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abovethesmokestacks · 2 years

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once lost, twice found

Title: once lost, twice found

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Rating: general audiences

Word count: 3.7k

Warnings: a modicum of angst because look at who is writing, excessive use of –, the occasional swear

This is my contribution to the Escape Birthday Challenge hosted by @real-jane. My chosen prompt was “I think I’m in love with you and I don’t know what to do.” and... well... it turned out just as you might expect when I have control of the keyboard. Strap in, enjoy and let me know what you thought!

"Where were you, I thought I had lost you, Bucky!"

His chest is solid under your clenched fists as you give him a one-two punch. Goddamn idiot, he'd really scared you this time. Seeing him suddenly coming down the street, you'd broken into a sprint, almost bowling over a grandma and displayed more courage than even you knew you possessed by running headfirst into traffic without looking for insane bike riders. Bucky stands firm, takes your frustrated attempts at fisticuffs with a crooked smile.

"I'm sorry, I didn't– It was sudden. I didn't have time to tell you," he tries, places his hands over your curled up hands.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his earnest eyes and gentle voice. You look at him, mouth pursed in a pout as you pull your hands back, crossing them over your chest.

"That's the biggest load of fucking bullshit I've ever heard, and I've volunteered for a politician's office."

It does nothing to chastise him. Bucky gives a belly laugh, wraps an arm around your shoulder and starts walking the two of you down the street.

"I promise, next time I realize I need to scram, I'll make sure to give written notice," he says, his other hand covering his heart. "Now, how about I treat you to somethin’ sweet, huh? There's a place around the corner…"

There's always a place around the corner. Every instance with Bucky is an adventure, a time for stories and laughter, there is an ease to the space between you. Whenever he does this, whenever his sentences are left hanging in a challenging invitation, you follow without hesitation.

Now, you are the one to stand firm, planting your feet steady on pavement warm from a blistering summer sun.

No, wait. Wait. That's not–

"Bucky, please, just…"

Just.

Bucky smiles.

It's easy. It's knowing. He holds out his arms.

"Fine," you sigh, rolling your eyes and thinking the sun is too much, too bright.

He does a fine job keeping you preoccupied. The place around the corner is never exactly around the corner, but Bucky leads you with confidence, holds out your chair for you, lets you ooh and aah and hem and haw over a menu. Why is there always so much chocolate? Bucky orders what he always orders, coffee. Black as my soul, if you please, with a wink at the cashier behind the counter.

“Bucky…”

He’s mid-story, some shenanigan or other while you wait for your orders, and he’s windmilling his arms around wildly, face wide with a smile, “No, I’m serious, I went barrelling down the–”

“Bucky.”

Things have always been so easy between you two, all things considered, and your voice settles like a stone even in your chest. Bucky’s smile wavers, as if he’s considering whether he can keep it there, if he can spin another yarn to make you get lost in his tales again. Finally he just sighs, folds his hands in his lap, the picture of a scolded schoolboy. If all of your questions weren’t nagging at you so much, you’d tell him how endearing and completely wrong it looks.

“Are you leaving me?”

You curse yourself, because it’s not the right words, and the way Bucky’s lips press together tells you that somehow, some-fucking-how, he still knows what you’re trying to say. Deep breath, flex your fingers. You are in control. This is– You can do this.

“Is it… Is it time– You can’t stay, can you?”

It’s still not the right words, but they’re better, closer. For weeks he was only a voice, disembodied, incorporeal, and then… Then there was this. Lean muscle, bright eyes, lips that have no business pursing into a pout the way they do. So much like something real and tangible it was easy to forget he was something completely different.

Your fingers entwine, and you twist them forwards and backwards. If you looked, they’d fan and go on forever and ever and ever and–

You cannot look.

Not when there’s a divot forming right between Bucky’s eyebrows. Not when looking would break everything.

“Because…” You swallow around a slow-forming lump in your throat. “Because it feels like… like it might happen. You– You leave again and again, and I hear nothing from you and then you come back and I never know when and I– I want to know where I have seen you because I don’t remember much from Psych 101, but I know you cannot make up a face, so every face you ever see in a dream is one you have seen before, and I need to know, I– Why is a demon wearing a face that makes it so hard for me every time he leaves?”

Here is a thing that happens: you wake up one morning, and you are not alone. Physically yes, but there is something in your chest, a presence lurking in the back of your mind. You write it off as a hangover at first. Tequila is your worst enemy and vodka is the devil. But then it continues. It persists and twists and then there is a voice when you close your eyes.

“Sorry, I know you said this was fine, but…are you okay?”

He scares you half to death and scenarios of quickly spinning out of control flash before your eyes, each theory as to why you’re suddenly hearing a voice in your head worse than the other.

“No, no, please, I’m– It’s okay, please, sit down, I’ll– I’m just a demon!”

