Before Bucky and Steve depart, you're given instructions to come to the Avengers tower at 16:00, to collect a tracking ID and closed channel comms device. It's an order, not a request, and you chafe at the directive. Frustration simmers, as the strings steering your life are ripped from your fingers and handed to the man in front of you.
Bucky is unrelenting, briskly efficient as he fires directions.
"The driver will meet you in front of this building at exactly 15:45. His name's Harold Hogan, goes by Happy. He's 6'0, dark hair and eyes, and he'll be wearing a black suit, white button up, and black tie. Assume he'll have sunglasses on. When he introduces himself, you need to request that he remove the glasses so you can see his face clearly, and make sure you ask for two forms of ID. Forcing people to prove who they are is a habit you need to learn. Any questions?"
Everything's moving too fast. Buzzy white noise fills your ears when your brain kicks back, trying to shut down. It offers a brief respite, until you realize you've completely spaced off, while Bucky stares impatiently. It's impossible to hide the weariness in your response.
"No. No. No questions."
After a lengthy and silent inspection, Bucky appears mostly satisfied. Giving Steve a look, he taps his wrist, and jerks his head toward the door. "We're leaving."
Okay. Apparently he's finished with you.
Steve has the effortlessly polished manners of a man who has spent much of his life in the spotlight, and he gives you an encouraging smile, extending his hand one final time.
"Thank you, Captain Rogers."
"Please, call me Steve. Expect we'll be seeing more of each other. Less formal is better, long as you don't mind." When he clasps your hand in both of his, you choke back a hysterical laugh, his giant paws dwarfing your fingers.
"Thanks Steve. Less formal is great."
Releasing his hand, you look to Bucky and brave an attempt at polite conversation. "And you? Barnes? Sergeant? What do you prefer?"
"I prefer things extremely formal." He answers solemnly, already walking out the door. "Call me Sir, or maybe Fucking Sir, or I ain't answering."
Steve blows out a long breath. "Jesus. Just call him Bucky, but if he pisses you off, he'll answer to 'hey asshole' as well. He hears it all the time."
You can hear Bucky laughing all the way down the hall.
*****
At exactly 15:45, you step into the plaza in front of your office, blinking owlishly in the bright afternoon sun. After being chained to your desk for the past 24 hours, with nothing but a dingy fluorescent light and the stale forced air of the office, the gentle breeze and warm light feels like heaven. Tilting your face to the clear blue sky, you let the sunshine soak into your skin.
"Excuse me, Miss? Afternoon, name's Hogan – Sergeant Barnes asked me to bring you to the tower."
Happy Hogan mirrors Bucky's description perfectly, an oddly charming teddy bear, rumpled around the edges. Catching your reflection in the shiny lenses of his wide black sunglasses, you're momentarily abashed at your disheveled appearance. However, the feeling is fleeting; you're so damn tired, you just can't be fucked to care.
Trying your best to retain some level of professional dignity, you offer a hand in greeting, digging deep for a confident smile. Happy shoots you a grin and gives you a slightly sweaty handshake in return, before guiding you to the black Mercedes parked at the curb.
The feel of the buttery leather surrounds you when you collapse in the backseat with a soft groan. Immensely grateful for the reprieve, your eyes drift shut, the outside traffic muffled to a dull hum.
God, the silence is beautiful.
Until it shatters.
The backdoor of the Mercedes flies open, and a broad-shouldered man clambers in next to you, tucking dark hair behind his ears and slamming the door behind him with a terrific bang.
In this sleep-deprived state, screaming seems the most logical reaction, and so you do. Loudly.
Bucky shakes his head as he gets situated, yanking the seat-belt over his shoulder. He glares at you in complete disapproval.
"You failed the first fucking test I gave you. I told you to make him take the glasses off and to ask for two forms of ID. You did none of those things. Congratulations, you've been kidnapped."
When your heart-rate kicks into overdrive, you stuff your hands under your thighs to stop from taking a swing at him.
This man is infuriating.
"Jesus H Christ Bucky, what the actual fuck. I knew it was him."
"You did? Really? How did you know?"
"Because you told me exactly what he looked like and where he would be!"
"Great, so your ears do work and you are capable of listening, good to know. Want to explain why you ignored the rest of my directions?"
"Because – god dammit. I'm tired, okay?"
"That's not an excuse," Bucky replies, sliding on his sunglasses and turning away from you. "I'm not joking about this. You have to get in the habit of questioning everything. It needs to become second nature. You cannot trust anyone. Ever."
