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It was so well written, and I can't stop reading it

Chapter 3 - Burning in the Lava

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Someone give Bucky a Xanax or something, he needs it.

Chapter Title from demons by Hayley Kiyoko

Word Count: 11.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Bucky has a rough first week on the job, and you engage in psychological warfare. Contains usual tags.

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, smut, angst, fluff

Chapter 2 - Chapter 4

Read on A03!

It’s easy to underestimate you. It’s a mistake people frequently make, because you want them to. The optimist is never pleasantly surprised.

And the docile animal is never sedated.

And you’ve practiced being that animal your whole life.

It’s part of the show. When you’d shaped yourself into an accessory, your smile had been sickly sweet and full lipped, you’d bow your head when you spoke, and you’d watch your feet as you walked, as if you’d been afraid you’d trip over yourself.

After you got the out—the job, the only thing you’ve ever been allowed to be good at—you’d become overly confident. All sharp words and raised chins and perfectly made masks, powerful but not approachable, commanding but obviously trying too hard to be so. 

It’s purposefully mistaken for arrogance. Someone who was a threat to people who couldn’t hurt you anyway—people who the show worked on, who overestimated you and never thought twice about how you’re hollow, and lonely, and would likely shatter with one wrong touch—didn’t know how to see your everything for the lie it was. They’d never even imagine that all it would take is one carefully crafted and aimed sentence, and you rip yourself apart from within.

And people who were a threat would take the arrogance for the overcompensation it was, and they’d still underestimate you. They’d see you as too little, but trying to be more, and never even think that there was something deeper. Something to be weary of. 

They’d think they were seeing right through you, and that the one layer they’d managed to peel away was the only cage you kept yourself in.

You’d been so sure Bucky Barnes would fall in the latter category. He’d already seen you without any mask at dinner, but he’d seemed to read you as nothing more than a rich, spoiled brat who didn’t understand the threat Hydra posed. You’d hoped that would make him think he’d worked you out, and that by caving so fast to Sam’s stupid order you’d gotten him to believe you’d just roll over.

But when you get to your office the next morning, he’s waiting for you. Standing with his arms braced on his hips in the lobby of your building, an equal distance between the stairs and the elevator, scanning over the area and ignoring all the stares in his direction with an obviously practiced ease.

You don’t know how long he’s been there. Likely too long, given the depth of his scowl, but that might just be his face. There are slight bags under his eyes, but they’d been there last night as well. It’s unreasonably early in the morning—barely past 6am, the only other people in the lobby being security and night staff—so Barnes can’t have been waiting a while, but he and Sam had beaten you to the restaurant last night, which means Sam might have blabbed about you always being early and if Barnes had been paying attention-

Fuck.

Barnes isn’t the latter group. He isn’t the former, either.

He’s a whole new beast. You don’t know quite what yet, but not what you’re used to. Not a shallow pretty-boy or old, slimy asshole who will fall apart for the giggling, glossy-eyed and pouting lips act.

Not a well-trained, proud agent or politician who thought they were smarter than you, and weren’t.

Something you’ll have to dissect and maneuver around with more effort than you’re used to.

And you’d known this wouldn’t be easy. You’d hoped it wouldn’t be barely ten hours in that Barnes started to be a problem, but there he is, waiting for you in the lobby like he’d already anticipated that you’d try something.

And just because he’s right—you’d absolutely been about to try something—doesn’t mean that it’s not annoying.

But you’ll be fine. You’ll adapt. Barnes may not be underestimating you the way you’d wanted, but he’s still underestimating you. He hasn’t spotted you, standing outside the building with a baseball cap and sunglasses—Happy may have told you to stop taking the subway until this was fixed, but he wasn’t your boss, so you’d done it anyway—and he doesn’t seems to be at all worried that you can easily see him through the glass.

He thinks he’s already won. That you’re going to just stomp into the lobby and fight him there, when that will so clearly be handing him the victory.

And you don’t know what Barnes thinks you are. 

But you’re well aware that, whatever it is, he’s wrong. 

It’s not as difficult as it should be to get past him. You simply turn on your heels, walk around the block to the parking garage entrance, and enter through there. Carefully. With the stairs up to the second floor, then the elevator up to your office. 

Once he realizes that he’s already lost you and works out where you are, you’re going to need to have a serious conversation with him about covering all his bases. Maybe a conversation with Sam about how, if Barnes were five people instead of one super solider, the garage would’ve been covered and this never would’ve happened. Or a conversation with Happy about how Barnes didn’t see you, but the cameras had, so maybe they were better security than he was.

You’ll find it. You’ll have time to find it, because it’s going to take Barnes at least an hour to figure out what’s happened, and by the time he does you’ll already be several more steps ahead.

Your assistant, a sweet girl named Grace who’s only been here a year, but you still trust more than most of the actual board, is already at her desk when you arrive. You drop her coffee on the desk before she can speak, raising your brows as she blinks up at you.

“You’re early.”

“You’re early. My schedule is your schedule, ma’am-” 

You roll your eyes, pushing the coffee further forward. “Don’t call me that.”

“Mr. Hogan call you that-“

“Happy is afraid of me, you’re not. How long have you been here?”

“Only for like an hour-“ Grace cuts herself off, her hand freezing on the cup as her eyes widen. “Shit, did you come in through the lobby again? I think I saw the Winter Solider down there-“

He’s been here at least an hour. Good to know.

“And he was just, like, standing guard? I know you’re friends with Captain America, but I’ve never seen him here before, do you know what he wants-“

“Me.” You shrug, glancing over your shoulder to check that Barnes isn’t about to burst out of the elevator or stairwell, and when you look back to Grace she’s gaping at you, her voice suddenly a squeak.

“You? He’s here for- Did- Did Mr. Wilson introduce you? Did you finally break up with-“

You wrinkle your nose, your lips curling as you put together her disconnect. “No, not that. I- There are some things going on, and Sargent Barnes is supposed to be my security until they’re worked out.”

Grace nods slowly, her brow furrowing slightly. “Supposed to be? You’re not-“ She blinks at you, shaking her head. “No-“

“Yeah. Sorry.” You give her a grimacing smile, pushing the coffee once more. “I got five vanilla shots, and cinnamon-“

“I don’t want your bribery coffee,” Grace snaps your name, shoving the cup back across her desk. “Please don’t make me do this. Please.“

Something tightens in your throat at the genuine desperation on Grace’s face, and you let out a long breath before shaking your head. “Just tell him I’m busy. Put like a- A fake meeting in my schedule. Five fake meetings, and a lunch with someone important.”

“Mr. Wilson?” Grace suggests, still sitting too tall in her chair. “He’s still in town, right?”

“Yeah, but don’t use him. Barnes is friends with Sam, he’ll snitch and then the bird-ass will fly through my window again.” You drum your fingers on your own coffee, frowning at the air as your brain spins. “Scratch the lunch. I’ll stay in my office, and the meetings can all be online. That way if things get heated out here, I can come save you.”

