Chapter Text
BUCKY
"One of the third-floor R&D proximity alerts has been triggered," Steve's voice says coolly over the comms, and Bucky immediately glares across at the building in question like he can see through the goddamned wall.
"Copy that," Bucky says and starts to run.
"Uh, you wanna explain to me how someone can trigger a third-floor alert without tripping any of the fourteen ones before it that should have been already triggered to get that far into the facility?" Sam hisses. There's a faint hiss of metal sliding against metal that comes down the comms and Bucky can catch a glimpse of silver above him as Sam takes to the skies.
"Stop whining and send your dumb bird out, Falcon, we need more intel," Bucky snaps. "Nomad, location?"
"Top of plastics," Steve answers, as Sam splutters about Redwing not being a bird. Or dumb. "I'm coming to you, Winter."
Bucky thinks about where the plastics department of Stark Industries is in comparison to his position because he's just passed the internal administration block and isn't plastics just past that? His brain figures out the layout just in time to see Steve gracefully land in a crouch right in front of him. After jumping down from the plastics building. Which is at least five stories tall. Bucky doesn't even have to glance at the building or his friend to know the idiot hasn't used rigging or a parachute.
"Commencing heat scan," Sam says. "I'm detecting two life signs on the third floor. Headed to—shit, they're headed to the back-up server bay."
"Acknowledged, we're en route," Steve says, and heads off at a run. "Expand your heatscan, if there's two there might be a third."
"Wilco, Nomad," Sam says.
"Three's rather specific," Bucky breathes as they run, matching Steve's pace as they pelt towards the R&D block. "You think it's the Widow, don't you?"
"Third floor and that's the first alarm they hit? And it's one of the new ones we put in three days ago on a whim?" Steve's wearing his favorite mission black balaclava and Bucky can only see his eyes, but that's enough for Bucky to see resigned frustration. "It's the Widow all right."
Bucky swears in Russian because it feels appropriate. "That stab wound in my gut only just healed."
"Well," Steve says, his voice annoyingly equable, "try not to get stabbed this time. Okay, we're coming in close. Comms only when necessary."
Steve gestures swiftly and Bucky understands. If he takes the front door, the Widow has to know someone's coming, and from where, and it should send her out to the back entrance—which is where Steve's headed. Steve moves both wrists in unison, his pair of defensive shields expanding smoothly to cover his forearms, and disappears behind the building.
Bucky unholsters his favorite weapon, a stun gun especially built for him by Howard Stark himself that looks just like a Beretta 418, and heads for the front door at a clip.
He catches a glimpse of the small round device the Widow has placed above the door as an early warning system, and he fries it as he runs, more for the satisfaction she can't retrieve the tech later than it doing any good, and he heads for the stairs, taking them three at a time.
"Break, Break, the Wasp is on top of R&D," Sam says through the comms. "Engaging now!"
Bucky speeds up, especially when the next sound through the comms is of a faint flash bang and a noise that sounds distinctly similar to the day Steve stepped on his phone charger.
"Still in the server room, need some assistance," Steve yells, before there's a high-pitched noise and a loud crackle. Like someone's yanked out his comm piece and smashed it.
They're definitely fighting the Black Widow then. Goddammit. Bucky won't be surprised if the entire cadre of security guards who are supposed to keep Stark Industries safe are probably unconscious, tied-up and drooling somewhere in the facility. Then again, that's why Howard Stark hired Bucky and his team.
"Falcon, any chance of a scan so I know what I'm headed into?" Bucky tries.
"Kind of busy, Winter," Sam yelps. "Shit, woman, that was my ass—" Sam's channel squeaks and then the line sounds dead and Bucky sighs. Guess he's doing this the hard way.
Bucky emerges into the hallway that holds all the server bays. The back-up server is in the largest room. The flash bang noise means Steve deployed one of his canisters, a wicked mix of chemicals that causes smoke and copious eye-watering and a distinct difficulty to breathe, and, because Steve's a special kind of stupid, he'll have hit himself with it in an attempt to take out the Black Widow and—most likely—Agent 13 too, if the Wasp is on the roof. Steve is an idiot, and Bucky means that lovingly, because he's the only one allowed to call his best friend an asshole, so he makes sure to do it regularly.
