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1. The Gala
Mel wondered at people's ability to host a party when everything else was going to shit.
In this case, the people being Val and the party being another fundraiser—hosted in honor of a mission that had gone pear-shaped in Eastern Europe.
This was leadership's attempt at placating the higher-ups of the nations whose infrastructure they had leveled in the process of "saving" the day.
She let out a sigh.
She'd decided to stick to gold flats to accompany her burgundy dress—a step up from the sensible pantsuits she usually wore, but it left her feeling a little too exposed for her liking. The slit stopped mid-thigh and the neckline dipped just shy of what could be classified as "plunging." Still less flashy than what some people were bound to show up in, but eye-catching nonetheless.
At least the flats were practical, she thought glumly.
Bob was already in the common room, hands clasped, head between his knees, preparing himself for the cameras and dozens of questions that were sure to accost him as soon as he showed up.
Yelena, dressed in a bold silver gown, looked stunning and watched him with amusement. Ava was coming down the stairs with Alexei, who—thankfully—were both dressed.
John, she assumed, was in a bathroom somewhere in the tower—probably trying to figure out how to make the beret work with a tuxedo. He'd taken to wearing it everywhere lately, regardless of whether it matched.
That only left—
She found him in the hallway, with his hands working at his collar. He turned to face her as he no doubt had heard her rounding the corner of the common room.
His hair had been slicked back for the occasion, and Mel had to admit it gave him a dangerous edge. Very old Hollywood. Very Cary Grant, if Cary Grant had a Vibranium arm and a body count—and not the kind one would assume of Cary Grant.
He looked ready for the cameras—everything except for the bowtie that rested untied across his collar.
Before she could ask, he spoke.
"I can't get it to tie. The silk keeps slipping," he said gruffly, flexing his metal hand by way of explanation.
Mel hesitated. They'd been working together for what—three months? Four? Long enough to be civil. Not long enough for this to feel normal.
"Do you want help?" she asked, the words coming out more tentative than she'd intended.
He looked at her for a long moment, something unreadable crossing his face. Then he gave a short nod.
She approached carefully, like he might spook. "May I?"
Another nod.
She tried to make quick work of the bowtie, trying to remember the steps her father had taught her years ago. Her hands fumbled slightly with the silk. It really was quite soft.
Standing this close, she was able to catch a whiff of the expensive cologne he must have used for the occasion—something woodsy, but with a hint of steel underneath.
"Stop fidgeting."
"I'm not fidgeting."
"You are absolutely fidgeting," Mel said.
“I hate these things,” he muttered, mostly to fill the silence.
"I know." she replied, playing along.
"The last gala I went to, I was trying to get information out of you."
Her fingers paused. "I remember, and here I thought you were just being charming."
"I was being charming to get information out of you," he clarified, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice.
"Right. Well, tonight you just have to be charming in general. Smile. Shake hands. Let rich people feel good about writing checks."
"Sounds terrible."
"It is terrible," she agreed. "But at least there's an open bar."
She stepped back to examine her handiwork. The bowtie sat crookedly against his collar, the crisp white of his shirt a stark contrast to the black tuxedo.
Valentina had spared no expense for this fundraiser—something about optics and showing the American public that the New Avengers were just as refined as they were lethal.
"Hold still," she muttered, reaching up to adjust it. Her knuckles brushed his collar, and she felt him tense. She fixed the alignment quickly, professionally. "There."
He straightened to his full height, and she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
The tuxedo really did look unfairly good on him. She'd been to enough of these events to become immune to men in formal wear, but Bucky Barnes cleaned up in a way that made her forget how to form coherent sentences.
A strand of hair fell forward, escaping the pomade's hold. It hung over his forehead, disrupting the otherwise carefully crafted image.
Without thinking, she reached up and smoothed it back into place. Her fingers lingered perhaps a moment too long, tucking the strand behind his ear where it would stay put.
The air between them went still.