“Save me?” Grace pales slightly. “I- why-“

“He’s not going to hurt you.” You wave her off with a hand and half-shrug. “But he’ll probably glare at you a lot, maybe try and talk you into letting him in. If you need to cave, just give me heads up first and I’ll deal with it. Okay?”

Grace chews on her lips, but nods, and you give her a genuine, smile. One that you hope she can see the gratitude in. You don’t really try to do the Show with Grace. She’s seen you cry over movies and sing in your car, watched you dance around your office when nobody else was in the building. She wouldn’t take the Show seriously. And she’s met your cat, and siblings, and him, so there’s really no point to it anymore.

“Thank you.” You say it aloud any way, just so you’re sure she knows, and pause before you move into your office. “Do you want the coffee?”

Grace scowls, but yanks the cup back from your hands. “I hate you.”

You only hum, and try to brush off how her words twist in your gut. She doesn’t mean them. You don’t think she means them. But you are asking a lot, and ward off an ex-assassin wasn’t exactly in the job description, so maybe you’re pushing it, and she does hate you-

Problems for later. When this whole situation is over, you’ll give her three weeks off. Paid. And you’ll clean her apartment, and water her plants while she’s gone. 

But right now, you have work to do.

There are real meetings. Actual things you need to attend to, that aren’t fabricated for the sake of avoiding Barnes. But you mostly say your piece and tune everything else out, because you already know what everyone is going over, and it’s more productive to multi-task. You can listen to Joe from event management drone for a very long hour about the full guest list for the next fundraiser and respond to emails about how that Wakandan vaccine is going to be up for bidding soon. You can even plot out a good timeline for distribution and draft out your pitch, all while interjecting with your opinions about the seat arrangements and evening itinerary. 

When the meeting ends, you almost go outside to ask Grace if she’s printed the latest round of grants and bids, but you’re barely out of the chair when you hear him. 

For a man that had been angry about the volume of your music in a completely empty parking lot, he sure is shouting in a workplace. 

“I am not asking to see her.” He’s snapping at Grace, and it’s easy to picture him leaning over her desk, pointing a finger at your office door. “I’m under orders from Captain America to watch your boss, so let me in.”

“Mr. Barnes if you want an appointment with the CEO,” Grace says your name with an impressively bored tone, and you can hear the tap of her keyboard through the door. “Well- It looks like she’s busy until October. Are you free in October?”

“Goddamnit- She might not be alive in October-“

“It’s the only free time slot she has right now.”

“The only-“ Barnes cuts himself off, and there’s a long moment of silence before he speaks again. “She told you not to let me in, didn’t she.”

You sit a little straighter in your chair, frowning at the door. Barnes isn’t loud enough that you’re worried about Grace, but his tone has enough cold menace to make something under your skin boil, and you’d made Grace do this, but it isn’t her war to fight-

Your computer pings softly, and when you glance back to the screen your body fully relaxes. 

Grace Young

I’ve got it. 

“If you have a message, I can relay it.” Grace’s voice is still calm, almost commanding. Maybe she should be your guard. “Otherwise, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”

There’s another pause, and when Barnes speaks his voice is low. “Wait.”

“Yes, sir.”

You don’t hear anything else, and your computer pings once more seconds later. 

Grace Young

He’s sitting on the couch.

Should I call security?

You sigh, glancing back to the door as you respond.

No. I can’t kick him out or Sam will yell at me.

Just keep saying I’m busy. 

Grace Young

Yes, Ma’am.

You roll your eyes and move back to your work. 

It’s amazing how long the charade lasts. You stay in your office, and you’d suspect that this was Barnes’ plan the whole time—to keep you in a self-imposed lockdown, with him guarding the only exit in and out of the room—if he didn’t go back up to Grace every hour and demand to be let inside.

She never caves.

You’re busy. You’re in a meeting that didn’t exist three hours ago, with four people who aren’t real. You’re eating lunch. You’re napping. Now isn’t a good time, because people really need charity at noon more than any other time of the day.

Four weeks. Paid, and funded for wherever she wants to travel. 

And you don’t waste the time. You respond to all your emails, attend three more real meetings, and go through all the proposals on your computer. The only real flaw with this plan is that, eventually, you are going to have to go home. This isn’t a long-term solution, and Barnes will almost certainly figure out how you got around him this morning, so this was a one-time trick that won’t work tomorrow.

But it doesn’t have to work tomorrow. The goal isn’t sustainability. 

The goal is to drive Barnes out of his mind. To make him regret any promises he made to Sam, and give up on you entirely so you can go back to lonely, miserable peace. 

And it’s doing its job beautifully. Because Barnes snaps around 6pm—you have to hand it to him, he held out longer than you’d expected—and you’re ready. You’ve held your own against angry old men before. They may not have had metal arms and sharp jawlines, but they’d held your life in their hands far more than Barnes ever will, and you hadn’t folded. 

In comparison to those ghosts and stained, stuffed-down memories, Barnes will be nothing.

Grace pings you that he’s coming, and you brace yourself, slipping into the Show right as your door breaks down.

“You’re going to have to fix that.” You hum, keeping your attention casually fixed on the computer. “I don’t think it’s very secure for me to not have a door.”

There’s no response for a long moment, it eats at the ringing in your ears, and you fall for it. You can’t fucking stand how the hum of the fan is so loud, how you can hear yourself breathing and shifting in your chair—how it’s you and that’s always too much—and you look up.

Barnes is standing in front of your desk with his arms crossed and eyes narrowed—his scowl almost carved onto his features as hair falls over his face—and the mask almost slips. He’s not scary, and you’re in no danger, but you still feel as if you’ve done something wrong.

Not just his voice, then. You’ll need to be careful of his eyes as well, examining you like a specimen and filled with a carefully leashed fury that leaks into the air. Your breath hitches under his attention, and you know he catches it—one blink, nostril flare—but you don’t care. 

Making him angry was part of the plan. 

Adapt. Rationalize and adapt. 

You give him a mockingly innocent, full-lipped smile. “Can I help you?”

His jaw clenches, his eyes raking over your face for an answer he doesn’t seem to find. “How did you get up here.”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, looking back to your computer. “That was like, nine hours ago.”

“I need to know.” He grunts, leaning further over your desk. “If there’s an access point I haven’t been made aware of, it could be a vulnerability-“

“No.”

You can see the blink in your periphery. “What do you mean, no.”

“It’s not a vulnerability. It’s my building, James. People know who I am. They’re going to let me inside.”

There’s a moment of pause, and when Barnes speaks again his words are slow. “So you saw people. You got in through a primary entrance.” Another pause, his gaze almost prickling over your skin, and then- “The garage.”

Shit. 

“Maybe.” You hum, keeping your eyes on the computer. “Doesn’t really matter.”

Barnes grunts. “I’m picking you up tomorrow.”

“You don’t know where I live-“

“Yeah, I do. It was in your file.” He pauses, and you see him give a firm nod to the air. “We’ll take your car-“

“I don’t drive.”