Steve's particular brand of stupidity means that Bucky's just in time to see the server bay door open and a familiar black-clad figure tumbles out, clutching a large case in her hand. The Black Widow. She cuts an imposing silhouette, clad from head-to-toe in black, a matching black cowl and mask completely obscuring her face, but she can't hide her distinctive hourglass figure, and she can't hide how freaking deadly she can be. Every single movement she makes is precise, potentially very lethal, and Bucky probably shouldn't also describe it as beautiful but he can't help himself; he's in the corporate espionage business himself, after all, and it's difficult not to admire a master of their craft.
Through the smoke, Bucky can catch a glimpse of Steve trying to elbow a struggling Agent 13 in the face, so he narrows his focus to the Black Widow. This is the fourth time he's faced her in the last three months. He's beginning to wonder if he should consider her his official rival.
He also knows one thing: when he fights her, it's never a battle. It's always more of a ballet.
She's moving towards him from the moment she sees him, obviously trying to unsettle him, and she launches the case in her hand at him, hoping to slide it down the corridor and past him, but Bucky's fallen for that one before, so he throws himself forwards and uses his left arm to scoop up the case and propel it firmly into the wall to his left. It embeds in there solidly, sending long jagged cracks up the wall that Stark is probably going to chew him out for, but Bucky can't admire his handiwork because he's already having to block the Black Widow's furious onslaught of blows.
Honestly, the only reason he hasn't been stabbed yet in this fight is probably because of Steve's gas, because Bucky can see glassiness when he catches her eyes, the only part of her face he can see through her mask. Normally he's the one crying when they meet, although it tends to be afterwards, when he's nursing another wicked wound. She does manage to hit the gun out of his hand and it goes skidding down the hallway, the momentum too fast for him to have a chance of retrieving it.
"Why are you always such a pain in the ass?" Black Widow hisses, her thick Russian accent turning the ass into more of a hiss.
"Natural talent," Bucky gasps back. One or two words is all he can usually manage in their confrontations, because she takes up all his energy just so he can stay alive, really. If it wasn't for his arm, Bucky probably wouldn't be able to go toe-to-toe with her at all. It really freaking helps having a metal Stark arm to bring to a fight against such a consummate professional.
This is about the time in the their last fight that Bucky got stabbed, so he shifts his weight, presenting his left side so he can use his arm as a shield (Steve may have a point about the retractable shields being excellent tech for this sort of work, but Steve is weird about shields in general, so that advice has sailed way over Bucky's head) and he grins behind his mask as he manages to block a knife that comes seemingly out of nowhere. Seriously. Her suit is skintight. He doesn't know where she keeps it.
And then his grin falls, because she's just used that knife slash with her left hand to distract him from where her right hand is: directly on the handle of the case. Bucky narrows his eyes and punches in the direction of her hand, and she kicks him in his right thigh hard enough that Bucky knows he's going to be carrying the bruise as a souvenir for a good couple of weeks. The kick sends him backward, and she hisses in happiness; but, Bucky knows something she doesn't.
He wasn't aiming to break her hand.
He was aiming for the case.
The knock backward means his metal fist has pummeled straight into the corner of it, smashing it open, causing some of the contents to spill onto the floor.
The Black Widow curses in Russian, and Bucky beams, because that means he's got to her, and that dismay—for the Widow—is definitely on a par with the wound she gave him during their last encounter.
Then a sudden bright light fills the hallway. Bucky has to lash out, relying on his other senses, and he grabs something from the case while something hard hits him, before a feeling that he sadly knows as his own freaking stun gun passes over him. He jerks and twitches, his movements causing his forehead to slam into the wall, but at least he's remembered to lock his grip around what he's managed to hold onto. He feels someone grab him, but by the time Bucky's head has stopped whining at him and his eyes have readjusted and he's able to sit up, Steve is kneeling over him, and shouting something at him that Bucky can't hear.
Shit, whatever the Widow or Agent 13 used on him to escape has wrecked his hearing. Steve's still trying to talk, so Bucky shakes his head and uses his right hand to point at his ears. Steve stops talking abruptly, realizing Bucky can't hear him.
"She took something," Bucky says, and from Steve's wince maybe he's yelling. "The Widow got something. Not all of it."