It doesn’t exactly help. You’ll tease him about it relentlessly later. A demon. Speaking in your head. That’s… You had numerous choice adjectives to describe it, but none of them seemed to entirely fit your situation. A demon. A demon.

“Please, I… We met, in a way, last night. I asked if you were okay with this.”

“I don’t even remember it!” you’d all but shrieked in your head, wondering if ramming your head through a wall would fix whatever aneurysm you surely must be suffering from.

“Oh. Oh… I thought things were fuzzy. I’m usually better than this. Consent and all. I was just… in a hurry.”

Demon meets girl, and it’s not conventional, and you don’t know much, but you’re pretty sure demonic possession doesn’t come with self-autonomy intact. He never says outright that he’s on the run, not at first.

“I just… I like it here. I don’t– You won’t even notice me. I won’t control you, just… can I stay for a while? I don’t… I don’t want to go back to hell.”

Demon meets girl and girl says, stay a while. It’s got to be your worst idea, you think on the third day, because again, demonic possession doesn't typically include the demon being honest about their intentions. But the demon, who after the first week had turned downright chatty and says you can call him Bucky, keeps his promise. No lost time, no strange occurrences, neither horns nor a tail in sight. Just a pleasant voice to keep you company, to make you smile and keep the loneliness you otherwise battled against at bay.

It’s a month when you realize his presence is missing the first time. Where at first his being had sat like an uncomfortable, angular thing in your chest, right up against your soul, the lack of it had felt like a great big emptiness. For a whole day, you sit with your hands clutching at your chest, mourning the loss of him, thinking it would at least have been nice to say goodbye.

He returns a week later, apologetic but evasive about his absence. You don’t ask any questions.

Bucky disappears again, another week that feels lost to the point that you wonder if this is what true possession feels like. He is so taken when you cry at feeling the familiarity of him that his sharp tongue and rapier wit fizzle out and he insists he is fine and you won’t get rid of him until you ask him to leave.

And so, when he disappears and reappears for the third time, you consider it. The words sit on the tip of your tongue, damning and harsh.

I think it’s best if you leave, Bucky.

This isn’t working.

I don’t want you here.

And maybe he sees them, feels the anguish of having to say them, but that night, you first see Bucky in your dreams, and he smiles and holds you and tries to explain. He wants to stay, but he technically isn’t allowed to. If the ones hunting him finds him there is no telling what they might do to you.

“You didn’t do anything, and it’s not fair that anything should happen to you. So whenever I find out they’re near, I’ll leave for a while,” he’d explained, sat you down somewhere with a cup of coffee and something that was more chocolate than anything else. “It’s not fair, and I get it if you want me to leave. I’ll do it, I’ll leave, no fighting.”

“Please, don’t.”

It’s the face, the earnestness, the feeling of having a person attached to a voice. It’s ridiculous. It’s not his face. Bucky the demon does not really look like a six foot god with storm blue eyes and touseled hair that’s just shy of getting too long. He does not really have a half smile that always quirks up just so, and he does not hug like it’s the first and last time you’ll see each other.

But still.

All those harsh words of dismissal melt away, and you ask him, beg him, to stay.

So he does. He stays until he can’t, and he comes back when it’s safe. You never really ask if he’s okay, he never really tells you about who exactly he’s running from.

Until now.

Bucky slumps in his seat, runs his hands over his face, into his hair, jaw clenching.

(when did you sit down?)

(were there chairs and tables outside when you got here?)

“I should never have stayed as long as I have,” he finally says, eyes avoiding gaze. “I keep thinking every time I reach out for you that this will be the time you turn me away. I put you in danger and you never turn me away. I never understand why you keep letting me come back.”

It hits you at an odd angle. Why wouldn't you? Is it a little… unconventional? Sure. But still. Why would you not welcome him back; this entity, this presence that has become as much a part of you as any limb, any abstract concept, any measurable phenomenon?

"Why do you come back?" You turn the question, dare to watch him as he wets his lips, seemingly picking his way through an uncomfortable truth.

“I think…” he starts, twirling the untouched spoon that came with his pitch black cup of coffee– wait, why would he get a spoon with a simple black coffee? “I think I’m in love with you and… I don’t know what to do. Because you–”

Bucky sees your astonishment, sees the questions, the whirlwind he has kicked up. The spoon lands with a skittering clink as he reaches over the table, cradles your hands between his.

"Listen, sweetheart, I'm… I could never– Shit, I'm gonna sound like every movie schmuck you hate, but I swear. It's not y-"

Your nails press into your palms, and through clenched teeth and a forced smile, you make your voice work.

"Bucky, if you even think about finishing that sentence, I will find some way to kick you where the sun doesn't shine. I don’t care," you press on, fixing him with a glare so withering it feels like the reality of your shared, fragile dreamspace crackles a little. “I couldn’t care less what you are, but I’m worried that one day you’ll be taken from me. Whoever – whatever – is hunting you might catch up and I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you like that.”