“Of course you drive, I saw you-“

“I drive to dinner. Not to work.”

“You-“ Barnes cuts himself off, and you start slightly as his fist slams on your desk. “What the fuck are you typing.”

You blink at your screen—full of absolute gibberish, because typing was just another part of the Show—and slowly look back to Barnes. “Emails. Sorry- Emails are like letters, but you type them, and use this thing called the internet to send them.”

Barnes stares at you, and shakes his head. “Is this a fucking joke to you?”

“Yes.” You answer without hesitation, raising your chin and leaning back in your chair. “I mean, the letter bit wasn’t my best, but-“

“I’m talking about Hydra.” Barnes hisses, planting his metal hand on your desk as he leans forward. “I’m talking about how Sam believes you’re in danger, enough to drag me into it, and you’re acting like you think it’s nothing. Like you’re above it.”

Above it.

That rattles and dislodges something in your body. You are not above it. You aren’t above anything. You slathered yourself in paint and torn yourself apart like a dysfunctional toy, and this is a joke because everything has to be. Because you’re above nothing—you’re buried in the center of the Earth and hotter than its core—and Barnes doesn’t know shit about what he’s saying.

But your gut begins to feel something like a rot. Sam is worried. He’s trying. But you’d told him you didn’t need Barnes, and that’s what keeps the mask in place. You’ll take care of this yourself, and to do that Barnes needs to remain out of your way.

No risks.

No holes.

The Show keeps going because that’s what you are, and you remain alone, just as you’re supposed to be.

“I do not think it’s nothing. And I think this,” you point between yourself and Barnes. “Is the joke. Not Hydra. I don’t need you, Barnes, and I know you don’t want to be here-“

He tenses slightly, cutting you off with a grunt. “I told Sam I would be here. And you’re not getting away with shit on my watch. This isn’t a joke, doll, none of it, and if you know that you should start fucking acting like it.”

Doll. It’s like a noose around your neck that makes the world narrow. You still don’t break the Show. You raise your chin and cover the broken parts of your voice with a crude, bored tone. 

“I will act as I please. This is my life, I will treat it however I want.”

He scoffs, looking you over like he can see you. The real, more than human you. The one tucked deep, deep down that’s scratching at her cage and whining the longer the Show goes on, the one that always breaks out just a little and gets the better of you. Makes you say stupid things and fall apart in the dead of night. The one you work so fucking hard to keep down when you can, but never manage to smother entirely because you’re you, and there’s no proper weapon against that. No tool that can skin you down permanently. It’s why you keep yourself so far down. 

There’s no way he can see it. Even Sam barely sees it. Sam sees past the Show and most every mask, but he still doesn’t see everything, and he’s known you longer than almost anyone. There is no reason to believe Barnes would’ve cracked you open after barely a day. 

So you keep your chin high as he glowers at you, and when he speaks again there’s no change to his tone. It’s still the rough, commanding danger from before, with no new blood or fury around the edges, and you think—for now—you’re safe. 

“I told Sam I’d be here.” He repeats, holding your gaze. “And I am doing this for him, not you, so I will be here. In your office. Watching you. The next time you make your receptionist-“

“Assistant.” You correct, keeping your voice bored and smooth. “She does just as much as I do. Grace is my assistant.”

Barnes lets out a long breath, and pinches the bridge of his nose as if you’re physically hurting him. “The next time you make your assistant keep me outside, I am not waiting until the end of the day to break down your door-“

“You still have to fix that-“

“And I will.” He snaps. “When you go one goddamn week following my rules.”

Your mouth curves into a wide, disbelieving grin. “Your rules? Am I going to need a fucking hall pass for the bathroom?”

Barnes continues as if you’d never spoken. “I am going to be in your office every morning, and leave with you every night. I get full access to your security systems, here and at home.” He’s raising a finger for every point. A finger made of skin and bone, rather than metal. “You pull that Houdini trick on me again-“

“I don’t think you know how a Houdini works-“

“And I handcuff you to your fucking chair.” 

Your grin grows, his scowl deepens, and this is too fucking easy. “Kinky.”

Jaw clench. Two blinks. Nostril flare. “Stop interrupting me. I go to all your meetings, and work events, and if Hydra contacts you again, I am the first to hear about it.” Barnes braces his hand back on your desk, leaning back forward. “Understood?”

You shrug, and he looks like he’s about to tear your head off.

He grunts your name—your first name, and it’s still so strange when he says it—and you cut him off with a flat tone and raised brows. 

“Are you done?”

He blinks at you. Twice. “Am I done?”

You hum with a nod, and his voice drops slightly.

“Are you going to listen?”

“Of course, James. You know, you didn’t actually tell me any of this before, so maybe I just didn’t think you’d want to spend all your time herding me like a sheep-“

“Sheep listen.” Barnes drawls, repeating your name. “And just say what you want.”

You pause, holding his gaze as everything stutters, and he hasn’t seen through you but he’d seen enough. He knows you have an angle, or a game, and he’s still staring at you like—if he looks for long enough—he’ll tear apart the Show with only his attention and you’ll mold into the real you.

You don’t know what he’d want with the real you. What he’s aiming for, by grabbing your cards and forcing them one the table.

For now, it doesn’t matter. He’s angry. And you’d have gotten here eventually, he just doesn’t seem to enjoy your dance that most powerful people love to play with.

That’s fine.

Most of this is easier without it.

“I don’t want anything.” You hum, tilting your head at him and keeping your arms crossed over your chest. “But I do have a few rules of my own.”

“Rules-“

“That is what I said.” You let your smile pull back at your lips, because it seems to hit a raw nerve in Barnes that you’d like to tease. “I’ll do all of your shit, if you do all of mine. Deal?”

Barnes jaw twitches slightly. “I’m not getting you coffee-“

You roll your eyes. “Good. I don’t want you to. Deal?”

He stares at you, the wood of your desk scraping slightly as his body tenses, and this time—scanning over your features and glaring at you like you’re personally responsible for Hydra’s existence and this whole situation—he finds what he’s looking for.

“Deal.” His words are pushed through his teeth, and he gives you a tight nod. “Go.”

“First of all, we are not friends.”

Barnes snorts, opening his mouth to sneer something back, but you’re faster.

“Shut up. What that means is that you’re here to keep Hydra off my ass, and that is all you’ll do. If you have thoughts on any other aspects of my life, keep them to yourself. You don’t get security access to my apartment, because it’s Stark funded and designed, so I will be fine. If I need to go somewhere and I tell you not to come, you’ll listen, and we’ll do hourly check-ins so you don’t start crying. I will let you bring me to work-“

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, you’ll let me-“

“But,” you continue, ignoring his mocking tone. “We’re taking the subway. Got it?”

Barnes is staring again. Sam told you he did that, but you’d thought he was exaggerating. It’s almost amazing to see in person, but you have a feeling he really does believe that if he stares at you enough, you’ll either be you—if he can see you, and knows there’s something to pry out at all—or you’ll somehow cave and fold into an easy victim. Innocent and hopeless and needy, afraid and nothing more.