Steve looks up and away, and makes the gesture to tell Bucky to stay down, then the swipe of his fingers to indicate he's giving chase, and Bucky struggles to get up, but Steve pushes him down, shoving Bucky's stun gun into his right hand before straightening up and running off.
By the time Bucky's able to stagger to his feet, his hearing has semi-returned and he can hear Sam making noises through his still-open comm line. Bucky looks down to see what looks like a small external hard drive half-crushed under his metal fingers. He sincerely hopes that it's not the sole copy and, feeling wobbly, struggles to his feet. Hearing a faint explosion through his earpiece, Bucky mentally runs through the Stark Industries layout again, and starts to move as fast as he can to the nearest staircase. He has to ascend two flights of stairs to get to the roof and by the time he emerges out through a fire door, it's just in time to see a light aircraft disappearing off in one direction. Bucky runs to the edge of the roof to see Sam's wings are lying in pieces across the main quad and Sam has landed awkwardly upside down in one of the trees.
Steve's already trying to get Sam down. Bucky just sags against the railing, his head pounding awkwardly, and he looks down at the crushed hard drive he's managed to salvage from the case.
Howard Stark's not going to be pleased about this.
#
It turns out Bucky's prediction is an understatement.
"You three are supposed to be professionals. What did you do while they were infiltrating my compound, sit in your corners with your thumbs up your asses?" Howard thumps his glass down hard on his desk, sending whiskey everywhere. "You three are supposed to be the best. The best. And this is what the best gets me?" He throws down the shattered hard drive. "I'd have had better protection from a herd of rhinos."
"Actually they're called a crash," Bucky offers.
Howard freezes and his eyes narrow. "What?"
"A group of rhinos," Bucky clarifies, even though Steve's shaking his head and mouthing Bucky, no. "They're not called a herd, they're called a crash."
Howard pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters something under his breath that Bucky can't hear, but Steve apparently can because he winces.
"I have no choice," Howard sighs. "There was too much collateral damage. I can't have you working here any longer."
Sam's been nursing his head since they got ushered into Howard Stark's office and he lurches up at that with a look of dismay. He glares at Bucky like it's somehow his fault.
"Our contract—" Bucky starts, awkwardly. "It's, uh—you said it was—uh, unbreakable." That's the only reason they accepted the Stark contract in the first place, the stability. Sam had wanted to work for HammerTech, but something about Justin Hammer set Bucky's teeth on edge.
"You're right," Howard says and he straightens to face Bucky with a cool glare. "I can't fire you. I asked my legal department and your contract is a nightmare. But I did discover one thing." He smirks at them widely, giving Bucky the sudden impression that they've been cornered by a shark. "I can't fire you. But I can re-assign you."
Bucky's bank account is happy for a brief second, but Bucky feels an ache in his recently-healed stab scar courtesy of the Widow. Because why is the genius billionaire inventor saying re-assign like the Black Widow hisses I'm going to hurt you so badly?
"Where are you re-assigning us?" Steve asks, realizing Bucky's not quite in a state to ask.
"Not where," Howard says, "who." He leans against his desk, still smirking, and he looks much too relaxed for a CEO simply re-assigning a team of external contractors. "My son, Anthony. He's quite the handful, I assure you. Even though he's only twenty years old, he's completed two phDs at MIT in Physics and Electrical Engineering. I wanted him to work here, get some more business experience, but his mother is too soft, she indulges him, and last summer she insisted he get some cultural education too. Somehow the wretched child has interpreted that to mean getting a third phD at Cambridge. Mechanical Engineering, or so I'm told. I need an extra eye on him, and a team nearby who can step in if something does go wrong."
Bucky's not entirely sure if Howard is bragging or actually complaining. It feels like a weird mix of both.
"Wait, Cambridge," Sam says, looking startled. "You mean Massachusetts, right? Harvard?"
Howard Stark's smirk widens. "Cambridge, England."
NATASHA
"Well, ladies, I can't exactly compliment you on a job well done," Giorgio Gillespie says. Natasha has to literally bite her tongue in order to hold back the eyeroll, because Gillespie is a condescending jerk and one day she'll get to dropkick him into the ocean like he deserves. Preferably a part of the ocean filled with man-eating sharks. The sharp pain of the bite helps keep her face impassive.
