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keepsdeathhiscourt · 10 days ago

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Strays

Bucky Barnes x Widow!OC

Summary:

Marina Craine doesn’t expect to survive the Red Room—let alone the years that come after.

She drifts. Off the grid, off the radar, off the record. And Bucky Barnes lets her, even when she shows up at his window bleeding, bruised, too tired to keep running.

He never asks her to stay. She never says she wants to.

But after everything they’ve lost—Natasha, Steve, the illusion of clean hands—it turns out survival is easier when someone leaves the light on.

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Mentions of past torture and mind control, canon typical violence, language, heavy themes

Word Count: 4.3k | Read on AO3

Chapter 1: Probability

Prague, 2024

The drop happens at six o’clock sharp.

A brush of shoulders, a thumb drive changes hands, and two strangers pass each other and disappear into the bustling rush hour crowd.

She never looks back. She doesn’t need to watch her contact slip it into his coat or round the corner towards the Castle District. They’re both professionals and her part is done.

Her footfalls bounce off the cobblestone, folding into the chorus of pedestrians and tram bells. Posture straight, eyes forward. The only slip she allows herself is a tip of her neck—more micro-gesture than stretch before it’s back to business.

On to part two.

The brief had been clear cut. Succinct. Straight to the point. Blissfully free of politics and moral quagmires—the kind that seemed to haunt her missions as of late. She’s only too relieved to break the pattern. A set of files passed down through the contact of a contact. No names. No hand-wringing.

Half her fee deposited straight into her account with no snags, the rest later. She hadn’t even had to make a single reservation. The flight, the hotel, even the damn cab from the airport all taken care as soon as she’d said yes.

Impersonal. Efficient. Neat. Just how she likes it.

All she had to do was get on the plane, settle into the window set, and pop in her headphones.

Marina Craine boarded the plane to Czech Republic at 10:15am and Ingrid Solomon emerged a few hours later.

A nervous woman that fiddled with the beads on her rosary and chattered to the exhausted business man on the train about her nephew’s baptism. Devout. Unassuming. Soft around the edges. Every thing that Marina was not.

She knew her cover inside and out. Plucked it up from a pile of well developed masks and once it was on, never let it slip once. She couldn’t afford to. She lived and died by the masks.

She makes good time, spilling into the Old Town Square in a flood of tourists and still has five minutes to spare.

The sun glares its dead throes overhead, winds its weak fingers between the twin spires of Our Lady Before Týn and the sturdy brick façade of the Old Town Hall. Hand shielding her eyes, crosses the square slowly, mimicking a sightseers casual admiration.

She posts up in the shadow the astronomical clock and listens to the massive second hand wile down the moments until her target shows his face. Her hands are chilled as she smooths her peacoat, letting the wool act as a protective barrier between her and the stone bench.

The gift maps unfurls with a rustle. It’s glossy pages catch the light. She straightens it over her lap and pretends to read. Every so often, her eyes flick up to scan the bustling square.

At 6:15 sharp, she finds what she’s looking for.

Mid forties. Built like a bison. Levan Bolkvadze steps out into the open. He fiddles with the end of a charcoal scarf—cashmere, designer, ridiculously expensive. It frames his face, draws attention to a weak jaw and a weaker backbone. Beneath his salt and pepper mustache, his lips are a bloodless line. And every couple of seconds, his eyes dart from side to side.

Marina neatly folds the map and stashes it away. She rises with a stretch and follows, unhurried. She keeps the pace steady, slow enough to avoid unwanted attention, quick enough to keep tabs on him.

His long black duster is beaten to shit with tattered ends that flutter behind him like a homing beacon. Skirting the plaza, she’s close enough to see his jaw tick, to catch the glint of unease in his icy green eyes when they snap over his shoulder—just once. Then he takes a sharp left.

She turns right. Down a narrow side street. She’d done her research. The connected networks of alleys that twist around the Old Town like spiderwebs now seared into memory. Her breaths are measured, footsteps light, but picks up speed just a little.

A shimmy past the service door to a butcher shop, a tight corner, and she’s spit out at the mouth of a quiet alley.

Now she’s back to waiting. She adjusts her scarf, blows an errant strand of hair out her face. By the time Bolkvadze rounds there corner, she’s statue still, arms crossed expectantly.

He jumps when he sees her and she can’t help the thrill of satisfaction that rolls down her spine.