Under the warm lighting, his eyes reminded her of steel catching firelight—
"There," she said, her voice coming out softer than intended. "That should hold."
"Thanks." The word came out rough.
"Just—" She cleared her throat. "Try not to threaten any donors tonight. Valentina's already on edge."
"Right." He looked like he wanted to say something else, his jaw working.
"We should go," Mel said, already turning towards the elevator. "We're going to be late."
She didn't look back to see if he was following.
2. Late night in the tower
Mel and Bucky were working late one night in the tower, holed up in their usual place, the kitchen—swift access to both snacks and coffee.
Pouring over a dozen mission reports that had to be filed, reports that had been left to pile up until Bucky was forced to recruit Mel's meticulousness for note-taking and writing up said documentation.
"I owe you one."
"Yes, you do."
"I didn't realize that a big part of being an Avenger was documentation."
Her lips quirked upwards. "You have much to learn, padawan. A big part of every job is documentation," she said in a faux serious tone. "That's from—"
"Star Wars, I'm aware. I've seen A New Hope," he said as he worked on a report from a mission in Prague that had left John trapped in a maze for days before anyone realized he was missing.
His hair had fallen forward to shield his face as he worked, looking down at the report with that focused intensity he brought to everything.
Her lips parted. Of course that's the one he's seen.
She was beginning to learn so much about him that differed from the persona he'd existed as—someone so hopeful in the face of all that he'd had to go through.
There was a lesson in there somewhere for her as well.
"What other pop-culture references are you aware of?" she asked, genuinely curious as she continued to enter the damage segment of one such mission report.
It said here that Ava had caused significant mental trauma to an ice cream vendor on a recon mission in Amsterdam. Whatever that means, Mel thought, filing away the mental note to have a conversation with Ava about the dangers of phasing out of nowhere in front of non-American civilians who, unlike their Western counterparts, weren't used to the team's antics.
"I liked The Lord of the Rings," he said. "The Hobbit especially." His voice softened, almost wistful.
"There's this part where Bilbo's sitting in Bag End, and Gandalf tells him something about deciding what to do with the time we're given. That line stuck with me—probably more than it should." He paused. "Though I read it when it first came out, so I don't know if it counts as the 'pop-culture' phenomenon people talk about nowadays."
She gave him a sidelong glance, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"You know, I always forget how old you actually are until you go ahead and say something like that. Or, well, when you have to deal with the cloud."
"It makes no sense," he muttered, shuffling papers harder than necessary. "Things just disappear into nothing, and then you pull them back out like they're from some other realm."
"Realm," she snorts. "Relax, grandpa, it's just an algorithm that configures a comprehensive system."
"I refuse to believe people actually know what this 'cloud' claims to be," he replied, incredulous.
"While I agree with you on not wholly knowing what it may be, it's funny to me how you—a super-enhanced being—have no trouble believing in aliens, Gods, and other unusual beings, but THIS is where you choose to draw the line."
"At least you can see them," he argues. "I can't trust something that I can't see where it houses its brain."
She continued to look amused, which only invoked him further.
"And anyway—" he started. "I wouldn't have had to go into the cloud had it not been for—"
She tunes out a little as he continued to justify his ineptness with the internet, partly distracted by the fact that as he stood near her, arranging the files she'd typed up, his face was almost entirely hidden by his hair.
It had grown long again—past his jaw now, almost brushing the tops of his shoulders in dark strands catching the warm kitchen light. She could tell from his voice that he was working himself into a huff, but couldn't quite read his face.
She wanted to see it, wanted to to catch those tiny shifts in his expression that always gave him away. The slight tightening at the corners of his eyes, the barely-there pull at his mouth, and she could if she just—
An urge—not the first time she'd had it—welled up again, and this time it was impossible to ignore.
Because it was just the two of them in the kitchen, and his hair looked soft in the overhead lights, and he was so close she could smell that particular clean, skin-warmed metal scent mixed with the coffee they'd been drinking.
It was only natural that she reached out and tucked the stray strands behind his ear.