"We got you the prototype," Natasha says. "Just as you requested. We should be the ones complaining to you. There was additional security on the third floor that wasn't in your intel."
Gillespie's face purples. Natasha surreptitiously pinches her own thigh to stop the threatening smirk at his displeasure. "I gave you the intel I had," he sniffs. "It's not my fault you couldn't predict the nature of this—Summer Soldier."
"Winter Soldier," Natasha corrects. "I gave you the dossiers on the Winter Soldier's team weeks ago. The Winter Soldier, Falcon, and Nomad. Howard Stark has been employing them for the last five months. We still don't have any further intel on their identities but we know they're resourceful. Strong. Their tech is topnotch."
"Nomad's gas bombs nearly blinded me," Sharon pipes up, still holding an ice pack to her face.
"The Falcon took a chunk out of my trijet," Jan adds, scowling and folding her arms. "He's lucky all I did was leave him up a tree."
"Needless to say, I will be re-negotiating our hazard pay agreement for any future assignments." Natasha grins, unable to hold that back. If she tries her best to resemble the shark she hopes will one day chow down on Giorgio Gillespie's face, well. Her words can only go into God's ears if she speaks them out loud.
Gillespie sniffs, audibly disgruntled. "Well. I suppose it's reasonable," he admits. "I already have another assignment for you and your team, if you want it."
"It depends on the terms," Natasha says.
"My daughter, Cassandra," Gillespie says. "She is a young woman, strong mind, but she is loyal to me, our company. She currently attends Newnham College at Cambridge University. At first, I was pleased, an all-girls college, no boys. But she parties, it's tough on her poor father to think about. I think… she is better suited to a boy like her. One from a good, strong business family."
"And you have such a boy in mind."
"It so happens that a...familiar face to us has a son at the same educational establishment. A different college, but, eh, close enough for us. I wish for Cassandra to…become close to this boy. I have a...shall we say...a twist in the tale for him."
"I don't kill children," Natasha says, flatly. She feels Sharon and Jan both straightening beside her in support. They're spies, not assassins.
Gillespie's eyes widen. "I would never request that. Even if the boy I speak of is twenty years old—no, no, death is not what I have in mind. I wish for an...alliance. For my daughter to sweet-talk to this boy, to wheedle out his secrets. If she insists on bedding young men, then let it be one where his pillow talk can bring good fortune to my business."
Natasha stares, comprehension dawning. Gillespie wants his own daughter to be a honey-pot, presumably to lure in the son of a rival businessman. "Does she need bodyguards?"
Gillespie makes an unpleasant sort of noise. "No, no, my daughter doesn't go anywhere without them. What she needs is advice. I think the three of you have used your feminine wiles on more than one target. Her mother is no help; during our romance I was the one who had to chase her. No, I need you to mentor my Cassandra. Groom her. Give her back-up. I need Cassandra to invite the boy on a date and, while on that date, I will manufacture...an event. Where the boy can be a hero. Where his little heart will flutter that he has been brave, and my daughter can play the grateful damsel. I'm positive he will declare his love for her after such an event."
The manipulation is stomach-curdling, but Natasha nods slowly. "You know our usual fees for overseas jobs. Usual fares. Double the hazard rate, though, and you cover all expenses. SHIELD has been more active in Europe since a rise in Hydra attacks. England's a risk zone, I want to be sure my women are amply rewarded."
"They will be," Gillespie promises.
Natasha nods. "All right. What's the target's name?"
"Oh, I didn't tell you?" Gillespie grins. "I always manage to bury the lede. I'd be a terrible journalist. The boy's name is Anthony." His grin widens. "Anthony Stark."
"What an asshole," Jan sighs, after Natasha's disconnected the call.
"No arguments here," Sharon says, getting to her feet and tying her long blond hair back into a functional ponytail.
"I'll book the flights and a nice hotel," Jan says. "If we're going to Europe on Gillespie's corrupt dime, I don't want to hole up in another crummy motel room." She eyeballs Sharon, who's already pulling down cases, packing up the gear for an overseas mission away from their base. "Especially when someone kicks in their sleep."
"I told you the bed was too small," Sharon says, sing-song.
Jan eyeballs Natasha darkly. "I'm getting us separate rooms."