There’s already sweat beading at his brow and his shoulders fold in, like he’s trying to make himself as non-threatening as possible.

She shouldn’t be surprised. Lev’s always been a fucking coward.

“Dobrý večer, Levan.”

He swallows hard. She sees the dark patch of hair under his Adam’s apple he missed shaving. Then her eyes snap up to his face. He mops at his forehead with the back of hand.

Gold catches the light, a half dozen rings banded around thick fingers. She tastes bile in the back of her throat. It reminds her too much of Dreykov. Gaudy, gauche, reeking of fragile masculinity.

He speaks and the illusion shatters. Because Dreykov would never scurry from her like a sewer rat and his voice would never waver. Not with one of his Widows.

“Hello Marina,” he greets smoothly. His lips curl into something too tight to pass for a smile, a forced ease to his shoulders that only comes naturally to those particularly adept at worming their way out of tight spots. “Are you enjoying Prague?”

Marina arches a brow, peers down her nose at him even though he’s half a head taller.

“Cut the bullshit, Lev. You know why I’m here.”

He shrugs. “A misunderstanding, Marinka. You know how these things go—bad intel, shitty signals. Occupational hazards.”

She slides the gun from her holster, feels its cool, solid weight in her grip. She doesn’t raise it yet, just lets it rest at her side—like an inevitability.

“Is that so?” she asks lightly, like they’re discussing the weather. She flicks off the safety. “Because that’s not how it felt when you grabbed the asset and left me high and dry in the middle of a fire fight.”

Her voice echoes, bouncing off the brick until it fades away and leaves them in loaded silence. In a single beat, she watches every muscle in his bulky frame coil.

She’s not surprised when he bolts. She knew he’d do something like this. Still, he plows past her and sprints for the other end of the alley.

The impact makes her grunt, sends her staggering sideways, and then she’s moving. He’s faster than he looks, but not as fast as Marina. She gains ground, vaults a dumpster, and then she’s back in front of him. A string of Russian flies from his lips, too fast for her to follow.

She raises the gun. The hammer clicks.

Bolkvadze goes statue still, except for his eyes. Those flit from the dumpster, to the mouth of the alley, to Marina’s face, searching for an out.

She won’t give him one. Not this time. He isn’t going to weasel his way out this like he’d done when she’d caught up to him in Zagreb and again in Bratislava. He’s finished.

It takes two steps to get close enough to see his shoulders tremble, one from the press the barrel to his chest right below his stupid scarf.

She corrals him back. He stumbles over his feet, gasps when his back hits the wall. His fans over her face in way that feels raw, intimate. Death always is.

She can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, eclipsed by dilated pupils. No more charm, no more explanations, just fear.

“Please Marina,” he whispers, fierce and desperate. “We’ve worked together for how long now? Let me know and I’ll disappear. New name, no trail. He never has to know—“

He raises his hands in supplication, rings catching the light. And fuck—she wants to believe him. But the tick in his jaw gives him away. Another fucking liar. One more thing he has in common with Dreykov.

“You know I can’t do that.” Something creeps into her tone, something that almost sounds like regret. But that can’t be right, because she wont be sorry to see Levan Bolkvadze bleed out on the cobbles. Not when it’s his instead of hers. “I’ll make it quick. For old time’s sake.”

Something shifts behind his eyes, acceptance mingling with primal fear. Marina takes a deep breath and plants her feet. She shifts the gun a fraction to the left, right above his heart. It’ll be over in seconds. Her finger wraps around the trigger, starts to squeeze and—

“This why you’re too bust to keep in touch?”

The voice cuts through cold like a knife. Boots grind on gravel. A shadow stretches along the wall beside her own—broad and familiar.

For a moment, Marina stands there. The gun is still pressed to Levan’s chest, but she’s rooted to the spot, unable to bring herself to turn around.

“Catch you at a bad time?” His voice is low, teasing, a shade shy of snide.

She didn’t realize she’s been holding her breath until she groans, half growl where it escapes her throat. Teeth clenched, she shoves Levan back with one hand—a clear warning to stay put. She keeps the gun trained on his chest and slowly turns around.

And there leaning casually against the wall with his hands tucked into the pockets of his leather jacket is James Buchanan Barnes.

It’s been a year now—over a year, but who’s counting. His hair’s shorter than she remembers, stubble dotting his jaw like he forgot to shave, but his eyes are the same. Stormy, inscrutable as she asks, “What are you doing here, Bucky?”