You are afraid. You still don’t know what Hydra wants. You have Barnes, but he’s more of a sentry—if you’re being generous, and if you’re not, he’s an additional problem—and you have Sam, but he’s Captain America. His primary concern shouldn’t be you. It can’t be you, because you don’t need it more than anyone else, you’re less deserving of it than anyone could be, and if it is you that Hydra is after, then there will be other things to be afraid of.

Things that can’t be fixed like this, things that you can’t run from because it’s just not that easy.

None of this is easy. Barnes isn’t easy, Hydra isn’t easy, and you won’t be easy. The easy victim is a myth regardless, but you’re about to make it look like a fucking legend.  You’re exhausted and afraid and Barnes doesn’t get to walk in and stare at you, then think he’s in control. You’ve fought too violently to give in, and you feel a little sick—the weight of a migraine starting to press at your brow, paired with the twist of your stomach that makes the room start to spin—so you don’t have the energy to be easy. 

If you don’t have to put on the normal Show for Barnes, you’ll work out a new one that still keeps him on the outside. Looking in at what you want him to see, and nothing more. 

You’ll have plenty of time to figure that out tonight. You know you won’t sleep. You’re frayed and stretched too thin to sleep, your brain too wired from the fear and loneliness and everything.

So when Barnes nods, it’s a relief. This—whatever it was—is done. You can go home.

You stand without anther word, grab your already packed bag—you never fully unpack, just in case you have to move—and push past Barnes without a glance. You only pause your march to the elevator to tap on Grace’s desk, your words softer and quieter as the room starts to blur.

“Give Barnes my number, and tell security to give him full building access.”

Grace nods, glancing back over her shoulder to your office. You follow her gaze and swallow a slightly yelp, because Barnes has silently moved to the doorway, and is watching with a stoic, stone-like expression.

“Hi.” Grace mumbles. “I- uh- the door-“

“He’ll fix it.” You mutter, rubbing your face as you scan over the wholly abandoned office. “And you can do those things from home, if you want.”

Grace looks back to you with a frown. “Are you going home? It’s only-“

“I don’t feel well. I- Yeah.” You let out a long breath, and Grace’s eyes narrow. 

She doesn’t know why you don’t feel well. She doesn’t know that he has been gone too long, and the bond is starting to wither, let alone that—if it’s left abandoned for too long—this pain will be the easy part.

She does know that this happens. She’s made the connection that it’s often, in some way, because of him.

“Are you going to call-“

“No.” Your voice is harsher than you’d meant it, but Grace doesn’t flinch. She knows—you think she knows, you hope she knows, she has to know or you’re the lowest piece of shit on the planet—that you don’t mean it. 

She only nods slowly, and lowers her voice as her eyes flash with what you know to be concern. When it’s anything about him, it’s always concern.

“Do you need anything?”

“No, thank you.” You shake your head, flinching slightly at the movement. You need to lie down now, before darkness overtakes your vision and you collapse on the floor in front of fucking Barnes. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Grace hums, giving you one last worried look but letting it go, and you spare Barnes a nod before you leave.

But he moves. He follows you into the elevator and stands in front of the door with his arms crossed, only acknowledging you when you let out a dramatic cough, and he glares over his shoulder.

“What are you doing.”

He rolls his eyes, and looks back to the door. “We’re getting you home.”

“I-” You gape at his back, and it looks dense, but you still think it would hurt him if you punched hard enough. “What?“

“You said I was allowed to bring you to and from your home. We had a deal, kid.” He shrugs, and you can see his muscles moving under his shirt. It’s hypnotizing.

You’re losing your willpower faster than usual tonight.

“I don’t need an escort.” You mumble, but the pain is reaching your tongue and it’s hard to make your tone firm. “‘M fine-“

“I don’t care.” He grunts, still not looking at you as the doors open. “Move.”

You almost whine, but choke it down with a scowl as you drag yourself together. You won’t falter. You’ll hold the Show together until you’re finally alone, and then you’ll fall apart.  

You make it. Barnes rides the subway at your side, all the way to your apartment, and you make it because you’ve made it through worse. All that you had to do here was stare at your knees—a little bruised, tucked to your chest in your seat—and pretend you couldn’t feel Barnes watching you. 

You keep your steps steady as you finish the walk from the station, and give Barnes a grimacing smile that you hope he interprets as I hate you and hope your shower is cold tonight instead of I feel like death, and if I try to do anything more than this I’ll start screaming.

You’ll see him tomorrow. You’ll put on the Show—the one you’re going to tailor specially for him—and play the game, right up until he caves, and you win.

And you will win. You’re already a step ahead without him knowing. He doesn’t try to follow you up to your apartment. You’re going to adapt, and he’ll see nothing more than what you want him to. When you make it to your bedroom—kicking off your shoes and shuffling up the stairs without bothering to turn on the lights—you collapse and let out a weak, shaking breath as you fade in and out of consciousness, but you’re still winning.

You have to shift through his drawer for a shirt, just to keep yourself held together. You’ll die before you call him—before you plead for him to come back now, before you give him more control—but you’re winning.

In the loosest sense, you’re winning.

You’re too you but no one’s here to see it. See you sobbing and curling into the sheets because it hurts, and you’re alone, and it’s so dark and cold and there’s no way out. No one to save you from this, and maybe if Hydra does take you it will be the best outcome, because you’ll be freeing Sam, and Happy, and Barnes, and everyone else who you’ve tricked into existing where you can leech off of them.

It'll be better in the morning. It’s always better in the morning. You make it the whole night without calling him, with the only gashes forming over your heart where no one can see them, and it’s always better in the morning.

The sun drifts through the windows, and the Boy is sitting and purring on your chest, and you’re okay. You’re still lonely and hollow, but you’re okay.

You know how to deal with Barnes without revealing too much—for a brief moment in the dark you’d considered showing him everything, as it would drive him away faster than anything, but that would lose you Sam and you can’t lose Sam—and you’re going to win. 

You’ve never lost a game like this before. And Barnes may be a semi-worthy opponent, but you’re still you. You don’t matter enough for him to fight you forever. You’re too much for him hold against for long.

He can see through you, but that means he’ll hate you faster. If anything, you’ll be doing him a favor. Nobody should have to pretend you’re worthy of being served or guarded in anyway, and when you win, you’ll be sparing Barnes of yourself.

You’ve have this under control.

You don’t make him do anything. You have too many people doing things for you as it is. When you walk outside and find Barnes standing—tall and rigid and almost inhumanly still—on the sidewalk, the only acknowledgment you offer him is a sweet smile that makes his jaw twitch. You’re not sure if it’s your joy or overall presence that’s the problem, but you can work with either.

“Barnes.” You hum, your smile widening as you scan him over. His outfit is identical to the one he wore yesterday, and you’re not entirely sure he ever went home. “Morning.”

He grunts your name, returning your assessing stare, and you know he can see the underlying anger and mocking respect behind your smile. You’re counting on it. 

