something’s gotten seriously fucked up with our mission and you’re trying to butter me up to soften the blow?”
“Nothing is wrong with the mission. But, uh-” looking down, he leans forward and spreads his hands flat on the counter before lifting his eyes to you again. “I did fuck something up. With you. And I want to apologize.”
An uneasy feeling slips down your spine and makes you straighten uncomfortably. But you say nothing and refuse to look away.
“Back when you joined the team, I- well, I was a dick. There really isn’t any other way to put it.”
He shifts his shoulders, seemingly to shrug off the tension building there but to no avail.
“We had been expanding the team, and we had gone through so many candidates but only Rambeau and Belova were good enough. So I told Sam and Torres that I was done with all that, we didn’t need anybody else. But they kept pushing and pushing, saying ‘we gotta just see this one more person’. Eventually, I agreed but only after they harassed me about it and only to get them off my back. I was tired of all the change and going through the paces with so many ultimately worthless agents. I was convinced that you were just going to be a waste of our time like so many of the others.”
He takes a deep breath and pushes on.
“I never wanted to even give you a chance. I was just waiting for you to fail. And honestly, I think I was almost even more pissed that you were so good. I think part of me was hoping you would just quit and then I’d never have to admit that I was wrong.”
He pauses and watches your face for a long moment. Stiff and ill-at-ease, you curl your fingers tightly around the mug.
“But all of that, everything that I just said, it doesn’t really matter. What I was thinking, what I was feeling back then, none of that is an excuse for how I behaved towards you. Because, well, the way I acted was indefensible. I was wrong about you, you are amazingly talented, but even if you weren’t, even if you were crap at your job, you never deserved to be treated like that. There have been so many times when I could have said that I was sorry, but I didn’t. I don’t want to make that mistake anymore, so-” he takes a fortifying breath- “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I have been so awful to you. I'm sorry that I made things so intolerable for you."
You draw in an uneven breath and shift your eyes away. Your heart is suddenly pounding and you don’t know how to process everything he’s said.
“If-” the sound of his voice, tentative and slow brings your focus back to him- “and you don't have to decide about this right now! But, if you could forgive me- and I know I shut you out for a long time and I get that maybe you don’t want to be friends with me- but-” he clears his throat- “I’m hoping that maybe we could be-” he tosses his head, struggling to define what exactly it is that he’s asking for- “not- not what we have been.”
He looks at you, his brow raised in uncertainty. His speech finally at an end, he shoves his hands into his pockets. You can tell that he’s nervous, something you’re not sure you’ve ever seen from him before.
It makes you nervous. And uneasy. And your first instinct is to reject him, if for nothing else than for causing you to feel this way. Again. Just like he did when you first joined the team and you still hoped that maybe, just maybe, he’d come around.
But he never did.
And now, now, he’s offering you what the you of a year ago would have gratefully welcomed?
Anger flashes through you and you can tell that he sees it. He pulls back slightly as if you’ve stung him. But then he straightens, holding himself firm but unguarded, as if resigning himself to your judgment, whatever that may be.
Looking at him confuses you and you turn your head away. You look out into the backyard, the grass mowed just last weekend by Barnes, by “Adam”, as part of your apparently gender traditional division of labor in the home.
With him out of your direct line of sight, you’re able to think more clearly. You’re annoyed at him for this, for rocking the boat when you’d settled pretty firmly, although not comfortably, into your roles. There were no surprises, you knew what to expect from him, even if it was cold silence. And now this? It’s confusing and you don’t like feeling confused.
But if you’re honest, you can tell he means it. And, if you’re really, really going to be honest, you’re not completely innocent here either and you know it. When you decided to give up on the idea of camaraderie with Barnes all those months ago, you didn’t just let things lay. You angrily salted the earth between you, killing off any chance that anything good could ever grow there.
And when, over more recent months as you worked so closely together, you could see some of the ice in your relationship start to thaw of its own accord, could see him starting to soften towards you, your pride wouldn’t let you do anything about it. You may have stopped actively stoking the animosity between you, but you certainly made no effort to let your walls down either.
You turn back to him and find him watching and waiting just as he had been.
You chew the inside of your cheek as you make up your mind. Finally, you exhale hard through your nose and look him in the eye.
“Okay.” You rub your hands nervously down your thighs. “I- forgive you.”
His brows shoot up, at first surprised and then cautiously pleased. He opens his mouth but you cut him off before he can speak.
“And since we’re being honest-” you lick your lips and press on- “I admit that I also contributed to this-” you gesture to the space between you- “hostility. My pride was wounded and I basically thought ‘fuck this guy’ and acted accordingly. So, I’m sorry about that.”