Bucky’s eyes are blue, so, so blue, but it’s as if all the vivacity in them have faded, bled out and drained him into a pale shadow. You reach for him, for the hand that he always rests on the table, for the cool skin that never quite warms under the blazing sun.

“But if I stay…” The pad of his thumb runs over one of your knuckles, a gesture so tender you feel yourself fall apart from it. “If I stay, you will always be in danger. And one day I will disappear. I’ll leave because I have to again, and I’ll never come back and you’ll always wonder. Or they find me and they drag me back, and fuck knows what might happen to you in the process. I can’t let any of that happen. Not if there is a kinder option.”

“You’d leave. That’s what this is about, right? You’d still leave. What if I don’t want you to? What is kind about that?”

The smile Bucky gives you is brittle, a fine sheet of ice holding back the dam, but it’s there. It’s there when he brings up your hand to his face, gingerly kissing your knuckles.

“I get to go on my own terms. I get to say goodbye. I get to have this moment with you, I get to see you like I’m not… Like I’m this guy. Like I’m Bucky.”

You look at him again, cataloguing his features. The exact shade of blue of his eyes, the hint of slate grey in them. The stubble adorning his face, almost but not quite hiding the cleft in his chin, the exact quirk of his mouth that manages to hold all of his grief and all of his sweetness. He is… It’s another mystery, one he’s been skirting around since you started meeting up in your dreams.

“Why… do you look like that?” you ask, cocking your head.

A strangely deserted street, but it doesn’t feel unnatural. In the moment between his confession and your question an eternity spans, lives and breathes and inhabits swaths of time compressed into a blink. It is a dream, but as dreams go, this one, whether by Bucky’s grace or the very nature of dreams, gives you the time you can no longer have.

He keeps his gaze forward, but the question amuses him. Your lips purse, and you give him a teasing hip check.

“Or do you really look like that? Are demons this handsome?”

Bucky gives a little huffing sound, a laugh that isn’t quite one as he shakes his head no.

“Ah. So, Psychology 101 holds up. Cannot make up a face. Can you– Can I see what you really look like?”

He pulls a face, mouth pressing into a thin line before he replies, “Shape is… complicated. This is… I found him. In your memories. I thought… I figured he would not… scare you.”

“I–” Eyes like a storm, a winter’s day. Bucky. Bucky. Bucky. Your brow furrows, your memory shrinking in on itself, refusing its vastness. “I’d remember you. Him. I’ve never seen him before. Where have I seen him before?”

Bucky, infuriatingly mock-coy turns on his heel to walk backwards, folds his hands in front of himself. Standard demonese for I can’t tell you that. You roll your eyes. You hate that look. You love that look. You miss it already.

“A hint then?”

He makes a show of pondering, of swinging back into step next to you, hands clasping behind his back. Infuriating asshole.

“I won’t be able to change your mind, will I?”

A corner turned. A little ways ahead; worn canvas awnings in what was once rich maroon, now sun bleached. Big potted plants by the entrance. Blink. Little tables and rickety chairs that fold. Blink. Nothing.

“You won’t,” Bucky confirms, his gaze lingering on the doors, the plate glass– the windowed– the–

No. No, no, no. It’s ending. It’s ending, you’re waking up, and Bucky… Bucky stands there, steadfast, fading.

“I’m not leaving because I want to. I need you to remember that. But you… you deserve so much more than what I could ever give you. It’s not even a life, I could never–” He swallows thickly, managing a wobbly smile as he brings you into an embrace. “This is me giving notice, sugar. I have to go now, okay? I have to go, and it’s– It’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. You’ll live.”

There is no scent, there is no warmth, but if you could stay wrapped up in him forever, in his presence that has lived right up against your soul for months, you would.

“Will I ever see you again?” you sniffle, already feeling reality’s harsh, unforgiving pull.

It’s as it should be. No direct answer. You look up right as he fades, as everything fades, and there it is. That infernal, infuriating smile. You know I can’t tell you.

Gone.

You feel it the moment you wake up, the fraction of a second inbetween sleep and wakefulness, that liminal space where everything is just a little wrong.

Gone.

The first day is spent in silence. You don’t cry so much as ache for a part of you that feels like it has been ripped from you, the wound raw and throbbing. You can’t feel him.

Gone.

It’s easy to isolate, to blame the phD that won’t write itself, to blame work that takes its toll, to blame sleep for evading you. It’s not all lies, they are all truths in their own right, if overly convenient hiding places. They are excuses for nights out, weekends of revelry, holidays and birthdays, breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Days become weeks. Weeks turn into months. You wake up from empty dreams clutching at your heart, and it always breaks you a little. Hope is a cruel, incurable illness.

You’re a ghost, you think, and ghosts need to haunt something. There is no seeming anchor, and yet somehow you remain. When you venture out, whether for food or social necessity, it doesn’t feel right. It tugs at you, the sense of wrongness, of being in a place that is both right and wrong. Somewhere out there is a place where you existed, where there was you and Bucky.