He cut off abruptly, inhaling sharply when her fingertips made light contact with his skin while tucking the strands in place. He turned to look at her with those blue, blue eyes and she—
She very nonchalantly resumed her typing as if nothing out of the ordinary had taken place, but her hand was warm from where it had made contact with his skin.
"You should get it cut," she said, needing to break the heavy silence since she could still feel his stare on the side of her face. "Or at least get a hair tie to hold it in place." The words came out more matter-of-fact than she felt, trying to sound practical when she felt anything but.
She heard him clear his throat—once, twice before—
"Should I?" he asked.
She made sure to watch him only from the corner of her eye, not quite willing to break this charade of unaffectedness she'd started.
He was still looking at her, the gray of his eyes warmer in this moment, softer somehow with her attention on him.
The look he was giving her was different now, measured-like he was working through a complicated equation and had just found an unexpected variable.
Holding her gaze, he ran his right hand through his hair, the gesture unconsciously mimicking where her fingers had just been.
The question hung between them. His head tilted slightly, and there was a vulnerability in the way he asked that made her chest tighten.
Like her opinion mattered more than it probably should for something so trivial.
Mel picked up her mug carefully, buying herself a moment. She studied him—really looked at him—taking in the way the longer hair softened the hard edges of his face.
"I don't know," she said slowly, honestly. "I think..." She hesitated, then committed to the truth. "I think it suits you like this."
The confession sat between them, honest in a way that their usual banter didn't allow for.
Mel felt her heart kick up a notch, that familiar flutter she'd been steadfastly ignoring for weeks now making itself known.
"Yeah," he said softly. Bucky nodded slowly, a small not-quite smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—the kind that didn't make an appearance during team meetings or press conferences.
Then he seemed to remember where they were, what they were supposed to be doing. He cleared his throat and gestured at the mountain of paperwork still waiting.
"We should probably get back to this. Not that I care what Valentina has to say about deadlines, but if these aren't done by morning, she'll make it your problem."
"My hero," Mel returned drily, but there was warmth there that belied the sarcasm.
Mel turned back to her laptop with perhaps more focus than necessary, hyper-aware of how close he was standing, of the warmth radiating from his body.
They fell back into a rhythm—Bucky reading off details, Mel typing them up with efficient keystrokes.
But something had shifted, subtle as a change in air pressure. Every time he leaned over to point something out on her screen, she felt the ghost of that moment. Every time their hands brushed reaching for the same file, warmth sparked through her entire body.
3. The Infirmary
The mission had gone sideways.
That's what Yelena said when she radioed in, her voice tight with something that might have been worry if Yelena Belova was capable of such things. "Slight hiccup. Nothing major. Just get medical ready."
Which was Yelena-speak for: someone's bleeding and it's bad enough that even super-soldier healing might need a hand.
Mel rushed to have the equipment ready. It's not like they had crazy Wakanda medical infrastructure on hand—hell, they didn't even have SHIELD level equipment—but what they did have would have to do.
Mel had spent the next three hours pacing the tower's operations center, watching the quinjet's approach on the monitor, trying not to think about all the ways things could go wrong in the field. Trying not to think about how fragile even enhanced people could be when faced with the wrong kind of weapon.
Trying not to think about Bucky.
They'd barely spoken since the night in the kitchen. That moment between them had sat heavy and unresolved, and then he'd been deployed before she could figure out what it meant. If it meant anything at all.
When the team finally arrived, it was chaos. Walker had taken shrapnel to the leg. Bob was unconscious but stable—the Void had taken over during the fight and apparently exhausted itself. Ava was fine, just covered in someone else's blood and looking annoyed about it.
And Bucky—
"He's stable," the medic assured her when she cornered him outside the infirmary. "Concussion, broken ribs, some lacerations. Nothing life-threatening. He'll be fine in a day or two."
Mel nodded, trying to ignore the way her hands were shaking.
"Can I see him?"
The medic hesitated. "He's sleeping. Best to let him rest."