“This is the part where you say morning back.” You prompt, and his nostrils flare.

“Morning.”

“Good job.” 

“Shut up.”

“Rude.” You drop your voice under your breath, fully aware that he’s still going to hear it. “Let’s go, Sargent. I’ve got a lot of places to be.”

Barnes doesn’t respond, and you try not to feel like too much of a whiny, pathetic fucking bitch as you walk to the subway. Chin raised, expression bored and borderline haughty, posture perfectly straight like you think you’re better. 

You know you’re not better. You know that—with every person that passes you on the street and crowds you in the subway car—you are far, far worse. But Barnes thinks you see yourself as some kind of mortal goddess among the less worthy, just a brat who thinks she’s above things—that word is still clawing at your skull, above, as if you’re not made of trash scraps that are polished to mimic diamonds—and you have no interest in correcting him. You have things you don’t deserve. You are undeserving, just as he thinks, but he doesn’t need to know that you’re deeply and critically aware of that.

If you need to be the entitled, holy imposter that he’s painting you as, it’s exactly what you’ll become. 

When you reach the crowded subway, Barnes freezes behind you. You don’t need to turn to know he’s glaring at you. You don’t bother to hide the smile in your voice as you speak.

“You good?”

All you get in response is another grunt, and your smile widens.

He had to have known it wouldn’t be this easy. You’d be a little disappointed if he thought it was. 

“The ride is like, ten minutes.” You say, rubbing at your wrist as you watch the people shift around you. There’s a woman with metallic nails, a man with a clearly broken watch, and no protesters or preachers. Barnes got lucky. “When we get there it’s pretty much just following me around, right?”

There’s a pause, and then, “What.”

“Your plans.” You shoot him a wide, toothy smile over your shoulder. “I have work to do. What are you going to do, James? How are you going to protect me?”

Two blinks. Nostril flare. “That’s not your concern.”

“I dunno, it kinda feels like it is-“

“Pretend I’m not here, doll.” He snaps, and his attention is doing the thing again. You feel small, and naked, and vulnerable. It’s like a blade through your gut and a clamp around your heart. “I’ll keep you alive, and you can do,” he scans over you, his tone dropping to flat. Dismissive. “Whatever you do.”

You don’t let it show how his words hit somewhere deeper than he’d likely been aiming. You can’t let it show. It will be a point in his favor, that he’s made your mask shatter even one bit, that he’s driven through all your carefully forged defenses to hit a raw, white-hot nerve. 

He sees it though. In the split second before you push yourself—with inconvenient emotions, a lump in your throat, and rapid thoughts of you don’t really do anything but take up fucking space and money and time—down, your smile falters, you feel yourself slip out, and Barnes smirks.

He saw you. The Show slips back into place, but Barnes saw you. 

You keep going. You just have to keep going, and adapt, and give him a mocking grin as you step onto the subway. 

He hates it. You can see it in how he holds himself the whole ride, like he’s bracing for an attack. And Barnes seems to hate most everything, but you’re hoping it will be the small things that get him. That make him give up on you, because you plaster that mocking smile back on your face, humming and bouncing on your feet at his side, and by the time you get to the Stark Foundation building you’d safely bet you’re another step ahead. 

And you keep gaining strides. The day passes with long, boring meetings and fights with old men who think they’re smarter than you are, and Barnes sits silently in the corner. Like he’s a phantom, or part of the room’s decoration, his attention always pushing its way into your body.

Everyone keeps shooting him weary looks and cautious glances, like the wrong breath will set him into a bloodied frenzy.

You just ignore him.

“Is that all he’s going to do?” Grace whispers, holding her papers to her chest and nodding her head to Barnes in the corner of your office. 

You shrug. “He’s a hundred, Grace. You can ask him to do more, but it might kill him.”

Barnes doesn’t react. You didn’t expect him to.

“Are you going on lunch?”

Grace nods. “The deli. You want the-“

“Yes, please.” You hum, hiking one leg up to your seat as you lean back over your computer. “Ask the old fuck if he wants something.”

Barnes blinks in the background, and only shakes his head when Grace approaches him. 

The door barely closes behind her when his attention returns to you, and you shoot him a bright smile. 

“You got any other plans for the day, besides intimidating my employees?”

His jaw ticks. “No.”

You hum, scanning over him with mock curiosity. “If I decorate you, will you break my arm?”

“If you- What?”

“Decorate you, dummy.” You return your attention to your computer, shrugging as you begin to type. “I’m thinking glitter and ribbons.”

“Why in god’s name would you need to decorate me,” he snaps your name, his voice more gravelly and rough than only seconds ago, and you take it as a victory. He’s slipping. “I am not a fucking Christmas tree.”

“No, but you don’t go with anything.” You let out a dramatic sigh, pretending this is really a plague on your mind. “You could at least try to match the aesthetic, if you’re going to be standing there all day.”

He doesn’t respond. You can feel his attention pushing right into your body once more, but he doesn’t speak for the rest of the day. 

You’re still winning.

The week stretches on, the weekend passes with Barnes texting you every hour to make sure you’re not dead, and you keep it together. You’re playing the Show almost perfectly.

Almost. 

There are brief moments like the one that morning. Long seconds where Barnes gets an advantage, and you have to almost scramble to regain your ground. It’s unnerving, and exhausting, but you manage. You adapt. 

You take the same train to and from work every morning, and Barnes marches what you’re guessing is meant to be a respectable distance behind you, keeping his impossibly blank expression every single second. 

It’s three days before you manage to pry it open just an inch. To hit some part of him that’s just as deep as he’s gotten to hit you. 

“Have you ever been to the opera?”

He blinks down at you, and you give him a soft, innocent smile. 

“What.”

“The opera.” You raise your brows, swinging slightly on the subway pole as you watch him. “You know, you say what a lot.”

He scowls. “Well, you say stupid things a lot.”

“Aw, you listen to me?”

“It’s my job.”

“Shucks.” You sigh, pouting up at him. “And here I thought I was interesting.”

His eyes flash slightly, and he starts to say something that will likely make your heart drop to your gut and pull you right out of the Show, so you plow on.

“You never answered my question, James. Have you been to the opera?”

He just stares at you, and you let out a long breath.

“Sorry, I forgot you were a dinosaur. The opera is like a musical, but louder and there aren’t any spoken lines. Like reverse ballet. They’re usually in Italian, I think. You can’t be sure because all words sound the same when you’re saying them like you’re a bird. It’s kind of like-“

You take a long deep breath, ready to belt out a purposefully off-key note, and Barnes covers your mouth with a gloved hand. 

It’s a firm grip. His eyes are flashing, and his nostrils are flared, and you can see his annoyance. When his words come out gruff and pushed through his teeth, you know you’ve won again.

“Do you ever shut up?” He hisses, and you raise your brows, looking pointedly down to his hand.

He follows you gaze, and releases you with a glower. 

“That was rude.” You half whine, pushing him a little further. “You could’ve just asked me to be quiet-“

He rolls his eyes. “You wouldn’t have listened.”

