hey guys. the interaction with my last chapter hit a low. be sure to comment on what you thought of this chapter!!!!!!!
ALSO WARNING!! THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS INTENSE POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING MATERIAL INVOLVING SEXUAL ASSAULT. DO NOT READ IF THIS IS TOO DISTRESSING FOR YOU.
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
2015
THREE MONTHS LATER
SHE woke suddenly. There was no sun.
The green glow of her alarm clock was the only thing visible. It read 2:56 a.m.. They had to be awake in an hour. For once, June was not plagued by flashbacks and knew she could drift back to sleep.
She propped herself up on one elbow and gazed down at the man beside her.
Bucky's chest rose and fell rhythmically, his breathing deep and at ease. As her vision sharpened, she caught the lines of his face. She could admire Bucky's vulnerability at that moment, the way blue moonlight crept into the room and basked his cheeks and hair, turned his lips glowing purple. He was letting his beard grow out, partially because he wanted to, and partially, June knew, because she'd commented that she liked it.
Bucky was warming up to domestic (though June applied the word loosely) life steadily. He stuck close to her and Steve during meetings or on the rare occasion that the tower had dinner together, but was growing more comfortable with a few of the others. He and Natasha had quickly apologized for trying to kill one another, and now always seemed to have something to talk about. Bucky was fascinated with the leaps science had made since 1945 (cigarettes, it turned out, did not cure asthma) and Bruce was happy to walk him through subjects such as the moon landing (which Clint called a scam, much to Bucky's confusion and Bruce's exasperation) or the Polio vaccine. Even Tony made an effort. He grilled Bucky on the mechanics of his left arm, obsessed with the "fluidity of movement" and grudgingly admitting Hydra had done top-notch work. June wasn't quite sure how to get it across to Tony that saying so was not a compliment to Bucky, but nevertheless everyone was getting along, and it was a relief from so many months of tension.
June settled back down to her pillow. In his sleep, Bucky laid his arm around her, and she burrowed closer to him. It was peace reined in a minimalistic form, and June was grateful. She shut her eyes. Domesticity would end in an hour. Today was the day they ended Hydra once and for all.
• • •
JUNE couldn't remember the last time she wore makeup. As she stared at her reflection in the refrigerator door, she hardly recognized herself.
It was an amazing kind of unfamiliarity. June had forgotten what she looked like without the discoloring on the edge of her cheek that never seemed to fade, or the thick scar on her lip that had always tempted a hand to cover her mouth. Natasha had helped her finally remove the last few stitches from across her forehead, and even that scar could be blended away. June's eyes and lips were lined and pronounced, eyebrows darkened, cheeks pinked and contoured; she felt feminine and young and free from the knives and killings that shackled her to men.
The glamour was, unfortunately, not for June's benefit. While the rest of the team flew to Sokovia to eradicate the last of the Hydra facilities, she and Bucky would be shipped off to Italy, where June was to execute her first assassination in almost a decade.
On paper, it was simple.
Stellan Carpet, a French accomplice who funded most of Hydra's operations from his own pocket, was supposed to be on the Sokovian base that day with the rest of their targets. Carpet had unfortunately elected to attend a charity gala in Venice (June couldn't help but scoff) ultimately screwing up Tony's original plan. Every person involved with Hydra had to be taken down that day. Luckily, there weren't that many associates left—most of them would be holed up in Sokovia—and Carpet had underestimated his prominence. If he wasn't in Sokovia, Tony would find out. And he did.
That's where June came in. Her task was relatively simple: get Carpet alone and silence him. A seductive approach had been her idea, and when Tony had asked why, June's answer was plain.
"I want to see the look on his face," she'd said coolly. The name "Carpet" had been included in the roster of individuals responsible for donating money to the program that had taken her—vengeance was attainable, and June was not about to pass it up. "I want to see him realize he won't get what he wants. And then I'll watch him die."
Tony's face was placid. "That's dark but all right. Just don't leave any prints."