"I'll be quiet."
Something in her expression must have convinced him, because he stepped aside.
The infirmary was too bright, too sterile. It smelled like antiseptic and something metallic—blood, probably. Bucky was in the bed furthest from the door, hooked up to an IV, his chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.
He looked different like this. Younger, somehow. Vulnerable in a way she rarely saw him.
There was a cut on his forehead, butterfly bandages holding it closed. Bruising along his jaw. His hair was a mess, matted with dried blood and sweat, falling across his face in dark tangles.
Mel approached slowly, like he might wake if she moved too fast.
She shouldn't be here. She should let him rest. She should go back to her apartment and try to sleep and pretend that the last three hours hadn't been the longest of her life.
But instead, she pulled up a chair and sat.
His face was too hidden. She wanted to see him, needed the confirmation that he was really okay, that the steady beep of the heart monitor wasn't lying.
Her hand moved before her brain could stop it, reaching out to gently brush the hair away from his face. Her fingers were careful, barely touching, tucking the strands back so she could see the cut on his forehead, the bruising, the proof that he was alive.
He stirred slightly at her touch, a soft exhale.
"You're okay." she whispered, even though he was asleep and couldn't hear her. Even though it was a ridiculous thing to say.
His hand twitched, the right one, like he was trying to reach for something.
She took it without thinking, threading her fingers through his, and his grip tightened reflexively even in sleep.
"You scared me," she admitted to the quiet room. "I know you're an Avenger and this is what you do and I'm supposed to be professional about it, but you really scared me."
The heart monitor beeped steadily.
"So maybe don't do that again," she continued, her thumb tracing absent circles on the back of his hand. "Or at least warn me first so I can prepare myself."
She stayed like that for a while, holding his hand, watching him sleep, her other hand occasionally reaching up to smooth his hair back when it fell forward again.
She didn't leave until the sun started to rise, until the medic returned and gave her a look that said she really should go.
When Bucky woke up hours later, he would swear he remembered the feeling of someone's hand in his hair, the whisper of someone's voice, the warmth of fingers wrapped around his own.
But he wouldn't ask. Not yet.
4. The Photoshoot
"Can we get the team in formation, please? Avengers in front, support staff in back."
Mel bit back a sigh. This was the third photographer they'd worked with today, and each one had a different vision for how the New Avengers should be presented to the American public. This one wanted something "powerful yet approachable." Whatever that meant.
The team assembled with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Alexei looked like he was born for this, already finding his light. Yelena looked like she was contemplating murder. Ava kept phasing in and out of visibility, which was driving the photographer insane. Bob stood very still, probably trying not to let the Void make an appearance.
And Bucky—
Bucky looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.
He was in full tactical gear, the new uniform that Valentina had commissioned. Black and red, sleek and intimidating, designed to show off the vibranium arm to maximum effect.
His hair was longer now, hitting past his collar, and someone from hair and makeup had tried to style it into something artfully tousled.
"Mr. Barnes, can you move a little to the left?" the photographer called out. "And maybe—yes, like that—but your hair, it's falling in your face. Can we get someone to fix that?"
The makeup artist started forward with her kit, but Bucky's eyes had already found Mel standing off to the side with her tablet.
He walked straight to her.
"Mr. Barnes, where are you—we need you in position—"
But he wasn't listening. He stopped directly in front of Mel, close enough that she had to look up to meet his eyes.
"Fix it," he said simply.
She blinked. "What?"
"My hair. It's in the way."
"Bucky, there's a makeup person right there who can—", she said aware of conversations slowing down as people turned to watch them
"I want you to do it."
The set had gone quiet. Everyone was watching now. Walker's eyebrows had climbed into his hairline. Yelena looked intrigued. Even Bob seemed interested.
And Valentina—Valentina was standing in the corner with her arms crossed, her eyes sharp and calculating as they moved between Bucky and Mel.
Mel felt her face heat. "This is really not necessary—"
"Please."
