Hattie's Boys [Bucky Barnes/Avengers Fanfiction]

2

Hattie hated her dress.

It was a delicate, swishy thing, cut too low on her chest and clinging too tightly to her every curve to be able to hide any weapons beneath. Without her knives she felt like a damned fool—a mouse caught beneath a cat's paw. Add on the ridiculously high heels, the buckets-full of makeup, and her loose hair, and she had practically transformed into one of the famed Madripoor strippers.

Selby had personally requested it though. And whatever Selby wanted, Selby got.

Hattie scowled, crossing her arms as she leaned against the corridor wall.

The lights overhead flickered, water slowly dripping down from the ceiling. Distantly, she could hear the boom boom boom of the club's night music.

Fucking Madripoor and fucking Selby and fucking contracts.

Sudden footsteps sounded to her right.

"Think any more bad thoughts about boss and she'll skin you alive," said a low voice and Hattie's gaze shot up, her arms taking up a fighting position, before she realized who it was.

"Oh fuck off, Conner," she grumbled, resuming her sulking against the wall. Conner leaned against the corridor opposite, grinning. His blonde hair was slicked back and he wore a dark green suit.

Hattie narrowed her eyes. "How come you got the good disguise and I'm stuck like this?"

Conner made a show of looking her up and down, gaze lingering on her exposed chest. "I don't know, it isn't so bad—better than your usual hoodie." He winked at her. "Who knew Harriet Reed actually had boobs?"

"Go fuck a goat."

"Can't, too tired from last night with your mom."

Her lips twitched. If Conner Vert was good for anything besides killing, it was your mom jokes. He was one of the only people who didn't seem to shy away from her orphan status, making him a member of her very, very short friend list.

A coppery taste in her mouth, an ache in her heart. The hallway closed in for a horrible second and she forced herself to take a long, slow breath.

Three more years. Just three more years of pain and you'll be free.

Conner's eyebrows bunched and he pushed off the wall, taking a step toward her. "You good?"

But he stayed those few feet away.

Smart man.

"Fine," she said, standing up straight. Her feet ached in the heels and she cursed silently. "What's tonight's mission?"

He opened his mouth to speak and then hesitated, inspecting her.

The second thing that Conner Vert was good for:

In the two years that they'd known each other, going from mortal enemies under Selby's rule to coworkers to finally friends, he'd learned a few of Hattie's secrets—and learned even more of her expressions.

If he knew she wasn't ok, though (and honestly, when was she ever really ok these days), he thankfully didn't mention it.

"Meet and greet," he said, gaze finally tearing from Hattie as he began walking down the corridor toward the club. "Selby got a read that three high profiles will be here tonight. She wants us to scout them out, see what they're up to before they reach out to her."

Hattie frowned, doing her best to keep up in her heels. "That explains the lack of weapons."

"And the arrival of boobage," said Conner, rounding a corner with a shiteating grin. The booming music grew louder.

Hattie rolled her eyes. Dumbass flirter. Conner could flirt with anything that moved—woman, man, fucking alien, it didn't matter. "One—I can't believe you just said 'boobage.' We're twenty-three, bro, not twelve." A black door loomed at the end of the hall. "And two—what's the cover?"

Music and lights leaked from the crack under the door. They stopped before it. Conner cleared his throat and turned to look at her.

"I'm Marcus, you're Anna," he said. "Siblings from California, parents are big money, came to fuck shit up and meet some pirates." He winked again. "And maybe some strippers too."

She rolled her eyes again and he laughed.

"How's your Californian slang?" Hattie asked, tucking her hair back.

"As a native Boston baby it's non-existent, but I do a great West Coast accent," he replied, then twisted an imaginary lock of hair and said in a high-pitched voice, "Hiiiiii girlies, let's go to Starbies!"

Hattie snorted, looking back toward the door and adjusting her dress. A bundle of nerves suddenly expanded in her stomach. The hallway pulled in.

"Hey," said Conner quietly, dropping the act, and she looked up at him. His eyes were soft—the few moments before the mission began that he risked dropping that cocky mask. He held out a fist to her, an earpiece dangling from his fingers. "No mourners—"

"—no funerals," Hattie said, voice a little hoarse as she bumped his fist and took the earpiece, fitting it into her ear.

The third thing that Conner Vert was good for:

He was more than willing to nerd out with her over some fantasy books and make a secret handshake because he knew, even without her having to tell him, that she needed that reassurance, that silent I'm here for you, during all these missions I'm here for you. Desperately.

Thanks, Leigh Bardugo, for giving me the only therapy I've ever had since high school, thought Hattie dryly.

Three more years. Just three more years.

Hattie took a deep breath, plastered a smile onto her face, and turned toward the door. No mourners, no funerals. "Let's go to war."