"Connecting doors," Natasha says, but nods to approve the expense. They'll get the money back from Gillespie. "But book the flight in coach."
Jan's face falls. "But—"
"You can fake a receipt for first class," Natasha says. "I want to squeeze as much money out of this asshole as we can." She stares into space. She hopes they can afford to ditch Gillespie soon because he's a real piece of work. Who uses their own daughter like that? It is weirdly nice to know there's a guy out there she hates more than the Winter Soldier.
Natasha reluctantly gets up to help with the packing and to make sure they have good enough cover identities so that they can get through security without pinging any alerts. At least that's one good thing about a mission away from home: no chance of running into the Winter Soldier and his goons.
BUCKY
"Babysitting," Bucky sighs as they trudge dejectedly along the underground tunnel that leads to their headquarters "You do realize we've been assigned to babysit his son. His grown-up son."
"It could be worse," Steve says, still irritatingly imperturbable. "I like Europe. We went there once, remember? It was England too back then if I'm right."
Bucky glowers, because a) Steve is always right, and b) Steve's mocked him ever since that experience because there was an extremely beautiful air stewardess and Bucky's never quite exactly the suavest person around people he's attracted to. Long story short, he tripped over the doorway and fell out of the plane, completely missing the stairs. Okay, so maybe Bucky slightly deserves the mocking.
"I've never been to Europe," Sam says. "At least they speak the same language where we're going."
"You'd think so," Bucky grumps. "But wait until you try and ask for some chips." He side glances at Steve. "Why are you so unruffled by this?"
"I just feel like it could be worse." Steve shrugs. "The flight is free. The hotel room's already paid for. Babysitting's a two-man job, which means whoever's not on the clock can get a free vacation, in a foreign country, on someone else's dollar. Stark pays us well. What's to hate?"
"The plane," Sam sighs. "I hate flying." Steve and Bucky stop walking to stare at him in unison. "I love it when I'm in my wings. But cooped up in a tiny tin can? On those rigid-ass wings that might as well be a couple of planks strapped onto the sides? Nah, man, I'm out, that shit's uncool."
"Sadly, the contract's binding," Steve reminds him as they start walking again. "As much as Stark can't fire us without some legal problems, we can't quit. At least without 30 days notice in writing in triplicate."
Sam reaches the stairs first and uses the retinal scanner to open the main door, and Bucky and Steve trail in afterwards. Bucky nearly trips over a large cardboard box near the entrance and it makes the weirdest noise.
"I told you to move that yesterday," Steve says.
Bucky glares at him. "What the heck even is in there?"
"Rubber chickens," Sam says. "Rick says the old ones keep selling out."
"I can't believe our front is doing better revenue-wise than we are," Bucky grouches, shoving the box over a bit and glaring at it suspiciously.
"Let's get changed and pack up, flight's in three hours," Steve says.
"At least I managed to rescue the patent data," Bucky says mulishly, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand as they shuffle off in different directions.
"But the Widow still got the prototype," Steve sighs. "He's right to have been angry with us. We should have done better."
"You always think we should do better," Bucky says.
"I guess if he was really angry, he wouldn't have bought us seats in business class," Sam says. That does cheer Bucky up a little.
Bucky heads to his bedroom to pack the clothes he needs for a mission like this one. For a bodyguard assignment, it means civilian clothes. While his entire life is his job, Steve and Sam do try and drag him out on their days off, and it's not like Bucky can stomp around New York in his Winter Soldier gear. He packs quickly, folding his favorite tactical suits to the bottom of the case, and then covering it with the things he thinks someone would pack for an extended business trip. He has several suits for fancy occasions, because you can steal a lot of company secrets from posh galas, and—after remembering Anthony Stark is a billionaire's son—he packs them all, in case Anthony's apple hasn't fallen far from Howard's tree and they have to attend a soiree or the opera or whatever the fuck it is rich people do.
Bucky's done much too quickly, and he stares around his little room, wondering if he's missing something, but there's nothing much in his room left to pack. He lives a minimal existence. His room is bland. God, his life is bland. How has he not noticed that until now? He sits on the edge of his bed and stares at the blank, empty wall.
