Not a choice pt.2
Pairings | Bucky Barnes x f!reader, John Walker x f!reader
Warnings | swearing
Word count | 680
Summary | you can't help but deeply regret even agreeing the the government's stupid plan.
"So, John, Captain America," the interviewer joked light-heartedly, over pronouncing the title with a wink that made the audience chuckle, "I see you're not alone tonight." Another wink.
John threw his head back and you let yourself giggle; the sound was forced through near-gritted teeth and an oh-so-fake smile.
"No I'm not." John agreed, glancing your way with a toothy grin and a nudge to your side.
"No, tonight we are joined by the lovely Miss Rogers." The interviewer announced, and the applause was booming. John laughed with the interviewer at the praise, and you forced a smile through it as you chuckled.
"Oh, no need to be so formal. Please, call me y/n." You offered and the interviewer nodded.
"Okay, y/n. And how are you?" She pressed on, smile wide. You chewed your words, biting back the urge to get up and leave with a 'fuck you and everyone here, especially John fucking Walker'. But you resisted and let yet another lie twist about your tongue.
"Well, I'm still processing Steve being mostly gone." You began, and a faint 'aw' of sadness could be heard from the audience. "But," you began, fake smile plastered back over red-painted lips, "having John really does make up for the empty feeling. He's such a great man and a deserving Captain America." Another applause.
John leant in close, too close, and placed a long kiss to your cheek. You tried not to cringe away, instead laughing the gesture off the with interviewer as you let the weight of his arm around you act as an anchor for your guilt. God, you wanted to punch that perfect smile from his perfect teeth.
"How sweet. And John, how lovely is it to have y/n by your side?" He leant forwards a little, a wolfish smirk forming across his lips as he answered.
"I'm honoured, really. I mean y/n Rogers is my fiancée! Who knew my life could get any better after I was given this new privilege?" He stated, with another peck to your temple, this time.
"Fiancée? So it's official?" You flashed your ring to the cameras as John smiled. The interviewer gasped, as well as the audience.
More goddamned applause.
You sniffled, fingers twisting the silver band - which was topped with the most expensive, showy diamond you'd ever seen - that laid over your ring finger.
Bucky was right. What the fuck were you thinking?
You should never have agreed to this. Steve would've never let you agree to this.
But Steve wasn't here to make that call. That thought made you feel sick.
A scream, loud and haunting, ripped through your vocal chords; it tore through your throat and mingled with your tongue before twisting your lips with distress, anger, dread.
What the fuck were you thinking?
The band was bouncing with a metallic chink the sending it left your finger, rolling to a suddenly stop after a moment of teetering around its edges.
But the mark was still there. There was a slight, red strip around your finger from where it had been; a strip that you nearly rubbed raw in an attempt to wipe it off like some pen.
Steve was right for running, for standing up. The government was corrupt; it was merely interested in image, never in its people's best interests.
Never in your best interests.
The tears stung as they cradled your cheeks, sliding over hot skin in a salty trail of regret as you collapsed back against the tiled wall; your hands fisted in your hair as your whole body was racked with sobs.
The door creaked as it opened, a solemn and stoic face in the way of a stream of artificial light.
"We're on again in an hour. Be ready." John's voice was rough, a threat in itself to do what you're told.
What the fuck were you thinking?