Brooklyn, Tuesday. A New York spring that can’t quite decide whether to give into sun and pleasantry. There’s a museum down in Manhattan Beach, not quite what you need for your dissertation, but it’s a way to waste a couple of hours, and this corner of Brooklyn is not a bad spot. Further west, Coney Island has awakened from its slumber. It feels… okay. It’s as close to a regular day as you have experienced since–

Well.

There is no rush, nothing to pull you back to your solitude. Aimless walking, out of Manhattan Beach, past Luna Park, on and on, up and down street after street. Left here, right, another right. Left. Turn a corner, find a new little world. Turn a corner and–

Down the street. Maroon awnings, sunbleached. Potted plants by the– by the black panelled door inset with window panes. A girl unfolding rickety chairs by tables, another sign of spring. It's a double déjà vu. You have been here before. Coffee, black as my soul, if you please. You have been here before.

It's there, right on the tip of your tongue. It's there, and you can already taste the rich, bittersweet chocolate. It's there. It's there. It's there.

Inside feels like home, you know it like a dear friend. You fumble trying to find your wallet in the wormhole that is your purse.

"What can I get for you, miss?"

"Slice of chocolate cake. And coffee," you say, tongue peeking out. Stupid freaking– aha! "Bl–"

Blue and slate grey. Stubble that only just manages to hide the cleft in his chin. A friendly smile and an inquisitive gaze.

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that?" the man says, fingers hovering over the register's screen. "One choc– Oh. Wait, it's– Sorry, but… did you come in here last year? I swear, I– I'm terrible with names but I never forget a face."

"I…"

There is no recognition, none that you had hoped for. No sass, no crooked smile.

"Halloween! You– you came in here on Halloween, you and… two friends? Three friends? You had a costume with the–"

He waves and flaps his arm about and fuck.

Halloween. Your last night out drunk. Bar hopping through Brooklyn and you had insisted on mercy, a coffee, my fucking sanity for a coffee and a chair to hang my–

"Wings. Purple," you finish, dazed and disbelieving.

“Purple wings!” the guy all but exclaims, mouth drawing into an elated smile. “You said you’d wanted to dress up as a sprite but–”

“But my friend misunderstood the assignment.”

“I meant Sprite, like the drink. That would have been hilarious, this is derivative. Or I’m not drunk enough!”

They took it as a challenge, and when you woke up…

“Sorry, I know you said this was fine, but…are you okay?”

He was there. He found–

“I’m sorry, what was your name again?” you ask, looking at his shirt for any sign of a name tag and finding none.

“Oh! I– You caught me right before my break, I’d already pulled off my apron.” He rifles under the counter, pulling up a hastily folded up apron, shaking it loose and holding it up, pointing to the name tag pinned on the left side.

“I’m Bucky. And… you?”

Bastard. Those infuriating smiles at your final parting.

“You’ll be okay.”

You worry you lip, letting the seconds tick by. Bucky’s smile falters a little.

“Oh. Right. Sorry, that’s– Unprofessional. Forget I said anything, I’ll go in the backroom now and–”

Smiling feels foreign, but it’s like welcoming back a dear friend, small and timid as it might be. In one decisive move, you push back the cup of coffee.

“Why don’t you make this to go, and I’ll tell you?”

Brooklyn in spring, and maybe the warmth is a little artificial when Bucky’s panic melts into the sweetest smile, the corners quirked just so. Your soul trembles in response, and in your ears, words carried from a dream echo:

You’ll be okay.

#Bucky Barnes x reader #Bucky x reader #Bucky Barnes fanfiction #katesbirthdayESCAPE #ESCAPEbirthdaychallenge

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mannien · 2 years

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Recon the Power

Happy Birthday @real-jane ! I’ve been working on this piece way past your Birthday in my time zone, but I know that it’s still your day back where you are from, so please - accept my most honest and best wishes! 🥳 I made it a goal to publish something for your challenge on your Birthday, to celebrate you and give you a little gift from me. I went definitely overboard and wrote much more than I intended. It’s also the first time I’ve written anything in a while, so it may be a little rusty and faulty here and there. But it’s made with love, curiosity, and passion - just like I see your works! Mine is all over the place, but that’s how I am now. I hope I can edit it someday and show you some progress! Please accept my entry for your Escape Challenge. I hope it will not be the only entry, and that it just sparked my creativity.

Pairing: TFATWS!Bucky x OC!Leah Novak, Sam Wilson x Leah (platonically)

Word count: 4k

Summary: Bucky, Sam and Leah (witch!OC) attend a socialite Halloween Party to get intel about the Power Broker.