He needs a life. Maybe Europe's a good chance to shock him out of this dull routine. He needs a plan. Honestly, he never thought he'd survive the war. He never thought his life would be like this at all. But then, Afghanistan changed all of them. Sam's grief over losing Riley still routinely gives him screaming nightmares. Bucky and Steve met Sam on their first tour, on a combined Air Force and Army mission, and they stayed in touch, mostly exchanging messages every couple of months that consisted of oh my gosh how are we all still fucking alive in a variety of combinations.
Steve was accepted to the army at the same time as Bucky. Even though he used to look like a sandwich away from death at any given point when they were growing up, Steve out-stubborn-ed everyone and managed to meet basic admission requirements. He was initially assigned to on-base support after having a tough time during training but he disappeared for a couple of years and when he came back he was different. Physically stronger, yes, but whatever secret mission the army had him on, it erased all the doubt and hesitance from Steve's personality. Bucky knows Steve is still his best friend, but sometimes Bucky will catch Steve staring out the window at an imaginary horizon, and Bucky will see the barest glimpse of his tense profile and is struck dumb by the thought that maybe he doesn't really know Steve as well as he thinks he does. Steve returned to Bucky's side just in time to see Bucky lose his arm in combat, which is just about typical for their luck. Bucky had to go home while he knew Sam and Steve were still out there.
Bucky stayed in New York recuperating for years while Sam and Steve did who knew what in Afghanistan. When they both retired after two tours, the three of them met up and realized none of them knew what to do in a world without war. Still wondering oh my gosh how are we all still fucking alive. Corporate espionage seemed like a good fit for the three of them. It slots neatly in the gap between war and civilian life. It's been a good five months, Bucky thinks. But maybe it's time for change. Something small. Bucky eyeballs his empty nightstand. Maybe he can buy a plant when they get back.
It doesn't take any of them long to pack for the flight and they congregate in the office to make sure their paperwork is in order. It's when Steve pulls out the large black Stark-case that Bucky sighs. "Really?"
Steve eyeballs him. "You want to explain to airport security about your metal arm?"
Bucky makes a loud, angry noise, but detaches it, slapping Steve in the chest with the disconnected arm as he stalks off to his bedroom to find his public prosthetic that he keeps under the bed so he can forget it exists as much as possible. He hates the damn thing. It chafes, and is bent at a permanent awkward angle, and he's never so aware he doesn't have a left arm than when he's got it in the stupid sling and attached to his body. But not using it at all makes him stand out too much. Sometimes people notice a man wearing a bad prosthetic arm, but way more people notice someone without an arm at all. People see what they expect to see, really.
Steve packs the arm away into the case, along with his retractable shields and some of their basic additional arsenal—knives, tranq darts, and other such fun things. Then he adds Bucky's favorite metal mask, Sam's back-up wings, and—after an angry glare—Redwing and Bucky's stun gun go into the case too. Steve snaps the case shut and presses in the combination that locks it tight and ensures it will just appear as ordinary luggage on an x-ray machine. Say what you like about Howard Stark's ego and his gregarious manner and short temper, his inventions are brilliant. Especially the stuff Stark Industries has been churning out over the last five years. Bucky thinks some of the inventions—like the stealth tech that Howard Stark announced as under development just last month—will probably change the direction of the entire future. Everything's going to change. Technology, espionage, everyday life. Howard's getting older, but his mind must be just as sharp as ever.
Bucky crosses to the window as Sam sets up the routines to make sure their bills are still paid on time while they're away for such an indefinite period, and stares out down Flatbush Avenue. It's a relatively quiet part of Brooklyn, but their cover business—a costume and props store called Rokatanski & Co.—makes enough revenue to cover the whole commercial loft space of their headquarters on its own. Bucky is sad about the failure of their first front, which was a coffee shop called Samstuck, but the Widow blew that one in its first week of operation. Literally. Sam still has a little piece of the shrapnel from the injury stuck in his right shoulder.
That's one benefit of shipping out to Europe. No Black Widow. No Agent 13. No Wasp. Just...possibly a lot of Hydra, if the news is right, but punching Hydra agents is Steve's number one favorite hobby, and Bucky really does like providing his friends with their favorite things.