“Thought I’d drop in on an old friend.”

He shrugs, like he hadn’t just caught her mid-execution. And then the bastard smirks, tight and half-hearted, never reaching his eyes—the one Marina hates.

Levan Bolkvadze’s eyes flick between them in a series of rapid blinks, like he’s trying to make sense of it all. Then his brain catches up. His eyes go wide and if he wasn’t shaking before, he is now.

“Y-you—I didn’t—You called in the Winter Soldier?”

Marina grinds her teeth, rolls her eyes so hard it makes her head hurt. She jabs the gun against his ribs. “Did I say you could talk?”

His throat bobs, he stays quiet. Marina turns her attention back to the end of the alley where Bucky is still watching he like she’s a ghost.

Neither of them seem particularly keen to break the silence. Then his eyes flick to the loaded gun in her hand.

“You gonna put that down so we can talk?”

She doesn’t move right away, maintains her icy mask as time ticks by. Then her lips twitch—just barely.

“Depends,” she drawls, eying him up and down. “You got a pair of handcuffs in those skinny jeans?”

He raises his eyebrows. Then he chuckles, a low, quiet rumble in his chest.

Marina releases a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The gun lowers, hanging loosely at her side, still primed and loaded.

“Didn’t realize you’ve been tailing me, Barnes.”

“Wouldn’t have to if you stopped covering your tracks,” he counters smoothly.

Behind her, Levan Bolkvadze, who’s been watching the exchange like a tennis match, finds his opening. A blur of fabric, an elbow to the ribs—just hard enough knock her shoulder into the wall—and he’s running. Boots skid, wood screeches on the cobbles as he hops a crate.

Using the damp wall for purchase, Marina pushes herself up. Her muscles coil. The gun lifts, tracking his pursuit. But Bolkvadze is already a fleck at the end of the street, moving like his life depends on it. And to be fair, it does.

“Fuck,” she hisses, lowering her weapon. “Fuck.”

Bucky tracks him with a low whistle.

“Looks like your target gave you the slip,” he remarks lazily, hands in his pockets.

With the object of her ire out of reach, she rounds on the next best target and levels Bucky Barnes with a scowl that would incinerate lesser men. “You’re pretty fucking smug for a man who just blew my op.”

He only shrugs, lips curled into a smug little smirk, blue eyes dancing with thinly veiled amusement. “You’ll figure it out.”

Marina glares and then steps back, holstering her gun with a sigh.

“What do you want, Bucky?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Dinner. You hungry?”

“Dinner,” she repeats flatly.

“It was long a long trip. Could really go for something not vacuum sealed.”

She folds her arms, eyes narrowed, like one of the lines in his face might give her an answer.

He must sense her trepidation. When the moment stretches on a second too long, he says, “Come on, Mari. One meal and I’m out of your hair.”

Mari doesn’t move. She should tell him no. She should leave him in the damn alley and chase down Lev while the sun is still on her side.

“Fine,” she sighs. She supposes she can figure it out later. “But I’m picking the place.”

___ Mari leads him around the corner and two blocks up. She doesn’t look once to make sure he’s following. Pace brisk and eyes fixed ahead, she hears the steady beat of his footsteps behind her. Even if she couldn’t, she’d still know he was there from the radiating force of his presence, the way the hair on the back of her neck stands on end. Not nervous—not really—just…anticipatory, maybe.

With its faded brick façade and weather beaten awning, the restaurant could generously be called a hole in the wall. A cracked tile floors, a few tables with napkin dispenser centerpieces lining the peeling floral patterned walls, and a clean kitchen.

It’d been nearly three years now since she’d found the place. A lull in a mission in the city with her stomach growling, it was one of the few establishments that hadn’t boarded up its windows during the Blip.

In truth, she has no idea how the place managed to stay afloat. She’s never seen more than a handful of patrons at any given time and she strongly suspects the humble restaurant thing is a front, but the food’s decent. Any culinary deficiencies are more than made up from by the owner’s warm discretion.

If Bucky has any thoughts about their colorful destination, he keeps them to himself. He opens the door, the bell jingling softly, but he doesn’t go in. A beat passes before Mari realizes he’s holding it for her.