Warnings: blood, cobwebs, descriptions of Halloween decor, smut (allusions to sex, fingering, dry humping), death, some violence, alcohol, adult themes

(The pic below was found on Google, if you feel like it’s yours, do let me know, I’ll credit you)

None of them were heading into the most elitist Halloween party by choice, but the name Power Broker among the rumoured guests was too hard to pass. The task seemed simple: find the snitch who gave the Madripoor’s ruler leverage over governors and senators that played key roles in the upcoming military distribution of the US forces. Sam and Joaquin called it a simple recon, Bucky swore on his arm that they will become political puppets soon, and Leah willingly tagged along, promising that it’s just a precaution measure.

Hotel Royal was a private property in New Jersey, owned by the former mayor. It was known for its seasonal banquets and themed parties for politicians, executives, and celebrities. In essence, the place reeked of money, gossip, and underground exchanges of power. It made them all hesitate before leaving the car and leaving it with Torres, who was supposed to be their eyes of the inside, and surrounding area during their stay. The three was left with nothing but a long red carpet stretching into the reception desk.

They checked into a large suite on the third floor. The large, golden number 33 on the door was smeared with fake blood, and the doorknob sprayed with sticky webs that would make Spider-Man roll his eyes in embarrassment. The room itself, just like the whole hotel, looked like the time stopped in the golden era of elite cocktail parties. Dark wood furniture, golden handles, patterned walls and Parisian windows would make it a good romantic spot for a weekend getaway, only if it wasn’t crowded with the money laundering underground societies. The charm would still be there with the fake pumpkins on the tables, but Sam decided to lay out his tactical gear on the couch before dressing up. So much for a cute room from époque.

“Remember, this is just to get information. We’re not engaging until absolutely necessary,” Sam’s decisive voice echoed through the suite, reaching down to the bathroom and the second room. Bucky walked back to him, buttoning his black shirt. “Eat, talk, be all ears.”

“You don’t have to remind me what a recon is.”

“I know. I wasn’t talking to you.” He nodded pointedly to the bathroom, when the makeup bag landed on the floor with a moderate thump.

“If this is an easy recon, then why Torres is lurking around the building and we’re wearing those tiny earbuds?” she fixed her lipstick and pulled up the dress from around her hips, trying to squeeze through it and not rip it.

“They’re called comms, Leah,” Sam was putting on his shiny black shoes that would - the kind that would get him into a ballroom dance competition.

“She knows that.” Bucky’s mumble was shortly followed by her confirmation.

“I know, Sam.”

He shook his head in disbelief at the childish exchange and fixed his shoelaces.

“Relax. We know the drill,” Bucky patted his shoulder. The tight-lipped smile was the most encouragement he could muster, but that was enough for his friend. “now, give me that tiny earbud.”

Sam sent him a look and exhaled heavily at Bucky’s mocking chuckle. They set up the communication channel with Joaquin and put their looks together with shiny cufflinks, shirts nicely fitted into their waistbands, and spritzes of cologne.

She rarely had the opportunity to dress up like this. Face accentuated by light makeup, hair nicely tucked away from her face with two golden bobby pins, and that body-tight dress; the faux-leather corset-like middle hugged her nicely, making her breasts curve just right. The bottom looked like a black princess gown, but cut off just below her ass. It was flowing with dark, delicate fabrics that jumped over the swell of her bum. Her body looked hellishly good in that dress, and Bucky’s mind repeated that statement to himself when he saw her appear in the doorframe.

“Could you help me zip it?” Her timid voice was such a contrast to the way she looked, that even Sam raised his eyebrow in curiosity.

Bucky put away his phone and walked up to her immediately, not even paying attention to the teasing look that their friend served them. She stood with her back to him, already half-zipped, so not too much of her was revealed. He struggled a little with the fastening, scrunching his eyebrows in the meantime.

“Are you sure it’s not…”

“What?”

“It’s not uh…” he stuttered a little, trying to find the right words that wouldn’t offend her clothing choice. “too tight?”

They both paused for a heartbeat, and Leah listened intently into the nervousness that started crawling out of his mind. She bit her lip and shook her head gently.

“No, it fits. Just pull it up a bit more.” She instructed, but Bucky hesitated. He held the hem between his fingers and looked down, eyeing her bottom carefully as it slid through the material.

“Pull it up? Doll, if I pull it up, your whole bottom will be out.” He protested, not even caring about using the pet name in front of Sam. When he heard her groan, he obeyed, and zipped up the dress and fastened the little clasp on top of it.

Leah let out a small ‘thank you’ and shimmied about in the dress, fitting it comfortably around her. She pulled on the back to check how long it is and confidently pushed it up an inch more, covering more of her cleavage.

“Where, uh…” He cleared his throat, lowering his voice. It caught her attention and made her look up, fixing her gaze on his wide blue eyes. “where did you get this?”

“Why? You like it?” Leah’s voice was barely above a whisper, smiling wickedly at his stoic face that started to break with each look down her body. There was a tint of pink spreading over his cheeks. She could feel the warmth that was building up in his mind; she didn’t have to read his feelings to know that he liked it.