#
Bucky has to use that as a mental chant when they get to the airport, (No Black Widow, No Black Widow, No Black Widow) because there are no words for how much he hates commercial airports. They get there with plenty of time, but, of course, after they check-in, they find out their flight is delayed by six hours. Of course.
Then Sam suddenly remembers it's the first time he's flown commercially since the Black Widow blew up Samstuck and pitches a fit in the lobby, because the shrapnel in his shoulder is still there and he doesn't want to set off the metal detectors. Steve sighs, disappears into the airport drugstore, and Bucky doesn't quite see what's in the bag, but Sam's face sort of wobbles and then goes very tense, and he lets Steve drag him off to the bathroom.
"Get some breakfast," Steve tells Bucky as he hauls Sam off. "I refuse to be in a compressed metal tin can anywhere near you when you're hangry."
Bucky glares at him but can't protest because Steve's probably right. He trudges off to the food court but a lot of flights must have been delayed because there aren't any free small tables. He awkwardly manages to buy a breakfast bagel from one vendor, and slumps onto a longer, communal table, glowering into space. Next time he's going to try and persuade Howard Stark to let them use his private jet. Much fewer logistical issues. And fewer people.
He's so busy staring off into space that he nearly misses the most beautiful sight in the entire universe. Or he would have, except for the fucking unwieldy fake arm that he was given on his return home, before Howard Stark took pity on him. Bucky's never really been as grateful for the lump of plastic as he probably should be, but from now on he's going to be really thankful for it.
Because it's come a little loose, probably because Bucky's neglected his maintenance of it, and his entire left plastic hand is currently sitting in someone's bowl of oatmeal.
And when Bucky looks up in horror, the apology already in his mouth and ready to blurt out, his cheeks already hot with real embarrassment, he loses all ability to speak.
She's beautiful. She's just—so beautiful. Forget speaking, Bucky completely forgets how to breathe for a minute. If someone had told Bucky to put together an image of his perfect woman, he couldn't have even imagined her. He thinks she's the sky, somehow made real. Her eyes are the blue of perfect summer days, her hair the same red as the sky on the day when Sam and Steve came home from Afghanistan safe, and her mouth is a wicked curve of lightning.
"Doesn't that hurt?" Bucky's perfect woman says, and Bucky starts, and looks at his hand, and promptly wants the ground to let him sink twenty feet underneath it, because it's her breakfast and his entire hand is resting in it. He jerks backwards, spraying oatmeal over the table, and he frowns at it in horror and then starts fumbling in his pocket, pulling out a ten dollar bill.
"I'm so sorry," Bucky says, "it just—I can't control where my hand goes sometimes—" He casts around helplessly for a napkin, and there's one wrapped around his bagel, so he tugs at that, and uselessly dabs at the oatmeal on his plastic hand, and then gives up and eats it, rather than let it drip over the table.
"You are not the first man I've met that has said that about his hand." The woman stares at Bucky's odd behavior, and then Bucky can recognize the instant she understands the situation. The inevitable wash of pity over her face stings as much as it usually does, even though Bucky's already overwhelmed with his other feelings: dire embarrassment, warring uncomfortably with a little voice in the back of his head that sounds a lot like a choir of angels. "I'm so sorry, I didn't notice—I'm so sorry—"
"I'm the one that's made a mess of your breakfast, I should be the only one apologizing," Bucky says. "I'm really sorry, I'm just not used to the prosthetic yet, I don't normally wear this one. Mostly because it has a mind of its own, maybe. Oh, no, that would be terrifying."
He can't even shut up, what the heck. Bucky wishes the floor would hurry up and do that swallowing him down into hell thing he's been praying for.
"Here, let me help," the woman says, and digs into the satchel at her side, pulling out wet wipes.
"You're very prepared," Bucky says. God, he's even finding her apparent organizational skills attractive. Thank goodness Sam and Steve aren't here right now to watch him trip all over himself.
The woman grins, already carefully cleaning his hand. "I try to be. Even if my observational skills aren't as good as I thought they were."
Bucky stares as she curls her fingers around his hand and he swallows, hard, and is very glad he's sat at the table. Oh god. This is so unfamiliar. He's used to navigating dangerous circumstances and narrow escapes. Defending against mercenaries and working out security systems and working out in general because corporate espionage keeps you on your feet.
