Chapter Text
The party was as lively as ever, the guests a display gods and goddesses, showing off their opulence and grandeur as only they could. A black sky with white stars was the backdrop to this soiree inside, the warm glow of the party spilling out from the Stark Tower and down to the city far below.
It was the usual decadence, with glittering dresses and top shelf alcohol both flowing. The suits were cut and tailored, as prim as all those here feigned to be. The pale champagne in every delicate flute was as bubbly and light as the laughter that sounded in every corner, though the only the former was real.
“You could pretend to have fun here,” whispered Natasha in your ear, coming up from along the bar. A drink was place in your hand and you took a sip absently, eyes still out on the crowd from your little corner of the marble-topped bar, crowded with delighted party-goers.
“I do like these… parties,” you said, reasoning it was somewhat true.
You could admit you did always enjoy the good quality champagne Tony imported in, taking another sip of the smooth liquid Nat had given you. It at least helped to pass the time more pleasantly until it was a reasonable hour to say your goodbyes and head home.
“Please, your face looks darker than your attitude usually is,” she said into her glass, taking a delicate sip of her whiskey with those all-too innocent eyes just above the crystal rim. Hard to pull off with her devilishly thick lashes and black winged eyeliner, but she did it.
You huffed and turned to her, knowing she was just trying to get a rise out of you like always. But again, like always, you fell into her trap anyway. Hardly your fault though; she was the Goddess of Strategy, Wisdom, and Warfare. Leave it to her to wheedle anyone into revealing anything.
“I’m having fun, Natasha, but thank you for checking up on me,” you said, clipped and mouth setting into a bit of a frown.
This conversation, or at least the underlying intention of it, happened about every month, coinciding with this parties Tony insisted on throwing. Natasha always tried to goad you into dancing or mingling or pretending to have more fun than you probably could at these things. Sure, it was all to get you to loosen up and relax for a change, but this was not your version of relaxing.
Your home was a tad darker, quieter, softer than this, and had the added benefit of not needing sky-high heels and constricting floor-length gowns. Everything here was rather different, with a warm glow like gold had gilded every surface, every smile, every pair of gleaming eyes.
Just like fool’s gold.
You knew a fake when you saw it, and this room, however lavish, was full of them.
Everyone put on that mask of light and warmth, but underneath you felt the decay. Natasha had said- and Steve too on more than one occasion- that you it was simply more a reflection of your powers that caused you to view this world so. Always seeing the dead, hidden things underneath it all, and always judging people (intentionally or not).
Maybe that was true. But still, the reason why changed very little when it came down to it, the enchanting music and enchanted guests displayed like an open, boring book to you. After so many of these parties there wasn’t much to keep your interest.
So when you saw one dark figure muted and cold, you were stopped short.
Your champagne and friend beside you were forgotten, your eyebrow quirked and mind hummed with activity to clue in to who it was that caught your eye so.
He was taller than most here, built and admittedly beautiful. He was even more removed from the party than you, going so far as to stand out in the cool night air, separate and distant from the revelry inside.
He was leaning back against the railing, though looked anything but comfortable. In fact, he looked rather miserable. It was a kind of expression on him that looked practiced and familiar, eyes cast just slightly down along with the corners of his mouth. Eyelids blinked slow and almost weary in a way, big arms crossed tight against his chest.
But still, you felt it.
Just as you felt the supposed warmth and decay of those around you, you felt the stark contrast in that figure, that mystery god out there in the night.
He looked cold and miserable, and surprisingly full of life.
An impossibility to explain, you were drawn in like a curious moth to an out-of-place flame.
“Natasha,” you said to the woman beside you who was signalling the bartender for two more drinks. “Who’s that, over on the balcony there?”
Natasha followed your gaze, taking a moment to spot the man in question.
“That’s Bucky,” she said, whatever spell cast over you bypassing her completely. “He only just got back a few weeks ago.”
“Back?” you questioned, eyes roaming from his ocean blue eyes and long chestnut hair, both catching the soft glow of the silver moonbeams. “Back from where?”
“That’s complicated,” she said vaguely, sipping now on her fourth whiskey of the night, passing you one too. “We don’t know where he was or why he was there yet, but do know what he was doing.”
“Oh?”
“Adding a few extra names to your list of the dead, for starters,” she said, leaning back on the bar casually. “Which is only part of the mystery. His memory was wiped and was called the Winter Soldier, believe it or not.”
She scoffed, finding something sardonically amusing that you didn’t quite understand.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, turning to her.
“Well, it’s twistedly ironic and bit cruel, I think,” she responded, though not answering your question. At your confused looked and furrowed brow she carried on.
“He was called the Winter Soldier, set out by some taskmaster, ordered to kill people,” Natasha said. “But in actuality he’s the God of Spring, if you can believe it. That stone cold man is responsible for creating life and warmth and all that. Or least he’s supposed too.”
How hadn’t you heard of him before now? Maybe you should have mingled more at these parties, or at least visited the Tower more. But your work kept you busy, and it looked like Bucky had been part of the reason why.
“The Winter Soldier,” you whispered slowly, gaze glued back to the man standing alone. “Hmm, that’s all just awful.”
“Until he remembers more, there’s not much for Steve or the rest of us to do about it.” She took another sip. “Might as well get him back into the land of the living.”
“The God of Spring,” you again muttered absently to yourself, matching that description to the man verses the previous moniker.
Surprisingly they both fit: the cold, hard winter and the living, muted spring you both saw and felt. It was a juxtaposition and contrast that sparked something in you you couldn’t’ve remembered feeling before.
“Yeah, hardly your type,” she mused, a quick glance your way.
“Yeah,” you whispered, clutching on to the champagne flute in one hand and whiskey in the other, as though trying to use them both as anchors to keep from whisking over there. Or, for some reason you thought, whisking him away from this event completely.
He looked like he wanted to be here as much as you did, probably less so. You had friends like Natasha and familiarity of this routine. Plus, champagne. Bucky didn’t have any of that.
Was that why the intrigue? The mere curiosity of a person out of place and the sympathy that came along with it? But that couldn’t explain the full extent of your captivation. Or the heat you felt on your skin, spreading across your chest and on your cheeks. How your eyes couldn’t stay off of him, memorizing every detail. How you could feel who was underneath that exterior.
Without a word you stepped off through the crowd, weaving in and out to reach this God of Spring, those two anchors in your hands not enough to hold you back. Because your mind was set. And gods help anything that got in your way of what you were set on.