“Alright, that’s it. We’re leaving now.” Sam waved at them and opened the door to the suite, inviting them both to walk out with him.

Bucky passed Leah her comms and waited as she left the room first, making sure nothing was left behind. He walked up to Sam, pursing his lips at the proud smirk adorning his friend’s face.

“Please use the room farthest from the door. I don’t wanna hear it.”

By the time they made it to the ground floor, the party was in full swing. The main hall was covered in dark drapes, singular tables stood out with crimson tablecloths and crystal cutlery. The bar was visibly flowing with the fake smoke; waiters and bartenders were wearing either grim makeup, or a tad-too-revealing costumes. Politicians occupied the tall tables near the stage, where frighteningly flexible gymnasts showed off their skills on poles and hoops. The few lounge areas smelled of cigars and heavily poured whiskey. The whole floor was decorated with bloody signs, warning tapes, and random limbs of mannequins hanging on the walls.

“I didn’t know Jersey’s senators would be into hardcore Halloween themes.” Leah’s mumble resonated in their comms. Nobody said anything in response, as they continued to stare at the bizarre décor of the place. They passed a group of A-list celebrities who were filming it and taking candid photos of the party; clad in equally form-fitting clothes, with glasses already half-empty.

A few bystanders looked at the three with curious eyes; they weren’t necessarily hiding and did not wear their tactical uniforms. For some, such sight would be news-worthy. Bucky cursed himself for not wearing his leather gloves – the golden strokes over his fingers glistened under the dim lights and caught attention of those who knew of his past. He moved his hand nervously in an out of a fist, searching desperately for his pocket to hide his left hand. Just when he was clenching his jaw for the first time that night, Leah’s palm gently wrapped around his bionic arm, silently asking him to bend it, so that he could have her wrapped around it. She lifted up a corner of her lips when he looked at her, and saw through her action – she was calming him down. Leah eased the tension and let go of the tightly knotted nervousness. She worked her magic on him.

They walked some more around the main room, taking in their surroundings and the guests that arrived. Governors chatted with art collectors; philanthropists made silent deals with influencers and valuable personas.

“Guys, ten o’clock, a few gang leaders from Madripoor.” Bucky’s eyes wandered to the target offered quietly by Torres. Leah looked the other way, plastering an empty smile to her face as some performers mixed with the crowd.

“I’m gonna go mingle.” He returned a fake smile and squeezed Leah’s palm, before wandering off.

She swayed her hips a bit more to the heavy bass of music. Walking closer to Sam, she was about to offer him a drink, when her train of thoughts was blocked by someone’s heavy intention to talk. She saw the local governor making his way down to Sam, ready to shake his hand generously and congratulate on the latest achievements.

“I’ll be at the bar.” Her soft voice left him with an overly excited, slightly intoxicated politician.

The bartenders must have been paid extra, because the fire and fake blood were interchangeably accompanying each order. She found an empty barstool to sit and straightened up her back, to catch attention of the Dracula pouring another round of bloody Mary for a tech mogul’s wife.

“What can I get you?” He offered her a little bowl of pretzels and lit up a tealight next to her.

“Gin and tonic. Make it sweet.”

While the bartender was fixing her drink, Leah looked around. Sam was nowhere to be found, the crowd even busier than minutes before. It made it difficult for her to read people’s feelings clearer, so she tried to listen in more.

A creeping wave of anxiety, covered deeply by chemically altered excitement, beamed out of the short, dark-haired guy. He kept on circling his tall beer glass, as he allowed the girl next to him chat him up. He laughed at something the pretty blonde said, but he wasn’t focused on her. He kept on checking his watch and taking small, but continuous sips of his drink.

Leah wanted to read more into this, but the Dracula offered her the drink and made a show out of it, sprinkling it with edible glitter. She smiled thankfully and took a sip, admittedly impressed by the taste. She drank a bit more before turning back into focus, but her perception became clouded by the commotion in the other side of the room. Someone picked up a fight, but it quickly died down as security came out of nowhere, fully stocked with weapons to scare everyone off. The show of power resonated through the room, and the fear among the patrons dissolved quickly with fresh rounds of drinks and other refreshments.

When she turned back to the stress-drinker, he was gone. With sweet concoction in one hand, Leah stood up from the bar and tried to focus. She circled the drinking area and kept her eyes open, looking for that mop of hair and overpriced watch. She thought she saw him near the exit, welcoming someone in, but a group of laughing girls crossed her path and broke the connection. She backed off to an emptier side of the room and played with her hair, while saying,

“Torres, brown hair, short male. Sat three seats to the left from me at the bar, just came up to the entrance.”

“On it. Give me some time, let me know if you see him again.”

It went on like this for some time. She walked around, nursing her glittery drink and looking around for anything suspicious. Some people would walk up to her, chat about nothing and share empty excitement over the party. At one point, Sam’s head flashed in-between the swaying bodies. She got closer, watching carefully as a few senators shook his hand and exchanged pleasantries with Captain America in civil clothing. She rolled her eyes at the overload of testosterone emanating from them, so leaving Sam with their attention was the best choice for now. He was just fine.