They slip inside, greeted by the brassy notes of palatable jazz and the proprietor��s wife. A woman with ice blue eyes and a stern mouth. She tells them in a clipped voice to sit wherever they want, she’ll be right with them.

Mari sinks into a table towards the back, the one with a clear view of the rest of the restaurant and a direct eyeline to the front door. She takes the seat on the left, lets Bucky have the one facing the door. She doesn’t want to have to watch his neck swivel every time someone walks in off the street.

She plucks up a menu. It’s laminated and sticky beneath her fingers. She doesn’t know why she bothers, she already knows what she’s going to order. Maybe it’s just to keep her hands busy, a tactile crutch to keep her focus from the man sitting across from her.

The owner’s wife comes around to take their orders. Mari asks for the usual, Bucky asks for the same.

“Sounded easy,” he explains as the woman takes the menus and leaves them alone.

Mari only hums, busy tearing her napkin into thin strips of paper. He’s watching her, she can feel the heat on his stare on her knuckles, her face. But neither seems to want to be one to breach the stalemate.

She isn’t sure how long it takes, but sometime after a stiff drink arrives, but before the food comes, Bucky folds first.

She’s idly chasing the cocktail ice with her straw when he asks, “Can I ask you something?”

The straw stops.

Her head snaps up, finds him looking at her, expression blank and uncertainty dancing behind his eyes.

“Alright,” she replies warily. “Shoot.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He leans back in his chair, the gesture casual but she watches his grip on the table tighten a fraction.

“If I hadn’t shown up when I did, would you have done it?”

She doesn’t need clarification. She knows exactly what he’s asking.

If I hadn’t dropped in like a ghost and thrown you off your game, would you have put a bullet in that guy’s head?

She doesn’t answer right away, still trying to get a read on him. But Bucky’s a brick wall when he wants to be and eventually, she gives up.

Bringing the straw back to her lips, she shrugs. “Probably.”

The tangy-sweet liquid burns the back of her throat and the weight of his stare is burning her skin but she doesn’t look away, can’t make sense of what she’s seeing. Absently, she suspects he would make a formidable poker player.

Another sip and then the words slip out before she can stop them. “Would that have bothered you?”

It isn’t meant to be glib—not really. She just wants to know how much of her he can still stomach and is too much of a damned coward to ask outright.

He shifts in his seat. There’s a soft whir from the plates in his arm as he wrests his wrists on the table.

“Probably.”

She diverts her attention to her pile of paper scraps to hide her surprise. It’s not what she’d been expecting and he’d delivered it with such practiced neutrality she’s isn’t sure what to think.

So she deflects.

“How did you find me?”

She chances a glance and catches the last vestige of a shadow cross his face. His eyes lock on hers and she’s sure he sees right through her, but he follows the direction anyway. “Called in a few favors and then pulled the threads until it brought me here.”

She watches his fingers tap the polished surface.

“That simple, huh?”

He runs a hand through his hair and snorts. “Hell no. I knew you’d make me work for it, Mar, but Christ—“

She raises the glass to her lips, hiding the rim. Like the salt crystals might shield her from the unexpected flare of emotion. She knows an understatement when she hears it and something about the idea of him doggedly looking for her makes her chest ache. She shifts in her seat, rolls her shoulders because suddenly her jacket is too tight.

Another sip rolls down her tongue. “You’re a busy man these days. Seems a like hard to believe you came all this way on a whim.”

His fingers stop. His lips twitch.

“Had some business in Munich.”

She hums and sets her glass down. It clinks lightly against the table.

“Any luck with the Flag Smashers?” she asks, like it’s a casual question and not a bomb place lightly between them.

Bucky’s eyes widen. She can’t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction. Because for the first time since he crashed back into her life, he’s the one on the back foot.

Just then, the food arrives. Mari thanks the server with a soft smile. Bucky waits until she’s safely out of earshot and then leans in closer.

“The case is supposed to be—how did you know?”

She picks up her fork, skewers a piece of meat on the end. “High speed chases tend to draw attention, especially where you and Sam are involved.” The food finds her mouth. She takes her time chewing, then, “Besides, you’re not the only one keeping an eye on things.”

Bucky doesn’t touch his food. His fingers drum the table again, the way he does when he’s thinking hard.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “What’s your take?”

Her fork stills. She scans him over rapidly, looking for amusement or any hint of mockery, but comes up empty. He’s only watching her in that steady way of his, all sober and serious.