"Someone's a little paranoid," you mumble, leaning your forehead against a cool tinted window, as the car glides into the endless Manhattan traffic.
Bucky's voice is sharp when he responds. "Paranoia is a good way not to die. Don't ever forget that."
*****
Despite the tired fog threatening to knock you unconscious, you don't miss the wide berth everyone gives him as Bucky stalks through the lobby of the Avengers tower. The man parts a crowd like no one you've ever seen; it's almost amusing to watch people shy away.
You suppose him constantly exuding that 'hello I'm here to murder you' vibe is good for business, because if this is his normal demeanor, no one's coming near you.
Guiding you to a private elevator bank, he pauses to enter a string of complex code and patiently holds for a retinal scan. When the doors crack open, he ushers you through with a curt little bow. As the doors begin to close, the soft lilt of an Irish accent falls from the ceiling.
"Good afternoon Sergeant Barnes."
"Hey FRIDAY. We're here to see Stark, can you take us to the mechanics lab?" Bucky has his phone out and is texting rapidly, unperturbed that he's conversing with thin air.
"Of course." The voice responds pleasantly.
Feeling your stomach swoop uncomfortably, the elevator takes off at an alarming speed. Bucky remains silent, ignoring your presence in favor of his phone, punching out text after text and pausing to grimace at the responses, before resuming his furious typing.
When the elevator stops abruptly, you swallow down the queasy feeling it leaves. Bucky tucks his phone into the back of his jeans, and gives you a tight smile. "Don't worry, you get used to it."
A heavy, pounding bass beat greets you as soon as the doors open, vibrating the floor beneath your feet and raising the hair on your arms. Bucky seems unfazed by the death metal screeching through the corridor, simply motioning you to follow as he walks forward.
Reaching the glass walls of his lab, you come face-to-face with the chaos that is Tony Stark. Hovering a good three feet off the ground, he's dressed in ripped up jeans and a Black Sabbath t-shirt, a pair of tinted glasses perched on his nose. A bright blue toaster is tucked under his arm, as he digs into it with a screwdriver, his toes tapping in the air while he bobs his head to the music.
"Stark. STARK!" Bucky yells into the void, his voice immediately lost in the deafening thunder of music. "God fucking dammit. TONY!"
Either Stark chooses to ignore him or he's genuinely not heard your arrival, too engrossed in his toaster modifications. Bucky's lack of patience is on full display, when he draws a Glock from the holster strapped under his jacket and fires a single shot across the room. The bullet hits Tony's phone dead centre, shattering the screen and silencing the music instantly.
"You trigger happy sonofabitch," Tony sighs, not bothering to turn around. "That's the third god damn phone this month. You keep this shit up, I'll put ricochet glass on the next one so that bullet bites you in your impatient ass."
"Ricochet glass isn't a thing."
"Fuck you, I'll make it a thing." Spinning mid-air, Tony notices you standing behind Bucky, wide-eyed at the combination of heavy metal, floating billionaires, and indoor gunshots. Flinging the toaster at Bucky, he cuts the power in his boots and drops to the floor with a thump.
Bucky catches the toaster easily, holding it arm's length and staring at it suspiciously. You can see a cartoony version of Steve's shield painted on the side in shiny red, white, and blue.
"The fuck were you doing to Steve's toaster?" Bucky flips it around and chucks it back at Tony, who ducks instead, letting the appliance hit the wall.
"Way to go Barnes, he loves that thing. I'm telling him you broke it," Tony accuses, before flashing you a brilliant smile. "Hi I'm Tony Stark and I'm very busy and important. What can I help you with today?"
Bucky jumps in before you can open your mouth. "She needs the tracking device I requested, and I want her cell replaced with a StarkPhone. Completely restricted access, only open to the list I sent you."
Tony gives him a sarcastic salute. "No problem Terminator. I live to serve."
Bucky ignores him. "I have to drop something off with forensics, I'll be back soon." He quirks an eyebrow at you in question. "You're fine, right?"
Isn't that the million-dollar question. Were you fine? No, not really. Everything was fucked up and overwhelming and you wanted to crawl under Tony Stark's massive metal desk and take a nap. This probably isn't the answer he wants though.
"Sure. Yep. I'm so fine."
Bucky gives a crisp nod and strides out of the lab.
Rubbing your temples, you turn back to Tony. He's watching you with interest, head cocked to the side as he looks you up and down. "Have you slept recently? You look really tired."