Finding Bucky was a little more difficult. The mobsters changed their seats and were moving about, making it harder to navigate which group sucked him in. The last spot she hasn’t checked before was the secluded area with velvet lounges, where the skimpy dressed gymnasts came in, but didn’t leave for a while. She downed her drink and walked towards the little corridor.

Before she could turn the corner, a familiar, female voice resonated from the side. Leah could swear she knew that tone; she couldn’t make up the face, but her mind screamed at her to follow it. She pushed the heavy curtain and took a step inside, trying to be subtle and quiet. What she didn’t expect though, was the strong arm pulling her back forcefully, backing her to the main hall swiftly. Her brain didn’t warn her of any danger lurking behind, so she turned on her heels to be met with Bucky’s heavy gaze.

“I wouldn’t go there.” His low whisper was confident enough that Leah didn’t question him. He gestured with his head to the other way of the room and lead her away, making them blend in with the crowd again.

They found the bar with the same Dracula for a bartender, and Bucky pushed his way through enough to locate an empty bar stool for her. He gestured Leah to sit down, as he leaned on the counter and waved the bartender over to make an order.

She spent a minute taking him in. His suit still crisp and without a wrinkle on the shirt, face hard yet a tad softer, when he turned to her. She swore to limit her use of powers on him to bare minimum, so she didn’t read his emotions. She allowed him be, order them a drink each, and make himself busy for a moment.

“You good?” She asked finally.

Bucky took a swing from the beer glass and licked his lips from the excess foam that gathered around his lips. Absentmindedly, he nodded, looking around before speaking.

“Sharon Carter is here. She’s doing a dodgy business with some jocks, I don’t even know who they are. I don’t want to know. There are people involved.”

That made sense. Leah connected the dots and could hear the voice that she heard moments before; it definitely was the toxic blonde that hid more behind her fake smile, than one would have imagined.

“What are you thinking?” She searched for his eyes. He wouldn’t look at her at first, so she reached up with her palm to touch his cheek gently. It got his attention and made him return the look of concern, locking their gazes in a heavy stare.

“The short guy that Leah paid attention to, he invited Sharon Carter in. She was on the list, so, nothing out of ordinary here. Keep looking.”

Torres’s voice never did sound more annoying. Back to square one.

It was past midnight when they reunited with Sam. The whole evening, he was held up by senators and influential figures, all of which were stakeholders of the military programs. He fished for intel, for anyone to sell any lead as to why the Power Broker would want the US military to be involved in their business, but to no success. He made a few friends that potentially could spill a rare detail in the future, but nothing that would help them find the snitch during the party.

They waited out until the main show would slow down. Sam joined their private pity party with Dracula the bartender, and they just watched. A few people would come up to them to say their goodbyes, but Leah wasn’t even sure who they were. Her mind went on a road trip across the whole room again, scanning everyone and everything around. She was focusing so hard that the plastic straw she was holding, broke between her fingers. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and gently massaged her forehead.

“Hey, you alright?” Sam nudged her in the ribs, and then looked over her head at Bucky.

“Yeah. I’ve been feeling a lot, but never releasing it. It gets heavy.” She mumbled with a groan, closing her eyes for a second.

“You guys go upstairs for a while, get some quiet time. I’ll keep watching,” he nodded toward the exit. “Torres, you still there?”

“All eyes and ears, man.” The connection was still strong, but Joaquin was just quieter, probably more bored and tired with each passing hour.

“Alright. Keep us posted.”

Bucky stood up and took Leah’s hand, pulling her away from the dirty countertop and making her walk away with him. Some security guards nodded at them, almost as if they knew them personally. They stepped into the small elevator and waited patiently for the faulty door to close behind them. She then leaned into him, resting her forehead on his shoulder and letting out a heavy breath. He held her waist and massaged it gently, for reassurance. The elevator stopped at their floor with a little bell sound, and so they walked in silence into their suite.

They left the room clean, and it calmed her senses. They lit up all of the lights and pulled the drapes over the windows. Leah took off her high heels in the middle of the room, not caring about the mess she was leaving behind anymore. Her head was pounding with sudden silence that hit her mind. A shocking wave of unexpected peace made her shudder with relief. She threw herself onto the nearest bed, breathing in the softness of the mattress. She turned on her side to watch him move around the room; he took of his suit jacket and sat down at the couch across from her, legs spread wide comfortably, head resting on the back cushion.

The boiling power bubbled inside of her – her body always sought harmony. She did not use her power physically today, so the accumulated feelings were overflowing. Her eyes were shining with the icy blue hue, making her attention span shift significantly.