"I don't have fingerprints, Strucker burned them off. Tony, I told you that. "
"Lordy, you're a downer today, Kremlin."
Steve had wanted to go with June. He was adamant in saying that the whole thing was too dangerous, and if June wouldn't back out, she should at least let him back her up. Tony wouldn't have it.
"Nuh-uh," he had said flatly. "You're the stalwart leader here, Cap. We need you for this assault—it won't work without you."
"I have someone in Italy," Natasha had offered when Steve's scowl deepened. "He could help."
June lifted an eyebrow. "Who?"
"Jack Odion. He worked at Shield before it collapsed. He's been undercover in Rome for a while, I'm sure he's fiending for something new."
The name was familiar, but June couldn't place it. Whoever he was, if Natasha thought he was trustworthy he must be all right. She nodded, jaw set. "Okay. James and I will probably need all the help we can get."
It was unspoken, but most everyone privately concluded that Bucky would be assigned this mission as well, to ensure both June's safety and that the mission would actually be carried out. June knew that ever since Croatia, the others doubted her. Tony had not allowed her on a single assignment since then.
Italy was her chance to prove she could be taken seriously once again.
"You look good," decided Natasha as she stepped back to observe June wholly. A soft smile tugged at her lips, creeping into her heavy, feline eyes. "Almost like a girl."
June rolled her eyes, but they crinkled with laughter. "Shut up."
It was one of the stranger things June had ever done—sitting on the kitchen floor in the living quarters of Tony's tower at 4:30 in the morning, an assortment of makeup brushes, bottles, tubes, and wands scattered around her as Natasha crouched before her, one eye squinted, meticulously applying various powders and primers and pigments while Clint perched on the island, holding up a blinding light. When Natasha was satisfied with her work, June let out the breath she had not realized she'd been holding; anxiety climbed through her insides.
Regardless, as her painted reflection stared back at her from the refrigerator door, June felt ready.
"Can we find my foundation shade next?" asked Clint, entirely sincere. "I'm curious."
"Another time," replied Natasha as she gathered up the products back into a large, unorganized bag. "We've still got work to do—our flight heads out at five-thirty sharp."
Clint clucked his tongue and flicked off the white light with obvious displeasure. He set it on the counter and stalked out of the room mumbling something about sexism. June stifled a laugh, envisioning Clint shooting down Hydra agents with a coy smokey eye.
"Do you know what you're wearing?" asked Natasha, finally wedging the last pallet into her bag.
June nodded. "Mhmm." She shuffled to the breakfast nook and plucked up a long silk cover hanging on the back of one of the chairs. "Pepper sent it. She called it her 'lucky dress,'" June made a face, "which I do not want to think about." She unzipped the bag and beheld a shimmering ensemble covered entirely with minuscule crystals that caught the light and made looking at the dress slightly difficult. The material was dense and would hang off her shoulders by thin straps lined with a single row of the crystals. There was a dip in the dress where the fabric scooped just above the small of her back, teasing something more but remaining chaste enough for the imagination to ignite.
"Oh . . ." June breathed. It was the prettiest thing she'd ever seen. The dress was sensual and powerful and June was certainly too coarse, too jagged at the edges to don such a work of art.
"If that doesn't get you laid," Clint said, appearing in the doorway with a toothbrush clamped in his teeth, amusement in his face, "you're fucking hopeless."
"I'm not trying to get laid, Barton," June said.
"She doesn't really have to try anymore," quipped Natasha, who raised her eyebrows passively when June shot her a look. "I'm just saying you have options."
With a shake of her head, June zipped Pepper's dress back into the silk cover, thoroughly embarrassed. She busied herself with preparing a pot of coffee, focused a bit too hard on her task, trying to ignore Natasha's delighted snickers.
What options?
• • •
June hoped Bucky knew how to fly a Quinjet.
Truthfully, she probably could have figured it out, but they were low on time and she didn't think Delta Airlines would appreciate them trying to sneak military-grade weaponry past customs. Also, June doubted Bucky would get very far.