The word was quiet, almost lost in the bustle of the set, but she heard it.
There was something in his face that made it impossible to refuse—not demanding, just asking. Trusting her in a way that made her chest tight.
Her heart was pounding loud enough that she was sure everyone could hear it.
This was different from the quiet moments in the kitchen or the private space of the hallway before the gala. This was in front of everyone, a declaration of something she wasn't sure either of them was ready to name. She knew this was backstage and none of the crew were allowed their cellphones when the team was on set, but still—
He bent down slightly, tilting his head toward her in clear invitation.
His eyes were steady on hers, patient and certain.
She reached up and carefully smoothed his hair back, tucking the strands behind his ear the way she'd done before. Her fingers lingered maybe a moment too long, and she could feel the weight of all those eyes on them.
Out of the corner of her eye, she was sure she saw a flash and then the swift lowering of Yelena's hand—but when she glanced over, Yelena was studying her nails with exaggerated innocence.
"There," she said quietly, pulling her hand back. "Better?"
"Better," he confirmed, but he didn't move away immediately. Just looked at her with an expression that made her forget they had an audience.
"OKAY," the photographer called out, breaking the moment. "Let's get back to positions, people. We're losing our light."
Bucky straightened slowly, then walked back to his mark. He didn't look at anyone else, didn't acknowledge the stares or Alexei's barely suppressed grin.
Mel tried to focus on her tablet, on the schedule, on literally anything other than the fact that she could still feel Valentina's gaze burning into the side of her head.
When she finally risked a glance up, Valentina was smiling.
But it wasn't a friendly smile. It was the smile of someone who'd just acquired a very interesting piece of information and was already deciding how to use it.
Mel swallowed hard and looked back at her tablet.
This was fine. Everything was fine.
Except it wasn't, and they both knew it.
+1: After the Mission
"You signed up to be what?" the tone was soft, and somehow louder for it.
Mel had never seen Bucky this angry. Not when he'd found out about her connection to Valentina, not even during their confrontation after. This was different. This was fury barely contained behind clenched teeth and white knuckle.
"A communications officer," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. "I've been training for weeks—"
"Training," he repeated, his voice dangerously quiet. "You have zero combat experience. You were almost shot—"
"But I wasn't—"
"Because Walker showed up at the last second." His jaw was so tight she thought it might crack. "Do you have any idea what almost happened out there?"
"I was doing my job—"
"Your job is PR and paperwork, not running into active combat zones—"
"My job is whatever Valentina tells me it is," she shot back, her own anger rising now. "And she wanted someone on comms who understood the team dynamics, who could coordinate—"
"She wanted someone expendable," Bucky snarled. "That's what you are to her. That's what you've always been."
The words struck, clean and humiliating.
"Wow," Mel said softly. "Tell me how you really feel."
He ran his hand through his hair, a gesture she recognized as frustration. "That's not what I—fuck—Mel, you could have died."
"So could any of you. That's the job."
"It's not YOUR job." He took a step closer, and she could see the concern beneath the anger now. "You don't have to prove anything. You don't have to—"
"Maybe I want to," she interrupted. "Maybe I'm tired of being the person who watches from the sidelines. Maybe I'm tired of feeling useless."
"You're not useless—"
"Then why are you so angry that I want to do more?"
"Because I—" He stopped abruptly, the words catching in his throat. "Because I could have lost you."
The confession hung between them, raw and honest.
"Bucky—"
"Do you know what it was like?" His voice was rough now, strained. "Hearing the gunfire over the comms. Hearing you scream. Not being able to get to you because I was pinned down three blocks away. And then Walker—of all people, Walker—having to be the one to save you because I couldn't."
She'd never seen him like this. Vulnerable and furious and terrified all at once.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I didn't think—"
"No, you didn't think." He moved closer, crowding into her space. "You didn't think about hearing that gunfire and not knowing if you were—" He cut himself off, jaw working. "You didn't think about—"
"About what?" she challenged, tilting her chin up. "We're not—this thing between us, whatever it is, it doesn't give you the right to—"
"Doesn't it?"