She crawled up from bed and slowly made her way to Bucky. He watched her carefully, trying to understand her and her needs. She climbed over his lap, hugging his hips with her thighs. Leah leaned in, resting her forehead on his, locking their gazes in a silent stare off. His hands wandered to her hips, holding her steadily, but lovingly. He massaged her body, trying to ease any discomfort that her body might feel. In return, she leaned down to kiss him on the lips sweetly. Their mouths moved in sync, creating a steady rhythm that started to sway their entire bodies. He knew what she needed and he was more than willing to help her out.

Cold, metal hand palmed her ass cheek. It easily brushed over the delicate material of the dress, making his fingers slip across her body with ease. He repetitively squeezed the firm flesh beneath her clothing, which made her move her hips in unison with his gentle pushes. His harsh tugs on her butt made her grind over his groin, earning a hearty moan out of her throat.

Tight dress slowly hiked up her ass and gave him easy access to the heat of her skin; he released it and quickly grabbed it again, catching it mid-jiggle and making a loud, slapping sound. She kept on moving her hips, feeling her core warm up and soak her panties. Sloppy kisses were interrupted by sudden breath intakes and impatient moans. The steady movement of her hips helped her find the growing bulge in his pants. When she started moving along its length, she let go of his lips with a smack and started kissing his cheek, jaw, and neck. Shamelessly grinding over him, she took a hold of the collar of his shirt and unbuttoned the very top of it. Leah sucked and bit lightly on his neck, not getting enough of the taste of his skin.

Bucky pulled at her panties and moved them to the side, dipping his hand between her ass cheeks and lower. She moaned loudly, feeling the slick wetness leave her core.

“Fuck, baby” Leah almost sobbed, feeling her powers tickle her nervous system. Each movement was more electric and bringing her greater ecstasy. She needed him to touch her, love her, kiss her, and fill her.

“What do you need, doll? Tell me.” He mumbled in between their hot kisses. They were all spit and tongue, teeth clashing when Bucky dipped a finger into her.

She whimpered, stilling her movements as he worked her up. She shook with the overwhelming feeling of pleasure and much needed release.

“Tell me, baby, what do you need?” He pulled out his finger and squeezed her ass.

Too stunned to speak, with shaky hands she reached down to his pants, doing her best to undo his belt and unzip it. She held up her hips to have easier access, fumbling with the zipper and quickly pushing her fingers through the waistband of his boxers. He stopped her by grabbing her wrists in one hand.

“Talk to me,” Bucky made her look down at him, scanning through each other’s faces with attention. “I’ll give you the world, but just talk to me. Just like you make me talk.”

Tears welled up in her eyes; she was overloaded with emotions; her mind powers took a toll on her and she just needed to release it. She couldn’t start shooting up her magic just because she felt like it, so she had to get rid of the heaviness of it all.

“I love you, James,” She kissed him on the lips and looked him straight in his blue orbs, making hers lit up. “I love you so much, and I need you to make me feel so good, that I can forget about everybody’s pain for a moment.”

He smiled with this warm, adoring expression. His face was sparklingly beautiful and looked only at her, nothing else.

What happened next, neither of them expected. Leah was so focused on getting rid of her emotional overload, that she blocked everything else. The lights suddenly switched off, the room drowned in uneasy darkness.

“Sam?” Bucky’s expression hardened, his arms held Leah tighter against his chest.

“The power’s out here too. Joaquin, anything?”

The only thing that Bucky could make out in the room were her eyes. They shone their delicate blue hue, grounding him in distress.

“You have incoming from the main entrance. I can’t scan them, so brace yourselves.”

“Are you gonna be okay?” He whispered to her, not sure how much of their conversation would be muted from Sam and Torres’s comms.

She nodded rapidly, but did so while rapidly wiping at her cheeks. She was letting go of the feelings through heavy tears. Bucky held her by the cheeks and pressed a hard kiss to her lips.

“I love you and I will take care of you, alright?” She nodded in understanding, but sniffed uncontrollably.

They helped each other fix their clothing and blindly search for their weapons. Bucky left the room first, listening in to any sounds on their floor that would suggest any danger. Leah let the blue sparks circle around her fingers, ready to burst up in magical flames to protect them. She lit up the corridor with the blue swirls of energy and followed Bucky down the stairs.

Leah stopped Bucky from leaving the staircase, pointing to the side where she could feel a few people running. They waited out the unwanted company and entered the ground floor, where they saw the backs of the group running away. The one person that turned their way for a split second was the tall blonde, clutching her gun tightly.

“Sharon…” Leah mumbled, looking at her intently, and in disbelief.

Bucky was already ahead of her, kneeling beside a body of a middle-aged man.

“Torres, call 911. One man down.”

“Two more near the bar.” Sam’s heavy voice resonated in their ears, and Leah couldn’t stop the incoming stream of awareness. She kept looking back to where Sharon disappeared into the darkness, feeling the surge of feelings left behind in the air. Her tired mind was swimming fast in the depths of her power, and it helped her understand:

“She’s the Power Broker.”

_____

tagging: @real-jane

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