"It's autopilot after launch," Tony assured her just before loading onto his flight, ignoring Steve's impatient stare from the ramp of the larger jet. "Don't worry. Oh!" He stooped down and produced a crumpled paper bag from the duffle he was holding. "I packed your lunch." He passed June the sack. She rifled through it, finding a mushy PB&J cut into stars, carrots, an apple juice box, and a Party City brand Iron Man napkin.
She looked at him flatly. "You did this just for a joke?"
Tony shrugged. "It's my intro to expressing my feelings. Breaking the ice, you know?" His stare softened, and he squeezed her shoulder. "I'm proud of you, kiddo—or, thirty-year-old. I don't know. But I'm proud. And I trust you to get this done."
June felt tears prickle her eyes and her throat grew tight. She smiled lopsidedly, tilting her head, bashful and unsure how to take the praise. "Thanks, Tony. I . . . I'm—"
Tony raised a hand. "Don't try. It's good—I know what you mean. Love you too, I'm so glad I got to see you grow, it hurts in a good way. No worries. Steve's turn, by the way."
"Huh?"
Rather than replying, Tony kissed her forehead briskly and ambled over to the Quinjet. She watched with some anxiety as Steve stepped down from the ramp, ignored Tony's offered fist-bump, and made his way to her. She inhaled deeply, bracing herself.
"You know I don't want you to go," Steve sighed once he reached her, brow upturned in concern.
"I know," June replied gently. "But you trust me. Right?"
"Forever will. No doubt about it."
June couldn't stop her next thought. Where was that attitude a year ago? She pushed it away. "I trust you, too. Always have."
His smile was soft. "Please promise me you'll be careful. I couldn't . . . if you . . . just . . . take care of yourself. And take care of Bucky, because I can't lose him again."
June grasped him by the elbow. "You won't. I swear he'll be safe—he'll be in the control room with Jack, not even in the field."
"I still think you need someone in there with you. If Carpet recognizes you—"
"He won't. He never came to the bases, just funneled in cash. He liked the philosophy, but I don't think he could stomach the dirty work." June shifted her weight. "Besides, I was trained for things like this. I can handle it."
Steve's concern only seemed to worsen, the crease above his nose deepening, his jaw tightening. If he'd wanted to protest, however, he swallowed it, and quietly put a hand to June's cheek. "I wish I didn't have to have this kind of faith in you."
June gave a helpless shrug. "It's our lot in life, Stevie. It's what we do."
He smiled glumly. "It's a damn lousy lot." He let his hand drop. June took it back and gave it a squeeze.
"Stay safe. I'll see you tonight."
"You too. Both of you. Please." The desperation was heavy in his voice, in his eyes. June swore to herself they would be.
Steve cast June one last look before departing back to the Quinjet. Everyone else had boarded while they were talking. She watched the ramp pull up, the engines growl to life, and the aircraft lift seamlessly into the sky. A few more moments, and they were a hundred yards away. Then two-hundred. Finally, the Avengers were a speck in the distance, and June stood alone, overlooking the ever-active New York City.
She took a breath and let Cutlass take control.
• • •
"WE touch down in fifteen minutes," Bucky declared from the cockpit, flicking a switch above his head and easing back into his chair as a bright light labeled AUTOPILOT flashed on the Quinjet dashboard.
"Perfect," June called back as she snapped a dagger into a thin holster on her thigh and slid her skirt back over it. When she looked up, Bucky was standing before her, offering her a hand. Smiling, June took it.
"You look good," Bucky said, and gave her a twirl.
June spun back to face him, her expression sly. "Let's hope Carpet thinks so." With mischievous delight, she watched a slight frown twitch across Bucky's face.
"I guess so," he muttered.
"Don't be jealous, lyubimyy, he's a fascist antisemite who paid for my life to fall apart—I swear I'm not aching to be near him."
Bucky gave a half-roll of his eyes in grudging resignation. "Fine, but he sounds like your type."
June laughed as he drew nearer, put a thumb beneath her chin, tilted her toward him. She remained just out of reach. Bucky raised his eyebrows.