The question stopped her cold.
They were toe to toe now, the air between them charged with tension. His chest was heaving, her hands were shaking, and something had to give.
She didn't know who moved first.
One moment they were arguing, the next his mouth was on hers, hard and desperate and furious.
His hand came up to cup the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair as he kissed her like he was trying to prove a point. Like he was trying to make her understand what he couldn't put into words.
She kissed him back just as fiercely, her hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even as part of her brain screamed that this was a terrible idea.
But God, she'd wanted this. Wanted him. Had been wanting him since that first night in the kitchen, maybe even before that.
His metal arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him, and she gasped against his mouth. He took advantage, deepening the kiss, and she forgot why they were fighting. Forgot everything except the taste of him, the feel of him, the way his hand tightened in her hair.
Her hair.
It was so much thicker than his own, dark and rich and falling in waves past her shoulders.
He'd watched her put it up, take it down, tuck it behind her ears a hundred times. Had wanted to touch it, to know if it was as soft as it looked.
It was softer.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he kept his hand in her hair. Kept her close.
"I'm sorry," he said roughly. "I didn't mean—I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize," she whispered. "Please don't apologize for that."
His thumb traced her cheekbone. "I was terrified," he admitted. “ When I thought—" He couldn't finish the sentence.
She looked up at him, and those brown eyes—warm and deep and impossibly soft—nearly undid him.
He'd spent weeks trying not to get lost in them, trying not to notice the way they caught the light or how they seemed to see right through all his carefully constructed walls.
"I know," she said softly. "I know. I'm sorry I scared you."
He laughed, but it came out broken. "You're gonna be the death of me."
"Probably."
They stood like that for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, just breathing.
Her eyes fluttered closed, dark lashes resting against her cheeks, and he found himself memorizing the sight of her like this—close enough to touch, real and alive and his.
Then, with a gentleness that contrasted sharply with the fury from moments before, he carefully tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
The same gesture she'd done for him countless times now, returned.
"I like your hair down," he said quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." His fingers traced through the strands one more time before dropping away. "It's beautiful. You're beautiful."
She felt her chest tighten. Those brown eyes looking up at him with something he was afraid to name. "Bucky—"
"I know this is complicated," he said. "I know we work together and Valentina's watching us and there are about a hundred reasons why this is a bad idea."
"At least a hundred," she agreed.
"But I can't—" He stopped, searching for words. "I can't keep pretending I don't feel this. Whatever this is."
Mel reached up and touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw. "Me neither."
"So what do we do?"
She smiled despite everything, and he watched the way it lit up her whole face, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners. "I don't know. Figure it out as we go?"
"That sounds terrifying."
"Everything about this is terrifying," she pointed out. "But maybe that's okay."
He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Maybe."
"We should probably talk about the comms thing—"
"Later," he said. "We'll talk about it later. Right now I just—" He pulled her close again, wrapping both arms around her, tucking her head under his chin. "Just let me hold you for a minute."
She melted into him, her arms sliding around his waist. "Okay."
His hand came up to stroke her hair, fingers running through the dark strands in a gesture that was both soothing and possessive.
"Your hair really is nicer than mine," he murmured.
She laughed against his chest. "Are you seriously comparing hair right now?"
"I'm just saying. It's thicker. Shinier. Probably doesn't require as much maintenance."
"Bucky Barnes, super soldier and hair critic."
"I contain multitudes."
She tilted her head back to look at him, and the smile on his face was soft and genuine and just for her.
He could drown in those eyes, he thought. In all that warmth and softness and the way she was looking at him right now, like he'd hung the moon.
"Yeah," she said. "You really do."
He kissed her again, slower this time. Sweeter. His fingers still tangled in her hair, thumb brushing her temple as he tucked another strand behind her ear.
And for the first time in a long time, Mel felt like maybe everything was going to be okay.