“Well, you’ll never know that, because you didn’t try.” You sigh, returning to dramatic pout to your face. “There’s this thing called manners, James. It’s where you say please and thank you and don’t cover the mouth of perfectly sweet girls-“

Barnes scoffs. “You are not sweet-“

“In train cars.” You keep talking as if he’d said nothing, because you’re not sweet and it hurts deep in your chest how easily he said that. “I could’ve pepper sprayed you, dumbass.”

You can feel him scanning you over, so you stand a little taller and keep your gaze fixed on the blurred walls.

“You don’t have pepper spray.”

“No. But I’d have figured something out. One slightly confusing question and you would’ve crumbled.”

Barnes grunts “You think you’re funny.”

“I’m hilarious.” You drawl, examining your nail as the subway car rattles slightly. “We’re going to the opera, by the way. That’s why I asked.”

Going to the opera means walking through the building, seeing a dress rehearsal and giving your stamp of approval, because all the proceeds from the show will go the Manhattan Food Bank, but those are details Barnes doesn’t need know that. Those things won’t play into the Show, not as he needs to see it.

All Barnes needs to do is follow you around and see how you’ve muzzled yourself. Watch you give sweet smiles and kind words to people, just to turn around and mock and snap at him. He needs to see the over-composure and know it’s a trick. He needs to know you’re a liar, a wrong, twisted, hideous liar, and never bother to try and search deeper. 

He just needs to hate you, and care about you so little that he either doesn’t bother to really do his job—Sam or no Sam—or leaves overall. 

You think it’s working. He engages less and less with you every passing day. Only standing in the corner, glowering at you as you work. 

“I- ah-“ The small, weedy man you’re meeting with about public school donations swallows his words, glancing to where Barnes has planted himself by the door. “I am- As I’m sure you’re aware, ma’am, our arts depar-“ He chokes again, looking back to Barnes. “The music- um- Orchestra-“

“Is it Barnes?” You ask, and the man blinks at you.

“I- I’m sorry?”

“Sargent stone-face.” You angle your head in Barnes’ direction, and he doesn’t move an inch. “Is he freaking you out?”

“I- It’s not a problem,” the man says your name softy, but gives Barnes another nervous look. “I’m sure he’s- yes- it’s fine-“

You let out a long breath, glaring at Barnes over the man’s head. “James. Relax.”

His eye flash, but his shoulder slump slightly. 

And you stare at each other, your own shock written all over your face, likely a perfect mirror to his.

He’d relaxed. For one brief second he’d relaxed, just because you told him to, and if the way he’s blinking at you is any indication, he hadn’t meant to. He just had. 

You return your focus to the man in front of you, and don’t look at Barnes again until after the man leaves.

“It’s rude to stare.” You hum. “It’s part of the manners thing we talked about yesterday.”

He rolls his eyes. “So I’ve heard.”

It’s all you get. But you know you’ve carved a little deeper, because in your next meeting, Barnes’ shoulders return to the slight slump—as if he’s trying not to draw any attention, backing further into the wall and giving the suit talking to you a small nod when he walks in the door—but the intensity of his glare seems to double. 

And he’s keeping his end of the deal. You aren’t trying to dodge or undermine him—not obviously, or visibly—and he’s not pushing himself into your life. The pain returns with more and more force every night and he never questions it, because you’re not worth the effort questioning. Of putting in more than the passive, stoic effort he seems to have mastered. 

It’s exactly what you wanted. You can keep it up for months if you need to. 

But the pain is becoming a problem. Too many mornings have come where you’re hunched on the floor of the bathroom, your fingers hovering over his contact, because it hurts and he could fix it. Just his voice would make it better. Seal the bond just enough to hold you over until he came back home, and you had a whole new kind of pain to push through. 

You never call him. You work and work, tossing Stark money to anyone who can prove they need it and grinding yourself into the sparkling ash that you need to be. The Show keeps going, and you keep adapting, just as you always done. 

Exactly what you have to do for what matters. 

The only change to the Show is Barnes, but that’s only taunting words and mocking grins, trying to find an opening to fix the whole Hydra thing yourself.

You’d been planning for that time to be when you were alone, in your apartment with the Boy sitting on the counter as you worked, and Barnes far away. But the fracture of the bond leaves you weak at the end of the day and in a borderline catatonic state through the night. It’s starting to creep where the sun can see it. Where people—real people who exactly as much as they need to be, who don’t owe their entire minds and hearts and body as reparations for pretending to be alive—can see.

Barnes is starting to notice. You know he is. He sees when you stop typing for long minutes and just stare at the screen, your vision clouding and thoughts strangled by the pain around your head like a crown. When Grace says something and you flinch almost imperceptibly, because she’s so kind but you don’t deserve it, and her voice is like a drill into your skull.

He doesn’t say anything.

But you know sees it.

And that’s exactly what you’ve been smashing yourself apart and stitching yourself back together in order to avoid. He shouldn’t see you. Yet even now—in a large meeting with all the department heads giving their reports with words you don’t really understand anymore—you can feel Barnes watching you and seeing you. 

It’s so fucking dangerous. You’re fighting to keep yourself breathing, you’re about to black out and slump in your chair, and you feel sick—bile in your throat and bubbling in your gut and making your head light sick—but you can’t be weak where he can see it. 

You stand abruptly, giving clipped words you can’t hear that you’ll be back in a minute, that they should continue in your absence—because they don’t really need you, not this you, who’s weak and inconvenient and crumbling under nothing but herself—and leave the meeting. 

You’re being selfish. And useless. But it’s you can’t be there, where everyone is alive and the show is a struggle to keep up. You barely make it into the bathroom before you’re on your knees, and everything shatters. 

It tastes horrible, rocketing out of your throat and into the toilet bowl. Your vision dances with black spots, and you can’t hear beyond a pounding and screeching noise in your ears, can’t smell beyond what pushes itself out of your nose, but you just have to ride it out. It’s part of being you. Being too human, and that getting the better of you when anyone else could just get through it. 

It passes. It’s temporary, and it passes. You take a breath that’s not a sputtering—a desperate inhale to keep yourself conscious—and grip the cool porcelain of the toilet to stay upright, and it passes. There’s a little vomit lingering on your chin that you wipe off, the toilet flushes, and it’s as if nothing happened at all. 

Your legs are too shaky for you to return. Grace will be taking notes for you. And it’s nice in here, where there’s no one smile at or be pretending for. The air is cool, and the motion-sensor lights have turned off, so you think-

You’ll just stay here for a while. Just until you know that you can go back out without showing too much of yourself. 

It’s too quiet, so you pull out your phone and work from there. Just because you’re hiding like a weak, afraid little animal doesn’t mean you’re going to do nothing. You have to do something, or you’ll be even worse than you already are.

And as the time crawls on and your eyes start to weigh with sleep, you wonder if just turning to stone here would be permissible. They would have to remove you from the wall, or you could be decoration, and you’d be stealing less resources than you do now. They could pass you to Hydra with a clean conscious, or give up on protecting you because statues don’t need bodyguards. 