"I'm wearing very expensive lipstick," she whispered with a twitch of her mouth.
Bucky considered this for a moment, then brought his lips to the corner of her jaw. "Not everywhere," he said in her ear, an arm twisting around her waist.
June grinned and stopped him again, not because she didn't want him close to her, but because she thought it was funny to hold him back. "I don't think this is appropriate for the workplace," she said softly, severely, a hair's length between them. Slowly, she disentangled herself from Bucky, pleased when he did not laugh, but dropped his gaze and watched her move.
"You're damn cruel, Ivanski," he said at last.
"I'm only warming up, Barnes." Her smile was wicked, and she let a hand drag across his chest as she stepped away. Too teasing, maybe. But June had to get into character, even if Bucky was the victim.
Besides, he'd survive just fine.
• • •
THERE were six entrances and exits to the hall, not counting windows. The first was the grand entrance, the second was a patio leading out to a fine, sweet-smelling garden. The next two were staff entrances, located at the very back of the venue, one of which lead to the kitchen and the other the break room. There was a spiral staircase that wound up to a first-floor balcony, and in a worse-case scenario, June could jump. The last, and most important, was a door hidden sneakily behind a thick velvet tapestry depicting a scene from the French Revolution. The door opened up to a long hallway and a staff stairwell, which only reached floor three and halted right at the control room.
This was all according to Jack Odion's calculations and insight. He claimed the most reliable would be the control room (where he and Bucky would wait, and June eventually would lure Carpet) and the garden, which would provide a definite way outside of the building. Bucky was happy with none of this—June could tell by his ever-tightening jaw and rigid stance that he'd rather go with his idea, and snipe Carpet from a tree 100 yards away. Simpler, maybe, but there was no guarantee Carpet would ever go outside, or amble within range, so June remained in the field. Secretly, she didn't think Bucky wanted to be anywhere near a combative situation, but she knew better than to ask. His pride was in no need of pruning.
"I'll be fine," she insisted once they landed a half-mile from the party. June put an arm around his neck and let him pull her close. "Like I said, I'm a professional."
Bucky held the nape of her neck. "You're not an assassin."
June's lips tightened and she tried not to become discouraged—if Bucky doubted her, their odds of success were worse than she'd feared. "I can play the part for a night. I'm not a stranger to killing, James, it's why I'm on Zoloft."
Bucky stared for a moment and kissed her swiftly, before June could do a thing. "Go get 'em, then."
June feigned anger, touching a hand to her mouth and cutting her eyes at him. "My lipstick."
But she touched his cheek gently before turning away again. She didn't want to be too mean.
• • •
ASSASSIN or not, June was notused to being back in the action.
She took each step up to the grand entrance slowly, careful to hold her skirt away from her glittering stilettos, their tapered heels clucking against the marble. She stared straight ahead, maintaining an easy smile, sure to keep her shoulders relaxed, back straight, jaw loose. June tried not to think of Bucky making his way onto the roof to meet Odion, or Steve and Tony and the rest off in Sokovia, putting their lives on the line for a cause so dear to her. And she let them, Christ she let them! Guilt swamped her, and June opened her lips to utter the killphrase. A micro, nearly invisible receiver was tucked in her ear, a mic adhered to the inside of her cheek (tech courtesy of Tony, obviously) and simply by saying "I left my clutch in the backseat" she could call off their mission at the gala. Then she could contact Tony and demand he bring the team home—better yet, she could call Pepper and let her do the yelling.
No, June hissed at herself, don't start that. Get in, kill the man, and get out. This is bigger than fear.
June practiced careful breathing, willing herself to remain calm. This was exactly what got her into trouble on Hydra missions—letting her emotions overtake her. Too much was at risk this time. Failure had never been an option, but now June had something to lose. Back when only she got hurt, negligence was a form of quiet resistance. Now? Fail, and June faced something worse than torture.
Responsibility.