She sets her fork down and rests her arms on the table. “Probably nothing you don’t already know. Some kids that got their hands on Steve’s serum, looking to make some waves.” She chews her lip, thinking. “If I had to guess, they’ll keep their heads down for awhile, find somewhere quiet to hole up until the heat dies down.”

“And if it were you—where would you go?”

“East, probably. Big enough cities to get lost in, small enough to avoid international attention. Somewhere with water access if I needed to get out fast.”

“You’re talking Baltics then.”

“That’s what I would do. But then again, I’m not a desperate twenty-something with a reformed assassin on my tail.”

Bucky’s jaw ticks. His eyes cloud over and suddenly he looks a million miles away. She wonders if he’s thinking about a cocky young man with a draft letter in one hand and a ticket to the frontlines in the other. Or maybe he’s thinking about a girl, the one they whittled down until there was nothing left but a weapon.

She wonders briefly which one he mourns more. Then she decides she doesn’t want to know the answer.

The bill comes and puts a definitive ends to the conversation. The clocks starts ticking on their time left together.

When Bucky pulls out his wallet, she doesn’t argue like she used to. She lets him. Just like she lets him hold the door and lead her out into the blurry halo of streetlights. Because she knows he needs it. And she can pretend that she’s worth the effort.

Just for a few stolen moments, the kind that end far too soon. ___

She stops them on a corner a few blocks down. He slows to a stop beside her.

“It’s late. You got a door I can walk you to?” He asks like they could be two people on a night out, like he didn’t almost watch her kill a man in front of him a few hours ago.

Mari shakes her head. “This is fine. It’s a quiet part of town. I’ll make it the rest of the way.”

She can tell he wants to argue, but Bucky only nods and says softly, “Alright.”

The imaginary clock hits zero. Still, they linger. Bucky toes at the sidewalk with his boot. The gesture seems ridiculously boyish on his rugged frame.

Time stretches like taffy. Mari sees her opening, recognizes that this is the part where she slips back into the shadows and back out of his life. But she’s never been able to turn her back—not on Bucky Barnes.

And so she stays a few beats more and surprises even herself when she gently asks, “You’ll be careful out there?”

He huffs, a white cloud between them. “Always am.”

She wants to roll her eyes. It’s such a blatant lie. A sarcastic response is on the tip of her tongue—

He moves too suddenly, hand vanishing into the folds of his jacket too quick to track.

Mari’s breath hitches. Her whole body coils, goes cold.

She doesn’t mean to flinch, standing next to the one man on earth that she knows would never hurt her. Her brain knows it, but her body doesn’t. Not after too many close calls, too many barrels waved in her face. No, her reaction is pure instinct.

There’s an absence of breath across from her, an abrupt stillness that sucks the air off the street corner. Hands shaking, it takes a cycle of breaths before Mari can summon the courage to look at him.

She wishes she hadn’t.

There’s no offended scowl, no anger. Just the faint, jagged edges of hurt. She checks his eyes, trying to trace it, but it’s already gone. Now he only looks tired, the bone weary kind. Something stirs just under the surface, something…sad.

She swallows hard, looks away when she can’t take it anymore. She looks down at his hands instead and her ribs constrict. He’s holding out a small piece of paper, digits embossed in neat black typeface.

“In case you lost it,” he explains, just above a whisper.

She reaches out slowly, careful to avoid brushing his fingers when she takes it. The card vanishes into her coat pocket.

“Didn’t figure you for the business card type, Barnes.”

He chuckles. The noise is a balm to her fraying nerves. His hand rises, rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Yeah, well—my therapist suggested it. Thought it might help to have someone physical to remind me I’m state-sanctioned now.”

“Meant to tell you congrats by the way—on the pardon,” she replies with a weak smile. “I’ll make sure to give you a call next time I see you scowling on the news.”

He flashes a half smile. The look on his face says he knows she won’t call at all.

“Take care of yourself, Mar, okay?”

His hand twitches at his side, like he’s about to reach out and decides against it. It jerks in a clipped wave instead.”

“You too, Bucky.”

With one last lingering look, he turns. Makes the choice to leave first before she has to. Standing beneath the street lights, Mari watches Bucky fade into the misty night. And then just as quickly as he’d come, he’s gone again. Like he never existed in the first place.

#bucky barnes x oc #bucky barnes x ofc #black widow oc

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