His lips twist wirily and he nods his head.
“It’s okay. It’s not like I could blame you.”
You snort a humorless laugh.
“Maybe, but I think we both acted poorly.” He accepts this with a dip of his head. “And yet, somehow- despite every reason to think otherwise-” you look at him pointedly and he smiles- “we actually work really well together. And we would probably work even better together if we- you know- let some of this go. So yeah, okay, let’s both admit that we’ve been stubborn assholes but that we’re going to try to be-” you gesture vaguely once more and copy his words from before- “not what we have been.”
“Yes! Great!” he smiles and bobs his head, shyly like a young kid. “Great, then- then we agree.”
Unexpectedly, you find your own lips trying to tug up of their own accord, a strange feeling given that he’s the cause of it.
“Yeah, but don’t-” you hold up a finger and shake your head sternly- “smile so much, it’s weirding me out.”
He barks a laugh and his smile turns brilliant. “Fair enough.”
You grumble at his obvious inability to follow your direction. Still feeling a bit off kilter, you try to temper your expression, but keep your tone light.
“Just for the record, it was the Dutch baby that convinced me.”
He follows your eyes to the large, pillow-like pancake with the crispy edges then shifts his eyes back to you.
“I was actually kind of hoping that would win you over.” Ducking away to grab a plate, he avoids your eye as he adds, “I remember you talking to Monica about how much you liked them after that mission in Chicago.”
You blink in surprise. He remembered that? That was back when things were really bad between you, when you actively refused to talk to each other unless necessity demanded it. You had assumed he had completely tuned you out. He certainly acted like you didn’t exist if he could help it.
As you watch him cut into the pancake with a large knife and slide a portion onto your plate, you’re struck by just how little you know about this man. Your skin prickles and your insides feel weird. You don’t know how to name the feeling that makes something flip in your stomach, but for now, you’re not going to think about it.
Because when he hands you the plate with a beautiful array of fruit and whipped cream topping your pancake and you thank him, he looks at you with a face full of shy expectation. And for the first time, in a very long time, you feel the urge to let the past go. So this time, when you feel your lips tugging, you don't hold back and you let him see you smile.
Bucky plunges his hands into the soapy water. He marvels, as always, at the way that the holographic nanobot netting Shuri made to cover his arm never glitches or gives itself away, not even in the water like this. Even more amazing is the way that it feels when he touches it, like real skin, warm to the touch and soft. The design is so seamless that he could almost believe that it really was his own flesh.
But thinking about that for too long always gives him an uncomfortable and hollow feeling in his gut. He’s not sure why; he got used to the loss a long time ago. Still, the feeling of longing for a thing he’ll never have again nudges at him. So he forces his thoughts elsewhere.
Not that he has to try very hard because you’ve been on his mind all morning.
After breakfast, you offered to help him with the dishes, but he insisted on doing them on his own. Though you still seemed skeptical of his motives, you were happy enough to not be scrubbing pans if you didn’t have to. As a concession to your new truce, you even offered a good-natured complaint about how you were so full that you were sure your trail run would be your slowest ever.
He smiles.
It’s obvious that you’re still wary of him, a fair enough sentiment after everything. But you also forgave him- which he had hoped for but knew he was lucky to get- and you agreed to try to put your past aside to start as fresh as two people could with a cold and angry history behind them.
He knows it’s going to take a lot of work. But he’s willing to do it. He wants to do it. And you’re there with him, standing metaphorically at the starting line together. You agreed to that much, and he is going to make sure that the chance you are taking on him will be worth it.
As he rinses the frying pan and places it on the drying rack, he wonders if offering to make dinner would be too much too soon. But food is the most traditional of peace offerings. Eventually he shrugs, deciding that it certainly couldn’t hurt.
As soon as he finishes the dishes, he grabs a notepad and starts planning.
I loved the @drarrymicrofic Getting Ready prompt so much I wrote a ficlet as well as the earlier microfic!
Prompt: Getting Ready. Song: Disaster Button by Snow Patrol.
It’s going to be fine.
It’s a little after twelve, and the DMLE at midnight is an even more depressing place than in the day.
You shift in the cold, uncomfortable seat. You pull at your wrists as surreptitiously as you can, but the Incarcerous holds strong.
It’s not as if you haven’t been interrogated by Aurors before, after all.
I’ll be fine.
As long as it’s…
Potter.
He whirls into the room, a threat in his walk, Auror robes flaring. His mouth is set in a firm line and his green eyes are hard and blazing.
‘Malfoy.’ He bites out your name like a curse, just like he used to at school. It makes your heart clench painfully in your chest. ‘You look a fucking mess.’