The observation is factual. And frustrating. "You know what Tony Stark, 'you look tired' is at the top of that list called "shit you should never say to a woman unless you want your balls kicked."
His jaw drops at your response, and suddenly he's laughing, great wheezing breaths as he bends forward, hands on his knees. "Touché. Damn, I think I love you already. Barnes is gonna get his ass handed to him."
Your lips lift in an exhausted grin at his laughter. "I guess we'll see."
Tony's still chuckling to himself as he ambles to his desk, digging into the bottom drawer and coming up with two slim cans of Red Bull. Tossing you one, he snaps the tab on the other and raises it to cheers. "Nectar of the gods. Drink up buttercup, you're gonna need it."
The smell transports you briefly back to college and Saturday nights filled with one too many Jager bombs. Wrinkling your nose, you tip it back anyway and drain the contents in a couple swift gulps. It still tastes like shit. Good to know some things never change.
You really, really need this caffeine buzz to hit ASAP.
Clapping his hands together, Tony points to the rolling chair next to his desk. "Right, you mouthy little shit. Have a seat, let's get you set up."
Sitting gingerly on the edge of the seat, you watch him pull a small metal case from the cavernous depths of the desk. Pressing his thumb to the smooth lid, the scanner registers his fingerprint and hisses as it breaks open. Leaning forward, you peer curiously into the box, finding a simple silver bracelet and what appears to be a clear rectangle of plexiglass, lying on a bed of soft black velvet.
Tony picks up the bracelet and splits it open, gesturing for you to lift your arm. Raising your left hand, he snaps it around your wrist, and it immediately vibrates, the cool metal warming instantly to match your body temperature. Startled, you glance up to see Tony grinning.
"Just out of research. It's made of vibranium, has locator sensors built into the band. It's calibrated to you, it reacts to your skin and your heartbeat. Keep it on all the time, it'll pinpoint your exact location, down to the closest inch. The locator's mapped to Barnes' phone, so he can find you at any point."
Jiggling your wrist, you make a face. "Because that's not creepy at all."
He waggles his eyebrows, gives a suggestive wink. "I'm very good at creepy. If for some reason you have to take it off, press the clasp with your thumb – it's only going to recognize your fingerprints, no one else can remove it."
When he picks up the StarkPhone, you feel a flutter of excitement. The clear, smooth, impossibly thin rectangle blows away every version of the iPhone you've ever seen. Tentatively, you lift it from his outstretched hand, wondering how quickly you'll break it.
"Your phone has a retinal scanner, it's the only way it can open – it's already set up, FRIDAY scanned you when you walked in." He watches your overly cautious movements. And then he reaches out and slaps the phone out of your hand.
Squealing in panic, you watch the phone hit the ground with a hard bounce, looking back to him in shock. The asshole's laughing again. "Don't worry about being careful, it won't break. Unless Barnes puts a bullet through it, I guess. Which he might do. Because he's a dick."
The phone's exceptionally intuitive, and after a quick tutorial, you're set. Tucking it into your purse, you crack your knuckles nervously, focusing on the sad blue toaster, until Tony clears his throat quietly. Peeking up at him, you find a sympathetic expression.
"Look, I got the debrief. It's messed up, this crazy fucker sending you shit. You're in good hands with Barnes though. He's a huge asshole sometimes, but he's great at what he does. No one's coming near you if he's around."
"I don't think he's thrilled with the job," you note impassively. "Although neither am I."
Tony shrugs. "Annoyed and combative is pretty much his M-O. You'll get used to him."
As if Tony's assessment has conjured him from thin air, Bucky suddenly strides back through the doors of the lab, folding a sheaf of papers into his jacket.
"Are you good with everything?" He asks brusquely, and the frustration bubbles up, white-hot in your chest. Everything is flipping upside down for you, and he's acting like you're some kind of burden, like you fucking want to be here.
Well that's just fine. He wants to be a jerk? You can play that game.
"Sure Bucky, all good. Here's my new phone that only lets me talk to your approved list of people. Because that's awesome. And here's my creepy new bracelet, so you can apparently track my every god damn move. Heads up, this is fucking weird and I'm not wearing it in my apartment. You don't need to know when I'm taking a shower or going to the bathroom. I'm keeping some semblance of privacy, even if it's a bullshit illusion."
There's a dangerous edge to his voice when he responds. "Wrong. It stays on at all times."
"Yeah, that's a solid nope. Not happening."