Suddenly being confronted by such beauty in one person is unsettling. Bucky feels a little, almost, like when he fought the Black Widow for the first time. Like he finally had proof that perfection actually did exist.
"What's your name?" he asks, because he can't help himself. He looks apologetic when she glances at him, realizing it's probably a little rude, there has to have been a smoother way to ask.
But she laughs, a sound like long summers, like a warm blanket on a cold day. "Natasha," she says. "And you?"
"James. James Buchanan Barnes." It's safe to use his real name. It's not connected to anything but a small file, to the briefest of details. A juvenile police warning, from the day he and Steve wondered what would happen if you dropped a pineapple from a fourth floor window. A speeding ticket from when he was eighteen. A signature on the lease to Rokatanski & Co. And his medical separation from the armed forces, of course. "My friends call me Bucky."
"I like James," Natasha says, and even her voice is like liquid honey. Oh man, Bucky's never believed in love at first sight before, but from the way his chest feels jittery, he's starting to feel like maybe he could ascribe to that belief system.
"I owe you a new breakfast," Bucky blurts. "Uh. Do you want mine? Or, wait, I have money—probably. In my pocket. Wait, no. Still in my hand. Oh my god. Here."
"Oh, please don't, I insist. I shouldn't have put the bowl where I did. And there's enough oatmeal left, don't worry." Natasha finally lets Bucky's fake hand go and she actually helps tuck it back at his side, and she smiles at him. "Actually, I think I see my friends over there. I should go and join them. It was nice to meet you, James."
Bucky's stomach swoops and his eyes sting a little, just from the idea of never seeing her again. Or just from the way she says James and not Bucky. Well, his real first name has never sounded so nice, anyway. He swallows back the disappointment. "It was nice to meet you too, Natasha."
Natasha flashes him the most beautiful smile that he's ever seen in his life. "Just watch where you put that hand in the future, Bucky," she says before turning and walking away.
Bucky stares after her, until she disappears from his view, and his body feels tense and heavy and miserable, because she's gone, and Bucky's hit by the strongest sensation that he'd take the Black Widow's knife in his abdomen twenty more times rather than feel this way again. His throat feels thick and uncomfortable and his eyes sting a little. He's been hit by a car, shot in the ass twice (goddammit Sam), and had an IED blow his entire arm from his body, but he's never felt so much at once in his life ever before.
"Dude, is that oatmeal on your sleeve?" Sam says. "You had oatmeal and you're still trying to eat a bagel?"
Bucky startles out of his thoughts at the sound of Sam's voice to find Sam and Steve have found him. He stares at them wordlessly, feeling oddly disconnected from everything. Sam's t-shirt has an odd lump under his shoulder, the shrapnel presumably having been...removed, and he and Steve sit down opposite Bucky, with breakfast bagels of their own because the three of them still eat like students way too often.
"I couldn't decide," Bucky manages, after too long of a pause. He'd rather they think him greedy than the truth. He doesn't even know how to describe what happened. How do you explain being metaphorically struck by lightning? How could he find the words to explain that he feels like he was so close to everything he's ever wanted, only for it to suddenly disappear?
"I hate airports," Sam sighs and tries to scratch at his shoulder. Steve dutifully smacks his hand away. The three of them eat in relative silence for a while, and when Bucky looks up after he's finished, he notices Steve's moved to sit next to him. Shit, Bucky's observational skills have taken a massive leave of absence which he doesn't think he approved beforehand. Well, that's probably why he has Steve. You can't watch your own back 24/7.
"You okay, Buck?" Steve asks, keeping his voice quiet.
Bucky thinks about lying, but Steve wouldn't buy it. He just shrugs and Steve's eyes soften.
"You always take failure so damn hard," Steve sighs, and Bucky twinges guiltily because Steve thinks he's sulking about somewhat failing the protection mission at Stark Industries. "C'mon. England might be better this time."
"From what you told me of your first time there, couldn't be any worse," Sam mutters.
Bucky sighs. "Why do I keep you around again?"
"Please, I keep this entire operation together." Sam beams. "And I keep you two around because I'm cool, but you two make me look awesome in comparison."
Steve and Bucky exchange a long glance. "Air force," they sigh in unison, and Sam starts spluttering, which he always does when they gang up on him.