Head tumbling with the abstract horror of what would await her, June swayed through the open doors. Immediately, her eyes took in everything at once, ears pricked and honing in on every conversation, every clatter of dishes, the clinks of champagne flutes. The overwhelming consensus was gold—the drapes, the walls—even the chandelier looked to be made from the stuff. The room seemed pulled from a Renaissance portrait of heaven. Light and luxury danced together in a dizzying sequence.
Underneath the gaudy veneer June could smell rot.
She realized with abrupt horror that she was not sure who she was searching for—what would Carpet even look like now? Had he scrubbed himself clean of Hydra's stench after its first fall? Or did he still wear the badge with pride? Heart racing, June accepted a glass of champagne from an oncoming waiter. She really wished she could get drunk.
Enough aimless wandering and she would begin to look like she didn't belong. June spotted a bar in the center of the floor, occupied by rich-looking people who took small sips of tan liquor and chatted about emotionless things like bond-selling and summer plans with associates they did not like, but must spend time with because they made the same amount of money. June could have eavesdropped all night—it wasn't as if it was difficult for her—but she was already running out of time.
June took a seat on one of the stools at the far end. The bartender swiftly refilled her glass and asked if she would like anything more.
"Water with lemon, if you have it. Please."
The man dipped his head. "Of course, signora."
A sweat broke out on her palms, her underarms, which would be no good when trying to seduce what June could only assume to be an incredibly shallow man. The bartender returned with her glass.
"Anything else, Miss?"
June swallowed her unease. "No, thank you. Will there be an auction tonight? I brought my father's money you know. He told me to put it towards some good. Who are we saving this evening? Whales? African children?"
"The goal tonight, mon cher," broke in a voice that June had hoped to never hear again. "Is to save you from sitting alone."
Her stomach dropped to her feet. June suddenly felt weightless, dizzy with shock, but equally paralyzed and unable to break away from the scene. All she could do was turn, slowly, and meet the eyes of one of her nightmares.
Mnogo Ruk grinned, his charm apparently unhindered by age, the saunter still heavy in his step, eyes rakish, eyes evil. He handed the bartender his glass to refill with scotch. "Do not make me do all the work, femmes magnifiques, tell us a name."
June's mouth opened, and snapped shut. She tried again, throwing on a smile. "I'm terribly sorry, sir, but I was just about to leave. I have to track down my driver, you see, I left my cl—"
Stellan Carpet took her swiftly by the arm, forgetting his drink. "Mon chéri, a name, I am desperate."
June fought to control any outward appearance of fear. She kept herself from shaking, lifted her chin high. You can't quit. You can't quit. "Antonella, monsieur. Pardon my sluggishness, the champagne has gone right to me."
Carpet peered down at her with amusement. "Ah, you are new to money, no? How old are you?"
June grit her teeth. "Twenty-six this Saturday."
There's no fucking way I can pass for twenty-six.
Carpet's interest only seemed to grow. His arm snaked tighter around her hip. "I never would have guessed, myself. You look fresh out of school, fresh like a blossom."
June bit down on her tongue until she tasted blood. Fitting, since that's the last time you saw me. "Monsieur, you flatter me, I am practically an old maid." June threw her head back in laughter and Carpet joined her. How easy it would have been to turn her laugh into a scream.
She never learned his name in Russia. Truthfully, she could not remember what facility he had been in, seeing as they moved her nearly every month. June only remembered the alias she had given him after just one meeting: Mnogo Ruk. Many Hands.
Oftentimes her handlers would immobilize her while experimenting. Not numb her, because her reactions were key data, but render her completely powerless over her own body. There was one who would take advantage of this fact.
Stellan was not merely a businessman, it turned out, now that June could connect his past self to the man slung around her now, but a research specialist for the Hydra underground. He was present during her experiments, and found opportunities to abuse her. To invade her. To make her a limp item there to please him.
June tried to kill him once. She stole a scalpel and attempted to saw open his throat the next time he drew near. It earned her a week in confinement punctuated by hours of punishment, but Carpet never touched her again after that. It satisfied June to know he scared easily.
