{bet you're looking for something new}
"Do you regret it?"
"Do I regret one less white-collar trash on this earth?" You purse your lips mock-pensively at Tim Walters. "No, not really."
"One?" You can see the journalist physically refrain himself from scoffing. So much for a non-judgmental reporter's objectivity.
I must look like a modern-day Elizabeth Taylor, you think, all glammed up (by a make-up artist no-less), classic black gloves caressing your dainty fingers as you tried not to toy with the ringlets of your hair and a 24/7 security team standing behind you. That is, if Liz Taylor sported an orange prison jumpsuit, a pair of luxurious handcuffs and a broken lip.
"What about Steve Rogers?" You clear your throat as you try to nonchalantly reach for a cigarette. Ha, but you don't even smoke.
"What about Rogers?" You ask, silently willing your fingers to stop trembling. "Got a light?"
Tim nods.
Of course, his name would come up. You've clearly made more than a few stupid mistakes but you aren't an idiot. So how come you still feel like one, staring as Tim, the judge-y New York Times reporter, awkwardly slides you a box of matches?
"Well, you did-"
"Time's up." You can almost scream in relief. Saved by the bell!
The two simple words always passively acknowledged - at the end of villainous speeches in secret lairs, 5th-grade History exams, and maybe (read: perhaps soon- definitely, sooner than you'd like anyway) on your way to the electric chair someday - you never thought could bring you salvation.
Tim opens his mouth in protest. "But-"
"Time's up," the warden repeats pointedly from behind you.
"Well," You say, unapologetically sucking the cigarette. "Sorry." The smoke breezes out your lips.
And who are you to say you don't enjoy the look on the oh-so-high-and-mighty Judge-y Tim's face as you smother the flame on his notebook and walk away? You are, after all, only human.
"What are you smiling at?" A hand lands on your shoulder.
You violently turn, startled, almost elbowing your assailant when you are met by a pair of devious eyes, a bittersweet reminder of sour betrayal and glimpses of naked flesh. "Oh, it's you."
"Rollins. I thought I smelled corporate scum." Jack Rollins was one of the essential regrets bound to happen before you truly grow up, like accidentally hitting on your English teacher and then spilling coffee on his thigh (honest mistake!) or getting caught watching porn for the first time by your brother's best friend.
"Still got those filthy lips, I see." He doesn't remove his hand from her shoulder. "Shall we?"
"What?" you scoff. "I'm not doing it in the closet with you again."
"No." He smirks. "Obviously, we have to get rid of the handcuffs first."
"Would you kindly?" You sarcastically shove your hands in his face and he rolls his eyes.
"A client wants to see you." Oh.
You tug the collar of your jumpsuit as he leads you into the closet, past the faux-wall, and into the interrogation-torture chamber/apocalypse bunker. Yes, one step closer to the electric chair.
-
"You almost killed us!" Steve exclaims, grasping the seatbelt.
Bucky rolls his eyes. "What did you expect from an assassin, grandpa?"
But Steve is to distracted to retort, a wild look of childlike excitement and what fangirls would call cinnamon-ess painted across his face.
"Don't you love Christmas songs?" Steve almost exclaims as they stood, much to Bucky's dismay, breathlessly staring at the conundrum of people wedging their way past security into the terminal.
"Wonderful, plain wonderful," he gruffly says. "Remind me why we're in an airport."
They were supposed to be drowning in a different sea of strangers, namely one packed in a too small dimly lit club reeking of alcohol and sweaty bodies. Which is exactly what two 99-year-old veteran supersoldiers waltzing on the edge of a long-overdue existential crisis need.
"It's wrong to spend Christmas alone." Steve tugs on Bucky's coat, leading (forcing) him toward the ticket counter.
"But we're not alone," Bucky almost whines. "And Christmas isn't for another week!" He's rambling. "And she's so mean I'd rather be alone just with you."
Steve rolls his eyes, ignoring Bucky's futile attempts to stop him. "Yeah, two tickets to Los Angeles please." Steve pulls out his wallet. "Cash." Bucky groans.
This is the opposite of laying low. Flying from the Big Apple to Hollywood is like setting a neon sign on fire pointing straight at you. It's not like Pablo Escobar's flying home for Christmas. They've got to be the only fugitives dumb enough to travel between America's largest tourist centrals. Oh, he's got a bad feeling about this.
"You're going to love it." Steve pats Bucky's shoulder as he hands his ticket to the stewardess.
"I'm gonna need a drink," Bucky mutters under his breath when Here Comes Santa Claus starts playing for the 57th time, completely unaware of the pair of creepy twins intently watching him with fascination from the front row.
"Rough morning?" a voice asks him in a tongue so foreign but familiar it's almost treason.
"You have no idea," he tells her in Russian, and he swears her face almost lights up.
"What are those?" Bucky finds himself gesturing at bottles next to her.
"Definitely too strong for you, Americans." She answers him in Russian, and he grins. Well someone else hates flying home for Christmas too.
"Trust me." Bucky winces at Steve's sudden grip on his shoulder. "This is going to be great for us."
"Spending Christmas with Nat?" Bucky scoffs. "I don't think so."
"You don't even know her."
"Oh trust me," Bucky says, shifting uncomfortably on the airplane seat. "I do."
"No!" Steve gasps in mock surprise, grinning.
"Oh no, don't start." Bucky refrains from smiling "Excuse me!" he calls after the stewardess trying not to acknowledge Steve.
"What are you looking at?" he can almost laugh when Steve gives him the look. "Yeah, can I have a glass of water instead?"
"Don't tell me you know Nat..." Steve waggles his eyebrows. "Intimately."
Bucky rolls his eyes, trying not to look at Steve and the shit-eating grin forming on his face.
"Bucky, you bastard!" Steve whispers-shout amused.
Bucky says with a straight face, "You got five seconds to wipe that smile off your face."
"At least tell me if it's true."
"You're such a child."
"You know if you're half the man you say you are..." Steve sing-songs, eyes aglint with mischief. "You'd tell meee..."
"Nah... come on, Rogers." Bucky finally breaking into a little smirk. "You know I don't kiss and tell."
Steve snorts, punching Bucky lightly and wincing when his knuckles taste the rough terrain of metal.
"Shit, I forgot you were half metal."
"Hey." Bucky protests. "Only one eighth."
And Steve swears he can see a glimpse of his old pal. To tell you the truth, he kind of likes it.
+++
"And they want his head?" You place the file back on the table.
"Yes, dead or alive."
"Alright." Biting your lips, you nod. "Buffy Barnes, you're going down."
"Bucky," Jack Rollins says. "It's Bucky Barnes."
( word count: 1189)
a/n: whew! it's almost been 2 years since I started this and I'm still working on chapter two. I am terribly sorry. The text in italics are in russian btw. 5.7k, huh? *cries* thank you. A year ago it barely 3k. You're amazing, loves..! -xxx