Bucky's jaw clenches at the belligerent challenge.
"Stark, give us a minute," he demands flatly.
Tony sighs theatrically, pulling off his glasses and tossing them on his desk with a dramatic flourish. "Sure Barnes, no problem. It's not like I was busy geniusing or anything."
Bucky doesn't spare him a glance as Tony strolls out of the lab, muttering about super soldiers with attitude problems who take him for granted. His eyes remain locked on you, narrowing when he hears the lab doors snap shut.
"Let's just get this out in the open, shall we?"
"Oh yes, let's do that." The sarcasm drips like vial of liquid rage you long to throw at him and this whole messed up, utterly insane situation. Bucky grits his teeth, clearly biting back a furious response.
"I don't play games, let's get that straight. There are three rules for this, and you're gonna follow them at all times. They're non-negotiable, so don't you even fucking try to screw with me. If you break them, I'll break your ass."
Planting your hands on your hips, you grace him with a mocking smile. "I would so love to see you try."
He ignores you.
"One, I am here for your safety, nothing more. I will not pick up your groceries or change your lightbulbs or load your dishwasher. I am not your fucking assistant and I do not do errands. If you need something done in your personal life, you can get off your ass and do it yourself."
"Like you would even know how to load a dishwasher, you fucking cockmuppet," you mutter.
He ignores you.
"Two. You will wear that bracelet 24/7 and I will know where you are at all times. I will take you to work and I will pick you up from work. No extra stops are permitted unless you can convince me it's necessary. If you absolutely need to go somewhere else, I'm going with you. If you take a business lunch, I'm at the table next to you. If you feel the need to go on a date, I'm your chaperone. If you go out for ice cream, you can buy me one too. I only eat Rocky Road."
"Rocky Road sucks so much ass," you mumble.
He ignores you.
"Three, if at any point in time I order you to do something, you will do it without question. There is zero fucking flexibility here. If I tell you to run, you start sprinting. If I tell you to hide, you make yourself invisible. If I tell you to stay silent, you shut your mouth. Whatever I ask, I expect you to do it immediately. Do you understand?"
"I'll give you fucking flexibility, you cracked out wanker," you breathe quietly.
He takes a step closer, his voice a clear warning. "I'm sorry, I didn't catch that. You want to try again there sweetheart? I asked if you fucking understand."
His blue eyes are frigid as he glares at you, daring you to argue, and...
He called you sweetheart.
Well that won't work.
"Alright, here's my question Bucky. Have you ever worked for people who have, you know, a fucking life? I'm not upending everything because of this, it's not happening. If you're as good as you say, you can work on my terms."
"The people I've guarded were interested in staying alive, so they listen to what I tell them. I can't protect you if you're not going to take this seriously." With two long strides, Bucky is suddenly toe-to-toe with you, the faint scent of his jacket floating up to you, a mix of leather and spicy cologne. Crowding your personal space, he looks down with a remarkably pissed off sneer twisting his lips.
That look alone would be enough to send anyone else running for cover, however, the Red Bull is charging through your veins and you have a metric shit ton of pent up anger at this situation, so caution is thrown to the wind. Instead, you flash a bright smile, poke your finger angrily into his chest, and reply in a sugary sweet voice.
"I'll do what I want Barnes. When I want. How I want. You're welcome to join me, but best of luck trying to stop me. So let me just ask - do you understand?"
The shock on Bucky's face is priceless. Watching the emotions dance across his features, you see him calculating how best to respond. The waves of anger are tangible, rolling off his body as he fights to keep his temper in check.
You don't bother to wait for him to figure out his next move. Snatching up your bag, you push past him and toss one last comment over your shoulder.
"By the way, if you ever call me sweetheart again, I'll throat punch you. Winter Fucking Soldier or no."
Bucky grabs for your arm, but pulls back as he reconsiders. He's tempted to tie you to the chair, and leave you there until you come to grips with the situation, but the fact is, he's no stranger to this response – in all his years doing this job, he's learned that people with the biggest attitudes are usually the ones masking the greatest fear.
So, he takes a deep breath and counts to ten, calming his strung-out nerves before he follows.
It's possible he underestimated this challenge. He can't fight fire with fire, he needs to find another way to get through. But the truth is, underneath his irritation with you, Bucky feels the beginning of something else.
A burgeoning flicker of respect. He rolls his eyes at himself, grunting under his breath.
"Well, isn't that just fucking annoying."
*****