You’re already a statue, though. A husk. You’re already alone and hollow, and Sam only gave you a bodyguard because you’ve managed to trick in him into thinking you were worth it. You know you’re tricking him, and you’ve never told him that you’re worse than you appear, and that might make you worse than Hydra.

At least they don’t put on a show to be what they’re not. 

Maybe the fix would be to turn yourself over to them. It would save everyone a lot of time and effort, and Sam would be angry but he’d get over it, and Barnes-

Fuck.

You’d forgotten about Barnes. 

And almost as if on a perfect cue, the door is split open, and he crashed into the bathroom. The lights flick back on as he stops right above you, arms crossed and attention peeling you apart.

You don’t look up at him, keeping your eyes trained on your phone, even as your vision glazes over.

“That’s the second door you’ve broken.” You mutter, and he ignores you.

“What the fuck are you doing.”

“Reading, I think.”

“You think-“

“Yep.”

There’s a long second of silence, before Barnes breaks it with a grunt.

“You always make people run your company without you, doll?”

There’s a seize over your heart. You ignore it. “Only every other Thursday.”

“It’s Friday.”

“Huh.” You shrug. “Oops.”

Barnes snorts, and you can’t stop your gaze from flicking up to him. 

He’s still annoyingly handsome. Still glaring at you with eyes that look silver in the too-white light of the bathroom, and you feel small again. Raw. Too human. More than you’re supposed to be where it’s visible. 

Barnes doesn’t flinch at it. That same odd look flashes in his eyes as he scans over you, and when he speaks again, he’s the only thing louder than the rush of blood in your ears.

“Next time you need to do that,” he nods to the clean toilet. “Leave the door open, and I won’t have to break it.”

You blink at him. “Do-“

“Have a panic attack.” He grunts. “And fucking sleep tonight. You get mouthy when you don’t.”

And he just fucking turns and leaves. His words knock into you like a bullet, and he just walks away.

You don’t know how he keeps seeing you, when nobody is supposed to really, fully see you. Not all of you. Not past the fool’s gold you’ve turned yourself into, because then they leave. 

But Barnes is stuck here. Until Sam gives the clear, he won’t leave. It’s becoming annoyingly obvious that he won’t leave, Maybe that’s why he keeps driving right into parts of you that never see the sun. That only come out in the dead of night under stars or in pitch darkness. 

It’s probably some assistant secret you need to learn. Maybe a Hydra tactic you should familiarize yourself with, just in case. You rarely sleep, but you’ll just have to adjust the show to make him think you have. They aren’t panic attacks, but he’s too close to being right, and you’ll have to shift to match that as well. 

You just need to keep adapting. Rationalizing. 

Moving. 

You just need to keep moving, until Barnes stops trying to keep up with you.

You’re not sure what that will take.

But you’ll work it out. 

You will not let him be the thing that makes you bow. Makes you vulnerable. Makes you bend into him will, when you’ve scraped and screamed so loud to cut every leash you could off your body.

So you’ll just keep fucking moving.

——————

The past two weeks had been the longest, most confusing ones of Bucky’s life. 

Everyone liked Her. Adored Her. He’d heard nothing but genuine praise about how kind and sweet She was, and he didn’t get it. She was annoying. Beautiful and loud and smart-mouthed and annoying. She was making this as difficult as possible for him, on purpose, but everyone spoke about Her as if she was some sort of saint. 

If Bucky hadn’t been sure She was hiding something before, he was positive now. People who weren’t hiding things didn’t have carefully concealed bags under their eyes every morning. They didn’t spend their whole days in their offices, typing and reading and burying themselves where the world couldn’t see. 

People who weren’t hiding things didn’t shift in and out of masks every second. Smiling like an angel at everyone they passed and using big, quick words with an air of casual boredom, only to close the door and turn into almost a fire-spitting demon. 

But Bucky had  worked out that She was only shifting into that taunting, crude and mocking woman for him.

He also knew that it wasn’t the mask fully off. 

She’d only have it off in brief moments, when one of the suits or brittle old men would compliment Her, and her smile would flicker. When someone would thank Her, and that thing deep in her eyes would shift. Burst forward just long enough for Bucky to catch it, even when everyone else missed it. 

But that was what he did. He caught it, and threw it—loud and spitting—right back in Her face until something cracked. It was his passive plan of attack to make Her slip, and give him enough proof that She was up to something. Because no one could be truly this beautiful, truly this good, without it all being an act. 

In just two weeks, his log about Her had grown. She often spoke without thinking—or thinking too much, he couldn’t tell and that was jarring—and she always had something to say. Bucky had a feeling he could bring up any topic, and she’d have a pointless opinion. She took almost nothing seriously, but still got a harsh, almost brutal look of focus whenever she was working. She didn’t seem to believe She was better than everyone—people who did never turned into the shadow he’d often see flickering over her face and under her pretty features—but she did think she knew better. He could hear it in her voice, whenever she gave an order or direction, that there was no doubt of error.

He decided that was the reason why he’d relaxed when She’d told him to. She’d said it like an order, and he’d been a solider for so long that his body just reacted.  

It might be Her beauty, as well. She looked like shifting, shimmering light every single second, and if She’d ever stop sneering venom and making Bucky’s job impossible—his efforts doubled to try and see what She obviously didn’t want him to—She might have been attractive. Bucky might have tried to actually talk to Her, instead of tuning Her rambling and taunting out.

He was trying to tune it out.

It was harder than it should have been.

He really needed to revisit that inhuman beauty possibly caused by Hydra thing, when he had the time. It felt likely.

But he was spending too much time on Her pointless, annoying distractions. Trying not to beat himself to pieces on Her too crowded and hot and loud subways trips, trying to observe Her while still following his rule of don’t look too long.

Trying work out exactly what was eating at Her mind, what was wrong with Her that she never slept and would rub her skin like she was trying to wipe invisible grime off of it. What was causing those hitched breaths and momentarily panicked expressions, making Her breakdown on the bathroom floor when—as far as Bucky had been able to see—not a single damn thing had happened. 

It might be a guilty conscious. The knowledge that She was lying to all these people about whatever she was. 

And Bucky had yet to see a single friend of Her's. The closest he’d come was Her assistant, but that girl seemed to worship the ground She walked on, so her judgment was clouded. 

Just as Sam’s was.

Because whatever spell Her beauty and hauntingly beautiful voice was casting over people, it was keeping them from even thinking that she was capable of wrongdoing.

Bucky hadn’t dared to bring that up with Sam yet. Not until he had evidence of it. 

But he’d get that evidence. He’d finish this so that he could get the hell away from Her, and how She was taking up so much of his goddamn headspace.

He had to play his game almost every hour he was in Her presence. It was exhausting.