You open your mouth to snap back, a habit by now when it comes to Potter, but nothing comes out and you remember the Silencio they cast when you were first brought to the bullpen.
Harry raises a taunting eyebrow, and you feel the scowl settle on your face. He turns to the Auror assigned to watch over you, a short, squat man with a face like a bulldog.
‘I’ve got it from here, Parker, thank you.’ The Auror nods, once, and leaves the room. Potter follows him, calls out to the bullpen from the interrogation room. ‘Someone might as well get some coffee on the go! No-one’s getting out of here tonight.’
He slams the door again, and turns to you. You see the casual flick of his fingers and know he’s just cast a Colloportus. At the same moment, a low buzzing noise rises in the room and you feel your tongue loosen. A Muffliato and the lifting of your Silencio.
Wandless and wordless. Potter always was a show-off.
He holds out a tiny phial of clear liquid.
Veritaserum.
You feel yourself getting ready to talk, a Pavlovian response from the dozens of times you were dosed back when you were still on parole as a teenager. You feel the blood on your hands, the pain of your broken limbs, the phantom remnants of long-ago trials.
You open your mouth, more obediently than you like for Potter, and he kneels before you, grimacing. You know they’ll check for Veritaserum traces in your bloodstream.
‘Sorry,’ he murmurs, as he carefully shakes out the potion.
Three drops, as per protocol.
It puts a grin on your face.
‘It’s fine,’ you reply, your voice croaked and broken from the night you’ve had, and the Silencio cast on you for hours.
Potter’s fingers twitch, and you know he’s working so hard not to touch you. You must look a state, your face dirty and your eye bloodshot and bruised.
You are broken, and he is perfect.
He gets to his feet, his eyes cold again.
‘I have to look like I’m interrogating you,’ he snarls, and you bristle in response, even though you understand.
It’s always been like this with Potter, like Fiendfyre always below the surface, wild and unnamable and dangerous.
‘Just get on with it,’ you hiss, the Veritaserum stroking you like an unwanted touch, urging you to spill your secrets, your very soul.
‘How did it go?’ Potter asks, and you are replying before you’ve even finished hearing his question.
‘Really well. No-one suspects anything. They think I’m unrepentant, they trust me. I know the location for the next drop, and I think I’m going to get to meet the second.’
Potter’s face is triumphant and proud.
‘Fucking excellent, Draco,’ he whispers, never dropping his facade for anyone who might be watching from the bullpen. ‘I knew you could do it.’
You became his undercover partner before his lover, and the thrill of working together, under everyone’s noses, on one of the biggest Potions-ring takedowns of the century was as high as when he had you in bed, pinning you down and driving you to ecstasy time and time again.
You carry on your charade of an interrogation until the Veritaserum fades from your system. Potter releases your Incarcerous, and holds out a helping hand. You take it, and he leans down, his voice suddenly far too close.
‘I hate seeing you hurt,’ he murmurs, heartbroken. ‘I can’t wait for you to come home so I can take care of you.’
You can’t help the smile. You’d do anything for Potter’s love, in the end.
’Not long now, Harry,’ you reply quietly, your lips almost brushing his cheek as you speak.
Then Potter pulls you, and you are up and on your broken limbs once more.
Cassian dropped his chin to his chest and sighed. “There’s no way to make you see reason, is there?”
“Absolutely not,” Jyn said, smug at her success in finally getting him to agree.
“Fine.” He looked back up at her with his gaze half-hidden under lowered eyelids, and she felt suddenly nervous again. “But if you’re going to be under my command on a mission like this, it means doing what I say, when I say--no arguing. Learn to take an order, Erso.”
Jyn scoffed, though her mouth was dry. “I can do that, easy. Just don’t give me any stupid orders.”
My entry for the Tomione Smut Fest is complete and posted on AO3!
Title: Duty Calls
Prompt: Undercover
Word Count: 3754
Riddle was standing in the same spot, his finger crooked towards her and beckoning her back to him. With a gulp Hermione walked back to where he stood. He lowered his hand and smiled as she stood still before him.
‘Good girl,’ he purred, and Hermione bristled inside. ‘Now, on your knees.’
Hermione stared at him in disbelief for a second, until he raised an eyebrow and pointedly looked down at the floor at his feet. Fury building up inside her, Hermione lowered herself to the floor, the thick carpet soft under her knees.
One quick blow job, and her cover would stay intact, and by the end of the night Riddle would be in custody.
She could do this.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/24409210
Thanks @weestarmeggie17 for running the fest and helping me lose my Tomione virginity 😉hope you enjoy!