Tonight it satisfied her to know he would be dead before the sun rose. She would pry open his chest with her own hands if she had to.
June resolved to make quick work of it—it didn't look like Carpet would need much convincing to step away.
"I flush to admit this," June began, "but I did not come tonight for any charity."
Carpet chuckled, the blinding chandelier illuminating his graying hair. "What drew you here, and with your father's checkbook? And did you not try to escape before I even learned your name?"
"I heard you were invited. I've followed your success for ages—ever since I was eighteen—I knew I needed to meet you in person. I confess I've felt drawn to you for quite some time—call it madness, maybe, but it can't be helped." June pushed the plea of a desperate, infatuated girl into her voice, trying to say just what she imagined an old, vile snake like Carpet longed to hear. "And please, do not fault me for shying away at first—you cannot expect perfect courage at the first sight of you."
"All this mischief—and stealing from your father . . . Your resolve must be extraordinary."
The implications behind the word "resolve" were enough to strike June with the urge to hurl, but she restrained herself. "Oh, don't label it like that," she swatted at his arm, "it's hardly mischief, and I haven't stolen! My family has more money than they know what to do with—surely someone like you understands. My father considers what I took to be pocket change. Perhaps you know him."
Carpet's hand dipped dangerously low on June's backside. "I am hoping I do not."
Her skin crawled beneath the dress she had once thought so wonderful—now she wanted nothing more than to burn it. Summoning her courage, June took sudden hold of Carpet's arm. "Then do not make me wait any longer," she begged. "There are many rooms in this hall, they cannot all be full."
She remembered suddenly that Bucky could hear every word she said. The idea was almost enough to make her laugh.
June guided Carpet to the French tapestry with beguiling glances. She revealed the hidden door, which prompted a dark, delighted laugh from him, a look of unhindered and shallow want thrust on his face as they climbed the staircase and were brought upon the control room door.
June had hardly turned around when Carpet pounced on her.
His mouth was on hers, cold and angry and wet, suddenly with teeth gnashing and pulling blood from June's lips. She began to panic, but she knew if she screamed Bucky would interfere and jeopardize everything, including her vindication. So June pretended to enjoy what being done to her, stomached Carpet's hands' harsh gropings, the violation, the hurt. His fervor was interrupted by periodic growls of "harlot" and "fucking whore." Unable to stop the tears, June cried soundlessly.
At last, when the monster seemed engrossed enough, June became a monster herself.
She tore the dagger she had hidden on her leg from its sheath and drove it through Carpet's gut. She twisted it and ripped the blade out as harshly as possible. He cried out in surprise and pain, June hoped, and moved slightly away from her. His distracted gaze found the knife in her hand. "What the fuck?" he screamed, hands clutching at his middle, soaked with blood in seconds.
June wasn't done. If Jack and Bucky had done their job, the security room door should have been open a crack. June kicked out behind her and felt it swing back. Feeling almost joyful, she grabbed Carpet by the shoulder, threw her knee into the blooming wound, drowned in his screams, and shoved the old man to the security room floor.
Someone shut the door again—June did not notice or care, blind to everything else except the dying man on the floor. "Give me a gun," she shouted at no one in particular. "Get me a gun!" Someone complied. June clutched the grip tightly. Her finger laced over the trigger. "Do you know who I am?" she whispered.
"No!" Carpet screamed, faced twisted in anguish. "No! I swear!"
June pressed her lips tightly together. "You know. I am Baron Strucker's voskresheniye. With me you were reborn and because of me you all will return to death."
A look of horrified realization crossed Carpet's bleeding face. He raised a shaking finger. "Y-you should be dead! You should have burned out—"
June shot him through the head. The room exploded in red. The sound still bounced against the walls when she dropped to her knees and slumped into darkness.
note.
wow guys okay that chapter was very intense and very long so thank you first off for sticking with it! also to clear up any confusion june just passed out at the end, she's not dead too lol.
let me know what you think!
i love you guys