His name was James Buchanan Barnes. It was almost midnight on a Saturday, and the carpet in Her office was brown. He liked that She used the same password for everything, because it made this easier. He didn’t like that, when he looked through Her desk, it made her seem normal. That photos of a round black cat made him imagine Her pretty face with a wrinkled nose, and a cat on Her lap. That there were obvious pictures of people who had to be Her siblings, because they all had the same nose and undertones in their skin, hair, and eye colors. That She had a family. 

As did most people who weren’t a hundred.

And Bucky had living family. His sisters had ended up with kids, and they’d ended up with kids, and life had drifted around him in a way he’d never be able to catch and drag back.

It may have to go on without Her, for the people in those photos. If Bucky’s theory was right. 

He kept looking at the fucking photos. Her siblings didn’t have that thing behind their eyes. They all had nice, attractive features, but She was the only one who was inhumanly beautiful. Entrancing. Distracting.

He needed to look away from Her, and focus on what he was doing. Finding the evidence. This was about the evidence.

He wanted to find something, some blaring red flag that would prove what She was, that this was some kind of scam, that Bucky had been right to be weary of Her. That he was not—as Sam called him—a paranoid asshole. It wasn’t paranoia if he was right.

That was the easiest want he’d ever had.  

And he hadn’t found anything yet, but he would. Her computer may be clean, but it was a company computer. All Her files might be boring numbers and long, annotated paragraphs, but She probably didn’t keep a piece of paper that read I am Hydra in Her desk. She was smart. If Bucky could offer Her one piece of praise, it would be that She seemed to be genuinely intelligent. 

That just made Her more dangerous. She’d be careful, if She was Hydra. She’d know how to hide it, which was likely why She’d gotten away with it for so long. And She had to be something. Nothing would add up if She was just the lovely woman everyone found Her to be. Nobody was simply that good and kind. Bucky hadn’t met a single person who would dedicate their lives to something like this just for the sake of being good. He’d think it was for the paycheck, but if it was for the paycheck She wouldn’t be taking the subway. It could be the connections, but every time Sam had mentioned being Captain America at dinner, She’d rolled her pretty eyes.

The eyes that held the thing. The thing that meant She simply wasn’t what she was claiming to be. 

And Bucky might be coming up empty handed—he should’ve assumed he would, he never got what he wanted—but She wasn’t innocent. She couldn’t be. Sam wasn’t finding any more leads on Hydra—meaning it was probably an inside job—and She was too smart and kind and beautiful to not be some sort of Hydra-made plant meant to drive Bucky insane with pouting smiles and mocking glares and sharp words-

“What are you doing here.”

Bucky’s head shot up, and She was right there.

It was midnight. On a Saturday. Why was She in her office a midnight on a Saturday.

“Security.” He grunted, and it wasn’t his best excuse, but it wasn’t horrible.

She saw through it anyway. 

“What security are you doing in my desk, Barnes.” She crossed Her arms, and Bucky shrugged, moving around the desk to stand before Her.

“Cybersecurity is a thing, doll-“

“Don’t call me that.” She snapped, raising Her chin to hold Bucky’s gaze. She was better at it than Sam was, and it felt a little like he was being burned from the inside.

She had to be something.

“And tell me the truth.” She hissed. “Why the fuck are you in my office.”

His jaw clenched. “I told you-“

“You lied to me.”

“You got proof of that-“

“My cybersecurity is the most tight and well-designed in the world. Tony Stark made that computer, and it’s a prototype he didn’t want to scrap, so he gave it to me. It’s unhackable, because it’s not commutable to any other system. Truth.”

Bucky frowned at Her. “Is that why you use such a stupid fucking password for it-“

“Why do you know my password?” 

Fuck.

“I-“ 

“The truth.”

Bucky stared at Her, and he was caught. She’d found him snooping, and he’d—for some reason he had no way of understanding—slipped up and revealed he’d known her password. She’d work out that he’d likely used it. His hands were covered in—thankfully metaphorical—blood.

And the only way out of this was more of a gamble than he’d want to take.

But he needed something.

So he was all in. 

“I don’t trust you,” he hissed, leaning down until he could see every perfectly placed bump on Her face, every shift and swirl of that thing behind Her eyes. “That’s why. You’re too young to have this position, nothing in your files adds up, you’ve hunched in the bathroom all week. You’re hiding something. I know you’re hiding something. Could be something with Stark, could be Hydra-“

Her eyes widened slightly, Her voice suddenly void of any smooth, careful music. It was raw. Almost unnerving.

“You think I’m Hydra?” 

“I think,” Bucky snapped, and there was no going back now. “That you’re not just some rich, happy little angel. I think everything about you is a lie-“

She laughed. Loud and furious, and Bucky was shocked it didn’t shake the earth. 

“What part of my life, James, do you think is a lie?” She took a firm step forward, and Bucky could smell Her. She smelled like flowers. She looked like the wrath of god was alight in Her body. “Is it how I’m here?” She gestured around them to the office, holding Bucky’s gaze. “Did I blackmail someone? Make a threat? Sleep my way here? Did I do something unspeakable to make someone as smart as Tony Stark think a stupid little girl could run his company?”

She laughed, and the sound was almost frightening. Bucky felt like he’d been locked into place, and she just continued.

“Or is the lie how I’m Hydra? How the only superheroes I’ve ever met are the dumbass who took me in off the street and my very dead boss, and before this I was nobody, fucking nothing, but I still somehow managed to be important enough to become a Hydra plant? What would Hydra want we me, Barnes? My stunning charisma and winning personality, that’s so clearly been able to charm and fool you? Huh? Is that what I’m here for? Am I just pretty and sweet and trying to ensnare you into Hydra’s grasp? Am I just a fucking doll for them to use?”

She spat that word, doll, and Bucky flinched. Fucking flinched. Like She was something that could actually hurt him, and not just an angry girl in the dark.

His words were caught in his throat. She was watching him like he should be doing something, but Bucky was frozen as he just stared at Her.

He’d seen horrible things. Things of nightmares, and desolation, and haunting phantoms that lined his vision all the time. And he’d done worse. His hands would always be a little sticky, and every room would never be warm enough for the frost to truly fade.

But making Her shake slightly as he just stared at Her felt like the worst thing he’d ever done. It wasn’t. Not by far.

But it goddamn felt like it. It felt like a burning arrow through his throat, because he’d never seem someone just fall like that. Into anger and fear and venom, looking like a frightened, gnashing animal or feral beast he’d try to soothe, if that was something Bucky was capable of doing.

But he wasn’t.

So he just stared.

And She deflated. Turned hollow as all the fire went out from Her eyes, leaving of the weight of that thing.

“Tell Sam I’ll do the lockdown,” She muttered, not meeting Bucky’s eyes as she turned to the door. “You can say I bullied you into quitting, or stabbed you with a stapler. I don’t care.”

The door slammed, and Bucky was alone in the dark.

He’d been wrong.

And Sam was going to fucking kill him.

End Note: I'd say unstoppable force vs. immovable object, but they're both about to be very stoppable and movable. As always, thank you so so much for reading, and please leave any thoughts or feedback if you have them!

Thank you so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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